The Prisoner's Dilemma Read online

  First published by Zero Books, 2013

  Zero Books is an imprint of John Hunt Publishing Ltd., Laurel House, Station Approach,

  Alresford, Hants, SO24 9JH, UK

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  Text copyright: Sean Stuart O’Connor 2012

  ISBN: 978 1 78099 741 4

  All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publishers.

  The rights of Sean Stuart O’Connor as author have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Design: Stuart Davies

  Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual historical persons, events or locales are largely coincidental.

  For my family

  Two things fill my mind with ever increasing wonder and awe …the starry heavens above me and the moral law within me.

  Immanuel Kant, 1788

  Chapter 1

  For perhaps the twentieth time that morning the prince lunged forward in his chair, his angry face marbled with a livid red crazing as he glared out from under his long court wig.

  ‘And who …’ he was shrieking now, his blancmange body rustling with the cascade of pale blue silk and satin sashes that broke over him whenever he moved. Slowly, he lifted a shaking arm and a hooked forefinger quivered over an open page like a hovering kestrel. Then it hurtled down to impale an elaborate drawing of a heraldic crest.

  ‘…this people?’

  General Mallender sighed noiselessly and twisted in his seat to see what the terrible Hanoverian nail had stabbed now. Good God, hadn’t he given the old bull enough time today already?

  It was clear that the prince was not going to risk taking his finger from the hated crest and the thick paper buckled slightly as Mallender gently edged round the enormous bulk of The Origins and Armorial Bearings of the Highland Clans until he could see enough of the illustration to read the inscription.

  ‘If I might just…’ he began, and then ‘ah, the Urquhain. Yes, indeed. The premier clan of Caithness. And very interesting they are, too. I am not personally familiar with the family although I did once have the honour to be a guest at their great stronghold, the Castle of Beath, when I was travelling in the area many years ago. That was when the clan’s old chief, the present earl’s father, was alive.’

  ‘What is area? Where this place? Caithness?’

  ‘It’s right up on the roof of Scotland, your highness. You can scarcely go any further north than the castle.’

  ‘You say name again,’ ordered the prince, and he now jabbed at the florid type at the head of the page.

  ‘Their name, your highness? Well, you’ll recall that we were discussing another clan earlier spelt Urquhart and I said we pronounce it as Urket. This one has possibly the same root and I believe they would refer to themselves as Urken.’

  The prince gave a grunt of displeasure.

  ‘And what lord? This chief?’

  ‘He is the Earl of Dunbeath, your highness.’

  ‘Urquhain. Dunbeath. Scotland names. So stupid.’

  Mallender inclined his head slightly to one side as if in agreement but looked with inward distaste at the podgy face beside him with its drooping cheeks and bulbous, wine-veined nose.

  Here’s a pot slandering a kettle, he thought to himself. If there was a competition for idiotic names the Urquhain card would easily be covered by your own – Prince Friedrich Ernst August von Suderburg-Brunswick-Luneburg. A fancy string of words but we all know that you were born a bastard. And if it hadn’t been for your half sister chancing to marry a man who was the closest living Protestant relation they could find when fat old Queen Anne died you’d still be back in your piss-poor principality. So small, they say, that a man could ride out of it on a good day’s hunting.

  The general came out of his musing and turned his attention back to the prince. He looked sideways at him and saw his bulging eyes as he continued to glower furiously at the Urquhain crest, obviously deeply embedded in his self-righteous resentment. But in spite of the irritation Mallender had been feeling all morning he was surprised to notice in himself a sudden twinge of pity as it flashed across his thoughts. He knew that behind the angry bluster there was something pathetic about the elderly fraud that sat wobbling with fury alongside him. It was common knowledge that the prince had left his homeland to accompany his ‘half’ brother-in-law when he had been crowned King of England. But that was in 1714. And yet here he was in 1745, over thirty years later, and still lodged between the two nations. The now ancient prince had made no effort to become English, he’d never been accepted by its people and he hardly even spoke the language; but then again he was certainly no longer anything to do with the German empire. Instead, he had become marooned by his dogged service to the Hanoverian monarchy.

  His old friend, the king, had died years ago and the prince was now serving his son, the second George. Mallender could only imagine that even someone as dull witted and self-absorbed as the prince had to be able to see how determined this monarch was to reduce the ties with his father’s Germanic background.

  The general gave a slight cough but the prince paid him no attention and remained locked in his rancorous trance. Mallender shrugged slightly and went back to his silent contemplation, thinking further about the arrogant man that grunted and wheezed next to him.

  He knew that the Hanoverians considered blood to be blood, sullied though it may have been by the illicit passions of the bedroom, and the prince had been found a pension of sorts and a fine set of grace and favour apartments at Hampton Court Palace. There he had his own little kingdom where he strutted around with his many mistresses and an absurd private army of – to universal hilarity – just two soldiers. Known to everyone except themselves as Dumm and Kopf this convoy were a couple of overweight, loutish aristocrats from the eastern border of his principality, dressed at all times in the ridiculous uniforms of their native hussars’ regiment. The prince liked to keep them busy and they amused the other tenants at the Palace by spending hours each day practicing their sabre thrusts and blocking moves like a pair of carefree puppies. Then they would stroll the grounds with their master, intriguing with each other in a mixture of their army slang and an impenetrable Celle dialect – chosen because it was impossible for even German speakers to understand – plotting to be invited to court. This was yet more blind arrogance on their part for their aloofness prevented them seeing the scarcely concealed derision they met whenever they went.

  The prince poked again at the offending heraldry.

  ‘They fight us?’

  Mallender shook himself out of his reverie.

  ‘The Urquhain? I couldn’t be sure, your highness. The situation is still very confused.’

  ‘But they Scots from high lands. Who give them lord?’

  ‘I believe they received the earldom when King James came south to take the English throne. Many of the king’s Scottish supporters were rewarded at the time.’

  ‘King James was Stuart! So they fight for this Stuart now! This Charles Edward who think he have claim for throne. They say him Bonnie Prince Charlie. More stupid name. But they think him right king. They say king over water.’

&
nbsp; The arm rose again and the crest was once more decisively impaled.

  ‘I say. They fight.’

  The general stiffened in his chair.

  ‘I wouldn’t be too quick to make that assumption, your highness,’ he murmured.

  Now Mallender leant over to point to the scroll under the cat’s cradle of intertwined supporters, shield and coronet that made up the crest.

  ‘You’ll see the wording of the clan motto here, your highness? Nos Unus. I think you’d agree that this tells its own story. There was never a family that lived so faithfully to its guiding principle. You’ll have made the translation by now and surmised its meaning, I have no doubt –Us Alone. How appropriate that is. The Urquhain have never shown loyalty to anyone, only to themselves. Who would they fight for? Probably whoever would make them still richer than they already are. They believe only in power and wealth. They have only ever had one aim and that is to side with the winner.’

  ‘We have same like. In Hanover. Think they…’ and here the prince risked removing his finger from the page to tilt his nose upwards in mock superiority.

  More pots and kettles, thought Mallender, although he nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘Oh, I quite agree in most cases, your highness. But the Urquhain have made their bloodline into an art form. Their children have suspicion bred into them. The finest tutors are always engaged for them but the real lessons come from within the family. Add wealth, each new generation is told, add power. But never add obligation.’

  The prince gave another grunt although there was the merest hint of respect in its tone.

  ‘This son. This earl. Dunbeath. He soldier?’

  ‘Why no, your highness. Anything but. And that is another reason to think he may not fight with the rebels. No, he is an astronomer. I hear he thinks of nothing but his stars and moons. I’m told he never sees anyone and lives only for looking at the planets. They say he’s the first Urquhain chief for centuries to care about anything other than counting his money.’

  ‘Why you no talk him?’

  ‘We may indeed try to treaty with him at some point, your highness, but our first priority must be to strengthen our forces in Scotland. And, of course, these Scottish lairds are notoriously difficult to deal with. They all have hair trigger tempers but even on such a measure I’m informed that this latest Dunbeath stands apart. He is reputed to have only the two days: gloom and rage, gloom and rage. And one can follow the other in the blink of an eye. No, I’d suggest that we leave this clan for the time being and turn the page. Ah, the Macdonalds of Ranochlainie. I think we can be rather more sure of where they stand.’

  The prince gave another cry of rage and, once again, a quaking hand was slowly raised to strike.

  Chapter 2

  It was mid-February and the vicious cut in the easterly wind showed no sign of easing after four months of the harshest winter in living memory. Standing immovable against it, the Castle of Beath rose from the landscape, massive and unlit, its vast black bulk silhouetted against the watery moonlight of the frozen Caithness night.

  The castle was an ancient place, built in the fourteenth century on a spit of land set in the Ulbster coast, by Dromnell Urquhain, a renowned madman and the first of the clan lairds. A violent, volatile man, embittered from his constant fights and ambitious beyond reason, he had used the massive boulders he’d found there as the foundation stones for a fortress so great that its very presence was designed to chill any thought of opposition. He had taken much care in choosing its position. The wild sea was where he wanted it, at his back, and the treeless tract at the castle’s front was so narrow that it formed a highly defensible land bridge.

  Although it was by now over four hundred years old, the hardness of the castle’s stone remained undulled by the ferocious storms that constantly beat against it and the outward appearance of the colossal stronghold was almost completely unchanged from the day it had been finished. But one alteration to the structure was evident. On the battlemented top of what was called the Grey Tower a curious building had been more recently erected – an observatory with glassed sides and a curved roof that slid back to allow for the enormous telescope that now pointed out into the night sky.

  If one stood with one’s back to the castle’s entrance, out of the pitiless dirge of the onshore wind, the headland was piled up to the left, south of the castle. But to the north the land dropped down to a sandy bay and this arced out in a wide open sweep for hundreds of yards into the distance. Massive, deeply rutted dunes lay behind the beach and at the end of this long, natural crescent a tiny hamlet of cottages was just visible, clustered around a small harbour that clung to the shoreline like a man-made limpet. This was the fishing village of Dunbeaton.

  Beyond the headland that lay to the north of Dunbeaton, a beacon had been set in a crude, stone built tower. On the orders of the Urquhain lairds, its fire was never allowed to die and it now shone, as it always did, far away into the blackness of the deep sea, sending out its warning to passing ships of the evil rocks that lay in the bay.

  Suddenly, from out of the gloom, two thin, ragged-looking figures crept onto the boulders below the castle’s great sea wall. They were stooped low as though to stay out of sight but even a glimpse of their wan faces in the half light would show such a similar cast to their features that they could only be brothers: the elder of the two was James and the other was Alistair - the sons of Mona and Andrew McLeish of Dunbeaton.

  Anyone that happened to see their furtive manner and the anxious, pinched glances they threw to each other would have known in an instant that the pair were up to no good. Yet it would also have been clear from their uncertain movements that whatever they were at was unusual work for them. Like so many others on this coast they were fishermen and, although still more boys than men, the harsh life of fighting the unforgiving winter sea for their living had taken its toll and made them appear far older than their years.

  Standing on a great sea boulder that seemed to form part of the castle’s very foundations, the two of them now gazed down with dismay at a narrow gap between two large rocks and discussed their next steps in low, hesitant tones. The gap was no bigger than the width of a man and the surf gurgled and sucked like a maddened spirit as it endlessly crashed forwards and back through the tightness of the opening.

  ‘Are you sure the tide’s at its lowest?’ whispered Alistair nervously, every line of his face showing his reluctance at being there.

  ‘Aye,’ replied James grimly, ‘you know it is. I’ve been watching this place for half my life. These rocks are always under water unless the tide’s completely out. Don’t go soft on me now, Ally. I’ll no be backing out and neither will you.’

  James looked at Alistair’s frozen face and knew he had to act quickly before his brother’s gossamer-thin resolve left him for good.

  ‘I’ll go first,’ James said firmly, his face set and tense. ‘There’s only room between that gap for one of us at a time. If that drunkard McColl is right, then there’s a cave in there with a ledge at the back. He said he saw it when he was washed in that time and he thought it looked man-made. But if it’s just more of the nonsense he spouts when he’s in his cups …well, you can take my hand for the last time, Ally. If it’s true, I’ll call you when I make it. Then you jump down between the waves and come yourself.’

  Alistair nodded his understanding.

  ‘Some of these old castles have escape routes under them,’ James went on, ‘to get out by the sea. If that’s what this is then it’s a way in for us too. If I’m wrong and it’s just a cave then I’m a dead man.’

  Alistair stared at his brother and wondered yet again if he should try and talk him out of going.

  ‘God willing and we get in, then there’s not to be a word,’ continued James in the same firm manner. ‘We’ll see what there is to take as we go to the top of the castle, then pick things up as we come back down. Otherwise we’ll be hauling everything up to the roof. The cave will be underwater by the
time we’re finished so we’ll have to leave by the main entrance. But…’ and he tried a brave smile as much for himself as for his brother, ‘…we’ll be as rich as lords ourselves by then. Wish me luck, Ally!’

  James checked that the sack he’d brought was securely tied around his waist and then looked closely at the incoming waves. Timing a slack moment and clutching a tiny, dimmed lantern, he leapt down and squeezed through the gap. He raced into a small, wet cave and as he did so, he opened the shutter of his lamp. By its thin light he saw a ledge and with a silent prayer of relief he flung himself up onto its surface. By now the sea was rushing in to fill the cave but he was untouched, above its level. He turned around to shine the light onto the back wall and his heart leapt as he saw that rough steps had been cut out of the stone. Just as he’d hoped, this must have been an ancient exit from the castle, put there when the foundations were first laid.

  Those mad Urquhain, James thought to himself, they wouldn’t even trust to six foot of stone wall to keep themselves out of trouble. He turned back from the steps and cupped his hands to call out to his brother.

  ‘Ally man,’ he shouted above the roar of the surf, ‘come now!’

  To give him his due, his brother didn’t hesitate. He jumped down into the gap between the surging waves and sprinted through the cave. As he reached the back he was hauled up onto the ledge by James’s eager hand.

  Together they began the climb upwards. There were probably no more than a dozen of the slimey steps before they came to a ceiling of flat stone and James braced himself as he pushed up at it with his shoulder.

  The stone lifted with a soft sigh and James pushed it carefully away. The brothers climbed through the hole and found themselves in the corner of a flag-stoned room, evidently hardly used and only then as a store for discarded and broken furniture and fabrics. Once they’d taken their bearings they gently replaced the slab and James noticed with an approving glance how it had been cunningly set into two pieces so that the corner could be removed for a handgrip. Yet when it was put back, the pieces went together so closely that even the most suspicious of searches would never find more than a crack in the stone.