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Lloyd’s Mansion
The Kingdom of Fife
Rory Campbell ran out the door.
“Are you okay, ma’am?” Henderson’s voice registered in Bethany’s ear. She shook her gaze off Mr Campbell—a remarkable young man.
“Yes, Henderson. I think I’ve fared better than you.”
Henderson’s green left eye peered out from a swollen, purple lid. “Let’s get you to the vehicle, Prime Minister, and we’ll search for the safe room.”
“He’d know where it is.” The man who always accompanied Mr Campbell pointed to Micah McNair, who lay groaning and dripping blood onto the carpet.
“Aye, a good idea, Xian.” Henderson stepped to McNair. “Show us where the safe room is,” he commanded.
Micah stared up at him from his supine position on the floor with a look of incredulity.
“You’re jokin’, right?” He let out a gasp. “Fix ma leg first. Then I might tell ya.”
Henderson’s foot flicked out and jolted the calf below the knee in question.
McNair screamed.
“Iain!” Bethany glared at Henderson. “Where’s our medic?” She looked around at the other personnel; one acknowledged and ran out the door. “Help me get him on the couch.” She leaned down and grasped hold of McNair’s arm.
Xian and Henderson took over the manoeuvring of McNair and placed the injured man on the length of the couch. A few minutes later a woman with a medical kit entered the parlour and opened her kit beside McNair.
“Ma’am, we need to secure you in a vehicle. We’ll see to this.” Henderson turned to Xian. “Please take the PM to our lead vehicle, it’s just outside.”
Xian nodded and led her through the smashed Victorian doorway and down the stone steps. Black-clad figures gathered farther along the road that led to Kirkcaldy, and more on the road which the Government convoy had taken coming from the Kincardine Bridge.
No gunfire disturbed the grounds of the stately home, only the hum of conversations interspersed with shouted orders. Her government security detail moved among and communicated with some ragged-looking individuals.
“Bandits,” Xian said beside her. “On our side.” He halted in his walk to the vehicle, listening.
“What can you hear—?”
Xian placed a finger to his lips, then jogged to the rear of the mansion. A thundering vibrated through the ground, and shouts came from that direction. Bethany ran to stand next to Xian where, in between the two large sheds at the back of the mansion, they had a long view of the fields.
Horses bearing riders rode over the nearest field, four abreast. Row upon row. A sea of riders, all bearing arms, that looked to be anything from a rifle to an old flintlock musket—from what she could tell. And every rider wore a kilt; each one a plaid in the softer colours of the hunting tartans.
“It’s the Tummel House Army.” Xian sounded composed. He looked it too, apart from the tense way he held his shoulders.
Bethany walked with Xian, joining the others awaiting the approaching force. Her security team and the bandits by the sheds gave a cheer as the mounted soldiers arrived and an older man, who she recalled was Mr Donaldson, rode forward. A younger man, his spitting image, rode beside him. Mr Donaldson scanned the crowd and smiled when his gaze rested on Xian and Bethany.
“Thank you for coming so promptly, Mr Donaldson,” Bethany said. “We have Lloyd somewhere in the house in a safe room. His men have scattered to the far fields at the front with more gathering further along the road.”
“I think they’ve come from their posts guarding the Kincardine Bridge,” Xian offered. “They’re regrouping, so we’d better move and position ourselves.”
“Aye.” Mr Donaldson dismounted, his kilt swishing in Bethany’s face as he did so. “But we have Bessie on her way doon and ye’ll want to make good use of her.”
“Bessie?” Bethany raised her brows.
“An 1814 six-pound cannon in perfect working order, with plenty o’ balls and oor home-made black powder. She’s travelling on a dray so she’s a wee bitty delayed in getting’ here. Have tae move a bit slower, aye?” He pressed his hands into his back and stretched tall. “Where’s this safe room, then? Have ye got into that yet?” He unshouldered an ancient-looking shotgun.
“We’re still finding its location.” Bethany led the way to the front entrance while the army behind her dismounted. Horses whinnied, tack jangled and the murmurings of men in serious tones fell behind. When they reached the smashed front door of the Victorian mansion, Henderson stepped out.
“Beth—Prime Minister, why are you not in the vehicle—?” Henderson’s one clear eye looked in Mr Donaldson’s direction.
“Have ye found oot where this safe room is, laddie?” Mr Donaldson bustled up the stairs and brushed past Iain. He was still slightly stiff from a long ride on a horse, but agile all the same.
“Yes sir, it’s where the old cellar used to be, but we can’t get in—”
“I was always under the impression that is the general idea, is it no’?”
“It’s a solid door with a keypad—”
“It was the cellar, ye say?”
Henderson blinked, one-eyed and silent. Bethany suppressed a grin as the competence and experience of Donaldson came to the fore.
“If we hold our position, and keep those dark devils who are crowdin’ doon that road frae coming any closer, once Bessie arrives, we can blast a way in frae the ootside, ken?” Donaldson turned his stare to Bethany, awaiting her answer and permission.
“Let’s try negotiation first,” she replied, then to Henderson. “Can we hear him through the door? Are we sure he’s in there?”
“Yes, Prime Minister, and we think his son Maxwell is in there too.” Henderson spun and indicated for an armed guard to accompany them, then led the way through the stately home, past the breakfast room and to the Victorian kitchen. Bethany marched with the others to the functional and much less ornate section of the house. Two fireplaces, one snugly fitted with a cast-iron stove, sat side by side along one wall of the kitchen, and a sturdy wooden table filled most of the floor space. A door further back led to a narrow and utilitarian stone stair, down which Henderson led Bethany, Xian, Donaldson and the guard.
“This must abut the outer wall at the far side o’ this mansion, aye?” Donaldson’s voice amplified off the cold stone walls.
Cool mustiness brushed Bethany’s face as the light from the doorway above receded and ahead Henderson turned on a torch. They came to an abrupt halt at the bottom of half a dozen stairs and the armed guard held his weapon ready. A solid metal door with a keypad beside shone in the light of Henderson’s torch.
“Lloyd!” Mr Donaldson shouted. “Answer us, man, if ye value yer life!”
Laughter, derisive in tone, came through the muffled layers of metal and reinforcing materials.
“Mr Lloyd, be a man and open this door.” Bethany raised her voice. “Face the consequences of your failed coup and we’ll deal appropriately with you. Otherwise, we will break in, one way or another.”
Gunfire peppered the air outside, the noise funnelling down the narrow stairwell.
“I’ll go see what’s happening.” Xian ran up the steps.
“Lloyd, who’s in there with you?” Henderson shouted at the door.
Gunfire continued to echo from above; the stairwell was quiet apart from the breaths of the three men standing with Bethany. Her upper lip cooled with a thin layer of sweat.
“Mr Lloyd. Save yourself and surrender,” Bethany yelled. “Where is your son? Don’t you care about Maxwell?”
“Och, the man’s too reticent,” Donaldson said. “Once oor Bessie’s here we’ll try again. Lad, you guard this door till we set up oor cannon,” he ordered the guard. Donaldson faced Bethany. “The man’s committed treason, has he not? Dinnae be soft on him. Any delay he kens may be to his advantage. Like the noo’.” He thrust a thumb in the direction of the upstairs and outside. “His men have regrouped. We cannae be too compassionate. It’s him or us ye ken, lass. I mean, Prime Minister.” Donaldson dipped his head in a brief bow.
Behind him, the door flew open, and Bethany’s ears rang with the clamour of repeated gunfire in the restricted space.