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Book Summary: The
mystery unfolds as Richard Graham, son of the fabled first Marquis of
Montrose, embarks upon the quest to reclaim his family's treasure. The
young Scottish nobleman sets out on an adventure that tests his strength,
his Christian faith, and his sanity. Here lies a journey awaiting your
discovery, cast in the shadows of exotic isles and shrouded in Highland
mist.
Here is the first
chapter for you to read here...
 The young man was a fiery
shadow framed by sunlight, his hand upon the jagged edge of wood. The
tropical sun shone down upon the lonely beach, the only sound the crash of
the surf and the skittering of sand, which skirled around him and spilled
with a soft sigh into the ancient ship.
He was not sure if the
damage to the hull was from some long-ago battle, or the recent work of
local ruffians. He stood there in the opening, breathing in the past. A
sigh escaped him as he stared into the quiet darkness of the ship, and he
closed his eyes in relief.
His name was Elijah Graham,
and he had been searching for this ship his entire life. This quest had
driven him for years, his intensity bordering on obsession; it was all
that kept him alive, since the fateful day when he had served with Prince
Charles Edward Stuart.
Bonnie Prince Charlie. Like
so many of his fellow countrymen, Elijah had been charmed by the man.
Charles was the rightful king of Britain, and his gallant manner coupled
with his boyish good looks had entranced many a Scotsman. They had fought
for him, the 'king over the water'- this was how the loyal Jacobites
toasted him, raising a glass of water between their whisky and their
heart...and so many of them had died for him, for their beliefs, and for
their country, in the tragedy of Culloden Field.
In 1745, the handsome young
prince had rallied the clans at Loch Shiel in Glenfinnan, and though only
one hundred fifty MacDonalds had been there to receive him at first,
within hours, Highland men from various clans which had gathered to
support him numbered near one thousand. There was much drinking and
singing; it appeared as though Scotland would be ruled by her own king at
last. Prince Charlie wore a tartan suit laced with gold; his beauty and
concern for his physical appearance belied his warrior heart. This
romantic young man captured the imagination of the Scottish people, and
though they did not follow him blindly, many of them cast their lots with
the heir of the Stuart throne.
Elijah shook his head as he
thought of Culloden. If the fool young prince had but listened to his
Graham kinsman, Lord George Murray, the ensuing horror would have never
disgraced Caledonia. Murray had been the only general of the Jacobite army
who had any sound advice to give, but the prince would not listen. Elijah
could still remember the screams of the wounded; the blood which came like
the tears of the very land itself; of Gillies MacBean as he fought off a
score of soldiers single-handedly...although an enemy general witnessed
this, and had called, "Have mercy on the brave man!", the cry was heard
too late. Elijah closed his eyes momentarily against the sting of tears.
His kinsmen...his homeland...the country which had made valiant his
name...but now, the gallant Grahams were no more. Elijah had been a
preacher, passionate and poetic; and beneath his cleric's robes, a
formidable warrior. This was how the Grahams had been known since anyone
could remember- the warriors, the poets, the holy men of the Highlands.
All the children of Scotland had been called much the same.
Now, no more. Their way of
life, their weapons, even the clothing they wore had been outlawed, the
clans disbanded. Culloden had destroyed more than the lives of the men who
had fallen that day. The ghost of a smile haunted Elijah as he wondered
what a foreigner might think of his desire to wrap the soft, warm woolen
great kilt around himself. Women's clothing, according to the rest of the
world. They knew not the noble blood which coursed through the veins of
those men who wore the Highland wool, or they would not be so bold. The
noble history of his native country had been lost by one prince, on one
battlefield, and the blood of Scotland spilled into her centuries-old soil
as hundreds of his fellow countrymen were destroyed.
In the years before the
horror of Culloden Field, Elijah's interests had nothing to do with the
sword. Aside from his chosen profession as preacher, Elijah had been a
scholar of history. He had once come across mention of a strange family
legend, which had captured his imagination. In the family library, he had
read with growing astonishment of a young man much like him, who had
pursued treasure long ago. This man had been dedicated to his family in
the usual Graham manner, and Elijah had become infatuated with the
romantic tale of piracy associated with his ancestor. At first, it had
simply been a wonderful way to spend an uneventful afternoon, if he did
not have devotions or a church service to preside over. After Culloden, it
became an all-consuming obsession for him to find the ship, and the man,
who had been associated with this old legend. However, it was not treasure
alone which had inspired such fervor in the young preacher's heart.
Elijah briefly touched a
cinnamon curl at the nape of his neck. The Grahams were renowned for their
exquisite beauty, but his peculiar golden skin set against the blue flames
of ice which were his eyes spoke of some different, wilder bloodline. He
had traced the mystery of his appearance back to the mention of a young
man possessed of a singular, uncommon beauty who had once lived within the
stronghold of Auld Montrose. There had been a minuscule amount of
information; simply a few sentences about a young man with a strange
luminescence below his darkened skin...a boy whom, it was written, had the
unearthly presence of an angel of God...
Elijah laughed bitterly.
The same had been said of him, once. He used to think it useful for his
sermons. Helped folk to believe...but now...
He no longer appeared
beautiful to those of his parish, and the ethereal light had left his
eyes. No one remarked him in a crowd, and no one called him handsome. He
was simply a thin young man, with blue eyes and brown hair, and none of
the lasses had winked at him in some time. He shook his head; it mattered
not. He had been betrayed, and this infidelity had consumed him.
Nowadays, he wondered how
anyone could say that Christ had been the son of God. He felt righteous in
this; none had been a more staunch defender of the faith than he, and his
loyalty had been repaid in blood. Any God of love in heaven would not have
stripped him of his parents, his kin, his nation! He had tired of prayer,
and set out to ease the sorrow of his homeland himself. Armed with
history, his discovery of the young man whose description so resembled
himself began to consume his life. After years of searching, he had caught
word of this curiosity, an ancient galleon stranded upon a lone beach in a
secluded part of Africa. He had made all speed to reach this place, hoping
against hope, and his dreams had finally been realized.
This was the lost ship of
legend.
He had run a hand over the
name of the ship, brushing away the sand and feeling the raised Gaelic
letters beneath his flat palm. His heart was filled with an angry,
vengeful joy. He hoped that the treasure was all it had been purported to
be. If the legend was true, Scotland was saved, his clan restored, and his
chieftainship assured.
He gazed around the small
room, as he stepped into the warm, dark interior of the ship. It appeared
to have been a library. He began to gingerly search through the books and
papers there, which had strangely seen little damage in all the years
since the ship had run aground. As he searched, it became more and more
plain to him that there might not be any treasure at all. His heart began
to beat faster, and his jaw clenched as he searched, his frustration
mounting. Nothing...and nothing....and nothing! He started to tear the
room apart, looking frantically for a chest, jewels, anything! as he
destroyed the century-old artifacts in his rage. He let out an animal
shout as tears came to his eyes, and he pawed through an assortment of
books and papers, old maps and trinkets, all in his rush to find the
long-lost treasure.
The ship's library was
empty. If there had been a treasure, it was long gone.
Elijah sat down hard, his
hands thrust into his curly hair. He stared at the floor, an ache behind
his eyes, as a sob rose in his throat. His dreams were dissipating, like
mist in the Highland summer sun. There was no longer any hope. Scotland
would remain imprisoned, their ways outlawed forever. Elijah's heart was
crushed, and despair consumed him. No God of love would do this...
Suddenly, something caught
his eye in the mess of books and papers between his feet, an ancient tome
with stiff pages, yellow-brown with age. It seemed to be a journal or
ship's log of some sort, which had fallen open in his anger. Inscribed in
the old ink upon the yellowed page were two words that nearly stopped his
heart:
Ne Oublie
The very words which had
ripped from his throat at Culloden...the war cry of his once-mighty clan.
He gently lifted the journal from the debris, brushing away the sand which
had settled upon its pages. He set the old leather book upon his knees,
touching the brittle pages with a delicate hand. His eyes widened in
wonder as he read the century-old calligraphic writing, which was
perfectly straight, each letter well-formed and intricately wrought. His
fingertips traced the tiny grooves of the beautiful letters, as he
envisioned the feathered quill pen scratching out the words, while the
mighty ship cut through the crystalline ocean. What made his soul fill
with awe was the tale which began to unfold upon the page. He sat in
silent reverence as he read the words imprinted there, and they were as
the taste of living water unto his parched and brittle soul....
The year of our Lord, 1652.
The ship's boards creak as
she rocks from side to side; a comforting and reassuring feeling. I sit
here in Captain d'Autevielle's cabin, a mug of ale by my side. Strange,
how a pirate's life feels like an everyday existence, after a time. I do
not know how greatly this life has tarnished my soul, but I comfort myself
with the fact that this career rose from necessity, and the blood upon my
hands was shed only in self-defense. Christ tells us to turn the other
cheek to any sort of violence, however, so I am still unsure whether or
not such an excuse is legitimate in the eyes of the Lord.
Yet there is something
wonderful about this life. Sitting with my bare feet upon the rail in the
noonday sun, laughing with Captain d'Autevielle as the seashell's echo of
the ocean surrounds us...covered with a fine layer of sand from some
deserted beach, like some ancient, dust-kissed book found in an attic,
brought out into the sun to be read and loved once more...the pounding
exhilaration and terror of an attack on the high seas, as we defend
ourselves with swords and strength of mind, by the will of God. Strange,
how everyone on earth believes himself on the side of good, regardless of
his profession; curious, how this young pirate still considers himself a
faithful Christian. Yet, as I have said, I am not aboard this ship without
good reason, and that is why I have taken it upon myself to write this
journal. My hope is that one day, when Captain d'Autevielle and I have
parted ways, she will find my journal and know the truth. I did not
deliberately deceive her, but did only what was necessary to protect us
all.
Angel, my friend, my
captain, forgive me. I cannot summon the courage to tell you this in
spoken words.
Here is the truth.
My name is Richard Graham,
and I am a Scotsman.
This may appear to be a
minor revelation to you, Angel, but I assure you it is not. I spent months
ridding myself of my Scottish tongue, slowly cultivating it until I spoke
with the mannered grace of a Southern English gentleman. A gentleman I
have always been, both in manner and noble birth; chivalrous and gallant
to a fault, as I have so often been told. English, however, I am not- and
would never wish to be. I am writing this so you will know I have no
association with that country, or with the kings which spilled the noble
blood of Scotland's children. I can only hope that my selective honesty
will not destroy your faith in me.
You may wonder why I have
kept all of this hidden for so long. Nothing in life could warrant such
secrecy, I can almost hear you thinking, and it makes me smile. Well, my
captain, though a man's life may be an open book, some pages of the tome
are always left unread.
Here, then, are my missing
pages...
Chapter One: The Gallant
Grahams
Dawn was breaking over the
shadowed mountains, bathing the countryside in a strange and ethereal
light which was peculiar to the Highlands of Scotland. This decidedly
unique sunlight fell crystalline and warm upon Auld Montrose, the
stronghold of Clan Graham.
Within the cool stone
walls, down a great hall, a young noble stood staring at a wooden door. He
wore nothing but his breacan-fˇile, a length of plaid wool worn like a
toga, held in place at his shoulder with a large brooch and secured with a
belt around his waist. The plaid was arranged hurriedly and without much
thought to its appearance. His chest was bare beneath his plaid, and he
wore a pair of old knee-high boots made of animal hide, called brogans,
which had seen better days. He was holding his sgian dubh, a small dagger
usually left concealed and used as battle's last resort. His long, thin
fingers were encircled with rings of intricately-woven sterling; like most
of his people, he was enamored of silver. His fair hand cupped the tiny
knife as he rubbed its blade between his index finger and thumb. It was a
nervous, preoccupied action: his mind was at work upon many things.
Despite his slovenly
appearance, the great beauty of the young man was readily apparent to
anyone who observed him. He had brown hair of a dark cinnamon color, which
grew in wide pixie curls, the tips of which framed his face and barely
touched his shoulders. His eyes were faceted sapphires of a cool ocean
blue which looked alien and otherworldly against the strange golden tone
of his skin. He was worried this day; he knew in his heart that it had
come time to marry, and he wanted nothing of it. He had two loves in life,
for his clan and for God; he felt sure there was no room in his heart for
any other.
The great hall of his
family's castle was free of other visitors, which assured the young man of
the reason he had been called here. Generally, the castle and surrounding
countryside was filled with his kinsmen, the men and women of his own
clan, or at least his brothers and sister. The silence was deafening, and
he was unaccustomed to it. He wished one of his siblings would come
chasing down the hall, and drag him off to play in the heather by the
bonnie shores of Loch Montrose. All his hope was for naught; apparently
the entire household had been told to busy themselves elsewhere.
"Come in," he heard his
father say. The young man took a deep breath, tucked his sgian dubh into
his brogan, and pushed the door open.
James Graham, fifth Earl of
Montrose and first Marquis, sat at his ornate desk, tapping the point of
his quill pen against the shiny black leather of his riding-boot, left
ankle upon right knee. He appeared to be deep in thought, the library of
books surrounding him in studious, dust-scented silence. The rich glow of
morning light poured through the high windows and made vibrant the serious
grays and dull whites of his grand study.
Handsome, cavalier, and
gallant, James Graham was an artist's dream. This man was indescribable;
pen nor paint nor sculpture could ever hope to define such a face or
personality. He was the stuff of legend; right-minded people would say men
of his ilk did not truly exist. Yet, James Graham was the incarnation of
the tales of noble knights; his great talent in war and his natural
chivalry were spoken of far and wide. Now, pensive, poised for action, it
was simple to understand why he had become King Charles Stuart's
right-hand man.
He had wide, expressive
blue eyes which were shadowed with grey, and a serious face which was
nevertheless given to laughter; dark, flowing hair which curled handsomely
over his shoulders. He had the discreet mustachios favored by many
soldiers of his day, and stood straight and tall, proud in his valor. He
wore impeccable Highland dress, from his tartan plaid to his brogans. He
was every inch a Scotsman, and did honor to the noble name of Graham.
The massive door of the
study opened, and a shadowed figure entered the room. James looked up, and
as his son walked into the sunlight falling from the great window, he was
again surprised by the strange beauty of his child. The boy's fair face
was only outdone by the beauty of his soul, innocent and filled with love
for his Creator. This love shone through his eyes like sunlight through a
stained-glass window, giving them their uncanny, gemlike quality. The
young man's tousled hair was unkempt, and he had all the appearance of a
feral child. His father smiled, but shook his head.
"Good day, Faither," said
Richard Graham, as he stepped into the sunlight.
"Ye look like a wild man,
Richard," James admonished his son, "Dark skin and unruly hair are
unbefitting the son of a nobleman- suppose King Charles sees ye that way?"
"Faither...." he began.
"What on earth are ye
wearing?" asked James, starting.
"My breacan, Faither, same
as ye are," said Richard, slightly embarrassed. He had been instructed to
dress well, as King Charles was coming to visit. James had informed him
that His Majesty had little respect for the Scots, even though he himself
was Scottish, and to be sure his appearance did his family and his country
honor. Richard had been incensed that a king of Scots would reject his
birthright, and had decided that he had no interest in catering to the
man's prejudice.
"I can see that, son, but
why are ye wearing it as if ye had nae manners?" his father asked, "Ye hae
deliberately disobeyed me. Why?"
Richard appraised his
father calmly.
"I am young, Faither, and
dinnae wish tae be involved in politics," said Richard, "King Charles will
understand."
"Richard," he replied, "as
the eldest, ye will be next in line as Marquis. The politics will involve
ye, whether ye like it or not."
"Then all the better to
look like a savage, sae the fool will hae an idea o' wha will be his next
noble lieutenant," said Richard obstinately, with a reckless grin. James
shook his head.
"Richard," his father
sighed, "Ye maun ken, ye are the son of a man who is fighting a losing
battle for a king no one loves. I am quite aware o' how much ye dislike
these formalities. However, this is a matter of the utmost importance tae
me. Ye are normally an obedient and charming young man, and ye make me
proud wi' your chivalry and gentle nature. We earned the title, 'The
Gallant Grahams', and ye are living proof. I am merely frustrated- the
king wants me to raise an army for him wi' no resources or money, and I am
at a loss. Forgive my exasperation wi' ye, my son. Let us talk of pleasant
things."
"Aye, Faither," Richard
replied, sighing, "Now, will ye tell me why ye called me here this
morning?"
James grinned, leaning back
against his desk.
"I brought ye here tae
discuss marriage, my son," James said, and Richard's golden skin paled.
His father noticed, and laughed.
"Dinnae look sae worried,
lad!" said James, "Wi' your exquisite beauty and impeccable manners, ye
will be guaranteed a fine, bonnie young Christian girl wi' a rich dowry.
Ye hae no reason to worry."
Richard smiled shyly. He
threaded his fingers through the soft tartan at his shoulder, his eyes
cast downward.
"Faither, " he said softly,
"these things are not my concern. I hae no desire tae marry. I wish tae be
the servant and husband o' God alone, and tae serve my clan upon the
battlefield, fighting wi' ye on the side of right for God's chosen king."
Upon hearing his son utter
these words, a haunted expression came to James' face. He straightened,
and put his hand behind Richard's head, pulling his son towards him. He
leaned his forehead against his son's and stared straight into the boy's
eyes.
"If what ye say is true,
lad," said James, "and ye wish tae live a life serving the Lord, make me a
promise."
"Anything, Faither," said
Richard, confused by his father's sudden change in demeanor and
uncomfortable in the intensity of James' gaze.
"Ye are my eldest son,
Richard, and I love ye mair than anything in this world," said his father,
"ye were the first born, and first loved. Ye hae brothers that can take
over for ye.
"Promise me that ye will
never be a military man. Truly, my son, I dinnae care if ye marry or not.
I only want tae keep ye frae a life like mine, and marriage is one o' the
only ways I could think of to do it. Ye maun promise me ye will never
fight in any war. If ye want tae lead a life like that of the apostle
Paul, celibate for life and living for God, do this for me: go tae
Ireland, and take monastic orders. There, ye will be able tae serve the
good Lord in peace and safety, far frae the politics and war that have
ensnared me in this country. If ye truly love and admire me, do as I say.
Promise me ye will never choose tae serve God as I hae done. The danger
and terror ye maun face would be too much for me tae bear. Promise me."
Richard listened to this
refrain of 'promise me' with fear in his heart. He had never known his
father to so vehemently disapprove of the military life, and it was
strange to hear.
"I promise, Faither,"
whispered Richard, staring into those dark, warlike eyes which had already
seen so much blood and devastation. James held his gaze for a moment, then
let out a sigh of relief, his eyes closing in silent thanks. He hugged his
son and tousled his hair, smiling. The shadows of the two men stretched
across the floor, a somehow poignant illustration of the two noble figures
silhouetted in the morning light.
* * *
Richard knelt in the sand,
his hands clasped in prayer. He made a pilgrimage to this lonely cove as
many times as he could, because here, he truly felt the divine presence.
Here, he had experienced rapturous visions and heard the still, small
voice in his heart. The crashing of the waves against the sand, and the
subsequent quiet hiss as the sea withdrew, tumbling pebbles as it went,
soothed his soul. Though he never knew why, there was something about the
ocean that spoke to him of God.
Richard tilted his face
towards the sun, his eyes closed in contented ecstasy. He felt the heat
burn into his skin, a sensation he accorded the highest pleasure of life.
He smiled slightly, understanding why ancient heathen religions had
worshipped the sun. He gave thanks to the Lord for its warmth, for the
rolling sea, for solitude.
It was good to be away from
Auld Montrose; his father was much too preoccupied with the king's affairs
to bother much with his eldest son. Richard was rather confused by his
father's insistence that he join a monastery, but he was also relieved. He
dreaded marriage; he was only interested in serving God, by prayer or by
sword, and he felt that a wife would merely hinder him. He had never much
understood why people would go mooning about, chasing each other to the
ends of the earth, their hearts destroyed and resurrected in what seemed
to him a vicious and useless cycle of pain. The moment one's heart was
mended, it would fall in love again and so be shattered once more. If
someone had the perfect and eternal love of Jesus Christ, he reasoned, why
would you desire any other? Richard found humans, including himself,
rather foul and disappointing. Of course, part of his feelings regarding
love had to do with his own high standards, and the belief that no real
human would ever live up to them, so he had long ago decided that earthly
love was not worth his time. He was in love with God, and his love was
all-consuming. No other love could ever live up to divine perfection.
With the sigh of a man who
must depart from his beloved, Richard finished his prayers and reluctantly
walked up the hill away from the sandy beach. As he began the voyage back
to Auld Montrose, he looked back towards the ocean one last time. There it
slept, powerful, beautiful, deadly; above all, obedient to God in
everything. Its deep and heavy green met the clear blue of the sky upon
the horizon in a perfect line. The tranquil, rhythmic peace of the place
made the young man pray, almost unconsciously, for a life lived upon the
ocean. He then set out for Auld Montrose, as the day was waning. After
all, he was the eldest son of the Marquis, and he must be introduced to
the king. This book
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