Midnight Honor

stalemate was ending. Cumberland had finally run out of patience—or time—and instead of a trial had issued the order to take her out and have her quietly murdered, buried in a bog or a forest where no one would ever find her or know what happened. She remembered finding a skeleton once when she was younger. Jamie and Robbie had been digging a hole for a new well and the skull had flipped up on a turn of the spade. The jaw had been open, the eyes great gaping holes, and part of the bone had been crushed inward, suggesting that whoever it was had been killed by a hard blow with a rock or cudgel. Ten years or a hundred and ten years from now, someone might be digging in the woods and turn up another skull. It would be hers, but no one would know it; no one would have mourned her passing, either.
    She choked back the taste of panic that rose up her throat and tightened her hands on the pommel as the horses moved forward. The bindings on her wrist were cutting off the flow of blood, and her fingers were half numb. She had traded her shoes away weeks ago and her feet were bare, hanging inches below any protection the hem of her tattered skirt might have afforded. The saddle was cracked, and the uneven edges gouged her thigh with every jostling motion, but at least the pain helped clear her senses. She knew when they turned off Kirk Street and rode down Bridge Street and, when they crossed over timber planking, that they were across the river and heading out of Inverness. She also guessed, by the sound of saddles creaking and hooves beating, that there were atleast a dozen riders in the group—far too many to try to break away from, tied and hooded as she was. On the other hand, if they were taking her into the woods to kill her, what did she have to lose?
    “Don't even think about it, dearie,” came a low growl from beside her. “Half these men were at Falkirk and would just love an excuse to fire their muskets into the back of your pretty rump. Me? I've a mind to put something else up your backside, and might do it yet if you give us any grief.”
    Anne turned her head slightly. Her hearing was distorted by the woolen hood, but the voice had sounded familiar enough to freeze her marrow and bring forth an instant image of a scarred, milky eye.
    They rode in silence for a mile or more, though it was difficult to judge distance or time. By sound, once again, she knew when they left the firmness of the road for the swishing thickness of long deer grass. She could smell spring in the dampness of the mist. The sweetness of saplings and green growth was mixed with the rich compost of rotted leaves and pine needles. There were no sounds of rushing water, so they had not followed the river. Just south of Inverness proper, however, was a dense band of forest about five miles wide that could absolutely suit their purpose this night, and she wondered if they would at least remove her hood in the final moments so she could take one last look at the sky and the trees overhead.
    One of the men swore as a branch snagged his tunic. “How much farther, dammit?”
    “The clearing should be just up ahead.”
    Branches brushed across the top of Anne's head for another hundred paces or so, then her horse was led off to one side and halted. More protesting leather indicated her escort was dismounting and again there were hands reaching for her, untying her from the pommel, dragging her down out of the saddle. The grass was wet and cold beneath her feet, the earth spongy between her toes; despite her resolve, she began to tremble.
    A tug at the back of her neck brought the hood off her head, and she blinked again. They were in a clearing surrounded by heavy-limbed fir trees. The mist was waist deep, lit from aboveby a crescent-shaped moon and from the two pitch-soaked torches that had been stuck into the ground nearby. Flanking her were eight redcoated soldiers with muskets cradled in their arms; across the clearing, six more looked as though they had been waiting impatiently for their arrival.
    The six were escorts for another familiar figure, short and squat, dressed in a dark coat with frogged gold braid down the front, his face shadowed by the brim of a tricorne.
    The Duke of Cumberland stared at Anne for a long moment before signaling one of her guards to remove the filthy gag from her mouth. When it was gone, she used her tongue to scrape bits of thread and dirt from her lips, but there was no spittle to call upon this time. She