Chapter 8

Sir Frederick Cottingsharm had the disease. It was like some sort of global plague that came and infected a person and made the person extremely moody. The events of the past few hours made it clear that Scotland was seeing a major outbreak—brought to a head with the help of British prodding.

Fred Cottingsharm was snarling when he saw Sir James Wylings standing on his doorstep. They were old acquaintances. They played golf. But the disease made Fred Cottingsharm into a Brit-hating isolationist Scot, just like all the maniacs raising hell in London.

“Fred, thank goodness I reached you before you left,” Wylings said.

“What do you want, British?”

“We’re not enemies, Fred,” Wylings said, then lowered his voice. “I’m on your side.”

“What do you mean, British?”

Wylings leaned in close and said in a quiet voice, “I’ve got Scottish blood, Fred. And a Scottish heart.”

“You? You’re the perfect little royal, you are.”

“All the better to help the Scottish cause. Fred, I’ve been working with SCOTS for thirty years.”

Cottingsharm sneered. “SCOTS is a fairy tale.”

“SCOTS is real. We’ve been working behind the scenes to gather evidence against the Crown. Fred, I have certain documentation with me that you need to see, right now.”

Cottingsharm was wary, but he swung the door open and allowed Wylings into his expensive London flat. The front parlor was stacked with old chests and new suitcases. Like many angry Scots, Cottingsharm was fleeing the land of the enemy.

“All right. Tell me about it,” Cottingsharm dared.

“Scottish Control Of Territorial Scotland is a tiny organization, and we keep our mouths shut. That’s why so many people believe it doesn’t even exist. We’re just seven souls, but each and every one of us has taken on government roles that give us access to various legal archives. We’re putting together an indictment of British theft of Scottish territory. The records we’ve found show an orchestrated, centuries-old conspiracy by the Brits to take Scotland away from the Scots plot by plot.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“And wipe out Scottish culture.”

Cottingsharm stared at him.

“Erase it. Like it never was. That’s what the Crown’s been up to—for centuries! And you’re one of the victims.”

“What do you mean, Wylings?”

“I speak of Cottingsharm Cottage.”

“The cottage? You’ve lost me.”

Wylings nodded seriously, but inside he was exuberant. Cottingsharm was eager to believe in anything that would stoke his irrational anti-British sentiment. “The cottage was stolen from the original Frederick Cottingsharm,” he whispered. “I have proof.” He patted his blazer.

“Cottingsharm Cottage was sold to the Gracels in 1596, and we got a fair price for an old stone hut,” Cottingsharm said. “Lord Gracel tore it down and built Loch Tweed Castle.”

“Wrong, Frederick. Even your family history lies to you. It was the first Frederick Cottingsharm, your ancestor, who actually built Loch Tweed. By rights, the castle belongs to you. It is Cottingsharm Castle!”

Cottingsharm looked confused but the idea invigorated him. He was ready to swallow the worm, the hook, all of it. “How could that be?”

“It was extortion. The Gracels did it, working with the Crown. They took Frederick Cottingsharm’s daughter and secreted her in London. They promised your ancestor to return the girl, but only if he would give Gracel the newly finished castle—and he had to agree to forsake all claims, even past claims, to the castle. It’s all right here.”

Triumphantly, Wylings flipped the envelope onto a parlor table. Cottingsharm opened it nervously and pulled out a photocopy of a centuries-old document.

“Look at the signatures. Does that not resemble the penmanship of your ancestor?”

“Yes,” Cottingsharm gasped. “It is nearly identical.”

“The other signature is Hartford Gracel.”

“I see. This is an agreement to a ransom, just as you said!”

“Exactly,” Wylings said. “Irrefutable proof.”

“Absolutely irrefutable,” agreed Cottingsharm. He began to pore over the faded text of the document, which Wylings had created on his iMac that afternoon using MicroFlop RelicCreator version 2.2. The software translated any text into the English vernacular of any given era between 1066 and the present day. It printed using dynamic fonts that simulated the inconsistencies of human handwriting. It had even come with a free six-month membership to MicroFlop Internet Portal, which gave Wylings instant online access to TV listings, movie show times and his up-to-the-minute horoscope.

“English bastards!” Cottingsharm fumed. “They stole my castle!”

Cottingsharm had swallowed the story completely. This was too easy.

“But you can get it back,” Wylings said with determination. “The Scots are standing up against their oppressors. They’re flexing their muscle at last. Cottingsharm, this is your moment to reclaim your heritage, your real estate and your family honor.”

Cottingsharm’s eyes were glowing with determination and no deliberation—a good thing, too, since Wylings couldn’t explain any of a hundred major holes in his bit of fanciful history.

“Frederick, will you go reclaim your castle?”

“I will,” he proclaimed. “With my determination as my talisman and this ancient document as my sword, I shall do battle against the English and take back my family home!”

Wylings smiled grimly. “I’ll help you load up the van.”