Ardvreck Castle, Scotland – a snippet from my novel ‘Dark Destiny’

Ardvreck Castle, the Highlands, Scotland

Ardvreck Castle, the Highlands, Scotland

(photo from John Mc Calmont Breckenridge)

Ardvreck Castle. This castle was mentioned in ‘Dark Destiny’.  Dughall receives a letter from Lord Donald Grant as follows:
Lord Gordon,
Our old nemesis, James Graham, Marquess of Montrose, has been up to his tricks again. Evidently, he was appointed Lieutenant-Governor of Scotland by the exiled Prince Charles. Graham recently entered Scotland through the Orkneys with a thousand foreign mercenaries, mostly Danes and Germans. They say he was sent ahead of the King to cow the Covenanters in northern Scotland. His troops crossed to the mainland and halted at Carbisdale on the southern side of the Kyle of Sutherland.
I sent word to Drake for yer assistance, but they said that ye were gone to the Abbey. So I raised 200 men and joined Colonel Archibald Strachan. To be short, we soundly defeated Montrose’s troops – 400 killed and 450 taken prisoner – but Graham initially avoided capture. Thereupon, he made his final mistake. He sought refuge in Ardvreck Castle, where Lady Christine lured him into a vaulted dungeon. The man was imprisoned and turned over to our forces. It violated the tradition of Highland hospitality, but it was worth it. As this time, Montrose is being transported to Edinburgh to be tried and executed for treason. I hope they hang him!

It seems that we have defeated the snake, at least for the time being. But we must be vigilant, because the Prince has set his sights on Scotland. Should we crown him King just because he is a Stuart? He attacks us to avoid taking the Covenants.

We must talk soon, about this event and our mutual agreement.
Stay safe, my friend. – Donald Grant

****

Author’s note:

They say that Lady Christine’s actions violated the customs of Highland hospitality.  The castle had bad luck after that.

For information about the trilogy, visit:

http://www.DarkBirthrightSaga.com

Forging ahead with ‘The Brus’ movie

From Scotland Rising…   Forging ahead with The Brus movie…  Clanranald Trust for Scotland and Charlie Allan in particular are partners in The Brus movie project.  One of their entities is Combat International that is a great army of actors who have been active in the movie business for quite a while as evidenced by this Youtube video.  Scotland Rising is proud to have these entities in our corner as we push on in the funding stages.

For more information, visit  http://thecelticforce.com/tag/robert-the-brus

Niagara Falls outing – circa 1905

Niagara Falls Outing - circa 1905

Niagara Falls Outing – circa 1905

One of my interests – old black and white photography.  These pictures of a Niagara Falls outing were developed from glass plate negatives.  It was a big deal to visit the Falls.  You traveled by train to get there.  Note the interesting clothes and hats.   The railway bridge in the background is no longer there.

Niagara Falls

 This lookout point no longer exists.  It fell into the falls decades ago.

 Enjoy!

Jeanne Treat

http://www.jeannetreat.com

Battle of Culloden Moor – Scotland – April 1746

Scottish song called The Ghosts of Culloden, sung by Scottish singer Isla Grant. Fighting for Bonnie Prince Charlie at Culloden moor, the blue bonnets were out numbered by English troops and sympathizers – and were starving.  The Jacobite claim to the throne was subsidised by the French to put Charles Stewart on the throne, was doomed from the start and finished with him fleeing dressed as a woman, helped by Flora Mcdonald who was imprisoned for her troubles.

A short story I wrote about the Battle of Culloden…

Recollections of a Spirit
By Jeanne Treat 
 

It was a cold morning on April 16th, 1746. The sun had just risen.

Duncan and I had traveled for days on horseback, to join the army of the Prince. We trusted that he could defeat the red soldiers as he had at Prestonpans. Near Inverness, a French courier demanded our intentions and asked us to carry letters to Culloden House. Duncan took the letters, stored them in his plaid, and we continued on our way. His brothers met us at Inverness, telling us to fight with the Glengarry regiment, camped near Drumossie Moor. I took the letters and told him to join his brothers, that I would follow after I delivered them.

That was the last time that I saw him as a free man. I was taken at Inverness by the English and jailed. When it was determined that I carried letters in French, they beat me mercilessly, asking who they were for, and what their meaning was. I could not tell them. They kept me in irons in a cold cellar, without food or water. The beatings were relentless.

Word came that day that the Prince’s army had been soundly defeated. Other prisoners joined me, many with mortal wounds, dying shortly thereafter. Men arrived with limbs hacked or bowels pierced. The stench of rotting flesh was overpowering. There was no word of my friend or his brothers. They kept us in a cellar, bound, with no food or water for that day and the next. No one tended our wounds or administered last words. Men cried piteously for water or death. Still, I held out hope.

On the morning of the third day, I learned that I was to be executed as a rebel. After sunrise, I would be flogged to death at the tree outside the jail. They’d sent for a lowlander from a nearby encampment, known for his brutality.

Before sunrise, I was brought outside and made to sit on the cold ground to await my fate. I smelled wood fires and heard dogs barking, as red soldiers guarded me. Able-bodied prisoners were brought out to watch, but they wouldn’t look at me. I knew it was my last day.

As a young man, I was no stranger to whippings. I did as I liked and risked the consequences. Father whipped me soundly with a strap many times. I played a game that I would not flinch or cry out, so he beat me until he was no longer angry. These were my thoughts as I waited, that it would not be worse than that.

The red soldiers allowed a man of the cloth to approach me to say the last words. It was cold and he wore a hood that obscured his face. As he knelt beside me and pushed back his hood, I saw that it was Duncan. By God’s grace he had survived the battle. He touched my forehead and made the sign of the cross, saying the words we’d heard so many times. With tears in his eyes, he whispered that he couldn’t save me, but would avenge my death with his last breath. I begged him not to watch it, but he would not leave me.

At sunrise the Lowlander arrived, a muscular man with eyes of steel. Soldiers pounded stakes into either side of an oak, removed my irons and shirt, and tied me to the tree with rope. It was cold but I was sweating, and my heart pounded like a drum. As blood rushed in my ears, I heard the sentence being read.

A soldier gagged me, but the man removed it, saying that he needed to hear me. He took the ‘cat’ out of his bag and showed it to me. It was a whip of nine knotted strands, ending in sharp bits of metal. In a voice that was cold and deliberate, he taunted me, calling me a rebel, a traitor, and an animal. I burned with humiliation and anger.

All I wanted was to bear my punishment in silence and die like a man; but it wasn’t to be. I held staunch for twenty strokes and faltered, my pride crumbling. I grunted, cursed, and gasped for breath as the leather tails blistered my back. May God forgive me, I cried like a child, and rubbed my wrists raw against the ropes.

He stopped after one-hundred strokes to drink. I was nearly unconscious, so they roused me with water. Before he began again, he taunted me. He’d wagered that I wouldn’t last another fifty, and intended to finish me now. The man ran his rough fingers across the marks in my flesh, thrust his hand down the front of my kilt, and touched me as a lover would.

In spite of my predicament, I was furious and spit into his face. His eyes narrowed in anger.

He began again, whipping me with a vengeance. Blood soaked my kilt, ran down my legs, and pooled in my boots. I could barely stand, and the cries that I made were not even human.

I heard them call out one-forty.

Silently, I begged God to take my soul. I was cold and trembling, too weak to cry out. My body was dying but my mind was a raging storm. I held on to anger and refused to die. My inner voice cried, “I won’t let go, I won’t let go!”

Duncan’s anguished thoughts broke through my inner turmoil.

Eavan let go!

Let go! Eavan let go!

For God’s sake let go!

May God forgive me for not taking your place!

My mind calmed and my breathing slowed. A brilliant bubble formed before my eyes, translucent and full of light. I saw Mother looking out to sea for my brother, Grandfather whittling a walking stick, and young John struggling on his deathbed. The bubble enfolded me, and softly popped.

I was pleasantly confused, convinced that they’d stopped the execution. I stood among them in my best riding breeks, shirt, and plaid. It was lightly snowing but I was as warm as fresh bread. I flexed my shoulder muscles and gazed at my hands. My backside was whole and my wrists were healed.

The big man cleaned and oiled his whip and put it in his bag. He joked with the soldiers about the rebel bastard, and collected his wagers. Still I did not understand. Duncan mounted his horse and rode towards me.

I waved my hands. “Duncan. Over here! They let me go.”

My friend stared through me to a place beyond, his face lined with grief. What did he see? I turned my head and saw the bloody shell of a body that was mine, and knew I was dead.

A young soldier thrust his bayonet into the body. “The rebel is gone! Let this be a lesson to all who oppose the King of England.”
Duncan made the sign of the cross and rode off on his chestnut mare. I followed him out of town, where he dismounted and concealed his horse behind some trees. He sat on a log and waited, running his thumb along the blade of his dirk.

Before long a rider appeared; the lowlander with eyes of steel. Dressed as a man of the cloth, my friend concealed his knife and bid him stop. As the man dismounted, Duncan seized him and cut his throat from ear to ear.

I watched this without emotion. It didn’t matter. Mine was a world without pain and hunger, or domination by the English. Duncan would be along soon enough.

***

This short story and others can be found in my book: ‘Dark, Mysterious, and Irreverent’

Available in paperback and popular eBook formats

The Royal Demise of King Charles I – a snippet from “Dark Destiny”.

King Charles I

King Charles I

From a chapter named “Royal Demise”

January 30, 1649 – London, England – 9:30am – St. James’ Park

            It was a bitter morning in London, with temperatures hovering in the low thirties.  It was so cold that the Thames froze over.  The sky was overcast, a harbinger of things to come.

King Charles knelt beside his dog; a brown and white spaniel named Rogue, and caressed his ears.  “Never fear, my friend.  Someone will care for you.”  The dog gazed at him with innocent eyes.  Charles knew that he would never see him again.

“My King!” William Juxon cried.  The Bishop of London looked stricken.  “I would be pleased to take him to your family or keep him myself if need be.”

Charles looked up.  “Thank you, friend.”  The old man was a devoted companion.  “May God smile upon you.”  The King stroked the dog’s back and planted a kiss on his head.  Then he struggled to stand, relying upon his weak ankles.

“Let me help, your Majesty!”  The Bishop reached out to assist him.

Charles waved a hand.  “Nay, let me do it.”  After a few more attempts he was upright, facing the Bishop.  He gazed at the sky and sighed.  “Such a beautiful morning.”

Juxon raised his eyebrows.

The King smiled.  “Ah…  I know that it is not.  Humor me.  For it is the last morning that I will ever see.”

“Oh…”  The Bishop was close to tears, “I wish that was not true.”

The King squeezed his shoulder.  “Weep not for me.  For this is my second marriage day.  Before night I hope to be espoused to my blessed Jesus.”

Juxon wept openly.

Charles barely heard him.  Now that he’d said goodbye to the dog, he obsessed on events that led up to his predicament.  After a long incarceration, he’d escaped to the Isle of Wight.  Betrayed by the island’s governor, he’d been confined to Carisbrooke Castle.  From this location, he bargained with various royalist parties and signed a secret treaty with the Scots.  His offer was simple.  If they would invade England on Charles’ behalf and restore him to the throne, he would tolerate Presbyterianism.  Factions of royalist Scots invaded England, sparking a brutal second civil war.  They were soundly defeated.

After failed negotiations, the King was moved to Hurst Castle in late 1648, then to Windsor Castle.  For encouraging a civil war while in captivity, the monarch was accused of high treason.  The House of Commons passed an Act of Parliament to create a court for his trial.

Charles had thought that this action would fail.  It was dangerous to accuse a King of treason.  Indeed, many potential commissioners refused to serve.  Then the unthinkable happened.  In early January, he’d been put on trial before sixty-eight commissioners who urged him to enter a plea.  Charles refused, claiming that no court had jurisdiction over a monarch.  He argued that his authority to rule had been given to him by God when he was crowned and the trial was illegal.  Three times he refused to enter a plea!  It was seen as an admission of guilt.  The trial proceeded, witnesses were heard, and fifty-nine of the commissioners signed his death warrant.

The Chief Judge had delivered the sentence, “Charles Stuart is a tyrant, traitor, murderer, and public enemy to the good of this nation.  He shall be put to death by severing his head from his body.”

The story continues in Dark Destiny…

Dark Destiny is book three in the Dark Birthright trilogy.

Read about the series:

http://www.DarkBirthrightSaga.com