Also by Julia Brannan

HISTORICAL FICTION

The Jacobite Chronicles

Book One: Mask of Duplicity
Book Two: The Mask Revealed
Book Three: The Gathering Storm
Book Four: The Storm Breaks
Book Six: Tides of Fortune (Early 2018)

CONTEMPORARY FICTION

A Seventy-Five Percent Solution

The Bigger Picture (Autumn 2017)

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Pursuit of Princes
The Jacobite Chronicles
Book Five

Julia Brannan
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Copyright© 2017 by Julia Brannan

Julia Brannan has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this
work under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including
photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods,
without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of
brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-
commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

DISCLAIMER

This novel is a work of fiction, and except in the case of historical fact, any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

Formatting by Polgarus Studio

Cover Model Photography by VJ Dunraven of www.PeriodImages.com

Photograph of Culloden, Scotland by Julia Brannan

Cover model: Jason Tobias

Cover design by najlaqamberdesigns.com

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To Bob Macchione and Dolores Lowe
For believing in me.
Thank you.

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 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

First of all, as ever, I’d like to thank Jason Gardiner and Alyson Cairns, my
soulmates and best friends, who put up with me on a day-to-day basis, and
who understand my need for solitude, but are always there for me. They’ve
both supported me through every stage of my writing, and, indeed, in all my
other endeavours, both sensible and madcap!

Thanks to the long-suffering Mary Brady, friend and first critic, who reads
the chapters as I write them, critiques them for me and reassures me that I
can actually write stuff people will want to read.

Thanks also go to Mandy Condon, who sends me useful articles, has

already determined the cast list for the film of my books, and who has been
a wonderful and supportive friend for over twenty years. Long may that
continue!

Thank you to Kym Grosso and Victoria Danann, both successful and
talented authors, who have been extremely supportive and have generously
given me the benefit of their invaluable advice, gained through experience.
They have both saved me a lot of time, money and tears, and I value their
friendship enormously.

And thanks also go to Jason and Marina for doing an excellent job of
formatting my book, to the talented and very patient Najla Qamber, who
does all my covers, puts up with my lack of artistic ability, and still
manages to somehow understand exactly what I want my cover to look like!
Thanks too to Jason Tobias the cover model for Pursuit of Princes – you
make a perfect Alex!

Finally, but VERY importantly, to all my wonderful readers, who not only
buy my books, but take the time and effort to give me feedback, and to
review them on Amazon and Goodreads – thank you so much. You keep me
going on those dark days when I’d rather do anything than stare at a blank
screen for hours while my brain turns to mush…you are amazing!

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 Table of Contents

Also by Julia Brannan

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
HISTORICAL BACKGROUND NOTE
THE STORY SO FAR
LIST OF CHARACTERS

PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN

HISTORICAL NOTE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
FOLLOW HER ON:
Also by Julia Brannan

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 HISTORICAL BACKGROUND NOTE

Although this series starts in 1742 and deals with the Jacobite Rebellion of
1745, the events that culminated in this uprising started a long time before,
in 1685, in fact. This was when King Charles II died without leaving an
heir, and the throne passed to his Roman Catholic younger brother James,
who then became James II of England and Wales, and VII of Scotland. His
attempts to promote toleration of Roman Catholics and Presbyterians did
not meet with approval from the Anglican establishment, but he was
generally tolerated because he was in his fifties, and his daughters, who
would succeed him, were committed Protestants. But in 1688 James’ second
wife gave birth to a son, also named James, who was christened Roman
Catholic. It now seemed certain that Catholics would return to the throne
long-term, which was anathema to Protestants.
Consequently James’ daughter Mary and her husband William of Orange
were invited to jointly rule in James’ place, and James was deposed, finally
leaving for France in 1689. However, many Catholics, Episcopalians and
Tory royalists still considered James to be the legitimate monarch.
The first Jacobite rebellion, led by Viscount Dundee in April 1689, routed
King William’s force at the Battle of Killiecrankie, but unfortunately
Dundee himself was killed, leaving the Jacobite forces leaderless, and in
May 1690 they suffered a heavy defeat. King William offered all the
Highland clans a pardon if they would take an oath of allegiance in front of
a magistrate before 1st January 1692. Due to the weather and a general
reluctance, some clans failed to make it to the places appointed for the oath
to be taken, resulting in the infamous Glencoe Massacre of Clan
MacDonald in February 1692. By spring all the clans had taken the oath,
and it seemed that the Stuart cause was dead.
However, a series of economic and political disasters by William and his
government left many people dissatisfied with his reign, and a number of
these flocked to the Jacobite cause. In 1707, the Act of Union between
Scotland and England, one of the intentions of which was to put an end to
hopes of a Stuart restoration to the throne, was deeply unpopular with most
Scots, as it delivered no benefits to the majority of the Scottish population.
Following the deaths of William and Mary, Mary’s sister Anne became
Queen, dying without leaving an heir in 1714, after which George, Elector
of Hanover took the throne, as George I. This raised the question of the
succession again, and in 1715 a number of Scottish nobles and Tories took
up arms against the Hanoverian monarch.
The rebellion was led by the Earl of Mar, but he was not a great military
leader and the Jacobite army suffered a series of defeats, finally disbanding
completely when six thousand Dutch troops landed in support of Hanover.
Following this, the Highlands of Scotland were garrisoned and hundreds of
miles of new roads were built, in an attempt to thwart any further risings in
favour of the Stuarts.
By the early 1740s, this operation was scaled back when it seemed
unlikely that the aging James Stuart, ‘the Old Pretender,’ would spearhead
another attempt to take the throne. However, the hopes of those who wanted
to dissolve the Union and return the Stuarts to their rightful place were
centring not on James, but on his young, handsome and charismatic son
Charles Edward Stuart, as yet something of an unknown quantity.

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I would strongly recommend that you read the first four books in the
series, Mask Of Duplicity, The Mask Revealed, The Gathering Storm
and The Storm Breaks before starting this one! However, if you are
determined not to, here’s a summary of the first four to help you enjoy
Book Five…

The Story So Far

Book One – Mask of Duplicity

Following the death of their father, Elizabeth (Beth) Cunningham and her
older half-brother Richard, a dragoon sergeant, are reunited after a thirteen
year separation, when he comes home to Manchester to claim his
inheritance. He soon discovers that while their father’s will left her a large
dowry, the investments which he has inherited will not be sufficient for him
to further his military ambitions. He decides therefore to persuade his sister
to renew the acquaintance with her aristocratic cousins, in the hope that her
looks and dowry will attract a wealthy husband willing to purchase him a
commission in the army. Beth refuses, partly because she is happy living an
unrestricted lifestyle, and partly because the family rejected her father
following his second marriage to her mother, a Scottish seamstress.
Richard, who has few scruples, then embarks on an increasingly vicious
campaign to get her to comply with his wishes, threatening her beloved
servants and herself. Finally, following a particularly brutal attack, she
agrees to comply with his wishes, on the condition that once she is married,
he will remove himself from her life entirely.
Her cousin, the pompous Lord Edward and his downtrodden sisters
accept Richard and Beth back into the family, where she meets the
interesting and gossipy, but very foppish Sir Anthony Peters. After a few
weeks of living their monotonous lifestyle, Beth becomes extremely bored
and sneaks off to town for a day, where she is followed by a footpad. Taking
refuge in a disused room, she inadvertently comes upon a gang of Jacobite
plotters, one of whom takes great pains to hide his face, although she
notices a scar on his hand. They are impressed by her bravery and instead of
killing her, escort her home. A secret Jacobite herself, she doesn’t tell her
Hanoverian family what has happened, and soon repairs with them to
London for the season.
Once there, she meets many new people and attracts a great number of
suitors, but is not interested in any of them until she falls in love with
Daniel, the Earl of Highbury’s son. The relationship progresses until she
discovers that his main motivation for marrying her is to use her dowry to
clear his gambling debts. She rejects him, but becomes increasingly
depressed.
In the meantime, the Jacobite gang, the chief members of whom are Alex
MacGregor (the scarred man) and his brothers Angus and Duncan, are
operating in the London area, smuggling weapons, collecting information,
visiting brothels etc.
Sir Anthony, now a regular visitor to the house, becomes a friend of sorts,
and introduces her to his wide circle of acquaintance, including the King,
the Duke of Cumberland and Edwin Harlow MP and his wife Caroline.
Beth does not trust the painted Sir Anthony and thinks him physically
repulsive, but finds him amusing. Following an ultimatum from her brother
that if she keeps rejecting suitors he will find her a husband himself, she
accepts a marriage proposal from Sir Anthony, partly because he seems
kind, but chiefly because he has discovered a rosary belonging to her, and
she is afraid he will denounce her as a Catholic, which would result in her
rejection from society and her brother’s vengeance.
The night before her wedding, Beth is abducted by Daniel, who, in a
desperate attempt to avoid being imprisoned for debt, attempts to marry her
by force. Beth’s maid, Sarah, alerts the Cunninghams and Sir Anthony to
Beth’s plight, and she is rescued by her fiancé. He then gives her the option
to call off the wedding, but thinking that being married to him is the best of
the limited options she has available to her, she agrees to go ahead as
planned.

Book Two – The Mask Revealed

Sir Anthony and Beth marry. The following evening at a function, he has to
remove his glove and she sees his hand and its scar for the first time, and
remembers where she has seen it before. Having removed his furious wife
by force from the company before she can give him away, Sir Anthony
admits that he is a Jacobite spy, and that he is really Alex MacGregor. He
explains the odd circumstances that led him to follow such a strange double
life, and admits that he married her mainly for love, intends to make her
dowry over to her and effect a separation, thereby giving her her freedom.
She, being of a very adventurous spirit, refuses, stating that she intends to
stay with him. He tries to persuade her against this, as his lifestyle is a
dangerous one, but eventually he agrees, and they go on honeymoon to
Europe together, as Sir Anthony and wife.
He explains that he will be visiting Prince Charles Stuart, son of the
exiled King James, as a few weeks ago the Duke of Newcastle, not knowing
him to be a Jacobite spy, recruited him on behalf of the Hanoverians, to
become acquainted with the prince and report back any useful information.
On the way to Rome, Angus (who has accompanied them as a servant)
overhears a private conversation between two French courtiers, in which it
is revealed that King Louis of France is secretly planning to invade
England, and that one of the men (Henri), intends to give the plans to the
British. Alex now decides he must do something to prevent this, but must
first carry on to meet Charles and convey the news of the prospective
invasion to him. He does, and Beth and Alex are married again in Rome
under their real names.
After giving a misleading report of his meeting with Charles to Sir
Horace Mann who is the Hanoverian envoy in Florence, Alex, Beth and
Angus travel to France, where, at Versailles, Beth becomes acquainted with,
and starts to like, the man Henri. Alex, as Sir Anthony, pretends jealousy
and challenges Henri to a duel, during which he kills him, as though by
accident.
Beth, having not been entrusted with his plans, and also having been kept
in the dark about some other things, is very hurt and leaves suddenly,
travelling back first to London and then Manchester, on her own, where she
settles in with her ex-servants.
Alex’s return is delayed as he is held in prison for duelling. He sends
Angus to Rome to stop Prince Charles riding to Paris to join the invasion
and thereby raising British suspicion and Louis’ anger. Alex then returns
home to London, where he is expecting Beth to be waiting for him. When
he discovers she has left, he follows her to Manchester, where they are
reconciled.
Book Three – The Gathering Storm

Following their reconciliation, Beth and Alex return to London, where Beth
engineers a marriage between Anne Maynard and Lord Redburn. The
prospective French invasion of England is unsuccessful and shortly
afterwards the MacGregors journey to Scotland, where Beth meets the rest
of her clan and is initiated into the Highland way of life, which she adapts
to very quickly. She also meets her MacDonald relatives, including her
grandmother, now a very old lady. During a short stop in Edinburgh, Beth,
accompanied by Duncan, unexpectedly encounters Lord Daniel, and after
an acrimonious and almost violent exchange, Beth realises he is now her
sworn enemy.
On their reluctant return to London, Beth is confronted by her brother
Richard, requesting funds from Sir Anthony. Incensed by this, Beth ejects
him from her home, whereupon he secretly courts and marries Anne, who is
now the wealthy widow of Lord Redburn. Beth is concerned about the
safety of Anne, and Lord Redburn’s unborn child, whom Anne carries.
Prince Charles lands prematurely in Scotland, and the clans start to rally
to him. Alex sends Duncan and Angus to raise the clan but he, as Sir
Anthony, feels that he will be of more use gathering information if he
remains with his wife in London. He consoles himself with the knowledge
that this will be a temporary measure, and he will soon be able to take his
rightful place as chieftain of his clan in Scotland and fight for the Stuart
cause.
Whilst attending a social evening at the house of the Prince of Wales, Sir
Anthony is challenged to a duel by Lord Daniel, which he declines to
accept. The prince sides with the Peters and Daniel vows revenge. He
begins secretly investigating Sir Anthony’s background.
Shortly after this encounter Alex receives a message from Prince Charles,
asking him to stay in London gathering information about troop
movements, until the invasion is over, and James III and VIII is crowned in
London. Alex is distraught, but cannot refuse a direct request from his
prince, so reluctantly accepts that he must remain Sir Anthony for the
foreseeable future.
Book Four – The Storm Breaks

Alex discovers that he is about to be betrayed and he and Beth flee and join
the rebels at Edinburgh, where the Jacobites are victorious in the battle of
Prestonpans. The Jacobite army then begins its progress southwards,
arriving in Manchester, with more people rallying to their call. At Derby,
much against the wishes of Alex and many other members of the clans, it is
decided that the army should not march on London, but retreat to Scotland
to await French reinforcements.
On reaching Manchester, Beth discovers the child Ann, daughter of her
servant Martha who was dismissed by Richard on his first arrival home.
The child has suffered badly at the hands of her mother’s killer, who Beth
suspects is Richard. Alex doubts her suspicions, and Beth is driven to tell
him of her brother’s attack on her. Alex is enraged that she has not trusted
him and this leads to an estrangement between them. The army continues
northward and Beth, convinced that their marriage is over, attempts to leave
Alex. She is attacked and in rescuing her, Alex realises what he has nearly
lost, and they are reconciled.
They continue northwards, where the Jacobite army eventually meets
with Cumberland and the government forces at Culloden, while the women,
led by Beth, shelter in a barn. The battle is lost, Duncan is killed and Alex
badly wounded. Angus, after getting his brother to safety, goes in search of
the women.
Their hideout has been discovered by a group of rampaging soldiers. The
sergeant stabs Maggie, Beth kills him and whilst running away is
recognised by the Duke of Cumberland, who gives the command not to
shoot her, but too late. The remaining women are raped and killed and their
bodies burnt with the barn. When Angus arrives he finds Maggie who tells
him of Beth’s death, before dying herself. Angus searches for but cannot
find Beth’s body, and assumes it has been burnt along with the others.
He returns to Ruthven, where the surviving Jacobites have gathered,
determined to fight on. He tells Iain and Alex the bad news. The
MacGregors resolve to continue the rebellion and avenge the death of
Maggie and Beth.

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STUART/HANOVER FAMILY TREE

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 LIST OF CHARACTERS

Alexander MacGregor, Highland Chieftain

Angus MacGregor, brother to Alex
Morag MacGregor, fiancée to Angus

Iain Gordon, liegeman to Alex

Alasdair MacGregor, clansman to Alex
Peigi MacGregor, wife to Alasdair
Kenneth MacGregor, clansman to Alex
Janet MacGregor, clanswoman to Alex
Dougal MacGregor, clansman to Alex
Hamish MacGregor, brother of Dougal
Lachlan MacGregor, a child

Alexander MacDonald (MacIain) Chief of the Glencoe MacDonalds

Ealasaid MacDonald, grandmother-in-law to Alex
Allan MacDonald, great-nephew to Ealasaid
Robert MacDonald, brother of Allan
Meg MacDonald, sister of Allan and Robert
Fergus MacDonald

Prince Charles Edward Stuart, eldest son of James Stuart (the Pretender),
exiled King of Great Britain
Donald Cameron of Lochiel, Chief of Clan Cameron
John Murray of Broughton, former secretary to Prince Charles

Prince Frederick, Prince of Wales, eldest son of King George II of Great

Britain
Prince Edward, youngest son to Prince Frederick
Prince William Augustus, Duke of Cumberland, second son of King George
II
Thomas Pelham-Holles, Duke of Newcastle
Benjamin, his secretary
William Anne Keppel, Earl of Albemarle

Lord Edward Cunningham

Isabella Cunningham, eldest sister to Edward
Clarissa Cunningham, middle sister to Edward
Captain Richard Cunningham, cousin to Edward
Anne Cunningham, wife to Richard
George Cunningham, Anne’s son

William, Earl of Highbury

Lord Daniel Barrington, his son

Thomas Fortesque, MP
Lydia Fortesque, his daughter

Lord Bartholomew Winter, great uncle to Anne Cunningham

Lady Wilhelmina Winter, his wife

Edwin Harlow, MP
Caroline Harlow, wife to Edwin
Freddie Harlow, their son
Toby, their manservant
Lady Harriet, Marchioness of Hereford, aunt to Caroline
Lady Philippa Ashleigh, cousin to Caroline
Oliver, Earl of Drayton, husband to Philippa

Graeme Elliot, Jacobite soldier

Thomas Fletcher, former steward to Beth MacGregor
Jane Fletcher, his wife
Ann, their adopted daughter.
Sarah Browne, a businesswoman
Mary Browne, her infant niece
John Betts, Jacobite soldier

Edward Cox, a solicitor

Colonel Mark Hutchinson, a dragoon
Captain Matthew Sewell, a British soldier
Sergeant Williams, a British soldier
Sergeant Applewhite, a British soldier
Private Thomas, a British soldier
Private Ned Miller, a British soldier
Thomas Miller, brother to Ned

Mr Carlton, Yeoman Warder

Kate, a maidservant

Richard Jones, Keeper of Newgate Prison

Downes Twyford, a turnkey

Catriona, Fiona, Annie, Màiri, Isobel, Jacobite prisoners

Mr Platt, surgeon to Prince Frederick

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 Prologue

Inverness, late April 1746

Prince William Augustus, Duke of Cumberland, was sitting in his quarters

enjoying a rare moment of solitude. Reluctant to disturb his peace even to
call for a servant, he poured himself a glass of brandy, unbuttoned his coat,
and sat his considerable bulk down by the fire to enjoy the warmth. He took
a deep draught of the amber liquor and sighed with satisfaction, sitting back
in the chair and stretching his legs out toward the hearth.
There was something deeply satisfying about staying in the rooms
previously occupied by your enemy, drinking their brandy, eating their
food. It was all the sweeter when you knew that enemy was now probably
sleeping in a smoky primitive hut or hiding in a cave, and living off
whatever meagre provisions his fugitive cohorts could come by.
As if on cue the rain pattered against the window and the sky darkened in
preparation for the deluge soon to come. The duke smiled. Yes, very sweet
indeed. He would have to call someone to close the shutters and light the
candles soon, but for now he was happy to sit by the light of the fire and
contemplate the two glorious weeks since his overwhelming victory over
the rebels on Culloden Moor.
The last days had been busy to say the least, and the following weeks
would also be filled with activity; but the worst was over. The rebels were
defeated and scattered, and by God he would do his utmost to make sure
they never rose again. He had made a good start; around fifteen hundred of
the vermin had died on the battlefield itself, and many more, most of them
wounded, had been hunted down and killed by his soldiers in the following
days as they hid in the woods and huts around the area.
It had been a good idea to set guards around the moor for a couple of
nights after the battle; it had stopped the women and surviving rebels from
collecting their wounded, and had in the main saved the soldiers from
having to wade through the dead finishing off the injured rebels, as a good
many of them had happily perished of their wounds. He’d heard that one or
two of the sentries had been upset by the cries and moans of the dying men
as they’d guarded the field, but he had no time for such sentimentality. He
had not begun this affair, but he fully intended to end it, once and for all,
and every rebel that died on the field was one less to hunt down later.
Of course a good many had escaped; too many. He would not be able to
kill them all, but he would make their lives hell in whatever way he could.
To that end even now four more battalions were riding north from England
to join him, and he had dispatched bodies of soldiers all over the Highlands
to scour the country for rebels. The men had been ordered to leave no stone
unturned, and to destroy all means of livelihood of the rebels as they went.
In fact his intention was to pacify the Highlands as a whole. It was
ridiculous that in an otherwise civilised country with a sophisticated legal
system and a just government, there were still vast swathes of the north
inhabited by barbarian savages dressed in rags which barely covered their
private parts, speaking gibberish, attacking each other and anyone else they
took against on a whim, and paying heed only to their chiefs, in defiance of
the laws of the land, the monarch and even God Himself. It was insufferable
and could not be tolerated any more. The whole of Scotland was steeped in
rebellion to the bone, and must be brought to heel.
He had not disclosed his intention to break the power of the chiefs and
bring the Highlanders to accept the civilised ways of the south to his men,
of course; there were too many Highlanders in his own army for that to be
wise at the moment. To give them their due, his Highland regiments had
fought well, although he was uncertain whether that was because they were
loyal to their rightful monarch or because it gave them the opportunity to
settle old scores with rival clans. Whatever their motives, he needed them
for now. But that did not mean he had to trust them. Any of them.
Now the fighting was over he’d had to start taking prisoners, although
they cost money to keep and were damned inconvenient; but he had already
received word from London of murmurings as to why so few of those
wounded in the battle had been taken prisoner.
Damn them for mealy-mouthed old women! They would not be quibbling
about mercy if they had had to spend a winter as he and his men had, in this
Godforsaken gloomy hellhole with its horrendous weather, treacherous
bogs and dark looming mountains, continuously threatened by bands of
filthy bare-arsed heathens.
 He had responded to the murmurs by reporting that before the battle
Charles had ordered the rebels to give no quarter to the government troops.
A signed order to that effect had been conveniently discovered on one of the
dead rebels. Cumberland was pretty sure it was a forgery, but it had silenced
his detractors, and for that he was grateful. And he could also argue that his
men had finished off the injured while their blood was up directly after the
battle; that was understandable, and would explain the miniscule number of
wounded prisoners.
Anyway now, if the reports recently arrived from London were to be
believed, the country was singing the praises of the conquering hero in
every newspaper, bells were ringing day and night and a multitude of balls
were being held in his honour. In the people’s eyes he had delivered the
country from a papist king, had ensured the continuation of the Hanoverian
monarchy, and had restored peace to Great Britain. It was a wonderful
feeling, and he would like nothing more than to head straight to the Capital
and bask in the glory of his victory.
He smiled to himself, drained his glass, then got up and poured himself
another.
He must not let the adulation go to his head. It was not over yet. In order
to justify the adoration of the population, he had to ensure that there would
not be another rising. There were still thousands of rebels at large, no doubt
plotting another campaign. Many of them had gone back to their hovels,
presumably thinking they would be allowed to continue their lives as they
or their fathers had done after the ’15, hiding their weapons in the heather
thatch of their squalid little huts and waiting for the next call to arms.
Not this time. His men had their orders; and he would ensure they were
obeyed. The rebels would come to heel or they would die, and Cumberland
didn’t care much which option his commanders chose to adopt. Every dead
Scot was one less to rise again.
Some of the chiefs had been killed at Culloden, which was helpful, and
the first reports had put Lochiel, the bastard who had effectively started the
rising, among them. But he had now heard that the Cameron chief, though
wounded, had been carried from the field by his men and was hiding out
somewhere. Well, a large body of men was now on its way to lay the
Cameron lands waste. They would burn the whole damn place to the
ground, and as many Camerons as they could with it. It would be good to
take Lochiel alive if possible, but dead would be fine, too.
 His third cousin Charles was another matter. He had also escaped the
field, and it was imperative that he be caught before he could find a ship to
carry him to France to cause more trouble. All that was known of his
whereabouts was that he had spent the night of the battle with Lord Lovat,
the wily old Fraser chief, and had then headed west, towards the coast.
A number of search parties had been sent out to apprehend the Young
Pretender, and the duke was confident they would succeed. They had been
instructed to take him alive, although secretly Cumberland hoped that he
would be killed. The thirty thousand pound reward for his capture did not
specify that he had to be alive, and it would be a good deal more convenient
if his troublesome cousin did not survive to come to trial. Should he die,
then all chance of the Stuarts ever regaining the throne would die with him.
The Old Pretender James was too old and dispirited and his second son
Henry had neither the personality nor the reputation to raise an army.
But Charles had proved that he not only had the physical ability to lead a
rebellion, but also the will and determination.
And, Cumberland grudgingly admitted, his cousin also had what King
George would never have; the charisma to win people to his cause, and the
ability to enchant commoner and noble alike.
He shuddered at the thought of Charles bringing all that intelligence and
personality to his trial with the eyes of the world on him, and what a
monumental problem that would create for the House of Hanover. Like it or
not, he was of the blood royal, and by right of heredity heir to the throne,
and executing a member of the royal family, no matter how troublesome,
had never been an easy matter. No, far better if he were to be regrettably
killed while resisting capture.
There was another rebel though, that the Duke of Cumberland most
definitely did want taken alive. Officially he was third on the list of wanted
men, after the Young Pretender and the Cameron chief; but secretly, if he
could only capture one of the three, he would, without a moment’s
hesitation, choose the traitor known only as Sir Anthony Peters. What he
wouldn’t give to have that simpering, painted bastard rotting in the filthiest
darkest dungeon he could find.
Charles had been brought up to believe his father was the rightful king of
Great Britain, and that it was his mission in life to regain the throne for him;
that he had attempted it was fully understandable. Similarly the Camerons
had never pretended to be anything other than Jacobites; Lochiel’s
grandfather had fought at Killiecrankie with Viscount Dundee in 1689, and
his father had fought in the ’15; and the current chief was respected by
friend and foe alike and said to be a man of honour, if such a thing was to
be found in the Highlands.
But Sir Anthony Peters, whoever the hell he really was, was the most
dangerous of all; intelligent, charismatic, and a consummate actor, he had
deceived everyone. No one, not even the arch-spymaster Newcastle had
suspected him for a moment of being anything other than an incompetent,
bumbling molly. And all the time he had been collecting intelligence and
passing it on to France and to the Stuarts. The royal coffers had even
financed the bastard to go to Rome and entertain Charles!
The duke shuddered as he thought of the times his father had entertained
Sir Anthony in his private chambers. As a personal friend of the king he had
never been searched; had he wished to, he could have assassinated the
monarch at any moment. It did not bear thinking about.
He had made a fool of them all, and Cumberland hated him more than he
had ever hated anybody in his life. It had been impossible to even attempt to
apprehend this chief of traitors; no one knew what he looked like, what his
real name was, or even his nationality.
Until now.
Now the duke had a prisoner, someone who knew exactly what Sir
Anthony looked like, and most probably his true identity, too. A prisoner
who had also been thoroughly deceived by the man, and in the worst way
possible. A prisoner who would no doubt be happy to divulge all, once
recovered from the life-threatening injury. He had already sent his captive
to London in utmost secrecy accompanied by one of his most accomplished
surgeons, who had been told to ensure the survival of his patient at all costs.
The surgeon had protested; to move the injured person could, in itself, be
fatal.
But Cumberland had felt he had no choice; whilst it was possible that Sir
Anthony lay dead on the battlefield or was amongst the corpses that had
strewn the road all the way to Inverness, he could not be certain. And if the
traitor found out about the duke’s secret ace, he would no doubt attempt a
rescue, or more likely a murder. With his skills, he could no doubt infiltrate
the barracks at Inverness and sweet talk any jailor into allowing him in to
see the prisoner.
 No. The only way to discover the identity of Sir Anthony Peters, and to
bring him to justice, if he was still alive, was to remove the prisoner from
any danger of rescue, regardless of the cost.
Now he awaited news from London of their safe arrival. Once he had
that, he could relax a little. His surgeon would do his utmost to restore the
prisoner to health, and then, when he returned to England, he would
undertake the interrogation himself. He felt himself to be in a unique
position to do so. After all, the prisoner had professed a deep fondness for
him, back in those happy days before circumstances had torn them apart.
Now things were different, very different, and the duke was confident
that this time there would be nothing to stop him achieving his heart’s
desire and capturing his nemesis, all in one fell swoop. It was a cheerful
thought, and one that would lighten the dark days to come while he brought
this foul country to heel.
The young prince smiled, and wrapping his podgy fingers round the
glass, raised it to his lips in a silent toast to providence, who was, indeed,
smiling on him.
Life was good. Very good indeed.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER ONE

London, April 25th 1746

“God, do we really have to do this?” said Edwin gloomily as the carriage,

having managed to travel the prodigious distance of twenty yards down the
road, lurched to a standstill yet again. He pulled the leather curtain to one
side to ascertain the reason for the delay, although he already knew what it
was; the whole of London was ablaze with bonfires, lit in celebration of the
Duke of Cumberland’s great victory over the rebels at Culloden, and the
streets were thronged with people in various states of inebriation. The news
had arrived in the Capital two days ago, and since then, between the noise
of people singing and shouting and the incessant ringing of bells, Edwin
had had no sleep at all. “Now I know what the great fire must have looked
like,” he grumbled, letting the curtain fall back into place.
“Yes we do,” his wife replied briskly, answering his question rather than
his observation. “You can’t spend the whole of your life working. You have
to have some leisure time.”
“I don’t call attending a party I don’t want to go to, full of people I don’t
want to speak to, leisure time,” he protested. “I was hoping for a quiet
evening in front of the fire with you and Freddie.”
Caroline looked across at her husband, and softened. He was not a
grumpy man by nature, but the last weeks had taken their toll on him. Even
in the dim orange glow of the fires she could see the shadows under his
eyes. He had lost weight too. Hopefully now the rebels had been soundly
defeated he would be able to spend more time at home.
Not tonight, however.
“We have to attend at least one party, Edwin,” she reasoned gently. “We
must be seen to be celebrating William’s victory, and this one is as good as
any. At least we know everyone, and there will be no contentious people
there.”
“That’s true. But there will be no interesting people there either.”
 “Thomas will be there.”
“I see Thomas every day in parliament,” Edwin contested, determined
not to be consoled.
Caroline sighed.
“Alright,” she said. “Let’s get this over with, and then tomorrow we can
spend the whole day together, just the three of us. We’ll give the servants
the afternoon off and stay in our dressing-gowns all day. Or do you have to
be in parliament?”
“No, I do not have to be in parliament, and yes, that sounds like heaven,”
said Edwin, finally brightening. The carriage moved again, travelled
another few yards and came to a halt. “At this rate by the time we get there
the whole thing will be over.” He looked out of the window again. “We’re
not far away now. We could walk from here.”
“You could walk from here,” Caroline said. “I, however, could not.” She
gestured down to her dress, the voluminous skirts of which took up the
whole of the bench seat, and at her matching delicate silk slippers. “I would
rather arrive late than covered in filth.”
In spite of setting off half an hour early, they were nearly an hour late,
and when they arrived at Grosvenor Square the party was in full swing and
most of the guests were already there. In view of the short notice, Lord and
Lady Winter had decided against a formal dinner; instead a line of tables,
positively groaning with food, had been set up at one end of the great hall,
with small circular tables and chairs dotted around the edges of the room, at
which guests could sit to eat. The centre of the room had been cleared for
dancing, but at the moment it was thronged with groups of people chatting
animatedly.
The hall was ablaze with light from two enormous crystal chandeliers
which hung from the ceiling of the room, and due to the mildness of the
evening the windows had all been opened to allow the heat from over a
hundred candles to dissipate. Through them the sound of bells could clearly
be heard even over the cacophony of the musicians tuning their instruments
in preparation for the dancing, and the chatter of the multitude.
Glancing around the room Caroline had to admit that she was impressed;
to arrange such a vast quantity of food at such short notice, including a
marchpane subtlety of the battlefield complete with soldiers, horses and
cannon, was a feat in itself; the cooks must be on their knees with fatigue.
But how Lady Winter had managed to come by an ensemble of musicians,
when absolutely everyone was throwing a party tonight, was beyond
Caroline.
One thing was certain, though; this was a clear demonstration of the
influence and power of the host and hostess, which, after all, was the
overriding purpose of the evening, and far more important than the stated
reason for the party - patriotism and relief at the defeat of the Jacobite army.
Caroline deftly lifted two glasses of wine from the tray carried by a
passing footman, and handing one to Edwin, braced herself to be greeted by
her hosts, who were bearing down on the late arrivals, Anne Cunningham
trailing in their wake.
“Mr and Mrs Harlow!” cried Lady Winter, beaming at them. “We had
given up on you arriving at all!”
“Our apologies,” said Edwin, bowing. “We set off early, anticipating that
the roads would be difficult to negotiate, but we underestimated just how
crowded they would be. It seems that the whole city is celebrating.”
Lord Winter sniffed.
“It is quite ridiculous,” he stated. “One cannot set foot outside the door
without being accosted by the drunken rabble. The gutters are littered with
them, lying in their own vomit and filth. The militia should be called out to
deal with them.”
His wife winced at this unconventional greeting, and patted his hand, as
one might a petulant child.
“Really, Bartholomew, I am sure our guests do not wish to hear about the
common people. We are here to celebrate the glorious victory of our dear
prince in a proper manner, with dancing and music.”
“I think it is commendable that the population wish to celebrate the
victory,” Anne put in tentatively. “After all, they stood to lose the most, had
the rebels entered London.”
Caroline looked at her and smiled encouragingly. It was the first time she
had heard Anne volunteer an opinion at all, let alone in public.
“They hardly stood to lose more than the king, madam!” Lord Winter
retorted. Anne blushed patchily and subsided immediately, mortified. Her
eyes filled with tears.
Caroline tried to think of something encouraging to say, but was
forestalled by Lady Winter, who took hold of Caroline’s hands and held her
at arm’s length, examining her dress.
 “I must say that your dress is utterly exquisite!” she exclaimed, eyeing
Caroline’s chiné silk gown with admiration. It was beautiful; heavy cream
silk, woven with a pattern of red flowers and green foliage. The outlines of
the flowers were blurred, giving a watercolour effect. “Where on earth did
you come by such material? I have never seen anything like it!”
Edwin looked at his wife properly, noticing for the first time that evening
not just how beautiful the dress was, but how flawlessly beautiful she was,
too.
I have neglected her these last months, he thought. I must remedy that,
now the worst is over.
Lady Winter was turning her round now, exclaiming over the
workmanship of the seamstress and the apparent lack of any seam in the
skirts. The pattern looked familiar to Edwin, but he couldn’t remember
where he had seen it before. But that’s not really surprising, he told himself.
I’m so exhausted it’s a miracle I can remember my own name. He
suppressed a yawn, and tried to concentrate on the conversation, reminding
himself that tomorrow he would stay in bed all morning, and spend the
whole afternoon with his wife and son.
“I believe it came from Paris,” Caroline was saying. “It was a gift from a
dear friend.”
“Would that we all had such dear friends,” Lady Winter enthused.
Edwin remembered where he had seen the material before.
“And you are wearing your own hair!” Lady Winter continued. Before
Caroline could ascertain whether that was a compliment or an insult, her
hostess continued, “that style is so becoming! You must tell me who dressed
it for you.”
Caroline eyed the older woman suspiciously. She hated wigs, and always
wore her own hair. And whilst her maid had taken some pains to dress it
well, it was nothing out of the ordinary. Wilhelmina was laying it on thick
tonight.
“My maid,” Caroline replied. “She is a little out of practice, as Miss
Browne normally dresses my hair, but I think she made a tolerable job of
it.”
“Indeed she has!” exclaimed Lady Winter. “Really, it is most
inconsiderate of Miss Browne to depart the city at such a crucial moment,
when I am desperately in need of her skills. There are so many balls to
attend, and Lord Winter and I intended to visit St James’s this week, you
know, to offer our personal congratulations to His Majesty.”
“This is what comes of depending upon the lower classes, Wilhelmina,”
Lord Winter interposed. “They are fickle and unreliable at the best of
times.”
“I am sure that Miss Browne would not have left the city at such a time,
were her errand not urgent,” Caroline commented. “After all, she is a
businesswoman, and a most astute one. She stood to make a fortune from
her talents this week, especially since she now makes house calls for a
small consideration.”
Sarah Browne in fact made house calls to Caroline for no consideration
whatsoever, but she was not about to reveal that to the biggest
gossipmonger in London.
“Sarah is visiting her family,” Anne said. Everyone turned to look at her
and she looked down at her hands, and with a conscious effort stopped
wringing them together.
“That is hardly urgent, surely?” Lady Winter said.
“Her sister is about to give birth, and their parents will give no assistance.
I believe they are very religious, and the child will be fatherless,” Anne
explained, blushing furiously.
Lord Winter sniffed and looked down his nose at Caroline.
“Well, there you have it,” he said disdainfully. “Your astute
businesswoman has abandoned her clients to attend someone who is clearly
no better than she should be, and who has brought disgrace upon her family.
No doubt the chit’s father has thrown her out, and quite rightly so. And this
is the woman whom you allow into your houses.” He made a sweeping
gesture which took in half the room. “Why, it’s a miracle we have any silver
left at all. One cannot –”
“I think it is commendable of Sarah to abandon everything to take care of
her poor sister, who must be distraught. It is the Christian thing to do,”
Anne interrupted, to the amazement of all, including herself.
Lord Winter stared at his former charge with utter astonishment, in the
same way he would had he petted a small fluffy kitten which had then
promptly proceeded to shred his hand with her claws.
Caroline smiled. Anne’s friendship with Harriet and Philippa was doing
her a world of good; she was far more confident now than she had been six
months ago. Nevertheless, having asserted herself twice in the space of a
few minutes, Anne looked about to faint. As amusing as it was to watch
Bartholomew’s mouth hanging open in shock, Caroline decided to intervene
before he could come to his senses and say something which would destroy
his great-niece completely.
“I must ask you, Wilhelmina, before you are swept away by your other
guests,” she said, “where you came by that beautiful chandelier. I am
searching for one for the salon at Summer Hill, and such a one as that
would be just the thing.”
Lady Winter beamed.
“Well, it is unique, Bohemian crystal, you know,” she said. “Each piece
was hand cut by a craftsman, which is why it reflects the light so
beautifully.”
It did. The candlelight enriched the mellow gold of the wall mouldings,
and the faceted crystals cast a myriad of tiny rainbows round the room.
“It is a fitting accessory to your delightful house, my dear Lady Winter,”
came a male voice from behind Caroline, making her jump. She turned and
curtseyed. The gentleman bowed, then taking her hand he politely kissed
the back of it before relinquishing it.
“William!” she said, smiling with genuine warmth. She liked Highbury,
always had. It was a shame he had such a wastrel for a son. “What a
pleasure to see you. I thought you to be at your house in Sussex.”
“I returned to London as soon as I heard the good news,” the earl said. “I
would not have missed the celebrations for the world. And how is your
country house coming along, Caroline?”
“Very well,” she replied. “The building work is almost finished, and soon
I will be looking to decorate and furnish it. I am thinking to commission
William Kent to design the garden, if Henry can be persuaded to part with
him.”
Edwin would never get used to his wife addressing the highest nobles in
the land so familiarly. He could never imagine calling the Earl of Highbury
‘William’, any more than he would think to address the Prime Minister as
‘Henry’. Not yet, anyway.
“Oh, I am sure he will!” Lady Winter enthused. “After all, it is most
important for those in power to have a country home in which to entertain
distinguished guests! And the garden is such a crucial part, a setting in
which the jewel of the house is displayed to perfection.”
 The party, discussing interior design and landscaping, moved further into
the room, where they were soon joined by Edwin’s friend Thomas
Fortesque, and by Anne’s cousins-in-law, Lord Edward, Isabella and
Clarissa. Pleasantries were exchanged. Charlotte, it seemed, was indisposed
and had regretfully been unable to attend the party.
Lord Edward seemed also to be somewhat indisposed, Caroline noted
with wry amusement. By the way he looked at her it was clear he had not
forgotten that at their last meeting she had called him the cousin of a traitor.
She was surprised that he had joined them at all. She had expected him to
steer well clear of her and Edwin tonight.
She smiled sweetly at him and curtseyed, forcing him to bow politely to
her. As she rose, Edwin placed his arm around her waist and squeezed it
gently. She heeded the warning, although in truth she was not in the mood
for conflict tonight. She just wanted to get through the evening, go home,
and spend some precious time with her husband, of whom she had seen far
too little since the Pretender’s son had landed in Scotland last July.
Now that there were a number of men in the group, the talk inevitably
turned to the ostensible reason for the party.
“So, Edwin, Thomas,” said Highbury, “has there been any further news
from Scotland?”
“Dispatches are coming in all the time, my lord, but at the moment we
know only that the Young Pretender’s forces are scattered, and that he is on
the run. We presume that he will attempt to return to France along with
many of the prominent rebels,” Thomas said.
“Although of course there is always the chance that he will try to rally his
forces and attempt another rising, perhaps a summer campaign,” Edwin
added.
“Preposterous!” Lord Winter stated. “Are not the majority of his forces
killed?”
“Indeed, a large number, perhaps as many as two thousand were killed in
the battle – the numbers are still uncertain - but many more escaped. And
don’t forget some three thousand or more were not at the battle at all, being
on expeditions around the country. Of course a number of those who
escaped were wounded and may have died since, but even so, we must
allow that there are still enough rebels at large to cause us a great deal of
trouble, should they be allowed to organise again.”
 “Then it must be of primary importance to ascertain the whereabouts of
the Pretender’s son and arrest him,” said Highbury. “I think that would be
the best way to prevent another rising. After that, I am sure the common
men will return to their homes and abandon the idea of a Stuart restoration.”
“That may be true,” mused Thomas. “But I believe the duke intends to
teach the rebels a lesson. It has always been his view that they were treated
far too leniently after the ’15.”
“Quite right too,” put in Lord Edward. “Hang the lot of ‘em, Charles
included. That’ll put a stop to them, once and for all.”
“We have to catch him first,” Highbury pointed out. “Is there any news of
his whereabouts?”
“It is known that he spent the night after the battle with Lord Lovat – the
Chief of Clan Fraser,” Thomas added for the benefit of the ladies present.
“Nine hundred men have been dispatched to attack all the rebels they may
find on the Fraser lands. But I doubt that Charles would have remained
there. I am sure he will keep moving for now, in the hope of taking ship or
of organising a rendezvous with his men.”
“Is there not a thirty thousand pound reward out for information leading
to his capture?” asked Caroline.
“There is indeed,” affirmed Highbury. “But that reward was offered last
August, and no one has come forward to claim it yet.”
“Is that not incredible? Thirty thousand pounds is an enormous sum even
for someone of means, but many of the Jacobites are just common men, are
they not, living in extreme poverty, if the newspapers are to be believed.”
“The Highlanders have a strange notion of honour, though,” Highbury
said. “They hold their honour higher than anything.”
“Honour?!” spluttered Lord Winter. “How can you even mention the
word ‘honour’ where these traitorous savages are concerned? There is no
honour in rising against your anointed king!”
Caroline opened her mouth, and then closed it again. She was determined
to say nothing controversial tonight.
“But they do not consider George to be their anointed king,” Highbury
replied. “They believe James to be the rightful king and Charles the rightful
heir. And misguided though they are, they are willing to lose everything to
fight for what they believe in. I am not sure such men would betray their
prince, not even for thirty thousand pounds. And there is something
admirable in that, I think.”
 There was a shocked silence whilst everybody absorbed the fact that the
Earl of Highbury found something admirable about traitors. Caroline was
amused. Had she said such a thing the whole company would have
challenged her, dismissed her in fact as an ignorant woman. But nobody
wanted to make an enemy of the vastly powerful Earl of Highbury. And he
could get away with such remarkable observations, as his allegiance to the
Hanoverian regime was indisputable.
As was hers, but like Highbury, she did find it admirable that no one had
yet given the Pretender’s son up for such a sum.
“Perhaps once they realise their cause is dead, they will be more willing
to take the money,” Edwin said. “Because by all accounts, Cumberland
intends to take immediate steps to pacify Scotland, whilst the rebels are
disorganised. And we must do our utmost to ensure that the ringleaders do
not succeed in escaping to France to cause more trouble for us.”
“Do you think Sir Anthony will escape to France?” Lydia asked. Thomas
frowned at his daughter. By unspoken agreement the name of Sir Anthony
Peters was not mentioned when in company with people who had been
completely taken in by him. As that number of people was very
considerable, the name of Sir Anthony Peters was not mentioned at all in
public.
“I am sure he will try, if he is not there already, Lydia,” Thomas replied,
hoping that would put an end to the subject.
“Or if he was not killed in battle,” Highbury added.
Lord Winter sniffed loudly.
“I cannot imagine such a person venturing within fifty miles of a
battlefield,” he said scornfully. “Why the man used to have hysterics if he
got the tiniest spot of mud on his ridiculous clothes. No doubt he is already
in France with his whore, prancing about Louis’ Court, and attending mass.
I never trusted Elizabeth; she was far too forward for my liking. I remember
how entranced they were by the papist Court when we met them at
Versailles. Why they even attended a mass there! The French King and his
whole Court were in attendance. It was an appalling experience.” He sniffed
again to signify his disgust for Louis’ Court, and France in general.
“Did you attend the mass yourself, then, Bartholomew?” Highbury asked
innocently.
Caroline gave a most unladylike snort of laughter, which she quickly
attempted to turn into a cough, covering her face with her handkerchief.
 “Are you unwell, my lady? Should I fetch a glass of punch for you?” a
familiar voice asked her. She turned to see Lord Daniel standing to her
right, feigning concern. There will be no contentious people there, she had
told Edwin. Wrong. She was grateful that her handkerchief covered the
instinctive look of distaste that crossed her features. Much as she liked the
Earl of Highbury she couldn’t stand his son, and found it very difficult to
hide her dislike.
“No, I am quite well,” she replied curtly before turning pointedly away
from him.
“Have you heard from Richard, Anne?” Isabella asked, clearly anxious to
divert the topic of conversation away from her cousin, but thereby earning a
look of gratitude from Lord Winter.
“No, not as yet,” replied Anne.
“Well, I am sure he is very busy at the moment, and will write as soon as
he has time,” Isabella reassured her cousin-in-law.
“Unless he was killed in battle,” Edward said tactlessly. “He was at
Culloden, was he not?”
Isabella winced.
“I am not too worried on that score, my lord,” Anne said coolly. “I have
heard the casualties amongst the dragoons were very light, not above
twenty in total. And his name is not mentioned in the list of dead published
in the newspapers.”
Yes, thought Caroline approvingly. You have changed a great deal. Well
done Harriet, and Philippa. Richard was in for a shock when he returned
home. If he returned home. She wondered whether Anne was hoping
Richard was among the twenty dragoon casualties. She knew she was.
The dancing was announced, and the conversational groups moved from
the centre of the floor to its edges, Caroline taking the opportunity to get
away from Lord Daniel by accepting his father’s offer to dance.
“You seem to have recovered well from your coughing fit, Caroline,” the
earl remarked as they took their places on the floor. Caroline glanced across
at him. His expression was solicitous, but his eyes were merry.
“Thank you, yes. It was merely a temporary affliction.” She smiled. The
music began, and the couples stepped forward, pliéd and turned to greet
each other.
“You seemed upset by Bartholomew’s comment,” he said. “I thought to
divert him from uttering any further remarks on the subject. You were close
to Elizabeth, were you not?”
“I was,” Caroline said.
They moved apart, looped around, and did not meet again until the end of
the dance.
“Have you heard anything from Elizabeth?” the earl asked casually as he
led her from the floor.
Shocked, Caroline stopped and turned to look at him, but his face was
unreadable.
“If I had, William, do you not think I would have informed the authorities
immediately?” she said.
“I beg your pardon, Caroline,” he responded at once. “I did not mean to
offend you. After all Elizabeth is thought by most to have been duped by
Anthony, as were we all. In view of that I thought perhaps your sense of
loyalty to a friend might have overridden your sense of duty. She was very
lovely. I would like to know if she was safe.”
“Have you heard from Anthony?” Caroline asked. “You were close to
him, were you not?”
The earl smiled. “Touché, my lady,” he said. “No, I have not heard from
Anthony. I do not think he would correspond with me.”
“In view of your son’s actions?” Caroline asked.
“Ah, Daniel,” Highbury said tiredly. “No. In view of the fact that he
would not wish to compromise his friends.”
“Did he not compromise all of us by his actions?” Caroline retorted.
“Indeed he did, from the king downward. And in doing so, he
compromised none of us after all, did he? Thank you for the dance,
Caroline. It was a pleasure.” He bowed and moved away.
Caroline contemplated joining another group but wanted a moment alone
to digest what Highbury had said. If anyone else had said what he had, she
would have thought them to be accusing her of withholding crucial
information, but his tone had been anything but accusatory.
And he was right, she thought uncomfortably. My loyalty to Elizabeth did
override my duty to King George. She was not in the mood for further
conversation at the moment, and decided to get some food instead. She
made her way over to the table, choosing from amongst the many delicacies
on offer.
“I would recommend the pheasant,” Lord Daniel said from beside her.
“And the quails’ eggs in aspic are delightful.”
 Caroline closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
“Thank you, my lord,” she replied. “But I have already made my choice.”
“Would you care for some marchpane then? It is really exquisite.”
Why was he persisting in talking to her? She disliked him, and he knew
it. She looked up at him just in time to see him bite the head off a kilted
almond-paste rebel, chewing with relish.
“No thank you. Too much sweetness nauseates me.”
“A glass of champagne, perhaps?”
She put her plate down on the table and turned to him.
“If you are looking to oil your way into a political position, it is Edwin
you must try to win over, not myself. I assure you, I am a lost cause in that
respect,” she stated bluntly, hoping he would now go away and leave her
alone. In the distance she saw Edwin look up from his conversation with his
political cronies and start to make his excuses, clearly noting by her posture
that she would appreciate his presence.
“Really, Mrs Harlow, I am surprised that you are so hostile to me. After
all, the king himself has thanked me for my services to the crown, and these
are delicate times. Anyone suspected of Jacobite sympathies is certain to be
treated harshly by the authorities.” He smiled smugly down at her.
She had picked up her plate intending to meet Edwin halfway across the
room, but at Daniel’s words she slammed it down on the table again, hard
enough to make the serving-man jump.
“You forget who you are, sir,” she stated icily, every inch the aristocrat
now. “May I remind you that my family was fighting for a constitutional
monarchy when your ancestor was being created the first Earl of Highbury
by the Stuart King Charles, when he was in exile, as I remember. How dare
you speak to me of loyalty, you insolent brat!”
“If you are referring to Sir Anthony, my lord,” Edwin added, who had
abandoned politeness on seeing his wife smash her plate down and had
joined her in time to hear her final sentence, “then I can assure you that
either of us would have given him over to the authorities without a
moment’s hesitation, had we suspected what he was.”
“And yet your wife seems to have taken a dislike to me, sir,” Daniel
retorted. “Perhaps she resents me for giving Anthony up after all.”
“You are mistaken,” Caroline interjected before Edwin could come to her
defence. “I have not taken a dislike to you, I have never liked you. But yes,
I do resent your reasons for giving Anthony up, because they were not
motivated by loyalty to the crown but by petty spite against Beth, who quite
sensibly rejected your marriage proposal, and who was the clear victor in
your impromptu duel at Prince Frederick’s.”
The protagonists had been oblivious to the fact that half the company
were by now listening to this heated exchange with interest, but on hearing
Caroline’s final sentence several of them laughed and one gentleman in blue
velvet actually applauded.
Daniel flushed scarlet and looked at the company, suddenly aware of how
many people had observed the argument, and how few of them were on his
side. He turned abruptly and left the room.
Caroline picked up her plate once again, retrieving a slice of pork pie
which had leapt off it when she had crashed it down earlier. She turned to
her husband.
“Would you get me a glass of punch, Edwin?” she asked calmly, as
though nothing untoward had happened.
He moved to do her bidding, and the onlookers, realising that nothing
else of interest was going to happen, resumed their conversations.

***

“How do you do it?” he asked once they were safely in their carriage and
making their way home.
“How do I do what?” Caroline asked, sitting back on the seat. She flexed
her toes carefully, and winced. Her shoes were a little tight.
“Wipe the floor with somebody, and then proceed to spend the next three
hours as though nothing whatsoever had happened?”
“Nothing whatsoever had happened. I have thought him an insolent
jumped-up puppy for a long time. It was a relief to tell him so, and even
more of a relief to be applauded for it. If we are ever unfortunate enough to
attend the same party again, I expect he will keep a good distance away
from me. Which is also a relief. Would you have done it?”
“Called him an insolent brat?”
“No. Given Anthony up without a moment’s notice.”
“Of course I would, had I known. Any one of us would have done,”
Edwin responded immediately. “But I am glad I did not have to,” he added
quietly after a pause.
She leaned forward in her seat and kissed him.
 “What was that for?” he asked, smiling broadly.
“Am I not allowed to kiss my husband without a reason?” his wife
retorted. She sat back again, spreading her skirts across the bench. Edwin
eyed the gown appreciatively.
“A very dear friend,” he commented.
“You remember, then.” She laughed.
“I didn’t at first, but Anthony’s favourite term of endearment was ‘my
dear’, so when you used it, it reminded me of him. That dress could be used
in evidence against him, you know.”
“Evidence of what?”
“Smuggling. I remember you enthusing over the fact that there was
enough material to make a dress without a seam, and that the only way he
could have come by that was through associating with smugglers.”
“If he is caught, Edwin, I think being accused of smuggling will be the
least of his worries,” Caroline replied. “But enough of that. What on earth
was wrong with Wilhelmina tonight?”
“Nothing, as far as I know. She looked in the peak of health.”
“No, I mean all the overblown compliments. The dress I can understand,
because it is quite unique, but my hair is nothing special, yet she
commented extensively on it. And then Edward, who’s avoided me since he
tried to tell me who I could associate with, actually approached me
voluntarily. Even Daniel was trying to win me over at first, asking me if I
wanted champagne!”
“Ah, they will have heard the rumours, then,” Edwin replied
enigmatically.
“What rumours?”
“There are rumours floating around the commons that King George is
about to bestow titles on a number of politicians to whom he’s particularly
grateful.”
“Really? And are you among them?”
“I don’t know, but presumably Wilhelmina, Edward and Daniel think so,
from what you say.”
“This is remarkable news, Edwin! Why didn’t you tell me?” Caroline
asked.
Edwin looked at her with some surprise.
“Firstly, because they are only rumours. Parliament is rife with them, and
most of them are unfounded. And secondly, because you couldn’t give a
damn about titles and nobility. Unless you’re using them to put down an
insolent puppy.”
Caroline laughed.
“True. But even so, it’s a great honour to be awarded a peerage. And I
have a lot more respect for a title that’s actually been earned. My family’s
titles date back so far that most of them can’t remember what the hell our
distant ancestor did to get his earldom in the first place. Which means that
idiots like Great-Uncle Francis prance around lording it over everyone
when they wouldn’t know what true nobility was if it hit them with a cricket
bat.”
“So you’d be honoured to be the wife of a lord, then, in the unlikely
event that I become one?” Edwin ventured.
“I’m honoured to be your wife anyway, Edwin. You’re worth a hundred
of most of the peers I know,” she said. “But I’d be very happy if you were
rewarded by George for all the work you’ve done over the past months to
keep the country in Whig hands.”
They travelled in happy silence for a while, rejoicing in the fact that the
bells had finally, after two days, stopped ringing. Edwin closed his eyes. He
couldn’t wait to get home, and to bed. The thought of being able to get a
really good night’s sleep and then wake up in the morning with plenty of
time to make love to his wife delighted him. He smiled in drowsy
anticipation of tomorrow.
“Speaking of nobles, though, William said a strange thing tonight,” the
object of his fantasy suddenly inserted into the silence. Edwin opened his
eyes and realised that he had slumped sideways in the seat. He sat up and
wiped his face with his hands in an attempt to stay awake until they arrived
home.
“What was that?”
“He asked me if I’d heard from Elizabeth.”
“Did you tell him you hadn’t?”
“No.”
Edwin was suddenly very wide awake.
“My God, Caro, you didn’t tell him you had, did you?”
“Of course I didn’t!” she exclaimed. “I insinuated that if I had I would
have gone to the authorities.”
“Do you think he was trying to trap you into admitting something?”
Edwin asked, his mind racing now. Who else knew about the letter Beth had
sent? Sarah. Anne. Would they have said anything? Surely not. Sarah was
fanatically loyal to Beth, and the letter and Caroline’s response to it had
effectively saved her life, and Anne’s child’s life, too.
“That’s what I thought at first, too,” Caroline mused. “But no, I think he
genuinely wanted to know how she was. But that’s not the strange thing.”
If that wasn’t the strange thing, then Edwin wasn’t sure he wanted to
know what was.
“What was it then?” he asked after a pause in which it was clear Caroline
was too busy musing on it to volunteer the information.
“I asked him if he’d heard from Anthony, and he said no, he didn’t think
that Anthony would wish to compromise his friends. I pointed out that he’d
already done that. Then William said something like, he had compromised
all his friends, from the king down, and by doing so he hadn’t compromised
anyone.”
Edwin digested this in silence for a while.
“I’ve never thought of it like that before,” he said finally.
“Neither have I,” agreed Caroline.
“Do you think Anthony realised that?”
She thought about the baronet’s final farewell to her, the rib-cracking
hug, the profession of love.
“Yes I do,” she said. “The man’s a genius. And I do believe he cared for
us, in his way. They both did. I think he knew all along that we would not
suffer unduly were he to be discovered, and I think his refusal to act as
Freddie’s godfather was nothing to do with superstition. I think it was
because he didn’t want our son to bear the name of a traitor. William is
right. And that makes me feel a lot better.”
“About what?”
“About the fact that I’m praying that wherever he is, he’s alive and well,
and that Beth is too. Because however much he deceived us, I don’t believe
he deceived her, not once they were married, anyway. And I believe he
loved her from the moment he met her, and risked everything to have her. A
love like that is very rare. And although we’ll never know, I’d like to think
they are still together and as happy as they can be, given the circumstances.
And I would not admit that to anyone else, even under torture,” she
finished.
He reached forward and took her hands in his.
 “I have loved you from the moment I met you too, Caro. I can’t imagine
what my life would have been like without you. You know that, don’t you?”
“I know that,” she said. “I feel the same way. And that I would admit, to
anyone who cared to ask.”

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER TWO

Scotland, Early May 1746.

“Bas mallaichte!” Alex cried in frustration. He fell back onto the bed, his
face contorted with pain and frustration, his chest heaving.
He lay there for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling of the cottage until
his breathing returned to normal, and then he sat up again, bracing himself
on the edge of the bedframe.
He had waited all morning for the right time to attempt to stand for the
first time since his leg had been broken at Culloden, and this was it. His
men were all away, either hunting or searching for news, and Peigi had
dropped by an hour ago with some food, and had lit a fire. The weather was
atrocious; the wind howled down the chimney and the rain battered at the
windows. Everyone would be indoors, he thought.
He was unlikely to be disturbed for several hours; his persistent dour
mood had discouraged even the most garrulous clansmen from making
social calls. No one wanted to have their head bitten off by the foul-
tempered chieftain, so his men had taken to steering well clear of him,
unless they had important news to relate which he needed to hear.
He didn’t blame them for that. In fact he wanted to be left alone, most of
the time. His favourite occupation was to just lie there and indulge in
memories, to relive again all the precious moments he’d had with Beth,
moments that all too often he’d taken for granted at the time, but which
were now priceless.
And breathtakingly painful.

After recovering consciousness and learning of his wife’s death, he’d spent
the best part of a week lying with his face to the wall, alternating between
numbness and a heartache so unbearable that he prayed he’d die from it.
People had come, lighting fires and bringing him food and drink, then
taking the untouched platters away again later. One or two had asked how
he was feeling, but he’d ignored them, and they had not persisted.
 For the first few days Angus had called on him regularly, asking him
questions about everyday clan affairs, but Alex had ignored him too,
knowing that he could make such trivial decisions as when the cattle should
go to pasture and the oats should be planted, without his help. Angus had
persisted for a while, but getting no response had finally taken the hint and
had not called in for several days.

And then, two days ago, just when it had seemed to Alex that his life had
settled into a routine that he could cope with for the next few weeks until he
died of starvation - sleep for twelve hours, wake up, drink a little water and
a lot of whisky, daydream about Beth, drown the physical and emotional
pain with a lot more whisky, and repeat - Iain had called to see him, had
brought him food, and had not gone away.
Instead he had pulled a chair up in front of the fire and had sat in silence
for a while. Alex had ignored him, sure that after a short time he would get
up and leave, as everyone else did. Some considerable time had passed,
during which the sun moved across the sky and Iain stayed where he was.
Alex tried to pretend he wasn’t there. He had grown accomplished at
pretending people weren’t there for several minutes at a time, but not for
several hours.
He tried to think about Beth, about the way she had looked and felt the
last time they had made love, but the fact that someone was sitting in the
room silently distracted him, and the memory wouldn’t come.
What the hell does he want?
“What the hell d’ye want?” he said when he could bear it no more. He
had intended to sound impatient, authoritative, but his voice came out as no
more than a croak, ruining the effect.
“She wouldna want this, ye ken,” Iain said conversationally. “Neither of
them would.”
“Fuck off,” Alex replied. He closed his eyes. Now Iain would get up and
leave him in peace.
“She’d be disgusted an she saw ye lying in bed, wasting away, when
there’s work to be done.”
Alex turned to face the room, wincing at the pain the movement caused
him. Iain was staring into the peat fire, which gave off a dull red glow.
“Iain,” Alex began.
 “Ye’re wanting to die, so ye can be with her again,” Iain interrupted
quietly. “I can understand that. It’s what I’m wanting myself. But what do
ye think she’ll say, if ye die in such a way as this? She didna give in. The
last thing she did was kill the redcoat bastard who stabbed Maggie. That’s a
fine way to die, if ye have to. If ye lie in your own filth till ye starve
yourself to death, and go to her reeking o’ self-pity and sweat, d’ye think
she’ll still want ye?”
With a strength born of pure instantaneous rage, Alex had launched
himself from the bed, forgetting everything except the need to kill this
bastard who sat there so calmly, daring to tell him what Beth would think!
Iain had no idea, no idea at all, what he was going through!
He had stood, his hand reaching for the dirk on the small table at the side
of his bed, had taken one step forward and screamed in agony as his injured
leg took all his weight and collapsed under him, bringing him first to his
knees, and then to the ground.
For a moment he had lost consciousness, and when he’d come round,
Iain had been standing over him. He picked up the dirk and replaced it
gently on the table.
“Aye,” he’d said, nodding. “Ye can still feel, then. That’s something. I’ll
fetch Peigi.”
He’d walked out, leaving Alex lying helpless on his stomach on the dirt
floor of the cottage, gritting his teeth and moaning as the pain tore up his
leg, obliterating everything else, even Beth, from his mind.
A few minutes later the door had opened, bringing with it sunlight, a
fresh breeze and Peigi, her arms full of bedding, followed by Kenneth. She
put the bedding down on the table, deftly stripped the bed of its filthy,
sweat-soaked linen and, wrinkling her nose in disgust, threw it out of the
door, followed by the mattress and pillow.
“I’ll be back shortly,” she said, and disappeared out into the sunlight.
Kenneth knelt down by his chief, and very slowly and gently turned him
over onto his back. Sweat poured down Alex’s face, which was white and
contorted with pain. The muscles on his neck bulged as he fought the
agony, and tears trickled down his cheeks.
“Isd,” Kenneth said softly, although Alex hadn’t spoken. “Lie still a
minute, while I look at ye.” His fingers moved gently over the injured leg,
feeling for any sign that the bone had rebroken, and then he sat back on his
haunches. “Ye’ll be fine,” he said reassuringly.
 Alex took a deep breath and tried to sit up, but Kenneth pressed him back
down.
“No’ yet,” he said. “Bide a while, and Peigi’ll change the bed.”
As if on cue, Peigi had bustled back in with a fresh mattress.
“I’ve emptied the other one,” she said, “but the cover’ll need washing.
Several times,” she added. “So ye can have mine for now.” She shook the
heather-filled mattress out and laid it on the bed, then started to make it up.
Alex had lain there waiting for the pain to subside, not daring to open his
mouth to speak, fearful that he would burst into tears if he did. The pain
was terrible, but the emotions swirling round in his mind were worse; rage,
humiliation, grief. Better to remain silent.
“There,” Peigi said, patting the bed in satisfaction. “Ye can put him back
now,” she told Kenneth. “I’ll away and get a bannock and some broth.”
Kenneth very carefully scooped Alex up as though he were a small child,
and laid him gently back on the bed, pulling the blanket over him.
“I’ll away and get some whisky to go wi’ the bannock and broth,” he
said, winking.
Alex had waited until they were gone, and then had tried to pull himself
up into a sitting position, his arms trembling with the effort of merely
levering his body up. How could he have lost so much of his strength in so
short a time? He sat there and thought.
In due course the broth and the bannock had arrived, and for the first time
in over ten days Alex had attempted to eat, managing around half of the
bowl of soup and a bite of the bannock before giving up. Then he sat there
and thought some more, until Kenneth came back with the whisky. He put it
down without a word and started to leave, but Alex reached out and grabbed
his sleeve.
“Will ye help me take my shirt off?” he asked. “There’s a clean one in the
press.”
Kenneth helped him to pull it over his head.
“Shall I get ye some water to wash wi’ afore ye put on the clean shirt?”
Kenneth offered.
“Aye, that’d be good.”
Kenneth rolled the dirty shirt up into a ball and turned to go.
“One more thing,” his chieftain said.
“Aye.”
“Fetch Iain, will ye?”
 Kenneth hesitated.
“Alex,” he said, “Iain’s grieving. He didna mean-”
“Aye, I ken,” Alex interrupted. “I’m no’ angry, man. I want to speak wi’
him, that’s all.”
Kenneth nodded, and turned to go.
“Thank you,” Alex said. “For the whisky, and…” He pointed to the floor
where he had so recently lain helpless.
Kenneth smiled, and left.

Ten minutes later, Iain had returned. His face was closed, his mouth
compressed in a tight line.
“Sit down,” Alex said.
Iain brought the chair from the fireside and sat stiffly down near the bed,
but out of arm’s reach.
“Did Kenneth tell you I’m no’ angry with ye?” Alex asked.
Iain nodded.
“I’m sorry ye fell, but I’m no’ sorry for what I said,” he stated. “It needed
saying, and I’d say it again. I spoke the truth as I see it.”
“I wanted to kill you for it,” Alex said. “I lay there like a wee bairn on the
floor, and all I wanted to do was find a way to kill you.”
“I’ll leave the morrow.”
“And then I thought about it,” Alex had continued as though Iain hadn’t
spoken, “and I realised that ye’re right. I think ye’re the only man in the
clan who could make me see it. Because ye’re the only other man in the
clan who’s grieving the way I am.”
Iain closed his eyes and swallowed.
“I thought about what Beth would say, if she were to walk in now and see
me lying here wi’ my muscles wasting, while the others go out to find out
who’s willing to fight on, and Angus does his best to act as chieftain,
though he’s sore afraid to. And I was ashamed of myself.”
He’d paused, and there was silence. In the distance he’d heard a child
laugh and the sound of women talking. Life was going on, and he had to
find a way to go on, too.
“I’m no’ going to pretend I want to live without her,” he’d continued.
“But ye’re right. When I die, whenever that is, and we meet again, as I’m
sure we will, I want her to be proud of me. And between now and then,
that’s what I intend to do – to make her proud of me. She died well and
bravely, and so did Maggie. And I canna tell ye how sorry I am to be the
cause of it. I dinna expect ye to forgive me, for I canna forgive myself.”
Iain’s eyes shot open.
“What the hell are ye on about?” he said rudely. “Ye didna kill them!”
“I’m your chieftain,” Alex said. “I should have made them go home, the
pair of them. I should never have let them come wi’ us. If I’d sent them
home with Angus and the others after Prestonpans, they’d be alive now.”
To Alex’s surprise, Iain had burst out laughing.
“Made them go home?” he’d said. “Have ye forgotten them entirely, in
such a short time? God Himself couldna have made them go home! If ye’d
tied them to their horses and ordered Angus and the others to take them,
they’d have ridden straight back again the moment they were left, and ye
ken it well, man. If ye’re wanting to blame someone, blame Cumberland
and the redcoat bastards that killed them and thousands of others. And then
get out of that bed as soon as ye’re able, and do something about it. It’s a
powerful incentive to live; it’s what’s keeping me going. And then when we
die, we can look Beth and Maggie in the face wi’ pride, for we’ll have died
doing as they’d have expected us to.”
Alex stared at his adopted clansman, astonished. And ashamed. This was
the rallying call to arms of a true chieftain to his men, and he should be
saying the words, not listening to them.
“Christ, Iain,” he said softly, after a moment. “What have I come to?”
Iain stood, and leaning over the bed, took Alex’s hands in an
uncharacteristic display of affection.
“Ye’ve come to your knees wi’ grief,” he said. “We all understand that,
and no one blames ye for it. She was your life, as Maggie was mine. But
now it’s time to come to your feet, and fight back. Because it’s what the
MacGregors do, and we do it well, and we all want to. But we need you to
lead us. Angus canna do it, not yet. Will ye do it?”
He let go of Alex’s hands abruptly, and swiped the tears away from his
eyes.
“Aye, well,” he said, trying to regain his composure and turning away
without waiting for an answer to his question, “I’ll away to my bed. It’s
been a tiring day.”
“Before ye go to bed, will ye do something for me?”
Iain waited.
 “Will ye ask Kenneth if he can fashion a crutch of some sort for me until
Angus gets back frae the hunting and can make me a proper one?”
Iain grinned. He had his answer.
“Aye,” he said. “I’ll tell him.”

So it was that now, two days later, Alex was trying, and failing, to stand,
even on his good leg, for long enough to get the crutch into place. Without
the rage to fuel him he didn’t have the strength in his muscles to support
himself.
This is ridiculous, he told himself. Three weeks ago I marched all night
on a biscuit, and fought the next day, too. I should be able to stand up. I can
stand up.
He pulled himself to the edge of the bed again, picked up the makeshift
crutch Kenneth had made for him until Angus could fashion a more
comfortable one, and hanging on to it for dear life, managed to stand on his
good leg. Very carefully he tucked the top of the crutch into his right armpit
and leaned his weight on it. So far, so good. Balancing on his good left leg,
he moved the crutch forward a few inches, then putting all his weight on it,
tried to hop forward. His leg was already trembling just from the effort of
taking his weight, and shards of white-hot pain were knifing up his injured
leg. Try as he might, he couldn’t move. He would have to sit down again.
With the crutch still under his right arm he reached back with his left,
feeling for the bedpost and realising that it was too far away for him to
grasp without leaning for it.
“Shit,” he said, softly, but with great feeling.
He couldn’t move. He would have to stand here until someone came in,
and that could be hours, because he had deliberately waited until no one
would be around to see his pathetic efforts to walk.
The door opened, and Janet walked in.
Alex jumped in surprise, and the crutch slid out from under his arm. He
started to lose his balance, felt himself falling, and then Janet dropped the
basket of food she was carrying and leapt across the room, managing by a
Herculean effort to grab his right arm and support him as he sank
gracelessly back onto the bed.
They both sat there for a moment while they got their breath back, his
arm still wrapped round her shoulder, and her hands gripping his wrist for
dear life. Then she released him and standing, retrieved the basket and its
contents from the floor.
“I made oatcakes, and thought ye might like some,” she said. “I waited
till the rain let up, and brought them for ye.”
“Thank you. Ye came at the right moment,” Alex admitted.
“Hmmph,” she replied. “Ye shouldna be trying to walk yet. Ye need to
build your strength first.”
“I canna do that lying in my bed,” Alex pointed out, frustrated.
Janet thought for a moment.
“Wait there,” she said tactlessly, and walked out of the cottage.
Alex waited there. The pain in his right leg was easing a bit now. If he
shuffled up to the end of the bed he could try standing again, bracing
himself on the bedpost.
Janet returned, carrying a large stone in her arms.
“Here ye are,” she said, dropping it on the bed next to him. “Before you
can walk, ye need to let your leg heal. If ye fall ye could break it again, and
if ye do, ye might lose it this time.”
He’d been so intent on getting well enough to fight, he hadn’t thought
about the possibility of breaking his leg again, or that if he did he could
damage it beyond repair.
The blow to my head must have addled my brains, he thought. It wasn’t
just his body that needed building up. He needed to start thinking properly
again. He’d be no use to the clan if he couldn’t think strategically and plan
ahead.
“And while ye’re waiting for your leg to heal, ye can build your arms and
suchlike. This was the best I could find for now, but I’m sure Angus’ll be
able to find something that’s the right weight for ye, when he gets back.”
Alex smiled, and reaching, lifted the rock, surprised by how heavy it was.
True, Janet had staggered a little under its weight as she’d carried it in, but
even so, in his full strength he’d have been able to lift it effortlessly with
one hand.
“Thank you,” he said. “This will be fine for now. And ye’re right.”
“Of course I am,” she replied. “If ye dinna need anything else, I’ll get
back to the bairns.”
“How are ye doing, Janet?” Alex asked.
“I’m doing well,” she replied. “Of course it’s no’ so easy wi’ Simon
away, but I’ll manage well enough until he comes home.”
 “Janet,” he said softly. “Simon’s no’ coming home, a graidh. Ye ken that,
d’ye no’?”
“Ye didna see him killed, did ye?” she retorted.
“No, but-”
“And ye didna see him taken prisoner, did ye?”
“The redcoats didna take prisoners,” he said.
“Well, then. If he isna dead, and he wasna taken prisoner, then he’ll come
home,” she affirmed.
“Janet, it’s been over three weeks. If he was coming home, do ye no’
think he’d be here by now?”
“He isna dead, Alex. If he was dead I’d feel it, here.” She put her hand to
her chest. “And I dinna feel it. He’s alive, and he’ll come back to me. Now,
I’ve the bairns to see to.”
After she’d gone, Alex cradled the rock in his arms, and sighed.
In truth, he didn’t feel in his heart that Beth was dead, either. But he
knew she was, because Maggie had seen her die. Wanting her to be alive
couldn’t make it so.
How long would it be before Janet accepted that Simon was dead?
Dougal had told them how the redcoats had behaved, when he came back.
True, he had been rescued by one, but that was a miracle. The vast majority
of the soldiers had revelled in their victory, had roamed around the
battlefield finishing off the wounded, laughing and splashing each other
with their enemies’ blood as though it was a game.
If Simon had not died immediately, if he had managed somehow to crawl
away and lie low, then he had surely died of his wounds. Otherwise he
would have been back by now.
We all deal with grief in our own way, Alex thought. Iain lives for
vengeance. I wanted to kill myself. Iain had saved him, given him a reason
to fight on.
Janet was in denial, but she would see the truth, eventually. And when
she did, her children would save her. She had them to live for. She would
survive.

***

And so it was that when the men returned four days later, and Angus
walked into the chieftain’s cottage full of dread, with a headful of news he
knew Alex would ignore completely, he was confronted to his utter delight
by the sight of his brother sitting on the edge of the bed, one splinted leg
stuck out straight in front of him, the other bent at a right angle, dipping up
and down to work his arms. Beside him on the bed were four stones of
varying sizes.
“A fichead ‘s a h-ochd, a fichead ‘s a naoi, a fichead ‘s a deich,” Alex
grunted, then sat back on the bed. His hair had been washed, he’d shaved,
and the room no longer stank of sickness, Angus noticed. Clearly something
momentous had happened while he was away. Whatever it was, he sent a
silent prayer of thanks up to God for it.
“Thirty,” Angus said. “Not bad.”
Alex shot him a withering look.
“I did a hundred earlier. I only stopped now because ye came in. How
was the hunting?”
Angus grinned hugely.
“One,” he said cryptically.
Alex stared blankly at him for a moment, then understanding dawned.
“Christ, Angus, ye didna…”
Angus held up a hand.
“Relax, mo bhràthair,” he said. “I was a good thirty miles away frae here,
and it was an accident. The puir wee redcoat was unfortunately burnt tae
death in a house he was firing.”
Alex looked at his brother sceptically.
“Aye, well, he may have had my dirk between his shoulders a few
moments before that, but there was no one else nearby and the smoke from
the burning thatch hid me from view anyway.”
“I thought ye said the redcoats were riding out in large groups and
sticking together, and that it wasna a good idea to attack them yet because
the risk of capture’s too great.”
“Ye were listening then,” Angus observed. “Aye, they are, and we did
agree, but I was watching them from the side of the hill, and this one broke
away frae the others to fire a cottage at the edge of the settlement, so I took
my chance while I could. In, out, and gone.”
Alex shook his head.
“Ye havena changed, have ye?”
“Aye, I’ve changed,” Angus replied earnestly. Then he grinned again, and
the moment passed. “You have, too. Ye’ve wasted away. I can see your
ribs.”
Alex glanced down. It was true, he had lost a lot of weight. But then they
all had, before Culloden. It was just that the others had put it back on again
since, and he hadn’t.
“I’ll catch up soon enough,” he said. “I’ve been working my arms and
shoulders while I wait for my leg to heal a bit more. I need another crutch
as well, I think. It’ll be easier to walk wi’ two, and I’m wanting to be out in
the fresh air.”
“I’ll find a branch later and make ye one, nae problem,” Angus said. He
picked up a chair and pulled it over to the bed and sat down. “But I’m glad
to see ye back with us, because I’ve news for ye. Two ships frae France
came in to Loch nan Uamh last week, and they were carrying money, arms
and brandy. There’s enough tae keep us fighting all summer. The captain
didna ken about Culloden, for he’d been at sea for a month. Anyway, once
he found out, he didna want to let us have the goods, but then a few days
ago three navy ships came in, so they unloaded fast, and then after a wee
stramash they set off for France wi’ some o’ the chiefs that wanted tae go.”
“Did they take Charles? Murray? Lochiel?” Alex said, on full alert now.
“No,” Angus replied. “Charles was already on the Long Island. They
were trying to persuade the captain to go and find him and bring him back
to Arisaig for a summer campaign, but then after the fight wi’ the other
ships, they went straight back to France. They took the Duke of Perth and
Lord Elcho, and a few others, and they asked Lochiel, but he wouldna go.
Neither would Broughton. But the chiefs are rallying at Loch Arkaig to
mount a campaign anyway.”
Alex sat silently for a few minutes digesting this, while his younger
brother fizzed with excitement, clearly wanting to charge straight into
action. Alex understood now why Angus had taken a risk and killed the
redcoat; he was desperate to continue the fight, to start to fulfil his blood
oath to Maggie. No doubt the others were too. But he needed to know more.
How many would rise? Would Charles agree to lead them again? Where
was Lord George Murray?
“Will we join them, Alex?” Angus asked finally.
“We need to find out more,” Alex replied. “I’ll no’ drag you all into
another rising unless enough come to make it possible.”
“But we’re going to fight on anyway!” Angus argued.
 “Aye, we are. But there’s a big difference between another rising, and
raiding from our own country, where we ken the land and can attack then
melt back into the hills. We’ve been doing that for hundreds of years. If we
rise again properly, Cumberland will come after us, and we need to be able
to beat him this time. Call the men in. I need tae speak wi’ all of ye.”
Angus shot off like a cannonball, while Alex put his shirt on and arranged
his plaid as best he could without standing up, and prepared for his first
meeting with his clan as their chieftain since the morning of Culloden, over
three weeks ago.

***

“No, ye canna,” objected Kenneth, when he heard what Alex was

proposing. There were general murmurs of agreement from the others.
When the men had all assembled, Alex had asked Kenneth to carry him
outside, because the cottage was far too small to accommodate them all,
especially as many of the women had come too. He was sitting on a bench
outside his front door, his clan sitting or kneeling on the ground around
him.
“Aye, I can,” Alex countered.
“But ye canna even walk two steps yet,” Peigi put in. “How do ye expect
to march halfway up the country to Arkaig?”
“I dinna intend tae march. I’ll ride,” he said. He held up a hand to counter
the dissenting murmurs from the others. “If Lochiel can ride wi’ two broken
legs, then I can ride wi’ one. I’ll go slowly. Angus and Alasdair can walk by
the side of me in case I have any problems.”
“And if the redcoats come?” Angus said. “Ye canna exactly run away,
can ye?”
“The redcoats’ll no’ come this far south yet,” Alex said. “Inversnaid is in
ruins, and the nearest barracks after that is Fort William. That’s why we’re
safe here, for now. Once we get closer to Lochaber, we’ll cut across
country. Aye, if I have tae gallop, the jolting will pain me, but no’ any more
than it pained Lochiel, I’ll be bound. And he’s in more danger than I am.
There’s a price on his head.”
“There’s a price on your head,” Alasdair pointed out.
Alex grinned.
 “No, there’s a price on Sir Anthony Peter’s head,” he said. “Alex
MacGregor is in no more danger than any other member of the clan.” He
looked around at the sea of doubtful faces, and remembered that just five
days ago he’d lain in bed wasting away, waiting to die, and they all knew it.
“I’m back,” he said to them. “I’m no’ at full strength yet, but I will be, and
soon. And in the meantime I’ve got ye to help me if I need it. Or do ye no’
want to continue the fight? Because an ye dinna, tell me now. I’ll no’ force
ye to it.”
The roar of the clansmen allayed his fears.
“Well, then,” he said. “Angus, away and find me another crutch. I can get
a wee bit o’ practice in tonight. We leave tomorrow.”

***

In truth Alex fared better than he’d expected to. When he’d told the others
he’d be at full strength again soon, he’d been stating a hope rather than a
fact, but it was amazing what determination, fresh air and the support of
your men could do for you. He was more grateful to Iain than he could say;
without his intervention, Alex realised now that he probably would have
given up and died.
The pain of losing Beth had not diminished; he didn’t believe it would
ever diminish. But he was young, and strong, or could be, and he had
something to live for, even if it was not what he’d dreamed of. And that
would have to be enough.
He had managed to walk or rather hop a few steps, with two crutches,
and was confident that he’d soon manage more. His broken leg was heavily
splinted to protect it from breaking again should he have another fall, but
the wound where the bone had poked through his shin was healing well,
and apart from a constant dull headache he seemed to be suffering no
lasting effects from the kick to his head.
Even so, he was very glad to be arriving at Glencoe, three days after
they’d set out. He had sent a scout ahead to make sure the way was clear
and that he’d find a welcome there, and he felt a huge relief that tonight at
least, he’d get to sleep in a bed of sorts. He was looking forward to that.
He was not, however, looking forward to telling Ealasaid about the fate
of her granddaughter.
 As they neared the MacDonald settlement nestled in the mountains, to his
surprise Graeme rode forward from the back of the line to join him. He’d
only seen the Englishman a couple of times since he’d woken from his
injury, and had thought the man to be keeping his distance.
Graeme reined in alongside him, and slowed his horse to match Alex’s
slow but steady pace.
“How are you faring?” he asked, nodding at the splinted leg, which stuck
out from the horse’s flank.
“Better than I thought. It’s paining me, but it’s bearable,” Alex said.
“You?”
Graeme grinned.
“I’m fine. I won’t be making the ladies swoon any more, but I’m getting
used to it now.”
Alex looked at the older man’s injury. One of the women had made him
an eye patch which covered the worst of the sword cut, but even so, the
wound extended for a few inches down his cheek, a raised angry welt.
“Did ye wash it wi’ whisky?” Alex asked.
“Yes, I did, and I’ve never known pain like it. I’ve a fearful respect for
your brother now. How he didn’t kill Beth after she did that to him, I’ll
never know.”
Alex started involuntarily. Apart from Iain, since Alex had been told of
her death no one had mentioned Beth to him at all. There seemed to be an
unspoken agreement in the clan not to mention either her or Duncan to him.
He knew why; they were waiting for him to bring up the topic, which
they’d then take as tacit permission to speak of them.
But Graeme isna of the clan, he reminded himself, and he loved Beth as
much as I did, although in a different way. He must be grieving something
fierce, too.
He looked across at Graeme, to find the older man scrutinising him with
one shrewd grey eye.
“I miss her too, every minute,” Graeme said. “But not speaking of her
won’t make us forget her.” He nodded down the track to where the first of
the MacDonald houses were coming into view. “And you might as well
make a start now, because you’ll have to tell her family soon, won’t you?”
Alex looked ahead and shuddered again. He was dreading telling them,
Ealasaid especially. They would certainly blame him, he thought, as he still
blamed himself, in spite of Iain’s words.
 “Aye,” he answered simply.
“Do you want me with you when you do?” Graeme asked unexpectedly.
Alex’s first instinct was to say no, but then he realised that that was
exactly what he wanted. He didn’t want to do this alone, and who better to
face it with than someone who’d loved Beth since she was born?
First, though, he had to meet with MacIain, and tell him the news. He
was hopeful that the MacDonalds would join them, but after five minutes
with the chief, he realised this was not to be.
“We’ve no weapons,” the MacDonald chief said after listening to Alex’s
news and proposal.
Alex raised a sceptical eyebrow at that, and MacIain looked away.
“Aye, well, none to speak of,” he amended. “I surrendered, Alex. We
handed most of our weapons over to General Campbell. So did the Appin
men.”
“Campbell?” said Alex, stunned. “Ye surrendered tae a Campbell?”
“Aye,” said Glencoe. “They’re no’ all the same. General Campbell is a
fair man. I didna want to, but we’re too few to hold out, Alex, and we live
within a morning’s march of Fort William, which is bristling wi’ redcoats.
Cumberland’s already burnt Lovat’s house to the ground and ravaged the
Fraser lands, and his soldiers are pillaging far and wide. Charles just wants
to go back to France. Cluny’s hiding out, but the MacPhersons are
surrendering. It’s over, man. Ye can stay here the night, and I’ll no hinder
ye, but I canna come wi’ ye. I’m sorry. It’s over for me.”
There was no point in arguing. The chief had made up his mind, and Alex
couldn’t blame him. They were a small clan, and they had lands and a
chance to get through this relatively unscathed if they kept their heads
down. It was different for the MacGregors; they had neither legal lands nor
a name, and when you had nothing, then there was nothing to lose by
fighting for more.
After eating dinner with MacIain he met up with Graeme, and, using his
crutches, hobbled over to Ealasaid’s cottage, where she lived with her great-
nieces and nephews.
They were all waiting in the cottage, sitting on various stools round the
central fire. Several candles had been lit in honour of their guest, and as a
consequence when Graeme walked in the first thing he saw was a sea of
white-blonde heads.
“Jesus Christ,” he said in a choked voice.
 Alex turned to him in time to see him wipe a tear from his good eye.
“I’m sorry, man,” he said. “I should have warned ye, but I didna ken
they’d all be here together.”
In the corner of the room a bed had been made up for Alex, and he sank
down gratefully onto it. His leg was throbbing.
Ealasaid was sitting on the one good chair, her hands resting in her lap.
She looked at Alex, and nodded.
“So, she’s gone then,” she said quietly.
To his utter horror, Alex burst into tears. He hadn’t cried since he’d been
told of her death, not even in private, and he had expected to tell her family
then to somehow console her distraught grandmother. The last thing he had
expected was for her to tell him.
She was gone. It was the bleakness, the finality of the word that undid
him. Because in that moment it hit him that Beth was, indeed, gone. He
would never see her again, never touch her, never hear her voice, never
smell her unique feminine scent. She was gone, and no matter how long he
lived, he would never be able to tell her how much he loved her, how sorry
he was that she’d died and he’d survived. Gone.
It was beyond bearing, and he knew that even if they were to rise again,
and win, and James Stuart take the throne; if the MacGregors were to get
their name back, and their lands, still he would never be whole again.
Because she was gone.
To their credit they left him to cry, until finally, with a huge shuddering
sob, he gained control of himself again and looked up at them through tear-
drenched eyes.
Graeme was still standing by the door where he’d stopped on seeing the
sea of silver-gilt, but now he came in and bowed to Ealasaid.
“Feasgar math,” he said in heavily accented Gaelic. “Tha mi toilichte ur
coinneachadh.”
“Mo creach, tha Gàidhlig agad!” she exclaimed.
“I don’t remember much of it,” Graeme continued in English. “Beth’s
mother taught me a little.”
Ealasaid stared at the stranger, her eyes wide with shock.
“I’m sorry, mo sheanmhair,” Alex apologised. “This is Graeme. He was a
friend of Beth’s.”
“I was her gardener,” Graeme elaborated. “I was with the family when
the master married Ann.”
 “You must stay,” Ealasaid said immediately.
“No, I have a place with Alasdair and –” Graeme started.
“You must stay,” she repeated. “Robert, ye’ll sleep wi’ your uncle the
night.” She turned back to the Englishman. “We have much to talk about, I
think.” She looked over at Alex. “If you can bear to do so, laddie.”
Alex glanced at Graeme, who nodded imperceptibly.
“Aye, I can bear to do so,” Alex said.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER THREE

Strangely, although the previous evening had been almost unbearably

poignant, and he had found himself weeping again during the course of it,
when they rode out the following morning Alex felt lighter, as though some
of the weight of Beth’s death had been lifted from his shoulders.
Not only had Ealasaid not blamed Alex for her granddaughter’s death,
she told him he’d done the right thing by allowing her to be with him.
“For she’d have followed ye anyway, and if it had been you to die instead
of her, she’d no’ have regretted being with ye until the last second, would
she?”
“No,” Alex agreed. “She tellt me that herself.”
“Well then, why should you regret her doing as she wished? Better ye
were together for as long as ye could be. At least ye had that. Never regret
what ye canna change, laddie. I learnt that lesson the hard way. Now ye
must carry on, as she’d wish ye to.”
He had lain awake last night, thinking about it. The old woman was right.
Iain was right too. He had to stop blaming himself. Beth would not want it
so. And so he would stop. Somehow he would stop.

The MacGregors reached the huts sheltered by the forest on Loch Arkaig on
the fourteenth of May, to find a number of chiefs still present, including
Lord Lovat the Fraser chief, who due to age and infirmity had been carried
there by his clansmen, the Cameron chief Lochiel, Gordon of Glenbucket
and numerous others who had either survived Culloden or had not managed
to get there in time. Murray of Broughton, former secretary to Prince
Charles was also there, still looking very pale and wasted from the illness
which had kept him away from Culloden.
He had written out a plan of action, which Alex now read. Certainly if all
the clans mentioned in the plan did indeed rise and join together, with the
supplies they now had they could mount a summer campaign that would
keep Cumberland and his troops too occupied to ravage the Highlands as
they were now doing. In that case it was feasible that the clans which had
previously been loyal to the Hanoverians, but which were nevertheless
suffering Cumberland’s reprisals, would join the Jacobites. And if Prince
Charles had escaped to France as was rumoured, news that the clans were
still fighting and that support for the Stuarts was growing, coupled with
Charles’ charismatic entreaties, might well persuade King Louis to send the
much-needed troops and arms to mount a more successful campaign.
That was a lot of ‘ifs’, but there seemed no other option but to continue
fighting. The duke had made it very clear that the clans were not going to be
allowed to go home and continue with their normal lives, and he showed no
signs of keeping his word about allowing those who surrendered to go free.
No, to fight on was not only the honourable choice, but the only possible
one for him. And if you were going to fight, you had to take a positive view.
Although Alex was happy to see so many chiefs willing to continue the
rebellion, he distrusted the Fraser chief profoundly and made his misgivings
clear to Lochiel once they were alone.
“How can ye trust him, Donald?” he asked. The others had retired for the
night, but Broughton, the Cameron chief and Alex, sharing a hut, had slept
fitfully due to the pain of their injuries and illness, and so at 3am, all of
them having lain awake for a time, Alex lit a candle and retrieved a bottle of
brandy from the corner press, which they shared between them while
waiting for the dawn to break.
“I’d trust the serpent in Eden before I’d trust Lovat,” Broughton said
unequivocally. “I canna stand the man.”
“His house and lands are burnt,” Donald Cameron replied. “He has
nothing left to lose now.”
“He sat on the fence for the whole of the campaign,” Alex reminded him.
“He wouldna put anything in writing. He didna raise the clan until last
December, and only then because he thought we were going to win. And
even then he sent his son out and stayed at home himself, so that if it all
went awry, he could say he hadna agreed to send the clan out at all!”
“Aye, well, it was to no avail,” Lochiel pointed out. “He’s with us now,
and we need everyone we can get if we’re to continue the fight. The Frasers
are a powerful clan.”
Alex couldn’t argue with this, so stayed silent. So did Broughton,
although the expression on his face spoke volumes.
“The Elector’s son sent me a message, offering me very favourable terms
if I were to surrender,” Lochiel suddenly inserted into the pause.
 Alex, in the act of refilling his glass, almost dropped the bottle.
“What?” he cried. “What terms?”
Lochiel made a dismissive gesture with his hand.
“It doesna signify,” he said. “I rejected them, of course. Even if I trusted
him to hold to them, which I dinna, I would never surrender. The French
have already sent us enough money and provisions to keep us fighting till
the autumn, and I believe that if we make a spirited defence, they’ll send us
more. But even if it came down to me alone against the whole of
Cumberland’s army, I would still go down fighting. How could I do
otherwise, and hold my head up?”
“Aye,” said Alex. “It shows how little William kens of honour, if he could
believe ye’d surrender to him.”
“It wasna just me,” Lochiel added. “Glencarnaig was offered terms too. I
thought ye’d have known that, ye being of the MacGregors yourself.”
“I’ve been…ailing,” Alex said, not wanting to discuss his emotional
issues with the Cameron chief. “What did he offer Glencarnaig, then?”
“He offered to raise the proscription on the MacGregors.”
Alex was stunned. This was what they had been fighting for for over a
hundred years. The right to use their own name openly, to have recourse to
the law, to own property…the list was endless. It was a powerful
temptation.
“What did Glencarnaig reply?”
“He said, ‘we choose rather to risk our lives and fortunes, and die with
the characters of honest men, than live in infamy and hand down disgrace to
our posterity’.”
Alex let out a breath that he hadn’t realised he’d been holding, and took a
huge gulp of brandy straight out of the bottle.
“Would ye have answered differently?” Lochiel asked softly.
“Christ, no!” Alex responded immediately. “Glencarnaig had the right of
it. There’s nae purpose to having the right to use a traitor’s name.”
Lochiel smiled.
“It warms my heart to see ye, Donald,” Alex said. “For a while we
thought you were dead.”
“Aye, I canna tell ye how it felt to be lying on the field helpless, watching
my clansmen cut to pieces around me, and me unable to do anything. I
wanted to die myself at that moment. But I didna, and neither did you, and
now we live to fight on.
 “So, then,” he continued, “ye’ve read John’s plan, and it’s a fair one.
We’ve to gather those we can, and we march to my house at Achnacarry in
a week. We meet Lochgarry’s men there. They’re out now keeping a watch
on Fort Augustus to see what Cumberland’s forces are doing. Then we’ll
cross the Lochy and join wi’ Keppoch, then on to Badenoch to meet the
Frasers, MacIntoshes and MacPhersons. I’ve sent a despatch to the rest of
the MacGregors to march to Rannoch and join others there. And so we rise
again!”
They clinked glasses in a toast to King James. Better to die fighting to the
end than surrender and die of shame.

***

London, mid May

After standing uncertainly in the doorway of the shop for a few minutes,
Anne Cunningham finally entered.
“I wondered if you had any perfume,” she ventured. “I am going to a
soiree this evening, and would like something fresh and summery to
complement my new outfit.”
Sarah finished pinning a curl in place on Mrs Warren’s head and then
gestured to a table in the corner of the room on which resided a number of
porcelain bottles.
“There is a selection of the perfumed waters that I have, Mrs
Cunningham,” Sarah said. “Rose, lilac, jasmine, orange blossom and violet
among others. I also have the same fragrances in a solid version, if you
wish to wear it in a pendant or pomade. Would you like to try some? I have
almost finished Mrs Warren’s hair, and then I can give you my exclusive
attention.”
Anne moved over to the table, desultorily picking up bottles, taking out
the stoppers and sniffing them before putting them down again. Sarah
watched her out of the corner of her eye as she liberally sprinkled powder
over her client’s hair.
“There!” Sarah said. “Perfect!” She held a hand mirror up so Mrs Warren
could see the finished confection.
“Thank you! Miss Browne, you really are a wonder! I cannot tell you
how much you were missed while you were away. We feared you would
never return,” her delighted customer enthused.
“My home is here,” Sarah reassured her. “I had to visit my family on a
matter of urgency, but now I am back I do not envisage leaving again.
“Now, Mrs Cunningham,” she continued, as she helped Mrs Warren on
with her cloak, “I can see that the scents I have on display do not please
you. But I do have another that you may like. I do not put it on display, as I
must warn you it is very expensive. But it will certainly turn heads. You will
be the talk of the company if you wear it, I assure you. If you would just
care to take a seat, I will fetch it for you.”
Anne took a seat while Sarah said goodbye to her client.
“What’s wrong, Anne?” she said in quite a different voice the moment
the door was closed.
Anne, surprised by the sudden change in demeanour, jumped.
“Nothing!” she said.
“You haven’t come here for perfume though, have you?” Sarah said.
“You have something to tell me. Is Richard back?”
“No!” Anne cried, leaping from the chair. “No. I really do want some
perfume, but I…” She paused.
Sarah waited for Anne to pluck up her courage.
“Can I see her?” she asked finally. “Would you mind terribly?”
Sarah smiled. “Why would I mind? She’s asleep right now, but of course
you can see her if you want to. And you can try the perfume too.”
She took Anne into her small but cosy living room. A cheerful fire burned
in the hearth, on either side of which were comfortable padded chairs. She
motioned Anne to sit in one and handed her a small flower-painted
porcelain bottle, inviting her to take the stopper out and smell the contents.
She bustled around setting out tea things. She took a tea-caddy out of a
small dresser and ladled two spoons of the expensive leaves into a teapot.
Then she lifted the kettle, which was suspended from a hook over the fire,
and poured the water onto the leaves.
“There,” she said. “It won’t be long.” It was quite nice to have someone
round for tea. Since Beth had left, Sarah rarely had visitors. She kept to
herself, and told herself she preferred it that way. After a long day on her
feet exchanging small talk with customers, and, now having established a
reputation for discretion, often listening as they unburdened themselves to
her too, most of the time she did want to be alone in the evening. But not
always. And in her lonely times, of which she’d had quite a few lately, she
missed Beth terribly.
Anne Cunningham was no substitute for Beth, of course, but she was
Beth’s relation by marriage; they had Richard in common, although that
was not a positive thing. But it had brought them together in a strange kind
of sisterhood.
Anne unstoppered the bottle and inhaled delicately. Then deeper.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “This is exquisite! I have never smelt anything like
it before!”
“No, I’m sure you haven’t,” Sarah said. “It’s very expensive. That’s why
I don’t keep it in the shop. Most of my clients can’t afford it.”
“Oh,” Anne replied, disappointed. “I’m sure I won’t be able to afford it
either, then. My allowance from Richard is very small. What is its name?”
“Aqua Melis,” Sarah answered. “It contains a lot of expensive spices and
flower oils and waters, and it takes a long time to combine all the
ingredients exactly.”
“Did you make it yourself?” Anne asked admiringly.
“No.” Sarah laughed. “I make a lot of my own paints and pomades, but
the art of making perfume is a skill all of its own, and takes years to learn.
No, I bought it.” From a free trader. She didn’t add that, knowing Anne
would be shocked even to be handling illicit goods. She was changing, but
was still easily upset.
“If you pour the tea, I’ll fetch her,” she said, disappearing through a
doorway into her small bedroom. She returned a moment later with a tiny,
neatly wrapped bundle, which she handed to Anne.
All that could be seen of the sleeping infant was her head, which was
crowned with a fuzz of dark hair. She had tiny, perfectly shaped eyebrows,
and enormously long lashes, which fluttered against her cheek as she slept.
Anne stared in awe at the precious bundle for a long moment, then tenderly
caressed the petal-soft cheek with one finger. The tiny rosebud mouth
puckered for an instant, and then the baby sighed and relaxed back into
sleep.
“Oh, but she is beautiful,” Anne whispered reverently. “What is her
name?”
“Mary,” Sarah said.
“I am so sorry about your sister,” Anne said softly, so as not to disturb the
child. “Does Mary resemble her?”
 “It’s a little soon to tell,” Sarah replied, “but no, I think she takes after
her father.”
“What a rogue he must be, to disown such a beautiful child,” Anne said,
before blushing furiously. “Oh! I did not mean to offend.”
“No, you haven’t offended me,” Sarah said. “He hasn’t disowned her. He
doesn’t know about her. My sister told me that their relationship was very
brief, and he was called away on business before she even knew she was
with child. She has not…had not heard from him since.”
“Oh, you poor creature!” Anne cried.
Sarah had her back to Anne, as she’d gone to the dresser to get some
sugar, and had thought her to be addressing Mary, but when she turned back
Anne was looking at her, her eyes full of tears.
“I am fine,” Sarah said.
“No, you are not,” Anne said. “Your terrible loss has clearly taken a toll
on you. You have lost weight, and you look very tired. And now you have to
work all day, and take care of your niece. And you have not had time to
grieve for the death of your dear sister. I will make you a tonic and send it
over tomorrow. Or you can come and stay with me if you wish, until you
have recovered your strength.”
“You’re very kind, but I would rather keep busy. And Mary is a very
placid baby. She rarely wakes me during the night. Once we knew my sister
wasn’t going to live, I promised her I would take care of the child. It’s a
great comfort to fulfil her dying wish.”
“Indeed, she was very lucky to have you, especially as you say your
father is so rigid in his beliefs,” Anne said.
Sarah’s mouth twisted.
“Yes. We will not be seeing him ever again,” she said with feeling. “He’s
dead to me.”
Anne blushed, aware from the bitter expression on Sarah’s face that she
was not helping. She looked down at the child again.
“She will grow to be a beautiful child, I am sure,” she said. “When she is
a little older, I will bring Georgie to see her. Maybe they will be married
when they grow up!”
“I hardly think Lord Winter will agree to his noble godson marrying the
bastard child of a shopkeeper’s sister,” Sarah pointed out. “I’m sorry,” she
added, seeing the distraught look on Anne’s face. She had not been trying to
offend. She is so innocent in the ways of the world, Sarah thought. God help
her when Richard comes home.
“Richard has written,” Anne said, as if reading Sarah’s mind. Then she
blushed again, clearly realising that she had just committed another faux
pas.
“Here,” Sarah said. “Let me put her back to bed. You’re welcome to visit
us any time you wish.” She whisked the child away and went into the
bedroom, giving both herself and Anne a moment to compose themselves.
Her first urge when she came back into the living room was to change the
subject, but she needed to know what Richard had written.
She poured more tea for them.
“So, are you living back in London now, or are you visiting from Lady
Harriet’s?” Sarah asked.
“I could not impose on Harriet any longer,” Anne said. “Particularly now
George is trying to walk. She is not over fond of children and I fear that
once he begins to run around she will find him quite tiresome. I came home
two weeks ago. Philippa and Oliver are staying though, so I am not lonely,”
she added.
“Was the letter waiting for you when you got home?” Sarah asked.
“The letter? Oh! No, it arrived two days ago, from North Britain,” she
said, clearly surprised that Sarah had brought the subject up again.
Sarah waited until it became clear Anne was not going to volunteer any
more information without being prompted.
“What did he have to say?” she asked finally.
“It was only a short note,” Anne replied. “He wrote that he will be in
Scotland for some time yet, as he is engaged in the pacification of the
Highlands on behalf of His Royal Highness. But as soon as he can, he will
return to England. He said that he is anxious to talk about our future,” she
finished in a very small voice.
Sarah nodded, half to herself. So he would not be back very soon, at
least. She could relax for a little longer.
“And do you intend to be here when he comes back to ‘talk’ about your
future?” Sarah asked.
To her surprise, Anne began to weep.
“Oh! Oh, I am so sorry,” she cried. She fumbled in her reticule and
produced a scrap of lace with which she attempted to stem the flow of tears.
“Truly, I do not know what I am going to do,” she said miserably once she
had brought her sobs under control. “Harriet and Philippa say I should leave
him, but if I did it would cause a terrible scandal. I cannot imagine what
Uncle Bartholomew and Aunt Wilhelmina would say.”
“Does it matter what they say?” Sarah asked.
Anne looked up in shock.
“Yes, of course it does! I will be ostracised from society. It is a terrible
thing to leave one’s husband. I am sure no one will ever speak to me again
if I do!”
“Caroline will speak to you,” Sarah pointed out. “And Lady Harriet and
Philippa will, as well. And they are friendly with the Prince of Wales. From
what Beth told me about him, he would not shun you for leaving a vicious
brute. And Prince Frederick will be King one day.”
Anne dried her eyes, blew her nose delicately, and considered this.
“You are right,” she said. “I had not thought of it in that way. How clever
you are. But, you know, Richard is my husband, and maybe he has had time
to think while he has been away, to regret what he has done. I feel I should
give him a chance to apologise and to make amends.” She looked up
apprehensively at Sarah.
If he comes here to ‘apologise’ to me, it’ll be the last thing he ever does,
Sarah thought. True to her promise, Caroline had taught her how to use a
pistol, and she kept it, primed and ready to fire, behind her counter. If he
ever threatened her again she would blow his brains all over her shop.
“You are disappointed in me,” Anne said sadly, interrupting Sarah’s dark
thoughts. Really, she was such a sweet, innocent woman. She deserved a
gentle, caring husband, not a vicious evil bastard who enjoyed inflicting
pain. Very few society women would care if they offended someone of
Sarah’s social standing. Yes, they confided in her when she was making
them beautiful, but as a person she was of no more significance to them
than the night-soil men or the link boys. Beth had been different, but she
was rare.
And this plain, red-eyed unhappy woman who had married so
disastrously into the Cunningham family was another. Sarah was suddenly
filled with a fierce protectiveness towards her. On impulse she reached
forward and grasped Anne’s hands.
“Anne,” she said urgently. “Richard will not change. There is something
wrong with him, and there always has been. Beth told me that he was cruel
even as a child. I do not think he wishes to apologise, to you or me. You
should leave him, and to hell with your aunt and uncle!”
Anne’s eyes widened in shock.
“I’m sorry,” Sarah amended. “I’m speaking out of turn because I’m
afraid for you. But if you insist on seeing him, I beg you, do not see him
alone, no matter what he wants. And on no account let him near George
William. And I would ask a favour of you.”
“Of course,” Anne said.
“As soon as you know when he will arrive in London, will you send a
message to me straight away?”
“Yes, if you wish, of course.”
“Thank you. Then at least I’ll be prepared, if he visits me again.” She
squeezed Anne’s hands, then released them and sat down.
And in the meantime, let us hope he tries to pacify the wrong Highlander,
she thought, and gets himself cut to pieces.

***

Scotland, 20th May, 1746

By the time Lochiel had assembled his clansmen, now greatly diminished
since Culloden and numbering some four hundred men, it was noon and the
sun, although hidden behind thick cloud cover, was high in the sky when
they began their march east along the shores of Loch Arkaig towards
Achnacarry Castle, built by Lochiel’s grandfather ninety years earlier.
Alex MacGregor and Donald Cameron both rode, men walking beside
their horses in case they should need assistance due to their injuries. Alex
had spent the intervening week learning to walk on crutches and building
his upper body muscles with the aid of numerous stones of different shapes
and sizes. Now he sat erect and proud on his horse, glad to be doing
something worthwhile again, although his leg was still paining him and he
knew he was not ready to fight yet.
Lochiel’s agony was written on his face; he was deathly pale, and his
mouth was compressed in a tight line. Alex wondered how the Cameron
chief was managing to keep his seat at all with both legs broken, and
wanted to suggest that he might be more comfortable if he was carried by
his men, as Lord Lovat, now on his way back home to raise the Frasers had
been, but he didn’t want to offend him so he kept silent. It was but a short
distance from the loch to Achnacarry, although it took them longer than
normal because the ground was waterlogged due to weeks of heavy rain.
Once arrived, they settled in to wait for Lochgarry’s men to join them.
Lochiel’s house, large and constructed entirely of fir planks, was
impressive, masculine and homely, if a little sparsely furnished. The
clansmen set up camp. Due to the frequent and heavy rain showers, as many
as possible were accommodated in the house and outbuildings, while the
unfortunate ones bivouacked in the landscaped gardens among the
numerous fruit trees. Alex did not hide his appreciation for either the house,
the gardens or the comfort of the sofa he lay on whilst accepting a glass of
fine claret.
“It’s no’ normally as bare as this,” Lochiel explained apologetically,
indicating the bare walls and floors. “We feared reprisals, so most of our
more portable furnishings have been moved to a safer place.”
“Will any place in the Highlands be safe, if Cumberland gets his way?”
Alex asked.
“No. That’s why we have to fight on. If nothing else, we can keep him
busy while Prince Charlie makes his escape, and until the French come.”
“Do ye really think the French will come now?” Alex asked. He
massaged his leg gingerly. It was improving. He could not put weight on it
yet, but it was itching something fierce, which was a good sign.
“I have to believe that,” Lochiel replied. “For without them we canna win
this fight. What choice do we have now? I’m much heartened by the
provisions they sent us. We can hold out until help arrives, if everyone
who’s pledged to fight on does. Lochgarry should be here by now,” he
added, a frown crossing his handsome features.
“Do ye think he’s surrendered?” Alex asked.
“Christ, I hope not. His men are watching the troop movements from Fort
Augustus so we’ll be warned if they move against us. I’ve no doubt they
know we’re moving. I canna understand why anyone would voluntarily
surrender, though, after what happened to the Grants.”
This was a good point. After Culloden, eighty-one men of Clan Grant had
surrendered to Cumberland on the advice of their chief, expecting to give
up their arms and be allowed to return to their homes in Glenmoriston and
Glen Urquhart. Instead they had been taken prisoner and marched down to
the quay at Inverness, where they were now being kept in horrific
conditions on board one of the transport ships.
“In a way, Cumberland did us a favour by that, though,” Lochiel added.
“A lot of men who were thinking to surrender changed their minds after
that.”
Even so, Lochgarry did not appear either that evening or the next day,
with the result that as Lochiel, Alex, John Murray of Broughton and
numerous other officers sat down to dinner, Cameron men were sent out to
watch the hills and the military road, in case of troop movements.
It was as they were finishing dinner that a visitor was announced, a
young lieutenant by the name of Iain MacDonell, who brought money and
dispatches for Murray, and the unwelcome news that on the way he had met
his cousin Barrisdale, who had told him that both he and Lochgarry were
getting their men together in preparation to see what terms of surrender they
could obtain from Cumberland.
Lochiel received the young man with the utmost courtesy, offering him a
meal and a bed for the night which he gratefully accepted, but once the
lieutenant had left, he exploded with rage.
“The bastard!” he roared. “He would surrender without even sending
word to me, leaving us open to attack from Fort William! The fool, does he
really think that the Elector’s son will treat him kindly? We see every day
what he thinks of Highlanders! Well,” he continued, “he has chosen his
path, God help him, and I have chosen mine. Tomorrow we cross the Lochy
and join with Keppoch, and then on to Badenoch. Let us retire, gentlemen,
and get what sleep we may. It may be long before we enjoy such
comfortable quarters again.”

***

Fort Augustus, May 1746

Colonel Mark Hutchinson stood smartly to attention in front of his

Commander-in-Chief, waiting for him to finish perusing the intelligence
report he had just delivered from Lord Loudoun, who had been sent to Loch
Lochy to reconnoitre and send back news of the rumoured rebel insurgency
in the area.
 Some minutes passed, during which the Duke of Cumberland read and
reread the missive, then sat staring out of the tiny window of his
accommodations against which the rain drove unceasingly, clearly deep in
thought. Near one corner of the room a peat fire gave out a little heat and a
large amount of smoke which drifted lazily upward to the roof space.
Colonel Hutchinson spent those minutes heartily wishing he had chosen
to stand to attention a few inches further to the left of where he now was,
where he would have avoided the steady trickle of icy water that was
dripping from a leak in the roof to land with unerring accuracy on the back
of his neck. He resisted the natural urge to step to the side, which would be
an unforgivable breach of military etiquette, and occupied his time wishing
all Scots, including both the rebels who did not know when they were
beaten and the loyal soldiers who had built this ridiculous hut for the duke
to live in, in the deepest regions of hell.
After three miserable days of riding round this godforsaken country in
the pouring rain, he had finally returned to Fort Augustus, had divested
himself of his sodden uniform, briskly dried himself off, and with a sigh of
bliss had donned dry clothes before delivering his missive to the duke. If he
had to stand here much longer, however, this uniform would be as wet as
the one still lying on the floor of his quarters. He only possessed two
uniforms.
Finally the duke finished contemplating and glanced across at the
colonel, then up at the roof.
“At ease, Colonel,” he said. Colonel Hutchinson relaxed his shoulders
and moved slightly to the left, allowing the rain to drip onto the dirt floor.
Cumberland glanced up at the roof of his office again and sighed.
“Get someone to put a bucket or some such thing under that when you
leave, will you? The floor will be awash otherwise.”
Colonel Hutchinson examined the roof with some interest. From the
outside the duke’s ‘apartment’ resembled nothing more than a huge heap of
haphazardly-piled turf and branches, at the bottom of which could be seen a
low turf wall, in which was set a small window and a low door, through
which the colonel, although not a tall man, had had to duck to enter the
premises. From inside though, he could see that the roof had been
constructed with some skill, considering the materials to hand. The
branches had been placed at regular intervals, and had been interlaced to
make a sturdy base on top of which sods of turf and heather had been
placed to seal the roof.
To almost seal the roof. He supposed that given more time and variety of
materials, the Highland regiment would have been able to construct a
completely weatherproof house, but as it was they had only been informed
two days before that the duke was moving to Fort Augustus, which had
been burnt down by the rebels two months previously. Of course the
officers had commandeered the least damaged areas of the fort, while the
common soldiers had shifted for themselves and had cobbled together
temporary shelters in the ruined barracks, but the loyalist Highlanders had
pulled out all the stops to construct a traditional Highland dwelling for their
victorious prince.
Colonel Hutchinson shivered and glanced back at his commander, who
looked as though he was chilled to the bone as well. His nose was red, and
in spite of his podginess, his face had a pinched look to it.
“I am sure that more…er…comfortable accommodations could be found
for you, Your Highness,” the colonel ventured. Indeed his own
accommodations, though somewhat cramped, were warm and dry at least.
“Would you like me to enquire for you?”
“God, no, man,” the duke barked. “The men went to an enormous effort
to collect together all the materials and build this for me, and all in this
horrendous weather. It was a sign of the esteem they hold me in, and I
would not insult them by rejecting their kind gesture. I am deeply touched
by it. And, being practical, we need to keep the good opinion of the loyal
Highlanders, Colonel. God knows, they are few enough.”
“Yet the majority of the Highlanders did not come out for the Young
Pretender, Your Highness,” Hutchinson commented.
“True. But those who did not come out for Charles did not come out for
my father either,” reasoned Cumberland, “which is why Cope lost at
Prestonpans. If all those who had declared themselves loyal to the crown
had risen for us then, the rebellion would never have got off the ground. I
don’t trust the Highlanders, loyal or not. They’ll change their allegiance on
a sixpence, and I won’t risk that at the moment, even if I catch pneumonia
in the process. They know the territory, and we need that knowledge to nip
this new rising in the bud. Damn Lochiel and that snake Lovat!”
“The Fraser lands have been burnt, and Lovat’s house razed to the
ground,” Hutchinson said. He refrained from saying that that was probably
the reason that the Fraser chief had finally committed unequivocally to the
Stuart cause, although most of his clan had come out for Charles last
December, under Lovat’s son.
“Yes, and I intend to do the same and more to the Camerons. They started
this whole thing, but by God I will finish it, and now. I will not give them
the chance to rise again! I was told there were three thousand of them at
Achnacarry, but Loudoun seems to think there are only about six hundred,
which is heartening. But the MacPhersons are ready to rise again, I’ve been
told, and most of the Frasers, and no doubt the damned MacGregors will
come out too. We must strike before they can and see if we can take Lochiel
in the process. That would be a mighty blow against the Jacobite scum. Is
Charles with them?”
“No, Your Highness. It is believed that he may have sailed to France on
the ships that anchored in Loch nan Uamh to drop supplies for the rebels.
But we have no certain news of that as yet.”
“Very well, then. Sit down, Colonel. You can scribe for me. This is what
we shall do.”
The colonel pulled up a chair and prepared his writing materials, while
the duke poured them both a brandy and located a map of the area, which
he unrolled on the table, placing the decanter on one end to stop it rolling
up again.
“Now, as you know, Loudoun is here, waiting at the head of Loch Oich
with two thousand men for my orders.” He indicated with a fat finger a spot
on the map a little to the north of where the Camerons were currently
massed. “Munro and Howard have another six hundred men heading along
Loch Lochy. On Saturday morning they will ford the river near Moy and
attack the rebels from the south, while at the same time Loudoun will come
down here,” he pointed to a gap between Loch Arkaig and Loch Lochy,
“from the north to take Achnacarry and cut off any retreat. In this way, we
will be able to capture Lochiel, who is severely wounded and therefore
unable to travel at speed.”
“It is rumoured that many of the Camerons would surrender their arms if
Lochiel was captured,” Colonel Hutchinson supplied.
“I have heard that rumour, although I think the only way to ensure the
Camerons do not rise again is to wipe them out, as far as is possible. They
have been staunchly for the Stuarts since ’89. They may submit now and
hand in some rusty old swords when we give them no alternative, but I have
no doubt they’ll be causing trouble again the minute my back is turned.
Every damn one of them is false, and has more than one set of arms, of that
I have no doubt.” The duke sat back in his chair and took a sip of his
brandy. “I have no wish to spend any more time than is absolutely
necessary in this savage place. I must return to Flanders as soon as possible,
and have no time to wait around for these traitors to see reason in their own
time. I intend to hit hard, and make an example of this clan. There is no
surer way to show the Jacobites that any further insurrection will be dealt
with immediately and efficiently.”
“You mean to kill all six hundred rebels, if possible?”
“Of course.”
“And what of the common people, Your Highness?”
“In my view there are no common people. They are all rebels, to a man.
You will take back my instructions that all their houses are to be destroyed
and their cattle brought to the fort.”
The colonel glanced out of the window. It had been raining for days, and
the nights were bitterly cold.
“What of the women and children, Your Highness? They will die without
food and shelter.”
Cumberland looked at him askance, and the colonel wished he had
thought before speaking his mind.
“The men should have thought about that before they left their families to
fight for a usurper. And in any case, the women are as bad as the men. Look
at Jenny Cameron and Lady Mackintosh, who brought their clans out while
their husbands were fighting for us! We cannot be soft when dealing with
these people, Colonel. They have no notion of mercy and honour. They see
it only as weakness. Soon they will be too busy trying to feed themselves to
think of rebelling again. And then we can leave this place and get back to
civilisation. I am sure you want that, sir, and your men too.”
Colonel Hutchinson agreed that that was indeed what he wanted and set
to work to write out the duke’s orders.

An hour later he was back in his room. A cosy fire burned in the hearth, and
his wet uniform had been hung up to dry to one side of it. His sergeant had
procured a bottle of wine and had cooked some mutton chops for him. The
duke had honoured him by confiding his opinions to him and by entrusting
him not only to write them out, but deliver them to Lord Loudoun as well.
Colonel Hutchinson was aware that he should be feeling very happy right
now.
Colonel Hutchinson was not feeling very happy right now.
It was true that once he had eaten his mutton chops and drunk his bottle
of wine he would have to go out in the abysmal weather to deliver the Duke
of Cumberland’s orders to Lord Loudoun, although he now had the use of
an oilcloth coat to help keep the rain out. But it was not this that was
making him unhappy.
The truth was that he was far from happy to have the job of delivering
orders sanctioning the murder of innocent people, especially of women and
children, even if they were on behalf of a royal prince. In fact if anyone but
the prince had asked him to deliver such a message, he would have done his
utmost to avoid the task. The colonel had hoped that Prince William would
heed the advice of Lord Culloden, who, as well as being unfailingly loyal to
the Hanoverians, knew the Highland mentality better than anyone, and who
had strongly counselled against draconian measures being adopted against
the ordinary people, saying that rather than subduing their spirit, they were
likely to be inspired to rise again for the Stuarts, in the spirit of revenge.
The Highlanders were a vengeful people, everyone knew that. And they
could hold a grudge for centuries.
However, the duke thought he knew better, and it was not for the likes of
Colonel Hutchinson to question his orders, only to obey them.
He sighed. He had not joined the army to murder innocent peasants and
watch as their homes were burnt and their wives and children stripped and
left to die of cold or hunger. He had joined the army to fight for his country,
and to him that meant fighting enemy soldiers on a battlefield. It was true
that soldiers sometimes committed indiscretions during and directly after a
battle, when their blood was up. While regrettable and to be discouraged,
the colonel was a realist, and understood that you could not expect a man
fired up to a killing rage to just switch it off at a moment’s notice.
But what he was witnessing now was something else; it was the cold-
blooded murder of unarmed men, of the old and feeble; it was the rape of
innocent women and girls, and of leaving them to almost certain death by
starvation. This was not a task for him. This was a task for arrogant bullies
like General Henry Hawley, and Captains John Fergusson, Caroline Scott
and Richard Cunningham, who enjoyed brutalising women and children.
 For the first time since he had joined the army thirty years before at the
age of sixteen, he considered resigning his commission. It might be pleasant
to settle down, marry, maybe have a few children. Perhaps he would, soon.
But not yet. He had a job to do. He had thought that job was to put down
a rebellion, but now he realised that it was to curb the excesses of the more
inhuman of his men. He could do nothing about Hawley, Fergusson or
Scott, none of whom were under his command. But he could, and fully
intended, to keep an eye on Cunningham, who was enjoying himself
immensely in the current punitive environment. He had already heard
several unsavoury rumours about the man’s treatment of the local women in
particular, but nothing substantial enough for him to address. Cunningham’s
men were mortally afraid of him, which did not help matters. In any case, in
view of the orders he was now preparing to deliver, he doubted that he
would be able to bring a case against Cunningham for rape and torture,
even were he to have firm evidence.
All he could do for now was watch and ensure as little brutality as
possible took place on his watch. But the moment an opportunity presented
itself for him to be rid of Captain Cunningham, he intended to take full
advantage of it.

***

Achnacarry, Saturday 22nd May

Roused from a deep slumber by the sound of an urgent knocking on the

door, Alex at first had no idea where he was. This was so unusual for him
that he felt an unaccustomed panic clutch at his chest. He sat up, heart
banging, then felt the pain start up in his leg, and suddenly his mind cleared
and he knew he was at Lochiel’s, that he had just had his first deep sleep
since regaining consciousness after Culloden, and that it was still dark, so
must be very early in the morning.
“Come in,” Lochiel’s voice sounded in the darkness. There was the sound
of steel on flint, and then a flare of light as he lit a candle from the tinder.
The flame flickered as the door opened, casting wild shadows round the
room, then a Cameron clansman entered, holding a candle of his own. His
kilt and shirt were sodden, and his blue bonnet, heavy with water, drooped
over one eye. The man put his candle down on the table, pulled his bonnet
off impatiently, wrung it out without regard for the polished wooden
flooring, and put it back on. This lack of regard for his chief’s property told
both Lochiel and Alex that the news was certainly worth waking them up
for.
“I’m sorry to wake you, my lord,” the clansman said, “but there’s a large
body of troops moving along Loch Lochy in this direction. I thought ye’d
want to know straight away.”
Lochiel pulled himself further up in the bed. Alex swung his good leg out
of bed and used his hands to move his splinted leg across to join the other
one. Then he reached for his shirt.
“Which side of the loch are they on?” Lochiel asked.
“The south. We lost sight of them just before Letterfinlay due to the fog
and rain, but they’re doing a deal of complaining about the weather and the
state of the ground even though they’re on the road.”
“D’ye think they’re heading for Fort William?”
“Aye, it’s possible, although ye’d no’ expect them to be moving at dead
of night in this rain,” the man replied.
“What time is it?” Alex asked. He was struggling to don his plaid, and
wishing he hadn’t taken it off the night before. He hadn’t expected to have
to dress hurriedly this morning.
“About four,” said the Highlander.
Lochiel thought for a minute.
“It’s verra likely that they’re making for Fort William to join wi’ Argyll’s
Campbells,” he said. “I dinna want to wake the men for a false alarm. How
many others are out there watching, Jamie?”
“About ten or so. I’ll head back out myself,” Jamie offered.
“No, away and dry yourself a bit and get something tae eat. Come and
tell me immediately when there’s more news of their route.”
The man nodded, picked up his candle and left the room, leaving a trail
of rainwater behind him.
“Are ye going to try to sleep some more, Donald?” Alex asked. He was
wide awake now. He’d use the time to do a few exercises.
Lochiel rubbed his hand across his face and yawned.
“No,” he said. “It’ll take me a while to dress. I’ll at least try to do what I
can for myself. I hate that I have to be carried everywhere like a wee bairn.”
Alex smiled in empathy.
 “Aye, well, it’ll no’ be for long, if we’re careful. Are ye healing well? No
redness or fever?”
Lochiel shook his head.
“No, the wounds are closing well, and the pain is more tolerable. But it
drains the spirit, ye ken?”
“Aye,” Alex said simply, feeling honoured to be the recipient of such a
confidence, aware that the Cameron chief would have died rather than
admit that to anyone else, and was only telling him because he was also
injured and would understand, and because he trusted Alex not to speak of
it outside this room.
With the aid of his crutches Alex managed to make his way to the hearth
and get a fire going, then they both finished dressing and waited for others
to awaken.

By the time the second scout returned with the news that the troops were
most definitely not heading to Fort William but had left the military road
and clearly intended to cross the River Lochy, the sun had risen and a lot of
the men were up and breakfasting.
Those who weren’t were rudely awakened by the pipers playing Cogadh
no sìth, or War or Peace, which alerted everyone to the fact that an attack
was imminent. Within minutes they were battle-ready and assembled in the
grounds of Achnacarry, awaiting instructions.
Lochiel, Alex and Broughton had already conferred, and Lochiel
instructed the men to head for the River Lochy as quickly as they could and
see if they could stop the redcoats crossing, then watched as the clansmen,
fired up to do battle, ran off, both chiefs feeling frustrated and ashamed that
they could not charge at the head of their men as they wanted to.
They sat by the window and listened until the skirl of the pipes faded
away in the distance, then sat a little longer in silence as the rain slowly
eased to a thin drizzle and then stopped, although the clouds were still dark
and heavy with the promise of more rain to come.
“I understand now,” Alex murmured to himself, only realising he’d
spoken the words aloud when Lochiel asked him what he understood.
“When we were leaving to fight Cope at Prestonpans, it was the first
battle where Beth had been with me, and she asked me how to cope wi’
waiting for the men to come home. She was always one for action, hated
waiting for anything. I said I hadna a clue. I was impatient tae fight, and
didna think overmuch about what she was going through.
“We’ve been here maybe an hour now, and I feel I’m losing my mind
waiting for news. She and the other women had to wait four days to find out
if we’d won. I ken now how she felt.”
“Ye miss her verra much,” Lochiel said softly.
“Aye,” Alex said. “Aye, I do. At times it hurts more than the pain of my
leg, just in a different way.”
“It’ll get easier wi’ time,” Lochiel replied.
“So they tell me,” he said. But the grief showed no sign of abating; it was
just that he was learning how to live with it now, instead of giving in to it.
He did understand Beth’s impatience now. He also truly understood for
the first time Duncan’s grief at the loss of Màiri, Kenneth’s grief at the
betrayal of Jeannie, and Iain’s for the death of Maggie. And he understood
now that if you truly found your soulmate, the pain of their loss never went
away; it became a part of you, which you carried with you to the grave. He
did not believe the burden became lighter with time. You just learned how
to bear the weight of it.
A short while later Angus returned, streaking across the grounds like
lightning. He crashed through the door then stopped when he saw them, his
chest heaving as he fought for breath.
“It isna any good,” he gasped. “There’s too many o’ them. And no’ just
redcoats. Munro of Culcairn’s clansmen are there too. We havena a hope
against so many. We started to retreat, but they sent me ahead to tell ye, to
find out what ye want us to do.” He was looking at Alex as he spoke, but as
the vast majority of the men were Camerons, Alex waited for Lochiel to
speak.
“We’ve lost enough good men already fighting a battle we couldna win,”
he said after a moment. “We must retreat, I think. We’ll go to Loch Arkaig,
where we can get a good view of the country and see what they intend.
Better to save our men now, until we can join with Keppoch and the
MacPhersons, and then we can give them a proper fight.”
Angus listened, then glanced to Alex, who nodded his head; and then he
was off again, running across the grounds at full speed to take the news
back to the clansmen. Both men watched him with envy.
“We’ll be back to full strength soon enough,” Alex said.
 “You will be,” Lochiel said. “I’m no’ so sure about myself. I’ve twenty
years on you.”
“You will, man. Ye’re in fine health otherwise. I’ve seen men of sixty
injured and recover. And ye’re needed, as am I.” Alex smiled. “Ye’ve no
choice in the matter.”
Lochiel laughed.

They were not laughing a few hours later as they congregated at the foot of
Loch Arkaig. Being unable to ride at any speed above a slow walk, Lochiel
had been carried by two of his clansmen while Alex had submitted to being
thrown over Kenneth’s shoulder like a child. It was humiliating but
practical, and this was not the time to stand on his dignity.
Now they stopped and watched in horror as the enemy swarmed across
the Cameron lands and billowing smoke started to rise from the villages as
the houses were set on fire. They were too far away to see what was
happening to the people, but they had heard enough of the reprisals being
visited on other parts of the Highlands to know that any men found would
be killed out of hand, and the women stripped and turned out of their homes
with their children if they were lucky, raped and possibly murdered if they
were not.
“How are they setting the fires?” one of the younger Camerons asked.
“The thatch is soaking.”
“From the inside where it’s dry,” said Alex. “The heat dries the outer
layer. That’s why there’s so much smoke. Let’s hope they’re allowing the
people to leave wi’ their belongings before they fire their houses.”
“The Munros are Highlanders too. Surely they’ll not treat fellow
Highlanders too badly?” Angus said hopefully.
Lochiel’s mouth twisted in a parody of a smile.
“It was Camerons who killed Sir Robert and Dr Duncan Munro at
Falkirk,” he said. “I doubt Culcairn will have forgiven or forgotten that we
killed his brothers. Even if it was in battle.”
Alex could feel the change in the mood of the clansmen as they watched
the smoke from the burning houses thicken, and was just about to suggest
that they move on before the men charged into a fight they could not win
regardless of the consequences, when another scout, covered in mud,
approached, stumbling with fatigue and momentarily relieved that he did
not have to run another few miles to Achnacarry.
 “There are redcoats coming from the north,” he said. “We think about
two thousand or so of them. A lot. They’re making heavy weather of it, up
to their arses in mud and water, but they’re maybe an hour away, if that.”
There was no more time to lose watching their houses burn. They
continued their retreat, down the track which ran along the north of Loch
Arkaig to its head. It was clear now that this had been a highly organised
attack, intended to wipe out the Camerons altogether. Had they disputed the
passage of the River Lochy, they would have been trapped by the troops
sweeping down from the north and massacred. Instead, once at the head of
the loch, they had a short discussion, after which Lochiel ordered his men to
disperse into the hills for now, and await further orders.
Then he turned to Alex.
“Will ye come with us?” he said.
“Where will you go?” Alex asked.
“We’ll head over toward Loch Shiel,” Lochiel said. “The redcoats’ll no’
find us easily there, and I can get messages out to Cluny and his neighbours
tae tell them what’s happened here and to advise them to separate and wait
for news from the French, who will surely help us.”
“D’ye truly think they’ll send help now?” Alex asked.
“I have to think that. Charles will be on his way there now. He’ll talk the
king round. Ye ken how good he is at persuading others to do his will. And
we must keep ourselves in readiness.”
“I hope you’ve the right of it, Donald,” Alex said, the doubt apparent in
his voice. “But if it’s all the same to you, I’ll head home. The redcoats’ll no’
venture so far south as Loch Lomond yet, because they’ve no fort to live in
and get supplies from unless they can rebuild Inversnaid. We can hide out
more easily there and still be ready if ye send us news that the French have
landed.”
“It’s no’ finished yet,” Lochiel said with conviction.
With that sentiment Alex could most certainly agree. It was by no means
finished yet.

“What are ye intending now?” Iain asked after they’d said their farewells to
the Camerons and were headed south, making a wide detour around the
Cameron lands, which were now shrouded in a thick pall of black smoke.
Alex was still being carried by Kenneth in case they should need to make a
sudden run into the mountains. Angus walked to one side of him carrying
Alex’s crutches, Iain to the other.
“I’m intending to go home, as I said, and get myself walking again as
soon as possible. And then I’m intending to make a start on fulfilling my
oath. As I told Donald, the redcoats’ll no’ come as far as Loch Lomond yet.
And they dinna ken the land at all. Put me down a minute, Kenneth.”
They had come to a small clearing, and Kenneth carefully lowered Alex
onto a fallen log. His men gathered round.
“I ken well that ye all agreed to join wi’ the Camerons to try to continue
the fight. Ye’ve seen how that’s worked out. For now all we can do is keep
ourselves fit and ready to fight, and wait to see if Louis will send troops to
help us rise again.”
“D’ye think he will?” Alasdair asked.
“I dinna ken. I’ve no great hopes of it myself,” Alex said candidly. “But
he did send us supplies for a summer campaign, so maybe I’m wrong. But it
seems to me we’ve a number of choices. We can surrender, give up our
arms and hope that Geordie will be merciful.”
“Geordie merciful? Tae MacGregors?!” Kenneth said incredulously.
The outburst of laughter that followed this proposal and Kenneth’s retort
gave Alex his answer.
“Or we can go home, carry on living as we did before, or as best we can,
anyway, and hope Cumberland’ll be satisfied wi’ burning the lands he can
reach from Fort Augustus and Fort William, and will leave us alone.”
“D’ye think that likely?” Angus asked. Alex pondered for a minute.
“I’d no’ say likely, but it’s possible, aye. I think William’s hitting hard at
the clans he can reach because he wants to bring us to heel so he can go
back to Flanders as quick as possible. It’s likely that, once he thinks we’re
cowed he’ll leave someone else in charge and head back to England with as
many men as he can spare.”
“So we can all go back to our families and carry on as before?” Alasdair
said.
“Aye. Here’s what I think. Those of you with wives and bairns should go
back to them and start the spring planting, which is already late, although
with the weather we’re having, that’s no bad thing. The women can go up to
the shielings wi’ the cattle, but their menfolk’ll need to keep an eye on them
in case the soldiers come. We canna in fairness go reiving our neighbours’
cattle, for they’ll be suffering as much as we are.”
 “Even the Campbells?” someone asked.
“We may make an exception there,” Alex conceded, to general approval.
“And those of us without wives and bairns?” Iain asked. Alex glanced at
him, and caught the sparkle of tears in Iain’s eyes before he ducked his head
and looked away.
“That’s for each of you to decide for yourselves,” Alex said. “For myself,
as I said to Iain a minute ago, I intend to get fit and walking, as fast as I can.
Then I’ve a blood oath to fulfil. I’m thinking that right now the redcoats are
staying together in large groups for the most part. They’re being careful.
Even so, Angus has already killed one o’ the bastards. Give them another
few weeks and they’ll start to get over-confident, and careless. And then we
can start taking them out, a couple here, a couple there, and be gone almost
before they know they’re dead. That’s what I intend to do.”
“And me,” said Angus immediately. Iain nodded his head. Alex smiled
grimly. It would be just the three of them, as was right; they were the only
ones honour-bound to fight by the blood oath of vengeance they’d taken.
“I’ll come too,” said Alasdair to a general chorus of agreement from the
other men with families.
Alex held up his hand and they fell silent.
“No, Alasdair. Ye’ve no’ taken the oath. And ye’ve a family,” he said. “I
want the men wi’ families to go home to them. The women and bairns have
suffered more than enough, waiting for ye all to come back. Before ye
object,” he continued on seeing the reluctant expressions all around him,
“we need the MacGregors to continue, and to do that we need children, and
to do that we need…well, if ye dinna ken that, I’m no’ telling ye.” He fell
silent for a minute and they all laughed. “But those of us still fighting will
also need feeding, for if we’re to get our two hundred redcoats before we all
die of old age, we’ll no’ have the time to raise cattle and oats too. And we’ll
need scouts to keep an eye on the land and tell us if soldiers are coming.
“The sort of fighting we’ll be doing now is verra different to what we’ve
done for the last year, as ye ken well. Sneak attacks in the night, lying out in
the rain for hours waiting for an opportunity to hit, and without the support
of an army round us. Sometimes we’ll just need a fireside to sit round and
tell stories, wi’ people who are living properly, to keep us human,” he added
with disarming candour. “And for that we need you to be wi’ your wives
and bairns, so we’ve something normal to come home to. If the French do
land and Charles comes back to lead us again, then we’ll decide together
what to do.”
There was general agreement, and after a short rest they set off again at a
brisk walk, all of them eager to be home now they knew what they would
be doing once they got there. Alex was glad that they’d agreed so readily to
his proposal; he was tired, in body and mind, and not in the mood for an
argument. Once they got back Angus and Iain would move into his house
and would make it their base of operations, from where they would plan
how to start fulfilling their oath.
“I’m coming with ye too,” Kenneth said suddenly.
“Aye, well, I hope so, because there isna another man who can carry me
home alone, and it’d take me an awfu’ long time to hobble back.”
“I dinna mean that, as ye ken well,” Kenneth said. “I’ll join you in your
blood oath. Jeannie was a vain wee lassie, but I loved her well, and if it
hadna been for a redcoat bastard turning her head wi’ his flattery and false
promises, I’d still have her wi’ me now. I need to do this, Alex,” he finished,
as though Alex had already forbidden him to.
Alex was struck dumb for a moment. Since the day he’d killed his wife,
Kenneth had never spoken a word about her, and all of the MacGregors had
come to believe he never would. That he had now broken his silence spoke
volumes about how desperately he wanted revenge. Alex could not deny
him that. It was his right as a Highlander.
“Aye,” he said.
“And me too,” an English voice came from a short way behind. Alex
braced his hands on Kenneth’s back and raised his head to meet Graeme’s
grey gaze.
“I thought ye’d want to go home, now it’s over,” Alex said.
“We’re not sure it is over yet. I’m not ready to go back to growing carrots
and cabbages,” Graeme replied. “I’m not sure I could stand Thomas and
Jane saying ‘I told you so’. And it’s a long way back to Manchester. I’d just
as soon get a bit more sword practice in before I go. And,” he continued in a
softer voice, “I wouldn’t be averse to killing a few more of the bastards
myself. I’ve known Beth since she was born. She’s…she was precious to
me.”
“Aye,” Kenneth said. “We’ll make a Highlander of ye yet.”
“Not if I’ve got to wear that stupid petticoat you’re all so attached to,
with nothing underneath,” Graeme retorted. “My balls still ache just
thinking about it.”
They all laughed, and the serious moment passed. Then they continued in
silence, each occupied with his own thoughts, but all of them looking
forward to arriving home, if for different reasons.

Fort Augustus, May 23rd.

“What, all of them?” the Duke of Cumberland said incredulously.

“We did take five of them prisoner, Your Highness, one of them an
officer,” Colonel Hutchinson said nervously.
“How the hell did six hundred men manage to escape nearly three
thousand coming at them from all sides?” Cumberland said, making it clear
that he didn’t consider five prisoners to be even worth mentioning.
“Er…it was not an easy march,” Hutchinson said. “Colonel Howard said
it was the most fatiguing march he’d ever made, and Lord Loudoun’s troops
were held up by the treacherous conditions coming over the mountains at
Glengarry. The weather has been truly awful,” he finished.
“I know what the weather’s like!” Cumberland said hotly. “I’ve marched
all over this bloody country for months. And so has Loudoun. And what of
Lochiel?”
“He got away, Your Highness.”
Cumberland closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
“So a man who’s been shot in both legs and is a complete cripple can run
all the way along the loch and disappear into the mountains, while
Loudoun’s men, all able-bodied, are incapable of catching up with him?”
Colonel Hutchinson opened his mouth.
“I don’t expect an answer to that, Colonel,” Cumberland said wearily.
“So, they all got away. Is there any good news?”
As far as the colonel was concerned, no, there was not much in the way
of good news. But he was not here to give an opinion, as he well knew.
“Colonel Howard is going to dinner in Lochiel’s house, Your Highness.
He awaits your orders as to what to do with the house, but he has
demolished all the dwellings he came across on his way there, and the men
are rounding up the cattle to drive here to be sold. And Lord Loudoun says
that some of the Camerons have sent to say they will surrender their arms
tomorrow.”
 “How many is ‘some of’?” the duke asked.
“We believe about a hundred, Your Highness,” Hutchinson said.
“Well, that’s better than nothing, I suppose,” Cumberland conceded. “Tell
Howard to burn Lochiel’s house and all its outbuildings to the ground. All
of it. I want there to be no sign that there ever was a house at Achnacarry.
The Camerons as a clan are finished, and I want them to be very clear that I
mean that.”

After the colonel had left to snatch a hasty meal before riding off yet again
to deliver his commander’s orders, Prince William Augustus sat back and
sighed. Some people just had the luck of the devil. It seemed that Charles
had escaped to France, although that had not yet been confirmed. But he
had been sure that this time Lochiel would have been dragged before him as
his prisoner. How he had managed to escape was beyond him.
It was this bloody country. Dull and gloomy, with black brooding
mountains and never-ending rain, it was enough to sap the spirit of the most
cheerful of men. No wonder morale was low. After all, many of the men
had been here for months. They needed a distraction, a little fun. He would
organise some games for them, horse riding contests and suchlike, to lift the
spirits.
He had no idea why the Highlanders not only endured living here, but
apparently had a great attachment to the place. It would be understandable
if they had seen nothing else, but most of them had marched as far south as
Derby, had seen the beauty and fertility of the English countryside, and how
superior it was to the bogs and crags of Scotland. How could they still cling
to their little hovels and have such blind allegiance to their petty tyrant
chiefs, once they had seen an alternative? It was incomprehensible.
Damn the Camerons, and their chief! It was not over yet. He might have
lost Charles, but he would not give up the hunt for Lochiel, and would see
the traitor’s head on a spike at the Tower of London yet, next to Lord
Lovat’s.
And speaking of the Tower of London…Cumberland smiled. It had been
five weeks since Culloden. Surely his prisoner would be well enough by
now to be questioned, gently? He had hoped to do it himself on his return to
London, but he realised now that he would have to stay another few weeks
at least, to ensure that Scotland realised he meant business. And he would
never forgive himself if the man he wanted most of all were to escape to
France because he insisted on conducting the interrogation himself.
He would write to the Duke of Newcastle tonight, and see if the prisoner
was willing to volunteer the identity and whereabouts of Sir Anthony Peters
to him without any persuasion at all. It was highly likely, he thought.
He reached for the bell to call a clerk, and then changed his mind. He
could not risk the secret being exposed to anyone, not while he had no idea
who Sir Anthony was. He would write the letter himself and send it by the
most secure route possible.
He pulled out paper and ink, and taking out his knife, sharpened a quill,
whilst pondering how to word his letter to his friend Thomas.
He would salvage something from this otherwise disappointing day after
all.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER FOUR

London, June 1746.

The young woman sat in an armchair and gazed blankly out of the window
of her well-appointed second-storey living room at the expanse of grass
below. She sat there for many hours every day, and every day the view was
the same. To the right she could see the huge brooding edifice of the White
Tower and the wall of the inner ward. To the left she could see the buildings
of the Royal Mint.
Occasionally a uniformed yeoman warder or his wife would cross the
grass, and sometimes some of their children would play there, throwing a
ball to each other or spinning crazily until they became dizzy and fell over.
It was strange to see children playing so happily on the green which had
seen so much death; Lady Jane Grey, Anne Boleyn, Catherine Howard, to
name but a few, all of them for treason. The young woman wondered idly
and disinterestedly if she would one day join the list, and if she, along with
so many other traitors, would be buried in the Chapel Royal of St Peter ad
Vincula, which could be seen on the other side of the green. She doubted it.
More likely her body would be buried in an unmarked grave somewhere,
and she would be forgotten.
The chair she was sitting on had a comfortable padded seat and was
covered in expensive blue silk brocade, as was the cushion she had placed
at her back. The frame and legs of the chair were elaborately carved with
acanthus leaves, which were covered in gold leaf.
The chair was one of a matching pair, its partner being situated around a
beautiful walnut tea-table, the legs of which were decorated in a similar
pattern to that of the chairs and the three-seater sofa which flanked one side
of the table, ideal if the young woman were to entertain friends.
The young woman had no friends to entertain, and if she had, they would
not have been allowed to visit her in any case.
A large and exquisitely patterned Aubusson rug covered most of the
floor, and two ornately carved tables stood at either end of the sofa. On each
a candelabra was placed, each one holding five expensive beeswax candles
which in the evening would be lit and would enhance the cosiness and
luxury of the room, the walls of which were decorated in shades of cream,
with gilded mouldings. The fireplace was of marble, and a fire burned
merrily in the hearth. Above the fireplace was a space where at one time a
mirror had hung, but this had been removed when the young woman had
taken up residence.
Through a door to the right of the fireplace was a bedroom, which was as
luxuriously appointed as the living room, with a mahogany four poster bed,
complete with comfortable feather mattresses and pillows, linen sheets, soft
woollen blankets and a silk brocade eiderdown which matched the bed
hangings. There was a mahogany dressing-table from which the mirror had
been carefully removed, a chest for clothes which was full of fashionable
gowns, and a beautiful writing desk, which was empty of writing materials,
but on which was stacked a small selection of books. In one corner of the
room was a bathtub, with a ewer and basin to the side for if the occupant
wished to wash herself rather than bathe.
The young woman had no need of a kitchen; all her meals were brought
to her by a servant. If she wished to have a bath, she had only to ring a bell
and a servant would be set to filling the tub with buckets of piping hot
steamy water into which would be sprinkled lavender or rose petals to scent
the water. A maid could be called for at any time to help her dress her hair
and clothe her body in one of the beautiful gowns that had been provided
for her, as she had had no appropriate clothing of her own when she had
arrived. Overall the accommodations were delightful, and any young
woman of breeding would have no cause for complaint at the quality of
either her surroundings or the food.
Beth MacGregor couldn’t give a fig for her accommodations. Or the
food. Or the gowns.
Instead she wore her shift, over which she had tied a dressing-gown, and
she braided her hair herself. The maid, after some time spent twiddling her
fingers awaiting her mistress’s summons, had been set to other tasks.
It was true that she did eat the food provided, and drank, though very
sparingly, of the fine wines which accompanied her meals, and which she
watered down, having no wish to become intoxicated. But for all the
appreciation she showed for the food it might as well have been gruel; she
ate purely for nourishment, because she could not afford to become weak
and therefore vulnerable when her ordeal began, as she was sure it would,
sometime soon. Indeed she had no idea why she had been kept waiting so
long. Perhaps they hoped to bore her into submission. If so, they would not
win. Whatever they did, they would not win. On that she was resolved.
In the meantime she slept for as many hours as she could, read whatever
book she had been brought (she was provided with a new one every week),
and then sat by the window, and waited.
And remembered.
The last thing she remembered before being in this room was running
down the slope after killing the sergeant who had bayoneted Maggie. She
remembered it in so much detail that if she closed her eyes she was there
again, watching the look of surprise on the sergeant’s face as he clutched his
throat, from which her knife protruded. She hadn’t actually seen him die,
but she was certain that he could not have survived; she had aimed very
carefully to ensure he would bleed to death in moments, and still felt a
savage sense of satisfaction about it. She regretted the irretrievable loss of
the knife, but she felt that her mother would have approved of the final use
to which it had been put.
She would not have been allowed to keep it here, anyway. She was not
even allowed embroidery materials; she had asked and been refused.
Presumably they thought she might try to kill herself with the tiny scissors,
or attempt to kill her guard and escape.
She remembered her head jerking back as the soldier made a lunge for
her headscarf, and the sting as it was pulled from her head, taking some of
her hair with it. And then she had run, bounding through the heather like a
hare, the cool fresh Scottish air filling her lungs, her hands lifting her skirts
so she would not trip as she tore down the slope, trying to give the rest of
the women time to run in other directions whilst the soldiers were all
focussed on her. She wondered now how many of them had escaped the
redcoats.
And then there was nothing.
She did not remember being brought from Drumossie Moor to the Tower
of London, although she knew the journey must have taken several days.
She did remember waking briefly, and someone washing her face gently
with warm water, but she didn’t know who had washed her or where she
was at the time. After that she had vague memories of a dimly lit room, and
someone speaking softly to her. Then she was being burnt alive whilst just
beyond the light of the flames shadows danced, laughing and mocking her
agony; then the fire was gone and instead she was buried in snow, her
clothes and body soaking wet, shivering violently, while someone
hammered a nail slowly into the side of her head and she screamed that she
would not tell, no matter what they did, she would not tell.
And then she had awoken properly to be told by a thin-faced exhausted-
looking middle-aged man that the fever had broken, she was through the
worst now, and it was certain she would survive her injury. She just had to
be careful not to move for a day or two.
She could not move anyway; the slightest movement of her head had
caused her intense agony, and even the soft light of the candles set about the
room caused her pain. So she had lain very still staring at the elaborate bed
hangings as the exhausted man explained that he was a physician, that he
had tended her since she had been shot some three weeks previously, that
she had had the worst fever he had ever known, and he had despaired of her
surviving on more than one occasion. But, he had told her, she was young
and strong, and clearly possessed of a great will to live, although she would
not have done so without his expert care, which had all been provided by
His Royal Highness Prince William Augustus, Duke of Cumberland, at
great expense.
He had gone on to explain that she was now in the Tower of London and
was the duke’s prisoner, although she was not being kept in the main part of
the Tower, but instead was lodged in the house of one of the Yeoman
Warders, and was to be provided with every luxury, at the duke’s express
order. She was extremely fortunate; most of the female rebel prisoners were
being held in Newgate Prison, in which conditions were very different, but,
on account of her high birth and of the special regard in which His
Highness held her, she was to have the best of everything.
Beth supposed that she should at that point have expressed her undying
gratitude to the physician for saving her life and to the Duke of Cumberland
for his consideration; but she did neither, and instead just remained staring
at the bed hangings until the physician grew tired of waiting for a response
and left her to rest.
She was not grateful. She knew that her life had not been saved because
the Duke of Cumberland cared for her. Nor was she being lodged in
comfort because of her aristocratic blood. She was here now, and alive, for
one reason only; because she was the only person they knew who could
reveal the true identity of Sir Anthony Peters, probably the most hated man
in Britain, apart from Prince Charles Edward Stuart, of course. And she also
knew that she would never reveal his true identity; and because of that she
was most ungrateful.
She was ungrateful to the surgeon who had fought so hard to save her
life; she was ungrateful to the duke, who, she was told, had been present
when she was shot and who had intervened immediately; and she was
ungrateful to the idiot who had shot her and missed his aim. Instead of
going straight through the back of her head and blowing her brains out as he
had intended, and as she now wished it had, the bullet had skated along the
side of her skull, fracturing it and gouging out a deep furrow which
extended for some six inches along her head, ending at the side of her eye.
She would have a scar, the physician had told her, but it would fade in time,
and much of it could be covered by her beautiful hair or a wig, in any case.
As though she gave a damn about how she would look as she rode to the
scaffold or the stake.
It was her extraordinary hair that had saved her life, the physician had
continued; due to its remarkable colour the duke had recognised her. How
fortunate!
How fortunate indeed, she thought glumly now as she watched the sky
darken and the rainclouds gather over Tower Green. As for her beautiful
hair, she hated it. It had brought her to this gilded prison, and would in time,
she was sure, lead her to torture, and then to death.
She must not think of that. Thinking of it would bring dread, and dread
would bring weakness; and she must not weaken.
Once certain that the wound was healing well and that all danger of
infection or fever had passed, the physician had disappeared and instead she
had been attended by a series of servants, the men in a livery of mustard
yellow, the women in striped cotton dresses with neat aprons. All of them
had treated her with the utmost respect, as they had no doubt been ordered
to; and all of them remained silent as they cleaned the rooms, lit the candles
or the fire, and brought her her meals.
At first this hadn’t bothered her; trying to speak had made her head ache
dreadfully, as did any noise, so she was grateful for the quiet. Any
movement at all had been agonising, especially the act of eating, as the
action of chewing had made her head throb so badly that more often than
not she had vomited up her food while a maid held a bowl in front of her,
which was then taken away, while she lay back on the pillows, tears
streaming down her face and the muscles of her neck corded as she fought
the agonising pain in her head.
Over the last few weeks though, the pain had slowly diminished, and
now she could eat, drink and walk about the room with the only result being
a dull throbbing, which was annoying but bearable. In the absence of a
mirror she had examined her wound with her fingers once the dressing had
been removed, feeling the ridged and puckered skin gingerly, and
remembering another ridged scar, that had snaked across a strong masculine
hand, bisecting the knuckles of his index and middle finger.
Beth wondered whether the mirrors had been removed to prevent her
going into a fit of hysteria about her ruined beauty, or whether her jailors
had realised that, if smashed, a piece of silvered glass could be a formidable
weapon or a means to end one’s own life. Probably not; her enemies had
always underestimated her, judging her by her physical attributes rather
than her mental ones.
The highlight of her week was receiving a new book. She could now
manage to read for several hours at a time, although occasionally the words
would start to dance across the page, and then she would close her eyes for
a time to rest them. She had no idea what was causing this, but assumed that
there had been some slight damage to her brain after all.
She did not get to choose the weekly book, and her requests to read the
newspapers went unheeded. She didn’t know whether this was because her
jailors wished her to feel isolated from the world in general, or because the
supposed Hanoverian victory had not been as complete as they would like
her to believe. She prayed for the latter to be true, but did feel isolated. She
longed for news, any news, but all her questions and entreaties to the
servants were rewarded with silence.
She knew she was in the house of a warder, but had no idea what he
looked like, because he never visited her, although she knew he had a
family because once, about a week before, there had come a knock on the
door and a child had called a greeting to her and had attempted to turn the
doorknob before being dragged away by an adult, his voice high-pitched
and complaining as it receded down the corridor.
In the last two weeks she had established a routine. She would rise as late
as possible, wash, braid her hair, put on a clean shift and her dressing-gown,
and then eat breakfast, after which she would alternately read, walk around
the rooms for exercise, or sit by the window looking out. In the evening she
would eat her dinner and sit by the fire gazing into the flames until she felt
tired enough to sleep.
Last week the much-awaited book had been Paradise Lost. She had read
the first few pages and then had been transported to the opulence of
Versailles, had felt again the lips of King Louis of France on hers as he had
attempted to claim her as his mistress in front of the whole Court, had
remembered Alex’s explosion of rage in their room later, and her hot
reaction to it. She remembered the sun on her face as she sat in the gardens,
the smiling green eyes of her companion as they debated Milton’s treatment
of women, the prickly feel of the bushes she had hidden in as she watched
those same eyes gaze into the icy sapphire depths of Sir Anthony’s, before
glazing over in death.
And then she had sat for a while, vacantly staring out across Tower
Green, had put the book aside, and had spent the time she would normally
have occupied by reading in exercising her arms as best she could with the
materials to hand.
This afternoon she would be brought another book, which she awaited
with great eagerness as it was the only thing she had to look forward to in a
sea of ennui, although she betrayed no emotion whatsoever in front of her
attendants, another skill she was practising, ready for the day when she
would need it, which would come soon.
She hoped it would come soon, not because she was looking forward to
her interrogation, but because she knew it was inevitable and wanted it to
be over with. She was, and always had been, a woman of action, and the
waiting, now she was almost healed, was driving her insane, as her jailors
no doubt intended.
Patience. She must practice that too, and if she could not master it then
she must appear to have done so.
And so it was that, when a new volume was brought for her that evening
along with her dinner, she ignored it completely and concentrated on eating
her lamb chop and vegetables whilst the servant bustled about closing the
shutters, lighting the candles and making up the fire. After she had finished
eating, she casually picked up the book to look at the title written in gold
lettering on the spine.
Pamela by Samuel Richardson.
 She replaced the book on the table disinterestedly and went to sit in her
accustomed place by the fire, staring into the flames until the maid had left
and she knew she would not be disturbed again that evening.
Then she retrieved the book and sat down again. She did not open it;
instead she ran her fingers lightly along the spine and cover, feeling the
slightly raised surface of the gold tooled lettering, while she remembered
another time when she had needed, or thought she had needed to hide her
emotions and feign indifference, a time when she had had to endure the
presence of the hideous and superficial Sir Anthony as he simpered about
the room while her most treasured possession at the time was burning to
cinders in the library fireplace. Or so she had believed.
Beth closed her eyes and allowed herself to become completely
immersed in the past, just for a short time. She saw again the twin of the
book she was now holding, far too high for her to reach on a shelf in her
cousin’s library, and the baronet effortlessly reaching to lift it down for her.
She smelt the cloying fragrance of his violet cologne, which had nauseated
her at the time and which she would do almost anything to smell again now.
She looked up, and saw his eyes smiling down at her as he talked about the
book, revealing in doing so that he had heard the argument she had had with
her brother earlier. He had such beautiful slate-blue eyes, with tiny gold
flecks scattered in the irises, fringed by impossibly long lashes, in a face
made hideous by lead paint and rouge.
She saw the same face, handsome this time without its makeup, the slate-
blue eyes closed, the long lashes resting on his cheeks as he slept on
Drumossie Moor the morning of the battle, his head resting on her lap, his
arm flung out to the side, fingers lightly curled. She remembered pushing
his chestnut hair back off his face, and seeing in the relaxed features what
he must have looked like as a boy, innocent and carefree. She remembered
looking around, seeing Duncan and Angus similarly sleeping, and her heart
contracting with a love that was physical.
Frantically she tried to pull her mind back into the present, but it was too
late; in her imagination she saw Alex as she never had in life, broken and
dying on the same moor, the long lashes closing over slate-blue eyes that
would never smile or see the beauty of an April morning again.
She stood abruptly, the book falling to the floor, and drew in a huge
shuddering breath before doubling over as the agony of grief and loss
consumed her, an agony far more painful than her physical wound had
been, an agony that would never leave her, until she joined him in death.
He must be dead, for if he was not, why had he not come for her as he’d
promised he would?
She could not bear it, to be without him, forever. But she had to.
Somehow she had to pull herself together, to stay strong, to show no
weakness, under any circumstances. She heard a low keening noise in the
room, and realised with horror that it was coming from her mouth, and that
she could not stop it. Hot tears welled up in her eyes and spilled over,
pouring down her cheeks as she threw herself into bed, pulling the covers
over her head and burying her face in the pillow as she wept, the sobs
racking her body and making her head throb. She had to stop the occupants
of the house hearing that she had given way, that she cared, that she could
be broken. That she was already broken, irreparably.

***

By the next morning she had recovered her equilibrium. She had finally
cried herself to sleep, waking in the early hours of the morning, her throat
sore and her pillow drenched in tears. She had risen and bathed her swollen
eyes with cold water from the ewer, had drunk some wine, and then had
picked the book that had inspired the torrent of memories and emotions up
from the floor where she had dropped it, and had placed it under her pillow
before lying down to try to get a few more hours of sleep before the servant
came with breakfast.
After breakfast Beth sat calmly by the window as usual, staring out at the
grass below. She would sit there for an hour or so and then would do some
exercises, she decided. It was a fine day, and she would have loved to open
the window and feel the air on her face; but it had been nailed shut,
presumably so that she could not make a rope from her bedsheets or gowns
and attempt to escape from the room. Even if she had, she would still be in
the Tower grounds, and there were guards posted at all the exits.
There was a knock on the door, which made Beth jump; although she had
no clock she could tell by the position of the sun that it was not lunchtime.
After a moment the door opened and a maid entered accompanied by two
soldiers who stood stiffly to attention in the doorway while the maid
approached Beth and curtseyed, then cleared her throat nervously.
 “Excuse me, my lady, but there is a gentleman who wishes to see you,
and these men have come to take you to him.”
Beth’s pulse immediately quickened, and she felt the rush of adrenaline
surge through her. So, here it comes. Stay calm, she admonished herself.
“Which gentleman?” she asked coolly, as though it was of no real matter
to her.
The maid flushed.
“I don’t know, my lady,” she said. “I was sent to help you dress.”
For a moment Beth was tempted to go as she was, her hair still tangled
from sleep, in her shift and dressing gown; it would show her contempt for
the ‘gentleman’, whoever he was. But if she did she would lose the possible
advantage that her aristocratic background could give her. It might also give
the impression that she was sexually available.
She stood.
“Very well. Please sit down. I will not keep you waiting long,” she said to
the soldiers, who looked surprised to be addressed by her. One of them
smiled and even made a move to sit, but his companion coughed and the
young man shot to attention again.
It did no harm to show kindness to a soldier; it might come in useful in
the future.

***

Thomas Pelham-Holles, Duke of Newcastle, sat behind a large desk in his

office in Whitehall, awaiting the arrival of the prisoner he had been asked to
question. Whilst he waited he read again the letter from his superior, which
had not only requested him to conduct the interrogation, but had also given
guidelines as to how it was to be done.
He hoped that the prisoner, who he had been informed was almost healed
from her injury, had had time to consider her situation and was sufficiently
grateful for the treatment she had received so far. He also hoped that she
had spent the journey by water from the Tower to Whitehall preparing
herself to behave in an appropriate manner, and that as she approached his
office via a long carpeted corridor lined with alcoves from which statues of
Roman Emperors frowned down imperiously on her, she would be
impressed and intimidated enough to enter the room in a submissive and
pliant frame of mind.
 There was a knock on the door. The duke folded the letter and placed it in
a drawer, issued the order to enter; the door opened and the prisoner
entered, flanked by two soldiers, who came to a stop once inside the room.
“You may wait outside,” the duke ordered, and the soldiers bowed and
withdrew. The door closed, leaving the prisoner standing alone.
“Good morning, Miss Cunningham,” he said. “Please take a seat.” He
indicated a chair on the opposite side of his desk, and she moved forward
and sat down, carefully arranging her skirts around her while the duke
observed her carefully.
By God, but she was beautiful! Newcastle had heard of her beauty, of
course; it was renowned in high society, and the Duke of Cumberland had
expounded on it in detail, both in person and in his last letter. He had
thought the reports to be exaggerated. But now that she was sitting mere
feet away from him, he was rendered momentarily speechless by her
ethereal, breathtaking loveliness. She was dressed in a rose-coloured silk
gown which fitted her perfectly, emphasising the creamy swell of her
breasts and tiny waist. The colour complemented her flawless complexion
and the delicate coral of her lips. Her incredible hair had been brushed back
from her face and loosely braided, revealing the whole of the unsightly scar
from her injury, which ended a mere fraction of an inch from her eye. But
even that, hideous as it was, could not spoil the utter perfection of this
woman.
The perfect woman, her skirts arranged to her satisfaction, now folded
her delicate hands in her lap and raised her beautiful cornflower-blue eyes
to his, her face impassive.
With some difficulty the duke pulled himself together. It was a long time
since his head had been turned by a woman, and he was not about to be
affected by this one either, lovely as she was.
He looked at her, examining her for any sign of nervousness, but saw
none. Her expression was calm, neutral, and her hands were still. She gave
the impression of having been invited to attend a tea party, perhaps. Well,
he would soon put her straight on that.
“So, Miss Cunningham, I trust you are being treated well, and that all
your needs are being met?” he began.
“I cannot complain about my accommodations, or my treatment so far. I
presume that not all supporters of King James are being treated so well,”
Miss Cunningham replied. “Although I could wish for more diverting
reading material than that with which I am provided.”
Newcastle chose to ignore the reference to the Old Pretender as King
James.
“I believe you are permitted to receive a book every week at the moment,
but I can of course allow more. It is up to you.” If she was cooperative, that
was.
“No, I am referring to the fact that I am not allowed any newspapers or
periodicals,” she said. She smiled at him. “From which I can only infer that
the war is going badly for the Elector,” she finished.
“How on earth do you infer that?” he retorted.
“I would think that if it was going well, the papers would be full of the
details, and that you would want me to read about it.”
The duke leaned forward across his desk suddenly, expecting the prisoner
to flinch, but she continued to sit calmly, waiting for his reply.
“Let me assure you, madam, that the ‘war’, as you call this little
rebellion, is over. The rebels were thoroughly defeated at Culloden, and the
prisons are now full of the survivors. King George has never been more
secure on his throne than he is now. And the newspapers are full of praise
for both His Majesty and Prince William, who led his troops to such a
glorious victory.”
She considered this for a moment.
“Is Prince Charles then dead?” she asked, as though enquiring after the
health of an acquaintance suffering from a minor illness.
“The Pretender’s son will be brought to account for his attempt on the
throne, as will all the leaders of this ridiculous rebellion,” he replied.
“Ah. Then is he held also in the Tower?” she asked. “That is where
prisoners of consequence are kept, is it not? Will I see him executed on
Tower Green then, or will you murder him here at Whitehall, as Cromwell
murdered his great-grandfather?”
The duke reddened and opened his mouth to retort, then checked himself.
What was he thinking of, about to justify himself to this chit?
“May I suggest, madam, that you concern yourself no longer with the
defeated rebels, but rather consider your own situation and how you may
repay the kindness of His Royal Highness, whose express wish it was that
you be accommodated as befits the niece of a lord.”
 “Cumberland is very kind,” she replied coolly. “But I am sure I will be
unable to reward his consideration.”
The door opened and a footman entered bearing a tray of tea. He placed it
on the table, and at a signal from his master poured two cups of the
beverage from an ornate china teapot, and handed one to Beth, who
accepted it graciously. He held a plate of cakes out to her, and she chose an
almond pastry, which she ate delicately, without dropping a crumb. She
really did give the impression of making a social call. Did she have no idea
how serious her situation was? Probably not. No doubt she had led a
sheltered life, had always been worshipped and treated with deference due
to her beauty, and was used to her every wish being fulfilled.
The duke decided to make use of the interruption to steer the
conversation in another direction. She was a woman, and women, having
far less wit than men, were susceptible to flattery and could be persuaded to
almost anything by it. Her head had no doubt been filled with romance and
nonsense by this monster Peters, and by the charismatic Charles, who had
certainly wooed her in Rome. And she was very young. Newcastle softened
as he looked at the young woman sipping tea on the other side of his desk.
Poor deluded creature. He felt sorry for her.
“Miss Cunningham, I really do not think that you appreciate the
seriousness of your situation,” he began. “I have no wish to distress you. I
am sure that you had no idea, when you agreed to marry Sir Anthony
Peters, that he was anything other than what he appeared to be; a wealthy
and fashionable man of society. Is this true?”
“It is,” she replied. She replaced her cup in the saucer and took another
dainty bite of her cake.
“And I am sure that when he, no doubt assisted by the Pretender’s son,
persuaded you to accompany him on his treasonous undertaking, he led you
to believe that it would be a wild, romantic adventure, and that coming from
a rural background you believed it to be merely that – an adventure,
something to amaze and impress your friends with in the future.”
He paused, expecting her to comment, but she did not. Perhaps she was
waiting for him to ask a question.
“It is understandable that your head was turned by such an accomplished,
duplicitous liar. Indeed, he fooled far wiser people than yourself, my dear.
No doubt he protested undying love for you, said he would protect you, and
never desert you. Was that the case?”
 “Yes, it was,” she agreed.
“Well, then, I have no wish to be the bearer of bad news, but I must speak
plainly. The man is a rogue and a traitor, madam. He cared nothing for you.
He merely used you for his own purposes, made you his whore, and now he
has no further use for you has abandoned you to your fate, caring nothing
for the fact that you are now ruined.”
“I was never his whore,” she said, her voice still calm. “Half of London
society witnessed our wedding.”
“Your wedding to a man who did not exist!” Newcastle responded,
irritated now. “And he knew that, that the marriage was a sham. Your
reputation meant nothing to him. You meant nothing to him. He was a spy,
and spies are trained to be convincing. They will say anything, stoop to
anything to get what they want. They care nothing for anyone except
themselves and the money they will receive for their treachery. No doubt he
has already forgotten you, is maybe laughing with his friends about how he
cozened you.”
He paused to observe her reaction to this blunt statement, but she was
looking down at her lap, her facial expression hidden, and he could not tell
if she was bowing her head in shame or if she was merely regarding the
pattern on the teacup.
“Miss Cunningham, I am giving you the opportunity to save yourself.
You can tell me about this man who used you so badly. You can give us a
description of him, tell us about his associates. I am sure your information
will be of the utmost value to us, and will enable us to arrest a number of
traitors as well as the man who has treated you so heartlessly. Indeed,
Prince William holds you in high regard and has told me to assure you that
you will be treated with the utmost leniency, if you cooperate with us. I am
sure that with the approval of such an illustrious friend, this unfortunate
episode will soon be forgotten and you will be able to resume your place in
society. Perhaps we can find an appropriate husband for you, one who will
be able to overlook your folly. Come, tell me what you know, and let us put
an end to this unpleasant situation.”
The prisoner’s head was still bent over her cup, and Newcastle waited for
her to consider his words, to realise the seriousness of her situation, and
come to a decision. After a moment she stood and put her cup and saucer
down carefully on the tray. Then she sat again, folded her hands in her lap,
and raised her eyes to his. She smiled.
 “We laughed at you, you know,” she said softly, so softly that the duke
barely caught the words, and was sure he had misheard her. His brow
furrowed momentarily, and she seemed to realise that he had not understood
her.
“We laughed at you,” she repeated, louder this time. “Sir Anthony and I,
and Prince Charles, of course. Anthony told His Highness that you had
asked him to spy for you, and they found it very amusing that you were
paying for them to carouse in the taverns and attend the theatre. But I am
sure this is not news to you, a man of your intelligence, who knows so
much about espionage and duplicity. Although Anthony made a fool of you,
and even of the Elector, didn’t he? No matter,” she said, waving her tiny
hand in a dismissive gesture.
“Speaking for myself, I am glad you gave me this opportunity to thank
you, Your Grace,” she continued, using the correct method of address to
him for the first time.
“It is not I you should thank, but His Royal Highness,” Newcastle
interrupted, believing she was about to thank him for making her see the
error of her ways, and to apologise for laughing at him.
“Oh. I am sorry,” she replied, and appeared genuinely to be so. “I was
under the impression that you were responsible for funding our honeymoon
in Rome. We really had a most delightful time, and were able to lodge in
establishments far more luxurious than we could have done without your
kind patronage. I also wanted to thank you for allowing me to personally
become closely acquainted with Prince Charles before he actually came to
Britain. This convinced me as nothing else could have done that as well as
having the right by birth, he also has the intelligence, grace and ability to be
a far better king than any member of that ill-bred family of German
usurpers you call royalty will ever have. But if I am unwarranted in my
gratitude to you, I apologise. May I impose on you to convey my thanks to
the Elector’s son, then? Or, if I am permitted the materials, I will write to
him myself.”
After she had finished speaking she folded her hands in her lap once
more, appearing utterly composed as she continued to look at the duke, her
face pleasant, her smile, now clearly mocking, contemptuous even, still in
place.
Silence reigned for a moment as Newcastle stared at her incredulously,
unable to believe that any woman, let alone a traitor’s whore, would dare to
address him in such a manner. Did she really not appreciate the severity of
her situation, and the fate that would await her if she were to persist in her
ridiculous and unwarranted loyalty to the brute who had ruined her and
tossed her to the wolves? He had an almost overwhelming urge to stand and
knock the smile off her face, he who had never struck a woman in his life.
With difficulty he mastered himself, and locked gazes with her.
“Your cause is dead, madam, and the man you are foolish enough to call
husband, if he is not already rotting on Drumossie Moor with most of the
rest of the rebels, will certainly be captured, along with the Young Pretender
you admire so much, and when he is, he will be hung, drawn and quartered
as he so richly deserves, and if you persist in this ridiculous folly then I will
ensure that you are present at the execution, before you go to your own.”
He picked up a bell that stood on his desk, and rang it.
Within seconds the door opened and a footman entered.
“Tell the soldiers to escort the prisoner back to her quarters,” he said. “I
suggest you spend the time between now and our next interview in serious
contemplation of your future, which could be long and pleasant if you
decide to cooperate with me, or short and extremely painful if you do not.”
The soldiers entered, and Beth stood and smoothed down her skirts.
“And I wish you luck, Your Grace, in capturing a man you know nothing
whatsoever about,” she said pleasantly. Then she turned her back on him
and walked to the door, where the soldiers were standing.
“Shall we go?” she said, and walked briskly off down the corridor,
leaving the soldiers to follow her as though they were her servants rather
than her jailers.

After she had departed the duke sat for a while, deep in thought. Although it
had been manifestly clear from the letters he had received from Prince
William that that young man was somewhat besotted by Miss Cunningham,
Newcastle had been willing to accept Cumberland’s assertion that she was
just another victim of the perfidious Sir Anthony.
After all, he had interviewed everyone who’d had any dealings with the
man, from the Earl of Highbury down to the Browne girl, and no one had
had the slightest idea that Sir Anthony was anything other than he claimed
to be. Clearly the man was extremely cunning and accomplished. Of course
once Miss Cunningham had married him, Sir Anthony must have revealed
at least part of his true identity to her, but until now Newcastle had assumed
that she had been romanced into accompanying him, and that now his
deception was discovered to her, she would be only too willing to reveal
what she knew about the traitor.
Now he was not so sure that she was an innocent dupe, as Cumberland
believed. Newcastle was accomplished at putting the fear of God into
people through his air of authority alone, yet she had sat in front of him as
though at a tea party, calm and collected.
She had been incarcerated for weeks now, alone, with plenty of time to
consider her position. Any normal young woman would have been terrified
by the thought of what might be to come. But perhaps instead of
contemplating the scaffold or the stake, she still held on to whatever
romantic fantasies the man had filled her silly head with, and was expecting
him to storm the Tower and rescue her. Maybe the comfort of her prison
had lulled her into a false sense of security. Well, he could do something
about that, at least. He would remove some of her privileges. Not too many,
or Cumberland would be annoyed, but enough to make her think again
about her situation.
Newcastle got out his knife and began to trim a quill preparatory to
writing his report of the interview for Cumberland. He would have to word
this very carefully. He dare not write that in his heart he believed Miss
Cunningham to be complicit in the whole affair. Although Prince William
was Commander-in-Chief of His Majesty’s forces, he was nevertheless a
young man of twenty-five, and young men who believed themselves in love
were notoriously sensitive to criticism of the object of their passion. And
the prince would certainly not take kindly to being told he was a poor judge
of character. The last thing Newcastle wanted was to make an enemy of the
hero of Culloden. Far better that he wait and let Cumberland interview her
himself. Then he would find out for himself what manner of woman he had
become infatuated with, if she persisted in her recalcitrance. Much better
that the royal hatred and revenge be directed at her than at himself, the
messenger.
Newcastle filled the inkwell and took out a sheet of paper, then bent to
his task.

***
Once delivered back to her apartment by the soldiers, Beth sat by the
window and congratulated herself.
She had done it. She had managed to display not the slightest trace of
nerves in front of her questioner. When the footman had offered her tea she
had been sure that the cup would rattle in the saucer, betraying her true
state, but no. Being the wife of Sir Anthony Peters for two years had served
her well. She smiled.
She had also learned some information. Not as much as she would like to
have learned, but some.
She had learned that Prince Charles had not been killed or captured, and
therefore assumed that the rising was not over, because while he lived there
was hope of another attempt to restore the Stuarts to their rightful place.
She had learned that none of the people who knew the true identity of Sir
Anthony Peters, such as Cameron of Lochiel, Murray of Broughton, Lord
George Murray and Graeme Elliot had been captured, or if they had, that
they were keeping silence. And that John Betts, if captured at Carlisle, as he
surely must have been, had not volunteered to betray Alex in return for his
life.
Neither had Sarah, who must have been interviewed by Newcastle, given
any description of either Angus or Duncan, both of whom she had seen
more than once; and being a servant rather than a member of the nobility
she would have remembered what they looked like, Duncan especially.
Because if she had Newcastle would surely have told her that they knew
about Anthony’s accomplices. For that matter, Sarah certainly could have
given a far better description of Sir Anthony than anyone else, being as
observant as she was.
It was heartwarming to Beth to know that her friends remained loyal.
She turned her mind now to the question she tried not to think of; was
Alex still alive? She had thought until now that if he was he would know
that she had been captured by Cumberland, and would, by his cunning, have
found out where she had been taken and would have got word to her
somehow that he was alive. And the fact that he hadn’t meant that he was
dead.
If he had been unable to go back for her and the other women after the
battle, then certainly Duncan or Angus, or one of the other clansmen would
have gone. They couldn’t all have been killed. And whoever had gone
would have discovered that she was Cumberland’s prisoner. If Alex was
alive but had been injured, then he’d be temporarily unable to discover
where she was, and it would be impossible for any of the other clansmen to
find out, because they all spoke with Scottish accents and were unable to
affect other dialects as Alex was, and so would all be treated with the
utmost suspicion by the authorities. Most of them did not have the skills to
dissemble in any case.
So it was possible that Alex was injured but alive; and once healed he
would find out where she was and would get word to her. She had no doubt
of that; he was a master of disguise and would do anything to keep his
promise to her. She trusted him, and his word.
If he was alive he would come for her. And she would not give up hope,
not until so much time had passed that it was futile to hope. How long
would that be?
Six months. In six months a young, strong man such as Alex could
recover from any injury. Two months had already passed since Culloden.
Which gave her another four to believe he was alive, and to take comfort
from that.

Later that day all her books were removed except for Pamela, which was
still under her pillow.
The following morning no one came to lay the fire and light it, and it
remained unlit until the evening. Instead of ten candles she now had only
one to light her room after dark. The food, when it arrived was not of the
same quality as it had been until now; and instead of claret, she was served
small beer to quench her thirst.
She hardly noticed these small privations; she had lived for eight months
outdoors in all weathers, eating whatever could be foraged for and drinking
stream water or whisky, sleeping in indifferent accommodation, and often
outdoors in the heather.
If he was alive he would come for her. Until October, then.
She would not think beyond that.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER FIVE

Scotland, June 1746

It had been the worst spring, weather-wise, that the Highlands of Scotland
had seen for years. The rain and sleet had driven down in sheets day after
day, often blown horizontal by the fierce winds that had howled down the
glens, tearing the heather thatch from the houses that had not been ravaged
and burnt by the redcoats, and washing away the spring planting of oats and
barley.
May had given way to June with no sign of the rain abating, and the
MacGregors, along with many others, had spent the gloomy evenings
huddled together in one house or another, singing songs and telling stories
in an attempt to keep their spirits up.
There was great need to keep their spirits up. In spite of the best efforts of
the occupying British Army to suppress it, news of what was happening in
other parts of the Highlands filtered through, carried by young men,
women, and often even children, who were as adept as their seniors at
blending into the landscape, and who could hide in tiny crevices that adults
could not.
So it was that the MacGregors had heard that Prince Charles had not
sailed on one of the frigates that had left Loch nan Uamh for France as had
at first been believed, but in fact had sent a message to Lochiel just two
days after the MacGregors had parted ways with the Camerons, stating that
he was in fact on the Isle of Uist, and asking if the Cameron chief could
assist him. As Lochiel had not been fit to travel easily, Murray of Broughton
had gone to his prince’s aid instead, in the hopes of bringing him back to
the mainland.
They had also heard of the horrific retribution that continued to be visited
on the clans, and that was no longer restricted merely to those who had
risen in rebellion; loyal clans were starting to feel the heavy hand of
Cumberland’s men as well, as some of their houses were looted, crops
burned, and their cattle driven off. Some of the rebels who came in to
surrender were shot or hung out of hand, and many others taken prisoner in
spite of the letters of safe conduct they proffered to the redcoat captains.
The redcoats were still concentrating their fury in the areas within a few
days’ march of the forts, and they were descending on the clan lands in
huge numbers that were impossible to oppose without organised resistance,
which the clansmen could not muster at the moment, scattered as they were,
with many of their chiefs either dead, taken prisoner or injured. Cumberland
remained at Fort Augustus for the present, and at Loch Lomond the
MacGregors bided their time, tried to save what crops they could, and
waited for their chieftain to heal fully and decide what was to be done next.

***

Alex and Dougal sat outside, basking in the warmth of the first sunshine
they had seen in what seemed to be an age. The ground was still sodden, so
they lounged on a rough wooden bench outside Alex’s front door, leaning
back against the wall of the house. All around the clearing the thatch of the
various huts steamed as the sun’s heat dried it out, and the clansfolk had all
found work to do out of doors. In the middle distance could be heard the
laughter of children as they splashed and swam in the loch, and the singing
of women as they washed every item of clothing and bedding they
possessed in the hopes of being able to dry it before the weather changed
again.
Closer to hand, Graeme was instructing some very small children in the
art of identifying what was a weed and what was not. In spite of the terrible
weather, the small plot of land outside the little hut that the MacGregors had
built for Graeme when it became clear he was intending to stay was
bursting with life, carrots, cabbages, onions and potatoes all showing
healthy green leaves. He had even planted nasturtiums and marigolds,
explaining to the incredulous clansmen that no, he was not going soft in his
old age; you could eat the leaves and flowers of nasturtiums and the seed
pods tasted peppery, while marigolds attracted hoverflies and repelled pests
– and the flowers could be used to make a balm that soothed midge bites.
The man was a wonder. He could grow anything anywhere. Alex kept
meaning to ask him where he’d managed to obtain the seeds and tubers, but
kept forgetting.
 Dougal’s sabre wound had finally healed and he had spent the morning
trying to build up his strength, making use of the rocks that Alex no longer
needed. He brushed his sweat-soaked hair out of his face and stretched his
legs out in front of him.
“Ye’re doing too much,” Alex commented. “Ye dinna need to push
yourself so hard. We’ll no’ be going raiding yet a while.”
Dougal turned his head towards his companion and raised one eyebrow.
“Aye, well, it’s different for me,” Alex said, correctly interpreting the
look. “I’m the chieftain. I canna afford to be weakened for any longer than
necessary. I’ve a duty to set an example.”
“And as your clansman, I’ve a duty to follow that example,” Dougal
responded.
There was no answer to that, so a companionable silence reigned for a
few minutes.
“Is it still paining ye?” Dougal asked finally.
“No, no’ paining exactly. It aches when I’ve been on it the whole day,
though.” His leg was almost better now. The splint was gone and he was
slowly regaining the heavy thigh and calf muscles he’d had before the
injury. Every day, whatever the weather, he would go for a long walk,
initially along the relatively flat edge of the loch, but now he could scale the
mountains too, with the aid of a stick. He still walked with a limp, which
was more pronounced at the end of the day, but he was now confident that
he would soon recover his full strength. He knew how lucky he was, how
often a man was crippled for life by a badly set broken bone, and sent up a
silent prayer of thanks to God for giving him a giant of a clansman like
Kenneth who’d had the strength to straighten his leg and hold it there while
it had been splinted.
He sat up and looked east, as he had regularly over the past two days, in
the hope of seeing his brother. Angus had been gone a week now on what
should have been a four day journey at best, and Alex was starting to regret
having sent him. True, Angus was a lot quieter now, and had matured
considerably since Culloden; but he was still Angus. Alex hoped to God that
he hadn’t seen an opportunity to increase his redcoat count and embarked
on some madcap raid. He sighed.
“He’ll be fine,” Dougal said, reading his chieftain’s mind. “Ye tellt him
that he was only to find out if the rumours are true, no’ to actually do
anything. He’ll no’ take any unnecessary risks, no’ when he’s got young
Lachlan wi’ him.”
He had a point.
“Aye, I hope not,” Alex replied. “Even so, he’s taking longer than
expected.” He raised his face to the sun and closed his eyes, letting the
warmth soothe him. It really was a glorious day. He’d just sit here for a few
minutes more, then he’d go for a swim.

The sudden shout made him jump, and he jerked to his feet, instinctively
reaching for his dirk which was on the bench next to him. He felt dizzy
from sitting in the sun too long, and realised that he must have fallen asleep.
He shook his head to clear it, and then saw Angus loping towards him, his
fair hair tangled on his shoulders, his bare legs streaked to the knee with
mud.
It was Dougal who had shouted as he’d seen Angus, and the other
clansmen now began to converge on Alex’s house, eager to hear the news
from Fort Augustus. As if by magic, Morag appeared from the direction of
the loch and ran to her sweetheart, who smiled and wrapped his arm around
her shoulder, pulling her in to his side. They continued together until they
reached Alex, then Angus released her and sank down onto the bench. She
hovered by his side, clearly unsure as to whether she should sit down on the
chieftain’s bench without an invitation.
“Christ, I’m tired,” Angus said by way of greeting. He did look tired. His
eyes were red, and his face was pale and drawn with fatigue.
Alex looked round.
“Where’s…?” he began.
“Lachlan? Away to his bed. I had to carry him the last bit of the way. His
legs wouldna hold him up. He’s fine. He did well.” He scrubbed a hand
over his face in an attempt to stay awake.
As eager as Alex was to hear what Angus had discovered, he could see
that his brother was completely exhausted. Maybe he should have a couple
of hours sleep first. He was just about to suggest it, when Angus got up
again and walked round the side of the hut where Janet had left a pail of
water earlier, in case anyone should want a drink. He picked it up and
tipped it over his head, shook himself like a dog, and then came and sat
down again, his shirt clinging to his torso, his kilt sticking to his legs. He
pushed his dripping hair out of his eyes and smiled.
 “I’ll be fine now, for a while,” he said to the eager crowd who had
gathered round the bench in a semicircle, awaiting the news.
Alex sat down next to him, and indicated to Morag that she could also sit.
Angus reached up and pulled a twig of heather out of the thatch of the
roof, stripped off the smaller twigs with his sgian dubh, and leaning forward
used it to draw a square on the ground. At the corners of the square he drew
smaller elongated squares which intersected with the bigger one.
“So, this is Fort Augustus,” he said. “As ye ken we blew it up in March,
and much of it’s still a ruin. Some of the colonels and suchlike live inside
the walls, and the Campbells built a wee house for Fat Billy, wi’ a roof o’
sods and heather and suchlike, and he lives in that. The ammunition and
provisions are stored inside the bits o’ the fort that we didna destroy, so we
canna get at that. The food for Billy and his hangers-on is cooked inside the
fort, but the soldiers shift for themselves.”
“How the hell d’ye ken all that?” Alex said. “Ye were tellt to stay away
and watch from a distance.”
Angus was gouging out a thick line above and below the fort to show the
rivers, but paused to look up and grin.
“I’ll come to that. The soldiers are all camped in lines, like streets, near
the River Oich, here,” he pointed, “thousands o’ the bastards. Too many to
raid, and ye canna even take out a few here and there, unawares. Well, ye
could, because some o’ them sneak out at night to go plundering, but
Cumberland’s posted extra sentries to stop them, so the risk o’ being
caught’s too high, and they’re killing any Highland men they dinna like the
look of anyway, including some of the ones trying to hand in arms and
surrender.
“All of the fields around the fort are full of cattle,” he continued.
“Thousands upon thousands of them. The message ye got from Lochiel is
right, Alex. The redcoats are driving them in from all over the Highlands.
They’re burning the houses, trampling the crops that have survived the
rains, killing the men they can find, and then driving all the cattle away. No’
just the cattle, but all the livestock, sheep, goats, horses, everything. No
doubt about it, they intend tae starve us into submission. All of us, loyal or
rebel.”
There were murmurs of anger from the men then, but Alex raised a hand
and they fell silent.
 “There are dealers coming up from the south, frae Scotland and England
too, and they’re buying the cattle in their hundreds for almost nothing. They
have auctions twice a week and the cattle are selling for about half a crown
each. That’s English money, they’ll no’ take the Scots pound.”
“Half a crown?!” Iain, who knew English money, said, appalled. “That’s
a pound Scots, is it no’?”
“Just over,” Alex said. “But aye, that’s disgraceful.”
“But why would they sell them so cheap?” Dougal asked. “They could
get five times that wi’ no effort.”
“Because they’re no’ doing it for profit,” Alex said. “They just want rid
o’ the cattle in case the clansmen get organised enough to raid them, and
they havena paid for them so any money is better than none. Angus is right;
they mean to starve us. Or have us so busy trying to find food that we’ve
neither time nor will to continue the fight. Cumberland’s a bastard, but he’s
no’ stupid. If he was only to burn the people out, all he’d have for his
trouble would be thousands of angry armed men burning for revenge. But if
he takes their means of subsistence too, then he’s won, because they’ll no’
be able to fight, even if they want to.”
Everyone was silent for a moment as they took this in. They were safe for
now, because they were too far south for the redcoats to easily reach, and
the nearby fort at Inversnaid had been burnt to the ground and was
uninhabitable. But it was only a matter of time until Cumberland’s attention
turned their way.
“What are ye thinking to do, Alex?” Kenneth asked.
“Ye didna find all this out by hiding down by the river, did ye?” Alex
asked Angus, ignoring Kenneth’s question for now.
Angus abandoned his map-drawing and sat up.
“No,” he admitted. “I discovered about the cattle and where the soldiers
are camped and that they’re sneaking out to plunder. But it was Lachlan
who found out about the auctions and the prices and suchlike. He went to
one of them.”
“What?” Alex said, his voice rising. “Ye let him actually go in the fort?
Alone? Have ye run daft, man? The laddie’s eight, for God’s sake!”
Angus reddened, but met his brother’s angry gaze with his own.
“No, I’ve no’ run daft,” he retorted hotly. “Ye tellt me to find out as much
as I could about the livestock, and what’s being done wi’ them. So I did.
And then I was going to come back. It was Lachlan who suggested he get
closer. He wanted to do more than just sit wi’ me and watch. We talked it
through together, and came up wi’ a plan. I still wouldna have let him go,
mind, but then I managed to get a bit closer one night without them seeing
me, and I saw something that made me realise that he’d every chance of
learning more without much danger. So I thought some about it, and we
both decided it was worth the risk.”
Alex stood and scrubbed his hand viciously through his hair and all the
clansmen, as one, froze. Angus stood up, his fists clenched, muscles tense.
Morag scrambled off the seat and stepped away from the brothers to the
edge of the crowd of men. Several of the men looked round, instinctively
searching for Duncan to make the peace. Then they remembered, and
sighed.
“I ken ye’re fashed, Alex,” Angus said, “but hear me out before ye decide
I’ve the wrong of it.”
Alex closed his eyes and held back his temper with difficulty. He knew it
was his fault for sending Angus in the first place. He knew what his brother
was like. If he’d wanted someone who’d have followed his orders without
question, he should have sent Alasdair instead, or Dougal. And he
recognised that some of his anger was frustration because he hadn’t been
well enough to go himself.
“Sit down,” he said. “I’ll hear ye out.”
The men collectively breathed a sigh of relief. Angus sat down again.
“Right,” he said. “While Lachlan and I were watching the troop
movements, trying to see if there was a pattern to them that might be useful
in case ye’re planning a raid, we saw that there were a lot of women and
bairns coming in from the countryside in the evening, going up to the
soldiers and talking to them, and some of the soldiers would speak to them
and some would push them away. So that’s when Lachlan asked if he could
join them and be one o’ the bairns, and see if he could hear anything useful,
him having the English an’ all. I thought on it, and saw no harm, because
none o’ the women were being hurt. So we decided to stay an extra day so
he could mingle wi’ them. The women and bairns are the ones that have had
their homes burnt, and they’re awfu’ thin. They were begging for food from
the soldiers, offering pennies or shoe buckles, whatever they had that they
thought they could trade. Lachlan heard some of them asking if they could
have the blood of the butchered animals, anything. They’re desperate, Alex.
It made my heart burn, when Lachlan came back and tellt me.
 “Anyway, some of the soldiers gave them some meal and bread, but then
Lachlan heard one of the men tell them that Cumberland had said they’d be
flogged if they were caught giving anything to Highlanders, so the others
were sent away. The next day they all went to the fields where the auctions
were, maybe hoping to beg some food from the dealers, so Lachlan went
down again to see what he could find out, just hanging around, listening to
the soldiers talking. And that’s where he heard everything else, from the
price of the cattle to the men complaining that the officers got their food
piping hot from the kitchens in the fort, while they had to make do wi’
bread and cheese and what they could cook on their fires. And they were
laughing about the primitive grass hut the Campbells made for Billy, saying
that no doubt the Scots thought it a palace because they all lived like dogs
themselves. I doubt the Campbells’d be over happy an they heard that.”
After he’d finished, Alex sat for a few moments, head bent, looking at the
map Angus had drawn on the ground.
“He wasna in any danger, Alex,” Angus said softly after a time. “I
wouldna have let him do it if I’d thought there was. And he’s a sound head
on him, too. I kent he wouldna do something daft. He didna go in the fort.
He learnt everything from listening.”
“Aye,” Alex said. “Ye did well. Ye’d the right of it. I’m sorry, I misjudged
ye.”
“So,” said Kenneth. “When are we leaving? Ye are planning a raid, are
ye no’?”
Alex was still staring at the plan, but now he looked up at the men, who
were avidly waiting for his answer. They were desperate for action, he
could see that, and he had to give them some, and soon. It was driving them
mad sitting here planting corn and tending cows, while a few miles to the
north the country was on fire; but it could be weeks, months even before the
redcoats dropped their guard and started looting in smaller groups that
could be picked off a few at a time.
It would be suicide to try to raid Fort Augustus with fifty men, bristling
with redcoats as it was. He needed to think. He stood up.
“Away and enjoy the sun,” he said. “Come back at sunset, and I’ll try to
have an answer for ye. Angus, away to your bed.”
He turned and went into his house, and the men dispersed slowly to chat
in groups about what the chieftain might do.
 Morag went with Angus to his house, where he kissed her and embraced
her, and then went to his bed. Alone.
After an hour, Alex emerged from his house and called one of the
children to fetch Iain. Half an hour after that, he sent for Graeme.

As the sun disappeared over the horizon, streaking the sky with gold, purple
and rose, and turning the water of the loch red as blood, Alex emerged again
to ask one of the children to fetch the men, but found them already
assembled along with the women, who had finished their washing, all of
them blind to the glories of the sunset, all of them eager to hear their
chieftain’s decision.
Alex came out, followed by Iain and Graeme, and sat down on the bench.
After a minute, he started talking, roughly outlining his plan to them. They
sat and listened, at first eagerly and then with mounting disbelief. When
he’d finished, they all sat in shocked silence for a minute.
“Ye canna be serious,” Kenneth, the first to find his voice, said. “Ye
mean the three of ye to ride into Fort Augustus, buy two thousand cattle,
and then just ride out again? D’ye think if it could be done, the Camerons or
the Frasers’d no’ have done it already? They’ll no’ let a Scot within ten
miles of the place.”
“Aye, but we’ll no’ be Scots,” Alex countered. “Graeme’s English
anyway, for one thing, and ye’re forgetting that I was Sir Anthony Peters for
over three years. I’ve no’ got the details yet, but I’ll be a cattle dealer from
Yorkshire or some such place, Graeme here’s my right hand man, and Iain,
who canna speak wi’ any other accent, is a deaf mute, but awfu’ good wi’
cows, as we all ken well he is, having been on so many raids an’ all.”
That got a laugh from the audience, at least.
“Why no’ take me, then, instead of Iain?” Angus asked. “I ken the land
now, a wee bit at least.”
“Because I need you to lead the clan while I’m away,” Alex said. “Iain
canna do that, and most of the rest of you have wives and bairns, apart from
Kenneth. And we’re no’ supposed tae ken the land. We’re from Yorkshire
and somewhat afeart to be in this savage land. But we canna resist the
chance to make our fortunes.”
“So ye’re going to buy two thousand cows, and then just drive them
here? D’ye no’ think the redcoats’ll notice? And where the hell are we
going to keep two thousand cattle, or feed them?” Alasdair countered.
 “And where will ye get the money tae buy so many cows, cheap as they
are?” Peigi asked.
Alex and Graeme exchanged a look, then Alex nodded and Graeme
spoke up.
“When Beth married Sir Anthony, she brought a dowry with her. It was
held in a bank in Manchester. But when she discovered who Sir Anthony
really was, she realised that if he was ever found out, her brother would try
to claim the dowry. Those of you who’ve had the misfortune to meet
Richard or hear of him know he’s a piece of shit. Rather than let him have
it, she withdrew all of it, and got me to hide it for her. I’m the only one who
knows where it is.”
“It’s in England,” said Alex, taking over. “We’re going down to get the
money we need. Then we’re going to go straight to Fort Augustus and buy
the cattle. We’re no’ bringing them here. I’ve heard tell of a place where
they can be hidden safely, then we’ll put out the word to those in need, and
they can come and take them, a few at a time. The redcoats have already
burnt their houses and taken everything. They’ll no’ come back again,
they’ve got too many other places to plunder. We’ll take a few for
ourselves, but the plan is to help feed the likes of the women and bairns
reduced to begging off the redcoats. I think that’s a good use for the money,
a use Beth would have approved of.”
“Where’s this hiding place, then?” Kenneth asked.
“That I canna tell ye,” said Alex, “for it’s no’ my secret to divulge. But
I’m away off tomorrow to speak wi’ the man whose secret it is, and once
I’ve his answer, we can go ahead. Or no’, as the case may be.”
“It’s an interesting plan,” Dougal said thoughtfully, “but it’s awfu’ risky.”
“No’ as risky as being Sir Anthony,” Alex pointed out, “and no’ as risky
as being a MacGregor, but here we all are, alive.”
“And we’ll no’ get to go on a raid,” Alasdair put in sadly, to a chorus of
agreement.
Alex looked up at them and smiled, something he’d done but rarely since
he’d heard of Beth’s death.
“Aye, I’ve every intention of ye going on a raid, if things go according to
plan,” he said. “But first I’ve to meet wi’ the man who’s got the hiding
place. I should be back within the week, and I’ll tell ye more then. It’s about
time we got our swords bloodied again, I’m thinking. I’ve sat on my arse
for long enough. I’m healed now, and I’m ready to start fighting back, in
whatever way I can. It’ll no’ be on a battlefield, wi’ lines of us facing lines
o’ the enemy. But I think we’ve had enough of that kind of fighting, for
now, anyway. It’s about time we showed the redcoats why we’re named the
Children o’ the Mist. Are ye in agreement wi’ me?”
The resulting roar from the assembled MacGregors assured Alex that
they were, indeed, very much in agreement with him.

***

“No,” MacIain said flatly. “I’ll have no part of it. I’ve surrendered.”
“The Grants surrendered too, and much good it did them,” Alex pointed
out. “A whole lot of them are rotting in jail now, and others who are trying
to surrender are being shot or hung for it. Ye must have heard the news,
man. It’s all over the Highlands.”
“Aye, I’ve heard the news,” the MacDonald chief agreed, “But I
surrendered last month, and I’ve been left alone since then, even though
Glencoe is only a morning’s march from Fort William.”
“And how long d’ye think that’ll last, once the redcoats have finished
burning Lochaber, and the Fraser lands? Once the Campbells remember
how good your land is, and how close ye are to them? The fact that ye’ve
surrendered will mean nothing. Ye came out for Charlie; that’s all that
counts now.”
“I’ll take my chance. I’m weary, Alex. I want no more of Stuart or
Hanover. I’m done wi’ fighting for others. I just want to live peaceably for a
time.”
“We all want that,” Alex said. “But the Highlands are burning, and
Cumberland is trying to destroy our way of life, forever. MacDonalds and
MacGregors have been reiving cattle from our neighbours for years. Now
we’ve a chance to reive them from our true enemies. Thousands of women
and bairns are starving, and we’ve a chance of doing something to help
them. D’ye no’ think it might be useful to have the goodwill of the
Camerons, MacPhersons, Frasers and suchlike in times to come? If ye save
them from starving ye’ll have that.”
“Aye, and if Cumberland hears I’ve helped ye steal two thousand cattle
from him, all the goodwill in the world’ll no’ save us from his anger,”
MacIain pointed out.
 “They were no’ his in the first place, and anyway we’re no’ stealing
them,” Alex said, grinning. “We’ll be paying for them, fair and square.
Listen,” he continued, serious again, “ye dinna have to be actively involved.
Just give me permission to drive the cattle to Coire Gabhail and keep them
there. We’ll tend them. No one else need ken anything about it, we’ll take
the cattle out a few at a time tae give to those in need. And if ye’ve need of
men later, I’ll pledge my men to your cause, while I live.”
“That’s a generous offer,” MacIain said, “and I appreciate it, Alex. But
the answer’s still no. It’s too risky.”

An hour later Alex emerged from the Glencoe chief’s house, thoroughly
frustrated. Nothing he had said had made MacIain change his mind, and he
realised that there was nothing he could say that would do it. The man was
beaten, for now at least, but this plan could not wait until his spirit revived.
And they could not do it without him. He knew of no other place as suitable
as Coire Gabhail, the hidden valley of Glencoe. The way up to it was steep,
but then it opened out into a huge saucer-shaped green valley, completely
surrounded by mountains. The opening was so narrow it could be easily
defended by a few men. If it was discovered, which was unlikely. It was
perfect, but none of that mattered now.
Iain and Graeme had come with him, and they were all staying with
Ealasaid, but he could not face going to tell them that he’d failed just yet.
He needed time to think. And he needed time to plan something else,
another raid of some sort to keep the morale of his men high. Not easy,
when his own was so low.
He went for a walk along the loch before going back to his lodgings, but
after it was no nearer to coming up with a new plan, so he had to bite the
bullet and give the others the bad news.
Any dismay Iain and Graeme may have felt at the scuppering of the plan
was drowned out by a chorus of questions from the fair-haired kinfolk of
Beth, who were all in Ealasaid’s house at the time.
“Tell us your plan, Alex,” Robert said eagerly. “Maybe we can think of a
way to do it anyway.”
“No,” said Alex. “I tellt your chief that I wouldna reveal it to the clan
unless he agreed to it. The MacIain has said no, and I accept it. I’ll no’
cause dissent in the clan. That would be a poor return for his hospitality. He
has the right to refuse me, and I’ll abide by his answer, as will all those I
have power over. And so will you,” he warned the young MacDonald.
Robert had grown physically since he’d tried to seduce Morag in the stable,
but he did not appear to have matured much emotionally. Robert subsided
into a sulky silence.
“What will ye do instead?” Meg asked.
“I dinna ken. Nothing that the MacDonalds will be involved in,” Alex
said. He would talk about it with Iain and Graeme later. Maybe they could
buy a couple of hundred cattle. Maybe if he could get a message to
Lochiel…but no, the Cameron chief was still healing, and had his hands full
trying to get Prince Charles to safety.
Ealasaid herself had said nothing up to this point, had listened to
everything with her head bowed, eyes fixed on her hands, which rested
calmly in her lap. Now she looked up.
“Well,” she said. “MacIain has spoken, and that’s an end of it. Let’s feed
our guests, and then entertain them with a wee story and a song or two.
We’ve no need to be downhearted. And,” she continued, staring pointedly at
Robert, “we’ve no need to cause our guests tae think less of us by pestering
them wi’ questions they canna answer.”
Robert, who had already turned to Iain in the hopes of doing just that,
opened his mouth to protest, then seeing Ealasaid’s expression, closed it
again and returned to his sulk.

***

After dinner, while they were waiting for the musicians to fetch their
instruments, Ealasaid took Alex to one side and expressed a wish that he
accompany her on a short walk.
“I’m feeling a need for some fresh air,” she said, indicating with a wave
of her hand the smoky atmosphere of the hut’s main room in which a peat
fire burned, the smoke hanging around in the roof space for a while before
escaping through a hole in the roof. “It’s dry for a change, but I’m a wee bit
old and frail to be walking about alone. We can talk about family,” she said,
squeezing his shoulder with a firm but friendly grip that had nothing frail
about it.
Alex had no wish to talk about ‘family’, which to him could only mean
Beth, but nor did he wish to join in the merrymaking. He wanted nothing
more than to lie down and turn his face to the wall, but he knew that was
something he must fight against. And Highland courtesy demanded that he
acquiesce to his hostess’s wish, so he took her arm and they walked slowly
out of the hut and through the village in companionable silence. Although
the evening was advanced, it was still light; at this time of year the nights
were very short.
He expected her to turn around at the end of the village, but to his
surprise she continued on, striding up the grassy slope with an agility that
belied her professed feebleness. She continued until they were a good way
up the mountain, where there was a large flat rock upon which she spread
her shawl.
“Sit yourself down, laddie,” she said breathlessly. “Ye’re doing well,
outwardly at least.”
Alex sat down gratefully, stretched his legs out in front of him and
smiled.
“Ye fooled me there for a minute,” he said. “I should have remembered
how ‘frail’ ye were at our wedding feast.” As soon as the words were out of
his mouth, he cursed inwardly, thinking that Ealasaid would use them as an
introduction to talking about a subject that would bring him nothing but
pain.
“It takes me a wee bit longer to get moving in the mornings,” she said
instead, “but I’m blessed, I think. Most people of my age are lying in their
beds waiting to die.”
“There are no’ many people of your age at all,” Alex responded, knowing
that Ealasaid, in common with her granddaughter, would prefer blunt truth
to flattery any day.
She laughed, and it sounded so like Beth’s laugh that his heart twisted.
“Good,” she said, still gasping a little from the effort of the climb. “The
truth. That’s what I’ve brought ye here for.”
He looked around appreciatively, waiting for her to regain her breath. In
the valley below, the village nestled by the shores of Loch Leven, which
appeared blue and peaceful in the soft light of evening. Along the banks of
the loch the mountains rose, the lower slopes forested, the higher ones
displaying the hazy purple of early-flowering heather in places. To the north
on the far side of the water were the mountains of the Cameron lands,
rendered slate blue by distance. He wondered idly where Lochiel was right
now, and hoped that he was safe.
 “Aye,” she said, her breath back. “It’s a bonny view. I used to come here
to think when I was a wee lassie wi’ a head full of dreams but no common
sense at all. But we’re no’ here to admire the view. We canna be overheard
here. Tell me your plan.”
“There’s nae point to it,” Alex countered. “He said no.”
“Even so,” Ealasaid said. “I’ve an urge tae ken how my grandson-in-law
thinks. And I pride myself that ye think me trustworthy. I take it there was a
raid involved?”
He did think her trustworthy.
“Aye, there was,” he said, still gazing into the distance. “My men are
restless, they’ve a need to release their energy, and I thought this was a way
to do it, to fight back against Cumberland, and to help those in need.”
He explained the plan, and she listened without interrupting until he’d
finished. And then she remained silent a while longer, thinking.
“And ye think ye can carry this off, impersonating an English cattle
dealer?”
“I do,” he said. “I’ve done something of the sort before.” Although he
was willing to reveal an aborted plan, he was not about to tell anyone who
didn’t already know about Sir Anthony.
She nodded.
“Well, it’s different, and there are risks, but no’ as many as when Charlie
arrived wi’ his seven useless men, the wee gomerel,” she commented
irreverently.
Alex laughed, his first genuine laugh in a long time.
“It’s good to hear ye laugh, laddie,” she said, laying her hand on his arm.
“Your leg’s healing well, I can see, but your heart isna. It shows how well
ye loved her, but it’s a sadness to me.”
“Ye tellt me when I was here last that I shouldna blame myself, and you
were right. But I canna stop loving her, and I never will. I tellt her once that
I was hers until I die, and I meant it. I’ll not take another.”
“Not even to give the clan an heir?” Ealasaid asked.
“No. If I couldna have bairns wi’ Beth, I’ll no’ have them at all. Duncan
is gone, but Angus will make a good chieftain in time, and there’s no reason
he shouldna have bairns. He’s a sweetheart waiting to marry him. They’ve
put the wedding off for a while until things settle down, but she wasna
happy about it. Angus is intent on fulfilling his blood oath, but she’s
growing impatient.”
 “Is this wee Morag, that Robert tried to seduce in the barn?” Ealasaid
asked.
“Ye remember that. Aye.”
“I’m old, but my mind’s as sharp as it ever was,” she said. “Let’s away
back down the hill. Ye’ve had a long day.”
They made their way back to the village, slowly, because his leg ached
more going downhill than up, and because the dusk made rabbit holes and
stones harder to see, and the last thing he needed now was to twist his
ankle, when he was healing so well.
When they got back to the cottage, the others, apart from Iain and
Graeme, had disappeared, to Alex’s relief. The two men were sitting at the
table playing cards, but both looked up at him when he entered.
“I’m tired,” said Alex brusquely, to forestall conversation. “I’m away to
my bed. We can get an early start in the morning.”
He would put his disappointment to the back of his mind, try to sleep,
and come up with another plan on the way home.

***

Although Alex was awake before dawn the following morning, when he
wandered into the living area of the house Ealasaid was already up and
about, and clearly had been for some time.
“There’s bread and butter, and cheese on the table,” she said. “Would ye
like some tea?”
“Do ye never sleep?” Alex asked. “I would love some tea.” He sat down
at the table, rubbing his eyes to wake himself up.
“When ye get to my age, ye dinna need much sleep,” she said. “And
when ye’ve so little time left, it’s a shame to spend it sleeping, in any case.”
She bustled about with the kettle, and soon there was a steaming cup of the
fragrant brew sitting in front of him.
“I didna offer ye any last night, because Robert was here, and if he kent
I’d got some, he’d find it and drink it all. He’s awfu’ partial to it.”
It was Alex’s view that Robert needed a good thrashing, but he kept silent
and instead took a sip of tea, sighing blissfully.
“I’ll let Iain and Graeme sleep yet awhile,” he said. “But I’d like to get an
early start for home, all the same.”
Ealasaid poured herself a cup of tea and came to sit down opposite him.
 “The MacIain’ll no’ be out of bed yet awhile either,” she said. “He was
up late last night. Enjoy your breakfast, laddie. Ye’ll no’ be making any start
for home at all today. Ye’ve a raid to plan.”
Alex stopped drinking and stared at her. Her blue eyes were sparkling
with mischief. She looked exactly as Beth would have done had she lived
another sixty years.
“But…MacIain said no. He was verra adamant,” he said, puzzled.
“Aye, well. We had a wee chat last night after ye were snoring, and ye’ll
find him of a different persuasion this morning, I’m thinking.”
“What the hell did ye say to him?” Alex asked, astounded. Was she
serious?
“Let’s just say I’ve a persuasive tongue, and leave it there.” She winked.
“I’ve a favour to ask, though.”
She was serious. He felt the heady rush of excitement flood his veins, as
he always did when faced with the prospect of danger.
“Name it,” he said rashly.
“If all goes well, and ye have the wee stramash that ye’re planning,
MacIain’s said that he’ll no’ stop anyone who wants to join in from doing
so, although he’ll be staying at home himself. He’s no’ a well man, Alex, in
fairness, and although he doesna remember the massacre in ’92, it weighs
heavy on him all the same.”
“You do remember it though, yet by the look on your face ye’d be
fighting wi’ us, were you able,” Alex pointed out.
“True, but I’ve always been impulsive, and I’m no’ the chief. It’s a heavy
burden he carries, as ye ken well. But it’s different for you, your name and
lands are forfeit anyway. Ye’ve got nothing to lose but your lives if it
miscarries. He could lose his lands and his name, and the clan’s future.”
Alex could not dispute this.
“What’s the favour, then?”
“I want ye to let Robert be in the raiding party. Aye, I ken ye think he’s
no’ ready, and maybe you’re right. But he was sore hurt that he couldna go
wi’ the clan to follow Charlie. MacIain wouldna let him go, and now he has
to listen to the men boast of their exploits, knowing that he’s unlikely to get
a chance to fight for the cause for a good while, if ever.”
“It’s no’ over yet,” Alex said. “Charles lives, and there are many who
would rise again for him, if he can get French help this time. He’s proved he
can raise an army, and lead it. Maybe Louis will take him more seriously
now.”
“I hope so. But in the meantime, Robert’s burning up to do something
worthwhile, so he can feel like a man. He is a man in most ways.”
Alex nodded.
“There was a laddie along wi’ us, same name. Robbie Og. He was fifteen
and I wouldna let him come, for the same reasons as I think MacIain didna
let your Robert go, although his age was a factor too. Some of the men went
home for a visit after Prestonpans, and Robbie came back with them. He did
grow up in the end, although he nearly got himself hung in the meantime.”
“Well, then,” Ealasaid said. “Maybe –”
“He’s dead,” Alex interrupted. “He was killed at Culloden. I heard him
scream, but I couldna go back to see to him because we were charging, and
it wasna possible. And afterwards…” He paused, and scrubbed his hand
through his hair. “I like to think he died quick and clean, but I dinna ken. He
could have died slowly wi’ all the others who were left to bleed and freeze
to death for two nights on Cumberland’s orders. What I’m saying is that if
Robert wants to come so badly, then I’ll accept him, but he’ll have to listen
to whoever I put in command of the raid, because it’ll no’ be me, and if he
doesna and gets himself in trouble, I’ll no’ risk my men’s lives to try to save
him. And if he does something that puts the rest of us at risk, then I’ll kill
him myself. Are ye willing to risk his death? And will ye blame me if I’m
the one to kill him?”
She sat and thought about it for a few minutes.
“Aye, I’ll risk it, if ye’ll give him the chance. And ye’re a fair man. I’ll
no’ blame ye if ye have to make a hard choice,” she said. “For if he doesna
learn the hard way, he’ll no’ learn at all. He’s like myself in that. I’ll make it
clear to him what ye’ve tellt me, and that you’re serious, and then it’s his
choice. And now,” she added, eyes sparkling once again, “Do I get a wee
hug for my trouble wi’ MacIain? I’m no’ too old to appreciate being held in
the arms of a handsome young man.”
She was clearly joking, but Alex took her at her word, and swept her off
her feet in a tender, loving, yet respectful embrace. She laughed again, in
that way that was so like Beth, and wrapped her arms around his neck.
“Ye’re a fine laddie,” she said into his ear. “I’m proud of ye. Beth
couldna have chosen a better, had she searched the whole of Scotland first.”
 And it was at that moment that Iain and Graeme chose to make their
entrance, and found Alex and Ealasaid embracing like lovers while tears
poured down their cheeks, as they took, although they did not know it, their
last farewells of each other.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER SIX

London, July 1746

Sarah moved about her living room, cradling the baby in one arm whilst
preparing her evening meal with the other. She had cut herself a slice of
chicken pie, which she’d prepared early that morning and had just finished
baking in her Dutch oven. It was the first time she’d tried this recipe, which
included wine and spices, and it smelt wonderful. Her stomach rumbled in
anticipation.
It had been a long day. In the morning she had made a house call, and the
whole of the afternoon had been spent dressing the hair of a group of
chambermaids who had been allowed an evening off and were heading to
Vauxhall to try to meet the man of their dreams. She thought them more
likely to meet a rake who’d give them the pox, but it was her job to
encourage their dreams and do her best to help them fulfil them, not to
destroy them.
The baby’s eyes were closing now, lulled by the rocking motion of
Sarah’s arm and the warmth of the room, fragranced with the scent of
cloves and nutmeg. She popped the baby in her cot, and went back into her
living room, leaving the bedroom door ajar so she could hear if Mary
started grizzling. She picked up the bucket in which she put her slops; hair
clippings, dirty water, vegetable peelings, and opening the back door, which
led on to a dark alley, threw the contents out to join the other refuse which
covered the ground.
It was while she was shaking the bucket, trying to dislodge some cabbage
leaves which had stuck to the bottom that she heard her name called, and
instinctively looked up the alley in the direction from which the voice had
come.
About twenty yards or so away could be seen the figure of a man who
was making his way toward her, and who appeared to be limping. It was too
dark and he was too far away for her to see his face, but she wasn’t about to
wait for him to get any closer. As quick as lightning she jumped back into
the room, shut the door, turned the key in the lock, shot the bolts at top and
bottom, then stood with her back to it, her heart thumping in her chest.
She didn’t know any men. Well, of course that wasn’t true. She did know
some men; she had exchanged words with several of her clients’ husbands,
and with tradesmen. But she didn’t know any men who would approach her
by way of a filthy back alley, unless they were hoping to rob her or worse.
Her pistol was in the shop under the counter, but she was confident that the
locks would hold if he attempted to break in. It was a sturdy door. She
started to relax a little.
There came a knock right behind her head, and she gave an involuntary
scream then stepped back, away from the door. She went and quietly closed
the door to the bedroom so as not to wake the baby, then returned.
“What do you want?” she said in a clear, firm voice.
“Sarah? Sarah Browne?” the voice answered.
“Go away,” she replied, “or I’ll call the watch.”
“You were Beth’s kitchen maid in Didsbury? Beth Cunningham?”
What the hell? Although it was known to many that she had been Beth’s
maid in London, and that she had accompanied her from Manchester,
nobody, apart from Beth’s servants in Didsbury knew that she had started
her career as a kitchen maid. Except Richard. But this man, whoever he
was, was not Richard.
“Who are you?” she asked, intrigued in spite of herself.
The silence that followed this question went on for so long that Sarah
thought the man had given up and gone away. She was just about to return
to her pie when the voice came again, this time from the keyhole, and much
softer.
“It’s John,” he said. “John Betts. The stable boy.”
Sarah’s first instinct was to open the door. Although she had hardly
known John, Beth had always spoken highly of him. He had defended her
against Richard, and had had to leave. But what was he doing here, and how
did he know where she lived? It was a ruse of some sort.
“Why have you come here?” she asked.
“I need help. I didn’t know where else to go,” he said. “Please, let me in.
I’ll explain everything.”
She thought, rapidly.
“Tell me some things about Didsbury. Things other people wouldn’t
know,” she said.
 Another silence, then a torrent of low-voiced words, spoken with some
desperation, came from the other side of the door.
“I didn’t know you for long. Richard brought you to replace Martha and
spy on Beth for him. We all hated you. Graeme was the gardener, Thomas
and Jane were the steward and cook, Grace was Beth’s maid, Mary and Ben
were the scullery maid and odd job boy. Beth told me that you turned out to
be one of her best friends. You saved her when Lord Damien tried to make
her marry him.”
“Daniel,” Sarah corrected automatically, then cursed herself. She came to
a decision.
“Wait there a minute,” she said.
She ran into the shop, retrieved the pistol from under the counter,
checked it was primed and cocked and ready to fire, and then went back to
the door. She undid the bolts, turned the key in the lock, and then stood
back.
“Come in,” she said, “slowly.”
The door opened very slowly, to reveal the filthiest individual she had
ever seen in her life. He made to step in the room, but then saw the pistol
levelled at his head and stopped, his eyes widening. He raised both his
hands in the air and swallowed audibly. The sleeves of the torn and ragged
shirt he wore slid up his arms, revealing wrists that were a mass of sores,
writhing with maggots. His ankles were in the same state, which explained
why he had limped down the alley. The smell emanating from him was
worse than that in the alley had ever been, even in the height of summer.
Apart from his height, there was nothing left of the handsome youth she’d
last seen mucking out the stables in Didsbury. The emaciated wreck
standing in front of her now could have been fifty.
“Dear God,” she said, lowering the pistol and involuntarily retching at
the stench. “What happened to you?”
He kept his hands up, but glanced behind him at the open door. She got
the message and motioned him further into the room, then walked behind
him, shut the door and locked it. Then she looked at him again, assessing
him. His eyes were wild as he watched her warily, his chest heaving as
though he’d been running, although he’d been standing outside her door for
a good few minutes. He was certainly capable of violence, she realised, but
only in the way of a cornered animal that must fight or die.
 “It’s alright,” she said. “I won’t shoot you unless you try to hurt me. But
if you do, I will.”
He nodded.
“What happened to you?” she asked again.
“I escaped from Newgate,” he said. “I didn’t have anywhere else to go,
and if I stay like this, they’ll catch me. I’m sorry.”
“Why were you in prison? Tell me the truth.”
“I was taken prisoner when Carlisle fell. I was in the Manchester
Regiment, fighting for Prince Charles.”
“I thought you’d joined the militia,” Sarah said, wary again. “How did
you end up as a rebel?”
John smiled, displaying a set of teeth white enough to show he was a lot
younger than he appeared.
“I thought joining the militia was the quickest way to learn to use a
sword. I wanted to kill Richard. From what I’ve learned about him since, I
wish I had,” he said.
Sarah warmed to him instantly.
“How did you know I’d saved Beth from Lord Daniel?” she asked.
“I met her when…” His voice trailed off. “Are you going to call the
watch?” he asked.
The fact that he’d been about to reveal incriminating evidence about Beth
and had stopped in case she betrayed him, and in doing so betrayed Beth,
committed Sarah to a course of action that the sensible part of her had
already dismissed as insane.
“No,” she said. “I’m going to get you clean enough so that we can talk
without me wanting to be sick. Come through to the shop. I’ve not long
closed, so the water will still be warm.”
She led him through the room and to a corner of the shop, where there
was a brazier and on top of it a large pot, half-full of water. She handed him
a bar of rose-scented soap, a comb and a cloth to dry himself, then went and
got a blanket from the chest at the foot of her bed.
“I’ll leave you to wash,” she said. “When you’re clean, wrap yourself in
the blanket for now. I’ll get you some clothes tomorrow.”
He looked at her, shocked.
“I don’t expect you to let me stay here,” he said. “It’s too dangerous. I’ll
just wash these clothes as best I can, and if you can lend me a little money,
I’ll find somewhere to stay until I can get a coach out of London.”
 “Did you tell anyone you were coming here?” she asked. “Did anyone
see you come into the alley?”
He shook his head.
“Well, then. Wash yourself, then have something to eat, and I’ll get
something to dress your wounds.”
For a moment he seemed not to know what she was talking about, then
he followed her gaze down to his wrists.
“I’m not wounded,” he said. “It’s just –”
“A mess,” she interrupted. “Come back in when you’ve finished.”

It was nearly half an hour before he returned to the cosy living room. In his
absence Sarah had been busy. She’d opened the door for a few minutes to
let the smell out, and then had sprinkled rosewater around the room. On the
table was a jug of warm spiced ale, a large slice of the chicken pie, and an
assortment of bottles of varying sizes.
She looked up at him as he came in, and whistled softly through her
teeth. He was a lot thinner than when she had last seen him, his hair, light
brown again now it was clean, was longer, and he had a thick beard, but
nevertheless she now recognised the youth she had known briefly in
Didsbury.
“Sit down,” she said, and motioned to the pie.
He needed no second invitation and fell on the pie like a starving animal,
which, she supposed, he was.
Afterwards, while he told her his story, she combed powder of staves-
acre through his hair to kill the lice, and then went to work on his wrists and
ankles, picking off the maggots with tweezers and throwing them in the fire,
her nose wrinkling with disgust.
“When the prince went back into Scotland,” John said, “he asked the
Manchester Regiment to hold Carlisle Castle for him, for when he came
back. Most of us stayed. Graeme went with the others on to Scotland
though. I wish I had too, now.”
“Graeme?” Sarah said. “The gardener? But he’s an old man!”
John laughed.
“Don’t let him hear you say that,” he said. “He joined the army when
Charles came to Manchester. That’s where we met Beth. I threw a knife at
her.”
Sarah stopped what she was doing, abruptly.
 “I’d been learning to throw knives,” he continued hurriedly, realising
how his last sentence had sounded. “I wanted to be as good as her. I never
was, but I was pretty good all the same. I was showing off, and threw a
knife at the door she was sitting against. Anyway, then we stayed together
down to Derby, then all the way back to Carlisle. When Cumberland took
the castle, we were all arrested and we’ve been in prison ever since. The
officers were brought to London, and we were tried two days ago and
sentenced to the traitor’s death.”
“Hanging, drawing and quartering,” Sarah said, shuddering. “Some of
my clients told me about the crowds outside the New Gaol. You were
marched there through the streets. Is that how you escaped?”
“No. After the trial they took us back to Newgate. Three of us were in a
tiny cell, and we were just left there for two days with no food or water. No
one came to look at us; I think they’d forgotten about us, to be honest.
Which gave us time to find a loose brick and to work all the mortar away
from round it.” He held up his hands; the nails and ends of his fingers were
ragged and bloody.
“It was really damp in there,” he continued. “The water was running
down the walls, so the mortar was very soft, and we all had long nails by
then so we took turns to scrape it out. Then Jack found a rusty bit of metal
in the corner of the room, and we used that, too. Anyway, once we’d pulled
out the brick I had a look through to see what was on the other side,
thinking it would probably be another cell, but we couldn’t believe our luck
because it led straight out onto the street. We’d been kept in irons until our
trial, and they chafe a bit,” he said with spectacular understatement, “but the
wardens didn’t bother to put them back on again afterwards. Newgate’s full
to bursting with rebel prisoners, so the guards are run off their feet. There
was only one tiny window high up in the wall of our cell, so I suppose they
didn’t think there was any danger of us escaping. All three of us got away,
me, Jack Holker and Peter Moss, although Peter and me had to pull Jack
through the hole, because he had been a portly fellow, and still had a bit of
weight on him. Then we all split up, because we thought we’d have a better
chance separately. Jack said he was heading for the coast to try to find a
ship for France. I don’t know what Peter’s going to do. And I thought I’d
come here and see if you’d lend me the money to get back to Manchester.
Thomas and Jane’ll look after me until I can find somewhere safer. Graeme
might even be there, if he lives,” John mused.
 The maggots gone, Sarah opened a pot and rubbed salve all over the
festering wounds. Then she poured some more ale for them both.
She’d just sat down, when a thin wail came from the adjoining room.
John looked round in surprise.
“You have a baby?” he asked.
“She’s my sister’s child,” Sarah explained. “She died in childbirth, and
there was no father so I took her.” She went through to the other room,
returning a few minutes later.
“You said you were with Beth. How is she?” Sarah asked. “I was so
worried about her when her and Sir Anthony vanished.”
John’s brow furrowed.
“Sir Anthony?” he said. “Oh! You mean A –”
“NO!” Sarah shouted, making John jump so violently that he spilled
some of the ale he was about to drink on the blanket he was wearing. “I’m
sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, but if you were about to tell
me Sir Anthony’s real name, I don’t want to know. I’ve already been
interviewed by the Duke of Newcastle. Sir Anthony’s one of the most
wanted men in Britain. I don’t know whether I’ll be interviewed again, but
the less I know, the better.”
John nodded.
“They won’t interview me about him, because no one knows I had any
connection to Beth or…him. She was well the last time I saw her, at
Carlisle. She tried to stay there, with Graeme and me because she’d had an
argument with…er…”
“Just call him Sir Anthony. That’s what I knew him as,” Sarah said.
“She’d had an argument with Sir Anthony, then. I don’t know what it was
about, but it must have been serious, because I never saw two people so
much in love with each other. But he just stopped talking to her completely,
wouldn’t even look at her. She was very unhappy, and when Prince Charles
asked us to stay in Carlisle she decided to stay as well. But Sir Anthony
wouldn’t let her. He sent An…another man to make her go on with them to
Scotland. So Graeme went too, to keep an eye on her. I hope they made up,”
he finished wistfully. Suddenly realising that the blanket had slipped while
he’d been talking, exposing his nakedness, he pulled it tighter round himself
before casting an embarrassed glance at Sarah.
She hadn’t noticed. She was staring at a point somewhere over his left
shoulder, but the misty expression in her eyes told him that she was far, far
away from this room. He waited for a while, then for a while more. And
then he coughed softly.
Her eyes cleared, and her focus shot back to him.
“Sir Anthony had two servants,” she said, her voice uncharacteristically
hesitant. “I knew them as Jim and Murdo, and I don’t want to know their
real names either. But one was tall and fair-haired, and the other was a bit
smaller, with dark hair and grey eyes.”
John smiled.
“Yes,” he said. “I know who you’re talking about.”
She leaned forward eagerly, then checked herself and sat back again.
“Were they well, when you last saw them?” she asked.
“Yes. Both of them were in excellent health when I last saw them. But
that was in December,” he added softly. Clearly one of these men meant
something to her, but he didn’t want to raise her hopes. “A lot has happened
since then.”
Sarah looked at him, and tears sparkled on her lashes.
“I know,” she replied. “You’re right.” She brushed her hand across her
face, and stood. “You can sleep in here. It’ll have to be on the floor, I’m
afraid, but there’s a bit of carpet, and I’ll get another blanket for you. I’ll go
out in the morning and get you some clothes. I’ll go where no one knows
me,” she added.
“I really appreciate this, Sarah,” John said. “After all, you didn’t really
know me, and when you did I made it very clear that I hated you.”
She laughed.
“You were right to, then,” she said. “I was a bitch. I still can be. But you
say Beth spoke highly of me. Well, she spoke highly of you too, and that’s
enough for me. Here,” she said, handing him the pistol. “Keep that with you
tonight. Just in case anyone did see you coming into the alley.”
“They didn’t,” John said, checking it was all in order and ready to fire if
necessary. “I was very careful. I don’t really know London, though. Is this a
dangerous part of town, then?”
“No,” Sarah replied. “I bought that and learned how to use it, so that if
Richard ever comes to see me again, I can blow his fucking brains out.”
And with that she went to bed, leaving John not knowing whether to be
more shocked by the expletive she had just uttered, or by her tone of voice,
which left him in no doubt that if Richard Cunningham was at any time to
enter her premises, it would be the last thing he ever did.
 ***

When Sarah got back from the market the next day, carrying a parcel of
clothes, the baby carefully swaddled against her chest by means of a
cleverly-tied shawl, John had cleaned the small room and got a fire going,
and two pots of water were boiling over it. He looked up as she came
through the door from the shop and smiled at her. He was still wearing the
blanket from yesterday, as whilst he had been washing the previous evening
she had unceremoniously burnt all his vermin-infested clothes. However,
with the aid of a piece of rope, he had now tied the blanket around him in
an interesting fashion, which left the lower part of his legs bare, but which
covered the upper part and most of his torso.
Sarah placed the parcel of clothes on one chair, then untied the shawl
from round her waist. An ominous smell came from the baby, which
competed with the spicy smell from the remains of yesterday’s pie, which
was reheating in the Dutch oven. She placed the baby on the chair and
massaged the small of her back with her hands.
“She doesn’t seem to weigh much, until you’ve been carrying her round
all day,” Sarah said. She looked around the sparkling room. “You’ve been
busy. You didn’t have to do this, you know.”
“I wanted to,” John said. “It was nice to be active, after being stuck so
long in a cell. I used to walk round and round it, just to keep my legs strong.
I hope you don’t mind,” he added, gesturing to the fire, “I put some carrots
and potatoes to boil, I thought you might appreciate not having to cook.”
Sarah picked the baby up, who was now awake. Her little face puckered
up as she prepared to howl at the double discomfort of a dirty bottom and
an empty stomach.
“You’ll make someone a wonderful wife one day,” she joked. “I’ll go and
change her clout and feed her,” she continued. “I won’t be more than a few
minutes.”
When she came back, minus the baby, John was busy putting the food out
on plates. Sarah sat down at the table with obvious relief.
“There,” she said. “She’s all clean and fed and should sleep for a couple
of hours now.”
“What are you feeding her?” John asked unexpectedly.
Sarah instantly blushed scarlet, to his surprise.
 “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just…I wondered if you had a wet nurse for
her, that’s all.”
“No,” Sarah replied. “I feed her myself. Cow’s milk, or goat’s when I can
get it,” she added hurriedly. She focussed all her attention on cutting up a
potato. “These are perfect.”
It was clear from her tone that she was very surprised he was capable of
the simple act of cooking a potato.
“The Highlanders aren’t like us,” he explained. “The men don’t think
cooking is woman’s work. In fact it’s really common for the men to cook. I
learnt from them, and it seems natural now. After all, the women work
really hard, doing all the cleaning and washing and so forth, and when there
are no battles to be fought, there’s often not a lot for the men to do, so they
cook.”
“Did you learn your interesting way with a blanket from the Highlanders
too?” she asked indistinctly, her mouth full of potato.
Now it was John’s turn to blush as he looked down and realised how
scantily covered he was, by English standards.
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
Sarah waved a hand in the air to indicate that she was intrigued rather
than offended by his attire. She chewed briskly and swallowed.
“It’s very clever,” she said.
“The Highlanders have more material in theirs. They call it the féileadh
mhór. They wear it a bit like this,” he indicated the knee-length skirt he’d
fashioned, “but they gather it at the back, so it allows them to move freely,
and then the part that hangs over the belt,” he pointed to his bit of rope,
“can be worn like a cloak, or over one shoulder…all kinds of ways. They
use it as a blanket too, or even a tent, sometimes. Sorry, am I boring you?”
He had to admit she didn’t look bored. If anything she looked entranced.
She had been still, her forkful of pie poised halfway to her mouth the whole
time he’d been speaking.
“No,” she confirmed. “It’s really interesting. I only know what the
newspapers say, since I learned to read; that the Highlanders are all savage
barbarians who kill each other at the drop of a hat, are dirty and ragged,
speak with grunts, and rape and murder at will. But I met Murdo and Jim,
and Sir Anthony, of course, and I’d love to know more about what the
Highlanders are really like, because the newspapers are full of lies. Beth
told me that the king is dull and boring, and Cumberland spoke only to her
breasts, and that most of her friends don’t like King George, even the ones
who support him. And that’s nothing like what the Gazette says. But let’s
eat first, and you need to be careful about what you tell me, because I really
don’t want to know their proper names, or where they come from, or
anything that could help them be arrested.”
“Is the Duke of Newcastle that frightening, that you think you’d give
information away to him?” John asked.
“No. But what I don’t know I can’t tell, whatever happens,” Sarah
pointed out logically.
So they ate, and he thought, and then he told her that he’d believed the
same as her until he’d met Highlanders in the flesh, when he’d found those
he’d met to be, in the main, highly civilised people. Even on campaign they
tried to keep as clean as possible; they respected women and cared for
children, and he hadn’t seen one instance of rape in the whole time he’d
been with the Jacobite army. Although he couldn’t understand their
language, far from being a series of grunts, it had a musical lilting tone to it
that was beautiful.
“Did you learn any?” Sarah asked.
“Tha gràdh agam ort, mo chridhe,” he said.
“Oh, that sounds lovely. What does it mean?”
John grinned.
“Jim told me it meant, ‘a good morning to you’, but after I’d said it to
half a dozen burly men who gave me very strange looks, Ke…one of Sir
Anthony’s friends, when I said it to him, started laughing, and knew straight
away that Jim had taught me. Believe me, this man was not someone you’d
want to say tha gràdh agam ort to, not if you were a man, anyway, and
wanted to live long.”
“What does it mean, then?”
“I love you, my heart. I told Jim I’d skin him alive if he taught me any
more things like that. I could have died of embarrassment.”
Sarah tried not to laugh for all of five seconds, then gave in. She laughed
until the tears ran down her face, and then she gave a great sobbing sigh,
and John realised that somewhere along the way the mirth had given way to
sadness. Instinctively he stood and moved to comfort her, but she waved
him away, so instead he hovered uncertainly near her, not knowing what to
do.
 “I miss them,” she said finally, when she’d got her emotions under
control a little.
“I’m sure Beth’s all right,” John assured her, not sure who she meant by
‘them’. “I’m sure she made up her argument with –”
“Not just Beth,” Sarah interrupted. She hesitated for a moment, as though
about to reveal something, then changed her mind. “I miss Sir Anthony too.
He was different.”
“I know, Graeme told me. He called him the Purple Popinjay.”
“No, not that. Yes, everyone thought he was an incompetent flowery fool,
that all he thought about was fashion, gossip and himself. But there was
more to him, I knew that the first time I met him. Of course I didn’t know
what it was.” She blew her nose, sniffed, and gave John a watery smile.
“But he always treated women with respect, even servants and beggars. And
when I saw his reaction when I ran into Lord Edward’s card party and told
him Lord Daniel had abducted Beth, I knew then that he loved her, even if
she didn’t. You could see it in his eyes. His voice was different too. It was
as though he forgot to be Sir Anthony for a moment, forgot everything
except that Beth was in danger.”
“He loves her,” John agreed. “And she loves him. I never saw anything
like it. At first I thought I’d love to find someone I could care that much for,
but later I changed my mind.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t imagine either of them being able to live without the
other one. They might go on breathing and walking about and suchlike, but
I think if one of them died, the other would never recover.”
“I hope they’re both alive, then, and together,” Sarah said.
“So do I. Or if not, that they died together, and quickly.”
They sat and thought about this for a minute, then Sarah stood suddenly.
“Right,” she said briskly in an obvious attempt to dispel the melancholy
mood that had overtaken them both. “Let me show you the clothes I bought
for you. As fetching as you look dressed in your faila….in that,” she
pointed to his blanket, “I think you’ll be noticed if you go out in it.” She
picked up the package and started to unfold the clothes. There was a pair of
grey woollen breeches with a buckle at the knee, two pairs of black cotton
stockings, a woollen waistcoat, three white shirts, a grey wool tabby
frockcoat, a jaunty red and white neckerchief, a hat and some slightly
scuffed black leather shoes decorated with silver-plated buckles.
 “They’re not new. I thought you’d stand out more if you had a whole suit
of new clothes, and you don’t want that, but they’re in good condition and
they’ve all been washed, and I think they’ll fit you,” she said. “But if not, I
should be able to alter them so they’ll pass. I was pleased with the shirts
and coat,” she added. “The shirts are linen, and the coat was a bargain. It’s
hardly been worn at all, and the cuffs are really long, so they should hide
your wrists. Once we’ve got you shaved and dressed, you’ll look like a
respectable tradesman. You’re very pale, but you can tell anyone who
mentions that that you’ve got the consumption and you’re going to stay
with some friends in the country for a few days to get some clean air. That
should keep people away from you too. You’ll just have to be very careful
not to let anyone see your wrists.” She looked at his hands. “And your
fingers. I didn’t think about them. I should have got you some gloves as
well. Damn!” she said. “I’m sorry.”
John looked at her in amazement.
“You’re sorry?” he said incredulously. “You’ve saved my life, fed me, let
me sleep here overnight, spent your hard-earned money on buying me
clothes when you hardly know me, and you’re sorry?”
“Now,” she continued, blushing slightly at his praise, and brushing it off,
“there are no posters or anything of that sort out about anyone escaping
from the New Gaol, and the Gazette hasn’t published an extraordinary
about it. I assume that’s because they don’t want everyone to know it’s
possible to escape from prison, and that there are murderous rebels on the
loose. But at the market I was told that the watch are knocking on doors and
asking in the streets if people have heard or seen any dangerous-looking
strangers, and to report to them if they do.
“I also heard that the Duke of Cumberland’s due to arrive back in London
tomorrow. They’re already building bonfires and people are out cleaning
the streets and putting candles in their windows. There’ll be thousands of
drunks on the streets tomorrow night, and it’ll be chaos. It’ll be a perfect
time for you to slip away, while everybody’s out cheering for the hero of
Culloden. So I think you should stay here tonight. I’ll keep the shop closed
again tomorrow, and everyone will think it’s because I’m overcome with
excitement about the duke. I can get you some gloves in the morning, and
then you can leave in the afternoon. I’ll give you the money for the coach.
Do you know how much it costs to get to Didsbury?”
 She looked across at him. He was running his hand over the wool of the
coat, deep in thought. He mumbled something, too low for her to hear.
“What?” Sarah asked.
“I can’t go tomorrow,” he said more loudly. “I-I have to do something.”
“What do you have to do?” she asked, puzzled. Her tone clearly indicated
that she couldn’t think of anything worth missing this golden opportunity
for. “If you want to say goodbye to somebody, you can write a letter and I’ll
deliver it for you. Or if you can’t write, I can do it for you. I learnt how to
write, I can do it quite well now,” she finished, with pride in her voice.
“No, it’s not that. But…can you lend me a few shillings to find a room,
just for a week, that’s all? Then I can leave. I’ll send you the money back, I
promise, once I find work in Didsbury.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. “You can’t stay in London another week,
John. The people already know there’s something amiss. News travels like
wildfire on the streets. Within a couple of days someone in the watch or one
of the prison guards will let something slip and everyone will know exactly
what happened and probably what you look like too. You have to get away
now, while you can.”
He looked down at the clothes again. A full minute passed in silence.
“John, talk to me. You’ve trusted me this far. What do you have to do
that’s worth risking being captured for?”
“You’ll think I’m an idiot,” he said, still looking at the frockcoat.
“No, I won’t. Tell me.”
“The men that were convicted with me, Colonel Towneley, George
Fletcher, Tom Chadwick, John Berwick, Tom Syddall, Jemmy Dawson…”
his voice trailed off, and he swallowed, hard. “And others,” he continued
after a minute. “Tom Deacon, Andrew Blood, Dai Morgan. They’re all
going to die next Thursday. I should have been with them on the scaffold.
But I’m going to be there to watch them die, and if any of them see me, to
let them know I’m there for them. I’ll pray for their souls every day for the
rest of my life. And if Maddox has been released yet and I see his smug face
in the crowd, I’ll break his neck, and gladly hang for it.”
Her expression told him that she did indeed think he was an idiot. She sat
down and ran a hand over her face.
“John,” she said, “you can’t do this. There will be soldiers everywhere,
and guards from the prison, who know what you look like. There’ll be
thousands of people watching. Your friends won’t see you, they won’t even
know you’re there. You can pray for them all the way to Didsbury in the
coach if you want. I don’t know who this Maddox is that you hate so much,
but surely he’s not worth dying a traitor’s death for?”
John finally looked up from the coat, and at her. His brown eyes were full
of tears, but his mouth twisted in a cruel parody of a smile.
“Yes, Maddox is worth dying for,” John said. “I don’t think they’ll
release him yet though. But I have to do this, Sarah. This is the least I can
do for them. If I just turn my back and run, I’ll never forgive myself. I can’t
explain it, but I have to.”
Sarah bit her lip and thought.
“All right,” she said. “I think you’re wrong, but if you have to do this,
you have to.”
John let out a great sigh of relief. He wasn’t sure why, but it really
mattered to him that he had her support, if not her blessing.
“But I’m not giving you money for lodgings,” she added. “You can stay
here. It’ll be safer.”
“I can’t stay here for a week!” he protested. “What will people say?”
“They won’t say anything,” she replied. “There’s nothing wrong with a
brother who’s been in the militia and has only just heard of his sister’s death
coming to visit his other sister, and his baby niece. That’s what I told people
at the market today. Well, not the militia bit, but as you’ve actually been in
the militia, if anyone asks you, you’ll be able to talk about it. My customers
are unlikely to ask. Emily would but she’s worked very hard this last year,
so I’ll give her a week to go home and see her family. The only other person
who might call round and show an interest is Anne, but I’m sure we’ll be
able to convince her. Anne’s the poor cow who married Richard,” Sarah
elaborated. “She’s lonely, and she’s become a sort of friend, even though
she’s a lady, and was very rich until she married that bastard and let him
take control of her fortune. Strange how Richard, who hates women so
much, manages to bring them together. Beth, me, Anne, even Caroline, in a
way.”
“Who’s Emily? And Caroline?” John asked, thoroughly perplexed by this
torrent of words about people he’d never heard of.
“I’ll tell you later. Put your clothes on, then we can go into the details,
get our story straight. You’re going to have to pretend to like babies, I’m
afraid. But Mary is very placid, at least.”
 “I love babies, placid or not,” John said. “I haven’t asked to hold her
because I wasn’t sure you’d want me to, a stranger and all.”
Sarah smiled and turned to leave the room and let him dress, but he put
his hand on her arm to stop her, felt her flinch instinctively, and
remembered what Beth had told him about Sarah’s past. He let her go, but
she turned back to him.
“I know you’re making light of it,” he said, “but you’re taking a big risk,
sheltering me, pretending I’m your brother. Why are you doing it?”
Instead of answering his question, Sarah asked one of her own. “Did you
know there was a big reward out for information leading to the capture of
Sir Anthony?”
“No,” said John. “But I’m not surprised. Graeme told me a bit about him,
about the fact that after he married Beth they went to Rome and spent time
with Prince Charles, and over here he was part of the cou….never mind,
you don’t want to know. But yes, Graeme told me you’d written to warn
them you’d been questioned by the Duke of Newcastle, so they could get
their stories ready. Graeme really likes you, you know. He told me he
couldn’t have been more wrong about you. So yes, I know that the
authorities really want to find Sir Anthony.”
“And did you realise that if you’d told them that you knew who he was,
and what he looked like, you’d probably have been offered a full pardon?”
He stared at her, aghast.
“Maddox,” he said cryptically. “You said you don’t know who Maddox
is. Sam Maddox. He was an ensign, like me. And he turned evidence. He
hates Colonel Towneley; a lot of us didn’t like him, to be honest. He’s brave
and loyal to the Stuarts, but he’s got no sense of humour, and thinks himself
above his men. I don’t know what he did to make Maddox hate him so
much, but whatever it was, it’s not worth turning traitor for. I’d kill him for
that alone. But he gave evidence against a lot of other men too, just out of
spite and cowardice. I can’t think of anyone I despise more, except perhaps
Richard.
“I didn’t know about a reward, but yes, I suppose I should have realised
that if I offered information about Sir Anthony I’d probably get a pardon,
although I never thought about it until right now, when you mentioned it.
And I’ll tell you this; they could torture me for the next ten years and I
wouldn’t tell them anything about Sir Anthony. I love Beth like a sister, and
Sir Anthony was good to me in the time I knew him. I have enormous
respect for him, and for his…friends. I wouldn’t betray any one of them, for
all the pardons or gold in the world. How could you even think I would?”
His voice had risen in anger, and his face was flushed. From the bedroom
came a wail. The baby had woken from her nap.
To his surprise Sarah laughed, and then to his astonishment she enfolded
him in her arms in a quick hug, before letting him go and stepping back.
“I don’t,” she said simply. “I don’t think for one minute that the John
Beth told me about would betray Sir Anthony, or anyone else, no matter
what. And there’s your answer too. How could you think I’d let such a man
as you go out and risk being recaptured, when I can do something to stop it?
And anyway, we have something in common that makes you as dear to me
as if you were my brother.”
“What’s that?”
“You love Beth, and you hate Richard. That’s enough for me.” She turned
to go into the bedroom, from which the wails were growing louder, then
looked back at him. “I never thought I’d go to an execution,” she added.
“But I guess there’s a first time for everything.”
“But –” John started.
“Do you think I’d let my brother go through an experience like that
alone?” she interrupted. “What kind of a sister would that make me? Now
get dressed, will you?”
Before he could say another word she left the room. He stared after her
for a moment. And then he shook his head and smiled. He could see why
Beth loved her. They had a lot in common.
He picked up the stockings and started to put them on.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER SEVEN

Fort Augustus, July 1746

The three men approached Fort Augustus by way of the track that followed
the river, slowing as they neared the entrance to the streets of tents in which
the bulk of the British Army was housed.
As they arrived at the first of the tents they were approached by a small
boy, barefoot and dressed in rags. The man at the front reined in his horse, a
bay mare, thereby causing his companions to do the same, then leaned
down to the boy, who reached up earnestly to him in the classic gesture of
the beggar. The man rummaged in the pocket of his brown woollen frock
coat and produced a coin, which he placed into the outstretched hand. The
boy smiled and released a torrent of Gaelic, presumably by way of saying
thanks, although the precise meaning of the speech was clearly
incomprehensible to the recipient of it.
“You shouldn’t encourage them, sir. Before you know it you’ll have a
hundred of them round you, pawing at you with their filthy hands. We’re
forbidden to give them food or money now. They’ve become a real
nuisance.”
The philanthropist removed his attention from the boy and placed it on
the owner of the voice, a young soldier dressed in buff breeches and a white
shirt, who was sitting on a rock outside his tent, vigorously polishing a pair
of black leather boots.
“Like as not you’re right,” replied the horseman.”I’m too soft for my
own good, but he looked in need of a meal, and it was only a copper I gave
him.”
The soldier put the boot down on the ground and stood.
“Have you come for the cattle auctions, sir?” he asked.
“I have indeed.” He swept off his hat and bowed his head. “Tobias
Grundy at your service, sir.” He gestured to his two companions. “This is
my assistant, George Armstrong.”
 “Your servant, sir,” said George. The soldier smiled up at him, his face
briefly registering his shock at the sight of George’s mangled face before
settling back into a neutral expression.
“And this,” Tobias said, gesturing to the third man, who loosely held the
reins of a fourth horse, laden with provisions for the journey, “is John.”
John had paid no attention to this exchange of greetings, but instead was
gazing out across the fields surrounding the fort, which were covered with
thousands of grazing cattle.
“You’ll excuse John’s manners, sir. He’s deaf, and cannot speak, although
I daresay if he could, he’d have nowt worth saying in any case. But he’s
steady and good with cattle, and that’s what matters to me.”
“Pleased to meet you, sirs. Private Thomas at your service.” He sketched
a bow. “If you’re here for the auction, you’ll need to speak with Sergeant
Williams. He’s in charge of those. If you’ll care to follow me, I’ll take you
to him.”
While the young soldier was putting on his boots and jacket, Tobias and
George dismounted, and John, belatedly noticing this, dragged his gaze
away from the cattle and followed suit. By a series of elaborate gestures
Tobias managed to communicate to John that he was to stay with the horses,
and then he and George followed Private Thomas as he led them down one
of the makeshift streets in the direction of the fort itself.
“It’s a tidy operation you’ve got here, and no mistake,” Tobias
commented, admiring the neat rows of tents, the front flaps of which were
mainly tied back due to the warmth of the day, revealing neatly ordered
interiors. Men in various states of undress were sitting about on the grass,
polishing boots or equipment, smoking pipes, or playing at dice or cards.
They took little notice of the visitors; clearly it was not unusual for
strangers to appear amongst them seeking directions.
“We have to, sir,” Private Thomas replied. “The duke is very particular
about order and cleanliness, and runs a tight ship.”
“The duke?” exclaimed Tobias. “Are you talking about the Duke of
Cumberland, sir? There’s a man I would dearly love to –”
Whatever Tobias would have loved to do to the Duke of Cumberland was
left unsaid, as their guide stopped and pointed to a man who was walking in
their direction.
“Ah, here’s Sergeant Williams, sir.” He saluted smartly to the
approaching figure, who made his way toward the group. “These men have
come for the auction, Sergeant. I was bringing them to you,” he said to the
tall middle-aged man, who was dressed in full uniform and sweating freely
in the heat.
Greetings were exchanged, after which Private Thomas returned to his
boot-polishing and the three men made their way to the fort, where Sergeant
Williams had set up a makeshift office in one of the rooms not wholly
destroyed by the rebels. He asked them to take a seat and then sent for some
refreshments.
“So, you’re here to buy cattle, Mr Grundy,” Sergeant Williams said,
addressing the young man sitting opposite him.
“That I am, sir. I was at the county fair a few weeks ago, and was told
that you were selling cattle at a rate worth riding up to this godforsaken
place for. Begging your pardon, Sergeant,” he added belatedly.
Sergeant Williams assessed the man; good quality but practical clothing,
somewhat travel-stained; a decent sword, but the basket hilt showed signs
of rust, so probably carried to deter thieves rather than because the wearer
was a swordsman. Tall and well-built, and clearly used to an outdoor life.
The eyes behind the brass-rimmed spectacles he wore were blue and his
eyebrows black, as no doubt was his hair, currently hidden under a cheap
bagwig, which he wore somewhat uncomfortably, as though unaccustomed
to it. Trying to make a good impression then, and a countryman rather than
from the city, as neither the clothes nor the wig were of the latest fashion.
“No need to apologise, sir. I share your feelings. The sooner we can get
the job we’re here to do done with and I can get back home, the happier I’ll
be. You’re from the north of England then, Mr Grundy? Your accent, sir,”
the sergeant added, noting the young man’s surprise at him knowing this.
“Oh! You have a knowledge of accents? I can’t tell one from t’ other
myself, for the most part. If they don’t speak like me, they’re foreign.
That’s as far as it goes with me. Yes, I’m a Yorkshire lad, sir, born and bred
and proud of it. I’ve a farm over on’t moors, near Haworth. You’ll likely
have heard of it, if you’re from those parts yourself, though you don’t sound
like it, I must say.”
The sergeant smiled, realising that he’d just been designated as ‘foreign’
by the Yorkshireman, who probably had never travelled more than a few
miles from his home town in his entire life. This must be an enormous
adventure for him.
 “No, I’m from the midlands,” Sergeant Williams responded, “but my
father’s family were from Yorkshire. Never been there myself. Now, Mr
Armstrong, is it?” he said, addressing the other man.
“Indeed sir, George Armstrong.”
“Can I ask you, Mr Armstrong, how you came by that injury?”
Armstrong bristled noticeably, and his face reddened.
“I had the misfortune to be in Carlisle when the rebels came through, sir.
One of the bastards took offence to something I said. I’d been drinking, and
looking back, it probably wasn’t the best time to toast the health of the king.
Even so…I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind.”
“Are you from Carlisle, Mr Armstrong?” the sergeant persisted, ignoring
the man’s request.
Armstrong shook his head.
“Cumbria. I was up there on business. I’d never have gone, but we’d had
word that the rebels were headed for Newcastle rather than Carlisle, so I
thought I was safe to go ahead. I nearly died that day sir, and I still have bad
dreams about it. You’ll be accustomed to such things, no doubt, being a
fighting man, but I’m a man of the soil, and have never courted any
trouble.”
At first glance he didn’t look like a man of the soil, the sergeant thought;
but in retrospect that was probably because of the horrific injury, which,
apart from taking the man’s eye, had disfigured him badly, making him look
very ferocious. But looking beyond that, he could see the weatherbeaten
lined skin of an outdoor man; and the gnarled and swollen joints of his
fingers indicated rheumatics. Yes, a man of the soil who’d been in the
wrong place at the wrong time, he concluded.
“I’m sorry to bring back bad memories for you sir, but we can’t be too
careful. As I’m sure you’ve seen, we have thousands of animals here that
have been brought in from the rebel lands during the pacification. Many of
the rebels have now surrendered their arms, and their houses and lands are
burnt, but there are still a stubborn few skulking in the mountains,
determined to fight on.”
“What, you think they might attack the fort?!” Mr Grundy said,
thoroughly alarmed. Mr Armstrong’s expression was more difficult to read;
no doubt the man’s nerves had been damaged by the sword cut, and the
strange twisting of the mouth denoted fear rather than the anger it appeared
to show. The sergeant held up his hand.
 “No, no, you mistake me. The rebels would never dare to attack the fort.
We have thousands of men here. But they might attempt a raid to retrieve
some of their cattle. To that end we have a strong guard around the area,
day and night. And then of course there is the danger of spies being sent to
assess our numbers and arms, which is why I had to question where you
came by your injury, Mr Armstrong. I appreciate now that you probably
despise the rebels even more than I do.”
“You can’t imagine how I feel about the rebels,” Armstrong replied,
tight-lipped.
“Perhaps not. My apologies if I caused you any offence, sir. Anyway, let
us get down to business. How many cows are you hoping to buy, Mr
Grundy?”
“Please, let us not stand on ceremony, Sergeant. I’m a plain man. Call me
Toby, sir. I’m after about two thousand beasts, if the price is right, of
course.”
The sergeant’s eyes widened.
“Two thousand?” he repeated.
“That’s right. You’ve a good many more than that, by the looks of it. I
should think you could spare them.”
“We can. But most people are buying two hundred at best, sir.”
“Maybe they are. But I’ve not ridden for two weeks through bogs and
rain in mortal fear of being killed by savages just to make a few guineas.
I’ll speak plain, for I’m a plain man, as I said. I’m here to make my fortune,
sir. It’s a clever plan you’ve got, to starve the bastards so they can’t fight
even if they would, and judging by the beggars we met at the gates, it looks
like you’re doing a fine job of it. I’ve no doubt you’re wanting to be rid of
the beasts as quick as you can sir, to make sure they’re out of reach of
anyone desperate enough to try to take them anyway, in spite of the guard.
I’m sure your men have got better things to do with their time than guarding
cows.”
The orderly returned with bread, butter and beer, and the sergeant sent
him off again, this time for a bottle of good brandy. These guests were
worth more than ale.
“You speak the truth, Mr…er…Toby,” said the sergeant. “Do you mean
to drive them back to Yorkshire?”
“I do indeed. They can fatten up along the way. There’s plenty of grass
for them at this time of year.”
 “How many men have you got with you, to drive them?”
“Just three of us. Me, George, and John, who’s with our baggage. I did
employ a couple of guides to show me the way, but I’ve sent them on their
way now. I was hoping that I might be able to pay for some of your men to
help us drive them.” The sergeant opened his mouth to speak, but Toby
continued quickly. “Only as far as Glasgow, Sergeant. I’ve already written
to some friends there, who have men willing to help us take them the rest of
the way. Once we’re south of Glasgow I think we’ll be safe from attack,
and we’ll have no more need of soldiers, just cattle men. I saw no point in
paying for militiamen to come all the way from Yorkshire, sir, when I knew
there were a lot of experienced soldiers here.”
“The British Army is not here to escort cattle across country, Mr Grundy.
We are here to fight the rebels!” the sergeant protested.
“Oh. I’m sorry. I thought the rebels were defeated. I’m sure that everyone
in Yorkshire thinks so. Why, they were ringing the bells day and night for
nearly a week in April when we heard of the Duke of Cumberland’s great
victory. Right bloody racket, it were. And it were in all t’papers too. The
duke’s a hero – everyone’s saying as how he’s saved us from popery and
tyranny. In fact, I was only saying to Private Thomas there, that I’d love to
meet the duke, if it were possible. I’d give my right arm to see him, sir, that
I would. I’d no idea the war was still going on. Maybe I’ll just have a
hundred cows then. It’d be a shame to come so far and go home with nowt
to show for it. But I’m right disappointed, and that’s a fact. I’ve no idea
what I’ll tell my friends when I get back without my cows, and tell them the
war’s still going on after all.”
The man did look completely crushed, even tearful. He took off his
glasses and polished them briskly on the sleeve of his coat, clearly trying to
compose himself by doing something. His companion remained silent, but
seemed equally crestfallen, and was looking down at the floor, presumably
trying to appear as though he hadn’t noticed his master’s embarrassing
emotional state.
The orderly reappeared with the brandy and three glasses, and while he
was pouring, the sergeant thought, hard. His captain would have his balls
for breakfast if he lost such a huge sale. More cattle were coming in daily,
and it was a real problem finding room for them all, in spite of the twice-
weekly auctions. Two thousand was a lot, and if Grundy got them back to
Yorkshire safely, others would hear and hopefully head up to buy more. The
sooner the cattle were sold, the sooner he could leave this place and head
home, hopefully before winter. Because without food the rebels would
starve, and if they were starving, they couldn’t fight. The thought of
spending another winter in this shithole of a place made the sergeant’s
blood run cold.
“Let me reassure you, Mr Gru….Toby,” the sergeant said, the second the
orderly had left the room. “The rebels are most certainly defeated. Most of
their leaders are either dead or captured, and the Pretender’s son is within
an inch of being caught.” Seeing Toby’s teary-eyed look of doubt, the
sergeant hurried on. “In fact, His Highness the Duke has departed for
London, so sure is he that the rebels will not rise again. He takes his
responsibilities very seriously, and was determined not to leave Scotland, in
spite of the calls for him to do so, until he was certain that the rebellion was
entirely crushed.”
“Ah. That’s good news, sir, although I would very much have liked to
meet –”
“I’m sure the duke would have been delighted to allow you to kiss his
hand, had he been here,” the sergeant said insincerely.
Mr Armstrong, who had been sipping his brandy, suddenly choked. Toby
patted him absently on the back while he pondered the sergeant’s words.
“I’m very glad to hear that the war is over, but you said –”
“What I meant,” the sergeant interrupted, “was that the men are very
busy pacifying the Highlands. However, you said that you have friends in
Glasgow who can help you from there.” Glasgow was a loyal Whig town;
there was no danger of an attack by Jacobites that far south.
“I do, sir. Good stout men.”
“Well, then. If you are willing to lengthen your journey a little, I have
two hundred men going to Fort William in three days to join the garrison
there, in preparation for… I am sure they will be happy to help drive the
cattle for a small consideration, say sixpence a day?”
“Tuppence,” Toby responded automatically.
“Threepence,” the sergeant replied.
Toby nodded, and the sergeant cursed inwardly. He probably could have
got fivepence. He had been given the task of cattle-dealing because of his
administrative skills. He hated haggling.
“And from Fort William?” Toby asked.
“How many men will you need?”
 Toby thought for a minute.
“I’d say thirty, if they know about cows.”
“I’ll have a word with the captain. I’m sure we can sort something out.
Now, about the auction…”

***

By the time Toby and George got back to their horses it was dusk and their
companion had set up the tent they were to share, out of earshot but not out
of sight of the soldiers’ tents, had unpacked their bedrolls, made a fire, and
was in the process of cooking a meal. He had his back to them as they
approached, and when Toby clapped him on the back by way of greeting he
jumped a foot in the air, to the amusement of a group of nearby soldiers.
After a short discussion, using hand signals which conveyed to John in
simple terms the plan they’d discussed with the sergeant, and which
confirmed to the soldiers that John was not only deaf and dumb, but
something of an idiot as well, Toby wandered off towards the river,
announcing that he needed a piss, and maybe more than that, and might be a
few minutes.
If anyone else had happened to be down by the river a few moments later,
they would have seen that Private Thomas had been right; the young beggar
boy clearly had been encouraged by Mr Grundy’s generosity earlier in the
day, and had no qualms about approaching that gentleman, even when he
was squatting with his breeches round his ankles. There proceeded a low-
voiced discussion, after which Mr Grundy gave the boy a cuff round the ear
and sent him on his way, apparently empty-handed.
He returned to the tent a few minutes later, where he and his colleagues
ate and then, declining an invitation from the military men to join them in a
game of cards, they turned in for an early night, having been on the road all
day.

“Did ye meet wi’ Lachlan?” Iain whispered once they were inside the tent
with the flaps down. Although they had no candle the light from the nearby
cooking fires of the soldiers illuminated the interior of their accommodation
enough for Iain to see Alex put his finger to his mouth, and he immediately
fell silent.
 “The soldiers won’t hear our words if we whisper,” he said, still using the
flat vowels of Toby Grundy, Yorkshireman, “but Scottish accents have a
different cadence, even when whispered, that they might pick up on if
they’re astute. We can’t be too careful.”
Iain nodded.
“But yes, I did. I told him that we’ll be leaving in three days, and to tell
Angus to wait for further instructions once we get to Fort William. If he’s
quick, he should be back with us before we reach there, and we can tell him
more then. We can’t go ahead with the plan while there are two hundred
soldiers with us. I hadn’t planned on that many. But it’s good that we’ll be
heading down the country from Fort William, because we won’t have so far
to go to drive the cattle to Glencoe.”
“Unless they send the two hundred soldiers to Glasgow with us,” Graeme
commented.
“I’ll deal with that as I come to it. I’ll think of something. Did you hear
anything useful, Iain?”
Iain shook his head.
“Tomorrow go for a walk round, be interested in everything, but
understand nothing. You’re really good at being a deaf idiot now. The way
you jumped when I touched you, if I hadn’t known better I’d really have
had no idea you heard us coming a good minute before.”
The deaf idiot grinned and winked, but kept silent.
“You’re a good teacher,” Graeme whispered. “I knew you could act a
role, I mean I saw you as Sir Anthony twice, remember?”
“I’m not likely to forget you and Thomas running down the garden to kill
me for attacking Beth,” Alex said, smiling at the memory and then trying to
dismiss it quickly before the pain came.
“But I didn’t realise just how good you were until today. Everything
about you was a blunt northern Englishman, a man who likes to think he’s
plain, but is so desperate to make a fortune and rise in the world that he’s
moved to tears when he thinks it won’t happen. You were so good I was
actually disappointed for you that you weren’t going to get to kiss
Cumberland’s hand and dine out on it in Haworth for the next twenty
years.”
Alex laughed softly.
“Not as disappointed as Cumberland’d be if he knew that Sir Anthony
Peters was lying within a few feet of thousands of redcoats right now,
feeling as safe as if he was in his own house.”
“Do you really feel that safe?” asked Graeme. “I’m damned if I do.”
“I do. I have to, or I’d be nervous all the time, and men can sense
nervousness. I spent over three years living a lie every day. I had to learn
how to relax. We all did. That’s why Iain wouldn’t have choked on his
brandy like you did. You covered it well, though. And your story about the
injury sounded convincing.”
“I’m a plain man,” Graeme said, grinning. “I’m not used to lying. I’m
glad we had the time for you to teach me while we were riding down to
Cheshire to get the gold. I’m sorry we couldn’t go to see Thomas and Jane,
though. I’d like to let them know I’m well.”
“I’m sorry. But we couldn’t risk it. If you’d been recognised by someone
who knew you’d joined the prince…maybe in time you’ll be able to, but it’s
too soon now.”
“I know. But at least now you know where the money is, should anything
happen to me. It’s worried me ever since Beth…” His voice trailed off into
silence and he closed his eyes for a moment, compressing his lips into a
tight line to try to contain the grief that had risen in him at the mere thought
of her death. “I didn’t want to be the only person who knew where it was,”
he continued after a moment. “What would you have done if Cumberland
had still been here and agreed to let you kiss his hand?”
“I’d have kissed it. Then one day, when I was sure I was safe, I’d have
written to him to let him know how close he was to Sir Anthony this day.
Now, let’s get some sleep. I want to look at the cattle tomorrow, pick out the
best, and find out more about how the auction’s run. In fact in view of how
many I’m buying, I’m hoping to bypass the auction altogether. And I’d
rather pay for the cows and get rid of the money before the soldiers find out
I’ve got five hundred guineas in gold with me.”

***

25th July, 1746

It was a glorious day. In London Prince William Augustus, Duke of

Cumberland was arriving in London to a tumultuous welcome from its
grateful citizens. Much further north, Prince Charles Edward Stuart, back
on the mainland of Scotland had, four days earlier, successfully broken
through the extremely tight cordon around Moidart set up to capture him,
by passing silently between two sentries, and was now safely resting in a
cave in the Braes of Glenmoriston in the loyal company of the famous (or
infamous, depending on one’s viewpoint) Glenmoriston men, who had
vowed to fight on regardless of the Elector’s son’s ‘great and complete
victory’.
Meanwhile Tobias Grundy, plain man of Yorkshire, was riding, as proud
as though he himself was a prince of the blood royal, along the banks of
Loch Ness at the head of the newly bought cattle which were to make his
fortune, as he declared loudly to anyone willing to listen. From time to time
he would remember that he was in a barbarous country peopled with
savages, and would look around nervously as though expecting a horde of
tartan-clad fiends to fall upon them at any moment.
Noticing this, Captain Matthew Sewell, who was leading the two
hundred soldiers currently doubling as cattle-herders to Fort William,
cantered up to join the Yorkshireman and his two companions.
“You need have no fear, Mr Grundy,” he said reassuringly when he
reached them. “We are riding through the Fraser lands, or what were the
Fraser lands. But we will have no trouble from the clansmen, sir. Those who
are left will no doubt be in mourning. Their chief Lord Lovat was taken a
couple of weeks ago. Hiding in a tree, he was, but now on his way to
London and to execution, if justice be served.”
Mr Grundy was clearly extremely relieved to hear this news.
“I’ll tell you, Captain, I’ve heard people say that the dales of Yorkshire
are wild and barren, and it’s true that in the winter they can seem to be. But
it’s good fertile land, and in the summer there’s no finer place in the whole
of His Majesty’s realm, sir. But this,” he made an expansive hand gesture
which took in the waters of the loch, sparkling in the sunshine, the craggy
mountains lining it, and in fact the whole of Scotland, both north and south,
“I don’t know how anyone can live here. I’ve never been in such a dark and
gloomy place in my life.”
“It’s a fine day today, Toby,” his hideous-looking companion observed.
“The water looks very inviting. I was thinking to go for a swim later, when
we stop for the night.”
“I wouldn’t swim in that for all the tea in China,” another soldier
commented. “It’s said to be bottomless, and there’s a sea monster lives
there. Even the Highlanders themselves won’t go in it in case they get
eaten.”
Tobias and George looked at the stretch of water with horror, while John,
as was his way, stared vacantly off into the distance.
“That’s nonsense. I’m surprised at you, Barker, and you a good Church
of England man,” scoffed the captain. “Old wives’ tales, just the sort of
thing an ignorant papist savage would believe. I’ve swum in there several
times myself since I’ve been here, although the water’s a bit murky. It’s not
often we have a day warm enough for swimming though, but it’s a lovely
day today. I’ll happily accompany you in a swim, Mr Armstrong,” he
continued, “as I daresay will many of the men. Just the thing to cool down.
You can sit on the bank and watch for sea monsters and mermaids, Barker.”
There was a general chorus of laughter at this, and the hapless Barker
reddened and fell silent.
“You are in the right though, Mr Grundy,” continued the captain. “I don’t
know why anyone would choose to live in such a place. I’ll admit that when
I first went out to help clear the lands – the Cameron lands, sir, up ahead of
us – I was shocked by how poorly the people lived. Little huts they have,
with no furniture to speak of and a ragged sorry bunch they were when we
drove them out. Not a one of them speaks the King’s English, and no doubt
they’d think a book was something to light a fire with. All they know to do
is kill, and they’ll follow their chief before God. Not that the Camerons’ll
be following theirs any more. He was wounded in the heel at Culloden and
has since died of it.”
“Died of a wounded heel? I never heard of such a thing!” exclaimed Mr
Grundy, who had clearly never been within a hundred miles of a battle and
seen how a seemingly minor wound could fester and blacken, and in spite
of all the doctors could do, kill an otherwise healthy man in a matter of
days.
“Indeed, it’s more common than you’d think. It’s said by many, on both
sides, that Lochiel – that’s the chief’s name – was a man of honour. He
certainly had a fine house. I saw it before it was burnt. All made of wood it
was, and beautiful gardens round it too.”
“I don’t see how anyone could fight against his rightful king and be
called a man of honour, Captain,” Mr Grundy said indignantly.
“I take your point, sir. But it doesn’t matter now, because he’s dead and
his clan scattered. Our job here is almost done, I think.”
 “You must be looking forward to going home then,” Mr Grundy
remarked.
“Not yet,” Captain Sewell said, with obvious regret. “We have another
task ahead of us, which is why we’re on our way to Fort William.”
“And I’m glad you are, sir. Your men are doing a fine job of keeping my
cows together. They’ll make my fortune when I get them back to
Yorkshire.” He beamed. “You don’t seem happy about this task of yours,
Captain. Is it a dangerous one?”
“Dangerous? No, I don’t expect it to be,” he replied.
“Is it building work you’re doing then?” Mr Armstrong put in. “I
remember the fine roads that Wade built, back when I was a younger man.
They made getting here easier, that’s for sure.”
“I heard that too, George, though I don’t remember them being built,
being just a sprat at the time. Didn’t the rebels use them to bypass the army
on their march south, though?”
Captain Sewell cast a venomous look towards Mr Grundy, who returned
it with a look of the utmost innocence. No, ignorance. The man obviously
had no idea that it was not politic to bring up such things as the enemy
using your own roads against you.
“Well, they will not be using them again. No, it is not building work
we’ll be engaged in, Mr Armstrong, although I’m afraid I cannot say what
we will be doing. Orders, you understand.”

“We need to find out what they’re intending. Glencoe is only a morning’s
march from Fort William, and we’re only a couple of days further,” Alex
muttered as the three men stood by the lochside later that evening. A little
way back from the shore the men had set up camp for the night. A number
of them, undaunted by the prospect of being devoured by a sea monster,
were splashing and swimming in the loch fifty yards or so away. No one
was in earshot, but they were in sight. With this in mind, Graeme was
stripping off in preparation for his swim, while Alex had only gone so far as
to take off his stockings with the intention of merely washing his feet, and
demonstrating trepidation even at that. Iain was sitting on a rock between
his two companions, throwing pebbles into the water in a deliberately inept
attempt to skim them across the surface.
“It’ll take more than two days for the redcoats though,” Iain said, his face
turned to the west so that no particularly keen-sighted observers would see
his mouth moving. “Five, maybe.”
“That depends if they’re riding or marching, and how many they are. If
they’re gathering in such numbers though, they’re up to something big. The
question is, is it something big north, or south?”
“What do you think about Lochiel?” Graeme asked as he pulled his shirt
over his head, revealing a white but surprisingly well-muscled torso for a
man of his years. He was indeed a man of the soil, and his years of outdoor
toil had left him with the athletic body of a much younger man.
“I dinna ken what to think. I heard he’d died at Culloden, then that he’d
escaped to France, and neither of those rumours were true. His wounds
were healing when I last saw him, but that was a while ago. But we canna
do anything about that. Iain, I want ye to split away from us the morrow.
Watch the cows, and if ye can, when we get to Fort William wander about
and see if ye can find anything out. The soldiers are bound to talk amongst
themselves.”
“It’s a shame Angus isn’t here,” Graeme commented, taking off his
breeches and standing in all his naked glory, ready to go into the water. “He
could have gone to the tavern and drunk them all under the table. They’re
most likely to talk when they’re drunk.”
Folding his breeches carefully and placing them on top of his shirt on the
rock, he strode fearlessly into the water. Alex followed more slowly,
stopping when the water was up to his shins.
“How’s the water?” he called to Graeme, all Yorkshire again.
“Bloody freezing, till you get used to it. Then it’s lovely,” Graeme called
back. He swam away strongly in the opposite direction to the soldiers, and
was soon a mere speck in the distance.
Alex stood in the shallows, doubt and apprehension in every line of his
body.
“Come on in, Mr Grundy!” one of the soldiers shouted, swimming a bit
closer to them. “We’ll save you from the sea monster!”
There was laughter from the other men, who were also drawing nearer. It
became evident that they were intending to compel Mr Grundy to take a
dip.
“That’s very kind, but I cannot swim, sir,” he called back. He didn’t want
these military men to see him undressed, and if they dragged him in fully
clothed as they clearly intended to, they would certainly expect him to take
off his sodden garb when he emerged from the loch. You did not achieve a
body like his by being a cattle dealer in the Yorkshire dales. Maybe the legs,
yes; walking for miles around the moors would certainly build calves and
thighs. But it would not give you a massive solid torso, nor would it give
you shoulders and arms knotted with heavy muscle, gained from years of
practice with weapons of all kinds. They were trained fighters; they would
recognise a warrior’s body.
He turned and began to walk out of the water, hoping that they would
give up once he was on dry land, although from the looks of them, he
doubted it. They were clearly amused by his apprehension and were egging
each other on. He didn’t blame them; it was just high spirits, the sort of
thing the MacGregors would do if faced with a timorous Englishman. He
would have to improvise a pugilistic background. He was a keen boxer in
his native dales, and had once defeated the champion of somewhere…
Harrogate? York? Although that would not explain the sword cut on his
side, nor the scar on his chest inflicted by a MacFarlane dirk on a cattle raid
across Loch Lomond some ten years previously. Nor would it explain why
his eyebrows were black, but his hair red-brown. Damn.
A rock flew over his left shoulder and landed in the loch with a loud
splash, and then the deaf mute idiot behind him stood suddenly and ran
fully dressed into the water, eyes fixed on the opposite shore, oblivious to
either the shouts and hand gestures of Mr Grundy on his left or the jeers and
laughter from the soldiers on his right. It was clear that he had seen
something on the other side of the loch that appealed to his dim mind, and
was determined to go to it.
“John! John!” Mr Grundy bellowed, to no avail. John, now up to his
waist, fell forward in the water, preparing to strike out for the other side. Mr
Grundy walked back into the loch up to his knees, then stopped. “Please,
bring him back!” he begged of the soldiers who, faced with this new
diversion, had temporarily abandoned their plan.
“There’s no sea monster, sir!” one of them called mockingly. “He won’t
be eaten.”
“He can’t swim!” Mr Grundy shouted back desperately. “He’ll drown!
Please, I beg you, bring him back.” He was almost in tears now as he
watched his servant, who had in fact managed to swim with some skill until
Mr Grundy made his plea, suddenly flounder and go under the water before
resurfacing a moment later, arms and legs flailing in all directions. Mr
Armstrong, having observed the commotion from afar, turned and began to
swim back, although there was no doubt he would be too late to save his
companion.
The soldiers hesitated, clearly torn between watching to see how long it
took the idiot to drown, and rescuing him. One of them called out,
“Sixpence that he lasts to the count of two hundred!”
“A shilling for the count of one hundred!” another replied. All thought of
rescue was forgotten in the excitement of a wager.
“One, two, three, four…”
“Ten shillings to the man who brings him safe to shore!” called the
Yorkshireman, beside himself with anguish.
Two minutes later a reluctant John, still intent on making it across the
loch, was dragged unceremoniously out of the water and deposited at his
master’s feet, shivering and dripping from head to toe.
“Thank you,” said Mr Grundy earnestly, clasping the rescuer’s hands in
gratitude. “I’ll get him back and out of those clothes, or he’ll catch his
death. Come to my tent in an hour, sir, and I’ll give you your reward.”
He helped John to his feet, and taking a firm grip on his arm to stop him
making a second attempt to cross the loch, led him away in the direction of
the tents.

***

It was really amusing. The idiot seemed to actually think they were his
friends, just because they’d dragged him out of the loch. He had no idea
that if that pathetic coward Grundy, too scared to get wet himself, hadn’t
bribed them to drag him out, he’d have been feeding the fishes now. Or the
sea monster, if it really did exist.
Instead he had followed them everywhere for the last three days, grinning
inanely at them and generally getting under their feet. He had even tried to
follow them into the fort itself, no doubt intending to sleep in their barracks,
but luckily that grim-faced ugly old fart Armstrong had come along and
dragged him away to the room they’d managed to get in the remnants of
Maryburgh, which had been burnt in March but was now being repaired.
Since the incident by Loch Ness Grundy had been subdued and had kept
himself to himself, no longer boasting about his future fortune, which was
currently grazing in the meadows near the fort, guarded by a detachment of
forty soldiers, who were to accompany the three men down to Glasgow. No
doubt he knew that the soldiers held him in contempt for his fear of the
mythical monster. How the hell he’d had the balls to ride all the way from
Yorkshire to Fort Augustus with only an idiot and a decrepit old man for
protection was beyond them. But then, the lure of money was a powerful
incentive and could cause a man to take all manner of risks.
A case in point being the five men now entering the tavern, shadowed by
the idiot. They had initially done their utmost to avoid being picked to herd
the cattle down to Glasgow, aware that to do so they would have to pass
through rebel territory; until they had been informed that Mr Grundy was
willing to pay two shillings per man per day for the journey south from Fort
William. For less than half of that they had stood on the battlefields of
Dettingen, Prestonpans, Falkirk Muir, to name but a few, while the enemy
shot and slashed them to pieces. All of a sudden taking cows to Glasgow
seemed positively harmless. They had leapt to volunteer, telling themselves
that they would only be passing through a few miles of enemy territory;
most of their way led through the friendly Campbell lands.
Captain Sewell had told the men that herding the cattle for Grundy would
give them an ideal opportunity to survey the territory. They were not
expected to engage with any rebels, although of course if they came across
a few isolated villages they could use their initiative. The main foray would
come later, once Mr Grundy and his companions were safely on the road to
England.
As far as Matthew Sewell was concerned, this whole exercise promised
to be a waste of resources; the bulk of the rebels had come from the areas
already ravaged. Further south support for the Pretender had been far more
sporadic.
For his part Captain Sewell would have preferred to head north in search
of the Young Pretender and those sheltering him. Thirty thousand pounds
was a powerful incentive, to say nothing of the glory and praise that would
be showered on the lucky man who captured the Stuart upstart.
But he had his orders, and they were to disarm that part of Dumbarton
which lay on the east, west and north sides of Loch Lomond. And orders
had to be obeyed.
The five soldiers, with money in their pockets and the promise of much
more to come in the next days, embarked upon their night of drinking in
high spirits, which soon became even more elevated when the idiot
produced a golden guinea, which he surely must have pilfered from Grundy,
giving it to the barmaid with one hand whilst with the other making a
sweeping gesture which took in the whole table, followed by a reasonable
mime of drinking. The soldiers gave a great cheer, and John the idiot
became their best friend for the evening.
They had determined to have some sport with him, but he had no head
for liquor and after two tankards of good ale and a brandy he fell asleep
slumped over the table, his head pillowed on his folded arms. Feeling
magnanimous in view of the fact that he was paying for the evening’s drink
they left him there, and set to discussing the days to come, and seeing if
they could drink a whole guinea’s worth of alcohol between them.

It was after midnight by the time George Armstrong found them, by which
time the men had made considerable inroads into the guinea. He took one
look at the snoring figure of John, and sighed.
“What the hell are you up to, letting him get like that?” he said
accusingly to the bleary-eyed redcoats. “You know he’s soft in the head.”
“We din’t do nuffin’ to ‘im, you ugly old bugger,” one of the men slurred,
swaying in his seat. He waved an arm around the table to indicate the
innocence of his companions and in doing so lost his balance, toppling
backwards off the bench and landing on the floor, giggling.
Armstrong looked at the group and seemed to realise he’d get no sense
from any of them.
“Come on, lad,” he said instead, grasping John round the chest and lifting
him bodily from the seat. “Let’s get you home.”
The deaf man seemed to rouse for a moment, opening one eye and
attempting to get his legs to support him, before collapsing onto the bench
again. It was with some considerable difficulty that George managed to stop
himself from landing on the floor with the soldier who had insulted him and
who was now subsiding into sleep, his mouth hanging open.
“He’s bloody heavy for a bony bastard,” George said to no one in
particular, and taking John by the shoulders, shook him hard, which met
with more success in that he woke up enough this time to stagger to his feet.
George put his arm round the idiot’s waist to support him, and John, finally
realising that he was going to have to walk, slung his left arm over the older
man’s shoulder and attempted to stand upright, while with his right he
fumbled with his breeches.
 Those of the soldiers still sober enough to notice what John was doing,
started laughing.
“Watch out old man, he thinks you’re his doxy,” one of them said.
“Only chance you’ll ever get to be fucked, face like that,” another one
mumbled, to general hilarity.
John took out his penis drowsily and then proceeded to urinate, aiming
with deadly accuracy into the collapsed and now comatose soldier’s open
mouth.
George’s mouth twisted in that strange sneer he had, and then he
tightened his grip round John’s waist and attempted to head for the door,
clearly intending to get out quickly before the others realised what was
happening. John, penis still in hand, lurched round in George’s grip,
spraying the table and the soldiers sitting at it in the process, before
staggering across the room and out of the door.
They continued to weave their way drunkenly down the street until they
rounded the corner, where John miraculously and instantaneously sobered
up and the two men slumped against the wall, laughing hysterically.
“I can’t believe you did that,” Graeme said, once he could speak. “You
could have got us both killed.”
“No, they’ve been drinking solid for four hours. I doubt a one of them
could even stand up, let alone draw his sword.”
“Well, you made good use of your sword, so to speak,” Graeme
spluttered, giggling like a five-year-old. “And they say Angus is the
reckless one.”
Iain grinned.
“I couldna resist. My ma would hae washed my mouth out wi’ soap, an
I’d insulted an elder like that wee gomerel insulted you. I just didna have
any soap to hand, so I improvised. I doubt they’ll remember, come
morning,” he said.
“They might, when they wake up stinking of piss,” Graeme said. “Come
on, let’s get back to the room.”
Five minutes later they walked into the small, sparsely furnished but
more importantly private room they were sharing, still giggling. Alex,
occupying the only chair, looked up in surprise at the unexpected hilarity.
“Christ, man, how much did ye drink?” he said, instantly concerned. Iain
was no Angus where liquor was concerned.
 “Enough to give a Highland baptism to five redcoats,” Iain said
cryptically.
Alex watched with astonishment as the two men, neither of them
normally prone to such childish behaviour, collapsed into laughter again,
grinning in spite of the fact that he had no idea what this Highland baptism
of Iain’s was. It was good to see him laugh again. He had barely even
smiled since Maggie’s death.
He waited until the laughter subsided, and then put the question he’d
been intending to ask when they’d first come in.
“Did ye find anything out about the redcoats’ mission?”
Iain looked across at his chieftain, and his face grew serious.
“Aye,” he said. “They mean to disarm the MacGregors. The soldiers have
been told tae spy out the land while they’re guiding us. And then once they
report back, they’re sending more down to wipe us out, once and for all.”
“How many more?” Alex asked.
“They dinna ken, but a lot. More than we can fight, anyway. They’ve
over two thousand men in the fort, and more coming.”
Alex nodded then swept his hand through his hair, absently combing
through the tangles with his fingers. He sat for a few minutes, silently.
“Well,” he said finally. “At least we’re forewarned, which is more than
the Camerons and Frasers were. Ye did a good job tonight, Iain.”
“What will you do?” Graeme asked.
“Run,” Alex said bluntly. “I canna fight an army wi’ fifty men. Lachlan is
back. I saw him this morning. And Angus tellt Jamie, Hector and Donald to
spread out along the way home, in case we need to get a message through
quickly. If I speak wi’ him in the morning, the news will be wi’ Angus by
the following day. That will give the women time to move everything out
and away up into the caves.”
“Caves?” said Graeme.
“Aye. There’s a reason the MacGregors are called ‘The Children of the
Mist’,” Alex said. “Over the years we’ve grown accustomed to disappearing
from time to time. But as we’re no’ magical, but flesh and blood, we’ve
found places we can disappear to. Places where the redcoats’ll no’ find us.
And if they do, we’ll be able tae kill an awfu’ lot of them before they take
us. We’re no’ in the habit of showing Sasannachs where those places are.
But I guess we’ll make an exception for you.” He winked.
 “I’m honoured,” Graeme said, intending it as a joke, but then realising
that he actually was. It was no small thing to earn the trust of a clan that had
learned, over a hundred and forty years of proscription, to trust no one.
Alex looked at his companions and smiled, a real smile that lit up his
eyes.
“At least we can be sure we’ll no’ starve while we’re in hiding,” he said.
“We’ll have plenty of meat, at least. And,” he continued, “before we go
we’ll gie the bastards a leaving party to be proud of.”
He stood, stretched, and yawned.
“Let’s away to bed,” he suggested. “We’ve a busy few days ahead. I’ve a
fancy for a wee bedtime story tae send me to sleep though.”
Iain grinned.
“Ye’ll be wanting the one about the deaf idiot and the ugly old bastard
and the Highland baptism then, I’m thinking,” he said.
“You read my mind, laddie.”

***

It was a dull morning, but one that promised to be fair once the sun had
risen high enough in the sky to burn off the haze. Mist shrouded the
mountains which surrounded them on all sides, and the path which snaked
between them that they were to head down today was visible for only a few
yards, as were the tents of the soldiers, from which they were sleepily
emerging in various states of undress.
Some particularly early risers had already lit fires and started to cook
breakfast, while Mr Grundy, perpetually afraid that someone would steal his
cattle in the night, had risen and breakfasted before sunrise and had ridden
off, dragging the sleepy Mr Armstrong with him, to attempt to count his
fortune, which could be heard but not currently seen, lowing all over the
valley.
The deaf idiot had dutifully taken down the tent and packed all their
belongings and was now sitting on the grass, seemingly oblivious to the
heavy dew soaking through his breeches, all his attention concentrated on a
small chestnut-coloured squirrel which was currently some three feet away
from him, but edging slowly closer, enticed by the piece of bread that he
was holding out to it. It moved forward again, now only two feet away, and
sat up on its back legs, its bushy tail fanning out behind it, watching him
warily with large brown eyes.
John continued to hold the piece of bread between his thumb and index
finger, his arm outstretched. A short distance away a small group of soldiers
looked on, equally entranced, but more by the preternatural stillness of the
man than by the squirrel, who was now chattering at him before edging
closer still, then even closer. It stretched its neck to take the bread, its mouth
a mere inch from John’s fingers.
A shot rang out, echoing off the surrounding hills, and the squirrel
exploded, spattering John’s arm and the grass with blood and fur. John
started at the animal’s sudden transformation from living creature to red
mush, and then he turned his head slowly to look at the soldier, who looked
back and grinned, before slinging his musket across his shoulder.
“Vermin, they are,” he said. “Carry all sorts of diseases.”
John did not react, but continued to stare at the man in shock, his mouth
hanging open slightly. The soldier’s comrades had all jumped and uttered
expletives when the shot was fired, but now they started laughing at the
expression on the idiot’s face.
Somewhere down the line of tents could be heard a commotion, and
appearing through the mist to the left of John came Sergeant Applewhite,
his face almost as red as his jacket. All the soldiers shot to attention and
saluted instantly, but he ignored them, instead briefly surveying the remains
of the squirrel and blood-spattered deaf mute before grabbing the
unfortunate marksman by the throat and shaking him like a rat.
“You fucking idiot!” he roared, spraying the man’s face with spittle. “You
never fire your weapon unless ordered to, and then only at an enemy! You
could have killed the man, for God’s sake!”
“It was only a squirrel, Sarge,” the hapless private managed to splutter.
“They’re vermin. He’s not harmed.”
“A month ago you didn’t know one end of a gun from the other and now
you’re telling me you’re an expert? You’re lucky you didn’t blow the man’s
head off! If Captain Sewell gets to hear of this, you’ll hang!” He looked
over at John, who was still staring at the humiliated private, now looking
down at the ground and clearly wishing himself anywhere but in His
Majesty’s Army.
“Wouldn’t be much of a loss if he had,” one of the other soldiers
muttered.
 The sergeant threw the man he was holding away from him and rounded
on the mutterer.
“I know the man’s deaf and an idiot,” he growled. “But he’s also the
servant of the man who’s paying all you lumps of shite a shilling a day for
strolling through the mountains, money that none of us have seen yet, and
won’t till we get the cattle safely to Glasgow. Do you think he’s going to
pay us if one of you kills his man? Both of you report to me when we camp
this evening. A hundred lashes for the pair of you.”
“But Sergeant, it was just –”
“Two hundred.”
A deathly silence fell over the group of men.
“You’ll get your chance to shoot real vermin soon enough, on the way
back from Glasgow. That’s what I was coming to tell you, when I heard this
idiot firing his gun.”
The men instantly brightened.
“I thought we were just spying out the land, sir,” a private from one of
the other tents said.
“Yes, we are, on the way down. But I’ve just been told that the general’s
sending a regiment on after us in a few days, and we’ll meet them coming
back up Loch Lomond. We’ll trap the rebels between us, and then you
should get some real action. And maybe next time you shoot a squirrel, it’ll
be through skill rather than luck. In the meantime, keep your eyes and ears
open on the way. We’re not out of MacDonald territory yet.”
He strode off back the way he’d come, to general applause and cheers.
John, oblivious, stood and tried to brush the bits of sticky orange fur off
his shirt and breeches.

The sun rose higher in the sky and the mist started to lift, so that by the time
they’d travelled a few miles up the track, only the tops of the mountains
were still invisible. Mr Grundy and his companions rode at the head of the
column of soldiers along with Captain Sewell and Sergeant Applewhite. As
they walked behind the riding officers, making slow progress due to the
cattle, the soldiers glanced left and right from time to time at the hills that
hemmed them in. The lower slopes were lush and green, providing food on
the go for the cattle, the higher slopes thickly covered with heather, now in
full bloom and clothing the mountains in hazy purple. Waterfalls cascaded
down over the rocks to swell the stream which bubbled merrily along at the
side of the track. Some people might have thought the landscape beautiful.
Mr Grundy clearly was not such a person. He regarded the looming
mountains with an expression of terror on his face, swivelling his head from
left to right as though expecting the whole Jacobite army to appear on the
horizon at any moment.
“You need have no fear, Mr Grundy,” Captain Sewell said reassuringly.
“You are perfectly safe.”
Mr Grundy remained unconvinced.
“When I heard that shot I nearly had an apoplexy, sir. How I kept my
seat, I will never know. I thought we were being attacked.”
He had in fact come galloping into the camp a full five minutes after the
incident, and must have been half a mile away when it happened. The
captain sighed inwardly. The sooner he could pocket his money and be rid
of this cowardly fool the better. And his companions. God, Armstrong’s
face could curdle milk, and the idiot, far from being ‘good with cattle’ as
Grundy had claimed, seemed only to be good at trailing along behind others
and staring blankly around him.
“And one of the men, Private…er…Johnson?” Grundy rambled on.
“Anyway, he told me that we’re in MacDonald country and the
MacDonalds are rebels, are they not?”
“Were rebels, sir,” Sergeant Applewhite put in. “No more. They were
among the first to submit to His Majesty. Their chief made a grovelling
apology, and they’re no longer a threat to anyone. In just a few minutes
we’ll be in Campbell land, and they’re loyal to the king. That’s right, isn’t
it, Corporal?” he called to a man behind him, who ran up to join the
company.
“What’s right, sir?” he asked.
“That we’re almost out of MacDonald country.”
“Damned if I know, sir. All looks the bloody same to me.”
“Well, in any case,” continued the sergeant, dismissing this unhelpful
comment, “you need fear nothing from the MacDonalds.”
“Even so,” replied Mr Grundy, “I will be most relieved when we are
away from their land.”
In fact they were already away from Glencoe’s land, and had been for
about five minutes, as the plain-speaking Yorkshireman and the deaf idiot
well knew.
 They rode for a couple of minutes in silence, to the captain’s relief. Bees
buzzed in the wildflowers and occasionally a butterfly flitted past their
faces. A large horsefly landed on the sergeant’s cheek and he raised his hand
to squash it before it could bite. High up on the hill to the right a figure
dressed in dark purple and green appeared and started to run down towards
the redcoats, before suddenly halting and then dropping like a stone to the
ground and disappearing in the heather.
Mr Grundy let out a screech and reined his horse in so suddenly that
George, riding directly behind him, cannoned into him. The captain’s horse
reared up at the sudden noise right next to his ear and Sewell swore fluently
as he brought it under control. The Yorkshireman barely noticed. He was
pointing up the mountain on the left, a look of abject terror on his face, his
eyes enormous behind his brass-rimmed spectacles.
“Look!” he cried. “It moved!”
Everyone stared up at the spot on the hillside at which Mr Grundy was
pointing. Except John, who was, as was his way, staring vacantly all around
him.
“What is it? What can you see?” asked the captain. All he could see was
grass and heather.
“There!” Grundy persisted. Protruding from the heather some three-
quarters of the way up the mountain was a large black rock. “Is it a bear?”
he asked fearfully.
Everyone within earshot started laughing, except Captain Sewell, who
was thoroughly sick of this man who had grown increasingly fearful as the
trip had progressed and would soon no doubt be terrified of his own
shadow.
“There are no bears in Scotland, sir,” he said, holding on to his temper
with some difficulty.
“Except the ones that go down to Loch Ness to dance with the sea
monster at the full moon,” a wit cried out from further back. More laughter.
“Are you sure?” asked Mr Grundy, unconvinced. “It looks like a bear to
me.”
“It’s a rock, Toby,” Mr Armstrong said reassuringly, aware that the
captain was close to saying something unforgivably rude.
Mr Grundy took his glasses off, cleaned them on his coat sleeve, put
them on again and peered up the mountain once more.
“Oh,” he said, a little shamefacedly. “So it is.”
 The cavalcade started moving again. John seemed to be having some
trouble getting his horse to move, with the result that he dropped back a
little and ended up riding almost level with the soldier who had shot the
squirrel earlier.
They rode for maybe five more minutes. The mist had cleared completely
now and it was becoming very warm. Mr Grundy twisted a little in the
saddle, reaching his left hand up his back in an attempt to scratch between
his shoulder blades. Mr Armstrong moved up level with him, so they were
riding three abreast; Armstrong to the left, Grundy in the middle and
Captain Sewell on the right. Directly in front of Armstrong rode Sergeant
Applewhite.
Mr Grundy gave up trying to reach the itchy spot and instead took his hat
off with a great flourish, mopping his brow and dislodging his wig in the
process, which fell to the ground. His natural hair, which had been tied at
the nape of his neck and then pushed up under the wig, was revealed in all
its chestnut glory.
Captain Sewell just had time to register that Mr Grundy’s hair was a
completely different shade to his eyebrows before the man drew his sword
with lightning speed, raising it high in the air.
“Ard choille!” he yelled, and then turning, drove his blade deep into the
captain’s chest. The man slid sideways off his horse and was dead before he
hit the ground, a look of puzzlement still on his face.
Graeme meanwhile had buried his dirk between the sergeant’s shoulder
blades, pulling it out again, and the man backwards with it.
Before the other redcoats could register what was happening at the front
of the line, the mountains on both sides erupted into life as a horde of kilted
Highlanders materialised out of the heather and began to charge downhill at
terrifying speed, straight towards the soldiers.
Some of the soldiers panicked and attempted to run on, or back; but more
Highlanders were running up the track towards them in both directions.
There seemed to be hundreds of them, and as they charged they drew their
swords and roared their fury, made all the more terrifying because the
language they spoke was incomprehensible to the redcoats.
The soldier who had shot the squirrel was already dead, stabbed through
the throat by Iain as he tried to unsling his musket from his shoulder. Ahead
Alex was laying waste to everything around him, slashing and hacking in
all directions. Graeme spurred his horse ahead in an attempt to catch up
with a couple of officers who were riding on at a dead run hoping to ride
straight over the oncoming Highlanders and on to freedom.
No one could live to tell the tale; that was the most important thing. He
kicked at his horse, forcing it to even greater effort, and then there was a
series of loud cracks from partway up the hill and the soldiers jerked and
fell from their horses, which carried on riderless at a dead run. One of the
men’s feet had caught in the stirrup as he fell, and he was dragged along
beside the horse like a rag doll. Graeme reined in hard, and his horse reared,
almost throwing him from the saddle. He fought to control it as the running
Highlanders parted like the Red Sea to let the horses and Graeme through,
one of them slashing at the stirrup to release the tethered man, then neatly
cutting his throat, before joining his comrades in what became within
seconds a bloodbath.
By the time Graeme had brought his horse to a standstill, then turned and
ridden her back, it was all over. Scarlet-coated bodies lay everywhere, and
the stream, still bubbling merrily along, ran red with blood. The
Highlanders, dressed in muted shades of purple, brown and green, which
blended perfectly with the terrain through which they had, mere minutes
ago, charged with such devastating effect, were now examining the
redcoats, ensuring that none of them lived.
Graeme rode up to where the MacGregor chieftain and his brother stood
deep in conversation. All around them men were laughing and
congratulating each other on what had been, without doubt, an unqualified
success. Forty redcoats dead, and not one Highlander lost. A couple of
minor wounds, but that was nothing.
In a few minutes the hard work would begin. The cattle, which had run
off all over the valley, had to be rounded up again; and all the redcoats had
to disappear. But for now there was general celebration. MacGregors and
MacDonalds sat themselves down and rested while they waited for further
instructions. Someone produced a leather skin full of whisky which was
passed from hand to hand.
“Looks like I missed most of the party,” Graeme commented wryly,
swinging himself down from the saddle and massaging his knee, which was
giving him problems at the moment.
Angus, uncharacteristically grim-faced, looked across at the older man,
and then over his right shoulder. Graeme glanced back and saw Allan
MacDonald approaching them. His silver-blond hair had come free from its
leather thong during the skirmish, and blew around his face. He pushed it
back impatiently and then spoke.
“Where is he?” he said.
Alex made to move forward between the two men, but Angus stopped
him.
“Up there, near the rowan,” he said, pointing to a spot at the top of the
hill some way in the distance.
“Aye, well, let’s go and get the wee gomerel, then,” Allan said. “Aunt
Ealasaid’ll break his neck when she finds out what he did.”
Alex called to Iain, who was heading their way.
“Let the men have a couple of minutes, and then we need to start
cleaning up, fast. We have to do it all and be gone before sunset. Did ye
bring the tools?” he asked Angus.
“Aye, we left them at the top when we charged.”
“Good. Iain, leave the cattle for now, they’ll no’ go far. Get all the bodies
together, and then I want everyone to start digging up there.” He pointed to
a heather-clad part of the mountain. “Dig up the heather first, and put it to
one side, then we need a hole, big enough to bury everyone. Afterwards we
can put the heather back, so it’ll no’ be seen from a distance.”
Iain nodded.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
Alex pointed to the rowan.
“I’ll no’ be long,” he said in a low voice. “You did well today,” he
shouted across to the men of both clans seated on the grass all around him.
“It does my heart good to see us fighting together again!”
Judging by the resounding cheers that followed the three men as they
started to climb up to the rowan tree, they agreed with him.

***

“Oh, shit,” Angus said, softly but with great feeling a few minutes later. He
had run on ahead of the other two men, anxious to see the results of his
earlier action.
Robert MacDonald lay in the heather where he had fallen, felled by the
rock thrown at his head by Angus some twenty minutes before. The
beautiful flaxen hair that he shared with several members of his family,
including the brother now toiling up the hill behind him, moved gently in
the soft summer breeze. His equally beautiful cornflower-blue eyes were
open, gazing sightlessly at the sky. One arm was outstretched, the fingers
still curled around the hilt of his sword, which he had drawn as he had
charged prematurely over the brow of the hill, in flagrant disobedience of
Angus’s orders.
Angus knelt down by the side of the boy, and gently stroked the hair back
from his face.
“Christ, laddie,” he said softly. “Why could ye no’ listen, and do as ye
were tellt?”
Alex trotted up to join him and stopped.
“Shit,” he said, echoing his brother, and turned, seconds too late to shield
Allan from seeing his brother’s lifeless body splayed across the heather.
Allan stopped dead and stared for a moment, as though unable to believe
what his eyes were telling him. Angus started to rise, holding up a placatory
hand.
“Allan, I didna mean to…” he began, but the young man pushed past
him, intent only on reaching his brother, and dropping to the ground, he
wrapped his arms around Robert, lifting his upper body across his lap and
cradling him as though he were a small child.
“No,” he said breathlessly. “No, oh God, no, no, no.” He crushed his
brother’s face against his chest, rocking back and forth, tears streaming
down his face.
Tears sprang to Angus’s eyes as he watched the young man mourn the
death of his brother, remembering how he had felt when his own brother
had died on the battlefield of Culloden. His heart clenched in his chest and
he felt the grief well up in him, grief for Duncan, who was lost to him
forever, and grief for this reckless youth whose life he had taken away
almost before it had begun.
He turned, unconsciously seeking comfort from his remaining brother,
but Alex had moved away and was leaning against the tree, his face in
shadow, whether to give Allan space to grieve or because he couldn’t bear
the visual reminder of his dead wife in the features of her cousins, Angus
couldn’t tell.
He stood frozen, utterly at a loss for what to say or do to make this right.
He could not make this right. The MacDonalds would never forgive him.
The cheerful laughter and banter of the mingled clansmen drifting up the
hill would, once they found out what he’d done, turn to hatred and
bloodshed. More bloodshed.
It seemed that he stood there for hours, but when Allan finally stopped
keening and rocking and gently closed his brother’s eyes before laying him
back down in the heather, the sun had barely moved in the sky.
Allan stood up and looked across at Angus, his eyes red-rimmed, the
tears still pouring unheeded down his cheeks.
“It wasna your fault,” he said in a choked voice. “He never did listen
when his blood was up, no’ even tae MacIain. It wasna your fault. I saw him
run. Ye had to stop him or he’d have killed us all.”
“I didna mean to kill him, man. I swear to God,” Angus said earnestly.
Allan walked over to Angus on shaky legs and gripped him by the
shoulder.
“Dinna fash yerself. I’ll tell them.” He nodded down towards the men
below them, who were now moving to drag the redcoat corpses to the
burying spot Alex had pointed out. “I loved him,” he added softly. “MacIain
was right no’ to let him fight for Charlie. But he couldna protect him
forever, and he’d have died anyway, the first time he fought. At least it was
quick, and clean.” His voice broke then and he closed his eyes for a
moment, breathing hard through his mouth to force back the emotion. “I’ll
tell them it wasna your fault,” he repeated. “I just need a minute, alone.”
Alex moved forward now, out of the shade of the tree.
“Take all the time ye need, laddie. We’ll bury the redcoats and gather the
cattle together. And then we’ll take Robert home, the three of us.”
Allan nodded, then walked back to his brother and knelt down beside
him.
Alex jerked his head at Angus, and the two MacGregors started to make
their way back down the hill, leaving Allan alone to say goodbye to his
brother. Both of them felt drained and utterly weary, as men do when grief
has swept unexpectedly over them, a grief rendered all the more potent by
contrast with the euphoria of a few moments before.
And both of them were remembering the brother who had united them,
the gentle soft-spoken peacemaker who had stepped fearlessly between his
hot-headed siblings from the moment they’d been old enough to fight each
other. They had not had time to say goodbye to Duncan, had no idea where
his body was, whether buried or left for the crows to pick clean, and both of
them felt that keenly. The least they could do was give Allan what they had
not had.
“If Duncan’s killer had come to apologise to me,” Angus said as they
approached the valley, “I couldna…” His voice trailed off. He was stunned
by the generosity of spirit of the young MacDonald.
“Aye. It takes a brave man to say what he said there to ye, to be so fair,
wi’ his brother lying dead next to him. He’s a fine man, worthy of his kin.
Ealasaid must be very proud of him. And he was right. It wasna your fault. I
saw him come charging over the hill. I managed to distract the redcoats by
pretending I’d seen a bear over on the opposite side of the glen, but if he’d
made it another few feet the redcoats would have seen him. They’d
probably have killed at least a few of us, and I doubt we’d have been able to
stop some of them making it back to Fort William. I ken we promised
MacIain that we’d get onto Campbell land before we ambushed them, but
the British are no’ stupid. They’d have wiped out Glencoe anyway, just to
be sure. I feel sorry for the laddie, but he was a fool, and if you hadna killed
him someone else would have, soon enough.”
“D’ye think Ealasaid will believe that I didna kill him because I still bear
a grudge over Morag?” Angus asked.
“Aye. She likes you. And she kens that ye were angry that night, but that
ye didna see him as a real threat. Is that what’s worrying ye?”
“A lot of things are worrying me. Whether MacIain’ll accept it was an
accident or declare a blood feud. Whether the other MacDonalds’ll accept it
was an accident, regardless of what Allan says. And whether I can forgive
myself for killing an innocent wee laddie, just because he was a loon.”
Alex stopped, forcing Angus to stop with him.
“Whatever MacIain and the MacDonalds think, we’ll find a way to make
them see the truth of it. I think they’ll accept Allan’s word and yours, to be
honest. MacIain’s no’ in the mood for a blood feud anyway, I’m thinking,
and neither am I. But there’s nothing for you to forgive yourself for. He was
seventeen, Angus, no’ a wee laddie. When ye were seventeen ye were
reckless and ye grieved me at times, but ye never defied a direct order from
me, even when ye believed I was in the wrong. He wasna innocent, he was
defiant and heedless of the consequences. Far better ye killed him than let
him be the cause of his whole clan dying. MacIain will see the sense of that,
as will Ealasaid. I warned her that I’d kill him if he defied me, and she
accepted that. You were acting as chief for me. Dinna waste a second on
remorse for what ye did. Ye were right, and I’ll stand by ye.”
Angus took his brother in a sudden bear hug, and they clung to each other
for a moment.
“I’m sorry I grieved ye,” he said.
“Aye, well, ye’re grown now, and no mistake. If anything were to happen
to me, I’d leave the clan in good hands. But I’ll only say that the once,
mind.” Alex clapped his brother on the back, then released him. “Now,” he
said, “there’s a burying to be done, cattle to be taken to Coire Gabhail, and
then we can make things right wi’ Glencoe. And after that I’ve a mind to
head north and find out if Lochiel really is dead, as the redcoats seem to
think. I’ll no’ believe it till I hear it from someone I can trust.”
He carried on, down to the valley. He would wait until Allan came down
before he told the MacDonalds what had happened. They could not afford
to stop for an argument now; burying the redcoats and rounding up the
cattle was paramount, and they needed to work together to do that, and
quickly.
In spite of the emotional scene of a few moments ago, as he joined the
others he felt a weight lift from his heart. It was good to have a sense of
purpose again, to be fighting. It stopped him sinking too deeply into
memory and regret. He would have to keep active and focussed on revenge,
put everything into that. He knew it was highly likely that at some point he
would be taken or killed, but at least he would die doing something Beth
would have approved of. And that was worth something.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER EIGHT

London, July 25th, 1746

Beth sat in her customary place by the window, her mouth drawn tight in a
grimace of pain. Her right arm was held out sideways at shoulder height, in
her hand the book Pamela. She had not changed position for eight minutes,
hence the facial expression. One more minute and she would have beaten
yesterday’s time. She watched as the clock on the wall ticked away, the
large hand taking forever to move one click round the face. Then she
dropped the book in her lap and rotated her shoulder, massaging it with the
fingers of her left hand.
Without either company or access to the outdoors, she was finding it
increasingly difficult to keep her spirits up. Deprived of reading material,
with the exception of the volume now resting on her knee, which had been
under her pillow and therefore missed when the servants came to take away
all her books, she had searched for something else to do to stop her
spending all her time agonising over whether Alex was alive or dead, and
had finally decided to build up her strength. She reasoned that whatever the
authorities intended to do with her, having a strong body would stand her in
good stead and achieving it would pass the time. So she had started walking
briskly round her room and running on the spot, firstly for minutes at a
time, and now for hours, no doubt to the annoyance of the unseen warder’s
family living below.
She had reread Pamela, twice, and had not changed her mind about her
opinion of the hero and heroine from the long-ago night at the Cunningham
dinner table when she had thrown wine in Edward’s face for insulting her
mother.
In her view, building up the muscles in her arms was a far better use for
the novel than reading the damn thing had been. She rotated her right
shoulder again, and then picking the book up in her left hand, shifted
position in the chair a little so she could hold her left arm out without
hitting the window frame.
She had been sitting like this for some five minutes when all of a sudden
the cannons near the Tower started firing one after the other, causing her to
jump violently and drop the book on the floor. No sooner had the cannons
stopped than all the church bells in London started ringing.
Something was happening. She stood up and looked out of the window,
but in the Tower grounds at least, everything seemed to be as normal. She
looked at the clock. Two thirty. It was probably the Elector’s birthday or
some such thing. She sat down again, picked up the book and continued
with her exercise regime. The clamour continued.
The Elector’s birthday was on the ninth of November. Cumberland’s
birthday was on the fifteenth of April. That birthday she would never forget;
the day before Angus’s and the day before Culloden and the last time she’d
seen Alex. What date was it today?
She had taken to making marks on the window frame, one for each day.
The doctor had told her that she’d been unconscious for about three weeks,
and since then she had made seventy-eight marks. Twenty-third of July
then, approximately. When was Prince Frederick’s birthday? She racked her
brains but couldn’t remember.
Could they have captured Prince Charles? When he’d interviewed her
Newcastle had let slip that the prince was still at large. Surely he would
have found a way to get to France by now? She closed her eyes and sent up
a silent prayer that whatever the reason for the salutes and the bell-ringing,
it was not the capture of Prince Charles Edward Stuart. King James was too
old and dispirited to fight for his throne, and Prince Henry too weak; the
success or failure of the Jacobite cause rested on the shoulders of Charles
alone. If he was captured, the cause was dead.
She opened her eyes again and told herself that there could be any
number of reasons for the celebration; it was silly to worry when she had no
idea what was happening. She abandoned the book and, standing, began her
brisk walk around her chambers. She would walk for two hours today then
run on the spot for an hour, just before dinner. That would disturb the
warder’s evening. It was a small victory, but small victories were all she
could enjoy for now.
But as day turned to night, the sky turned orange from the light of the
bonfires, and the sounds of revelry could be heard even in her rooms, she
began to doubt again. This was no annual celebration; this was something
extraordinary. What could it be, if not the capture of the heir to the Stuart
throne?
In spite of her resolution not to worry, she spent all of that night and most
of the next day pondering the consequences of his capture, with the result
that the following night she was completely exhausted when she went to
bed, and slept late, being finally woken by a serving-maid, who was forced
to break the rule of not speaking to the prisoner by calling to wake her, after
clattering around the room and opening the curtains and shutters had failed
to do so.
Having broken her silence, the maid seemed happy to continue chatting
as she set out the breakfast things while Beth yawned and stretched and got
out of bed.
“After you’ve breakfasted, my lady, I’m to help you dress. Would you
like to choose a gown to wear?” she said while pouring Beth’s chocolate.
“What’s your name?” Beth asked, startling the maid. No one of
consequence had ever asked her name, and although this woman was a
prisoner, she was also of very great consequence; everyone in the house
knew that, although not why.
“Kate, my lady,” she replied, bobbing a curtsey.
Beth smiled.
“It’s a pretty name. Is it short for Catherine?”
“I don’t know, my lady. Everybody has always called me Kate.” She
blushed. “Would you like me to help you choose –”
“I’m sorry you had to wake me,” Beth interrupted. “The noise of the
celebrations kept me awake, and I was catching up on my lost sleep. Was it
Prince Frederick’s birthday?”
“Oh no, my lady. It was for Prince William. He came home on
Wednesday. There were bonfires in the streets and dancing, and everybody
put candles in their windows. Half of London is at Kensington Palace,
hoping to see him. You are very honoured, my lady.”
Beth had been silently sending up a prayer of thanks that the celebrations
had not been for the arrest of Prince Charles, and only registered this final
sentence belatedly.
“Honoured?”
“Yes, my lady. He has asked especially to see you, at eleven o’clock.”
Beth glanced at the clock. Nine.
 “We have plenty of time, then. Sit down. Would you like some
chocolate?”
The maid seemed completely at a loss, but whether it was because of
Beth’s obvious indifference toward meeting Prince William, or because
she’d just been invited to sit and drink chocolate with her, was unclear. It
seemed that the warder, whoever he was, had the same feelings about the
serving classes as Lord Edward did. But as far as Beth was concerned, the
maid was the first person to have actually spoken to her in two months, a
potential source of information, and a possible ally.
Kate hovered over the chocolate pot, clearly torn between her duty to her
master and her wish to taste the expensive beverage.
“Have you ever tasted chocolate, Kate?” Beth asked.
Kate shook her head.
“Well, then. Here’s your chance. I won’t tell anyone, I promise. We can
discuss what I’m going to wear while you’re drinking it, and then if anyone
asks you can honestly say you were following your orders.”
Kate sat down awkwardly on the edge of the chair and Beth stood,
briskly refilling her cup and then passing it over to the maid, who looked at
the beverage as though it might rear out of the cup and bite her on the nose.
She reminded Beth a little of Grace; not in her looks, but in her attitude. She
abandoned the idea of using the maid to possibly acquire writing materials
for her and to smuggle a letter out. Kate seemed innocent, unworldly; Beth
would not be the cause of her losing her job, or worse. But the
information…
Kate had now started sipping at the chocolate, a look of bliss on her face.
“When I heard all the bells, I thought the Pretender’s son had been
captured,” Beth said conversationally.
Kate looked up from her cup.
“Oh no, my lady. They say that he is in the Isle of Skye, and is hiding
there dressed as a woman!”
Beth took in this piece of unlikely information, trying and failing to
imagine the six-foot-tall athletically built prince passing himself off as a
woman. This could not be true, surely? But at any rate, he was still free.
“Who are they? The ones who say this?”
“Oh, it was in the papers, my lady. Mr Staines, he’s one of the footmen,
you know, he can read, and he told us. He said that there are a lot of
soldiers, hundreds of them looking for him now, and it can’t be long before
he’s taken, for there’s a thirty thousand pound reward out for him. And then
we’ll all be able to sleep in our beds at night again.”
“The Isle of Skye is a very long way away, Kate. I doubt the pri…
Pretender’s son would come all the way here just to murder you in your
bed. And if he could he would not. He is a kind man, a gentleman. Do not
believe everything you hear from the newspapers.”
The maid stared at Beth, wide-eyed.
“Have you met the Pretender’s son, my lady?” she asked, awestricken.
“I have. And he treats women, and men too, with the utmost honour. He
is not the man they would have you believe him to be. Nor is Cumberland.”
Kate blushed again, and seemed to suddenly realise the enormity of her
situation, agreeing to share breakfast with someone who was not only
acquainted with the Stuart prince, but also with the hero of Culloden, who
everyone in London would die to meet. She had finished the chocolate and
was about to stand up, but Beth waved her back down and poured her
another.
“We have to get you ready to –”
Beth raised a hand imperiously.
“We have plenty of time. It won’t take me long to dress.”
“Oh, but you will want to bathe, and wash your hair, and then I have to
dress it, and –”
“I can wash, that will be quicker, and I do not need to wash my hair, nor
do I wish to dress it. A simple braid will be enough.”
The maid opened her mouth to protest.
“My injury still pains me greatly,” Beth lied smoothly. “I cannot wear my
hair any other way. I’m sure the prince will understand.” She couldn’t give
a damn whether Cumberland understood or not, but she was not dressing up
any more than she had to for him.
She had no choice about the dress; all the gowns that had been provided
for her were costly and richly embellished with embroidery. She would
have liked to arrive at his door in the dress she had worn on the day of
Culloden, but she supposed it had been thrown away.
In the end she let Kate decide, who considered it a great honour to do so,
and by prevaricating over her choice of shoes and jewellery contrived to
arrive fifteen minutes later than ‘asked’ to do so, thereby insulting the
prince before she even arrived at Whitehall, where he was waiting to see
her.
 Small victories.

***

Prince William, Duke of Cumberland, did indeed consider himself to be

insulted as he sat behind Newcastle’s desk, waiting for Miss Cunningham to
arrive. But when she was shown in by her military escort who, on his
signal, bowed and retreated, leaving them alone, he forgave her instantly.
After the soldiers had left she remained standing by the doorway, dressed
in sky-blue brocaded satin, tiny, fragile and looking very vulnerable. He
stood and came around the desk to meet her, taking her hand in his and
raising it to his lips, ignoring the fact that she did not curtsey to him as she
should have done. No doubt she was overwhelmed by her situation.
He had wondered how she would respond to his gesture. He had hoped
she would curtsey, blush, smile. He had dreaded that she would pull her
hand away, slap his face. But she did not respond in any way at all, which
left him with no idea as to how she felt toward him. He invited her to sit
down and she moved forward silently, taking the chair he indicated.
He returned to his seat on the opposite side of the desk. He had taken
great care in dressing today and had abandoned military uniform in favour
of a sage green silk suit with lavish gold embroidery, not wishing by
displaying his scarlet coat to bring back unpleasant memories for her of the
battle and the last time they had met. He wondered if she did in fact
remember him leaping off his horse and bending to lift her gently from the
ground. She had moaned softly as he had gathered her to his chest, and he
had known then that she was alive, had sprung into action immediately,
doing everything in his power to ensure she survived.
He told himself and everyone else that he had taken such pains because
she was the only person who could definitely identify the traitor Sir
Anthony, but looking at her now, sitting calmly and demurely opposite him,
he realised that he’d had other motives for saving her life.
She looked lovely in spite of the livid scar that marred her left temple;
the doctors had done their job well, and she seemed to be blooming with
health. He stopped himself from leaning over the desk, not wishing to
appear too eager, and instead sat back in the chair.
“I trust you are being treated well?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied simply.
 “Do you need anything to make your stay more comfortable? You have
only to ask.”
“No.”
“Does your injury still pain you?”
“A little.”
He was instantly all concern.
“I will get my personal physician to attend you. I am sure he can give
you something to relieve the pain.”
“No thank you.”
There was a short silence while the duke tried to think of a question that
would require a longer answer and she sat calmly looking past him and out
of the window. He felt gauche, wanting to say something that would elicit a
favourable response, and at a loss as to what that might be.
This was ridiculous. He was the victor of Culloden, commander of the
British Army, favourite son of the king, and she was the cousin of a minor
aristocrat. He pulled himself together, and decided to get to the point. Well,
to start to make his way to the point, at any rate.
“I am sure you know by now that the rebels have been utterly defeated,
and that the rebellion is over.”
“Yes, your sergeant told us, just before he murdered an innocent woman
and baby,” she replied calmly, still looking over his shoulder. He resisted
the urge to turn and follow her gaze, and ignored her reply.
“Many of the leaders of the rebellion are killed or taken. Two of them are
to be executed tomorrow.”
“And yet Prince Charles is neither killed nor taken,” she responded.
“It is only a matter of time before he is. There is a thirty thousand pound
reward for information about him, and we are closing in on him. As I said,
it is –”
“And yet no one has claimed the reward,” she said softly, as though
unaware she had interrupted him. “It is not over, then.”
He reddened, betraying the fact that she had hit a sore spot. This was not
going at all as he had imagined. He must end her delusion, now.
“Elizabeth,” he said, leaning forward in spite of his resolution not to
appear eager. “The rebellion is over. The clans are scattered and more and
more surrender their arms every day. You have been abandoned, both by
Charles and by your husband. I understand how persuasive my cousin can
be, and how clever Sir Anthony was. I am sure you believed him to be in
love with you, believed yourself in love with him. What woman’s head
would not be turned by such sophisticated liars? But now you see what it
has brought you to. You must think of yourself, for I can assure you the man
who ruined you certainly does not.”
“You speak of him in the present. You know him to be alive then?” she
said.
Was she mocking him? He observed her expression, but it was
completely neutral.
“If he fought at Culloden, then he is almost certainly dead,” Cumberland
replied brutally, nettled by her lack of emotion. “If not, then he may be in
prison or skulking in the mountains.”
“Or in France, raising troops for another rebellion,” she said.
“Wherever he is, madam, he cannot help you. Whereas I desire nothing
more than to help you. Tell me what you know of this man who has treated
you so badly, and I promise you we need never speak of it again. I can
obtain a full pardon for you and will purchase a fine house, in the
countryside perhaps, but not too far away. You will want for nothing, I
assure you. And when I visit you I will be very discreet.”
Now, finally, she turned away from her perusal of the view and looked at
him.
“Are you asking me to be your mistress?” she asked coolly. “And I a
ruined woman and a traitor?”
“You are no more a traitor than I am, Elizabeth,” he said passionately.
“We were all deceived by him, but you most of all. Of course you, who are
so beautiful, so spirited, could not resist such a man, who promised you
wealth, romance, adventure! I understand that, of course I do. Society may
consider you a ruined woman, now. But once under my patronage, your
reputation and that of your family will be restored. Whether Sir Anthony is
captured or not, I will ensure that everyone knows you cooperated willingly
and fully with us, and that you have atoned for your weakness in being
bewitched by him. Given time you will be able to resume your place in
society. And I assure you, you will find no one more…”
His voice trailed away into nothing as he noted that now, for the first time
since she had been escorted into the room, she had an expression on her
face. He looked away from her, unable to bear the mocking smile and the
contempt in her eyes. Was she aware that he had been about to declare his
devotion to her? He hoped not.
 “The reputation of my family should not have been affected by my
actions, nor by Anthony’s. Everyone was taken in by him, even you. If my
family’s reputation is tarnished, then so is the whole of society’s. My
cousins knew nothing of what Anthony truly was, nor of my own political
views. In fact Edward thinks women incapable of having any views at all.
“As for yourself, let me disabuse you once and for all of this notion you
have that Anthony bewitched me. It is true I married him reluctantly, but
once I found out his true nature, and that he wholeheartedly supported King
James, I followed him in everything willingly, and if I could have my time
over, would do so again without hesitation. I do not consider that I have
done anything dishonourable in supporting the cause of the rightful
monarch over a pack of German usurpers.”
He flushed scarlet with anger and opened his mouth to speak, but she
held up a hand, and to his astonishment he found himself obeying her signal
to let her continue.
“You ask me to betray everything I hold dear, and for what? To be your
mistress? Never. I don’t care a fig for what society thinks of me, but I could
never look at myself in a mirror again if I were to become your whore, and
you insult me by even suggesting it.”
“Elizabeth, I cannot marry you, you know that,” he said, appalled that
she could think he was insulting her by suggesting she become his mistress.
That was the furthest thing from his mind.
“I have no wish to marry you. I have a husband already.”
“He married you under a false name. Your marriage was not legal. And in
any case, if he was at Culloden, which I assume he was, then he is almost
certainly dead, as I said earlier.”
“If that is the case, then any information I could give regarding his true
identity would be worthless, and I will happily die a widow, knowing my
husband was a man of courage and honour. And in the meantime I am
proud to be a Jacobite prisoner, which I consider a far more honourable
condition than being either a cowardly traitor or a whore. You dishonour
both yourself and me to even suggest such a thing.”
For a moment he felt completely humiliated. Then indignation took over.
How dare she speak to him thus! And she had not used his title once, in
spite of knowing the proprieties! He had offered her, a fallen woman and a
Jacobite to boot, the highest honour he could, an honour many women
would give anything for, and she had the temerity to accuse him of
dishonourable behaviour?
By God, he would bring her to her senses! Before he could weaken and
change his mind, he shouted for the guards.
“You will escort the prisoner directly to Newgate,” he ordered. “She
wishes to be treated as any other rebel prisoner. Ensure that she is.”
He looked at her again, hoping that she would be horrified by the mere
suggestion of incarceration in a prison whose reputation was known
throughout the land. But her face was once more calm, expressionless. She
stood, and turning her back on him accompanied the guards from the room
without another word.
After she had gone he sat for a moment, letting the conflicting emotions
she had roused in him wash over him. Anger, humiliation, outrage…
Love.
He loved her. And she had once led him to believe that his feelings were
reciprocated. What evil spell had that traitor Anthony cast over her, that
even now, after all that had happened, she still fancied herself in love with
him? Let her see what happened to ordinary rebels, what could happen to
her if he withdrew his protection. Although…
He sat for a minute, deep in thought, and then rang the bell and
summoned a footman to carry an urgent message to the keeper of Newgate
Prison.

***

Upon arrival at Newgate Beth was taken into a dank, cold room underneath
the entrance gate. Through the middle of the room ran an open sewer which
discharged its foul-smelling contents into the Fleet river. The smell was
overpowering, and it took all Beth’s willpower for her not to vomit at the
stench.
A stout wall-eyed man with lank greasy hair whom she supposed to be
the keeper, eyed first her and then her clothes with appreciation.
“Welcome, Mistress Cunningham,” he said. “I’m told you’re to be put
with the rebel prisoners. But first we have to measure you for your irons.
What do you think, Mr Twyford?”
A figure materialised from the shadows, and moved forward.
 “I would think twenty pounds should be sufficient to subdue her, Mr
Jones,” Twyford commented. “Although it would be a shame to shackle
such a beautiful woman. You know what a mess the irons make of them;
scars them for life. Why, only last week a young lady had to have her arm
cut off. The irons cut her to the bone, they did. Went bad.”
“You speak true, Mr Twyford, true indeed,” intoned the keeper sadly. “Of
course, Mistress, for a small consideration I daresay we could come to some
accommodation.”
“You can save your breath, sirs,” Beth said as calmly as she could, trying
not to remember the hanging Alex had insisted she attend, and the woman’s
wrists, which had been raw and infected. “I have no money, nor have I any
friends who would pay you your ‘small consideration’. So do what you
must, and have done with it.”
“Come now, surely a young woman as beautiful as you and dressed so
expensively, must have access to funds? In fact I daresay that your dress
could fetch a reasonable sum, if –” He got no further before there came a
banging on the door. It opened, and a young man dressed in the livery of the
Duke of Newcastle entered.
“An urgent message, sir, regarding the prisoner,” he said breathlessly.
The wall-eyed man stepped outside, returning a few minutes later with a
completely different attitude.
“Well, it appears that you do have friends after all, Mistress
Cunningham,” he said. “No shackles, Mr Twyford.”
“Shall I take her to the press yard then, Mr Jones?” asked his companion,
who had clearly recognised the livery.
“No. No shackles, but she’s to be confined with the other rebel women.”
Mr Twyford appeared confused by this. In fact both men did. Beth
wondered what the press yard was, and what the footman had said to puzzle
them. Maybe Cumberland still hoped she would relent and become his
mistress after all, and did not want her to be scarred any more than she
already was. Whatever it was, she was grateful not to have to wear irons,
although it would be a cold day in hell before she gave herself to that fat
usurping slug.
She was led out of the foul-smelling room, up two flights of narrow stone
steps, then down a corridor lit with candles placed in sconces, to a door at
the end. Mr Jones opened the door with an enormous key and waved her in,
before closing and locking it behind her.
 She found herself in a room lit only by a narrow barred window high up
in the wall. It was completely bare of furniture, and very cold, in spite of
the fact that it was summer. She stood a moment and let her eyes become
accustomed to the gloom, upon which she began to make out the shapes of
several women, most of whom were sitting on the wooden floor, leaning
against the stone walls which were glistening with moisture. The air was
heavy and fetid with the smell of unwashed bodies, urine and excrement,
and Beth breathed through her mouth in an attempt to reduce the stench
assailing her nostrils. I will become accustomed to it, she told herself
desperately.
There came the sound of flint and tinder, and suddenly a candle was lit,
banishing the shadows to the corners of the room. Someone started to
protest in a soft Scottish accent at this waste of what was apparently a
luxury, but was immediately hushed. The bearer of the candle stood and
made her way over to Beth, who was still standing by the door.
“Well, what ‘ave we ‘ere?” she said. “A bloody lady!” She curtseyed
deeply, then laughed raucously and held the candle up to get a better view
of the newcomer.
Beth took advantage of the illumination to take the measure of this
woman who was undoubtedly the self-styled chief of the room. She was
nearly a head taller than Beth and would probably have been described as
‘strapping’, before prison life had stripped her of some of her muscle. Even
so, she was still formidable. And filthy. Her dark hair was tangled and her
face greasy and milk-white from lack of sunlight.
“And you’re a whore, I take it?” Beth replied calmly, eyeing the red
ragged petticoat and very low-cut bodice the woman was wearing. At one
time they would have passed for stylish, at night, anyway.
The woman laughed again, clearly not offended by Beth’s observation.
“Make my livin’ whatever way I can, don’t I?” she said.
“Not very well at the moment, it seems,” Beth commented. She heard the
gasp of horror from the other women, and watched the anger kindle in the
woman’s eyes. Yes, she was right. This woman was a bully, and had
succeeded in cowing the other occupants of the room. And yet these were
rebel prisoners, and the Jacobite women Beth had met en route to Culloden
would not have been easily subdued by just one bully, no matter how
dominant. She probably had the assistance of one of the turnkeys then,
perhaps in exchange for sexual favours.
 Oh, well. She would worry about that later. One thing at a time.
The woman was looking at Beth’s dress now, the blue brocaded satin
shimmering in the candlelight. She whistled appreciatively.
“Look at this, girls!” she said, taking a handful of the skirt and lifting it.
Beth made no move to stop her, and she smiled triumphantly at her easy
conquest of the new prisoner. “We could live like queens for a year on this,
couldn’t we?”
There was no answer from the ‘girls’.
“You a whore too, then?” she asked Beth mockingly. “Or one of them
scullery maids who gets an ‘and-me-down from ‘er mistress then goes
down Vauxhall and gets ‘erself swived by some footman under a tree?”
“Well, whatever I am, I’m clearly better at it than you, aren’t I?” Beth
replied, looking her adversary up and down with deliberate contempt. A
deathly silence fell over the room, and before the woman could react to this
insult Beth punched her in the stomach with both fists as hard as she could,
silently thanking Richardson for writing such a weighty tome.
Unprepared for the assault the whore doubled over instantly, badly
winded, and Beth followed through, bringing her knee up hard into the
woman’s face. She felt the crunch as the nose broke, and then the bully
dropped the candle and crumpled onto the floor, clutching her face and
gasping for breath. Miraculously, the candle was not extinguished, and
bending down, Beth picked it up and briefly examined her victim. Once
sure that the woman was actually managing to pull a little air into her lungs,
she straightened up again and smiled at the other occupants of the room,
who were all looking at her with identical expressions of shock.
“That wasn’t quite the greeting I expected, but I do have a reputation for
making memorable entrances, so I suppose I shouldn’t have been
surprised,” she said pleasantly. “Halò, is mise Beth. Tha mi toilichte ur
coinneachadh.”
There was a stunned silence for a moment as the women tried to take in
the fact that someone who was clearly a Sasannach and, what was more,
both looked and spoke like a lady, nevertheless had the Gaelic. Then one of
them started to clap her hands, and then another, and within a minute all of
them were clapping and smiling, and the bully, still gasping and struggling
to sit up, was forgotten as they stood to greet the newcomer who had made
such a spectacular first impression.
 ***

29th July 1746

“God, I’m tired,” Edwin said by way of greeting to his wife as he entered
the salon. He gave his coat and hat to a waiting footman, then threw himself
into a chair.
Caroline looked up from her desk, where she was finishing off a letter.
“It’s wonderful to see you too, darling,” she commented drily, folding the
paper and carefully pouring sealing wax onto the join.
“I’m sorry. It is wonderful to see you, really. I’ve missed you. How’s
Summer Hill coming along?”
“Extremely well. I arrived back this morning. Some of the rooms are
habitable now. I was just writing to William to arrange a meeting.” She
stamped the brass seal into the wax.
Edwin looked across at her in surprise.
“I think he’ll be very busy for a while. Half of London is begging to see
him. What do you want to meet him for, anyway?”
“He’s designing the garden. I told you last week. And I know I had to
fight to prise him away from Henry, but why is half of London begging to
see him?”
“Cumberland’s designing the garden?” Edwin replied, thoroughly
bemused.
Light dawned.
“Edwin, there is more than one person in the country called William, you
know,” Caroline said gently. “You really need to get away from parliament
now and again. William Kent is designing the garden. I think Cumberland is
somewhat busy basking in the adoration of Britain at the moment. Shall I
call for some food for you? It’s a bit late, but cook should be able to put a
cold collation together.”
Edwin yawned hugely, and glanced at the clock.
“I had no idea it was that late,” he said. “No, I’m not hungry. I dined at
my club between sessions.”
“What kept you so late?” his wife asked, getting up and coming to stand
behind him. She gently massaged his shoulders, knowing how much he
loved her to do that. The muscles of his neck and upper back were solid. A
hard day, then.
 “You know the Dress Act has been passed into law now?” he said.
“The one denying Highlanders the right to wear their traditional
clothes?”
“Well, it denies anyone in Scotland the right to wear them or in fact to
even possess a piece of tartan at all. But yes, it’s aimed at the Highlanders.
Well, now we’re thrashing out the details of the Heritable Jurisdictions Act,
which will effectively take away all the powers of the clan chiefs. And
debating what to do about the prisoners.”
Caroline whistled through her teeth.
“So the king really does mean to destroy the clans then?”
Edwin nodded.
“Something drastic has to be done, Caro, otherwise, unless Charles is
captured, it’ll only be a matter of time before there’s another rising. And if
the French invade as well this time…”
“It seems pretty drastic though, destroying their whole way of life.”
“Not as drastic as one proposal, to transport whole clans like the
Camerons and MacGregors. But it was thought to be too expensive and
impractical, and in any case, a lot of them would have probably found a
way to return. Instead they’re being systematically disarmed. There are still
pockets of resistance but the military presence there is making sure that
they can’t assemble enough men for another rising at the moment. And the
laws we’re bringing in will hopefully make sure that they finally come into
line with the rest of Britain. It’s ridiculous that half the country still lives
under feudal law, in these times!”
Caroline nodded at the wisdom of this.
“What’s the problem with the prisoners, then?”
“The sheer numbers of them, really. The prisons are overflowing, so
we’re going to turn some of the hulks into floating prisons for them. They’ll
be docked at the mouth of the Thames, and then the prisoners will draw
lots. One in twenty will be tried and the rest will probably be transported, in
time. It would take us years to try all of them.”
“I thought William was for executing them all? Cumberland that is, not
Kent.”
He tipped his head back and eyed her sceptically.
“I don’t know. He certainly believes in teaching them a stern lesson in
Scotland, but here it seems that sending them to the Colonies will be the
most practical solution. The only ones the king is determined to make an
example of, apart from the leaders of course, is the Manchester Regiment.
Manchester was the only English town that raised enough men to form a
regiment of its own. I think he wants to make sure that the English at least
will never rise for Charles again.”
Caroline gave up trying to loosen the knots of tension in his muscles, and
sat down opposite him.
“If you’re not hungry, let’s go to bed instead. At least you can sleep late
tomorrow,” she said. “Parliament isn’t meeting until two, is it?”
“I can’t,” he said, standing and allowing her to lead him from the room.
“That’s what I was about to tell you. I’m attending the hangings of the
Manchester rebels tomorrow. They’re at eleven, but I’ll have to set off very
early.”
Caroline stopped part way up the stairs and turned to him, shock written
all over her face.
“You’re attending the hangings? Whatever for? You’ve never shown the
slightest inclination to go to one before. You hate violence! And these aren’t
just normal hangings. I was brought up going to such things, but even I
have no wish to see men drawn and quartered. What are you thinking of?”
“We drew straws,” Edwin said tiredly. “I lost. Or won, in the eyes of
some of the others.”
“Let one of them go, then,” Caroline retorted. “You sleep in.”
“It’s too late. I’ve already agreed. And the king expects at least one of his
new knights to attend.”
“But that’s ridiculous! There will be so many people there that no one
will notice whether you…wait…what did you just say?”
He looked up at her, standing above him on the stairs, still holding his
hand.
“As of next month, you will be married to Sir Edwin Harlow. The king
has awarded me a knighthood to compensate me for all my hard work
during the rebellion. And for the loss of my family life,” he added, although
Caroline knew well that the king did not consider a man’s family life to be
of any importance where war was concerned.
Caroline squealed in a most unladylike manner and threw herself at her
husband, which, as they were part way up the stairs, resulted in them
toppling backwards and landing in an undignified, though thankfully
uninjured heap in the hall.
 “That’s wonderful news! Why didn’t you tell me as soon as you came
in?” she asked, hugging him.
“I was going to wait until we had time to celebrate it, but then I found I
couldn’t wait to tell you after all.” He beamed up at her, and she kissed him
ecstatically. In spite of his fatigue he felt a stirring in his breeches, and
realised that it had been a long time since he and his wife had made love.
Too long.
“Er…Shall we continue this in private, Caro?” he suggested.
She grinned at him so lasciviously that he blushed.
“No,” she said. “Tonight you need to sleep. Tomorrow we have a
hanging…several hangings to attend. And then you are taking a few days
off to come and see Summer Hill, even if I have to petition the king
myself.”
“But-”
“No arguments. You work too hard and deserve a holiday. Now bed, for
both of us.”
He had been going to protest against her attending the executions with
him rather than the holiday, but as she pulled him firmly up the stairs again
he realised that he was dreading tomorrow, and really would appreciate her
support during what would be for most Londoners a wonderful day out, and
for him a terrible ordeal.

***

Sarah insisted that she and John set off bright and early for Kennington
Common on the Wednesday morning.
“It’s going to be very crowded,” she said, “and if you’re determined to do
this, then you want to stand near enough that there’s a slight chance at least
of one of your friends seeing you.”
“I really appreciate this, but you don’t have to go, you know,” John said.
“Yes, I do. I’m not letting you face this alone. I’d never forgive myself if
I did.”
Initially John had planned to get the stagecoach to Manchester straight
after the executions, but Sarah had pointed out that the crowds would be so
dense it would take him hours to get away afterwards, and that in any case
he would have to carry both his spare clothing and the money she was
lending him for his fare – a crazy thing to do when London’s most
accomplished pickpockets would be enthusiastically plying their trade.
Privately she also wanted him to spend another night with her, because
over the last week that he had stayed with her she had come to know him
well, and both liked and respected him. She could see why Beth was so
fond of him. He was both passionate about the Jacobite cause and sensitive,
and Sarah was sure that seeing his friends die in such an awful way would
affect him profoundly. She wanted to be with him tonight so that she could
try to help him come to terms with what he was about to see.
And she would miss him. In the last week they had grown close, and she
had come to think of him like a brother, which made the pretence that he
was to inquisitive customers easy to maintain. He was wonderful with Mary
too. In fact she would be quite happy were he to stay with her indefinitely,
but knew that it was too dangerous. He had to get out of London as soon as
possible. Thomas and Jane would look after him until he was completely
healed of his fetter wounds, and then he could find a place to go where no
one knew him, and make a new life for himself.

Although they set off very early there were already plenty of people out on
the streets, heading in the same direction. They were about halfway there
when a coach passed them and then stopped. As they drew level, the door
opened and Caroline leaned out.
“Sarah!” she said brightly. “Are you going to Kennington?”
Sarah looked up. “Good morning. Yes, we are,” she replied.
“Jump in then. We’ll take you,” she said. The footman jumped down
from the back of the coach and lowered the steps for them to climb in.
Sarah hesitated.
“It’s very kind of you, but we can walk,” she said.
“Nonsense!” Caroline replied briskly. “It’s coming on to rain. There’s no
point in you both getting wet before you need to.”
Realising that it would look churlish at the least, and suspicious at the
worst if they were to refuse this kind offer, she capitulated. John handed
Sarah up into the coach, then climbed in after her. They sat down opposite
the Harlows, and the coach started off again. Caroline looked expectantly at
John.
“This is my brother, Jem,” Sarah said. “He was in the militia and was
away when my sister…when Mary was born. He came down here to see her
and he’s been staying with me for a few days. Jem, this is Mr and-”
“This is Edwin, and I’m Caroline,” Caroline interrupted.
Edwin, who had been sitting back in the coach looking
uncharacteristically morose, now leaned forward and offered his hand to
John, who shook it, very glad that he had remembered to wear gloves today.
His fingers were healing, but were still raw enough to excite curiosity.
“I’m very sorry for your loss, Jem,” Edwin said. “It must have been a
terrible shock for you.”
“It was, sir,” John replied, then fell silent, hoping that the couple would
think he was too overcome with emotion to elaborate on the death of his
fictional sister.
There was a slightly awkward silence.
“So what do you think of London, Jem?” Caroline asked. “Have you
been here before?”
“No, and I hope never to again,” John replied without thinking, then
reddened.
“Jem’s a country boy,” Sarah leapt in immediately. “He finds the noise of
the city difficult to become accustomed to.”
“To say nothing of the smells,” Caroline put in, to John’s surprise.
“Although you get used to those, for the most part. We’ve lived in London
for five years, and it can be an exciting place to be, but it’s also very tiring.
We’ve got a house in the country now, Sarah. I’m furnishing it at the
moment. When it’s finished, you must come and visit. Both of you.”
John looked at this obviously aristocratic woman, astounded. There was
no condescension in her invitation to this couple who were so far beneath
her on the social ladder. Edwin and Caroline. He vaguely remembered Beth
telling him that she didn’t give a fig about deceiving her family, but she felt
bad about two of her friends. She had written to one of them about Martha.
Was this her? Her husband was in the government or something.
“Do you work in the city, sir?” John asked Edwin impulsively.
“Yes, for my sins,” Edwin replied.
“Edwin is a Member of Parliament,” Caroline explained. “He is attending
the executions today because he is obliged to. He has no wish to go, and
neither do I. But of course there is nothing wrong with going to such an
event, if you want to,” she amended hurriedly.
This was the woman Beth had spoken so highly of! He warmed to her
instantly, smiled, and was a hairsbreadth from mentioning that he knew
Beth when Sarah squeezed his arm warningly, and he remembered that he
was supposed to be Sarah’s brother. He had never met Beth, had no idea she
existed.
He hated lying. He was no good at it. They should have insisted on
walking.
“Jem has never been to a hanging before,” Sarah said quickly. “I don’t
think he’ll enjoy it, myself, but he insisted on coming, so I decided to come
with him.”
“Well, it is certainly a memorable experience,” Caroline said brightly.
“But I hope Sarah has had the time to show you some of London’s more
pleasant attractions. St Paul’s, Vauxhall or Ranelagh Gardens, perhaps?”
“Sarah works very hard,” John said. “I came to see her and the baby, that
was enough for me. I didn’t come to see the sights.”
If you only came to see your family, why are you so eager to go to an
execution? The question hung in the air between them. Damn.
“I didn’t have time to show him anything else,” Sarah said somewhat
frantically, John thought. “And Vauxhall and St Paul’s will be there next
time he visits me. But there will never be another execution like this.”
“God, I hope not,” Edwin said with great feeling.
The carriage came to a halt and Edwin jumped down, followed by John,
who then helped the ladies down. That done, he looked around and
discovered to his horror that the coachman had managed to work his way
almost to the front, and there were only a few rows of people between him
and the gallows. Sarah had told him that people would have been arriving
there since the previous evening, and in his heart of hearts he had hoped to
be able to satisfy his conscience from a great distance, and maintain some
level of emotional detachment.
“Edwin did not purchase tickets for the stands,” Caroline was explaining,
“but we will be able to see everything from here.”
In front of the gallows a block had been set on which the bodies would be
dismembered, and next to it a pile of faggots on which their hearts and
intestines would be burnt.
They stood and waited. People pushed their way through the crowd
selling pies, oranges and printed copies of the dying speeches of the men,
who had not even arrived yet, let alone spoken.
“The crowd is very quiet,” Caroline, who had attended many executions
as a girl, said. “I hope there will not be trouble.”
 “Why, are they not normally like this?” John asked. He had thought this
normal. Seeing men being executed was not a reason to celebrate, in his
view.
“No. For most people this is a day out, an entertainment. It’s like going to
the fair would be in smaller towns. This is unusual. Perhaps it’s because
they are to suffer a traitor’s death.”
A great sigh suddenly arose from the crowd as a detachment of soldiers
came into view, their scarlet coats a bright splash of colour. Between them
were three sledges drawn by shire horses, and on each sledge three men
were strapped on their backs facing the sky, the rain, which was now falling
heavily, splashing onto their faces. The sledges stopped, the men were
untied, and the soldiers formed an oval around the gallows, bayonets fixed,
watching the crowd intently for any sign of an attempt at rescue. They too
were clearly unnerved by the abnormally quiet crowd.
“Where is the minister?” Caroline asked, puzzled. John hadn’t thought
about that, but others clearly had, and murmurs of indignation arose from
the people near to them.
“This isn’t right,” one man to the left of John said. “They should have a
man of God with them to help them pray and repent of their sins. Even
papists deserve that.”
John opened his mouth to tell the man that they were not papists but
Episcopalians, as was he, but Sarah took his arm in a death grip, and he
subsided.
The faggots were lit with some difficulty due to the rain, and the nine
men who were to die that day were helped up to the scaffold and left there
to make their last statements.
Colonel Towneley spoke first, the man who John had said was
humourless and thought himself above his men, but who was brave. He
certainly showed his bravery, speaking in a clear, calm voice about how
honoured he was to give his life for his rightful king and prince.
After him came Dai Morgan, who tried the patience of the crowd by
taking out a book and reading aloud from it for a full half hour. He also
made a vicious attack on the Roman Church, to the astonishment of the man
to the left of John, who had obviously believed the Hanoverian propaganda
that Jacobites were papists to a man.
The other seven condemned men made shorter speeches. Thomas Deacon
suddenly lifted his arm and threw his hat into the crowd, and John made a
desperate leap high into the air as it flew over his head, snatching it from
the eager fingers of three other men, who would have perhaps made
something of it had John not shot them a look of such hatred and venom
that they thought better of it and let him keep his prize, which he clutched
to his chest.
“I’ll give it to his father, when I get home,” he said softly to Sarah.
Caroline looked at him strangely, but anything she was thinking to say
was drowned out in the sudden roar of the crowd as, finally, the men
stopped speaking, and the hangman adjusted the nooses around their necks
then pulled hoods over their heads, before pushing them one by one off the
cart, where they dangled, their limbs twitching and jerking as they
strangled.
John made a sudden move forward in an instinctive gesture to rescue his
friends, and Caroline, noticing, put a hand out, and he stopped himself.
Edwin had closed his eyes momentarily, but now opened them again, and
forced himself to look as the men’s struggles became weaker.
After a few minutes, the men’s clothes were removed and Francis
Towneley’s body was cut down and laid on the block, while the others were
left to hang naked. The hangman lifted a butcher’s cleaver and bent over
Towneley’s body, which twitched feebly.
“Dear God, this is terrible,” Edwin breathed. He was as white as a sheet.
Caroline put her arm around his waist, and he leaned into her.
John was breathing heavily through his mouth, tears streaming down his
face unheeded, and white flashes swam at the edge of his vision. By a sheer
effort of will he forced himself not to faint, nor to look away. It had been
cowardly of him to hope that he would be too far away to see their
suffering. He should have been on the scaffold with them, strangling slowly,
gasping for breath. The very least he could do was witness it, to tell others
that even if they had never had the chance to show their bravery in battle,
they had shown it on the scaffold.
John expected the hangman to slit open Towneley’s chest and tear his
heart out, still beating, but instead he hacked off the man’s head first,
holding it up to the crowd, who cheered, and only then did he cut open the
chest and draw out the bowels and heart, which were thrown on the fire.
It seemed to John to take an eternity for the process to be repeated with
the other eight men, but finally Jemmy Dawson’s heart was thrown into the
fire and the hangman shouted to the crowd, “God save King George!”
 The crowd roared back, and then it was over. The coffins, containing the
severed heads and corpses of John’s brothers-in-arms were drawn away, and
the crowd began to disperse. John stood, rooted to the spot, while a wave of
hatred for this so-called king and all his family washed over him so strongly
that he thought he would never feel anything again but a burning desire to
be revenged for the undignified, brutal way these young men had died for
the entertainment of a mindless mob, the same mob who would have no
doubt cheered for Prince Charles had he continued on to London and
victory, instead of turning back to Culloden and defeat.
He felt the hot bile rise in his throat, and swallowed it back. If they, who
had suffered and died, had not shown weakness, then he was damned if he
would.
He felt a tugging on his arm, and looked down into the worried eyes of
Sarah. Incapable for the moment of speech, he nodded to her to let her
know he was alright, although at that moment he thought he would never be
alright again. He let her lead him back to the coach, and he handed her in
and then climbed in after her, hardly aware of what he was doing.
The coach trundled along, slowly at first, and then faster as they started
to move away from the crowds.
“Dear God, that was awful,” Edwin said, half to himself. “This is not
right. How can people enjoy seeing men suffer so?”
“They were traitors, Edwin,” Caroline said softly. “That is the penalty for
high treason. At least their heads were cut off before their parts were thrown
on the fire. It was not always so. And women can still be burnt at the stake
for treason, which can be far more prolonged and painful.”
“I know they had to die, and be made an example of, to deter others. But
to take children…I would never take Freddie to such a horror,” Edwin said.
He took out his handkerchief, wiped his eyes and blew his nose.
Caroline looked across at Sarah’s brother, who hadn’t spoken and was
still clutching the hat to his chest. He looked ghastly.
“You knew some of them,” Caroline said. It was not a question, and John
felt too sick at heart to deny it.
“Yes,” he replied. “I did.”
“Jem lived in Manchester for a time, like me,” Sarah jumped in. “A short
time. He got to know quite a lot of people, but only a little. A very little.”
Caroline nodded.
 “Well,” she said. “I hope that you will take something useful away from
this experience.”
She was looking at the hat, but John had the uncomfortable feeling that
she was not referring to that.
“I certainly will,” he said bitterly.
Caroline had instructed the coachman to drive straight to Sarah’s shop,
and once there, John and Sarah thanked them and climbed out. Sarah went
to open the door, but as John turned to follow her, Caroline leaned out of
the coach again and beckoned him closer.
“Jem,” she said very softly, so only he would hear. “May I say
something, as a friend of your…sister?”
He nodded and waited, very aware of the pause she had made in her
sentence and its implications.
“Do not take offence, but you are not a good liar. Which is to your credit,
but I think you should leave London as quickly as possible, and perhaps
refrain from any more outings in the meantime. I am sure your friends
would have appreciated your gesture today, had they known, and that Mr
Deacon’s father will take great comfort from the return of his son’s hat. It
was a reckless thing to do, but a brave one. I wish you well, but there are
many who wouldn’t. It would not be wise to linger here, I think, for your
sake and Sarah’s.”
Before he could respond she sat back in the coach and tapped on the roof,
and the driver set off down the street. John watched as it disappeared round
the corner, then slowly turned and followed Sarah into her shop.
He would leave tomorrow, as early as possible.

They rode on in silence for a few minutes, Edwin looking out of the
window, deep in thought.
“You said the crowd were quiet today. What are they normally like?” he
asked suddenly, making Caroline jump.
“They’re normally a lot noisier than that, but their mood depends on
who’s being hung,” she replied. “If it’s an unpopular criminal, then they’ll
jeer and throw things. When Jonathan Wild was hung twenty years ago
there was nearly a riot, he was so hated. On the other hand if it’s someone
popular, like Jack Sheppard, or some of the more famous highwaymen for
example, then the crowd might be more sympathetic, especially if he or she
gives a good speech. That can be more dangerous in a way, because the
sympathy is for the criminal, not the authorities. It’s a great entertainment
for them, in any case.”
“I really cannot comprehend how people can be entertained by watching
others die horribly. I have no sympathy for murderers and robbers; they
know the risks they run if they are caught. The law of the land must be
upheld or we would have anarchy, and of course such people have to die. I
understand that. But I have always thought executions to be a lesson to the
spectators, not an amusement! And now you tell me that rather than
learning from their grisly end, people actually have sympathy for footpads
and highwaymen?” Edwin asked, bemused.
And traitors. Caroline had been about to mention that when Sarah’s
brother had leapt up to grab the hat his coat sleeve had fallen down his arm,
and she had seen the unmistakable fetter wounds on his wrist. Three men
had escaped from Newgate a week ago. Three men who should have been
hung today.
No. Now was clearly not the time. Maybe there would never be a right
time to tell him that where he would see a traitor in Jem, she saw a brave if
misguided young man, who had risked recapture to make a gesture of
support and loyalty to his friends. She was almost certain that Thomas
Deacon had seen him, had aimed the hat at him, had hopefully taken
comfort from the fact that he’d caught it. She could not bring herself to turn
him in, and in doing so also condemn Sarah, who she considered to be a
friend.
She knew that good people could do bad things. And whilst she agreed
with upholding the law she was nevertheless willing to bend it for those
misguided people who happened to be her friends, as she had just now. But
Edwin was an innocent in many ways and took comfort from seeing things
in black and white. Good, evil. Legal, illegal. The discovery of Anthony and
Beth’s treachery had shaken him to the core, as did the fact that he could
not, no matter how hard he tried, find it in his heart to hate them. Caroline
forced herself back to the question he had asked.
“Some highwaymen behave like gentlemen, are polite to their victims.
And remember, most of the people who attend executions are poor and
powerless, and they see highwaymen as people like them who are fighting
back and who are, however temporarily, winning a victory over those in
power. If the criminal then stands on the gallows, defiant, and makes a good
speech, he will be the hero of the day.”
 “So you are saying that public executions glorify crime and lawlessness
rather than acting as a deterrent?”
“Well, I hadn’t thought of it like that, but yes, I suppose they can. Some
criminals redress the balance between the powerful and the powerless, at
least for a while, and win the hearts of the crowd.”
Edwin thought for a moment.
“I need to go to another execution,” he said. “Maybe more than one. I
want to see for myself what a normal hanging is like.”
Caroline stared at him, shocked.
“Edwin, you’re grey. I thought you were going to faint at one point today.
Why would you want to put yourself through that again? Leave it to those
who enjoy such things.”
“No, you mistake me. As far as the government is concerned, executions
act as deterrents. Look what will come of you if you break the law, look
how horrifying it is to die by hanging, in public. But you’re telling me that
the criminals are glamorised by the mob, who see it as a great entertainment
rather than a terrifying lesson. I need to see this for myself.”
“Why? Isn’t it enough to see one?”
“No, it isn’t. Because if I am going to campaign for a change in the law
regarding public executions, then I need to know if I am right in believing
that many criminals are encouraged in their crime by the knowledge that if
they’re caught they will have their moment of fame, and that the crowd
learns nothing from witnessing their end.”
“You think that we should not execute criminals and traitors?” Caroline
said.
“No. I think we should execute them, but quickly and privately.”
“You are upset, Edwin. This has shocked you terribly. I knew it would.
But people need to know the consequences of treason. Will they learn that
without seeing the end they could come to?”
“Do you think that Anthony and Beth didn’t know the consequences they
would face if they were caught? But did it stop them?”
Caroline sighed.
“No, it didn’t. Because in their minds, it was worth the risk of dying in
such a manner to see the Stuarts restored to the throne.”
“Exactly. In which case making such executions public is pointless,
because it acts as no deterrent at all to those who are determined to pursue
such a path.”
 “I agree. It will not stop those who are determined, or desperate. But for
those who are thinking about it, seeing what they might come to if they
continue might stop them embarking on a life of crime in the first place. We
live in a brutal world, Edwin, and sometimes brutal means are needed as a
deterrent.”
“You are right. I need to think about this. You told me once that I was
gentle and caring, and fight with words, not fists.”
“I remember. When I threatened to shoot Richard. Part of me still wishes
I had.”
He smiled.
“Today I’ve realised that there’s a whole world out there that I know
almost nothing about. And I should know about it. I am lucky enough to be
in a position where I can influence policy decisions. But I need to see the
consequences of those decisions, and I cannot do that by hiding away from
them. There is something deeply wrong about what I witnessed today, but
I’m not sure what it is, or how it can be changed. I need to find out.”
“Then you must. But not now, while you’re so upset. And not for the next
few days, either. Because you are coming to Summer Hill with me and
Freddie, to see what I’ve been doing there. I need you to see the
consequences of my decisions, and to influence my future ones. And then
when you’re calmer and relaxed, you can think about changing the rest of
the world. And I will support you in that, if I can.”
He put his arm around her.
“What would I do without you, Caro?” he said.
“The same as I would do without you, Edwin,” his wife replied. “Fall
apart. So let us enjoy the time we have together.”

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER NINE

Scotland, August 1746

It was a glorious summer day when Alex finally returned to Loch Lomond,
some four weeks after the personas of the plain-speaking Yorkshireman
Tobias Grundy, the ugly old bastard George Armstrong, and the deaf idiot
John had been buried, along with the all-too-real corpses of forty soldiers of
His Majesty’s Army. Their weapons and most of their clothes, with the
exception of the instantly recognisable and therefore incriminating scarlet
coats, had been redistributed amongst those Highlanders in need of clothing
and in want of arms to continue the fight, and the cattle were now being
slowly and very discreetly delivered to those in need of food. All things
considered it had been a great victory and an excellent start to the war of
attrition that Alex intended to wage on the redcoats, along with those men
who wished to fight with him.
Normally when a chieftain returned to his clan after an absence,
particularly one with the potential for news gathering this one had, he
would expect to be loudly and joyously welcomed by his clansfolk.
However Alex had neither wanted nor expected such a welcome, and so
was not disappointed by the profound silence that greeted his return to the
settlement.
Of course the silence was not really profound; birds sang in the trees,
bees buzzed in the heather and clover, and the waters of the loch lapped
gently against the shore. But there was no human sound at all, and no sign
that humans had inhabited the area for some considerable time.
Angus had excelled himself, if this was indeed his idea. Alex had told the
MacGregors to abandon their houses, but they had done far more than that.
The heather thatch and roof timbers were gone and the stones of the houses
collapsed, as if they had fallen in over time. Some of them had been
removed completely, as though pillaged by another clan for building
materials. All the clansfolk’s belongings were gone. Graeme’s garden had
been obliterated. Even the cowpats, a sure sign of recent occupation to an
observant soldier, had disappeared. The only thing they had not been able to
do was replicate the encroachment of nature; there were no weeds growing
up through the floors, no ivy creeping over the abandoned houses. But all in
all, the village gave a good impression of having been abandoned some
time ago.
Alex smiled to himself and began to make his way up the mountain to the
place where he knew they would all be waiting to hear his news. It had been
a very tiring few weeks, first emotionally and then physically, and he
couldn’t wait to get home and relax for a day or two.
The emotional part had been the worst. Taking Robert MacDonald’s body
back to his chief had been not only very upsetting, but potentially
dangerous too. Alex knew that the Glencoe chief had wanted no part of the
raid and had only agreed to let them use his valley as a hiding place because
of some favour he owed Ealasaid. Alex had prayed that MacIain would
accept Allan’s word as to the circumstances of the killing.
If he had not, then a blood feud would have been declared between the
clans, because Alex could not, would not have accepted the alternative,
which would have been to sacrifice Robert’s killer in atonement. He had
already lost his wife and one brother; he would not lose another, no matter
what the price he had to pay.
But in the end the MacDonald chief had accepted Allan’s story, and that
it was better to lose one reckless clansman than risk the wrath of the British
Army coming down on them.
“Ye ken well, I wanted no part of this raid,” he had said sadly, “but once I
agreed to it, I wouldna go back on my word, and in truth I’m glad I changed
my mind, for surrendering as I did pained my soul and this has gone some
way to appeasing that. But when some of the men came to me and asked to
join you in the venture, I tellt them then that if they did they must accept
you as their chief for the duration of the raid, or face the consequences. And
they agreed, all of them, including this wee loon.” He looked sadly down at
the shrouded figure of his clansman, and then at Angus, who was standing,
pale and anxious, in the corner of the room. “I’ll no’ have bad blood
between us over it. Ye did right, laddie, but I’m sorry ye had to.”
“Will ye let me be the one to tell Ealasaid?” Alex asked. “As her kinsman
by marriage and the one who proposed the raid, I feel it should be myself
who breaks the bad news to her.”
 MacIain looked up then, and to Alex’s surprise the chief’s eyes filled
with tears.
“Christ, ye dinna ken. Of course, how could ye?”
“Dinna ken what?” Alex asked.
“She’s dead. She died three days ago. She just went to bed and didna
wake up. I’m sorry, man,” he added, alarmed by the sudden pallor of Alex’s
face as he heard the unexpected news. “Sit down.”
Alex sank down into a chair, and rubbed his hands over his face as he
fought to control the surge of grief that threatened to overwhelm him.
“I’m sorry,” he said after a few moments. “I shouldna be so shocked. I
mean, she was a great age, but –”
“But ye thought she’d live for ever,” MacIain finished sadly. “Aye, we all
did. She’ll be sorely missed. But it was the way she’d have wanted to go,
peacefully and surrounded by her family. Well, being the woman she was,
maybe she’d have preferred to die in battle, given the choice, but in a
manner of speaking she did. She fought a fierce battle of words wi’ me to
get me to agree to your plan. It’s a fitting tribute to her.”

It had indeed been a fitting tribute to her. And a fitting start to the revenge
for the death of her equally feisty granddaughter, who had died in battle,
killing the soldier who had killed Maggie. Angus, Alex and Iain had all
made some headway into fulfilling their blood oath to Maggie.
At Glencoe he had left Angus to make his way home, and had continued
north alone to try to find out if Lochiel was dead, and how things stood with
Prince Charles. And now, three weeks later he had a lot of news and
couldn’t wait to tell the others. And to rest his leg, which had taken some
punishment in the last weeks and was aching dully but constantly now. But
it had healed very well, and no doubt the sporadic aching in the bone would
eventually stop too. Hopefully.
Halfway up the mountain was a large saucer-shaped hollow, which could
not be seen from the loch side. The cave where the MacGregors should all
have been hidden was in the side of the mountain on the opposite side of the
hollow, the entrance concealed by carefully draped foliage. Alex expected
to see some of his clansfolk out in the hollow, it being such a fine day, or at
least to have spied a couple of the sentries, who would surely have been
watching out for him. But there was nothing; no sign of any life at all.
 Deeply concerned now, he unslung his targe from his back and drew his
sword. Before pulling back the foliage he listened, hard. Apart from the
sound of a nearby waterfall, which trickled down the side of the mountain
and provided a useful source of water for people hiding out here, there were
only the bees, and a buzzard circling and calling overhead. Very carefully,
standing to the side of the entrance so as not to be an easy target, he pulled
the foliage to one side and peeped in. Darkness. He knew that the cave
started with about six feet of narrow passage and then turned to the right
before opening up into a huge cavern. He listened again. Nothing. He
breathed in, and summoned all his courage to face whatever might be
waiting for him at the end of the passage. A troop of redcoats? No, soldiers
would never be able to stay completely silent. The mangled bodies of his
whole clan? Very slowly and silently he edged along the passage, and then
peeped round the corner into the cavern.
Virtually the whole of the MacGregor clan were sitting there and started
grinning at him as his face appeared. Angus was standing a few feet away,
and made an elaborate bow as his brother came into view. Alex closed his
eyes momentarily and let out the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been
holding.
“What the hell kind of welcome is this?” he said, not knowing whether to
be angry or impressed by the utter silence greeting him.
“Look behind you,” Angus said.
Alex looked behind him. Standing there in the passage he’d entered less
than thirty seconds before were Dougal, Alasdair and Kenneth, who was
bent almost double in the low passage.
He jumped with shock and let out a girlish shriek that set the others
laughing, thereby breaking the silence.
“I think we can say that all our work has been worthwhile,” Angus said.
A great cheer rose from the clan. “Welcome home, brother. We’ve a meal
ready for ye and a fine bottle of claret, courtesy of the redcoat captain.”
Alex leaned back against the wall of the cavern, his heart banging in his
chest. How the hell had they managed to hide on the hill so close to the
entrance without him seeing them?
“Where the hell did ye come from?” he asked the three grinning men,
who now moved past him into the cavern, Kenneth straightening up with
obvious relief.
“Do you want to eat first, or shall I show you?” Angus asked.
 “Show me,” Alex said, curiosity dispelling all other emotions.
Angus led him back out of the cave into the sunlight.
“Ye see over here,” he said, pointing to the waterfall. “By the side of it
there’s a wee cave, hidden like this, by ivy and such.”
“Aye, I ken that,” Alex replied. “But it’s barely deep enough for a bairn
to hide in.”
“It was barely deep enough for a bairn to hide in. Now it’s deep enough
for three men, four if one of them’s no’ Kenneth.”
Angus led Alex over and pushed aside the foliage. Behind it was a
freshly hollowed-out space, completely invisible once the foliage was back
in place.
“In the past we’ve only ever needed this place for emergencies, for a few
days at best. But while we were making the village look as though we’d no’
been there for years, I was thinking that, wi’ things as they are, we might
need to be up here for a long time, and maybe even need tae defend it too.
So when we’d moved everything and everyone up here, Dougal and I
investigated to see if there were any other caves we could use. There isna,
but when we looked closely at this one we realised that the stones and earth
could be moved, if ye’d a useful giant to hand. And as we’ve a useful giant
to hand, the stones were moved over to the other side of the mountain. Did
ye see Lachlan?” Angus asked suddenly.
“No,” Alex said, looking round. “Where is he?”
Angus grinned.
“And Jamie? And wee Simon?”
“No.”
“Aye. Well, we kent it’d work for the redcoats, but we figured that if you
didna see them, then it’d work for any other clans that come looking for us
too, or if they ever find out who Sir Anthony is and come in force. If we’re
prepared, we could hold out a good while here. I ken your leg’s paining ye a
wee bit, but this is worth it. Come.”
In spite of his best efforts, Alex was now limping a little. But he had
walked twenty miles today, and thirty the day before.
Grinning hugely, Angus led his brother over the saucer and down the hill
a short way, where he stopped, and bending, lifted a mat of heather up from
the ground. Underneath it in a small hollowed-out space was Lachlan,
smiling up at his chief.
“Come on out, laddie, ye’ve done well. He didna see ye.”
 Lachlan stood up, and Alex looked at him.
“When did ye ken I was coming?” he asked.
“Jamie tellt me,” Lachlan said. “He’s away down the hill a ways. I stayed
here till ye’d passed, and then ran around the side of the mountain so ye
wouldna see me, and tellt the others. And then I came back here, because
Angus said he wanted to show ye what we’ve been doing while ye were
away.”
Alex looked at his brother with awe.
“I can retire as chief now then, and away tae my bed and die,” he said.
“Ye did a fine job wi’ the village too.”
“Ah, now, I canna claim the credit for that. That was Iain’s idea. He said
that when he was playing the deaf laddie, he stared around a lot like an
idiot, and he noticed the way the villages looked when they’d been pillaged
by the redcoats, and it gave him the idea to make it look like we’d already
been burnt out. It was Graeme who said he’d seen abandoned villages in
Cumberland and Northumberland, and why did we no’ try to do that
instead, for then the redcoats might think we’d been gone a while and just
move on. And we can only do the hollowed spaces here for the wee ones to
watch out because they can be in the same place every day while we’re
here. We chose places where they can see a good way, but no’ be discovered
unless they’re actually stepped on.”
“Ye’ve done well, better than I could have imagined,” Alex said. He
pulled his brother into a rough, but affectionate embrace. “Christ, I’ve
missed ye. Ye canna imagine how I felt when I went to the cave and thought
ye’d all gone, or been killed.”
“Ah, I’m sorry, Alex. I didna think of that. I just kent that if ye didna see
or hear anything, then no one would.”
“No, ye were right to. It means we’ve a safe place, and God knows, from
what I’ve heard, we might need it.”
“What have ye heard?”
“Let’s away back, and I’ll tell ye all at the same time,” Alex said.
They climbed back up to the cave together, Lachlan springing ahead of
them, full of joy at not having been seen by his chief, who had passed only
feet away from him.
“Did ye tell Morag about Robert?” Alex asked, as they toiled up the
mountain.
 “Aye, I did. We have no secrets from each other. I learned that from
seeing what happened between you and Beth.”
“What did she say?” Alex asked, choosing not to comment on his
brother’s observation. Angus was right. If he’d been honest with her about
his intentions with Henri Monselle, and she’d been honest with him about
Richard, they could have avoided the two arguments that had almost
destroyed their relationship.
“She was sad, as we all were. But she said that Robert was lucky, too.
When I asked her why, she said that he got to live two years longer than he
would have done had Beth no’ come upon them in the stables, for she
thought he’d probably have forced himself on her if they hadna been
interrupted.”
“Aye, she’s right in that, for I couldna have let that pass.”
“I think she was meaning that I’d have killed him. And she was right. I
wanted to anyway, at the time. And I doubt we’d have avoided a blood feud
wi’ the MacDonalds then. I didna mean tae kill the wee loon when I threw
the rock at him, but I’ve made peace wi’ myself about it now.”

“Oh, this is good,” Alex said blissfully ten minutes later, as he drained his
first glass of wine. He stretched his bad leg out then looked round at the
others, who were sitting outside now, gathered round him in a semicircle
and enjoying the sun. “It does my heart good to see ye all alive and well,
and to know that the redcoats rode on through the village without
suspecting a thing. It’s a fine idea ye had, Iain and Graeme, tae make it look
abandoned.
“But now, I’ve a lot to tell ye.”
“Before ye tell us anything,” Angus broke in, “there’s someone here
wanting to ask ye a question.” He nodded to the cave mouth behind his
brother.
Alex looked round. Standing in the cave entrance was Allan MacDonald,
face almost as white as his silver-blond hair, blue eyes wide with anxiety.
He visibly gathered his courage together, and drawing his dirk, held it flat
across the palms of both hands and came forward.
“I would be honoured,” he said, voice trembling, “if ye would accept my
allegiance, to yourself and to Clan Gregor, to fight and die for ye against all
comers, and…”
Alex held up his hand, and Allan fell silent.
 “Wait,” he said. “Clan Gregor is proscribed. We have no lands, no rights,
no name, in law. Ye ken that?”
“Aye,” Allan replied. “I do.”
“So why do ye want to join a clan that doesna exist in law? Ye can be
killed just for being a MacGregor, wi’ no comeback except what your sword
can gain for ye. Why would you give up your own clan, wi’ all the rights
and protection that gives ye, to become an outlaw? No man in his right
mind would do that.”
“I did,” Iain said softly.
“That was different, man. Your clan had forsworn ye. Has the MacIain
forsworn ye, laddie?”
“No,” Allan said. “But –”
Alex shook his head. “I canna accept your oath. I’m sorry.”
Allan took in a great breath, and swallowed hard. He knew he should
accept the decision without question, but could not.
“I’m here with MacIain’s permission. He said that if ye’d take my oath,
he’d accept it.”
“Why?”
“I dinna ken why MacIain said –”
“No. Why do ye want to join Clan Gregor?”
Allan looked down, and thought for a minute. His flaxen hair blew across
his face, and he pushed it impatiently out of the way. Alex closed his eyes
for a second, then opened them again to find the young man looking
straight at him. His hands, still holding the dirk, were trembling, but his
eyes were steady, earnest. Beth’s eyes.
“I want to continue the fight,” he began, “as I ken you do. The MacIain
does not. The night ye left to prepare for the raid, Aunt Ealasaid spoke of
you. She said that she hadna met a better man, nor one more fit to be chief,
in a long time, and that any man would be proud to follow ye. She said that
Beth had chosen the best man in Scotland to wed, and that she was
honoured to call ye her kinsman. And then, when Robbie died…I could
have tellt the MacIain of his death. Ye didna need to come too. Angus,
maybe, because he’d done the deed. But ye came, because ye didna want
your brother or me to deal with it alone. And ye didna hesitate, even though
you had other things on your mind, because you’re a man of honour. And I
thought about what Aunt Ealasaid had said, and about the way ye planned
the raid, and I kent that ye were a man I’d be proud to fight with. I’ve no
interest to settle down and farm. I want to fight. So I spoke to MacIain, and
he gave me permission to come here, if ye’d have me. Please, accept my
oath. I’m a good fighter, and I’ll no’ disobey ye as Robbie did.”
“Aye, I ken that,” Alex said. “But ye’ve nae need to swear lifelong fealty
to me just to join in a few raids.”
“But ye’ve a blood oath, I heard, to kill two hundred redcoats. That’ll
take time. I want to join ye in it, for as long as it takes, for it burns my heart
to see what the bastards are doing to the Highlands. And now Aunt Ealasaid
is dead…well, we’ve always been different, ye ken. Some said we were
changelings because we look so unlike the others of the clan. There are
those will no’ be sorry I’ve gone. Will ye take me?”
“Are ye sure ye ken what ye’re doing? It’s no’ a light thing.”
Allan nodded earnestly. “I’m sure.”
“Angus, what do you say?”
Angus stood up, surprised to be asked.
“Ye’ll be the chief when I’m no’ here. Ye’ve done a good job in the last
weeks. Are ye happy to accept this man to the clan?”
Angus nodded. “I am. He’s a bonny fighter, and a brave one.”
“Does anyone else object? Speak if ye do.”
There was silence.
“So be it. I accept your oath, Allan MacDonald.” He took the dirk from
the young man’s outstretched hands, made a small incision in the pad of the
thumb of his right hand, and then gave it back. Allan made a similar cut in
his hand, and then the two men clasped hands around the hilt of the dirk,
mingling blood and iron.
“Welcome to Clan Gregor,” Alex said solemnly. “Now, have we more of
the wine we stole from the redcoats? It seems a fitting way to welcome our
new member.”
A great roar arose from the assembled clansfolk, and for the next hour,
Alex’s good and bad news was forgotten, in the celebration of a new fighter
to the MacGregor fold.

“Now,” Alex said an hour later, when several bottles of wine had been
emptied and the sun was starting to sink in the sky, “as I was saying before I
was so pleasantly interrupted, I have news, some good, some no’ so good.
So I’ll start wi’ the good. After I left Angus and Allan at Glencoe, I headed
toward the Cameron lands hoping to hear something of Lochiel, and there I
met some MacPhersons. They surrendered soon after Culloden, so their
lands have no’ been pillaged, no’ overmuch anyway, and they’re believed to
have submitted completely to the Elector. So, what better place for Cluny
MacPherson and Lochiel to hide out than on MacPherson land?”
Everyone started laughing.
“Lochiel is verra much alive, I’m pleased to say, and though lame and
no’ able to travel far on foot, he’s healing well, although he’s sore distressed
by the price his clan has paid and is still paying, no’ just the Cameron
regiment, but the women and children too, and also by the fact that his
brother, Father Alexander, has been taken prisoner. The MacPhersons are
keeping an eye on the troop movements around Fort Augustus. Ye ken that
Cumberland is away to London, and Lord Albemarle has taken his place,
although word has it that he didna want the job. Anyway, two weeks ago, he
left Fort Augustus and went tae Edinburgh, where he can conduct
operations from a cosy house instead of a ruined fort.
“Now the good news for us is that most of the horse regiments have been
put to grass, a lot of the troops that were at Culloden have gone south,
presumably to go back to Flanders now they think we’re beaten, and it
seems that in future, instead of having hundreds o’ redcoats terrorising the
villages, there’ll only be wee patrols going out. They’ll be spending about a
week or so living in wee bothies. And ye ken what that means.”
“It means that they’ll be sitting targets for us to attack whenever we want
to, because they don’t know the land and they’re not used to living in such
conditions, so their morale will be low. And if they haven’t got the likes of
Hawley to terrorise them or Cumberland to keep discipline, they’ll get
careless,” Graeme said.
Alex grinned.
“They will. But we canna attack close to home, so we’ll need to go a wee
distance away so they dinna ken who it is who’s ambushing them. Which
means we’ll have to live in wee huts and bothies too, which will be awfu’
inconvenient for us, as used tae feather beds and fine wines as we are.” He
raised his glass, and they all laughed and cheered him.
“So, tonight I’ll tell ye the rest o’ my news, then we can celebrate our
new clan member some more, and then tomorrow we can start tae plan.
Angus, Iain and I have a blood oath to fulfil. The rest of ye havena, and ye
ken well that I’ve never been one to force people to fight. And dinna forget,
we’ll need some men to stay behind and defend the village if needed. Now
as I’ve said before, it’s my wish that all those men wi’ wives and bairns
should stay here. Of the rest, it’s up to you as individuals. Just because ye
came out for Charlie doesna mean ye should follow me in my oath of
vengeance. There’s no glory in this, and no crown at the end of it, and no
knowing when it’ll end. And those of you who do follow me will have to
obey my orders without question. Ye can argue the rights and wrongs as
we’re planning and I’ll listen to ye. But in the fighting ye obey me,
instantly.”
Several men started to get to their feet, but Alex held up his hand.
“I dinna want anyone to decide tonight. Tonight’s for news and
celebration. Tomorrow I’m going tae sleep late, for I’m weary and later I
intend to be drunk too, and woe betide the man who wakes me at dawn tae
tell me he wants to fight, for if he does, I’ll give him a fight immediately.”
The men laughed and sat down again, and everyone cheered their
approval of the plan for the evening, and then they settled down to hear the
rest of Alex’s news.
“Now,” he said, “Lochiel and Cluny are in a fine cave, wi’ plenty of
Cluny’s clan to shelter them, and good hunting for food. I doubt the
redcoats’ll ever find them, and they’ve good intelligence about the army
movements, but they didna ken what was going on wi’ the prince, other
than that he moved from Uist to Skye and then to somewhere on the
mainland, and that was grieving Lochiel sorely, for he spent weeks sore
wounded, in constant danger of being discovered, trying to arrange a
rendezvous wi’ Charles, to no avail. So, as I’m now healed, and no one’s
looking for me as they are for Lochiel and Cluny, I agreed to try to find out
where he was and bring him to join them.”
“Did ye find him?” Peigi asked.
“Aye, I did.”

After he’d left Lochiel and Cluny in the cave on Ben Alder, Alex had
headed over to Achnacarry, hoping to pick up some news of the
whereabouts of the prince from the Camerons. There he was told that the
prince was staying in a hut at Achnasaul, by Loch Arkaig, awaiting the
return of some messengers he’d sent out.
The hut was completely derelict and empty, but it was clear that someone
had been there recently. Alex had looked around for signs of which way
they might have gone, but seeing nothing had decided to eat his meagre
lunch at the hut and then retrace his steps through the wood, reasonably
certain that the prince would remain on Cameron land hoping to make
contact with Lochiel.
It was whilst he was eating the now somewhat stale bread and cheese
provided by the MacPhersons two days before, that he saw someone
coming down the hill towards him. He put his bread down on the grass,
checked his pistol was primed and cocked, then laid it in his lap and
continued eating, as though unaware of the presence of the man.
As he came closer, Alex could see that he was a Highlander; barefoot, he
wore the kilt, a grubby shirt and a black coat. His reddish-coloured hair was
loose and tangled on his shoulders and he sported a long red beard. Under
his arm he carried a musket, but showed no signs of using it. Nevertheless,
Alex gripped the pistol and stood, as the man was now too close for him to
pretend he hadn’t seen him.
The stranger stopped about ten paces away from Alex, the musket still
carried loosely under his arm. A pistol and a dirk were thrust through his
belt.
“Good day to ye, sir,” Alex began politely.
The stranger smiled.
“Ah, Alexander MacGregor. You don’t recognise me at all, and I think
that’s a good thing, in view of the circumstances I find myself in. No!” he
finished urgently as Alex, now realising the identity of the stranger, had
made to kneel. “We don’t know who may be watching, and I think it better,
as even you didn’t recognise me, that we don’t advertise my identity.”
Alex deftly turned the obeisance to his prince into an apparent gesture to
share his lunch, by bending to the ground and picking up his leather flask of
water, then offering it to the other man, who politely declined.
“Ye’re looking well, Your Highness,” Alex said. “The country life suits
you, I’m thinking.” It was true. Although dirty and unshaven and
completely unrecognisable as the man who had ridden proudly into
Edinburgh at the head of his army the previous September, the prince
looked in the peak of physical health, and his brown eyes were bright and
sparkling with humour.
Prince Charles laughed.
“It does, although I would prefer to have more settled accommodation. I
was told that you were looking for me and was so eager to see you I
decided to come myself. Let us return to my lodgings. We shot a stag
yesterday and can offer you a better meal than that.” He gestured to the
remains of the bread.
They walked together back through the wood, chatting, looking for all
the world like two rural Highlanders who had met by chance, rather than
two of the most wanted men in Britain. As they walked the prince told Alex
a little about his exploits so far.
“There have been all manner of wild rumours going around,” Alex said
as they strolled along. “I even heard tell that ye’d dressed as a woman. Soon
ye’ll have been carried off by a selkie, I’ve nae doubt.”
Charles grinned.
“Ah well, that particular rumour is not so wild. Let me introduce myself,
sir,” he said, performing a somewhat clumsy curtsey. “Miss Betty Burke,
Irish serving woman to the delightful and courageous Miss Flora
MacDonald.”
Alex stopped and stared at the prince.
“Ye mean that was true? I ken ye’re a master of disguise, Your Highness,
but I canna imagine what manner of woman you’d make.”
“Not a very good one by all accounts, but it served its purpose at the
time, and got me to Skye. I would certainly have been captured else.
Kingsburgh’s wife apparently called me an ‘odd muckle trollop’.” He
laughed. “In truth, I don’t know how women walk about with all those
skirts and petticoats weighing them down. I expected at every moment to
trip over them and topple down the stairs or into the sea and drown. Miss
MacDonald was taken prisoner a few days after I left her. I hope she is
being treated well, although I know that many of my subjects are paying a
heavy price for their support of me.” The brown eyes lost their sparkle for a
moment. “It grieves me,” he said sadly.
“Aye, well, we were all aware of the possible consequences,” Alex
commented. That was not completely true. They had not been aware that
the British Army would be allowed, encouraged even, to commit such
atrocities against innocent people.
“I heard about your wife, Alex, and I’m very sorry for it. She was a
remarkable woman.”
“She was indeed, thank you,” Alex replied, hoping that having uttered the
conventional platitude, Charles would now change the subject.
“You know Lord Lovat is taken?” Charles asked.
“I do, Your Highness. I believe he was hiding in a tree at the time.”
 “You don’t appear overly distressed by that news,” the prince remarked.
“He was no’ a man I could take to,” Alex said tactfully. He wouldn’t have
trusted him as far as he could throw him, but there was no benefit to
revealing that now.
“John shared your antipathy. You know he is taken too?”
“John…?” There were so many Johns, this could have been any one of a
hundred.
“Murray.”
“Broughton?” The prince carried on for a couple of steps before realising
his friend had stopped. He turned back to find Alex’s eyes wide with shock.
“I see you did not. Yes, Broughton is taken, some few weeks ago, at his
brother-in-law’s house. I’m sorry. Had I realised you were close I would
have told you more gently.”
“No, it’s no’ that. But Broughton kens who I am, and that I was Sir
Anthony,” Alex said.
“You cannot believe he will talk, surely?” Charles said. “We had our
differences, but he was always loyal to me. He has never wavered, not for
an instant. I do not think you need to worry that he will betray you.”
“I hope you’re right, Your Highness,” Alex said.
“I am sure of it.”
Alex was not so sure, because he knew that torture could be a powerful
incentive to betrayal, but there was nothing he could do right now. Once he
had taken the prince to Lochiel though, he would head straight home.
“I find it hard to believe that any monarch, rightful or not, could treat his
subjects as George and his son are now treating the poor Highlanders, many
of whom did not even come out for me,” Charles continued.
“They are trying to prevent us from ever rising again, by starving us out
when they canna kill us,” Alex said.
“Will they succeed, do you think?” the prince asked.
“I canna speak for all Scots, Your Highness. But for myself, no, they will
not succeed. They have taken almost everything worth living for. My wife,
my brother – they’ve already taken my name and my lands. All I have left
now is to fight. And I will do that until I’m killed.”
“You believe you will be killed?” Charles asked.
“Aye, before too long. For I’ll no’ be taken prisoner, and I’ve no reason to
wish for a long life and to die in my bed at the end of it.”
 Charles was silent for a while, but whether it was because he was trying
to assess his future chances of raising another Highland army, or whether
because he was feeling guilty for having been instrumental in taking all
meaning from the life of this loyal subject, he did not say.
“Well,” he said finally, “I think you may be interested in meeting my
current companions, when we reach my lodgings.”
Alex was indeed interested when he met them. They were known as the
seven men of Glenmoriston, although in fact there were eight of them, and
they had all vowed to continue the fight against Cumberland and his army,
in whatever way they could. For the past three weeks they had been doing
that by sheltering the prince, disregarding the huge reward out for his
capture as no fit price to pay for a man’s honour.
They were currently sheltering in a cave at the foot of Loch Arkaig and
waiting for word from Lochiel of his whereabouts so they could take the
prince to him.
“I ken where he is,” Alex said. “I’ll gladly show ye the way. Lochiel
would have come himself, but although he’s healing, he’s no’ fit to make
the journey yet.”
They had discussed the importance of a good hiding place and the need
to keep it secret and as well provisioned as possible, and the various tactics
that could be employed to harass soldiers already depressed at being in this
gloomy dark hell of a country.
And then, having nothing else to do for the evening, they had eaten a
large meal, mainly consisting of venison, and had drunk an even larger
amount of whisky, had sung Highland songs, of which the prince now knew
a good number, and overall, in view of the circumstances, had been very
merry indeed.

Alex smiled at the sea of faces around him, all raptly listening to his tale of
meeting with the prince. It was growing dusk now and several people were
waving their hands around their heads or slapping at their faces.
“It seems that Prince Charlie is one of us, now,” Dougal said.
“Aye, he’s happy here, in spite of the constant risk of discovery. Maybe
because of it, for he’s a man who seeks adventure and relishes danger.”
“He must have MacGregor blood in him then,” Janet said, and everyone
laughed.
 “Well, Clan Gregor’s motto is ‘Royal is my Race’, is it no’?” Allan
commented.
“Aye, that’s true,” agreed Alex. “We’re said to be descended from the son
of King Kenneth MacAlpin, as is he. And another way he’s like us is that
he’s sore plagued by the midgies.”
En masse they repaired to the midge-free safety of the cave, where they
lit candles, having found a supply of them in the redcoats’ baggage.
“Charles tellt me that one of the most miserable days he had was no’
when it was raining, but when it was overcast and he had to spend the
whole day and night in the heather, being feasted on by the wee bastards.
He said he looked as though he had the measles by the end of the day, he
was bitten so bad.”
“What happened after your party, then?” Morag asked. She was snuggled
next to Angus, who had his arm wrapped round her shoulder. Alex felt both
happy to see the two of them clearly so much in love, and sad at the
memories it roused. He would never hold a woman like that again.
He shook his head to clear it.
“The next day, while we were still all suffering, Dr Archie arrived and
said Lochgarry was on the way too, to meet wi’ the prince and guide him to
Lochiel.”
“Is that why ye didna take Charlie back yourself, then?” Kenneth asked.
“No, it isna. I was thinking to go wi’ them, to make sure Charles arrived
safe wi’ Cluny and Lochiel. But then Dr Archie tellt me his news, and I left
for home within the hour.”
Everyone looked suddenly alarmed.
“What news?” Angus asked.
“He tellt me that Broughton has turned king’s evidence.”
The silence that followed this statement was almost as profound as that
which had greeted him earlier in the day when he’d entered the cave, sword
drawn. And then the questions came, all at once, so Alex could only make
out the sense of a few. He raised his hand, and the noise died instantly.
“I dinna ken if the intelligence is good, because Sir Anthony is no’
running the spy network frae London, being otherwise occupied, as ye ken
well,” he said, causing several people to laugh, and the tension to dissipate
slightly. “I find it hard myself to believe Broughton would do such a thing,
but on the other hand he was a secretary, no’ a fighting man, and he’s been
ill for some time. I dinna ken what he’d do if threatened, or if his wife was
threatened. In any case I canna take the chance that he willna betray me. Dr
Archie has promised to send me news if he hears any more.”
“Why did ye no’ tell us this as soon as ye got back?” Kenneth asked.
“Because when I got back, I was thinking to do all the things that ye’ve
already done here. Make the cave safe, try to find a way to defend it. Once I
saw your fine work, I decided to enjoy my homecoming first, and tell ye the
story in the proper order. And it’s no’ every day, in fact it’s no’ every year
that a brave young warrior chooses to join the MacGregors. I didna wish to
spoil that. And nor do I now. We have more celebrating to do. And then
tomorrow we need to make this place more fitting for a longer stay, for we
canna go back to the village yet awhile. If Broughton betrays me the
redcoats will be up here within a week, because I’m damn sure that after the
prince and Lochiel, yon wee German lairdie would rather see my head on a
spike at the Tower than anyone’s. And before I end up there, I’ve a good
many more redcoats to send to hell before me.
“So, let’s drink to that, to Allan, and to the children o’ the mist. For we
may have no name, and no lands, and no rights in law, but by God we’ve
still got our swords, and our pride. ‘S rioghal mo dhream, and we’ll be here
when usurper Geordie’s bones are dust, and his sons after him!”
The resultant cheer would probably have been heard across the loch, if
anyone had been there to listen.

***

London, August 1746

It took Beth less than a week to adapt to her new surroundings. After she
had beaten the bullying woman she had expected to be victimised by her
protector, who the other women had identified as Meadows, a brute of a
man who had a particular hatred of Scots. Well, Beth wasn’t a Scot by birth,
but she was by marriage and in her heart, although of course she couldn’t
reveal that. So she waited, determined that whatever Meadows did she
would not break. While she waited for him to act, she spent her time getting
to know the other women she shared the unspeakably filthy cell with, whilst
giving away as little about herself as she could.
They were all rebel women. Some of them had been married to Jacobite
soldiers and had been taken at some point after Culloden. Some of them had
been caught sheltering men after the battle. Two of them had been
prostitutes and had been reported by loyal citizens of Edinburgh and
Inverness for giving their favours to rebels for free. And one had actually
had nothing whatsoever to do with the Jacobites, but had picked up a white
cockade in an Inverness street, thinking to unpick the ribbon to tie her hair
back, and had been seen by a redcoat captain whilst holding it. Incensed by
the treatment she’d been subjected to for that innocent, if foolhardy act, she
now declared herself wholly for Prince Charlie, and to hell with Hanover
and all its spawn of hell.
Some of them wore irons, not because they were more dangerous than
the others, but because they could not afford the half-crown fee to have
them removed. All of them, being on a diet of bread and water, and not
enough of that, were malnourished. Nor could any of them afford 3s 6d a
week for a bed, so they slept on the mildewed boards of the floor.
In the morning they emptied their chamber pots and then had breakfast,
which consisted of a thin gruel and water, after which they were returned to
their cells and left until mid afternoon, when the main meal of the day was
served. To Beth’s surprise, whilst the others who could not pay for good
food had bread and water for six days a week and a cheap cut of meat on
the seventh, she was served with a meal of meat and vegetables and a cup
of beer, although she had not paid either.
When she got the same treatment on the second day, and then the third,
she realised that the Duke of Cumberland had not given up on her as she
had hoped, but was in fact just letting her have a taste of the difference
between luxurious and common imprisonment. That was why she had not
been fettered, but was in a common cell. And why she was receiving good
food instead of starvation rations. And it was, presumably, also why
Meadows, whoever he was, had not made an appearance after his whore
had been removed for medical treatment.
She was still under the protection of the duke. Which meant she was
probably being closely observed for signs that she was cracking under the
strain of having to live without carpets and featherbeds, for signs that she
was ready to betray Sir Anthony rather than live in a filthy stone room
designed to accommodate five prisoners, with ten other women who were
her social inferiors.
Thinking about this she smiled to herself, and raised an imaginary glass
of champagne in a toast to the Elector’s fat son. She was used to living in
straitened circumstances. Unknowingly he had given her the one thing that
she had been struggling to live without; sympathetic human company. The
quiet courage of these women as they chewed their stale bread and settled
down to shiver themselves to sleep reminded her of the MacGregors. And
that gave her the will and determination to fight back.
On the third day Fiona, the woman who had had the misfortune to pick
up a white cockade in front of a zealous soldier, complained of a headache.
No one thought anything of it even when she refused to eat her meagre
breakfast, saying that the sunlight coming through the small windows in the
dining room was making her head hurt so badly she felt sick. It was no
doubt a megrim; she would go and lie down in the cell and would feel better
after a few hours.
The other women tried to be as quiet as possible to let her rest. But in the
afternoon she started moaning and calling for Hamish, who presumably was
her lover, and when Catriona shook Fiona to wake her, thinking she was
having a nightmare, her skin was burning hot to the touch.
Word spread round the prison like wildfire: gaol fever. Feared even more
than execution, an epidemic of gaol fever could decimate a prison’s
population, and was the major cause of death in jails. It was caused by
putrid air, the surgeons said. And the air in this cell, in all the cells, was
certainly putrid.
That evening Beth asked to see Mr Jones. He came to her a couple of
hours later, but did not open the door as he normally would have done.
Instead he addressed her through the grille. In the corner Fiona was
alternately crying out with the pain in her head and her joints, and rambling
about people she had known in happier times.
“How much would you give for my gown?” Beth asked without
preamble the minute the grille was drawn back and the keeper’s face
appeared.
He looked at it.
“Fifteen shillings,” he said.
Beth laughed.
“I’m sorry. I thought you were a businessman and knew the value of
things, but clearly I overestimated you. Good night to you, Mr Jones.”
She turned her back on him and made to join the others, who had
received sixpence from a well-wisher, and had spent it on a quart of brandy.
They had given some to the sick woman in the hopes that it would ease her
distress, and were now passing the rest around between them.
“Wait!” he said, once it became clear that this was not just a delaying
tactic and that she really had dismissed him from her mind. Beth kept him
waiting while she took a drink from the bottle, then turned back. “How
much do you want for it?” he asked.
“Well, let me see. Brocaded satin of this quality costs eighteen shillings a
yard,” she said, thanking God that Sir Anthony Peters had been a man of
fashion and had imparted this information to her, “and it takes around
fifteen yards to make a gown like this. So the material alone would be over
twelve guineas. Add to that the cost of making it up, the Brussels lace and
silver embroidery on the bodice, and the fact that it had never been worn
before the day I made your acquaintance, and you are looking at seventeen
guineas of anybody’s money.”
The other women in the cell gasped. Seventeen guineas was a fortune!
Who was this woman who could afford such costly gowns, who said she
had no friends but was served meat every day, who spoke with a refined
English accent, but had the Gaelic and drank from a shared bottle without
hesitation?
“However,” Beth continued, unaware that she was an enigma to everyone
in the room, “I’m aware that you must have your profit, and after three days
in here the dress will need cleaning. So you may have it for ten guineas.”
Now it was Mr Jones’s turn to laugh.
“Ten guineas? You do value yourself highly, don’t you?” he said.
“You mistake me, sir. I am offering you my dress for ten guineas, not
myself. I am not for sale, at any price.”
“Everyone has a price,” he said, nettled.
“Perhaps in your world they do,” she replied. “But in my world, that is
not the case. Ten guineas for the dress.”
“Three,” Mr Jones replied.
“Ten.”
“Four.”
“Ten.”
“This is not how it works, madam,” the keeper said, exasperated. “You
must lower your price to meet me. Four and a half.”
“Ten.”
“Five.”
 “I see you do not want the dress. Very well. If you change your mind,
come back to me with ten guineas.”
She turned her back again and went to sit with the other women, and this
time when he called her back, she ignored him.

Beth sat on a feather mattress in her petticoats and stays, warming her
hands in front of the fire. Two candles cast a cosy glow around the room,
which currently smelt strongly of the vinegar with which the whole room
had been scrubbed, reducing the lice infestation in the cell considerably. At
present the smell of the vinegar warred with the scent of lavender oil, which
she had sprinkled on all the mattresses. It had worked in France for her and
Alex; she hoped it would have some effect here. She had paid for four
mattresses and blankets for a month, reasoning that the women could sleep
in shifts. The rest of the money would pay for decent food for all the
occupants of the cell, for a few weeks at least.
The room was no longer putrid-smelling, but it was too late to save
Fiona. Beth had intended to spend part of her ten guineas on a doctor, but
Mr Jones had told her in no uncertain terms that no doctor would visit
Newgate Prison if there was gaol fever there, not for a hundred guineas. So
the women took it in turns to bathe Fiona’s forehead with rosewater, and to
try to get her to eat a little soup and drink some wine, all bought at inflated
prices by Beth.
She kept them all awake for three nights with her fevered ramblings,
during which they learned that she had seven younger siblings and a
grandmother who seemed to visit her in her delirium and with whom she
would have long conversations. And then she developed a rash, which
rapidly spread all over her body. And then she died.
The body was taken away, and her cellmates grieved for her. But none of
them contracted the fever, which was almost unheard of in such cramped
quarters. As far as they were concerned this was all due to Beth, who had
saved them by purifying the air and getting them good food which was
building up their strength.
As a result of this Beth now had nine intensely loyal friends, none of
them wearing irons any more, who respected her wish to keep her past
private, and the atmosphere in the room, once they had said prayers for
Fiona, was one of conviviality. It made Beth smile to know she had raised
the morale of these women who had done nothing wrong except be loyal to
their menfolk, have been caught helping strangers, or be in the wrong place
at the wrong time. It had also raised her own spirits enormously. She had a
clan of sorts again, temporarily at least, and was making the most of it to
distract her from thoughts of the future.
This comfort they were all enjoying now and the high spirits that went
with it, would not last. When the money ran out she had no means of
getting any more, and then the warmth, the beds, the nourishment would all
disappear. And the lice and vermin would return, and the smell. And with it
the likelihood of disease.
On a personal level she could deal with malnourishment, with
discomfort, even with death. Without Alex, and with no hope of release
unless she betrayed him, life meant little to her. Defiance was all that she
had now, and she was drawing her strength from that and from the
camaraderie of the other prisoners. Dying of malnutrition or disease would
be preferable to hanging or burning in front of a jeering mob, although if
that was how she was to end, she would meet her death with as much
courage as she could summon up.
What worried her, and what she now realised was very likely, was that if
she remained here, in time she too would succumb to gaol fever. If the other
women had been concerned or irritated by Fiona’s ramblings, Beth was
horrified; it was entirely possible that after withstanding every attempt by
the authorities to get her to divulge the identity of her husband, she could
nevertheless unknowingly betray Alex and God knew who else, simply by
falling ill.
Every night Beth prayed for Alex, for the other MacGregors, and for
Graeme and John, that they were safe and well. Nearly every night she
dreamt of them; sometimes dark dreams that she woke from in the early
hours, heart thumping and her cheeks wet with tears, and sometimes warm,
loving dreams from which she would wake smiling and happy, only to be
suffused by black despair as she took in her surroundings and realised that
in all likelihood she would never hold Alex in reality again. She had lost
count of the days again, but knew it was somewhere in the middle of
August. She had said she would wait until October before she gave up hope
of him contacting her, but every day that passed without any word killed a
little bit of that hope in her, and she grew more and more certain that he
must be dead, or a prisoner.
 She thought about him constantly, and dreaded becoming ill and
condemning him; but saw no way to be sure of preventing it once the
money failed.
These were the thoughts of her dark hours, when she listened to the
snores and moans of the other women and sleep would not come. In the
daytime when she knew she might be observed by those who would report
back, she was always in good spirits, laughing, telling stories, teaching the
others card games she had learned as a child, and joining in with the singing
that they all loved so much and that was part of their Highland culture.
It could be worse, and no doubt would be, in time. But for now life was
good, given the circumstances, and she threw herself into that
wholeheartedly, banishing the pessimistic thoughts to the back of her mind
and the darkness of sleepless nights.

***

Beth had just started telling her version of Jack and the Beanstalk for
Highlanders, when the door opened and Mr Jones came in.
“Miss Cunningham, there are two soldiers here for you,” he said.
Beth closed her eyes, pulled all her resources together, then opened them
again.
“Am I to be taken to trial?” she asked calmly.
“No, my lady. You are to be taken to Whitehall.”
Cumberland then. Or Newcastle perhaps. If Jones was calling her ‘my
lady’ then she was certainly not about to be tried for her life.
She stood and brushed down her petticoat. She had worn the same
clothes for three weeks, with very primitive washing facilities. Maybe the
stench of her would make him feel sick. She smiled to herself.
“Very well,” she said. “I am ready.”
But…on the other hand…
“I trust,” she added, scratching her head vigorously, “that suitable
clothing has been brought from the Tower for me, and that you have
provided the facilities for me to wash myself thoroughly.”
Mr Jones looked at her as if she had just requested to bathe in the blood
of a hundred virgins.
“I see by your expression that you have not. Very well. I am sure the
duke will forgive me if I infest his office with lice and God knows what
else. Of course he may wonder why I am being taken across London in a
state of undress, but I am sure when I tell him of the prices you charge for
commodities he will appreciate my situation. Take me to the soldiers, Mr
Jones.”

“No,” Beth said, “I think that one will be more fitting for me to meet the
prince.” She pointed to a lemon-coloured brocaded satin gown. The colour
would do nothing for her complexion, but the skirt and bodice were lavishly
embroidered with gold thread. Maybe the dress would help to keep her in
good health until she was executed. Kate smiled and carefully unfolded the
dress, whilst Beth combed the tangles out of her freshly washed hair. On the
table was a pot of tea especially for Kate, although Beth had not said that
when ordering it.
Her apartments at the Tower had been kept ready for her return, she
realised on entering them, after having been rushed there by the soldiers and
told she had one hour to dress, as the prince expected her by ten. She would
not prevaricate this time. This was not the time for small victories.
Kate sipped at the tea, but it was clear from the expression on her face
that the chocolate had made a better impression.
“Next time, if there is a next time, I shall order chocolate for you again,”
Beth commented.
The maid was instantly flustered.
“Oh, no, my lady, I do not wish to seem ungrateful!” she exclaimed. She
really did wear all her emotions on her face. She never would have been a
good ally in deceit. Beth hoped Kate would never have to lie to save her
life. Or tell a partial truth to end it.
“You are not ungrateful. I’m very grateful to have you to help me dress
on such an important occasion. It’s not every day that I get to meet the man
who will, I am sure, change my whole life once he hears what I have to
say.”
“Of course. I hope all goes well for you, my lady,” Kate said, blushing,
which told Beth volumes. She put down her cup and moved behind Beth to
help braid her hair.
“So,” Beth said. “They are speculating in the servants’ quarters as to
whether I will become Prince William’s mistress, are they?”
In the mirror, now restored to its place on the dressing table, Beth saw
Kate flush scarlet.
 “I’m sorry,” Beth said. “I am not offended. Very little offends me. But let
me give you some advice, in confidence. If anyone is running a bet, you
might wish to put a little money down.”
“Some of them are saying he will marry you, my lady,” the maid
stammered.
“But most of them are not. I do not think we will meet again, Kate, so
here is my advice. Put your money on the option that I will become neither
his wife nor his mistress. And when you win, will you promise me
something?”
“Of course, my lady.”
“Buy yourself some chocolate, and drink a toast to me.”

Beth arrived at the Duke of Newcastle’s office at ten on the dot. Her
punctuality was noted by Prince William Augustus, who stood and came
around the table to escort her politely to her seat. This time he did not kiss
her hand, and he was wearing his military uniform which she had to admit
suited him well, although the buttons of his waistcoat strained across his
stomach.
He is gaining more weight, she thought. It must be all those celebratory
dinners.
He was clearly not going to wear his heart on his sleeve for her to stab, as
he had at their last meeting. She prepared herself for war. She had to
achieve the outcome she desired, and this might be her only chance to do it.
“Good morning, Miss Cunningham,” the prince said, once they were both
seated.
“Good morning,” she replied calmly.
“I have called for tea and cakes,” he said. “I thought you might
appreciate them, in view of your recent change of accommodation. Have
you had time to think about your situation in the last weeks?”
This was it.
“I have indeed, had plenty of time to think,” she said.
He nodded.
“I hope you have come to the right decision.”
“I believe I have. I –”
She was interrupted by a knock on the door and turned her head to look,
expecting a servant with a tray.
 The door opened and John Murray of Broughton walked in. He was
thinner than the last time she had seen him and had the pallor and shadowed
eyes of someone who has suffered from a long illness, but nevertheless she
recognised him instantly.
For a split second Beth knew that the horror of seeing him must have
registered on her face, and she thanked God that she had turned away from
Cumberland. Broughton’s eyes passed over her with appreciation but no
recognition, and then focussed on the duke.
Beth marshalled all the acting skills she had learned from her husband,
and when she turned back to Cumberland she was once again calm.
“You called for me, Your Highness?” Murray asked.
“I did. I thought you might like to become reacquainted with the lovely
Miss Cunningham.”
Murray turned his attention back to Beth, and bowed.
“Your servant, madam,” he said politely.
Beth nodded her head in acknowledgement of the courtesy.
“I regret to say that I am no’ acquainted with this lady,” Murray said
coolly, “although if I were no’ already happily married, I wouldna be averse
to becoming so.”
The duke scrutinised the two of them for a moment.
“Are you certain, sir? She would not have been dressed so grandly and
would perhaps have been accompanied by a tall, well-built man, who would
have been posing as her husband.”
“I am sure that however she was dressed I would have recognised such a
beautiful woman, had we met before,” Broughton replied. For a moment he
turned his back on the duke, and his expression changed. “Your hair is most
remarkable, my lady,” he said to her.
“Thank you, sir,” she replied, to his facial expression rather than his
compliment.
“This man who would have been with her,” the duke persisted, “is the
traitor known as Sir Anthony Peters. I would be most grateful to the person
who could shed some light on his true appearance or his whereabouts. And
there is a substantial reward on offer for his capture.”
Murray nodded.
“As there is for the Pretender’s son,” he said. “But just as I have no
notion of his whereabouts, I have no knowledge of this lady, nor of this Sir
Anthony you speak of. I am sorry to disappoint you, Your Highness.”
 The duke was disappointed. It was evident in every line of his face as he
dismissed the Scotsman and turned back to Beth. The tea arrived and they
both waited until it was poured, after which the servant retired on the duke’s
nod.
“Mr Murray was secretary to the Pretender’s son during the rebellion, but
has now realised the error of his ways and has agreed to cooperate with us
in all things. His information will most certainly assist us greatly in
prosecuting the Fraser chief Lord Lovat, who is in custody at the moment,
and he has also given us valuable information regarding the English
Jacobites. You would do well to learn from his example. He will be treated
most leniently by the authorities, in spite of his central role in the
rebellion.”
“For what is a man advantaged, if he gain the whole world, but lose
himself or be cast away?” Beth said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Luke, chapter nine, verse twenty-five,” she explained.
“I know my bible, madam!” the duke said hotly. “What do you mean by
it?”
“I would think that to be clear. I would rather die in prison than turn
traitor, for no amount of money or leniency would ever salve my
conscience. You are wasting your time. All I feel for this man is pity, for I
believe, if he played such a central role as you suggest, he will regret this
moment of weakness for the rest of his life.”
She picked up her cup and coolly took a sip of her tea. It was strange, but
now the moment was here she was calm and had no fear that the cup would
rustle in the saucer. Alex had told her that sometimes, when both sides were
lined up facing each other, ready for battle, there would come over
everyone an eerie stillness, when all fear of death and injury fell away and
in the silence you could hear the smallest sound, colours were brighter, and
the world seemed exquisitely beautiful, life an intensely precious thing. And
then the moment passed, the cannons roared, and the fight began.
So it was now, as she sipped the tea and tasted the bitterness of the
leaves, the liquid warm on her tongue. She could hear her own heart beating
strongly and slowly, and felt the blood pumping through her veins. Life was
indeed intensely precious, and she knew without doubt that it was worth
throwing hers away to protect so many others. And then the duke spoke,
and the fight began.
 “Elizabeth,” he said, his voice kind and caring again. “Although many
would not commend your stubbornness and loyalty to your mistaken cause,
I do. There is something admirable in it. But you must now put these
notions aside and be guided by those who wish to help you. There is no
shame in recognising that you were misguided by rogues and traitors who
care nothing for you. Women are by their very nature frail and easily led.
No one will blame you for telling me what you know. They will understand
that you had no choice but to bend to the will of your superiors. Please,
Elizabeth, I beg you to reconsider. I cannot tell you what it cost me to
commit you to the filth and degradation of Newgate, but I only did it to help
you see the error of your ways.” His expression was earnest, pleading even.
He genuinely loved her, and genuinely wanted to help her.
Alex had told her, if this day ever came, that she should give him up. And
she had given him her answer.
“Your Highness,” she said, giving him the benefit of his title for the first,
and last time, “my disgust at the filth and degradation of Newgate are
nothing compared to the disgust I felt when I had to endure your tedious
conversation and your clumsy attempts to seduce me, at the palace and the
theatre. It was all I could do not to be sick when you laid your hand on my
knee. You and your dullard of a father disgust me to my stomach, and the
only reason I could tolerate the endless tedium of my time with your
ridiculous family was because I knew that Sir Anthony and I were making
fools of you all, and that one day you would come to know that. But it
seems you still persist in your childish and repellent infatuation with me, so
I will make myself very clear. I would rather lie with Satan himself than
with you. The thought of spending more than a minute with you fills me
with the utmost revulsion and always has. I will never, under any
circumstances whatsoever, betray Sir Anthony or anyone else to you. Do
you understand me now, or must I elaborate further on the emotions you
aroused in me when you begged me to become your whore?”
At the start of her speech the duke had reddened, but by the end of it the
colour had drained from his face, and Beth knew she had, irrevocably,
burned her bridges.
What she wanted was death, and soon. She hoped she had done enough
to get that. By the look on his face, she had. Wordlessly he rang the bell,
and when the soldiers came, he told them to take her directly back to
Newgate.
 As she travelled back, firstly along the river then up St Andrew’s street,
she tried to absorb as much detail as she could; the warmth of the sun on
her upturned face, the lapping of the water against the side of the boat, the
bustle of the people thronging the streets, the soaring dome of St Paul’s
Cathedral.
And all the way she uttered one prayer, over and over.
Let it have been enough to condemn me. And let me die soon, and well.

When she arrived back at the prison she was returned to her cell, the duke
having given no further instructions to her guards than to return her to jail.
Her cellmates looked up as she entered, most of them wearing identical
expressions of surprise. So, she thought, it was not only the Tower servants
who thought I would succumb to the charms of William Augustus.
She looked around at them and smiled. Then she lifted her dress up at
both sides as though preparing to curtsey, displaying the weight and beauty
of the silk, the embroidery on it gleaming in the candlelight.
“Now,” she said, “let us see how many comforts this will buy us. We
must make the most of it, because I do not think the duke will be requesting
the pleasure of my company again.” She asked the turnkey, who was about
to lock the door, to request the presence of Mr Jones at his earliest
convenience, then sat down on one of the mattresses. The surprised
expressions were now giving way to intense curiosity, and to forestall a
barrage of questions she had no intention of answering, she spoke
immediately.
“Now, where was I up to in my story before we were so rudely
interrupted?”
“Wee Jack’s mother had just found out the cow was diseased, and told
him tae sell it to the redcoat captain,” Annie, one of those who had sheltered
wounded rebels, recalled.
“Ah, yes. So, on the way to the market, who should Jack come across but
a crooked old man, who offered him five magic beans for the cow…”
The women took the hint, and settled down to hear the rest of the story.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER TEN

Fort William, late August 1746

Captain Richard Cunningham was ecstatic. When he had entered Colonel

Hutchinson’s office he had been somewhat apprehensive, especially when
he saw the stern countenance of his superior officer. Richard suspected the
colonel didn’t like him, although he had never done anything to offend the
man, as far as he knew. Following their previous interview, Richard had
done his utmost to prove his loyalty to the crown and to distance himself
from any taint of treason. His ferocity at Culloden and his ruthlessness in
dealing with the Highland rabble since then had been legendary.
And finally, it seemed to have paid off. Far from taking him to task over
the unfortunate deaths of three women last week who had later been found
to be members of a loyal clan, Colonel Hutchinson had told Richard that he
was to depart for London at the express command of the Duke of
Cumberland, who had a particular task for him to perform.
When a stunned Richard had asked what the task was, the colonel had
replied that that was for the Duke of Cumberland to inform him of. Which
as far as Richard was concerned, was another way of saying ‘I don’t know’.
So, a particular task, and one that could not be entrusted to the colonel.
Richard had no idea what it could be, but whatever it was, he would
perform it to the utmost of his ability. This was a chance for him to shine, to
prove his worth to those who could promote him to the stars if they chose!
He would not be sorry to see the back of Scotland, that was certain. A
darker, more barren shithole he had never encountered, although it did have
its advantages, in that you could do whatever you wanted to any rebel men
or women you came across, with no consequences whatsoever. He had done
things with rebel women that no prostitute would let him do, not even the
penny whores of St Giles, which was saying a lot. And if the woman died
while he was taking his pleasure, no one gave a damn. Except perhaps their
husbands, of course. But they were dead, or rotting in jail, or skulking in the
hills starving, so they counted for nothing.
 Yes, he would miss that aspect of Scotland. He had developed a fine taste
for torture now, but he would have to rein that in once he was back in
England, where even whores had some rights in law.

To celebrate his good fortune, on his last night in Fort William he picked up
one of the beggars who were always loitering around the place, bought her
a meal, made her wash herself thoroughly, and then had a pleasant few
hours with her down by the side of the loch before rolling her body into the
water. Usually he burnt the bodies of his victims in their ramshackle huts,
but that was not an option here. She would no doubt be found and her
injuries commented on, but she could not be linked to him, and no one
would waste any time investigating the death of a beggar anyway.
His appointment with the duke was in ten days. For safety he rode to
Carlisle with a group of other soldiers, all in very high spirits, heading
home on leave. But once in England he travelled on alone, to the great relief
of the others, whose spirits had been much dampened by the forbidding,
taciturn captain.
Having sufficient time, he decided to travel via Manchester and spend a
night in his house in Didsbury, which he hadn’t visited for months but had
left in the care of an elderly couple who had been instructed to keep it
habitable at all times. That was one of the advantages of having married that
dried-up frigid mouse Anne; he could now afford to pay to have fires
burning in empty rooms. He only paid the couple a pittance, but they had
free board and little to do when he was away. He would spend the night
there, have a bath and a good meal, then get a decent rest so he would be at
his best tomorrow. He had an important errand to perform in the town.

It was something of a shock therefore, when he rode up the drive to find

that not only was there no one in residence, but the house was certainly not
being looked after. Grass and weeds were growing up through the cobbles
of the drive and the green paint on the door was flaking. For a moment he
was transported back to that day four years ago when he had ridden up the
drive to find the house in a similar condition. He looked around, half
expecting to see his hoyden of a sister come racing across the grass astride a
black mare, skirts round her knees and hair hanging in untidy straggles
round her face.
 He chided himself for his stupidity, and looked back at the house. His
sister was gone, likely dead or hiding in France or some such place, and he
was no longer a mere sergeant but a captain, and soon, hopefully, to be
promoted again. He was the master here now and when the lazy bastards
who were supposed to be caring for the house turned up, he’d flay them
alive.
The door was locked and he had no key, so to his extreme irritation he
had to resort to breaking into his own house by smashing one of the small
window panes before lifting the sash and climbing in. Once in he realised
that no one had lived in this house for weeks, maybe months; the rooms
were cold, the air stale, and there was a layer of dust on everything. Grey
cobwebs hung from the chandelier in the lounge, and when he made his
way to his bedroom the bedding was damp and smelt of mould.
He could not stay here.
Raging mad and threatening all kinds of vengeance on the couple who
had taken his money and given nothing in return, he headed into
Manchester, where he spent an extortionate amount of money on an
overcooked mutton chop and an indifferent room. It seemed reasonably
clean when he went to bed, but turned out to have numerous unwelcome
residents who, roused by the warmth of his body, had an all-night feast,
with the result that the Captain Cunningham who arrived promptly at nine
the following morning at the Deansgate office of Edward Cox, solicitor,
was neither bathed, replete, nor rested.
“Good morning, Sergeant Cunningham,” Mr Cox said, once recovered
from the surprise of seeing his former client on his doorstep after an
absence of nearly four years.
“Captain,” Richard replied curtly.
“Really?” Mr Cox said, with a tone of astonishment that Richard would
have found insulting had he not been fully occupied with trying to resist a
whole body itch that made him want to tear his skin off. “Well, Captain
Cunningham, how can I be of assistance to you?”
“May I impose on you for a few minutes?” Richard asked. “I have an
important matter I wish to discuss with you.”
He was shown into the solicitor’s office, and coffee was sent for.
“Now Captain,” said Mr Cox, sitting forward in his chair, “how can I
help you with your important matter?”
 “I am on my way to London, to an urgent meeting with the Duke of
Cumberland,” Richard said pompously, “but I thought it necessary to
apprise you of the situation regarding my sister Elizabeth.”
“Ah, yes, the delightful Lady Peters,” Edward Cox exclaimed. “How is
she? I have not seen her for…oh…nearly three years. Quite a memorable
last meeting, as I recall.”
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” Richard said, “but I have to inform
you that the man we all knew as Sir Anthony Peters was in fact a spy for the
Jacobite cause, and has disappeared, along with Elizabeth. There is a large
reward out for his capture. I had thought you would be aware of this.”
Mr Cox blanched and sat back in his chair, his mouth open in shock. It
was eminently clear that he had most definitely not been aware of this.
“Dear God,” he gasped after a moment. “Has he harmed her? Have you
heard anything of her whereabouts?”
“No, nothing,” Richard replied impatiently. “But –”
“My dear sir, you must be distraught,” Mr Cox interrupted, distracted.
“How dreadful! Of course I will do anything in my power to help you find
Elizabeth and restore her to her family. How can I help?”
Richard frowned. This was not going as he had intended.
“I assure you sir, that everything possible is being done to apprehend the
traitor Anthony. And to find my sister,” he added belatedly. “I have not
come to ask for your help in finding her, although of course if you hear
anything of the possible whereabouts of the man known as Sir Anthony, you
will inform the authorities immediately.”
“Of course,” Mr Cox answered. “So, if you do not wish my help in
finding your sister, why have you come to see me?”
“The real Sir Anthony Peters died of smallpox when he was a small
child. This impostor married my sister under a false name, so their marriage
was not a legal one. Therefore he had no right to the twenty thousand
pounds which my father left as a dowry. As I am sure you are aware, the
property of traitors is automatically forfeit to the Crown. I have therefore
come to take possession of the money.”
“I see,” said the solicitor, in quite a different tone from that which he had
used so far. “You think your sister to be a traitor as well. Is this the common
view?”
Richard flushed.
 “I do not know whether Elizabeth is a traitor or merely the dupe of this
bast…this man, but regardless, he has no right to the dowry.”
“No, indeed he does not. But if the marriage is invalid, as you say, then
your sister is still single, is she not? And therefore any remaining monies
would remain in trust until she attains the age of thirty. Or marries
elsewhere.”
“Or dies,” Richard said bluntly.
“Indeed. In which case it would go to build a foundling hospital, under
the provisions of your father’s will. As I explained to you when you came to
see me after your father’s death.”
“So you are saying that unless my sister is proved to be a traitor, I cannot
claim the money my father left?” Richard said hotly.
“I am saying nothing of the sort,” Mr Cox replied coldly. “In the event
that your sister proves to be a traitor, her dowry will become the property of
the Crown.”
“In which case I will be entitled –”
“To nothing,” Mr Cox finished. “Any money would become the property
of the Crown, that is of the monarch. And as far as I am aware, Captain
Cunningham, you are merely the cousin of a lord, and therefore unless the
king sees fit to compensate you for your military service to him, you will
receive nothing.”
The solicitor sipped his coffee and watched in silence whilst a variety of
expressions crossed the young soldier’s face.
“I have an urgent appointment with the Duke of Cumberland next
Wednesday,” Richard said finally. “I am sure that if I explain the situation to
him, he will be sympathetic to me and will ask His Majesty for the
necessary permissions.”
“Do you know why His Royal Highness has summoned you?” Mr Cox
asked.
“I…er…” Richard stuttered, cursing that he never had been able to lie
readily.
“Ah. Then if he has summoned you for a positive reason, maybe you
would be successful in your request. But in this matter at least, I am pleased
to say I can be of assistance.” He smiled.
Richard brightened.
“I can save you the effort of making such a request by informing you that
your sister’s dowry is no longer in my possession,” Mr Cox finished.
 “No,” Richard said, deeply shocked. “It’s not possible. Sir Anthony
signed it all over to Beth. She can’t have spent it all. She was never
interested in material things. Has she deposited it elsewhere?”
“I have no idea where she has deposited it. That is not my concern. She
came to me some considerable time ago and told me she wished to
withdraw all of it. In guineas.”
“And you let her have it?” Richard said.
“I tried to talk her out of it, but she was most adamant. I had no choice in
the matter. She had all the relevant documents signed by Sir Anthony and
duly witnessed.”
“But…he’s a traitor!” Richard cried.
“So you say. But I was hardly to know that at the time. I have done
nothing wrong.”
“You’re telling me she took twenty thousand pounds in gold out of the
bank and just walked away with it? No one could carry that much gold
about their person. It would be impossible. I don’t believe you.”
“You may believe what you wish, Captain,” Mr Cox said icily. “I assure
you she made all the necessary arrangements to transport the gold. And I
also assure you I have all the legal documentation regarding the transaction,
all in order. If you want to take the matter further, then I wish you luck.
Now I will wish you good day. I am sure you want to make an early start
for your urgent appointment in London.” He stood, forcing Richard to
follow suit. “Your servant, sir,” he said, opening the door. Richard walked
past him, then stopped on the threshold. A muscle twitched in his cheek.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” he said, incensed. “You never did like
me. Well, you’ve not heard the last of this, I promise you.”
“Captain Cunningham,” said Mr Cox, “It would give me the greatest
pleasure to watch you fight a legal battle that would no doubt drag on for
years, and which you could not possibly win. But I would suggest that you
concede victory in this to your sister, who always did possess the superior
intellect, and confine yourself to martial affairs at which I’m sure you excel.
I will not take up any more of your time.”

Richard stalked down the steps in a blind rage. One day he would find his
bitch of a sister, and when he did he would tear her limb from limb. He
mounted his horse and pulled so hard on the reins that the stallion reared up
in pain, almost unseating him. He tore down the street at a gallop, heedless
of the people who had to leap to safety.
Damn Beth, and Anthony, and Manchester, and that fucking horrible
house that he’d never had a moment’s happiness in since his mother had
died. He would go back there now and burn the damn place to the ground.
Then he would do everything in his power to find Beth and that simpering
bastard she married, and when he did he would kill them himself. To hell
with the reward. Nothing on earth would give him more pleasure than to
watch them writhe in agony at his feet, begging for mercy.
By the time he got back to the house he had calmed down a little, and had
decided not to burn it to the ground after all. That would be stupid. He
could sell it, and the money from it could be put towards finding his sister
and her so-called husband. In that he had not changed his mind. He turned
from the house and rode to the Ring o’ Bells, where he ate a very fine roast
beef lunch and drank several glasses of rum punch.
He would set off for London this afternoon. But before he did that, he
had a house call to make. He smiled. This would be fun, and might yield
some useful information too.

***

Scotland

As threatened, Alex did rise from his bed very late indeed on the morning
after his return to the MacGregor fold. This was partly because it was pitch
black in the cave, so the sun rising over the mountain failed to rouse him,
partly because he had been completely exhausted and not a little drunk by
the time he retired, and partly because his whole clan had crept silently out
of the cave at daybreak so as to let him sleep on undisturbed.
By the time he finally staggered out of the cave, blinking in the sunlight,
it was nearly midday, and most of the clan was sprawled around the saucer-
shaped depression, relaxing. Some of the women had gone down to the loch
to wash clothes accompanied by their husbands, who were keeping watch.
Angus, Iain, Graeme, Allan, Dougal and his two brothers, among others,
were busy sharpening their swords and dirks, and checking their pistols
were serviceable. Which left him with no need to ask who intended to
accompany him in his war of attrition. He nodded to them as he passed
them on his way to the campfire, where some oatcakes were cooking on a
hot stone. He liberated one and went to sit down, tossing it from hand to
hand until it cooled enough for him to eat.
He was happy with those who had chosen to follow him. All of them
except Allan had a personal reason to hate the redcoats as well as a political
one. Iain because of Maggie’s death, Angus because of his blood oath,
Graeme because Beth had been as a daughter to him, and Dougal and his
brothers because it was a redcoat’s seduction of their sister Jeannie that had
led indirectly to her death. Which left…
“Where’s Kenneth?” Alex shouted across to Angus. “Is he joining us to
fight?”
“He’s away down the loch side. He said he had to have a wee blether wi’
someone before he made his decision.”
Alex’s brow furrowed. Kenneth never consulted anyone before he made
decisions, except his chieftain, but only then if it was a clan matter. Puzzled,
he considered heading down to the loch, but then thought better of it and
sitting back, bit into the oatcake. He had taken Kenneth’s participation for
granted, he realised, but if he chose not to fight they would manage without
him. It would be a loss, though. Not only was he a formidable fighter, but
he had the ability to scare people half to death just by looking at them. He
would find out what was going on soon enough, no doubt.

The formidable fighter was currently looking down at the ground and
feeling as nervous as a small child caught with his hand in the sweetie jar,
as he stood on the banks of the loch some short distance from the women
doing their laundry. Facing him was Janet, who stood with her hand on her
hip and an expression of utter incredulity on her face.
“Have ye totally taken leave of your senses?” she asked him.
“Isd!” he said, glancing round to see if the others had heard. If they had,
they were making a good pretence of disinterest. He turned his attention
back to the subject of his proposal. “I…er…if ye need a wee while to think
about it, I’ll leave ye alone,” he offered.
“I dinna need any time at all to think about it,” she said. “The answer’s
no, of course.”
“Janet, I’m no’ a bad man,” he said. “And I’m good wi’ bairns, ye ken
that. And –”
 “Is this some sort of dare?” she asked suspiciously. “Has Angus put ye up
to this?”
“No!” Kenneth protested.
“Because if he has, I’ll skelp the wee gomerel, big as he is.”
“Janet, it’s no’ a dare. Nobody kens that I’ve asked ye. It was my idea.”
Janet looked up at him sceptically.
“So ye’re telling me ye love me, are ye?” she said.
“No! I mean…aye, I love ye in a fashion, ye ken. But as I said, I’m good
wi’ bairns, though Jeannie and I never had any, and I ken what it’s like to
lose the one ye love, and I thought that if we were to marry we could be
company for each other, and I could be a faither tae the wee ones.”
He was serious. And, giant though he was, he was sensitive and shy,
though normally he hid it better than he was doing right now. Janet’s face
softened.
“Come here, ye great dunderheid,” she said, reaching out to him and
wrapping her arms round his waist. She laid her head on his big chest and
for a minute was soothed by the sound of his heart thumping against his
ribs. He put one arm round her very tentatively, as though afraid of crushing
her. She gave his waist a squeeze and then let him go and stepped back.
“Ye’ve a good heart, Kenneth, man,” she said. “And I’d say aye to ye, but
for two reasons.”
He looked down at her expectantly.
“Firstly, there’s a group of men up there sharpening their weapons for a
fight, and waiting for you to join them. They’ll be sore disappointed if ye
stay here, and ye’ll regret it forever if ye dinna go with them to avenge wee
Jeannie’s death.”
He made to speak, but she stood on tiptoe, and reaching up put her hand
gently over his mouth.
“I ken ye dinna speak of it, and I ken why,” she said gently, “and she was
wrong in what she did. But it wasna fighting fair tae seduce her into
betraying us the way that soldier did. Jeannie was a bonny woman, but
easily led, and he took advantage of that. Ye’re right to want to avenge her,
and Alex needs ye with him. So go.”
He waited a moment.
“Ye said there were two reasons,” he prompted finally.
“Aye,” she said, “I’m already married. It’s against the laws of God and
man to have two husbands.”
 “Janet, a ghraidh, Simon’s no’ coming back,” Kenneth said softly. “It’s
been over four months now.”
“Ye didna see him fall at Culloden, did ye?” she said.
“No, but –”
“Well, then.”
“I didna see Duncan fall, either, or Robbie Og, but I ken they’re dead.
Simon’s –”
“No’ dead,” Janet interrupted. “He may be a prisoner, but he’s no’ dead.
If he was, I’d ken it, in here.” She hit her chest with her fist. “He’s coming
back to me, and I’ll wait for him until he does. So thank ye for the kind
offer, and it was kind, but no. Away and fight wi’ the others.”

“She’s convinced that Simon’s alive and coming back to her,” Kenneth said
a few minutes later after he’d climbed back up to the others and told them
of his decision to fight. He was sitting with the other men a short distance
from the rest of the clan, and had told them of his proposition to her. “She
said that she’d ken in her heart if he was dead.”
“Well, it is possible that he’s been taken prisoner,” Angus put in. “If so,
he could be in jail for years or transported to the Colonies.”
“Or hung,” Graeme added.
“Whichever way, he’s no’ coming back,” Alex said.
“He could. Remember those nine MacGregors that escaped from
Dumbarton Castle in February? They dug their way out through the walls,”
Angus pointed out.
“Dumbarton Castle is a ruin. A good kick and the whole thing would fall
down. Dinna be telling her that and raising her hopes,” Alex said.
“I dinna think it’d make a difference. She’s as sure that he’s alive as if he
were standing next to her,” Kenneth said. “I’ll away and get my sword and
dirk. When are we off tae fight, then?”
“Give me another day or two to rest my leg,” Alex said. He hated to
admit that it pained him, but better that than it fail him in the middle of an
ambush. “We can plan while we’re waiting. And Lachlan and Jamie are
away seeing what they can find out about Stirling. There are troops
stationed there who are ranging out in small groups to raid the surrounding
areas. That’s far enough away from here for us no’ to be suspected if we
happen to come across a few of them out after dark.” He grinned. “The
laddies should be back in a couple of days. And if the redcoats think
Scotland a hell on Earth now, they’ll soon have cause to be sure of it.”
While the others practised their fighting moves and Alex observed and
gave sporadic advice, he mulled over what Kenneth had said about Janet.
Was it possible to know whether someone was dead or not in your heart?
He knew it was in those stupid novels that Charlotte and Clarissa read, and
it would be a comfort to Janet to think so. But then in his heart he didn’t
feel that Beth was dead either, although he knew she was because Maggie
had seen her shot in the head.
Maybe he should have told her that he’d seen Simon fall, even though he
hadn’t. At least then she’d have been able to grieve for him and move on.
Like he was doing? He smiled ruefully. Let her keep her illusions, poor
woman. If they gave her hope, it was not such a bad thing. Not as bad as the
endless sense of loss, anyway.
He ran his fingers through his hair and forced his mind back to the
present. He would grieve for Beth for the rest of his life, but this was his
version of moving on; and he intended to make a good job of it.

***

Didsbury

When the knock came on the door, Jane, who was passing through the hall
on her way to the kitchen at the time, opened it. When she saw who the
caller was she tried to close the door, but Richard put one booted foot in the
doorway to stop her.
“Now, there’s no need to be rude,” he said jovially.
She contemplated opening the door wide then slamming it on his foot but
his boot soles were thick, and she might well not only fail to shut the door,
but also incite his anger.
“What do you want, Richard?” she asked loudly. Thomas had ears like a
cat; if he was anywhere in the vicinity he would be alerted to the identity of
the caller.
“Well now, can’t a master call on his servants when he’s passing through
the town?” Richard said.
“We’re not your servants any more, thank God,” Jane replied. “And you
are not welcome here. So if you will kindly remove your foot, I have work
to do.”
The foot stayed in place. She was very aware that if he chose to force his
way in she could not stop him. She felt a frisson of fear run through her.
“Actually, I’ve come on a private matter, and would like a word with
your husband or with Elliot, if he’s at home.”
“Open the door, Jane, and then step back,” Thomas’s voice came from
behind her. She glanced back, then did as he’d bid her.
Richard looked at Thomas, who was standing a few feet behind his wife,
a pistol, primed and cocked, levelled at Richard’s head.
“You have nothing to say that I want to hear, Richard, so as you’ve been
told you’re not welcome, please leave,” Thomas said, his green eyes cold
and hard.
Richard smiled, apparently completely unperturbed by the gun pointing
at him, although if Thomas chose to fire at that range he could not miss. He
looked down the hall at the neat paintwork, the polished wood floors, the
colourful welcoming rug on the floor.
“This is a nice place you have,” he said conversationally. “It must have
cost a fair sum. I assume it was paid for out of Elizabeth’s dowry?”
“How this house was paid for is none of your business,” Thomas said.
“Now that’s where you’re wrong,” Richard replied. “It is very much my
business if this house was paid for with money that belongs to me. I’m sure
you’ve heard by now that my sister’s lover was a Jacobite spy, and that they
were never actually married. So neither of them had any right to the money
that this house was bought with.”
“That’s as may be,” Thomas said. “But you had no right to it either. The
master gave me a copy of his will after he signed it, to keep safe. He told
me exactly who he’d left his money to. And he told me why that wasn’t
you. Would you like to know?”
Richard’s face darkened and his hand moved automatically to his sword.
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Thomas warned him.
“You won’t shoot me,” Richard said arrogantly. “You’d hang if you did.”
“You’re wrong,” Thomas answered. “I’d love to shoot you. You just need
to give me a reason, that’s all. I’ll take my chances after that.”
Reluctantly Richard let go of his sword hilt.
“Let’s be reasonable,” he said through gritted teeth. “I’m sure you know
where the money is. If you take me to it, we can come to some mutually
agreeable arrangement. Let me in and we can discuss it man-to-man. Or I
can always come back another time, maybe bring a few friends with me.
I’m sure you don’t want that.”
A brightly coloured ball came rolling down the hall and bounced off
Richard’s boot, which was still in the doorway. It was followed by a small
child who ran past Thomas before he could stop her, her whole attention
focussed on her toy. She dropped to her knees and picked it up, laughing
and making guttural sounds of pleasure.
Richard’s eyes widened and the colour drained from his face instantly,
rendering his normally swarthy complexion a sickly yellow.
Having regained custody of her ball the child now became aware of her
surroundings, and slowly looked up at the man standing in front of her, who
was staring down at her, his face a mask of horror. She took in the black
leather boots, the cream breeches, and then the scarlet coat. And then she
started screaming, a high-pitched wail of pure mindless terror, and tried to
scrabble backwards, her bare feet slipping on the polished floor.
Jane, heedless of everything but her adopted daughter’s distress, ran
forward and scooped her up, cradling the little girl’s face against her
shoulder so she couldn’t see the soldier any more.
“Shhh Ann, sweetheart,” she crooned to the screaming child, who clung
to her neck with choking strength. Jane backed away, keeping her eye on
Richard until she was behind Thomas, then she turned and walked into the
kitchen, closing the door behind her. The child’s wails became muted.
Thomas and Richard looked at each other.
“She recognises you,” Thomas said to the ashen-faced soldier. “Thought
you’d killed her as well as Martha, didn’t you?”
“I…I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Richard said shakily, all his
arrogance evaporated. “Who’s Martha?”
“Maybe you don’t remember Martha,” Thomas replied. “After all, it was
four years ago, and I daresay you’ve killed a good many more innocent
women since then. But it doesn’t matter, because Ann remembers well
enough for both of you. We haven’t reported it to the authorities yet,
because we didn’t want to cause the child any more distress than she’s
already suffered. But we did take legal advice, and have written a
deposition and lodged it with a solicitor just in case it’s ever needed. It
makes really interesting reading, particularly the statement from the man
who found Ann lying in the road in the middle of the night next to her dead
mother. I’m sure your commanding officer would find it fascinating. Of
course, it’s up to you whether he gets to read it or not. Now, if it’s all the
same to you, my arm’s getting tired holding this thing, so either try to force
your way in or leave.”
Richard left.
Thomas waited until he heard the horse’s hooves clattering down the
road, then he closed and bolted the door before going into the kitchen. He
put the pistol on the table and sank down onto the bench opposite Jane, who
was still cradling the little girl. Her screams had turned to whimpers now,
and her eyes were closing.
“She’s tired herself out, poor mite,” Jane said softly. She looked at
Thomas, who rubbed his hands over his face. “He really did kill Martha,
didn’t he?” she said. “I know Beth told us he had, but I never truly believed
it until now.”
Thomas nodded.
“I’ve never seen him look so shocked,” he said. “I told him that she
remembered everything and that we’ve lodged a deposition with a solicitor,
and that we’ll show it to his commanding officer if he causes us any
trouble.”
Jane stared at him, shocked.
“But that’s not true!” she said. “Ann can’t even speak. And she screams
at every red coat she sees!”
“I know that, and you know that, but Richard doesn’t,” Thomas replied.
“And I know you don’t hold with lying, but sometimes it’s necessary. We
all lied when we were questioned about Beth’s disappearance.”
Jane flushed.
“I wasn’t comfortable with it, though,” she admitted.
“No, but your loyalty to Beth came first, as it should. And I’d rather tell a
lie than have to kill a man. Because if he’d returned, as I’m sure he would
have done, with or without his friends, I would have had to shoot him. This
was the lesser of two evils. I doubt he’ll come back.”
“What was he talking about when he said he was sure we knew where the
dowry money was?” Jane asked. “Isn’t it with Mr Cox in Manchester?”
“As far as I know, yes. But we know Sir Anthony signed it over to Beth,
and she certainly did withdraw some of it. Richard was right about her
buying the house for us. But no matter what, he can’t claim the dowry and
never could. His father made sure of that. He’s just bitter and greedy, and
always was.”
 “Do you really think he’ll leave us alone now?” Jane asked.
“Yes, I think so, but me and Ben can take it in turns to stay up and keep
watch for the next few nights. I’ll teach him to use this, too. It’s about time
he learned how to defend himself. He’s coming up for fourteen.”
Jane looked at the pistol with a mixture of trepidation and disgust.
Thomas smiled.
“I know you hate violence even more than lying, but we live in violent
times, and Ben needs to learn to protect himself. He’s a sensible lad, he
won’t do anything stupid. And he’s brave too. Remember when that friend
of Richard’s tried to rape Mary, and Ben knocked him out with his own
musket?”
In spite of herself, Jane laughed.
“He’s very fond of Mary,” she said.
“He is. And she’s sweet on him too. I can see wedding bells for those two
in the future, and I won’t be sorry.”
Jane smiled, clearly feeling the same way. Ann was asleep now, and Jane
gently removed the child’s arms from round her neck.
“She’s getting heavy,” she remarked, settling her on her knee.
“Do you want me to take her?” Thomas asked.
Jane shook her head.
“Do you think we’ll ever find out what’s happened to Beth?” she asked in
a very small voice.
“I don’t know. I hope so, and if we do I hope it’s that she’s alive and well,
and that Sir Anthony fellow too. Because whoever he was, she loved him,
and I think he loved her too. But we can’t do anything about them except
keep them in our prayers. I can, however, do something about teaching Ben
to defend himself and us.”
He stood up and stretched, picked up the gun, then impulsively he leaned
across the table and kissed his wife.
“If Beth loved him half as much as I love you, we must hope that they’re
together, wherever they are. For I wouldn’t want to live without you, and
I’m sure she felt the same way for Sir Anthony.”
With that he turned and left the room, closing the door quietly so as not
to wake Ann, and leaving Jane open-mouthed. He was not one for
endearments. Their love for each other was a given, and they both knew it.
The fact that he’d voiced his love told her more than anything else could
have how much Richard’s visit had disturbed him, and how prepared he’d
been to kill to defend his wife and child.
She adjusted the weight of the little girl on her lap, and then folded her
hands and began to pray.

Scotland

The ten men huddled in the tiny bothy listening to the rain battering against
the door, shivering in spite of the fact that it was August. They had tried
unsuccessfully to light a fire in the middle of the muddy floor, but as the
wood was wet all they’d succeeded in doing was creating a large amount of
smoke, which had left them all coughing and with sore eyes, and which
swirled around the room for ages before finally making its way out of the
hole in the roof.
On one side of the room a low stone platform ran the length of the wall,
and all the soldiers were now sitting on it, aware that if they were going to
get any sleep tonight it would be sitting up, because none of them were
insane enough to lie on the rain-soaked floor. One of the men had managed
to light a candle, which he had fixed on the little platform. It flickered
wildly in the draught coming under the door, throwing huge shadows round
the room. They passed a flask of brandy from hand to hand.
“I hate this bloody country,” one man muttered. “How the hell do people
manage to live in places like this? I wouldn’t keep pigs in here.”
There was a general murmur of assent to this remark.
“They don’t know any better,” one of his companions remarked.
“They’ve always lived this way.”
“Not any more. Now they’re living out on the mountains, poor sods,
which is the only thing I can think of worse than this. One thing about these
places, the heather thatch burns well.”
As one they all looked up at the roof, wondering if they could pull part of
it down and light a fire with it. A bit of warmth would make a huge
difference to their conditions and would allow them to cook the rabbits
they’d shot and skinned earlier, which at the moment lay in a sad pink
bundle in the corner.
“If you do, the rain’ll pour in and the floor’ll be like a bog in five
minutes,” another man, small and stocky with a shock of thick black hair
tied back and clubbed, said.
“Yes, but if we pull some out from underneath the overhang outside,
that’ll be dry, and then we might be able to get a good fire going, and if we
do even the wet wood’ll burn.”
The flask went round again, and then the man who’d made the
suggestion, a tall, freckle-faced soldier, stood up and pulled his knife out of
his belt.
“I’ll go,” he said. “If I crouch under the overhang on the side away from
the wind, I won’t get too wet.”
He opened the door and letting in a shower of raindrops, he went out,
closing it behind him.
The others waited for him to return. And then they waited some more.
Finally one of them shouted out, “Jack, are you all right out there?”
Silence.
“I bet the daft bugger’s gone off for a piss and got lost,” the short stocky
man said.
“Wouldn’t he just piss against the wall?”
“You would, I would, but you know Jack’s an idiot. It’s pitch black out
there. If you walked more than a few steps away you wouldn’t know where
you were.” He stood up. “I’ll go and see what’s up with him.” He went out.
“I can’t wait to get back to barracks tomorrow,” one man said. “At least
it’s dry there, and you can light a fire to cook with. I’m starving.”
More time passed. The flask was emptied and another one started.
Having eaten nothing, the soldiers were getting decidedly tipsy.
“Where the hell are they?” the man currently in possession of the flask
said. He shouted out to the men outside, but there was no reply. All of them
began to feel uneasy.
“Do you think they’ve been ambushed?” the youngest man, a private of
eighteen asked fearfully.
At that very moment, from somewhere in the vicinity there came a loud
mournful howl, which was answered a moment later by another, and then a
third.
“Wolves!” cried one of the men.
“There aren’t any wolves in Scotland, are there?” another asked the room
in general. “They’re dogs, that’s all.”
“Dogs stay with people, and there are no people round here any more. We
just spent a week driving them all away. And we killed most of the dogs,”
the corporal pointed out.
The howling continued.
“That’s wolves, alright,” one of the more experienced soldiers said.
“There were wolves in Hanover when I was there, and the countryside’s not
as wild as here.”
“Do you think –”
He shut up abruptly as a man’s scream of pain rang through the night.
“Shit!” the corporal exclaimed, dropping the flask of brandy on the floor.
“Oh God, do you think they’ve got Jack and Harry?” asked the young
private.
“Only one way to find out,” said the corporal. “If we stick together we’ll
be safe. Wolves won’t attack a group.”
All eight men stood as one and unsheathed their swords. Their powder
was wet, so the muskets were left stacked in the corner. They went to the
door, opened it, and peered fearfully out. The rain battered against their
faces, rendering them momentarily blind, and in that moment a huge hand
reached out and grabbed the nearest soldier by the throat, crushing his
windpipe and throwing him to the side as though he were a doll. He writhed
on the ground for a few moments trying to drag air into his lungs, then he
lay still.
Whilst Kenneth was doing that Alex and Angus had come at them from
the other side, and had killed two more. The remaining five men, finally
realising that there were people in the area after all, and very angry people
at that, ran back into the bothy and shut the door, two of them leaning on it
in an attempt to stop the attackers getting in. The other three ran for their
muskets, fumbling to fix their bayonets in the pitch black.
Outside, Kenneth pushed his mass of dripping wet red hair back off his
face, took a few paces backwards and then charged the door, knocking it off
its hinges and driving both it and the two men behind it across the room.
The other men poured in behind him, making short work of the stunned
and terrified redcoats. They hefted the bodies outside to bleed into the
heather, then returned to the bothy and sat down where the soldiers had
recently been. A puddle of water soon formed at the feet of each man as the
rain dripped off their sodden kilts on to the floor. Iain picked the flask up,
shook it, then took an experimental swig.
“Mmm!” he said. “Brandy. Pretty good quality too.” He passed it to
Angus, who was sitting to his right.
 “That was a good idea about the wolves and the scream,” Graeme
commented. “It was a lot easier taking them from outside than if we’d have
had to come through the door one at a time.”
“Aye well, I was going tae wait till they slept, but they didna show any
signs of doing so, so I had to think of something else,” Alex said. “We’d
have been here till dawn else, and we need to have them buried and be gone
by then.”
They all sat for a short time, resting. It had been a long day, what with
tracking the soldiers, observing them to ascertain their experience as
fighters, and then digging a big hole a few hundred yards away from the
bothy. And then standing in the pouring rain outside for four hours listening
to them chat and complain, waiting for them to go to sleep. The two men
coming out had been a bonus; Kenneth had taken them as soon as they
closed the door, breaking their necks and killing them instantly and silently.
“There are some coneys here, all skinned and gutted,” Allan said. “Shall
we make a fire and cook them before we go?”
Alex thought about it for a minute. He wanted the men out of there, the
soldiers buried, and all signs of the brief fight obliterated before dawn. They
would have to do a makeshift repair on the door Kenneth had smashed off
its hinges. But the grave was already dug and it wouldn’t take long to haul
the men up there. Kenneth could carry two at a time.
“Aye, why not?” he said. There was a communal sigh of relief. Angus
stood up.
“I’ll away and get some dry heather from under the overhang, then,” he
said, grinning. “I’ll try no’ to get lost.”
“Watch the wolves don’t get you,” Graeme said. “I’m damned if I’m
coming to rescue you until my belly’s full.”
Angus returned, the fire was lit and soon the appetising smell of roasting
meat filled the small room. Kenneth manhandled the door back into place to
keep out the rain, and the cold dark place that was unfit for redcoats’ pigs
became a warm and homely shelter for nine Highlanders and an adopted
Sasannach who still insisted on wearing breeches.
“If I can find a wee bit of wood, I can fix that hinge,” Kenneth said. “It’ll
only take me a few minutes.”
“Are we always going to be burying the bodies, Alex?” Dougal asked, as
they sat companionably eating.
 “No, we’ll no’ always be able to, but when we can we should, I’m
thinking.”
The men had objected when Alex had first told them his intentions for the
bodies of their victims, back when they’d undertaken the cattle raid. But
after he’d explained his reasoning, they’d happily taken on the extra work.
It was worth it to keep the redcoats guessing.

***

Edinburgh

“Deserted? What, all of them?”

“I’m afraid so, my lord.”
Willem Anne Keppel, Earl of Albemarle, currently and most reluctantly
Commander-in-Chief of His Majesty’s Army in Scotland, sat in his
luxuriously appointed room in front of a blazing log fire, swirling a glass of
fine cognac in one hand.
Colonel Hutchinson stood stiffly to one side, vainly hoping that the great
man might invite him to sit down and partake of some refreshment. He had
had a long, cold, wet ride to get here, and was heartily sick of being a
messenger to great men.
“Are you sure?” the earl asked.
“Well, we cannot be absolutely sure, but from what we can ascertain,
they obeyed their orders to clear out the villages to the north of Stirling and
then they just disappeared, my lord.”
“There is a difference between disappearing and deserting, Colonel,”
Albemarle said. “They were a small group of men. Are you sure they were
not attacked by rebels?”
The colonel sighed inwardly.
“We have examined the hut where they were sleeping at night, my lord.
There are signs of a recent fire, and of them having cooked and eaten there.
But there were no signs of any disturbance; in the few instances of men
being ambushed there have always been signs of a struggle.”
To say nothing of the bodies left lying around, which is the most obvious
evidence of an attack, he thought sarcastically.
“Have you discovered any more about the whereabouts of those men who
went missing last month?”
 “Last month?” the colonel said.
“Yes, the ones who were driving the cattle to Glasgow for that man,
Grimley, was it?”
Light dawned.
“Ah, Grundy, my lord. No, they too seem to have disappeared. We can
only assume that once they got to Glasgow, Mr Grundy and his friends
carried on to England with the cattle and the men succumbed to temptation,
being closer to England than to Fort William at that point.”
“One of the men was a captain, was he not, with many years of devoted
service?” Albemarle said, eyeing Colonel Hutchinson with suspicion, as
though expecting him to dematerialise as it seemed the other officer had.
“He was. But there seems to be no other explanation than desertion. It is
just possible that this latest disappearance was an attack, although that
doesn’t explain the lack of bodies or signs of a struggle. But it’s not
possible for forty men and two thousand cattle to just disappear without
trace. The only explanation is that they deserted. Perhaps they killed the
captain to do so, my lord,” he added.
He would not be surprised if they had. The morale of the men had never
been lower. In fact his own morale had never been lower. He had not
become a soldier to make war on women and children. There was no glory
in that. Many of the men felt the same as he did. Others were just sick of
living in threadbare tents and damp draughty hovels, never knowing when
they went out of barracks for an evening whether they’d be tolerated by the
locals or dirked on their way home. When they were sent out hunting for
rebels they had to endure the most appalling conditions and more often than
not the men they were seeking melted away into the mountains before they
arrived at their settlements, leaving them nothing to do but burn down the
houses, trample or steal the meagre crops and drive off the cattle. The men
were bored and miserable and all the more savage for that; all of them were
desperate to go home, even the vicious ones who enjoyed brutalising others.
No wonder they were seizing any chance to desert.
The earl sighed and took a deep drink of his brandy, while the colonel
looked on with envy.
“Well, it cannot be tolerated. At this rate we will have no army at all! The
men must be disciplined. This sort of thing did not happen when Prince
William was in command, and I will not have it happen now. General Bland
is besieged with letters from officers requesting leave on the most flimsy of
pretexts. If the officers show such a bad example, how can we be surprised
if the men follow them and take every opportunity to desert?” He leaned
across to the table and picking up a bell, rang it briskly. A footman
appeared, bowing.
“Tell Humphrey I have urgent letters to dictate,” the earl said. “You may
go to the kitchen, Colonel, and get some refreshments whilst I write letters,
which you will then ensure are delivered to General Bland, Colonel Howard
and Lord Ancrum.”
The colonel escaped gleefully to the relaxed warmth of the kitchen,
reflecting on the hypocrisy of a man who did nothing but complain to
anyone who would listen about how unhappy he was with his position and
how much he desired to go home. Perhaps he should look in a mirror if he
wished to discover whose example the men were following. Cumberland
had never openly demonstrated his antipathy to his position, even though
Colonel Hutchinson knew he had been desperate to get back to London.
Whilst the earl waited for the arrival of his clerk with the writing
paraphernalia, he finished his brandy and looked gloomily into the fire,
heartily wishing he was in a position to desert his post. Unfortunately he
was not. He had the good fortune to be the friend of Prince William, which
had led to the bad fortune of him being left with the command of Scotland
while the prince went off to London to be feted and adored.
He hated Scotland and all its people with a great passion. He had thought
that by moving to a comfortable house in Edinburgh he would be able to
endure his stay here, in spite of missing his family and friends greatly,
whom he had not seen for a long time. But every day he received letters and
messengers from all over the country; asking him for advice regarding pay
for the men; what should be done about the dangerously overcrowded
prisons; bringing him intelligence of the whereabouts of the Pretender’s
son, which always arrived too late for him to be apprehended (although the
earl still had high hopes that he would be the one to deliver Charles in
person to Cumberland); asking him for decisions regarding newly captured
rebels of importance. And so on and so on.
He was kept busy from morning till night, and all with a much depleted
force stretched very thin indeed, and yet he was expected to continue the
pacification of a savage barbaric country seething with broken men and
starving women and children.
 And now, as if that wasn’t enough, he was receiving almost daily reports
of riotous, disobedient behaviour by the troops, no doubt inspired by the
open dissatisfaction of their officers. It was not to be borne. He would write
a series of scathing letters to the commanders, demanding that they bring
their men back under control, and not to spare the whip. Severe discipline
was needed. That was the only law the common soldier understood. If they
were treated leniently they would take advantage, as they were clearly now
doing, thinking they could just go home when they felt like it.
If he could not go home, why the hell should they?
He poured himself another brandy, sat back in his chair, and reflected
morosely on how much longer he would have to stay here before his regular
letters of complaint and pleading to be allowed to leave would be heeded,
whereupon he would flee the country as fast as possible and, with luck,
never have to set foot in the damn place again.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER ELEVEN

London, August 1746

It was evening, and after their meal of mutton and vegetables the women
had retired to their cell. The light from the fire bathed the stone-walled
room with a cosy glow, and the occupants passed a bottle of wine from
hand to hand as they sat on their mattresses and were transported to Rome
and the delights of a lightning tour of the city, conducted by the man all of
them desired to meet more than any other living person, as told by Lady
Elizabeth Peters, who was sitting amongst them currently attired in stays
and a grubby quilted petticoat.
She estimated that the proceeds of the yellow dress would feed all of
them and provide coal for another month, and prayed that by the end of that
time she would have been brought to trial and executed, before the cold,
damp, starvation and vermin returned, bringing with it the risk of fever and
delirium, which she dreaded more than anything; more than hanging, more
even than burning at the stake, which was the statutory punishment for
female traitors.
She kept herself from these gloomy thoughts by entertaining her
companions with tales of her time as the wife of Sir Anthony Peters. They
all knew by now who she was, not because she had told them but because
nothing remained secret for long in Newgate Prison. By the same token she
knew that John Murray of Broughton had turned king’s evidence and had
informed on Lord Lovat, the Earl of Traquair, and the English and Welsh
Jacobites.
And yet he had not told the authorities about Alex, or that he had met her
before, many times. In fact from what she could ascertain, he had only
given evidence against people who had betrayed the cause, or at least
reneged on their promises. He had told them nothing useful at all about the
whereabouts of Lochiel or Prince Charles, although he must have known
something about what had happened to them after Culloden.
 He is having his revenge on those who failed to deliver, who he considers
responsible for the failure of the rebellion, she thought. He is not really a
traitor at all. She doubted that the Jacobite leaders would see it that way
though, and would not want to be him if he was ever released and sought to
return home.
She also knew that three of the Manchester rebels had escaped from this
very prison, and the rest had been hung, drawn and quartered, that Lord
Balmerino and the Earl of Kilmarnock had been executed; and that Prince
Charles was still, as far as anyone knew, in Scotland, and had not been
captured. She knew that there were so many prisoners they could not all be
brought to trial, and so they were being ordered to draw lots, with one in
twenty going to trial and the others having to plead guilty to receive His
Majesty’s gracious mercy and either be transported, exiled or made to enlist
in the British Army.
Although she knew it likely that John Betts was dead, she told herself it
was not certain; and it was wonderful to have all the latest news after weeks
of being locked in her gilded cage with no idea what was going on. She was
part of the world again and was actually enjoying herself, as far as she
could given the circumstances.
“Oh, it must have been so wonderful tae meet the prince,” Catriona
sighed dreamily. She had followed her husband to Culloden, and like Beth,
had no idea what had happened to him. “Is he really as bonny as they say?”
“He is,” Beth affirmed. “And although he’s every inch a prince, he’s
interested in everyone, and has a God-given ability to speak to all kinds of
people without patronising them. He’ll make a wonderful king one day.”
She refrained from telling them about his temper and sulks when thwarted.
Let them keep their dreams; they had little else. And in fairness the
conditions the rebel army had met with and the squabbling among the
council members would have driven a saint to distraction, let alone a prince
accustomed to getting his own way.
“You still think it possible he could take the throne for James?” Màiri
asked.
“While he lives, there is always a chance. He’s determined to succeed
and if he can only persuade King Louis to assist him, then he has an
excellent chance,” Beth said, praying that the wily Louis would actually
commit himself, should Charles continue to evade capture and make it back
to France. Surely all this sacrifice and bloodshed could not have been for
nothing?
“Tell us again about the night at Versailles, when you and Sir Anthony
danced in front of the king,” Catriona suggested, to a chorus of agreement.
They could not get enough of her real-life fairytales, of handsome princes
and devious kings, and she was happy to oblige. Her reminiscences stopped
short of the Henri Monselle affair though, and she would not speak a word
about what had happened after she’d returned from her honeymoon. Apart,
that was, from her rejection of the Duke of Cumberland in the box at the
theatre, which had been witnessed by over a thousand people, although
neither they nor the duke had known at the time how repulsed she had been
by his overtures to her. She could only hope that the news would get back to
Cumberland that Elizabeth Cunningham was openly bragging of how she
had rejected the hero of Culloden, and that he would put an end to her tales
and to her as quickly as possible.
“So then,” Beth said, after taking a mouthful of wine, “I had no idea how
to dance a menuet, having been brought up in the country, but Sir Anthony,
who had always mixed with the best people, was an expert in all the social
niceties.” It did no harm to throw a few red herrings in. Hopefully the
authorities would start trawling the aristocracy for him. “He made me dance
from morning till night until I had nightmares that I was dancing in front of
the king and when I looked down, I was naked!” Everyone laughed. “But
when we finally did it, it was fine. I even enjoyed myself.”
“Is it very different from the Scottish dances then?” Màiri asked.
Details. She must reveal nothing.
“I don’t know much about the Scottish dances,” Beth lied smoothly, “but
if you want, I can teach you the menuet. If you all stand along the wall we
should have just enough room to do the first few steps, at least. I will be Sir
Anthony.”
The sound of riotous laughter coming from the women’s area drew the
attention of the keeper, who had been asked to keep a watch on a particular
prisoner to check for signs of her becoming dispirited and therefore more
susceptible to persuasion. But when he drew back the grille and observed
what was taking place in the cell, he shook his head in amazement. Beth
was doing a very creditable impression of Sir Anthony Peters being
overwhelmed by the beauty and impeccable dancing skills of one of the
ragged inhabitants who had succeeded in mastering the first three steps of
the dance. At that moment Beth was on her knees delivering a flowery
speech of undying love to the fortunate woman, to the amusement of the
onlookers.
The keeper shut the grille. In spite of himself, he had to admire the girl.
She was tiny and looked as though a strong breeze would blow her away;
but she had more courage and determination than most men he had met. In
spite of the fact that she was undoubtedly an unrepentant traitor, he admired
her spirit enormously. She was certainly not going to see sense and reveal
the identity of her husband, not to anyone.
He found himself hoping she would be reprieved, to his own
astonishment. He was not a man prone to sympathy. And yet there was
something about this woman’s unshakable loyalty to the man who, if not
dead, appeared to have abandoned her to her fate, that caught at his heart.
He prayed that she would, against all the odds, see sense and save herself.
Because right now all he saw in her future was the gallows. Quietly he
walked away and left the women to their amusement.

The women all now had a mattress of their own, so they no longer had to
sleep in shifts, which had been very difficult in such a small space. Beth lay
awake listening to the regular breathing of her companions, punctuated by
the odd snore or muttering as one or other of them dreamt. It was strange
that all the rebel prisoners were desperate to live, thanking God for every
day that they got through without being brought to trial, whereas she was
desperate to die, and doing everything she could to achieve that. Every time
the cell door opened she prayed that they were coming for her, and every
time she was disappointed.
She thought back to her time in Rome and Versailles, not with Charles or
Louis or even with Sir Anthony, but with Alex, remembering again the
beautiful slate-blue eyes, the ridiculously long eyelashes, the warmth of him
against her back as she slept curled into him, one muscular arm wrapped
around her. Four months with no word from him or anyone else that he was
alive. The pain she felt at these times was physical, and she closed her eyes
tightly in an attempt not to cry, releasing a small gasp of misery as she did.
“Are ye awake, Beth?” her neighbour whispered.
“Yes,” Beth answered. “I’m sorry, Isobel. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“I wasna asleep. I wanted to talk with ye, in private.”
Beth sat up and Isobel came to sit next to her, wrapped in her blanket.
 “Do ye think the Duke of Cumberland will ask to see you again?” she
asked in a low voice.
“I wouldn’t think so, not after the things I said to him last time.”
“Do ye no’ think it foolish to anger him so?”
“No,” Beth said. Was Isobel hoping that she’d intercede for her? “I’m
never going to tell him what he wants to know, nor am I going to become
his mistress. All I have left is my honour, and that I intend to take to the
gallows with me.”
“What about the bairn?”
What the hell was she talking about? Beth looked at Isobel’s face, dimly
visible in the light of the dying fire. She didn’t look as though she was
feverish; her eyes were lucid, her expression earnest as she looked at Beth.
“What bairn?” Beth asked.
Isobel’s eyes widened.
“Holy Mother of God, do ye no’ ken ye’re with child, lassie?”
“What?!” Beth said loudly, then caught herself. “What are you talking
about? I’m not pregnant!” she continued in a fierce whisper.
“Are ye sure? Because ye seem so to me, and in my trade I saw enough
women who were. It’s a risk of the job.” She grinned.
“It’s not possible!” Beth said. “I haven’t…well…you know.”
“When was the last time ye did?” Isobel asked.
The last time. The night before Culloden. The night before Angus’s
birthday. Cumberland’s birthday. They had lain together on the edge of
Drumossie Moor, inadequately shielded from the others by gorse bushes.
The stars were rising in the evening sky, and she felt again the heavy
warmth of his weight on her, his unbound hair soft on her cheek as he came
to his climax…
No. Three years they had been married, and in all that time her womb
hadn’t quickened. It wasn’t possible.
Of course it was possible.
“Four months,” Beth whispered.
“Have ye bled since?” Isobel asked.
“I don’t know about the first month, I was unconscious. But yes, once
since then, but only a little. I thought it was the shock of the injury. After
my father died I didn’t bleed for three months.”
Isobel considered this.
 “Have ye felt sick? Have ye wee red veins on your breasts? Have your
paps changed colour? Have ye put on weight?”
Beth’s head reeled under the weight of questions.
“I haven’t felt sick, no. I have a bit of a stomach now, but I haven’t been
able to move about much and I had wonderful food in the Tower, and even
here it’s quite good. I don’t know about my breasts, I haven’t been looking
for anything.”
“Tomorrow ye must look for it. And in a lot of the women I saw when I
was in the whorehouse, they get a wee brown line down here.” She ran her
finger down her stomach.

Beth spent the rest of the night awake, praying that Isobel was wrong. Up
until now her path had been simple. Alex was either dead or a prisoner,
otherwise he would have found a way to get a message to her. If he was a
prisoner he would never agree to plead guilty, so he would no doubt be
executed. She would not betray him, and if he was either already dead or
soon to be so she wished to join him. Therefore her whole aim was to be as
insulting as possible to the people who had the power to order her
execution. If she was pregnant everything would change.
She was not pregnant. God could not be so cruel as to deny her a child
for three years when it would have been welcomed, and then give her one
when it was not.
As soon as it was light enough to see she stood up, and walking to the
tiny barred window, she pulled down her stays. Her breasts were pale and
rounded, with no signs of red lines. But her nipples were definitely a
brownish colour. Had they been pink before? For once in her life she cursed
her lack of vanity. She had never been one to spend time looking at herself
in the mirror. That had been Sir Anthony’s job. She hauled her petticoats up
round her waist, and with some difficulty peered round the bunched
material.
And there it was; the slightly rounded stomach and running down it, a
clear brown line.
“No,” she breathed. “Dear God, no, not now.”
She let go of the petticoats and turned round. Most of the women were
still asleep, but a few of them were watching her. Isobel’s expression
formed the question she wanted to ask.
 Beth looked at her and nodded. Then she burst into tears, waking up the
women who had still been slumbering.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled five minutes later when the sobs had turned to
hiccups and she was able to speak. She was sitting on one of the mattresses,
Isobel’s arm wrapped round her shoulder, the other women all crowding
round her, their faces full of concern for their friend who until now had
lifted all their spirits with her infectious optimism and unending courage
and humour. They had expected her to be happy at the discovery that she
was pregnant; a baby was always a blessing (unless you were a whore), but
a pregnancy in jail was a double blessing, as it guaranteed a reprieve from
the gallows.
“Here ye are greetin’ over the news that ye’re wi’ child, and there’s
women all over Newgate allowing themselves to be swived by anyone who
wants them, in the hopes of getting pregnant. Ye’re safe now, lassie. They’ll
no’ hang ye or burn ye once they ken. Is that no’ good news?”
“No!” Beth cried. “I WANT them to hang me!”
The women exchanged looks of shock.
“Ye dinna mean that. I ken ye loved your man, but you’re young. You’ve
your whole life ahead of ye. And he might be alive yet,” Catriona said
consolingly.
There was no point in trying to explain. None of them had husbands with
huge rewards offered for their capture. None of them had husbands who had
promised to come for them, and who had the courage and acting ability to
do it, no matter the risks. She had said to herself that she would wait six
months, but if he was alive he would have found a way to contact her by
now.
“What happens, once they know?” she asked. “Do they let you go? Can
you keep the child?”
“They’ll no’ let ye go, but ye’ll no’ be hung at least until after the baby’s
born, and often if you’re found guilty, they’ll transport ye instead. They
may let ye take the bairn, or it may go to a foundling hospital,” Màiri said.

That night, to her surprise, Beth actually fell asleep as soon as she lay
down, probably due to the exhaustion of having had no sleep the previous
night coupled with the emotional trauma of the day. She woke suddenly
some time in the middle of the night from a deep sleep, and for a moment
had no idea where she was.
Then it all came flooding back, and she stroked her stomach, both
marvelling at and despairing of the tiny person growing inside her. This
could be all she would ever have of Alex. Was there a way to save it? She
ran through her options.
She could carry on as she had been, as though she wasn’t pregnant, and if
she succeeded, would kill both herself and the unborn baby.
She could tell the authorities and plead her belly, and hope they would let
her keep the baby. In which case she would either bring her baby up in
prison, with an almost zero chance of it surviving, or would be transported
with or without the child, again, with an almost zero chance of it surviving
the transport ship or the foundling hospital. If it survived being born. So
many babies died at or just after birth, even those whose mothers had access
to good food and conditions and medical attention. If she remained in
prison she had almost no chance of her baby living for more than a few
days or weeks at best.
Or she could strike a deal, and betray Alex on the condition that she
received a full pardon and got to keep the child. She cradled her stomach in
her hands and tried to imagine what the child would look like. There were
many possibilities. Tall and strong with silver-blonde hair. Small and
fragile, with chestnut waves. Or any number of variations between.
The child would be a constant reminder of that glorious final
lovemaking, the skirl of the pipes, the laughter of the clansmen in the
distance when they still believed they could win. So many of them now lay
dead, in graves or rotting on the battlefield still, for all she knew.
The child would be a constant reminder that its life had been bought at
the cost of its father’s if he lived, and of his clansmen, who would be
hunted down ruthlessly once the truth was known. Of the carefree reckless
Angus, blue eyes brimming with mischief, of Duncan the peacemaker,
fierce yet gentle, of Iain, who had loved Maggie so desperately, and must be
grieving terribly. Of all of them, who had accepted her into their clan, made
her one of them.
Alex would want her to betray him. He had wanted her to do that to save
herself, even without having considered the possibility of a baby. If he were
here now he would be ordering her to save herself and their child. He was
her husband and chieftain. She should obey him.
 She lay there and thought. And made her decision. And then, because
Isobel had been the one to recognise she was pregnant, and because the next
morning she asked Beth what she was going to do, she told her the truth, in
confidence. And Isobel swore to keep that confidence, although she did not
agree with Beth’s decision.

Two days later they came for her again, telling her that the duke wished to
interview her. This time they didn’t let her choose the most expensive dress
possible, but instead Kate arrived at the prison with a cotton gown, silk
neckerchief, and a pair of soft leather shoes. All of which were very good
quality, but which would not keep ten women in comfort for several weeks
as the previous gowns had.
Beth dressed and apologised for not being able to order chocolate for
Kate this time, then accompanied the guards to Whitehall once more. She
was somewhat surprised that Cumberland still wanted to see her in view of
her remarks to him the last time they’d met, but when the door opened and
she was escorted in she was confronted not by the podgy prince, but by the
Duke of Newcastle, who regarded her coldly from across his desk as she sat
down on the chair opposite him without being invited to do so. She
arranged her skirts and folded her hands in her lap as she had on their last
meeting over a month ago. Then she turned her gaze on him, her expression
neutral, giving nothing away.
Her wound was healing well, he noted, although she would be scarred for
life. Otherwise she looked in the best of health. Newgate was hell on Earth,
an odiferous verminous nightmare. People who had been incarcerated for
any length of time were always changed for the worse. People of quality, as
she was, unused to privation, were usually wrecks after a few days in the
common cells. She had been there for four weeks.
He examined her carefully. She was perhaps slightly paler than
previously, but other than that she was blooming, her hair lustrous, her skin
clear, eyes bright. No sign of trembling or nerves.
“So, madam,” he said, “have you had time to consider your position?”
“Indeed I have,” she replied. “I have thought of nothing else for the past
two days.”
“And have you now come to a sensible decision?”
“I have come to the only possible decision, Your Grace,” she said.
 His hopes soared, partly because she had used the correct form of
address, and partly because there was of course only one possible course of
action for her to take. He smiled.
“I am glad to hear it. I will call my clerk to take your deposition.”
She waited calmly while he sent for his clerk and instructed him to scribe
her statement. The young man sat at a desk in the corner and prepared his
writing materials.
“Now,” said the duke once Benjamin was ready, quill poised above the
paper, “tell me about the man known to us as Sir Anthony.”
She thought for a moment and then began.
“Sir Anthony Peters is the most intelligent man I have ever met,” she
said. “He managed to fool everybody he met, including the Elector, yourself
and me, into believing he was who he said he was.” She paused, and waited
considerately for the clerk to catch up.
Newcastle frowned at the use of the word Elector to describe the king,
but decided to let that go for now. What a coup if he could be the man to
reveal to the king the true identity of the most wanted spy in Britain!
“After I married him he taught me many things; he taught me duplicity,
at which society in general is so adept and which I, being reared in the
country, knew little about. But he also taught me about honour, loyalty and
trust, and that without those life is worth nothing. So here is my deposition;
I would rather die tomorrow with my head held high than live to be a
hundred in shame and regret. I will never, under any circumstances, tell you
anything about Sir Anthony Peters that you don’t already know. You are
wasting your time. That is all I have to say to you.”
She sat back, eyeing the duke’s shocked expression with obvious
pleasure. Benjamin’s pen scratched busily across the paper until Newcastle
raised his hand, at which it stopped. Silence fell on the room. The duke
glared at the young woman sitting opposite him.
“Madam,” he said icily. “Let me warn you that this is your last chance to
save yourself. If you think the Duke of Cumberland will continue to extend
his protection to you should you refuse to give up this traitor, you are very
much mistaken. He has told me that if you persist in your recalcitrance, he
will wash his hands of you.” This was not strictly true, but she did not need
to know that.
“Thank God that something positive has come out of this interview,
then,” Beth replied. “At least I will no longer have to witness his pathetic
infatuation for me. That alone was worth me coming here.”
She said it as though she had decided of her own accord to pay him a
visit. The woman was delusional! They had been too lenient with her. She
needed a shock to bring her to her senses.
“Call the guard,” he said, and Benjamin rose to do his bidding. The
soldiers returned and Beth stood and moved to the door. The soldiers
saluted, then, standing one each side of her, prepared to escort her back to
Newgate.
“Sergeant,” Newcastle said, just as they were about to close the door. “A
word, if you please. You can wait outside.” The other soldier led Beth out
and closed the door. The sergeant waited, at attention. He was a florid-
faced, beefy middle-aged man with the air of a career soldier. No doubt he
would welcome the chance to gain the favour of a great man. Indeed, who
would not?
“At ease, man,” the duke said. The sergeant’s shoulders dropped and he
relaxed a little. “Now, I need to give the young lady a shock. She has some
extremely valuable information about a man we very much wish to
apprehend, but so far she is proving very stubborn.”
“Do you want me to try to…persuade her, Your Grace?” the sergeant
asked. He looked as though he would relish the task, but the methods he
would likely use would not do at all.
“I am sure you would be capable of doing so, Sergeant, but I must tell
you that she is not to be brutalised in any way. Nothing that will leave any
lasting marks or scars. Can you think of such a punishment that may bring
her to her senses?”
“We could starve her, Your Grace. A week or two without food in solitary
confinement should bring her round.”
The duke considered this.
“No,” he said. “We have wasted far too much time already. Unless we
can get the information soon, it will be worthless.” Indeed, he thought, it
could already be so. “I want quick results, Sergeant.”
The sergeant thought for a minute.
“Well, Your Grace. When I was in Inverness, there was a vault in the
bridge where people were put, where they could neither sit nor lie, but had
to stand all the time. It became very painful very quickly, and their legs
swelled something terrible at the time, but I don’t think it was lasting.”
 “Excellent! Well, I am sure that you can improvise something to make
sure that she does not lie or sit down. Keep her on her own, and a guard
with her at all times for when she decides to cooperate. I am sure it will not
take long. She is a gently reared young woman, unused to suffering of any
kind.”
“Of course, Your Grace. Is she to be fed?”
“No. But give her water. On no account must she die of thirst. Report to
me daily, Sergeant. I am entrusting this task to you and will be most grateful
if you succeed in bringing her to a confession.”
The sergeant smiled.
“You can rely on me, Your Grace.”

After the sergeant had left, Benjamin returned to clear away his writing
materials.
“Er…do you wish to keep the lady’s deposition, my lord?” he asked.
“What?” said the duke, deep in thought. “No. It’s worthless. Throw it on
the fire.”
Damn Cumberland! They had wasted far too much time. This Anthony
had no doubt gone to ground, and could be anywhere by now. If Newcastle
had had his way, he would have flogged her the moment she regained
consciousness instead of spending months treating her with kid gloves. The
prince was making this very difficult, saying that Miss Cunningham must
remain unblemished apart from the scar she had already sustained. How
could he still entertain the notion that she was an innocent dupe of Sir
Anthony’s? It was true that the man had been a master of disguise and
extremely charismatic and deceitful, but this woman, fragile and beautiful
as she was, was no victim. Newcastle was sure of it.
However, the young prince was infatuated and, in spite of all she had
said, still entertained the notion that she would come to her senses in time,
still could not believe that any woman could resist him, based on the fact
that no other woman he had set his heart on to date had refused him.
Well, while the sergeant was working on the prisoner, he would see if he
couldn’t find another more willing beauty to tempt the prince with. Once he
had another outlet for his passion, he would forget about Miss Cunningham,
the duke was sure of it.

***
On return to Newgate Beth was not reunited with her cellmates, but instead
was led into a small, windowless cold room in the bowels of the prison, lit
by tallow candles whose rancid fat smell warred with the odours of damp
and effluent and which cast enough light to show that the walls were
glistening with damp. Once there she was told that she was to stand, and
was forbidden to sit or lie down. Then she was left with a young soldier to
guard her, who was told not to touch or interact in any way with the
prisoner.
She stood for perhaps an hour and then she sat down, leaning against the
wall.
“You can’t sit down,” the soldier said to her.
“Yes I can, as you can plainly see,” she said.
“You have to stand up. You’re not allowed to sit.”
“Well here I am, sitting, and to hell with what I’m allowed,” she replied.
She stretched her legs out in front of her.
He came to her, and putting his hands under her arms lifted her up. As
soon as he let her go and returned to the corner of the room, she sat down
again.
He had been told not to interact with her in any way. He had already
touched her, which strictly speaking was against orders. She could almost
see his mind working, wondering what to do.
After a couple of minutes he banged on the door, then waited. In due
course the sergeant appeared. He eyed the prisoner, who looked to be very
comfortable leaning against the wet stone wall.
“You were told to keep her standing, Private,” the sergeant said.
“Yes, but she won’t stand up, and you said I’m not allowed to touch her,”
the soldier pointed out.
The sergeant walked over to her.
“Get up,” he ordered.
She ignored him.
He bent down and grabbing a fistful of her hair, dragged her to her feet.
To his astonishment, although her face contorted with the pain, she made no
sound.
“Now you will do as you’re told, and bloody well stand!” he roared in
her face. The private flinched. The sergeant let her go and walked to the
door.
Beth sat down. The sergeant turned back to her.
 “Let us both save some time,” Beth said conversationally. “I am not
going to stand up because you tell me to. I am not going to stand up unless I
wish to. I am not going to tell the Dukes of Newcastle or Cumberland
anything at all, as I have made quite clear to them. So you can drag me up
and down all day, if it makes you happy. I really don’t care.”
His fist clenched and he took a step towards her. Inwardly she braced
herself, waiting for the blow. Then to her surprise he beckoned to the
private and they both left the room.
She sat, shivering and feeling the damp from the walls soak through her
cotton dress. She looked at the door, saw the grille was shut, and then put
her hand gently on her stomach.
“I am so, so, sorry,” she whispered to the tiny life growing inside her,
“but I cannot save you without condemning your father, and others, and I
can’t do that. Better we die together while you’re too small to suffer, than
let you be born and die in a place like this or in an orphanage. Please
forgive me.”
She swallowed back the tears that threatened to fall. She must not show
weakness now. No matter what. She remembered the girl who had been
accused of theft, who she had watched hang, remembered her stamping her
feet and standing so proudly on the scaffold, cursing her accuser.
I can do this, she thought. They will not break me.

Some time passed and then the sergeant returned, carrying some rope. He
handed the rope to the private, who had followed him in, and then hauled
Beth unceremoniously to her feet.
“Tie her arms,” he ordered the young soldier. “Tightly, but not too tight.
No, wait.” He drew his knife and cut a piece from the bottom of her quilted
petticoat. “Put this between the rope and her wrists so it won’t take the skin
off. She mustn’t be marked.”
Her arms were pulled behind her and tied at the wrists. The sergeant let
her go, and then threw the other end of the rope over a beam that ran across
the middle of the room just below the ceiling. It had been set there for this
express purpose, although normally people would be hung by the neck,
their feet just touching the ground, or by the ankles, and then would be
beaten until they divulged whatever information they had.
But this woman could not be marked. And when he had looked her in the
eyes, he had seen not only defiance, but despair. If he tied her by the neck
as he’d intended, he would not put it past her refusing to stand anyway, and
hanging herself. He could not have that. He pulled on the rope until her tied
wrists were raised enough that, although her torso was bent over, she had to
remain standing or cause herself excruciating pain, then he tied the end of
the rope to a hook in the wall.
Now she wasn’t going anywhere. He walked over to her, and gripping
her by the hair, he pulled her head back so she had to look at him. He
smiled.
“Now sit down, you bitch,” he sneered.
She looked at him for a moment, and then she spat with perfect accuracy
straight into his left eye. His hand shot out automatically and grabbed her
by the throat.
“No marks,” she reminded him, her tone mocking.
He let her go, and trailed one finger down her neck, over her throat and
then along the edge of the fashionably low-cut bodice of her dress. Then he
plunged his hand inside and pulled, liberating one plump, perfectly-formed
breast. He weighed it in his hand and then, bending down, he sucked
greedily at the nipple, circling it with his wet tongue. His prick swelled in
his breeches. He lifted his gaze to hers, to see her looking at him with the
utmost contempt, as though he were something nasty she’d just stepped in.
He released the nipple and stood up, leaving her breast hanging out. Her
expression didn’t change.
“One day,” he said, “they’ll get sick of your games. And when they do,
I’ll be waiting.” He turned away. “Let me know when she decides to talk,”
he told the other man. “Until then enjoy her dugs, but don’t fuck her or
mark her.”
He walked out and shut the door. The soldier waited until he heard the
sergeant’s boots retreat down the corridor, then he walked over to Beth.
“I’m sorry, Miss,” he said, blushing furiously. Very gently he lifted her
exposed breast and tucked it back inside the bodice of her dress. Then he
stepped away, his eyes lowered.
She raised her head and stared at him, astonished.
“What’s your name?” she asked softly.
“Ned, Miss. Ned Miller.”
“Thank you, Ned Miller. You’re a gentleman.”
He looked up then, clearly expecting her to be looking at him with the
same derision she’d just bestowed on his sergeant. But her beautiful eyes
were warm, and a tear trembled on her lashes. She blinked it away
impatiently.
“He oughtn’t have done that, Miss. T’aint right, treating a lady like that.”
She smiled at him and he wanted to release her on the spot, but he didn’t
dare do that. So he did the only thing he could.
“Would you like some water, Miss?” he said. “Or some ale? The water in
here ain’t fit for a dog to drink.”
“Will you get into trouble if you give me something to drink?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “I can give you water, or ale, but that’s all. And if you
want to…well…” he pointed at the bucket in the corner, his face crimson
with embarrassment, “I’m supposed to hold it up, while you…er…but that
ain’t right neither, so if you don’t tell, I’ll unhook the rope and turn away
while you relieve yourself, Miss.”
She smiled at him.
“You’re very kind, Ned. Of course I won’t tell. I would love some ale.
Thank you.”
He fetched his flask of ale, and held it to her lips while she drank.
“Now, I know you’ve been told not to talk to me, and I don’t want your
sergeant to be angry, so in case they decide to listen maybe you should keep
quiet now. Just one thing, though.”
“Yes?” he said.
“My name is Beth. You’re a good man, Ned. Don’t let the army turn you
into an animal.”
“I won’t, Miss…Beth. I promise.”
He moved back to his place, and she marshalled every ounce of her
determination. This was not going to be pleasant. But people had suffered
worse, much worse, she was sure. They would not break her. The more they
tried, the more determined she was that they would not. Trust and loyalty.
Well, she had both, and that would see her through. That and the knowledge
that in death she would be reunited with Alex, forever.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER TWELVE

London

The night Richard had found out that the dowry had disappeared, the child
Ann who he’d thought was dead had reappeared, and that everything
seemed to be going wrong for him, he’d returned to the Ring O’ Bells and
had got thoroughly drunk, after which he’d picked a fight with some
random oaf, had been prevented from killing him by the landlord and three
of his cronies and had been thrown in the roundhouse for the night to cool
down and sober up. The next day he had appeared before the magistrate,
who had released him immediately on discovering that his drunken
ramblings of the night before about meeting the Duke of Cumberland were
actually backed up by a missive to that effect.
Then he had gone back to the Ring O’ Bells, with numerous bells and
hammers ringing inside his own head as the alcohol wore off and the
hangover kicked in, to be told by the disgruntled landlord that he owed a
goodly sum for the overnight stabling of his horse and the replacement of
two chairs and a table which had been demolished in the brawl.
Normally he would have balked at the ridiculous sum the landlord asked
for, but he was very aware that if he did, he might end up either in the
roundhouse again, or in a ditch somewhere, bleeding, and time was now of
the essence if he was to arrive in London in time for his interview. So
grudgingly he paid up, silently vowing vengeance at a later date.
All this meant that he arrived in London with not even enough time to go
home and bathe before his appointment. He had to make do with changing
his travel-stained breeches and stockings in the back room of an inn, where
he also brushed the worst of the mud off his coat and gave his boots a quick
polish.
This was all very unsatisfactory, and as a result the Richard Cunningham
who was now sitting on a chair outside the Duke of Newcastle’s offices,
awaiting the great man’s pleasure, was almost paralysed with anxiety,
which was not helped by the long carpeted corridor he had had to walk
down before reaching the double doors outside which he was now waiting,
flanked on both sides by forbidding statues of Roman Emperors. He stared
at them now, trying to compose himself. He wiped his sweating palms on
his breeches and took a deep steadying breath.
Although he knew these were Newcastle’s offices, he assumed that the
Duke of Cumberland was using them due to the fact that St James’s Palace,
where he normally resided, was permanently besieged with people wishing
to congratulate the hero of Culloden on saving them from papist tyranny.
So when he was finally shown in and saw not Prince William Augustus,
but Thomas Pelham-Holles, Duke of Newcastle waiting for him, his first
reaction was one of acute disappointment. However he managed to cover it
up well, and stood smartly to attention until invited to sit down, which he
did, removing his hat and placing it on the floor at his side.
The duke called for refreshments and then turned to the young man
sitting opposite him.
“Firstly, Captain Cunningham, I must convey Prince William’s apologies.
He had intended to see you himself today, but as you will appreciate he is a
very busy man, so has asked me to take his place. I hope you are not too
disappointed?”
Oh, God. Perhaps he hadn’t covered it up well after all.
“No, of course not. I am deeply honoured that you would condescend to
notice me at all, Your Grace,” he gushed. Was that too much?
“Quite. So I will come straight to the matter at hand. You will of course
be aware that your brother-in-law, Sir Anthony Peters, has turned out to be a
traitor of the most perfidious kind.”
Richard reddened.
“Yes, I am aware of that. Although I believe that means that the marriage
between him and Be…Elizabeth was invalid, and so he is not actually
related to me in any way, Your Grace.”
The duke had been perusing a paper on his desk, but at these words he
looked up.
“You are correct, Captain. I have taken the time to read over your file. It
seems that in the past four years you have advanced considerably, rising
from Sergeant to Captain. Quite remarkable.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. I have worked –”
“However,” the duke interrupted, “I also note that your promotions were
all financed by the spy known as Sir Anthony Peters. I am sure you will
understand that this casts an interesting light over your career so far, which
may preclude any future promotions.”
Richard felt beads of sweat break out on his forehead, although the room
was not overly warm. If anyone else had said this to him, he would have
called them out for the insinuation that he was a party to Sir Anthony’s
treachery.
But this was the Duke of Newcastle.
You did not challenge the Duke of Newcastle to a duel, no matter how he
impugned your character.
“Your Grace, I assure you that when I accepted his help I had absolutely
no idea what manner of man he was. Nobody did. Even the king himself
had no idea –”
The duke raised his hand imperiously, and Richard fell silent.
“I am not saying that I believe you to have been in collusion with this
traitor, Captain. I acknowledge that your dedication to duty in pacifying the
Highlands has been most…impressive. Your colonel has remarked upon it
to me himself.”
Richard brightened a little.
“Nevertheless, I’m sure you can see how this might look to others. If you
wish to be promoted to Major in the future, with all the trust and
responsibility that entails, your reputation must be impeccable in every way.
Do you agree, Captain?”
“Of course, Your Grace.” What was the duke up to? One minute he was
suggesting that he would never rise any higher, and the next he was talking
about promotion to Major. Richard was thoroughly confused. The
refreshments arrived and Richard accepted a cup of coffee and a honey
pastry. He took a bite of the pastry.
“Good,” the duke continued, once the servant had vacated the room.
“Now, you are almost certainly not aware that your sister was taken
prisoner at Culloden and is at the moment in Newgate Gaol.”
Richard had been about to take a sip of his coffee, but on hearing this
totally unexpected news he froze in shock and the cup tilted, spilling the hot
liquid onto his lap. It took all of his presence of mind not to swear and leap
up. He put the cup down on the table and drew out his handkerchief,
mopping at the spreading brown stain ineffectually while the duke regarded
him impassively.
 “I see that has come as something of a surprise to you, Captain,”
Newcastle said with spectacular understatement once Richard had given up
on the stain and replaced his handkerchief in his pocket.
“It has,” he agreed, his mind racing. Culloden? What the hell was she
doing at Culloden? He knew she was a hellion, but not even in his worst
nightmares could he imagine her charging over the moor, broadsword in
hand. “Um…Culloden, Your Grace?”
“You were also at Culloden, were you not?”
“Yes,” Richard said, “but I had no idea…I didn’t see her there. Why was
she there?”
“We can only surmise. She refuses to tell us anything. We must assume
that she was accompanying this Anthony fellow. She was hiding in a hut
with some other rebel women and when the soldiers discovered them, she
stabbed one of them, killing him.”
Richard tried to imagine Sir Anthony mincing across the battlefield
dressed in silk and lace, and failed. Then he tried to imagine his sister
stabbing a soldier, and succeeded. He closed his eyes for a moment. When
he opened them again the duke was staring intently at him.
“We have no time to lose, Captain. She was wounded at Culloden and
rescued by the Duke of Cumberland himself. It was nearly a month before
she was out of danger. Since then she has been treated exceptionally well,
due to the duke’s…former friendship with her. But she has repaid us with
insolence and a blank refusal to divulge anything whatsoever about the real
identity of Sir Anthony. She is now being held in more insalubrious
conditions, but still persists in her ridiculous loyalty to the traitor. She is
bringing your whole family into disrepute by her attitude, sir. And that is
why the duke and myself saw fit to call you to London. You are her closest
family member and therefore stand to lose or gain the most by her
cooperation, or lack of it.”
“I…er…we are not really close, Your Grace. I left home while she was
still a child, and we did not see each other again until after father died.”
“But then you were reconciled, clearly. That is the reason Sir Anthony
volunteered to pay for your commission, is it not? Or is there another
reason I should know about?”
Richard coloured. Shit. He could not tell the duke the real reason why Sir
Anthony had paid for his commission. To do so he would have to betray
that he had suspected Beth to be a papist. And that she had threatened to
stab the king and declare for the Pretender, which unstable behaviour had
led to him intensifying the search for a suitable match. No. That would
incriminate him beyond redemption.
“No, there is no other reason,” he said hurriedly. “I would be only too
pleased to help you in any way I can. What do you wish me to do, Your
Grace?”
“I was hoping that you might be able to persuade her to see sense,
Captain. You probably know her better than anyone, having shared a
childhood, or part of one, and will no doubt be able to draw on family
memories and obligations perhaps, to bring her round. And of course you
will be aware that there is a large reward for information leading to the
arrest and conviction of the traitor. But I am sure, having married into
wealth, you will not be concerned with this. If you succeed however, you
will have the gratitude of both myself and Prince William. Do you think
you are up to the task?”
The gratitude of the hero of Culloden? Was he up to the task? He would
happily beat her till she begged for mercy for the sheer pleasure of it, but to
gain the favour of Prince William, he would do anything, anything at all.
“Yes, Your Grace. She has always been stubborn, but I’m sure a word
from me will have the desired effect.”
The duke had been perusing Richard’s records, but now looked up again.
“A word. Yes, let us call it that.”
“Do you want me to go to her immediately, Your Grace?”
Newcastle looked Richard up and down and he squirmed uncomfortably,
aware of how bedraggled he looked.
“No. She is in somewhat uncomfortable circumstances at the moment,
and I can see you have had an arduous journey. Another night and she may
be a little more receptive to your fraternal entreaties. Go home and see your
wife. I’m sure she has missed you, and you her. And get some rest. You can
visit your sister tomorrow. Shall we say eleven o’clock?”
Richard smiled. This had been the most confusing interview he had ever
had. But in the end it would all turn out well. He couldn’t wait to see her
face when he walked in the room. And he would not walk out until she had
told him exactly what he wanted to know. He stood, and bowed to the duke.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” he said. “I won’t let you down, I promise.”
“I am glad to hear it,” replied the duke. Richard turned to leave. “Oh, just
one thing, Captain, while you are having this talk.”
 Richard turned back.
“She is scarred from the gunshot wound, but the prince has specifically
ordered that under no circumstances is she to acquire any more scars or be
permanently disfigured. I have examined your file in depth, Captain. You
may be forceful in your conversation, but discreet, if you understand me.”
He did. He understood perfectly. Cumberland was still hoping to swive
her, and didn’t want damaged merchandise. This was going to be fun.

After Cunningham had left, the duke closed his file and put it to one side.
Then he sat for a while, brow furrowed, deep in thought.
He had not got where he was by taking people at face value. It was
apparent to him that the captain was hiding something regarding his
relationship with his sister, although he had clearly been thunderstruck
when he’d been told she was at Culloden. He thought it unlikely that
Cunningham had known about his sister and brother-in-law’s Jacobitism.
He was obviously a dedicated soldier through and through.
His colonel had stated in the report the duke had asked for that Captain
Cunningham undertook his duties in Scotland with extreme zeal, and that
there had been a number of complaints from the citizens of Inverness
among others regarding his conduct during the pacification raids, but that
no independent witnesses had ever been found who would testify against
him, therefore no charges had ever been brought against the man.
So, for extreme zeal, read brutality, and for no one to testify, read
intimidation of witnesses. The captain was quite clearly in the mould of
Fergusson and Scott.
Which, the duke thought, will serve my purpose well.
Personally he found it ridiculous that such an important potential
informant should be treated so leniently because of an infatuation. Prince
William was renowned for his realism and practicality – except where
beautiful women were concerned. And it was true that this one was
exceptionally beautiful.
Even so…
The duke smiled. He could not lose. If Cunningham succeeds in
extracting the information about Sir Anthony from his sister without
marking her, I can take the credit. And if he gets it by torturing her, as is
more likely, I can state, with complete honesty, that I told the man not to
mark his sister, and that he acted in flagrant disregard of my instructions.
 But he would still have the information. And if Cunningham tortured her
and still failed to get the information, then he could put all the blame onto
the hapless soldier and come out of it smelling of roses.
He thought that unlikely, though. Cunningham was probably the only
male alive who would be indifferent to her extraordinary loveliness, being
her brother, whilst she was surely accustomed to wielding the power great
beauty brings, and no doubt believed that being made to stand for a couple
of nights would be the full extent of her suffering.
Unless I am very mistaken in my assessment of Richard Cunningham,
thought the duke, she is about to be disabused of that notion.

***

When the footman opened the front door and saw who was standing on the
step, the supercilious expression on his face was momentarily transformed
to one of complete horror, before he regained control of his facial features
and adopted a neutral aspect. He bowed deeply.
“Good afternoon, sir,” he began. “What an unexpected pleasure –”
“I’m sure,” Richard interrupted impatiently, pushing rudely past the man
and striding down the hall in the direction of the drawing room. He had no
time for insincere platitudes. All Anne’s, or rather Lord Redburn’s servants
detested him, as he well knew. Now he was home for a time, he would
dismiss the lot of them and employ more malleable staff.
Before the footman could catch up and offer to announce him Richard
had thrown open the doors and walked in, to be confronted by a complete
stranger attired in silk and lace, who was currently lying at full-length on
the chaise longue, languidly helping himself to raspberries from a crystal
bowl by his side. As the door opened, the young man tilted his head
backwards to see who had entered in such a rush.
“Good afternoon, sir!” he said brightly, without getting up. “Would you
care for a raspberry? They really are succulent. Aunt grows them herself,
you know. Well, she’s not actually my aunt. I suppose she’s my aunt-in-law,
if there is such a thing.”
“Who the hell are you?” Richard asked rudely.
The languid man popped another raspberry in his mouth, licked the juice
off his fingers, then stood up and proffered a soft lily-white hand, which
Richard regarded with the utmost contempt.
 “Oliver,” he said. “Delighted to meet you sir, whoever you are. I must
say, what a fine job you brave soldiers are doing, saving us from papery and
all that.”
“Popery,” Richard growled.
“Popery, quite,” Oliver acknowledged.
“So, Oliver, what the hell are –”
He was interrupted by the sound of footsteps running down the hall, and
then his wife appeared in the doorway, breathing heavily as though she had
run a great distance, although she had in fact merely run down one flight of
stairs, the rest of her breathlessness and her alarming pallor resulting from
being told who had just appeared at the door.
“Richard!” she cried. “I did not expect you.”
“Clearly,” Richard said, gesturing to the young man, who had sat back
down again. “I can see I have not come home a moment too soon, if this
ignorant fop is the sort of company you keep when I am away!”
“You have me to a T, sir!” Oliver said pleasantly, completely unfazed by
the insult to his appearance and intelligence. “Anne, should we call for
wine, perhaps? Toast the great victory over the unwashed rabble and all
that?”
Both Richard and Anne ignored him completely. She was still standing in
the doorway trying to recover her composure.
“I…er…I…” she stammered.
He took one step toward her, then stopped, staring over her right shoulder
and down the hall in amazement. She turned to see what he was looking at
and then stood aside with obvious relief to let the wizened old woman who
was the cause of Richard’s amazement, and her younger companion into the
room.
The old woman strode straight up to Richard and looked up at him, an
expression of utter contempt on her face.
“Hell are you doing here?” she barked. “Bloody nerve!”
Richard was stunned. What was going on? It seemed as though his house
had been taken over by lunatics; a limp-wristed idiot, a wrinkled old crone
dressed as a man, and standing in the doorway a young woman as tall and
almost as broad as himself, who was smiling at him, clearly highly amused
by his discomfiture.
With an effort he pulled himself together and attempted to gain control of
the situation.
 “This is my house, madam,” he announced disdainfully. “I am Captain –”
“I know who you are, man!” she interrupted. “Didn’t ask who you were,
did I? Bloody cowardly son of a bitch enjoys raping women and murdering
babies!”
“Trying to,” the large-boned woman supplemented dryly.
“Right. Trying to. Don’t look like you can get it up.” The old woman
looked down at Richard’s crotch with disgust.
“No, Aunt. Trying to murder babies. Didn’t succeed. Probably gets stiff
on rape, though,” the woman corrected.
Richard’s face flushed even more scarlet than his coat. Did everyone in
the country know about Martha and her brat?
“Saved us from pap…popery, though,” Oliver supplied from the sofa.
“Popery my arse,” the crone replied. “Don’t need to butcher women and
children to save us from that. Like bloody Hawley, aren’t you?” she said
accusingly.
Richard felt the rage rise up in him. He didn’t give a damn what this old
witch thought she knew. No one spoke to him like that. He would throw her
and her foul mouth and obnoxious relatives out on the street, right now!
And then he would have a word with his wife.
He raised himself to his full height and opened his mouth to order her
out.
“Seems Billy thinks that’s the sort of bastard needed to do the job. Must
have a word with him about it,” the old lady continued, unaware that she
was about to be bodily ejected from the premises. “When are we due at St
James’s next?”
“Tuesday week,” Oliver said.
“Right. Give him a piece of my mind then. And George. Anne!” she
shouted.
Anne, who had been trying to melt into the wall, jumped violently. She
came forward, trembling.
“Yes, I’m sorry, how remiss of me. Richard, this is Lady Harriet, and –”
“Marchioness of Hereford,” the young woman interrupted. She came
forward. “Lady Philippa Ashleigh, and this,” she waved a hand at Oliver,
“is my husband Oliver, Earl of Drayton. Oliver, get up! Captain
Cunningham is about to order us to leave.”
The young man, once more supine on the chaise longue, unfolded
himself and stood.
 “Oh,” he said sadly. “How dashed inconvenient. I was looking forward to
dinner. Ragout of veal you know, my favourite.”
Philippa looked at Richard expectantly.
“Well?” she said when he failed to issue the order.
“No, of course I wasn’t going to order you to leave,” he managed,
backtracking rapidly. “I was just a little…er…surprised. I didn’t expect my
wife to have guests, that’s all.”
“Why not? Husband like you, needs friends, don’t she?” Harriet barked.
She moved over to the fireplace and tapped her pipe out on the hearth.
Philippa grinned and Richard’s fingers itched to wrap themselves round her
throat. He didn’t dare order a marchioness and an earl out of his house,
particularly one who was on familiar enough terms with the royal family to
call the Duke of Cumberland ‘Billy’ and the king merely ‘George’. It would
be social suicide for him to do that.
And you know it, you bitch, he thought, glaring at Philippa, who smiled
sweetly back.

The following four hours were the longest and most excruciating Richard
had ever spent in his life. He was not comforted by the fact that Anne
clearly felt the same way, though for different reasons. She hardly spoke a
word the whole evening, which left him, no conversationalist at the best of
times, having to make opening gambit after opening gambit, to have all of
them disdainfully rejected by Lady Harriet, who clearly despised him, and
presumably due to her elevated status, or perhaps just because she was
barking mad, felt no need to observe the social niceties. Oliver seemed to
live in his own little world, oblivious to the hostile atmosphere that
permeated the room, while Philippa observed his humiliation with amused
hazel eyes.
He hadn’t even been able to change out of his dusty, coffee-stained
uniform, his tentative suggestion that he do so being shot down by Lady
Harriet, who announced that she wasn’t about to eat cold veal because he
wanted to prance about trying to make himself look respectable, an
impossible task in any case. Instead he sat there in utter mortification until,
after what seemed like a century the crone announced that she was off to
bed, and he managed to make his excuses and flee the company.
Anne had told the servants to prepare his room for him, and waited
around downstairs for a while after he’d gone up, no doubt hoping he’d be
asleep by the time she retired.
Once in his room, he took off his coat, changed his breeches and combed
out his hair, then waited until he heard her door close. Then he waited for
another ten minutes before he tiptoed barefooted down the corridor and
opening her door, marched in.
She was sitting at her dressing table brushing her lank brown hair, and
gave a little shriek of shock when he entered. He closed the door quietly,
then walked straight over to her and grabbed her by the hair, lifting her off
the stool and pulling her round to face him.
“You enjoyed watching me be humiliated tonight, didn’t you?” he
snarled.
Her eyes opened wide, her pupils dilating in terror.
“No! I swear I –” she began.
“Shut up,” he said, and she quietened immediately. “Listen to me, you
mealy-mouthed bitch. You’re lucky that I’m tired tonight, and I need my
sleep because I’ve got an important job to do for the Duke of Cumberland
tomorrow. But after that I’m coming home, and when I arrive I expect your
friends to be gone. Do you understand me?”
She stared at him white-faced, paralysed with terror. He gripped her hair
tighter, pulling her head backwards until she cried out in pain.
“Do you understand me?” he said again, softly this time.
“Yes!” she cried. She was trembling like a leaf.
“Good. I expect to be here for some time. We can discuss our domestic
arrangements when I get back from my appointment. And where the false
accusations that old witch threw at me tonight came from.”
He let her go, and very gently ran his finger down her cheek. She
flinched as though he’d hit her, and he smiled.
“I look forward to resuming our marital relations,” he said. “It’s about
time you fulfilled your duty and got me an heir. Until tomorrow.”
He left the room, leaving her ashen-faced and weeping.
This had been a horrible evening. He had never been good at making
small talk, even when the company was congenial. But tomorrow he was
going to do what he was really good at. It promised to be enormous fun.
And to enjoy it to the full, he needed a good night’s rest.
He walked back to his room with a spring in his step, the unpleasant
evening already fading as he thought of the joys tomorrow would bring.
 ***

She had been standing for two full days now, and this was the third. She
knew that because the two soldiers who had been ordered to watch her did
twelve-hour shifts, and the nice one, Ned, was about to come on duty again.
The other one, whose name she had not discovered, did not speak to her
at all. He might have been dumb for all she knew. If she asked for a drink
he gave it to her; if she asked to relieve herself he lifted her skirts and held
the bucket provided so that she could urinate, and then he took it away.
Otherwise he stood or sat in the corner, biting his nails or playing solitaire
with a pack of grubby cards. His silence had been unnerving at first, but
Beth had got used to it now. At least he left her alone, which was a small
mercy.
She tried to wait until Ned was back to use the bucket, because he, as
he’d promised, would untie the rope from the hook, help her to straighten
up, and turn his back, which at least afforded her some measure of dignity,
and more importantly the opportunity to sit for a few seconds, rest her legs
and try to move her arms a little. She didn’t take advantage of Ned’s good
nature by trying to sit for longer, partly because she knew that he would
probably be flogged if it was discovered that he was releasing her, even for
a minute, and partly because they would then remove him, and his
replacement could be a man of the sergeant’s ilk.
Periodically she would move one leg or the other, and at first that had
brought her some measure of relief, although she risked overbalancing and
causing damage to her shoulders. But now her legs, her arms and her back
were just a throbbing mass, and any movement at all caused her agonising
pain. She no longer tried to lift her head, because her neck hurt too much
for her to do so. So she stayed, legs straight, body bent at the waist, arms
behind her, looking at the floor and wondering how long it would be before
her legs gave way.
She was hungry too. She had not eaten anything since she had been
brought here, and had stomach cramps from time to time. The hunger she
could stand; but she was also starting to feel faint at times, little silver lights
dancing at the edge of her vision. If she lost consciousness, would they
leave her hanging there until she came round? She reasoned that she would
find out in time, because she was not about to tell them anything and they
showed no signs of releasing her.
 How long did it take to die of starvation? She had no idea, but thought it
must be weeks. Could she stay like this for weeks? The men walked all
night to attack Cumberland’s camp then walked back and fought a battle,
with only a biscuit to eat in two days, she told herself. I can stand here for
as long as they make me. To hell with them.
The door opened and the welcome sound of Ned entering greeted her.
The nail-biting soldier stood, the two men saluted each other, and then the
door closed and she was alone with the kind young man.
“Good morning, Ned,” Beth said, trying to sound cheerful. “It is
morning, isn’t it?”
“It is. Would you like a drink, Miss?” he asked.
She smiled and nodded, then closed her eyes for a moment as even that
movement sent a spasm of pain down her neck to her shoulders, which were
pulled back in an unnatural position.
He picked up the flask, but instead of coming directly across to her as he
usually did, he looked at the door and then approached her from the side, so
that anyone looking in at the grille would see his broad back which
concealed her from view.
“I was thinking last night,” he said in a soft voice, “if you’ll allow me the
liberty to touch you?”
Without waiting for an answer, he wrapped his left arm round her waist,
and as he held the flask to her lips with his right, he lifted her off the floor.
The pressure on her shoulders eased immediately and she gave an
involuntary moan of relief.
“No one can see what I’m doing,” he whispered in her ear, “I can give
you as much drink as you want. If I take a minute or two each time, it might
help you a little? If anyone opens the grille I can let you down and move
back, and they’ll not know a thing.”
She flexed and pointed her feet, closing her eyes tightly against the pain
it caused, trying to ease the stiffness in the muscles.
“You’re a good man, Ned,” she said. “Thank God for you.” Tears sprang
to her eyes and she blinked them back, not wanting to embarrass him, not
wanting to show weakness even to this gentle man, knowing that once she
allowed a crack to appear in her defences the whole structure would
collapse. She had to stay strong.
“’Tis barbarous to treat you like this. I was going to ask to be relieved of
duty yesterday, because I can’t bear to see you suffer, but –”
 “No!” she interrupted. “Please don’t do that. You’re helping me more
than you know. It would be a lot worse without you.”
“That’s what I thought. So I didn’t ask. But it pains me to see you hurting
so.”
“Many people are treated a lot worse, Ned. I’m a traitor, as they see it.”
“Why don’t you tell them what you know? I’m sure they’d let you go if
you did.”
“If you were me, Ned, would you betray the people you loved more than
anything, knowing they’d be killed if you did?”
He let her down again, very gently, and she took a deep breath, bracing
for the pain, which came as soon as her legs took her weight again.
“No,” he said, standing back. “I wouldn’t. But others are turning
evidence, and they’re men, and made to stand pain. No one would blame
you, I’m sure.”
“I would blame myself, and that’s what matters to me.”
“You’re very brave, Beth, traitor or no.”
He went over to the hook where the rope was secured and untied it. Then
he played out a few inches of the rope, releasing a little of the pressure on
her arms and allowing her to bend her legs slightly.
“Thank you,” she said.
“I’m sorry I can’t do more. If the sergeant comes in and says anything, I
can tell him the rope must have stretched and I hadn’t noticed. But if I
loosen it any more…“
“You’ll be flogged and I’ll be in a much worse position, and neither of us
wants that,” she finished for him. “I understand. Don’t feel guilty, Ned.”
He sighed, corked the flask, moved to the corner, and the long day began.

Beth was endeavouring to take her mind off the pain she was in by reciting
poetry to herself. Currently she was trying to remember a poem by Dryden,
which she had learned at her father’s knee, but which now was all too
appropriate:

Feed a flame within, which so torments me

That it both pains my heart, and yet contains me:
'Tis such a pleasing smart, and I so love it,
That I had rather die than once remove it.
 Yet he, for whom I grieve, shall never know it;
My tongue does not betray, nor my eyes show it.
Not a sigh, nor a tear, my pain discloses,
But they fall silently, like rain on roses.

No, that wasn’t quite right… what was it? She frowned, trying to
remember.
But they fall silently, like dew on roses. That was it! She smiled to herself.
The door opened, and Richard walked in.
Ned instantly shot to attention, and saluted. Richard didn’t even favour
him with a glance; instead he looked at his sister and laughed, a sound of
pure delight. Beth could not remember the last time she had heard Richard
laugh, and would have given a great deal never to hear him again. A wave
of despair washed over her; and then she summoned every ounce of
strength she possessed, lifted her head and looked him straight in the eye.
“Good morning, Elizabeth,” he said brightly. “Prison life doesn’t suit
you, it seems. You have let yourself go.”
“Whereas the military life clearly does suit you, Richard,” she replied
coolly. “You have put on weight. If you are not careful you will soon have
jowls, like Edward.”
It was not true. He looked in the prime of health and fitness, but the barb
hit home and he frowned. He turned and looked at Ned, who was still
standing to attention.
“Out,” he said curtly, gesturing to the open door with his head.
“I have been ordered to stand watch, sir, until six of the clock. I cannot
desert my post,” Ned replied stiffly.
Richard looked at him and the young man flinched, but didn’t move.
“And who ordered you?” he said.
“My sergeant, sir,”
“Well, Private…”
“Miller, sir,” Ned supplied.
“Well, Private Miller, the Duke of Newcastle has ordered me to have a
chat with my sister. And I am ordering you to get out. Is that clear? If your
sergeant has anything to say about that, he can come to me.”
Ned blushed, clearly aware that this man was a captain, but also aware
that if he was her brother, as he said, he didn’t seem to have a congenial
relationship with her.
 “I…” he began.
“I will be alright, Private Miller,” Beth said. “Do as my brother says.”
Ned glanced from her to Richard, undecided.
Richard had had enough. He grabbed the young soldier by the shoulder,
turned him toward the door and propelled him out of it with such force that
Ned hit the wall on the other side of the corridor. Then he slammed the door
closed and turned back to his sister.
“So, Newcastle has sent you, has he?” she said. “Well, you can save
yourself some time. Tell him I have nothing to say, either to him or to you.”
Richard smiled again, and walked over to stand in front of her.
“I don’t have anything else to do with the rest of my morning,” he said
pleasantly. “And I’ve been looking forward to our chat all night. It would be
a shame to cut it short. His Grace has sent me to try to make you see sense.
He seems to think a little brotherly persuasion might make you change your
mind. What do you say?”
“And did you tell His Grace what your idea of brotherly persuasion is?”
she asked.
Richard gritted his teeth.
“You mean to hold that one mistake against me for the rest of my life,”
he snarled.
“Not at all,” she replied calmly. “I am sure you’ve done far worse than
that.” Just in time she stopped herself from mentioning Martha and Ann. It
was a small thing, revealing that she knew about them, but it was small
things that betrayed people. “You enjoy brutalising people, don’t you?
Particularly when they can’t hit back.”
His expression told her she’d hit home and she braced herself, preparing
for his reaction, but to her surprise, instead of hitting her he glanced at the
door and then leaned in to her until his face was close to her ear.
“Where is it?” he said urgently in a low voice.
“Where is what?” she asked, genuinely puzzled.
“The money,” he said. “I went to see Cox, and he told me you’d
withdrawn it all. Tell me where it is and I’ll get it, put it somewhere safe.
Then you can tell Cumberland any old rot about Sir Anthony. He’s soft on
you, you know that. He’ll believe you and no doubt he’ll let you go. There’s
a five thousand pound reward for information. You could live reasonably
for years on that. We’ll both be rich.”
 She stared at him in shock. Had he forgotten that he was already rich?
His marriage to Anne Redburn had left him immensely wealthy. She had
expected him to try to beat her to obtain information, not to attempt to talk
her into it.
“We can even split the dowry, if you like,” he added, misunderstanding
her silence. “What do you say? You must see that it makes sense. Anthony
never gave a damn about you, you know. He only married you to cover up
the fact that he prefers boys. He’s probably in France now, where they don’t
give a damn if you fuck boys or not.”
To his surprise, she laughed, a genuine laugh of true amusement.
“You must be mad if you think I’d trust you for one second with that
money,” she said.
“It belongs to me by right,” he said sullenly. “You know father would
have changed his will if he’d had time.”
“You’re right, he would,” she agreed.
“Well then, you must see –”
“He would have changed it to make sure that when he died he didn’t put
me in the position of being dependent on you in any way at all. If he’d
known that his will would make me have to choose between marrying
someone I despised or being swived by my own brother, he’d turn in his
grave.”
His hand shot out and closed round her throat, squeezing.
“You fucking bitch,” he spat. “You tell me where the money is, and
where that traitorous bastard’s hiding, or I’ll cut you in pieces.”
She made a rasping sound in her throat, and he eased the pressure a little.
“If you’re so desperate to know where the money is, I’ll tell you,” she
croaked. She tried to speak again, but coughed instead.
Richard went to the corner and picking up the flask, took the stopper out
and held it to her lips. She drank and swallowed, then cleared her throat.
“Where is it?” he asked eagerly.
“Some of it’s in the bellies of the army,” she said. “Some of it’s probably
rusting away on Drumossie Moor. And some of it was used to skewer
redcoats like you. And some of it will probably be hidden, though I don’t
know where, waiting for the next rising.”
“What?” he said, unable to believe what she was telling him.
“It’s gone, Richard. But don’t worry, every penny was well spent.”
“I don’t believe you,” he said, his colour rising.
 “That’s up to you. But it’s true. Father might not have approved of the
cause, but I’m sure he’d rather I spent the money on that than let you have
it. You were always a great disappointment to him, Richard. He just hoped
you’d grow up one day. But you never have, have you? You’ll always be
that spoilt brat crying for his mummy.”
She was goading him, looking for the muscle ticking in his cheek which
would tell her he was losing control. She needed him to lose control,
because when he did he would kill her, which was what she wanted.
Even so she was unprepared for the blow when it came. She saw his
fingers curl and expected him to hit her in the face, but instead he drove his
fist into her stomach with such force that he lifted her off the ground. Her
legs collapsed under her as her body automatically tried to double over
against the pain, and all her weight was taken on her shoulders, which
rotated backwards, tearing the tendons in the process.
The pain was more excruciating than anything she had ever known, or
imagined possible. She tried to scream, but the blow had driven all the air
from her lungs and all that came out was a guttural moan.
He stepped back, watching with satisfaction as she fought for breath, her
face contorted with agony, tears streaming down her cheeks. Finally she
managed to drag in a sip of air, then another. And then by a superhuman
effort she got her feet under her and stood again.
“Tell me who he is,” Richard said. He had believed her about the money,
then. “What does he look like? You must have seen him without the paint.
You must know his name. Who is he?”
Chest heaving, she glared at him.
“When you go back to Newcastle,” she said, her voice hoarse as she
fought the pain, “please thank him for his consideration in sending you
here. It has fortified me more than anything else could have done. If I was
in any danger of forgetting how much I hated the murdering redcoat
bastards Cumberland has the nerve to call an army, you have reminded me.
Tell the duke he will rot in hell before I ever say anything he will want to
hear.”
He moved forward and kicked her in the shin, smiling as her legs gave
way and her whole body weight was taken by her arms. This time she did
scream, and he laughed.
“Who is he?” he said again.
 She stood again and looked at him, her blue eyes dark with hatred and
pain.
“Burn in hell, Richard,” she said.
“I probably will,” he agreed pleasantly. “But between now and then, I
intend to enjoy myself.” He looked at the rope binding her arms and then up
at the beam. Then he walked over to the hook in the wall and untied the
rope. The release of pressure was so sudden and unexpected that she almost
fell forward on her face, but managed to drop to her knees and save herself.
“You know, they’re not doing this right,” he said conversationally,
wrapping the end of the rope around his fist. “It’s called the strappado. You
should know about it, it was a favourite of the Inquisition. They were
Catholics too, like you. Here, let me show you.”
He pulled hard on the rope, lifting her until her feet were completely off
the ground. Her shoulders rotated and she felt one of them pop as it
dislocated, and she screamed, a long, ear-rending cry of pure agony, not
caring whether he was getting pleasure from it or not. No one could bear
this level of pain silently.
He secured the rope again and then walked back to stand in front of her,
watching as her screams died to moans. Her face and neck were rigid with
pain, her eyes closed tight. He reached up and gripped her chin hard.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
She opened her eyes and looked at him. His expression was flat and hard,
but his eyes were dancing with arousal. She glanced down and saw the
unmistakable bulge in his breeches, and felt the bile rise in her throat. As
brutal as he’d been the night he’d tried to rape her, he had still attempted to
restrain himself at first, and had been remorseful later.
But the man standing in front of her now no longer had the capacity for
remorse, or for any decent human emotions at all. He probably would kill
her, given time, if Newcastle had told him he could; but he was no longer
the brother she had known, who could be goaded into losing control and
killing her quickly. In spite of herself a shiver of fear ran through her, and
recognising it, he smiled.
“Good. We’re getting somewhere,” he said. “Because this is only the first
stage. There are two more variations of the strappado that I’d be delighted
to show you, and then I’m sure I can think of a few more. I don’t think it’ll
come to that, though, do you?”
 He paused, obviously expecting her to plead with him to stop. She
remained silent.
“Tell me his name, his real name,” he said, “and I’ll let you down and
call the surgeon to you.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but her throat had been strained with the
screaming, and she whispered something he couldn’t hear. She closed her
mouth again and convulsed. He stepped in closer, his face right under hers
now, looking up at her.
“What did you say?” he asked.
Her mouth twisted in the rictus of a grin, and then she opened it and
released a stream of foul-smelling yellow bile, which hit him in the face and
splashed onto his immaculate uniform.
He jumped back, cursing, and she laughed derisively. Then he punched
her in the stomach again, twice. The first blow was agonising, and her legs
jerked upwards automatically. But when he hit her the second time she felt
the impact, but strangely no pain. She knew he was shouting something at
her, yet his voice seemed to be coming from a very long way away, and it
was joined a moment later by another voice.
Ned.
She tried to speak, to tell him that she was alright, that this was what she
wanted, to die, and that he should stay outside, but then the blackness took
her, and she sank willingly into it.

***

Whitehall

The Duke of Newcastle was sitting in his office trying to deal with some of
the mass of paperwork he had to face every day. He had thought that after
the rebellion was over he would have less to do; but dealing with countless
hundreds of prisoners, trying to discover who might turn evidence,
arranging for witnesses to be brought from the far corners of the country to
testify against those going to trial, and arranging transportation to the
Colonies for those who were not was a time-consuming business.
He sat back, rubbed the bridge of his nose with two fingers and sighed. It
was going to be a long day.
 A tentative knock came on the door, and then it opened and Benjamin’s
head popped through.
“You have a visitor, Your Grace,” Benjamin said.
Newcastle frowned.
“Does he have an appointment?” he asked.
“No, Your Grace, but it’s the keeper of Newgate and he says he has
information about a prisoner you will want to hear.”
Newcastle would have given a great deal never to hear about any
prisoner again, ever, but there was a slim chance it might be important.
“Show him in. Five minutes only,” he said.
The keeper came in and stood by the door, nervously turning his hat
round and round in his hands.
“Well, Mr Jones, what information have you got that you think worth
disturbing me for?” Newcastle said, his head still bent over a paper, using a
tone that rendered the keeper even more nervous, if that were possible.
“I…it’s about Miss Cunningham, Your Grace,” Mr Jones stammered.
Newcastle stopped reading and looked up.
“What about Miss Cunningham?”
“Well, Your Grace, one of the women sharing her cell, Isobel Henderson,
she comes to me this morning, and she says that she feels really bad, but
that she thinks I ought to know something important about –”
“For God’s sake, man, out with it!”
“Miss Cunningham’s pregnant, Your Grace,” the keeper said.
“What? Has she had relations with another prisoner?”
“No, Your Grace. It seems she must have been with child since before
she was captured. She didn’t know the signs to look for, so she didn’t know
herself, it seems. When Isobel told her that she was sure, Miss Cunningham
checked for herself, and then she got very upset and told her not to say
anything about it and that it didn’t make any difference.”
Of course it made a difference! If it was true.
“Is this Isobel woman sure about this?” Newcastle asked.
“Yes, very sure. She feels bad about breaking her promise, but said she’s
worried about Miss Cunningham, especially when she didn’t come back to
the cell. She said she can’t have the death of a baby on her hands if Miss
Cunningham’s hung, Your Grace, and thought telling me was the only thing
she could do.”
 Newcastle looked at the clock. Eleven fifteen. The captain would have
just arrived in her cell, and would no doubt spend some time talking to her
before he began his more physical persuasion. It would take the keeper
about twenty minutes to return. He would be back before any real damage
had been done.
If this was true, it could change everything. He tapped his quill on the
desk thoughtfully for a moment, then came to a decision.
“Go back to the prison, Mr Jones. Tell the sergeant to allow Miss
Cunningham to sit down. Feed her but keep her on her own for now with a
guard. And then bring this Henderson woman to me. I want to speak to her
myself. Go, man! Quickly!”
Mr Jones jumped, sketched a clumsy bow and then fled.
Newcastle put the quill down on the table. It was extremely clear that
however badly this Anthony traitor had treated Miss Cunningham, she still
believed herself in love with him. Surely then, once she had come to terms
with her pregnancy she would do anything to keep his child? If she could be
brought to believe her lover was almost certainly dead, she would
undoubtedly realise that it was foolish to conceal the identity of a dead man
and sacrifice her unborn baby in order to do so. He would offer her a
complete pardon and a small income for her and the child, if she told what
she knew. Women were notoriously protective of their babies – it was their
natural instinct to be so.
He would speak to this Henderson woman, and then he would have Miss
Cunningham examined to make sure she was not merely trying to cheat the
gallows with a false claim. If the child had been conceived in April, then it
would surely be easy to determine if it was a true pregnancy or not.
He smiled. This was the best news he had heard all week. And the very
best chance to get her to reveal what she knew about Sir Anthony.

***

When she came round, she was lying on the stone floor. Ned had taken off
his jacket and had folded it up to form a makeshift pillow, and was sitting
next to her, his young face deeply troubled. She tried to lift her head to see
if Richard was still there, but the resulting pain made her cry out.
Ned was instantly alert.
“Don’t try to move, Miss. You’re hurt.”
 She didn’t need him to tell her that. She couldn’t remember ever being in
this much pain before.
“Richard…” she mumbled.
“The captain’s gone. He won’t be coming back while I’m here, I promise
you, even if I’m court-martialled for it. It ain’t right to treat anyone like
what he did you, no matter what.”
“I heard you come in, before I fainted. I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t want
you to get into trouble.”
“After he threw me out, I was so angry I went outside for a bit to calm
down,” he said. “I wish I hadn’t. I should have stayed right outside the door.
If I’d know what he was going to do, I never would have left you at all.”
“I’m glad you did leave. Richard’s a bad enemy to have.”
“When I came back I opened the grille very carefully, just to see if you
was all right, and when I saw…” He stopped and ran his hand over his face,
“…I came straight in and told him to stop. He told me to f…a bad word,
and that the duke had authorised him to interrogate you, and I said that I
couldn’t believe he meant for him to kill you. I thought you was dead, Miss,
I did. And he laughed at me and said you was just pretending! He ain’t no
human. He’s a devil.”
“He’s not the only one, Ned. If you stay in the army, no doubt you’ll
meet others like him. And others like you, too. Nathan…” She stopped,
aware that her tongue was running away with her. Ned was older than
Nathan had been. Fifteen and mortally wounded, but he’d tried to protect
her from the wild Highlanders when he’d seen them approaching her. But
Alex and Duncan had been no danger to the young redcoat. Richard was
most definitely a danger to Ned.
“Did you make him leave?” she asked. If he had, his life would not be
worth living.
“No, Miss. I was going to, but then the sergeant came in and said the
duke had ordered you to be allowed to rest. The sergeant’s a harsh man, but
even he was horrified when he saw you hanging there like that. It was him
what told the captain to leave. He didn’t want to, though. Said he’s…never
mind.”
Said he’s coming back. She knew Richard. He’d believed her when she
told him she’d given her dowry to Prince Charles. He would never forgive
her for that. He didn’t need the money any more; it was the principle of the
thing. He wanted the dowry as revenge for their father rejecting him. That
was why she’d baited him, hoping he’d be infuriated enough to kill her.
She’d underestimated how much he’d changed. But then he’d
underestimated her too, underestimated her hatred of him, hadn’t believed
her capable of lying to him, or of withstanding such pain. She had told him
one truth, though; Newcastle could rot in hell before she’d tell him
anything. And so could her brother.
“Why are they letting me rest, Ned?” she asked.
“I don’t know. The sergeant said you can eat, too. He’s sent for some
soup for you. Your legs is all swelled up, but I think they might be alright if
you can rest for a bit. But the keeper’s trying to see if he can get a surgeon
to come, because your shoulder is out and it needs to be put back.”
The door opened and Mr Jones entered, bearing a bowl of hot soup and
some bread.
“Are you alright, Miss Cunningham?” he asked worriedly.
What the hell was going on? Why were they all suddenly so worried
about her?
“Private Miller tells me my shoulder is out,” she said. “You said the
surgeon won’t come here, didn’t you?”
“He might if the Duke of Newcastle’s ordered it,” the keeper said. He put
the bowl down on the floor.
“Has the Duke of Newcastle ordered it?” she asked. If he had, then that
meant they were not just letting her rest to give her a false sense of security
before starting again, but that something important had happened.
Something concerning Alex. It had to be. Why else would they stop?
“No, he hasn’t,” the keeper said, to her immense relief. “But I think he
would if he knew the state you’re in. So I’ve taken it on myself to fetch
him.”
“That’s kind of you, Mr Jones.”
“Not at all,” he said, as though she’d insulted him. “You can pay me back
the next time you get to wear a fancy dress.”
“I think that may be a long time coming,” she replied.
He stood up.
“I’ll take my chance,” he said. “I’ll go for him now.” He left the room,
closing the door behind him.
The soup smelt wonderful. Her stomach rumbled and then contracted
painfully, making her gasp. Ned picked up the bowl.
“I’ll have to feed you, Miss,” he said.
 “I can’t eat lying down,” Beth said. “Help me to sit up.”
He looked at her doubtfully.
“That’s going to hurt a lot. Your arm’s all twisted.”
“I haven’t eaten for three days,” she said practically. “My stomach’s
hurting more than my arm at the moment. I need food. Let’s go slowly.”
Another cramp hit her and she moaned, then took a couple of deep breaths.
“Now,” she said, and very gently he lifted her upper body off the floor,
propping her against the wall. The pain was excruciating, but she managed
by a sheer effort of will not to faint. Her arms hung uselessly, one by her
side, her hand resting in her lap, the other one twisted behind her. She tried
to move the fingers of the hand resting in her lap, and failed.
“I think you will have to help me, after all,” she said.
He knelt in front of her and fed her, slowly and with great tenderness.
“When you’ve finished, I’m going to see if I can get you a blanket,” he
said, noticing that she was shivering.
“I’m not cold,” she said. Her teeth chattered and they both laughed. She
realised that she must be cold, although she really didn’t feel it. She did feel
light-headed though, but that would be normal, with the pain and lack of
food.
It was while she was swallowing the last mouthful of bread that she
suddenly felt her bladder void itself, soaking her dress at the back.
“Oh God, I’m sorry,” she said, mortified. The dancing lights were back,
swimming at the edge of her vision.
“What’s wrong?” Ned asked.
“I think I’ve just pissed myself,” she said bluntly, and then started to slide
sideways down the wall.
Ned caught her, eased her back down to a lying position, then looked at
her, suddenly alarmed. All the colour had drained from her face; even her
lips were white. Gently he tapped her cheek, but got no response. She’d
fainted again. He decided to take the opportunity to move her into a more
comfortable position, while she was unlikely to feel the pain. In fact he
would take her out of the cell altogether. In the corridor there was a bench
that the soldiers and turnkeys sat on, and a brazier to take the chill from the
air. He would take her there and if anyone told him off for it, they could go
to hell.
He opened the door, then went back and lifted her up carefully. She
weighed almost nothing. Her dress at the back was sodden. He could feel
the urine soaking into his shirt, and grimaced. He walked down the corridor
and very gently laid her down on the bench. Now he would light the brazier,
and at least he wouldn’t have to leave her to get a blanket. She would soon
warm up.
He took his hands from under her, settling his folded coat back under her
head. Then he looked at his soaked shirt sleeve and hand, which were bright
red.
“Oh fucking hell,” he breathed, and forgetting he wasn’t supposed to
leave her, he stood up and tore down the corridor, shouting for the sergeant
as he ran.

***

Richard was not happy. How dare that puppy charge in and tell him to stop,
just when he was getting started? He’d waited years for this moment, and
had been enjoying himself immensely. If the sergeant hadn’t come in and
told him that Newcastle himself had ordered him to stop, he’d have beaten
the young private to a pulp for his insubordination to a superior officer.
And it had been a learning experience too. He’d heard about the
strappado, of course; he had an interest in such things, but he’d never
actually tried it out on anyone. It would have been really interesting to
progress to the next stage, of jerking her up and down on the rope. Judging
by the agony she’d been in, he doubted she’d have survived that without
giving in and begging him to stop.
Although she was incredibly stubborn. But if she’d held out after that, he
could have tried the third stage. He didn’t have a weight to tie to her feet,
but pulling on her legs would have had the same effect. In truth, in view of
the fact that the bitch had vomited on him, he’d intended to try that even if
she had given in.
And he’d kept to Newcastle’s instructions not to mark her. True, her
shoulder had been pulled out of joint, but putting it back in place, very
slowly, would have just added to the pleasure.
What the hell was Newcastle up to, stopping him like that? He was
absolutely sure that before the day was out he would have known
everything there was to know about Sir Anthony Peters. It was infuriating.
Now he would have to start again, and the element of surprise would be
lost. But on the other hand, now she knew how agonising the strappado
was, the mere anticipation of it might drive her to divulge the information
he wanted.
And then he would continue anyway, just to watch the traitorous bitch
scream.
God, he needed a woman. He was as hard as a rock. Even riding at a slow
walk was uncomfortable. He would visit a whore house on his way home.
No. Why pay when you could get it for free? His wife would be alone
when he got in. He had no doubt that she would have got rid of those titled
lunatics by now. She wouldn’t disobey him. He could have the whole
evening alone with her, doing whatever he wanted.
True, Anne would be a poor substitute for Beth. She would disintegrate
before he even touched her. But it was better than nothing. And whatever he
did, short of murder, he’d be safe from the law. A man could not be
prosecuted for raping his wife. And she wouldn’t dare to make a complaint,
anyway.
When he got home, he ran up the steps and hammered on the door. It was
opened by the same footman as yesterday, except this time he did not have a
supercilious expression on his face, nor a horrified one. This time he looked
positively radiant on seeing the young captain at the door. He bowed, and
Richard walked past him into the hall.
“Tell my wife I wish to see her immediately in the library,” Richard said
brusquely.
The footman smiled.
“I am afraid Lady Redburn is not at home, sir.”
Richard halted his progress up the corridor.
“Mrs Cunningham, you fool,” he snarled. “Where is she?”
“Gone, sir. As I intend to be, this very minute. My resignation is on the
drawing-room table with the others.”
“What others?”
“The other servants, sir. They have all left. I merely waited to admit you
to the house, as I knew you did not have a key, and there is no one else
here.”
“How considerate,” Richard said sarcastically. “Where has my wife
gone?”
“I believe she has left you a note, sir. On the table. With the others.”
This was unbelievable! Was it some sort of joke?
 “Are you insane?” Richard said. “If you leave now, I will ensure that
neither you nor any of the other servants ever work again.”
The footman nodded.
“I am sure you would if you could, sir. But we have all found
employment elsewhere, this very day. Good day to you, Captain
Cunningham.”
The footman walked out of the door, closing it gently behind him,
leaving Richard standing in the hall, alone.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Loch Lomond, October 1746

It was a dry day, the first one for over a week, and possibly one of the last
there would be for some time. Although it was sunny, the air was crisp and
there had been a heavy frost that morning. It would not be long now before
the snow came. Because the weather was dry a small fire burned outside the
well-hidden cave entrance in the mountainside. Over it was suspended an
iron pot from which came the appetising smell of rabbit stew.
Around the fire ten men were sitting on a variety of stones placed there
for that purpose. All but one were wearing the great kilt or feileadh mhor, in
various muted shades of brown, green and purple tartan, in direct flagrance
of the Dress Act passed by Lord Chancellor Hardwicke some two months
previously, which banned the wearing not only of the kilt, but of any tartan
material at all. Although if any of them were to be caught, the wearing of
the kilt would be the least of their transgressions against His Majesty King
George’s government.
At present the formidable group of muscular, heavily-armed warriors
were in fact in the process of planning their latest illegal activity, and to this
end one of them was drawing a map on the ground with a stick while the
others looked on, engrossed.
“So I was thinking,” commented the cartographer, indicating a wavy line
which represented the river, “that if we cross here in the dead of night we’ll
catch them by surprise, because they dinna think that anyone can ford the
river except by the bridge, so they’re no’ guarding it.”
“Can we ford it?” the sole observer of the Dress Act, if of no other law,
asked.
“Aye, it’s nobbut a wee stream, no more than three feet deep,” Angus
replied.
“In the summer. It’s October now,” Alex pointed out.
“Maybe four feet, then,” Angus amended. “A bath’ll wash the dust of
marching off, and prepare us for the fun.”
 “And on the way back a bath’ll wash the blood off, and prepare us for the
stroll home,” Kenneth added, to cheers.
Graeme looked doubtfully at the wavy line. In the last months he’d
battled his way up and down many a ‘wee hummock’ and had been nearly
drowned in the raging torrent of several ‘wee streams’.
“I’ll carry ye, laddie, if ye’re feart to get your fine troosers wet,” Kenneth
offered, casting an eye over Graeme’s tattered breeches and torn hose.
Everyone laughed.
“Piss off,” Graeme said good-naturedly. “So, when we’ve waded across
the ‘wee stream’, how many redcoats will we be facing?”
“I counted twenty,” Angus said. “They post two sentries, here and here,”
he indicated two spots on the map. “If we take them out quietly, the rest of
them will still be asleep. They’ll be supping in hell before they ken we’re
there.” He sat back, and everyone looked to Alex to make the decision. He
continued to look at the map as he worked out the logistics of the proposed
attack.
There was a short silence, during which Allan stirred the stew and added
a few sticks to the fire.
“Aye,” Alex said at length. “It sounds feasible, providing we can cross
the river. Let’s get there first. If it’s four feet like ye say, we can wade
across in the night and attack directly. If the water’s higher than we’re
expecting, we can always cross a wee bit further up, and take a rest to get
our breath back first.”
Eight men cheered and one groaned.
“If I drown, I’m going to come back and haunt you for eternity,” Graeme
threatened Angus, who laughed before looking over the older man’s
shoulder to the brow of the hill, over which a young woman had appeared
and was making her way towards them. Angus waved her over and patted
the stone next to him.
“Sit down, a graidh,” he said. “Are ye wanting some stew? It’s nearly
ready.”
Morag ignored his offer and remained standing.
“I’m wanting a word with ye, Angus MacGregor,” she said.
Angus smiled. “Have some food first,” he suggested. “We’ve been
planning the next raid. We’ll be heading off tomorrow, and –”
“Now,” she interrupted.
Angus’s smile faded, and the other men all looked at each other warily.
 “What’s amiss?” he asked.
“Ye dinna ken?” she said, glaring at him. His expression clearly said that
he didn’t. “I promised to wait for you till I was sixteen, and you promised to
marry me before ye were twenty-two.” Angus opened his mouth to protest,
and she held her hand up. “I ken well why ye didna marry me then, but it’s
over six months since Culloden and I’ve waited long enough. I want ye to
set a date, and soon.”
As one, nine of the formidable warriors, recognising a foe that was
beyond any of them, stood and found other things to do in the clearing.
Angus, left to it, tried a conciliatory smile, which failed to penetrate
Morag’s set expression. He sighed.
“Sit down,” he said, patting the stone next to him. She did as he asked,
but took a seat opposite him, out of arm’s reach. She knew him well, and
was not going to allow him to persuade her out of her viewpoint by means
of an embrace.
“Morag, ye canna possibly want to marry me now, with things the way
they are,” he said. “Ye’ve been awfu’ patient, but we need to wait a while
longer, till things settle down.”
She snorted derisively.
“Settle down?” she said. “Things will never settle down for the
MacGregors. We’ve been outlaws for over a hundred years.”
“Well, aye,” Angus responded, acknowledging the truth of this. “But this
is different. I’ve sworn a blood oath tae Maggie, and I canna go back on
that.”
“I’m no’ asking ye to break your promise to Maggie,” she countered.
“I’m asking ye to keep your promise to me. Or do I mean less to you than
she did?”
“Of course not!” Angus exclaimed.
“Well, then.”
“But a blood oath’s different, as ye ken, mo chridhe. I canna marry you
until I’ve fulfilled the oath. I’ve tae kill –”
“Two hundred redcoats. I remember. How many is it up to now?”
“Fifteen,” he answered, “myself, but we’ve killt near a hundred between
us all.”
She nodded.
“So, at this rate I’ll have tae wait another five years at least for ye to fulfil
your oath. I’ve already waited two. If ye think I’m waiting seven years for
ye, Angus, ye’ve another think coming. We’re getting married and there’s
an end of it. Being wed’ll no’ stop ye killing the redcoats.”
Angus leaned forward in an attempt to get hold of her and pull her onto
his knee, but she scuttled back out of reach. He dropped his arms and
looked at her pleadingly instead.
“I canna marry ye yet,” he said. “What sort of man would I be to marry
ye now, when I could be killed at any time? I’ll no’ leave ye a widow.”
“I’d rather be a widow than a spinster for the rest of my life,” she said.
“I’ll no’ wait forever for ye, even if ye are the chieftain’s brother.”
“I’m no’ asking ye to,” Angus replied, his colour rising. In the distance he
could see the other men, all with their backs studiously turned to him. Their
stance told him that the acoustics of the saucer-shaped depression they were
in ensured that they could hear every word that was being said.
Morag stared at him, her blue eyes wide with shock.
“Are ye telling me ye dinna love me any more? That ye want me to look
for another man?” she asked.
“Of course I’m no’ wanting ye to look for another man!” he shouted,
making her jump. The mere thought that she might made his heart burn with
jealousy. He ignored the message his emotions were telling him, and
lowering his voice, sought to make her see reason.
“Morag, I love you, of course I do. But I canna just abandon my vow and
come down to live in the village with you. Ye need to be patient a while
longer, that’s all.”
“That’s fine. Ye dinna need to live in the village. I’m quite happy to move
up to the cave. At least the roof doesna leak like Pa’s does.”
Angus stared at her incredulously.
“Are ye havering, woman? Ye canna come and live here, wi’ ten men! It
isna fitting!”
“I’ll be safer up here than in the village, if the redcoats come,” she
reasoned. “And I can take care of you all, wash your clothes and suchlike.”
“If the redcoats come ye’ll all be up here. That’s different to ye being
alone wi’ ten men.”
“I’ve known most of those men since I was a wee bairn,” she replied
scornfully. “There’s no’ a one of them that’d harm a hair of me. Or are ye
saying yon Sasannach Graeme’s a ravisher of women?”
“No, of course he isna. I trust him with my life.”
“Well, then,” she said simply.
 Angus scrubbed his hand through his hair in exact imitation of his
brother. He couldn’t marry her. In battle as in everything else, he was a risk
taker. It was who he was. Although he thought about her constantly when he
was at home, he could put her from his mind when he was out raiding. If
they were married he would be responsible for her in every way and any
risks he took would impact on her. And they would share a bed, and he
knew he would want to be with her every minute of the day. She would be a
distraction, even when he was away. And ambushing redcoats was not like
reiving your neighbours’ cattle; it was far more dangerous. They all knew
that. It was why Alex had insisted the married men with families stay at
home.
If he got married he would have to stay at home, Alex would insist on it,
and if he did then he would not be able to fulfil his oath, and he would no
longer be a man. He couldn’t tell the young woman sitting opposite him,
face eager, waiting for his answer, that he needed to be able to put her from
his mind. He searched for another delaying tactic.
“We canna be married yet awhile anyway,” he said finally. “There are no
priests left to marry us. They’re all in hiding.”
“We can handfast,” she shot back immediately. “The Church willna hold
it against us, given the circumstances.”
“No. We’ve to be married properly, or no’ at all,” he said primly. To the
best of his knowledge there were no priests to be had for a hundred miles.
They were all in prison, or escaped to France, or so deep in hiding that no
one knew where they were.
“Is that your final word?” she asked.
“It is,” he said firmly, clinging to his moral point like a drowning man
clinging to a straw.
She sat for a minute looking down, as though perusing the map he’d
drawn earlier. He was just about to start explaining it to her when she stood.
“Ye swear ye’re not trying to put me off because ye dinna love me any
more?” she asked, looking down at him.
“Morag, I swear to ye, I love ye more than anyone,” he said fiercely, his
slate-blue eyes meeting hers. “I’ve loved ye since we were bairns, and I
always will. I’ll marry ye, as soon as I can.”
She stared at him for a long moment, then seemed to come to a decision.
“Well, there’s no more to be said, then,” she announced, and ignoring his
outstretched arms she turned away and started to walk back down to the
village.
“Oh, I almost forgot what I came to tell ye,” she called back from the
edge of the dip. “Will ye all be back from your raid by a week Friday?”
“Aye, we should be,” Angus said. The other men, finding their voices
again now the danger was past, agreed. Ten days was more than enough
time.
“Good. Peigi’s found out she’s having another bairn, and we thought to
have a wee party. Celebrate that and your successful raid before the snows
come and we canna dance outside.”
“The raid hasna been successful yet,” Dougal pointed out. “We dinna
leave till tomorrow.”
“Ye’d better make sure it is, then,” Morag said. “For we’re needing a wee
dance to lift our spirits. It’s been a hard year.”
Angus watched her until she was out of sight, and then he watched some
more, a variety of expressions crossing his face. The other men came back
and started sharing the stew out into bowls.
“Thank ye kindly for supporting me in my time of need,” Angus said
sarcastically, accepting a bowl from Allan. “You could have forbidden us to
marry, mo bhràthair. You’re the chieftain.”
Alex held his hands up.
“I make a point of never fighting a battle I ken I canna win,” he said.
“Anyway, I gave ye the same support ye gave me when I tried to get Beth to
leave me after she found out I wasna Sir Anthony.”
“That was different,” Angus retorted, then looked across and caught the
look of raw anguish on his brother’s face. Alex had spoken lightly, but was
clearly now remembering what her refusal to leave had cost her. Had cost
both of them. Both brothers fell silent.
“Ye were a wee bit hard on the lassie, though,” Kenneth said, clearly
trying to divert them from their thoughts. “It’s clear she loves ye, though I
canna for the life of me think why. And the Church acknowledges
handfasting, even in peacetime.”
“Aye, I ken that. But what else could I do? I canna offer her any kind of
life while I’m away most of the time killing redcoats. And what if I get her
wi’ child, and then I’m killt? Ye heard her, she wouldna take no for an
answer.”
“She’s awfu’ thrawn, always has been,” Hamish commented.
 “It’s one of the things ye love about her though,” Alex said, rousing
himself with an effort from his dark thoughts.
“It is,” Angus acknowledged sadly. “But she’ll be better off without me.”
The others weren’t so sure that was the case, but it wasn’t for them to
argue. It was his life, and he was old enough to make his own decisions.
And so was Morag.

***

Four days later nine of the ten men returned in great high spirits. The
ambush had gone exactly as planned. The river, to Graeme’s relief, had
indeed only been three feet deep when they crossed it, the two sentries had
been dispatched silently by Dougal and his brother Hamish, and the
remaining soldiers had, in the main, been killed before they had time to do
more than register that there was something amiss outside their tents. It was
one of the easiest attacks they’d made, and Angus was praised highly, as it
had been his idea.
Alex had stood back and let his brother take command, and was happy
with the result. It was now certain that John Murray of Broughton had
turned king’s evidence and that the information he had given about the
Fraser chief would certainly condemn him, although in fairness even
without Broughton’s testimony there was no doubt that Lord Lovat would
be executed. But he’d also named several of the English and Welsh Jacobite
leaders, and was universally hated by every Jacobite from Prince Charles to
the poorest clansman.
Alex knew it was only a matter of time before he would have to leave the
country and let it be publicly known that he had, and then his clanspeople
would have to take to the heather for a time if they were to have any chance
of surviving the vengeance that would certainly be visited upon them. And
in that case they would need a new chieftain, and Alex had decided that new
chieftain would be Angus.
Duncan’s death had changed them both, but Angus had loved Beth and
Maggie fiercely, and his experience at the bothy, coupled with the fear that
his older brother would also die, had forced him to take on an almost
unbearable burden for which he had not been prepared. That he had done it,
and done it well, was a credit to him. If he did have to take on the
chieftainship full time, he would be able to cope.
 Nevertheless Alex, who had so often worried about Angus’s recklessness
and carefree attitude in the past, now found himself missing that aspect of
his brother, and hoped that one day circumstances would allow the old
Angus to resurface.
As the raid had gone so well, and had taken less time than the men
expected, Alex had decided to visit Ben Alder in the hopes of seeing the
prince, Lochiel, and Cluny Macpherson and getting the latest news. He
returned the day before the party and called an impromptu meeting of the
clan to relay his news, which was important.
“Charles has finally sailed for France, and Lochiel with him,” he said
without preamble, once the clan was assembled. It was cold and raining, so
they had retired into the cave to stay dry. Someone had lit a fire, and the
light showed the shocked expressions of the MacGregors on hearing the
news.
“That’s good news, then?” Janet asked. Some of them had hoped Charles
would winter in the Highlands, and lead a new campaign in the spring.
“No’ for the Camerons,” said Kenneth. “Who’ll lead them now?”
“Lochiel couldna lead them anyway,” Alex said. “They were in more
danger of further reprisals while he was in Scotland than they’ll be now it’s
known that he’s gone. He kens that. He’d no’ have left otherwise. It must
have fair broke his heart to do so. So aye, it’s good news. Charles will be
safe from capture once he’s in France, and hopefully he’ll be able to
persuade Louis to raise an army and invade again, maybe next spring.”
“Ye dinna sound so sure of that,” Iain said.
“Aye, well I hope I’m wrong, but Louis makes Lovat look positively
honest and transparent. Charles will have his work cut out to persuade him
that putting a Stuart back on the throne is in France’s or more importantly,
Louis’ best interest.”
“But while he’s free there’s always a chance of a restoration. And he’s
shown he can lead an army now. And we’ve shown that we’ll rise for him,”
Angus said, to general approval.
“That’s true. But the English in the main have shown they willna.”
“It would still be in France’s interest to have a Stuart king on the throne
of Scotland and to break the union though,” Kenneth pointed out.
“Christ, you mean that I’m going to have to move here permanently if I
want to be ruled by James?” Graeme said gloomily.
 “Aye, we’ll pass a law that says ye have to wear the kilt to live here, just
for you,” Kenneth quipped.
“I’m not sure I wouldn’t rather have German Geordie on the throne, in
that case,” Graeme said insincerely. “There are limits to what any man
should have to endure, even for King James.”
There was laughter and someone threw their bonnet at Graeme, which he
caught deftly and placed on his head at a jaunty angle. Alex smiled and
waited for the noise to die down before continuing.
“Cluny has said that he’ll keep me informed by letter when he hears that
the prince and Lochiel have arrived safely. He’s got a big clan and they
have ears everywhere, so his information’s good. He’s still living in his
cave, and intends to stay there in readiness for the next rising. He’s also
promised to contact me urgently if he hears anything more about
Broughton.”
A brief silence greeted this final sentence, then Kenneth spat on the floor
of the cave in disgust.
“The bastard,” he said. “I dinna ken how he sleeps at night.”
“I doubt he does,” said Angus. “I canna understand why he turned on us,
and him Charlie’s secretary an’ all, and a Jacobite to his bones.”
“I’ll break every one of his bones, an I ever see him again,” Kenneth
said.
“He was sick, and his wife’s about to have a bairn,” Alex pointed out.
“We dinna ken what they threatened him with. And he didna surrender – he
was taken.”
“How can ye defend him, after what he’s done?” Iain asked
incredulously.
“I’m no’ defending him. But the man’s no’ a soldier, remember. He’s no’
used to pain. And he loves his wife dearly. But no, he’s still a traitor. What I
canna understand is, they’ve had him for over three months now, and he
kens that I was Sir Anthony, and yet he doesna appear to have tellt a soul.”
Following the news of Broughton’s betrayal, the clan had lived in the cave
for a few weeks, and then, with no sign of the expected redcoats, had posted
guards and moved back down to the village.
“No’ yet,” Iain said. “But he may.”
“Aye, he may,” Alex agreed. “But hopefully no’ till after the morrow, at
least. Peigi, is the party for ye still going ahead?”
Peigi grinned, along with all the other women.
 “Aye, it is, now ye’re back. We were going to wait for you. Now all we
need to do is pray the rain stops. We canna use the barn, for it’s full of
cattle.”
“And if it doesna stop raining, we’ll have the party in here,” Morag said.
“Angus said ye brought back more candles from the raid. We can light the
place up like day if we have to.”
“Would we no’ be better to wait a day or so, if it’s raining tomorrow?”
Angus suggested.
“No,” Janet put in firmly. “We’ve waited a long time for this party. It’s
happening, no matter the weather.”
“Ten days isna a long –” Dougal began.
“It’s happening,” Peigi interrupted, to a chorus of agreement from the
other women.
The men surrendered. It appeared the party was happening, and it would
certainly be wiser to go along with it and dance in the rain than suffer the
consequences of displeasing the womenfolk.

***

To everyone’s relief, although it rained all the following morning, in the

afternoon the clouds blew over to reveal a blue sky and a somewhat watery
sun. It seemed that they would not have to dance in the rain after all,
although it promised to be somewhat soggy underfoot.
Food was prepared and set out in the chieftain’s house, it being the
largest dwelling in the village, with whisky and ale to drink. The fiddlers
assembled in the clearing in the middle of the houses, and the party began.
A couple of hours into it, Alex had to admit that the womenfolk had had
the right idea in suggesting it. The last months had been tense for all of
them, with them never knowing when they’d have to flee their houses and
take to the hills. It was true that they were used to danger, but the brutality
of the so-called ‘pacification’ of the Highlands had surpassed anything
they’d ever known.
He’d heard rumours that Inversnaid barracks, completely destroyed by
the MacGregors last year, was about to be reactivated. If that was true the
redcoats would have a base only a day’s march away from them, and they
would then be open to the same sort of treatment that had been meted out to
the Camerons, Frasers and other clans loyal to the Stuarts.
 He would not mention that until rumour became certainty though. Let
them enjoy their party. He intended to try to enjoy it himself, and dismiss
the memories of the last big party the MacGregors had had, which had been
to celebrate his wedding. And the best way to do that was to get thoroughly
drunk, he decided, reaching for the whisky.

He, along with most of the other men, but oddly none of the women, had
made good headway in achieving inebriation when Morag walked into the
clearing with a stranger in tow, a middle-aged man dressed in a dark
feileadh mhor, but who appeared to carry no weapons. This was an unusual
enough occurrence to cause those of the men still coherent to stop what they
were doing and look at the newcomer, although the women seemed
completely unperturbed, which Alex would have found strange had he not
been concentrating all his attention on attempting to appear sober in order
to greet the man as the chieftain should. He stood up somewhat unsteadily
as Morag and her companion made their way towards him, but to his
surprise she led the man straight past him and over to Angus.
“Angus, I want ye to meet a kinsman of Allan’s, Fergus MacDonald,” she
said.
Angus, along with half the MacGregors, looked at Allan who, clearly
recognising his kinsman, blushed furiously and suddenly found something
of great interest in the patch of grass at his feet. Angus, forced to take on the
role of the chieftain by Morag’s disrespect of the proprieties, held his hand
out to the stranger.
“Pleased to meet ye, Mr MacDonald,” he said. “But really it’s my brother
ye should –”
“Mr MacDonald,” Morag interrupted rudely, “more commonly goes by
the title ‘Father’. So if ye’ve no more objections, Angus Malcolm Socrates
MacGregor, we can get straight on with the wedding.”
There was a moment’s silence while the women, who were clearly in on
the conspiracy, grinned and Angus sat down suddenly as though he’d been
hit on the head. Then Kenneth let out a great whoop of laughter.
“She’s got ye, laddie,” he called. “I’d marry her and quick if I were you,
for if ye dinna, I’ll take her to wife myself!” Several others laughed at that.
Angus looked helplessly at Alex, who held his hands up in a gesture of
defeat.
“Morag,” he said, “I canna marry ye now. I’ve a blood-“
 “…oath to fulfil. Aye, I ken. Ye’ve tellt me often enough. Alex,” she said,
turning to face the chieftain, “when we marry, if I’ve nae objection, will ye
allow your brother to carry on raiding wi’ ye till he’s had his fill of killing
redcoats?”
“Aye, I will,” Alex replied, recognising a lost cause when he saw one, “as
long as you’re aware of the danger that ye could end up a young widow wi’
a bairn to look after.”
“We’re all aware of that danger,” Peigi called out. “We’re MacGregors.
We take care of each other.”
There was a cheer from everyone which Alex ignored, keeping his eyes
fixed on Morag’s, whose expression had now become serious, although her
eyes were still sparkling. She walked over to her chieftain and took his large
hand in her small, work-reddened one.
“I’m aware o’ the danger,” she said softly to him. “I’m no’ the wee lassie
I was two years ago when I nearly let Robbie have his way wi’ me in the
barn. I saw the way you and Beth were together, and I love your brother the
same way she did you, and I believe he feels the same for me.”
“Aye,” Alex said, equally softly. “I believe ye’ve the right of it. But –”
“And I ken you’re grieving something fierce, and that ye’ll never be the
same again. But at least ye had that time together. Married or no, I’ll mourn
him dreadful if it comes to it, but if we marry now, at least I’ll have the
memories to comfort me.”
“They’re no’ always a comfort, lassie,” he told her.
She nodded.
“Even so, better to have them than live the rest of your life regretting that
ye didna grab the happiness when it was there for the taking.” She looked
up at him, her heart in her eyes, and he took her in his arms.
“I’ll be proud to call ye my sister-in-law,” he said. He gave her a quick,
fierce hug, then let her go and smiled at her, although tears sparkled in his
eyes.
“Well, then,” he said, in a voice that carried round the clearing, “It seems
we’ve a wedding to attend! Are ye wanting to go and dress in your finery?”
he asked his white-faced brother, who had now managed to stand up again.
“No,” Morag answered before he could open his mouth. “I’ve waited
long enough already. I’d as soon get on with it, if it’s all the same to you.”
Father MacDonald looked from the glowing bride to the stunned groom.
 “Before I conduct the ceremony,” he said, “I have to ask if you are both
willing and happy to be joined in matrimony this evening.”
“I am,” Morag answered immediately. She glanced across at Angus, who
was staring at her, took in his pallor, and for the first time a shadow of
anxiety clouded her face. He licked his lips nervously. Father MacDonald
waited calmly for the young man’s response. A profound silence settled on
the clearing.
Angus closed his eyes, and breathed in deeply through his nose.
“Aye,” he said. “I’m willing and happy to be joined in matrimony this
evening. But dinna think ye can get your way in everything, lassie, for
there’ll be a reckoning later for what ye’ve done here today.”
“I hope so,” she shot back. “Ye’d better stay sober enough for the
‘reckoning’ tonight, for I’ve been waiting over two years for it, and I’ll no’
wait any longer!”
A great roar of laughter rose from the impromptu congregation, and
Morag’s father moved forward, all smiles, to hand responsibility for his
daughter over to her husband-to-be, who was now regaining his colour and
his general good humour with it, and had clearly accepted his fate.
After which everyone, male and female, got happily and spectacularly
drunk, including, unfortunately, the bride herself who, by the time her new
husband carried her over the threshold into her new home, was incapable of
doing anything but sleep, with the result that the long-awaited ‘reckoning’
had to be delayed until the following morning.

***

London, November 1746

Sarah was concerned. For the last two hours a man had been loitering
outside her shop. She couldn’t see him well enough through the opaque
green glass of her window panes to tell if he was someone she knew; all she
could ascertain was that he was dressed in rags, was very thin and had dark
hair. He might have been there for longer than two hours, but she had first
noticed him at around two o’clock. At first she had taken him for a beggar,
but he didn’t appear to be accosting people as they passed by or as they
came into her shop, which was odd.
 She had also dismissed the possibility that he might be a robber of some
sort; no one intending to commit theft would hang around outside one
building so conspicuously for such a long time.
She got on with her work and tried to forget him, but as the clock struck
four and she could still see him standing outside, she decided to confront
him before it got dark and passers-by became scarce. If he seemed a decent
sort, she’d give him a few coppers and send him on his way. She went to
her counter and took out a few pennies, and her pistol, which she hid in her
skirts, in case he didn’t seem to be a decent sort. Better to be safe than sorry.
When she stepped out of the shop he had walked a few paces up the
street and had his back to her. She observed him for a moment. He was
indeed dressed in rags, but even in the dim light of the evening she could
see that he had made an attempt to look respectable; although hatless, his
brown hair was clean and tied neatly back with a scrap of ribbon, and while
he wore no hose and his shoes were very worn, his breeches had been
carefully patched, as had his tattered coat.
Then he turned and saw her, and jumped violently. She decided to take
the initiative.
“Why have you been waiting outside my premises for over two hours?”
she asked. “Are you begging?”
“No!” he exclaimed. “No, I works for my living, Miss. I’m a link man.”
“A link man,” she echoed. His face was in shadow, but there was
something familiar about his voice. She didn’t know any link men.
“Wouldn’t you be better waiting outside the theatre then? You won’t get any
custom here. And where’s your torch?”
He looked at his empty hands as though expecting a torch to materialise
there, and then at her.
“I’m…I’m not working tonight, Miss,” he said.
Deeply suspicious now, she gripped the pistol, still concealed in her skirt.
“Well, I suggest you find something more entertaining to do with your
free time than loitering outside my shop,” she said firmly.
He took a step toward her, and she moved backwards into her doorway.
She would run back into the shop and lock the door if he made a move on
her. If he attempted to stop her she would show him she was armed. That
should be enough to frighten him away.
He stopped and held his hand up in a conciliatory gesture.
 “Miss Browne, you won’t remember me, but I know you and I need to
tell you something awful bad, Miss. I’ve got to tell someone and I don’t
know no one else who was close to her. I don’t mean you no harm, Miss, I
swear it.”
“Let me see your face,” Sarah said, frowning. There was a candle
burning in her window to show that she was open for business. Obligingly
he turned his face towards it, and she saw his profile; young, snub nose,
firm mouth. She gasped.
“I know who you are,” she said. “You’re Lord Edward’s coachman.”
“Not no more, Miss,” he replied, and took another step forward.
“You keep away from me,” she said, her voice rising. “You’re the bastard
who helped Lord Daniel when he kidnapped Beth. Tom, isn’t it? You’ve got
a cheek, coming here! If you think I’ll feel sorry for you just because you’re
out of work, you’re wrong. You deserve to rot in hell!”
“I didn’t know Miss Elizabeth was so against him, Miss! Lord Daniel, he
told me that she didn’t want to marry Sir Anthony and that I was helping
him rescue her. I haven’t come here to beg off you, Miss. I – I owes Miss
Elizabeth my life, I does. She made them let me go. I’d have hung, else.”
“You should have done, for what you did!”
“I think of it every day, Miss. I told her I’d never forget what she done
for me, and I haven’t. That’s why I’m here. I needs to speak to you about
her, Miss, most desperate.”
He looked at her, and now he was a little closer she could see that he was
shaking, but whether from the cold or emotion, Sarah couldn’t tell.
“What do you need to say?” she said. If he asked her to let him come in
the shop now, she’d show him her pistol, call for the watch and have him
arrested. She wasn’t falling for that one.
He didn’t. He glanced up and down the street to make sure no one was in
earshot, and then he took one more step toward her so he was close enough
that she could hear him if he spoke quietly, and started talking earnestly.
“Miss Elizabeth, she’s in Newgate Prison, Miss, or she was a couple of
months ago. And she…she was…she…” He choked, and swallowed hard.
“She was what?” Sarah asked.
“She was tortured, Miss, most terrible,” he said, then burst into tears.
Sarah stood frozen with shock. No. It wasn’t possible. How could Beth
be in Newgate, and nobody know? Edwin and Caroline would have
known…Anne would have known. Something like that could never be kept
from London society. And if society knew, she, who heard everything,
would know.
She looked at him as he cried, great racking sobs. No man cried like that.
He was insane. The few people still out and about were crossing the road to
avoid him. She should get herself behind a locked door, now.
“I don’t believe you,” she said bluntly instead. “I’d know if Beth had
been arrested.”
“It’s true, Miss, honest it is,” he replied desperately. He took a great
sobbing breath, trying to get control of himself. “Ned said it’s been kept
close, Miss, because she knows who Sir Anthony is, but she wouldn’t tell,
and then they…sent her brother to talk to her, to see if she’d tell him.”
“Richard,” Sarah breathed.
“Richard. Yes, that’s him,” he said.
“Who’s Ned?”
He flushed.
“I shouldn’t have said his name, Miss. I told him I wouldn’t. He’s scared,
Miss, of the captain, says he’ll kill him if it gets out that he told me.”
“Well you have said his name. So you might as well tell me who he is.
I’ll tell you this much; I hate Richard Cunningham. If you’re telling me the
truth about Beth, then I’m not going to say anything that will get this Ned in
trouble with him.”
Tom hesitated for a minute, then came to a decision. “Ned’s my brother.
He’s in the army, and he was set to guard Miss Elizabeth. We’re very close;
he tells me everything, and when he came home on leave he said he had this
secret and he had to tell someone, and it was when he said her name was
Beth and she had this lovely silver hair that I knew it was her, because I
never saw no one else with hair like that. But you mustn’t tell no one,
because the captain, Miss, he’s crazy and he mustn’t know that –”
For the second time in as many months, Sarah followed her instincts and
allowed a stranger to come into her premises when she was alone. But this
one she kept in the shop and made him sit on a stool at first, while she sat
on the other side of the room, her hand still on the pistol. Just in case.
He made no move towards her. Instead he sat and told her what his
brother had told him; that he’d been ordered to guard an important prisoner
who had crucial information, that she wasn’t allowed to sit down but had
anyway, what the sergeant had done to make her stand, and how he’d tried
to help her, and that she’d been concerned that he’d get into trouble for it.
 And then Sarah knew Tom was telling the truth for certain, because that
was Beth all over, so she went into her living room, checked on Mary, and
came back with a mug of warmed ale for him. When she came back he was
still sitting in the exact spot she’d left him, so she took him into her home
and let him get warm by the fire while he told her the rest of the story.
“…and then when Ned saw all the blood, Miss, he ran to fetch the keeper,
and met him coming back with the surgeon, who was coming to put her
shoulder back in, and then they both ran to see her and the keeper, Mr
Jones, he told Ned to forget everything that had happened, forget there was
ever a prisoner, or it’d go very badly for him.”
“Dear God,” Sarah said.
“But he said he couldn’t forget, and so he told me because he was having
bad dreams about it, and he thought telling someone he trusted might stop
them.”
Sarah closed her eyes. She had to ask the question, but wasn’t sure if she
could bear the answer. She summoned all her resources.
“Was she dead?” she asked, and in her fear her voice sounded cold and
impersonal. Tom looked at her oddly, but answered.
“I don’t know, Miss. Ned wanted to find out, but he was posted away the
next day so he couldn’t ask anyone. But he said she wasn’t dead when he
left her to fetch the keeper, no.”
“How long ago was this?” she asked.
“August, Miss.”
August? Three months ago! Anything could have happened since then.
“Why did you wait all this time to come and tell me?” she asked.
“I didn’t, Miss! I came as soon as Ned told me. He came home on leave
three days ago, but he only told me yesterday.”
She thought, quickly.
“I want to speak to your brother,” she said. “Not that I don’t believe you,
because I do. What you’ve said about Beth, and Richard, that’s just what
they’d do. But he might remember more. Take me to him.”
“I can’t, Miss. He left this morning. He’s bound for Flanders. I told him I
was wanting to come and see you because I owed Miss Elizabeth a big debt,
and I didn’t know anyone else who was so close to her who’d even look at
me. And he agreed, because he knows the captain’s in Scotland and can’t do
anything to him from there, and because he said he’d feel better if I could
find someone to help her. If she’s alive.”
 If she was alive. Damn, damn, damn. Sarah sat and thought furiously.
Tom sat opposite, drinking his ale, eyeing her nervously over the rim of the
tankard.
“It’s worth a try, I suppose,” she said to herself.
“What is?” Tom asked.
“Are you really a link man?” she asked.
“Yes. I couldn’t get another job as a coachman, couldn’t get any job at
all, after…” His voice trailed off.
“Go and get your torch,” she said. “Can you be back here in half an
hour?”
“Yes,” he said. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to Newgate,” she said.

Tom was back in twenty minutes, by which time Sarah had dressed in her
finest clothes, had checked that Mary was fast asleep, and had put several
shillings and a golden guinea in her pocket. She tucked the pistol in the
back of her skirt just in case anyone should try to rob her, and then putting
on her cloak, scrutinised herself in the mirror.
She couldn’t pass for a lady, she knew that. Her clothes were of excellent
quality, but her accent would betray her. Although she had worked hard to
improve her vocabulary and soften her flat northern vowels, she did not
have the cut-glass accent of an aristocrat. Nor did she have the natural
arrogance that seemed to come with a title. But she would pass for a
wealthy businesswoman, or at least the wife of a wealthy businessman, and
that would have to do.
On the way, she practised walking with her head high as though she
owned the street, and tried to ignore the butterflies that were having a party
in her stomach. She had no idea how she would secure Beth’s release if she
was still in Newgate. If she was still alive. She would worry about that later.
First things first.
When she arrived at the keeper’s lodge, which was on the opposite side
of the road from the actual prison, she stopped for a minute to gather her
wits, coughing as the greasy smoke from Tom’s torch blew in her face.
Then she stepped forward and hammered loudly on the door.
A few moments passed and then a small hatch slid back and a face
appeared. The owner of the face looked his visitor up and down and then
the hatch closed, and the sound of bolts being drawn back told her that she
clearly looked respectable enough for the keeper to consider her worth
speaking to. The door opened.
“Can I help you, madam?” the man asked politely.
“Mr Jones?” The man nodded. “I am here to visit a prisoner,” Sarah said.
“It’s too late for visitors now, madam. If you come back tomorrow…”
His voice trailed off as Sarah moved forward slightly and the coins in her
pocket jingled merrily.
“I understand it’s a little late,” she said, reaching inside her pocket and
drawing out a shilling, which she handed to him, “but I have been in the
country for some months and have only just discovered that my dear friend
is here.”
He assessed her with expert eyes, and she knew that it was going to cost
her everything in her purse to see Beth tonight. But it would be worth it and
more to know she was alive.
“It’s most inconvenient to admit anyone to the cells at this time,” he said.
“The prisoners will all be settled down for the night.”
This was an obvious ploy to extort money from her; it was highly
unlikely the prisoners would all be asleep at eight o’clock in the evening.
Now was not the time to argue though. If she was going to discover Beth’s
whereabouts she would have to play along.
“Oh, I’m sure we can come to some agreement,” she said. “Come a little
closer, boy, so I can see what I’m doing,” she demanded imperiously of
Tom, who obligingly moved forward, lighting up both the coins in her hand
and the keeper’s face. She placed another shilling in Mr Jones’ palm.
“Maybe we can. And who would this dear friend be?” he asked, smiling.
“Her name is Elizabeth Cunningham,” said Sarah.
The smile vanished and Mr Jones’ face closed down immediately.
“We don’t have anyone of that name here,” he said. “You’ve wasted your
time.”
“You might know her as Beth,” Sarah persisted. “Small, with long –”
“I told you, there’s no one of that name, of any of those names here.”
“Oh, how disappointing. Perhaps she has now been moved elsewhere?”
Sarah said.
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had anyone here by that name, or that
looked like that.”
“But I haven’t told you what she looks –”
 “Goodnight to you,” he interrupted and stepping back, rudely shut the
door in her face.
She stood for a moment in the street, and then turning, started to walk
back the way she had come.
“I’m sorry, Miss,” Tom said after a moment. “I was sure Ned said that it
was Mr Jones who was the keeper, but maybe he got it wrong. He was very
upset.”
“Ned didn’t get it wrong,” Sarah said. “Didn’t you see his face? That’s
why I told you to come closer. I don’t need to see a coin to know what it is.
I wanted to see his reaction when I mentioned Beth’s name. He was
frightened. And for the keeper of Newgate Gaol to be frightened, he must
have been given his orders by someone important.”
“Like who, Miss?”
“I don’t know.” She stopped again, and came to another decision. “But
I’m going to find out. Are you in the mood for a walk, Tom? I’ll pay you for
lighting my way.”
“I’ll walk wherever you want, Miss. I don’t want no pay for this.”
“Very well, then. Come on. I’ll get Mary first. I can’t leave her alone for
long. Damn. I should have done this in the first place. I’ve warned him now.
That was stupid. I just hope she’s home.”
Tom looked at her, clearly at a loss as to what she was talking about.
Having made her decision she set off at a brisk pace, Tom following,
trailing a cloud of greasy smoke from the rush light behind him.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Caroline was sitting in her cosy cream and blue decorated parlour with her
feet up on a footstool, reading a book and sipping a glass of wine. She had
just returned from a tiring but pleasant two weeks at Summer Hill, where
she had overseen the final touches being put to the ballroom and three of
the bedrooms and had had a long discussion with William Kent about the
design of the gardens. She’d returned a day earlier than expected and was
relishing an evening alone. Edwin was at his club and would stay overnight,
having a long session in parliament tomorrow. She couldn’t wait to tell him
about the gardens. She had a copy of the plans all ready to show him.
Maybe they could go there together soon. Spend Christmas there, just the
three of them. She smiled to herself and moved the cushion supporting her
back a little to the left. She would finish this chapter and then have an early
night.
There came a soft tap on the parlour door. She waited a moment, and
when no one came in she knew who was standing outside.
“Come in, Toby,” she shouted, knowing he wouldn’t hear her otherwise.
The elderly manservant was becoming increasingly deaf, which was useful
if you wanted to chat with friends about something confidential while he
was tottering about the room serving tea, but not very useful when you had
to startle said friends by bellowing at him to fetch some cakes from the
kitchen.
The door opened, Toby walked in and bowed deeply.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, my lady,” he began, “but Miss Browne is here
to see you.”
Caroline glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Toby, who might have
been deaf but could still see a fly on the wall at fifty paces, correctly
interpreted the gesture.
“She said it is most urgent, my lady.”
“It must be for her to call at this late hour. Very well, Toby, send her in.”
 There was a pause, in which Caroline placed her bookmark at the page
she’d been reading, closed the book and placed it on the table, while Toby
continued to stand in the doorway. She sighed.
“Send her in!” she yelled.
He must have heard her now, but instead of doing as she bid, he took
another step into the room. Really, she thought, we have to pension the poor
man off. This is ridiculous. She took a deep breath, readying herself for
another attempt.
“She has a…personage with her, my lady,” he said.
Caroline looked at him. His face wore an expression of the utmost
disgust. She turned in her chair so he would see her face, and hopefully be
able to read her lips.
“What kind of personage?” she shouted.
“A link man, my lady.”
“Very sensible of her,” Caroline commented. “Show Miss Browne in and
allow the link man to warm himself in the kitchen. Keep an eye on him,”
she added.
“Er…Miss Browne insists you will wish to speak to this…creature, my
lady.”
Caroline was intrigued. Sarah’s visits could be interesting, for want of a
better word, and this one had potential.
“Well then, send them both in. Now,” she added when Toby, clearly
horrified, was about to object. He shuffled off, returning a couple of
minutes later with Sarah, who was cradling her sleeping baby in her arms
and who looked very worried, and the ‘personage’ who looked absolutely
terrified.
“I’m sorry to bother you at this time of night, Caroline,” Sarah said, “but
I didn’t know who else to come to. This is Tom. He used to be Lord
Edward’s coachman.”
Caroline looked at Tom. “Toby told me you were a link man,” she said.
To her surprise the ragged young man blushed to the roots of his hair.
“I am, milady,” he said, addressing the floor.
“I’m sorry, Tom, but I’ll have to tell her so she’ll believe that what you
told me about Beth is the truth,” Sarah said to him. Caroline’s face changed.
Her gaze moved to Sarah then to Toby, still hovering at the door, clearly
unwilling to leave his beloved mistress alone with a ruffian.
 “That will be all, Toby!” Caroline bellowed. Sarah flinched, accustomed
to Toby’s deafness but Tom jumped a foot in the air and looked round in
panic, clearly intending to flee. Sarah laid a placating hand on his arm.
“I’m sorry,” Caroline said as the door closed behind the reluctant Toby, “I
should have warned you Toby is deaf. I didn’t mean to frighten you. Sit
down, both of you. You have news of Beth?”
Tom looked wildly at the couch, then at Sarah, who gripped his arm more
tightly.
“Caroline is a friend of mine, Tom. And she was a friend of Beth’s too.
You can trust her.” She cast a pleading look Caroline’s way.
“That’s right,” Caroline said. “I was a friend of Beth’s, and if you have
news of her, then I would like to hear it. I can see that you are a little down
on your luck at the moment, but you clearly take pains with your
appearance.”
“I does, milady,” Tom said to the rug. “I looks after my clothes as best I
can, and I washes every day. And I ain’t got no vermin, neither,” he added
with some pride.
Caroline repressed a smile.
“Sit down,” she repeated gently. “And tell me what you know about
Beth. Sarah seems to think it very important.”
They sat down, and with occasional prompting from Sarah, Tom told his
story, and then Sarah added her account of her visit to Newgate and the
reception she’d received.
“I realise that I shouldn’t have gone,” Sarah finished, “because I’ve
warned him now. I should have come to you first, but I didn’t want to
involve you.”
Caroline sat back in her chair and closed her eyes for a minute, while the
other two waited anxiously. Then she opened them again, and looked at
Tom.
“You used to be Lord Edward’s coachman, you say. Are you good with
horses, then?” she asked.
“Yes, milady,” Tom said hesitantly, clearly having expected Caroline to
comment on the situation with Beth, not on his prowess with animals. “I
was a stable boy for four years, before I started learning to drive. I love
horses, milady, I’ve been around them all my life, until…” His voice trailed
off, and he looked down at his hands.
 “Well then,” Caroline said briskly. “I have a country house, Summer Hill,
at Twickenham, and I am in need of reliable, trustworthy staff. Are you
interested?”
Tom abandoned the scrutiny of his hands and instead stared at Caroline
as though she’d just grown another head.
“I…I…” He stopped, swallowed, and tried again. “I am, milady, but I
haven’t got no character. Lord Edward, he said –”
“Never mind what Lord Edward said,” Caroline interrupted. “I’ve seen
enough of your character this evening to know that you are both loyal and
courageous. If you are hard-working as well, I will give you a chance. Go
home and gather your belongings. In the morning, call back here and I will
give you a letter recommending that you be taken on as a stable man. We
will see how things go from there. It will be up to you to prove yourself.
What do you say?”
“I…but…”
“We all make mistakes, Tom. I have made many myself, and I am sure I
will make more.” Probably this very night. “But the important thing is to
learn from them.” She waited.
“Say yes, Tom,” Sarah prompted.
“Yes,” Tom said obediently. “Milady. Thank you,” he added hurriedly.
“Excellent,” Caroline said, standing. “You need not wait for Sarah. I
suspect we will be some time.” She bent and lifted the bell from the table,
and then sighed and replaced it. “I will see you out myself,” she said. “My
throat is already strained.”
She returned a few minutes later.
“That was a kind thing you did,” Sarah commented.
“Nonsense,” Caroline replied. “If he lives up to his promise, I will be the
winner. Edward is a pompous idiot with no sense when it comes to hiring
servants. A character from him would be a deterrent to me rather than a
recommendation. Now,” she continued, “I’ve called for tea and a cold
collation, and for the bed to be made up in the green room for you and
Mary. Let us formulate a plan. There’s no point in my going to Newgate and
demanding to see Beth, because as you said, the keeper is forewarned.”
“I’m sorry,” said Sarah.
“No, it could work to our advantage,” Caroline said, “because if he
refused good money and denied Beth had ever been there, then it’s likely
he’d have said the same to me, but more politely. His instructions have
probably come from someone in high office. It’s strange that Beth would be
in Newgate, though. Important or titled prisoners are usually lodged in the
Tower.”
“Do you think she might be in the Tower, then?” Sarah asked hopefully.
“It’s worth asking, certainly. It’s possible that she was in the Tower,
refused to say anything and then was moved to Newgate to be questioned,
but…I still can’t understand it. Prisoners of importance, male or female, if
not lodged in the Tower, are kept in messengers’ houses.”
“Messengers?” Sarah asked.
“Yes. Messengers are paid handsomely to securely lodge prisoners in
their own houses. Some of them treat their charges well, others not so well.
But I never heard of a high-born lady being put in Newgate. I’ll start at the
Tower tomorrow, see what I can find out. I must send a message to Anne,
too.”
“I haven’t seen her in months. Is she still at your Aunt Harriet’s?” Sarah
asked.
“Yes, she is. She’ll be very relieved to know Richard’s in Scotland. She
hasn’t heard from him since…no, it’s not possible,” Caroline said. “No, I
can’t believe William would allow such a thing.”
“William?” Sarah asked, puzzled.
“The last time Anne saw Richard, he told her he had an important job to
do for the Duke of Cumberland. But I can’t believe William would order
Richard to torture any woman like that, let alone Beth. He was very
infatuated with her.”
“I could believe it,” Sarah said. “They’re calling him the Butcher, you
know.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that, and there have been criticisms of the way the
rebellion was put down in Scotland,” Caroline said. “But you have to
remember that for many of the rebels, this is not an isolated act of treason.
The same clans came out in 1715, and no doubt would rise again if they got
the chance. It’s William’s and the king’s belief that this rebellion only took
place because the rebels were treated too leniently after the ’15. His
methods may seem brutal, but none of us want to see the country plunged
into another civil war, like it was a hundred years ago. It’s necessary,
Sarah.”
“It’s not just in Scotland, though,” Sarah said. “The Manchester men
were treated terribly too.”
 “Ah, you mean the executions we saw. Yes, that was harsh. But I think
they were made an example of to stop the English from rising too. This
confines the unrest to Scotland, and –”
“It’s not the executions. It’s the way the prisoners are being treated,
starving and chained like dogs, and left to lie in their own filth. Some of
them are children, babies even. John said –” Sarah stopped abruptly and
reddened.
“I don’t want to know about the man who came to the execution with
you, Sarah. We’ll call him your brother. But you must be careful. I know
how close you were to Beth, and I know what she did for you. But she
would be the first to tell you not to put your life at risk for her or anyone
else.”
“But you are going to help Beth, aren’t you?” Sarah said fervently.
“I’m going to find out what’s going on if I can, yes,” Caroline said. “And
if she’s alive and I find her, I will do what I can to help her. But I won’t put
my life or anyone else’s at risk for her. She’s a traitor, Sarah, her and
Anthony both. You must remember that. And you must think of your niece
too, now. She depends on you.”
Sarah nodded.
“I do remember that, and Mary is dearer to me than my life,” she said. “I
don’t know much about politics like you do. I don’t care who’s sitting on
the throne, and I wouldn’t raise a finger to fight for or against any king,
because they don’t give a damn about me or people like me. But Beth did
give a damn about me - she was the first person who ever showed me any
kindness. Everything I have today is because of her. I’d most likely be dead
by now if she hadn’t helped me. When Mary grows up I’m going to tell her
about Beth, and I won’t be able to hold my head up if I’ve left her to rot and
die in a cell somewhere when I could have done something about it. So if
she needs more help than you can give her, you tell me.”

***

Tower of London

“No, I haven’t heard of an Elizabeth Cunningham, my lady,” the young

yeoman warder said. “She’s certainly not lodged with us now, hasn’t been
since I’ve been here.”
 “This seems like an excellent position for a smart young man like
yourself,” Caroline said, smiling at the freckle-faced youth. “How long
have you been here?”
“Since September, my lady,” he replied, beaming.
“Well, I wish you the very best. Thank you for your time. I did not wish
to inconvenience Thomas with my little query, busy as he is, but I think I
shall have to.” She pressed a coin into his hand and started to turn away.
The warder looked at the coin and his eyes widened.
“Thomas, my lady?” the enterprising young man asked, clearly
wondering if he could inconvenience this Thomas fellow on her behalf and
earn himself another sovereign for his pains.
“Yes. Ah…of course you won’t know him by his Christian name…the
Duke of Newcastle. I’m sure he will know where my dear misguided
acquaintance is. Although of course I would be most grateful if I didn’t
have to bother him with such a trivial matter. But there it is. Good day to
you.”
She made three steps before he called to her.
“It is possible that she was held in Mr Carlton’s house, across the green.
He sometimes takes care of particular prisoners, although he has none
lodging with him at present. Would you like me to enquire for you?”
She turned back.
“How very helpful! I would be most obliged if you would accompany me
to Mr Carlton’s, yes,” she said, smiling.
They crossed the green together and knocked at the door, which was
opened by a maidservant, who curtseyed, and on hearing that Lady Caroline
Harlow wished to ask a question of her master hurried off, returning
moments later with a portly middle-aged man, who bowed obsequiously.
“What a pleasant surprise, Lady Caroline,” he gushed. “May I offer my
congratulations to Sir Edwin on his recent knighthood?”
“Why, thank you, Mr Carlton. How kind,” Caroline replied.
“Would you care for some refreshment? Girl,” he said to the hovering
maid, “go and fetch tea and –”
“No, no, please do not trouble yourself,” Caroline said. “I merely wished
to enquire after the health of a somewhat misguided acquaintance of mine,
who I believe may have been in your care for a time. You would perhaps
know her as Lady Elizabeth Peters, or possibly Elizabeth or Beth
Cunningham. A petite young lady with silver-blonde hair.”
 She watched with interest as a variety of expressions crossed his face.
“I’m sorry, Lady Caroline,” he said after a pause. “I cannot help you, I’m
afraid. I know nothing of such a person.”
“Ah, I see,” Caroline replied. She took another coin from her reticule,
making sure that its denomination was visible to all, then turned back to the
young warder, who was still standing on the step, having not been invited
in. “Thank you,” she said, handing it to him. “You have been most helpful.
It is such a pleasant day for the time of year, I think I will take a turn around
the green and take the air before I return to my carriage. If there are no
objections?” Her tone implied that the warder would be unwise to answer in
the negative.
“No, of course not, my lady,” said Mr Carlton, bowing again and eyeing
the lost sovereign with avarice. Not enough avarice to tempt him to amend
his story, though.
She closed her reticule with a snap and walked out onto the green.

She had been walking for some fifteen minutes in the crisp air, and was
starting to wonder whether she should just go back to her carriage now and
revise her plan, when the green-painted door she’d been keeping an eye on
opened and the maid stepped out. Caroline immediately cut her circuit of
the green short and strode down the path until she was out of view of the
house. Then she stopped and waited for the maid to catch her up.
“You have some information for me?” Caroline said without preamble.
“If you have you may rely on my discretion, and you will be rewarded
appropriately, of course.”
The maid curtseyed and looked distinctly nervous. She glanced around to
make sure no one was in earshot and then spoke, softly and urgently.
“There was a young lady here, my lady,” she said after a moment. “But
she’s not here now.”
“When was she here?” Caroline asked.
“A few months ago, June time. In July she was taken to see Prince
William, two days after he came back to London, and she didn’t come back
here then.”
Damn.
“Ah. Well, thank you.” Caroline made to open her reticule.
“She was taken to Newgate Prison, my lady. The soldiers brought her
back once, to dress for another interview, but then the next time they sent
me to Newgate with some clothes for her, and I helped her to dress. I
haven’t seen her since then or heard anything about her.”
“And when was this, that you went to Newgate?”
“August, my lady.”
“How did she seem?”
“Very cheerful the first time, when they brought her here. I think she sold
the first dress she had to buy food and suchlike, because she was wearing
stays and petticoats. She was very friendly, told me…never mind, my lady.”
“What did she tell you? It’s alright, I won’t tell anyone.”
The maid hesitated.
“She told me that if the servants were betting as to whether she’d become
Prince William’s wife or…er…mistress, that I should bet she would become
neither.”
In spite of the seriousness of the situation, Caroline laughed. That was
Beth all over.
“Did you? Place a bet?” she asked.
“No, my lady! I didn’t think it was right. I tried to find out about her,
after, but everyone was told to keep quiet and not say anything about her.”
“But you’re telling me. Why?” Caroline asked.
“She was good to me. She asked my name and ordered chocolate for me
the first time, and then tea the second time when she was brought back here
to dress. And she talked to me as though I was her equal, even though she
was a lady. And at Newgate she apologised for not being able to get
chocolate for me. She thought of me, even though she seemed upset about
something. She hadn’t seemed upset before. I hope you find her, my lady.”
“So do I,” Caroline said. “So do I.”

***

“From there I went straight to Newgate Prison. Well, no, I stopped and
bought some provisions on the way, and I pulled at my hair a bit, so I
looked a little eccentric.”
“Eccentric?” Edwin said. When he’d returned home an hour before, he’d
been overjoyed to see his wife, who he had missed greatly, and had looked
forward to hearing news of Summer Hill. The expression he now wore
conveyed another emotion entirely, but he had agreed not to verbally
express his opinion until she’d finished her story.
 “Yes. You know, the way those bored society women with no common
sense look. The ones who have a great fervour to help the needy, but have
no idea what the hell they’re doing?”
Edwin laughed. Caroline had just described half the women he had to
deal with on a regular basis.
“Anyway,” she continued. “I knew there was no point in asking for Beth,
so I ignored the keeper’s lodge and went straight to the prison, said I’d
come to ease the affliction of the poor misguided rebel women, who had
paid the ultimate price for following their men into folly and treason. The
turnkey offered to take the basket of food off me and said he’d ensure that it
got to the unfortunate women, but I insisted on seeing them myself. I
flashed him a half crown and said I’d been up most of the night preparing
an inspiring lecture that would make them see the error of their ways.”
“And did you make them see the error of their ways?” Edwin asked, still
grinning.
“No. He told me that there were no rebel women prisoners in Newgate at
the moment. I told him that my friend had visited them in August and there
were certainly a number then. And he said there had been, but they’d all
been transferred elsewhere a while ago, possibly to the transport ships. I
think he was telling the truth.”
“Please tell me you gave him the provisions for the use of the other
prisoners, and left,” Edwin said.
“I gave him the provisions for the use of the other prisoners, and the half
crown, and left,” Caroline repeated.
“Thank God for that,” Edwin said.
“And then I went to Tilbury,” Caroline continued. Edwin sighed, and
dropped his head into his hands.
“They do boat trips, Edwin,” she said, leaning forward. “Boat trips, so
that genteel people can sail past the ships where hundreds of people are
being kept in unspeakable conditions, so they can shudder delicately with
excited horror at having been so close to an actual Jacobite, and then go
home and tell themselves and others that this is a fair and just punishment
for people who dared to rebel against His Most Wise and Gracious
Majesty.”
Edwin lifted his head.
“What’s the difference between people doing that and going to see the
lunatics in Bedlam?” he asked.
 Caroline coloured.
“None, I suppose. But when I did that I was young and stupid, and I
hadn’t met you. And I suppose if I’d actually known someone in the asylum
I would have felt differently. I feel differently now, anyway. I wanted to tell
them that these were human beings, including women and innocent children
that they were mocking, and that it was shameful behaviour.”
“You didn’t actually say that, did you?”
“No, of course I didn’t!” Caroline said. “They wouldn’t have heard me if
I had, anyway. Most of them were too busy vomiting over the edge of the
boat,” she added with obvious schadenfreude.
“Was the river choppy, then?”
“No. They were being sick because they couldn’t stand the smell coming
from the ships, even from a distance. I have never smelt anything so putrid
in my life, not even in Bedlam. There are people, men, women, children,
being kept in absolute hell. This is not a just punishment. This is savagery. I
was not the only one who thought that way, either, by the end of the trip.”
“The prisons are overcrowded, and they have to be kept somewhere until
we can bring them to trial,” Edwin said, still with his politician’s head on.
“There are so many of them. The system of lotting is going well, though,
and the situation should ease soon, once sufficient numbers have been
transported, and –”
“I know that,” Caroline interrupted. “And I know that our prisons were
not designed for such a huge influx of people. But they could be allowed up
on deck for air, Edwin. They could be fed properly and allowed to wash
themselves, instead of being left to lie in their own piss and shit and starve
to death!”
“Caro!” Edwin said, shocked by her language.
“You didn’t see it. You should see it,” she continued fiercely. “This is
what the government you’re part of are sanctioning. They wouldn’t let me
on board, said it was too dangerous. They told me that even the hardened
sailors are struggling to keep their food down because of the smell from
below decks, but that soon it won’t be such a problem, because they’re
dying like flies down there. And yet every day I’m hearing about how
savage and barbaric the North Britons are, and how Cumberland is right to
be severe on them. If we can treat helpless prisoners like this in London, I
can’t begin to imagine what’s going on in Scotland, with bastards like Scott
and Hawley allowed free rein. And Richard,” she added.
 “It’s true there are complaints about the situation in Scotland, and they
are being looked into,” Edwin said defensively. “But with Charles back in
France and being feted all over Paris as a hero, there’s a real chance that
King Louis might actually decide to finance another expedition in the
spring. We have to make sure the rebels can’t rise again and the only way
we can do that is by brutal means. These people don’t acknowledge the law.
They’re born and bred to be warriors. For them the only law is what their
chieftain tells them to do. If he tells them to fight for the Stuarts, then that’s
what they do. And the only way to bring them into line is to destroy the
power of the chiefs, to crush the clan system, once and for all.”
“I said something similar to Sarah last night when she told me that
they’re calling William ‘Butcher Cumberland’. And I understand that you
have to take harsh measures to show we mean business. I said that to you
when we went to see the Manchester men executed, if you remember. You
were shocked by how they suffered,” Caroline said.
“I was very upset, I admit. But I was more shocked at the enjoyment
people got from seeing them suffer. I don’t think that traitors and criminals
should be glorified. But I do believe that if we are to have peace in this
country, then the Jacobites must be crushed, once and for all.”
“I agree. But you must also take into account that public opinion is easily
swayed. In April William was the hero of Culloden; less than five months
later he’s the Butcher of Culloden. You said yourself that if the Jacobites
had carried on to London instead of turning back, the mob may well have
welcomed Charles, because he knows how to act as people expect royalty
to.
“It’s also becoming known that Charles treated the prisoners he took with
respect, and released many of them on parole. And that the barbarian
savages didn’t rape and pillage as they invaded, but for the most part treated
the citizens of the towns they occupied with respect. In the meantime
everyone’s heard about the ‘pacification’ of the Highlands, that our soldiers
are raping women, murdering children, burning their houses, and leaving
the old and weak to starve to death. This does not give a good impression of
the Hanoverians, Edwin, either at home or abroad.”
Edwin sighed.
“That’s true. But remember, in his treatment of the prisoners and the
people he met, Charles was trying to win them over to his cause by showing
them how just and merciful he was.”
 “And King George is trying to show that he’s the better choice of king by
being unjust and barbaric,” Caroline countered. “I think Charles had the
right idea. And we both know that if he gains enough support from the
French to make this an equal fight, and succeeds in taking the throne,
Britain will be at the mercy of the whim of an autocratic hereditary
monarch. And that is why we support Hanover, because we want the king’s
rule to be tempered by an elected government. But that government has to
show it can govern better than Charles would.”
“But Charles wouldn’t be king,” Edwin pointed out.
“I think he would, if James had any sense. But that’s not my point. My
point is that you can only go so far in brutalising the losers before public
opinion turns in favour of the underdog. I’ve seen it time and time again at
executions. And we are rapidly going that way. The main reason the
common people don’t want the Stuarts back is not because they fear
autocracy; they have no more say in electing the government than they do
in choosing a king. Right now they believe the Pretender, once king, will
force them to become Roman Catholics. If the Stuarts can convince the mob
that they will practice religious toleration, they could gain the upper hand.
Because Charles has already proved he can lead, and lead mercifully. And
Cumberland is proving the opposite.”
Edwin, deeply uncomfortable, could not argue, because he was hearing
similar stories in parliament. Every day new reports of atrocities committed
in the name of keeping the peace were drifting down from Scotland. And he
had heard rumours about prison conditions, but he was aware of his
sensitivity and tried to curb it when in parliament. This was an exceptional
situation. It would ease, and hopefully soon.
“Did you find anything out about Beth?” he asked.
“No. It seems that she has simply disappeared.”
“I am sorry,” Edwin said, and was. “She may well be dead, you know.”
“I know. It seems likely, from what Tom said. But I would like to know
for certain.”
“Well, you have done everything you can,” Edwin said reassuringly. He
looked at his wife; she did not look reassured. “I can make enquiries if you
like, see if I can find anything out,” he offered. “I would like to know what
has happened to her as well. But I will have to be very careful.”
“No,” Caroline said. “It’s too risky. You have just been knighted for your
loyal service to the king. If you start asking about the welfare of a known
rebel, you’ll be putting your career at risk.”
“I will be very discreet,” he said.
“There is something strange going on here,” she continued thoughtfully,
as though she hadn’t heard him. “How is it that nobody knew Beth had been
arrested, that she was being kept in the Tower, and in Newgate? It’s
virtually impossible to keep anything a secret, but even you didn’t know.
Clearly no one wants you, or anyone to know. So you mustn’t ask, mustn’t
tell anyone at all that you know anything. Leave it to me.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. “But if you’re not involved in it, if word gets out
that I’m trying to find Beth, you can be deeply shocked at the behaviour of
your wayward wife, and discipline her accordingly.”
Edwin tried to imagine disciplining his wayward wife, and failed. It
would take a far braver man than he was to attempt it. He had not married
her for her docility. He had married her because she was strong,
courageous, and loyal to the death to those she cared for. And she cared for
Beth, in spite of everything. And so did he. So he wasted no breath asking
her not to pursue this, because he knew she could not do otherwise. It was
one of the things he loved about her.
“Be careful, please,” he said instead. “If you find out she’s alive and
where she is held, we can make sure that she is as comfortable as possible.
But we cannot interfere with the legal process.”
“I won’t do anything reckless, I promise,” she said.
And with that she steered the conversation into calmer waters, and they
spent the rest of the evening poring over the plans for the landscaping of
Summer Hill.

***

The following morning after Edwin had gone out, Caroline lingered at the
breakfast table, drinking chocolate and weighing up her options.
Her first thought had been to approach her family. Not those who had
alienated her after her marriage to Edwin; although they were now coming
round since Edwin’s star was rising, they were nowhere near agreeing to
help her locate a prominent rebel. And in any case, she didn’t want to be
beholden to any of them.
 There was Aunt Harriet, of course. She knew everyone and was more
capable of putting the fear of God into people than anyone Caroline knew,
in spite of her age and eccentric manners. But if Beth had been held and
tortured, then it must be because she’d refused to divulge anything about
the identity or whereabouts of Anthony. Harriet was a renowned man-hater;
she would most likely say the idiot deserved everything she got and should
betray the scoundrel immediately. And Harriet had never met Beth, so
would have no idea what a special person she was.
No. Caroline had to find someone who was influential enough to
countermand orders from Newcastle, possibly from Cumberland himself,
and who had known Beth personally and had liked her.
She poured herself more chocolate and sat for a while staring unseeingly
out of the window. Then she called for her carriage to be made ready. It was
a long shot, but in fact the only possible one to attempt.

Having flouted all the rules of society by arriving at Leicester House

unannounced, Caroline was kept waiting for only a minute before being
shown by a footman into the library, where a small, swarthy-skinned man
was sitting reading a book by the window. He rose as she entered and she
curtseyed deeply to him.
“Caroline!” he exclaimed with obvious pleasure. “How wonderful to see
you! It’s been a long time. I have missed you. Sit down.” He beckoned to a
chair on the other side of the window.
“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” Caroline said, deciding to favour honesty
rather than a specious excuse for not having visited in over a year. “I did not
want anything to stand in the way of Edwin’s career. It’s so important to
him, and also, I think he is a voice of moderation in parliament, which is
sorely needed at present.”
Prince Frederick laughed and clapped his hands.
“And that is why I have missed you. You are one of the few people I
know who speaks the truth to me. I believe my father has recently knighted
your husband. Is he then secure enough in his position that you can resume
your visits to the black sheep of the family?”
“I hope so. Your parties are rarely boring. And I do miss seeing Great-
Uncle Francis being publicly humiliated on a regular basis. But I am here
today on a mission of mercy, completely independent of my husband, and I
believe you are the only person who can, and maybe will, help me.”
 “You have intrigued me. Please elaborate.”
“Do you remember Lady Elizabeth Peters, Your Highness? Small, very
beautiful, silver –”
“How could I forget Lady Elizabeth?” the prince interrupted. “It is not
every day that beautiful young ladies fight impromptu duels with pompous
young men in my salon. It cost me a fortune to get Daniel’s blood out of the
carpet. And worth every penny,” he added, his eyes sparkling. “But she
disappeared, did she not, with Sir Anthony, when their treachery was
discovered?”
“She did. But yesterday I discovered that it seems she has been arrested,
and has been kept prisoner.”
“Has she? Is she then at the Tower, or with a messenger? You wish me to
help you secure permission to visit her?”
His face expressed concern rather than disgust or pleasure at the news of
Beth’s arrest. This was promising. Caroline sat forward in the chair.
“Your Highness, it is somewhat more complicated than that. I will tell
you everything I know, and if you feel you cannot help me I will of course
understand completely.”
She explained everything, from Sarah and Tom’s visit to her experience
at the transports in Tilbury, and then he sat for a little while thinking, his
fingers steepled under his chin.
“So,” he said finally, “the last place we know she was held for certain
was Newgate Prison. In which case that seems the logical place to
commence our search for her.”
“You are going to help, then?” Caroline said.
“Of course I am! Noblesse oblige and all that. I believe it is compulsory
for handsome princes to rescue damsels in distress,” the prince said
flippantly. Then his expression changed, and he looked at the young woman
sitting opposite, whose face had lit up at his agreement to help. “You are
aware that she might be dead, Caroline? You are prepared for that?”
“Yes, I am,” Caroline answered. “And I’m also prepared for the fact that
we might not be successful in locating her.”
“Oh, we will be successful in locating her, I assure you, although it may
take a little time. After all, my position does confer certain privileges. And I
am about to exercise one of them.” He looked down at his drab woollen
breeches. “I will send for refreshments for you whilst I dress appropriately.
I shan’t be long.”
Caroline had just finished her second cup of tea and was considering
another slice of lemon cake, when the prince returned.
“Are you ready, my lady?” he asked.
She stood and turned to him, and then smiling, accepted his arm and they
left the room.
“Please take this as a compliment, Your Highness,” she said, once they
were in the royal carriage and clattering down the street in the direction of
Newgate, “but your outfit would have sent Sir Anthony into raptures.” It
would indeed. He wore an expertly tailored outfit of dark green silk,
beautifully embroidered in gold thread. In the centre of each golden coat
button sparkled a diamond, matched by the gold and diamond encrusted
buckles on his soft leather shoes.
“As long as you’re not referring to my choice of colour, I am flattered
indeed. Sir Anthony had exquisite taste in tailoring and fashion. Just a little
overstated. I miss his wit greatly, although not his treachery,” Frederick
said, almost wistfully.
“I feel as though we are about to go on a state visit,” she said by way of
changing the subject, aware that she had made a faux pas in mentioning
Anthony’s name. Frederick was so informal in his manners and speech that
it was sometimes easy to forget he was the Prince of Wales and heir to the
throne.
“Not quite. I did think wearing the ermine and crown would be overdoing
it a little,” he replied, eyes sparkling with humour. “But I take your point. I
much prefer to dress in more practical and comfortable clothing, as you
know. But not today. Ah, here we are.”
They descended from the coach assisted by two footmen, one of whom
then proceeded to hammer on the keeper’s door. The hatch opened and a
face scrutinised the visitors, and then it closed again, the door opened
immediately, and Mr Jones appeared and knelt down in the street before his
visitor.
“Your Royal Highness!” he cried.
Prince Frederick, all trace of informality vanished, observed the keeper
of Newgate Prison with great hauteur and kept him kneeling for a good
thirty seconds before bidding him rise. No one watching him now would
forget he was the Prince of Wales and heir to the throne.
“Mr Jones, is it not?” he said.
 “Indeed, Your Royal Highness, at your service. I cannot tell you how
honoured I am that you have graced –”
“Quite,” the prince interrupted. “I am here to visit a lady who is currently
lodged in your establishment.”
“Of course, Your Highness. But I cannot imagine –”
“You have no need to imagine, sir, merely to lead the way. Take me to
Miss Elizabeth Cunningham, immediately.”
The keeper’s face drained of all colour instantly. For a second it seemed
he would actually faint at the prince’s feet. Then he swallowed, and with an
effort pulled himself together.
“I…we…there is no one of that name in –”
“You may know her as Lady Elizabeth Peters, or Beth Cunningham, or
any permutation of those names. You will take me to her. Now.”
“Your Royal Highness, I regret to say that I’m not familiar with anybody
of that name,” the keeper replied uncomfortably.
“I think you may be aware that my father the king has been on the throne
for over twenty years, and we all hope that he may reign for many more,”
Prince Frederick said conversationally, eyeing the keeper with disdain. “But
one day, sir, I will take his place, and on that sad day I intend to clear the
kingdom of people who have dared to lie to me and waste my time. But let
us not look into the distant future, sir. Let us look instead at the next five
minutes. I ask you, do you wish to still be the keeper of Newgate Prison at
the end of that time?”
Mr Jones looked so distressed that Caroline almost felt sorry for the man.
His orders had definitely come from someone with great authority. Had
they not, he would certainly not have hesitated at this point, as he was
doing. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead, although it was a cold day.
“Come sir, I grow impatient,” the prince said.
Mr Jones wiped his forehead, swallowed and came to a decision.
“If you would care to step inside my humble lodgings, Your Highness, I
will fetch Miss Cunningham to you,” he said.
Caroline forced her expression to remain neutral, but she wanted to drop
to the ground and kiss the prince’s feet. Beth was alive, and here! It had
been that easy!
“No,” Frederick replied. “I do not wish to wait. You will conduct us to
her cell.”
Mr Jones’ complexion turned a sickly green.
 “Immediately.”
Without further comment, the utterly defeated keeper took out his bunch
of keys and opening the prison door, led his exalted visitors into the prison.
“Dear God,” Frederick said when they were a few feet inside. “What is
that dreadful smell?”
“You don’t notice it after a time, Your Highness,” Mr Jones said.
“You mean the place always smells like this?”
Mr Jones stopped.
“I…er…I can arrange for someone to fetch a nosegay for you, Your
Highness. That helps to get rid of the smell. Or if you would care to go
outside, I can fetch Miss –”
“No. Just take me to her,” the prince replied, breathing through his
mouth.
They made their way down a series of stone corridors, poorly lit by
rushlights set into wall sconces, coming finally to a locked wooden door,
outside which the keeper stopped.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather –”
“Open the door,” Frederick ordered.
The door was opened, there was a skittering noise in the room as the
vermin ran for shelter, and then Mr Jones walked in, holding the candle he
was carrying high so it cast a gloomy yellow light around the small room,
illuminating the damp glistening on the rough stone walls and a pile of rags
in one corner. The room was bitterly cold, and the smell of stale air,
excrement and sickness was intense. The prince retched once, and then with
an effort, recovered himself.
“I thought you said that Miss –” he began, then stopped as the pile of
rags moved slightly.
“Beth!” Caroline cried, and forgetting all the proprieties, pushed past the
prince and the keeper and fell to her knees at the side of the occupant.
“Dear God in heaven, what have they done to you?” she said, although it
was so dim that Caroline could only see that the young woman’s face was
whiter than her hair, which was matted, and that the rags were the remnants
of clothes which appeared to have rotted on her body. Her eyes were closed,
and she seemed to be unconscious of their presence.
The prince took the candle from the unresisting keeper’s hand, and
moving forward, came to stand next to Caroline. He bent slightly so that the
light fell on the prisoner’s face. Then he inhaled sharply, straightened, and
turned to the keeper.
“Who has done this?” he said icily.
“I…I…I was ordered not to –”
“Never mind. I will deal with you later. Take this please.” He handed the
candle to Caroline, then in one fluid movement he bent, lifted the
unconscious woman up and turned to the door.
Mr Jones stood inadvertently blocking the exit, horror-stricken.
“What are you doing?” he gasped.
“I am taking this young woman out of here,” Frederick said.
“But she’s a prisoner! My orders have come from the highest –”
“Higher than myself, sir?” Frederick asked. “Are you telling me that the
king my father has personally ordered you to torture and then starve this
young woman to death?”
“I…no…but…”
“Then get out of my way.”
Mr Jones wisely got out of the way, and the prince strode down the
corridor, out of the prison gate and straight into the waiting carriage, where
he carefully laid his burden down on the bench seat before looking back to
see Caroline following him. She climbed into the carriage and sat down
next to the prince, her eyes brimming with tears of horror and rage. He
leaned over and held his hand above Beth’s nose and mouth. An unbearable
smell filled the carriage, a smell of dirt, of urine, and of something rotten
which Caroline dared not think about right now or she would fall apart.
“She’s breathing,” he said. “We must get her home, now. And then call
for the surgeon.” He lifted his hand to bang on the roof of the coach to tell
the driver to leave.
“Wait,” Caroline said, thinking hard. She had expected at the best to find
Beth, talk to her, make arrangements with the keeper for her to have the
best accommodation and food available. She had not expected to be sitting
in the Prince of Wales’ coach opposite a woman on the brink of death. She
looked at the prince, sitting there in his now badly soiled outfit; the
expression on his face told her that he had acted impulsively in removing
her from the prison in flagrant disregard for the law, but that now it was
done he would not go back. “You cannot take her to Leicester House, Your
Highness,” she said.
“Why not?” he asked, still overcome by rage and indignation.
 “There are already rumours that you are a Jacobite sympathiser,”
Caroline replied.
“What? Is there nothing I am not accused of? Why on earth would I
sympathise with the man who is trying to usurp me?”
“It is said that you intervened to save the life of Lord Cromartie, and that
you stopped Oxford University being censured.”
“The king granted the reprieve to Lord Cromartie, not I, because his
pregnant wife fainted at his feet, and many others supported the motion for
his reprieve. And as for Oxford, I merely intervened to stop the loyal
majority of the student body being tainted by the actions of the Jacobite
few. That hardly makes me a Jacobite sympathiser! No more than rescuing
a misguided young woman from the utmost barbarity does,” he added,
glancing across at the skeletal form of the unconscious figure lying opposite
him.
“I know, and I am not saying you are, I am merely saying that your
action today, when it is known how she’s suffered, will certainly enhance
your reputation as a just and kind prince. But if you take her into your home
for however long it takes for her to recover, your enemies will have time to
invent a malicious story about your loyalties. It could damage your
reputation far more than mine. I have little to lose anyway. I don’t care a fig
for society, and I’m not the heir to the throne.”
“No, but your husband is a highly favoured Whig politician.”
“My husband knows nothing of what we have done today. This is all my
doing, and I would have that reported widely. He will be incensed when he
finds out, and I would have that reported widely too,” Caroline said, hoping
that Edwin would not in reality be too angry at what she was about to do.
She turned to the prince, and the tears spilled over her lashes. “I believe that
one day you will make a wonderful king, and I would not have my regard
for this woman, and your kindness in helping me to find her, jeopardise
that. And neither would Edwin. Please, take her to my house. I will take
care of her. But I will accept the offer of your surgeon, Your Highness.”
The prince took Caroline’s hands in his.
“You are a most extraordinary woman, Caroline,” he said. “I will not
forget this day, or your loyalty to your friends, of whom I hope I can count
myself as one.”
“Indeed you can, Your Highness,” she replied. “And I am honoured to
say so.”
 The prince leaned out of the coach window, instructed one of the footmen
to make all haste to the surgeon, and then ordered the coachman to drive to
Caroline’s, but slowly, so as not to risk the extremely fragile cargo they
carried.

***

Whitehall

“Mr Jones here to see you, my lord,” Benjamin announced, adding when it
was obvious that his master had no idea who Mr Jones was, “The keeper of
Newgate Prison.”
“Ah. Did he say it was important?” the Duke of Newcastle asked.
“No. But I think it is. He looks somewhat discomposed, my lord.”
“Very well. Show him in.”
Once Mr Jones had been admitted, the duke could see that ‘somewhat
discomposed’ was something of an understatement. The man was sweating
and trembling as though he had the ague.
“Are you ill, man?” the duke asked, alarmed. If the man had gaol fever,
he should not be coming here, infecting his staff and himself.
“No, I am quite well, my lord,” he said, sketching a bow. “You told me
that you wished to be notified immediately if any man came to the prison
enquiring about Miss Cunningham.” He took out a handkerchief and wiped
his brow.
“Excellent! Give me all the details. What manner of man was he?”
The keeper mumbled something at the floor, of which only one word
reached Newcastle’s ears.
“What? The man said his name was Prince?” he said. “Speak up, man!”
“No, my lord. It was the prince,” Mr Jones said despairingly.
“The prince? You mean Prince William Augustus? What did you tell
him? Did he see her? What is her condition?” the duke barked, thinking
rapidly. He had thought the prince to be too preoccupied with his new lover
to think about Miss Cunningham.
“Not Prince William, my lord, Prince Frederick.”
“Prince Frederick?! You mean the Prince Frederick?” Newcastle asked,
astounded.
 Mr Jones was clearly confused, having had no idea that there might be
more than one prince called Frederick.
“Yes, my lord,” he replied uncertainly.
“And did you tell him that you had no one of that name in the prison, as
we agreed?”
“I did, my lord.”
“Ah, good.”
“But he didn’t believe me, my lord. And he demanded to see her. I had no
choice,” Mr Jones said.
Oh, no.
“What condition is the prisoner in? Is she in good health?”
“Well, no, she’s in a bad way.”
“What? You mean she was not being kept in a manner befitting her
station as the cousin of a lord?”
The keeper’s eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open in shock.
“No, my lord. You expressly said that she was to be kept in solitary
confinement and given minimum rations and no privileges or medical
treatment whatsoever. I followed your orders to the letter.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, man,” the duke scoffed. “I would hardly order such
treatment for a member of the aristocracy, even a traitor. You must have
misunderstood me. Transfer her to the Tower immediately. Ensure she gets
the very best of everything. I will speak with Prince Frederick and clear this
misunderstanding up.”
The keeper muttered something at the floor again. Sweat dripped off his
chin and landed on his shoe. The duke eyed him with distaste.
“What did you say?”
“He took her, my lord. The prince took her away. I couldn’t stop him. I
don’t know where she is.”

After he’d had the man thrown out, the Duke of Newcastle sat with his head
in his hands, thinking rapidly. This was terrible. How the hell had Prince
Fred found out the Cunningham girl was in Newgate Prison? And why was
he taking such an interest in her? Where was she? And, more importantly,
what was the prince going to do? Go to his father? His brother? Was
Cumberland still soft on the woman? Even if he wasn’t, he would never
countenance a woman of her status being tortured and then slowly starved
to death.
 Thank God I didn’t put my orders to Jones in writing, Newcastle thought.
No one else knew. He would deny everything, let the keeper take the blame
if there was any comeback from this. He had already covered his tracks
regarding the disastrous situation with Captain Cunningham. He could do it
again. As for Elizabeth Cunningham, it was clear she was never going to
reveal anything about Sir Anthony. Jones had said she was in a bad way.
With luck she would die, and then it would all blow over in no time. If she
lived it would be most inconvenient, especially as he could hardly arrange
for an accident to befall her now she had come to the notice of Frederick.
Cumberland was extremely busy and would be out of the country
fighting soon, and she had rejected his romantic proposal quite brutally; he
was unlikely to spend precious time making enquiries regarding her ill-
treatment. Hopefully.
But Frederick was another matter; his ongoing estrangement from his
father, and the king’s unwillingness to allow his heir to undertake any royal
duties left the young prince with nothing to do but interfere in matters that
were none of his concern. As he just had.
The duke realised that with Miss Cunningham out of his control, there
was nothing he could do to try to cover this up without calling attention to
himself. What he could do was distance himself from the whole situation, to
absolve himself from blame as best he could.
And absolving himself from blame was something the Duke of
Newcastle was very adept at.

***

By the time Edwin returned home that evening Beth had been very
carefully undressed, washed, and gently laid between warmed and scented
sheets in the main guest room. The surgeon had visited and had spent the
whole afternoon and evening with his patient, telling Caroline that in truth
he did not think he could save her, but he would do his utmost. Throughout
all of this Beth had remained insensible, her breathing shallow, her pulse
barely discernible, while Caroline had prayed with a fervour she had not
shown since she was a small child, and had prepared herself for her
husband’s reaction.
“I thought you said you would not do anything reckless!” Edwin said
when Caroline told him what had transpired.
 “I didn’t expect Fred to take her from the prison!” Caroline replied. “I
don’t think he did, either, to be honest. It was an impulse. But I’m glad he
did.”
“Did you have to bring her here, though? She’s the wife of the most
wanted man in Britain! What happens if she escapes?”
“Come and see her. Then you’ll know how likely she is to escape,”
Caroline said.
Edwin shook his head.
“I can’t be involved in this, Caro. It will be political suicide if it becomes
known that I’m sheltering her. You’ve broken the law, too. You can’t just
spring someone from prison!”
“No, I can’t. And I didn’t. Fred did that, and he’ll take the responsibility
for it. And I brought her here for two reasons; firstly because Fred and I will
make it widely known that we acted without either your knowledge or
permission. But now it’s done you can hardly go directly against the express
wish of the Prince of Wales. No one would expect you to do that, so your
career is not in jeopardy. By taking responsibility for her now, I am earning
you the good favour of the future King of Great Britain, and hopefully
assuring your future career too.”
Edwin stared at his wife.
“You have really thought this through,” he said in wonder.
“No. I acted on the spur of the moment. I didn’t have time to think it
through.”
“Even so…you said there was a second reason for bringing her here?”
“Yes. My first instinct was to take her to Summer Hill, where it’s not
only quieter but more discreet, but I don’t think she would have survived
the journey. And if you see her, Edwin, you’ll understand why Fred did
what he did. I’m sure you would have done the same, in fact.”
“Is she really that ill?” Edwin asked.
She took his hand. “Come and see,” she said.

When they entered the room, the royal surgeon was just packing away his
things. He stood, and bowed slightly to them.
“I have done everything I can for now,” he said. “She has taken a little
sustenance, thank God, but…”
“Is she conscious, then?” Caroline asked.
 “No, but when we spooned a little warm milk into her mouth, she
swallowed automatically. I do not wish to raise your hopes, however. I do
not know if we can bring her back from this.” He snapped his bag closed.
“If she recovers consciousness, try to get her to drink a very little warm,
thin broth. Only a little, though. Her stomach will not be able to cope with
more than a few spoonsful. I will return first thing in the morning, but if
there is any change between now and then send for me immediately.” He
was shown out by a footman.
Caroline went straight over to the bed, and sat down on a chair at the side
of it. Edwin stood hesitantly in the doorway. Caroline held out her hand and
he moved forward reluctantly, his eyes on the still figure lying in the bed.
“Oh, dear God,” he gasped when he was close enough to see her clearly.
He turned his head away for a moment, then looked back at the remains of
the beautiful, vibrant woman he had once called his friend. Tears spilled
unheeded down his cheeks and he sank to his knees at the side of the bed.
She was wearing a nightdress of Caroline’s and the bedding covered most
of her body, which hardly made any impression in the bed. All that was
visible of her was her head, neck and one arm, which was resting on top of
the bedclothes, the wrist and hand heavily bandaged, but that was enough
for all Edwin’s reservations about taking care of her to be completely
obliterated.
She was a skeleton. The skin of her face, paper-thin and yellow, followed
the contours of her skull perfectly. Her cheekbones looked about to break
through the fragile covering, and her closed eyes were sunk deep into the
sockets, the pale lashes showing starkly against the surrounding shadowed
skin. Below the cheekbones her face was sunken; so little flesh remained
that Edwin could see the hinge of her jaw bone. Her neck was a stick, her
windpipe visible, and the double bones of the lower arm could be clearly
distinguished, her elbow appearing huge by comparison. Her once glorious
hair was now lifeless, strawlike and matted.
“Who has done this?” he asked, his voice hoarse with emotion.
“I don’t know. At the moment, we have to put all our effort into bringing
her back. If we can bring her back,” Caroline said. “The surgeon couldn’t
believe that she’d actually managed to survive this long. She’s literally skin
and bone. She has wounds on her wrists that have partially healed, but then
become infected, and have not been treated. And she has rat bites on her
legs. Sit down properly, Edwin, you look about to faint,” she added, seeing
the ominous grey pallor overtake his face.
Instead he sat on the floor and put his head between his knees, breathing
deeply for a few minutes until he recovered enough to speak.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She was about to say that he had no need to apologise for being dizzy,
but before she could speak, he continued.
“You were right. Of course she must stay here. No one deserves this,
least of all someone as kind, as spirited as she is…was. We must find out
who is responsible. This is not punishment. This is barbarity. God, I thought
the executions were bad, but this…this defies everything.”
“I think those who have been executed have been the lucky ones,”
Caroline said softly. “She is not the only one being treated this way, I
believe. I told you about the transports yesterday. The only difference
between Beth and those poor souls is that she is highborn, and they, as far
as we know are not.”
“We must make arrangements,” Edwin said. “Get a nurse for her, several
nurses. She must have someone with her at all times. And we must…” He
stopped, arrested by Caroline’s hand on his arm.
“I will stay with her tonight,” she said. “If she makes it through the night,
then we can engage a nurse for her. Frederick said he will arrange for us to
become official messengers, so that we can have legal responsibility for her.
He thinks a guard may have to be stationed outside the door, in view of her
importance as the only person who knows Anthony’s identity.”
Edwin snorted in disgust.
“Important enough for a guard, but not important enough to feed,” he
said.
“I think she has refused to compromise in any way at all,” Caroline said.
“She told the maid at the Tower to place a bet that she would neither marry
nor become William’s mistress. I suspect she may have told him the same
thing, in no uncertain terms. You know how direct she always was.”
He smiled, remembering, then looked at the figure in the bed, and his
mouth twisted with grief. He looked up at his wife, whose eyes were also
shimmering with tears.
“To hell with everything,” he said. “If we can bring her back from this,
we must. Whatever she has done, she’s our friend.”
 “’Not a day goes by that I do not think of you and wish that I still had
your friendship, but I understand this can never be,’” Caroline murmured.
“You remember the exact words of her letter?” Edwin said.
“I do. I read it several times before I burned it,” Caroline replied, then her
eyes widened. “Oh God, I forgot to let Sarah know we’d found her! I must
send a message, straight away!” She rang the bell and gave the order. Edwin
waited until the servant had left the room before he spoke again.
“She was wrong,” Edwin said. “She does still have our friendship.
Highbury was wrong too when he said Anthony had not compromised
anyone. This poor girl has been compromised by him. And I will never
forgive him for that.”
“Go and get some rest, Edwin,” Caroline said. “You’ve had a long day. I
will sit with her tonight, and then we can discuss the details of her care
tomorrow.”
He stood, kissed his wife, and prepared to leave. At the door he turned
back.
“You will wake me, if…” His voice trailed away.
“Of course,” she replied.
“And tomorrow,” he added, as he opened the door, “I will go and visit the
transports.”
He closed the door quietly behind him, and Caroline settled herself for
her all-night vigil.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Paris, January 1747

“Your Royal Highness, I beg ye to reconsider,” Donald Cameron of Lochiel

said fervently to his prince, who was currently slouching in a chair by the
fire, a cold damp cloth across his forehead. Last night had been a long one
and had involved, as usual, a ridiculous amount of drink and a number of
whores. Charles was clearly not in the mood for a lecture. But it was rare
nowadays for Lochiel to find him alone without that corrupting bastard
Kelly by his side, and he could not waste the opportunity.
“Donald, have I not been good to you? Are you not one of my closest
advisers? Have I not applied for a regimental command for you?”
“You have, Your Highness, and I’m verra grateful of course. But –”
“So why do you persist in troubling me when I am unwell?”
You’re no’ unwell, you’re hungover, ye drunken sot, Lochiel thought, then
hastily chided himself. This was the man for whom he had sacrificed
everything, his prince, the only hope the Stuarts now had of a restoration to
the British throne; he deserved respect. But Charles also needed to know
that the course he was heading on now could lead only to a further
estrangement between himself and King Louis, which neither he nor the
Jacobite cause in general could afford.
“Because this canna wait, Your Highness. Please, if you will give me a
few minutes of your time.”
Wearily Charles indicated with a wave of his hand for the Cameron chief
to take a chair on the other side of the fire. Lochiel sat down.
“Your Highness, I beg you to abandon this plan to leave Paris and go to
Avignon. It will be a direct affront to His Majesty to do so.”
“Good. That is what I intend it to be. How does he expect me to live in a
style appropriate to my status on a mere twelve thousand livres a month? It
is an insult. As is his refusal to allow me a royal residence to live in, as he
promised me when we met at Fontainebleau. How can I command the
respect of my followers if I allow the French king to treat me thus?”
 Lochiel forbore from pointing out that surrounding yourself with drunken
debauchers and spending a fortune on liquor and whores, to say nothing of
insulting the only person who could finance another rising, was far more
likely to alienate your followers than allowing King Louis to prevaricate, as
he did with everyone.
“You have the respect of all of us,” he said instead. “We all ken well that
it’s the nature of the king to dither a wee bit, but –”
“Dither a wee bit!” Charles exclaimed, then moaned and put his hand to
his head. “The king has done nothing. Had he acceded to my request for
twenty thousand troops to accompany me to England, I could be mounting a
winter expedition right now and taking the throne for my father. If England
falls to me there will be no need of a campaign in Scotland. We need to
strike hard and fast, drive the Elector off the throne before he knows what
has hit him. Once the throne is secure, the rest will follow, I am convinced
of it.”
“But Louis will not agree to commit such a force to England, Your
Highness,” Lochiel pointed out. “Whereas he is far more amenable to
granting us troops for another invasion of Scotland.”
“Scotland has been crushed by Cumberland’s troops, though,” Charles
said, a note of sadness entering his tone. “Those loyal to me have been
disarmed and driven from their homes. They could not rise now if they
would. And I have no reason to believe those who did not come out for me
last year feel any differently now.”
“I do have reason to believe it,” Lochiel said, reaching into his coat
pocket and producing a letter. “I received a letter yesterday from Cluny
Macpherson, and another today from Alex MacGregor. As ye ken, Cluny
has clan members everywhere wi’ their ear to the ground, and Alex is a
master of intelligence gathering. They both give me great hope, for they tell
me that the brutality of Cumberland’s men is having the opposite effect to
that they intended. The clansmen are incensed wi’ the treatment they’ve
received, and no’ just the clans loyal to you, Your Highness. The redcoats
have no’ discriminated overmuch in their plundering between those who
rose and those who didna. The Macleans are for rising, Ardshiel and others
are still hiding out near Appin, and Keppoch’s, my own Camerons, the
MacGregors, Grants, Frasers…there are many who are waiting for ye to
come back. It’s my belief that ye’ll raise more than twice the number ye did
last year, and more maybe. Wi’ the addition of a small French force, ye
could take Scotland back for the Stuarts, easily.”
Charles took the towel off his forehead and looked at his most loyal
follower, not without sympathy.
“Donald, I understand you, and I value your loyalty and that of Cluny
and Alex, and others. But if I lead another rising in Scotland, the same thing
will happen. I may take Scotland for my father, yes. But without England
that means nothing.”
“How can that mean nothing?” Lochiel said, aghast. “The Stuarts reigned
in Scotland alone for hundreds of years, until Queen Elizabeth died barren.
Ye could do it again, break the union, and Scotland could hold her head up
once more as an independent country. Your Highness, you owe it to the
people who have fought and died for you, and those who are now suffering
for it, to abandon this scheme for an English invasion, which the king will
never agree to, and settle for a Scottish expedition, which he will agree to.”
“My father is the rightful king of all Great Britain, not just Scotland,”
Charles said belligerently.
Lochiel swallowed down his frustration, forcing his tone to remain calm.
He was desperate to get back to his country, to his people, who were
suffering while he sat here in relative luxury, trying to make the prince see
reason. They had to mount another campaign in Scotland. If they didn’t the
Highland way of life would be obliterated. However, he had known the
prince for long enough to know that shouting at him was not the way to go.
“Would ye no’ rather have Scotland than nothing at all?” he asked gently
instead.
“That will not happen,” Charles said confidently. “If I cannot get Louis’
approval, I will seek elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere?” Lochiel asked. Charles coloured.
“In the future,” he added hastily. “But in the meantime I will go to
Avignon and seek to set up court there. It is after all a papal state, and I
think that Pope Benedict will look favourably on me.”
“Your Highness, an ye leave French territory now, and insult the king by
doing so, you will give Louis the chance to make peace with Britain, as
some are urging him to do.”
“I have made up my mind,” Charles persisted stubbornly. “I am giving
my brother plenipotentiary powers while I’m away. I’m sure he will come
up with some plausible reasons for my absence that will satisfy the king.
Now, I am ill, and I wish to be alone. Please leave us.”
Lochiel had no option but to leave. He had tried his best, he told himself;
he could not have done more. But that would not help those who were
starving and dying at home, and were waiting desperately for news of a
French landing in Scotland.
He could of course drive his sword through the heart of George Kelly, the
adviser who was encouraging Charles to take this ridiculous stand against
the French king, which he could not win. But then he would have to kill all
the other sycophants who had the prince under their sway too. And even if
he did that, Charles would still go his own way.
All he could do was remain loyal and wait, hoping that the prince would
see sense and take advice from those who genuinely sought a Stuart
restoration rather than those who sought to line their pockets.

***

London.

Very slowly, hour by hour and day by day, under the expert treatment of one
of the best surgeons in the country and the expert nursing of one of the most
belligerent and determined women in the country, with the aid of her
equally formidable assistant and the intermittent presence of Edwin when
not on parliamentary duty, Beth started to recover.
When Sarah had received the message that Beth had been found, she had
gone immediately to Caroline’s, and apart from a brief trip home to collect
clothing and other necessaries, had stayed there ever since. Caroline had
insisted on paying her, because she was earning nothing while she was
looking after Beth, and when Sarah had balked at being paid for taking care
of someone she loved, Caroline had pointed out that she would have had to
pay a nurse anyway, but would far prefer someone who had a personal
interest in the recovery of the patient.
After a few days the surgeon informed the Harlows and Sarah that he
believed Beth to be out of danger of imminent death, although it was
impossible to tell how much damage her vital organs had sustained due to
the prolonged starvation. He confessed himself to be astounded. He had
never seen anyone come so close to death’s door and not cross the
threshold. It was a miracle, and a testament to the immense will to live that
this tiny, fragile body harboured.
Neither Caroline nor Sarah thought it to be a miracle; they knew that
Beth was one of the most stubborn, determined people they’d ever met,
with a great zest for life. They were not surprised that her survival instinct
caused her to automatically swallow the food and medicines she was given,
even though she was still unconscious for much of the time, and when
conscious showed no awareness of her surroundings or her situation.
After ten days of constant care and incrementally larger meals, Beth
finally recovered both consciousness and awareness, to the relief and joy of
the three people whose lives currently revolved around her.
And then the real work started. Because once awake, far from being
happy to be alive and grateful to those who had made it so, she was
distraught. Her treacherous body might want to accept nourishment and
survive at all costs, but the owner of it most certainly did not. With every
fibre of her being she wanted to die and join her husband, who she was now
certain must not have survived Culloden.
The first time that Caroline tried to feed the fully conscious Beth, still too
weak to move, a bowl of soup, she closed her mouth and turned her head
away like a small child refusing its greens.
“Come on, Beth,” said Caroline, misunderstanding the gesture. “I know
it’s embarrassing to be fed like a baby, but soon you’ll be able to lift a
spoon yourself. Mr Platt says you’re making a remarkable recovery.”
To Caroline’s astonishment, on hearing these words Beth’s face
crumpled, and she gave a huge sob. Tears welled in her eyes, spilled over,
and trickled down the sunken cheeks. Caroline abandoned the soup, and
leaning over, very carefully took the emaciated woman in her arms.
“I don’t want to,” Beth murmured into Caroline’s chest. “I’m so close.
Please let me die.”
“It’s all right,” Caroline said. “You don’t need to be afraid. We won’t let
you go back to Newgate.”
“No, you don’t understand,” Beth said, but Caroline was already reaching
for the soup again, and too exhausted by her brief emotional outburst to
protest, she dutifully swallowed the soup before falling into a deep sleep.
Upon awakening the following morning, however, she made a further
attempt to make her wishes known.
 “I want to die,” she told a startled Caroline who, thinking her patient to
be deeply asleep, was sitting by the side of the bed engrossed in a novel.
She closed it with a snap and put it on the bedside table.
“You’re very weak,” Caroline began, “Mr Platt, he’s the surgeon, said
you would be low in spirits for a time. And as I told you yesterday, we
won’t let you go back to Newgate. At the moment Edwin has permission for
you to stay here until you are completely well. And Prince Frederick is
determined that if you are to remain a prisoner, it will either be here with us,
or in luxury in the Tower. But I really think we might be able to secure your
release before too long. Once you’re a little stronger, you’ll feel
differently.”
“No I won’t,” Beth replied. “I’ve been trying to die for months. Why
won’t you let me?”
“You don’t mean that,” Caroline said, shocked.
“I do,” Beth persisted. “I tried to get them to execute me, because I was
scared of getting gaol fever, but they wouldn’t. And then after Richard,
when they told me about the baby, and then they left me alone, really alone,
I knew they’d given up, and then I didn’t mind if I got it because they
wouldn’t hear me, but I didn’t. And then they stopped bringing food and I
was happy because I knew we’d be together soon. And now it’s all spoilt.”
She was delirious. She had to be. Nothing she was saying made any
sense.
“Well you’ll just have to stop trying to die,” Caroline said briskly.
“Because we love you and we’re not letting you die, and there’s an end of
it.”

A few evenings later Caroline and Edwin were in the cosy parlour chatting
about the affairs of the day, when there came a tentative knock on the door.
“Come in!” Edwin shouted at the top of his voice, expecting Toby.
The door opened and Sarah poked her head round it.
“Can I have a word?” she asked. “Beth’s asleep,” she added by way of
explaining her dereliction of duty.
She came in and sat down, a worried expression on her face.
“She’s much stronger today,” she said. “She said she was only eating
because she feels bad about all the trouble she’s causing us. We had a long
chat.”
 “Right now I don’t care why she’s eating, as long as she is,” Caroline
replied. “Her mood will lift when she’s stronger.”
“That’s why I want to talk to you,” Sarah said. “I’m not sure it will.”
“What was the long chat about?” Edwin asked.
“She told me that she was interviewed by the Duke of Cumberland and
the Duke of Newcastle, and that she wouldn’t tell them anything, which was
why they sent her to Newgate. One of her cellmates died of gaol fever, but
before she died she rambled in her fever and told the others all sorts of
things about her life. After that Beth was terrified of getting sick and
revealing everything about Sir Anthony. So she deliberately provoked the
duke, hoping he’d order her execution.”
“Except he didn’t. He ordered her to be tortured instead,” Caroline stated.
“Yes. But she told me something else. She was pregnant,” Sarah said.
“What?” Edwin asked. “Did she know this when she saw the duke?”
“Yes.”
“And he still ordered her torture?” he said, aghast.
“Which duke?” Caroline asked, her expression showing that whichever
one it was, he was going to regret it.
“Newcastle,” Sarah said. “But he didn’t know. She didn’t tell him,
because she knew that he wouldn’t have her killed if he knew she was
pregnant.”
“I don’t understand,” Edwin said.
“She didn’t want him to use her own child to try to make her betray Sir
Anthony. And she knew that if she didn’t the baby would have almost no
chance of surviving anyway, in prison or a foundling hospital.”
“You mean she thinks so much of that traitor that she was willing to kill
herself and her baby rather than give him up?” Edwin said, astounded.
“What’s wrong with her? He’s abandoned her, for God’s sake! Can’t she see
that? I wish I knew who he really was. I’d give him up to Newcastle with
the greatest pleasure.”
This uncharacteristic display of anger silenced both women for a
moment. Sarah opened her mouth, then closed it again, unsure of what to
say.
“He might not have abandoned her, Edwin. He might be dead,” Caroline
pointed out.
“That’s what she thinks,” Sarah added. “She said that he told her he’d
come for her, and if he was alive he certainly would have done by now. So
he must be dead, and she wants to join him. She lost the baby after
Richard…” She stopped for a minute, her face twisting with hatred, “…
after he tortured her.”
“This is ridiculous,” Edwin said, still incensed. “Whether he’s dead or
alive, he doesn’t deserve this loyalty. He knew what he was when he
married her. He had no right to put her in that danger, to talk an innocent,
gullible girl into following him into treason and then letting her go on
campaign with him–”
“Are we still talking about Beth?” Caroline interrupted.
“Of course we are!” Edwin said, puzzled. “Who else would we be talking
about?”
“I don’t know,” Caroline retorted. “But the only way that Beth was
innocent before Anthony married her was in understanding how
manipulative and two-faced society is. And she was never gullible. She was
already a Jacobite, Edwin. Surely that’s obvious? Anthony recognised that,
and married her to get her away from her obnoxious family before she gave
herself away anyway. I don’t know what happened after that, but as for
letting her do something, can you imagine anyone trying to stop Beth doing
something she really wants to do?”
“He was her husband,” Edwin said. “A husband should be able to
control…” He looked at his wife, and his voice trailed away. “Anyway,” he
continued a moment later, “if she thinks he’s dead, why doesn’t she tell
Newcastle what he wants to know? It can’t do Anthony any harm, but we
could almost certainly get her a pardon if she does.”
“She said that if she betrays him, she’ll betray some other people too,
people that she cares for,” Sarah said, her colour rising a little. “She won’t
do that. I admire her for it.”
“So do I,” Caroline agreed.
Edwin wiped his hand across his face in exasperation.
“I give in,” he said. “You must both have been reading those stupid
romantic novels that women swoon over. We’re talking about traitors here.
Men who are trying to overthrow the king; dangerous, ruthless men.”
“Unlike the kind and compassionate men who are not trying to overthrow
the king, but who are happy to order the torture and starvation of a young
woman because she won’t give up the man she loves?” Caroline said coldly.
Sarah looked from one to the other in shock. She had never heard them
exchange so much as a cross word before. Now they looked about to
embark on a full-blown argument. Her guilt at being the unwitting cause of
this marital disharmony emboldened her to intervene.
“Arguing with each other about whether she should give him up or not is
pointless, because she won’t do it. Instead we should be trying to work out
how to be the first people to stop Beth doing something she wants to do,”
she said. “Because right now all she wants to do is die.”
“I’m sorry,” Edwin said, his naturally placid, kind-hearted nature
prevailing over his outburst of anger. “Neither of you are the sort of idiotic
woman who swoons over dreadful romantic novels. I shouldn’t have said
that.”
“I’m sorry, too,” Caroline replied. “We’re all overwrought. Let’s see what
we can come up with to persuade her that she has good reason to live.”

***

After trying a multitude of tactics, from talking about the bright future she
could have, that she was too young and lovely to die, that lots of people
loved her, even (from Sarah) that when released she could continue her
fight to restore the Stuarts, they finally hit upon the two things that made
her agree to try to get well.
The first was to tell her of the huge amount of effort, time and money that
had been put into rescuing her. The soldier Ned risked the wrath of Richard
if it became known that he had spoken about her ordeal; Prince Frederick
risked further alienation from his father by freeing her from jail; Edwin had
put his political career on the line by agreeing to keep her in his house; and
Sarah was losing a lot of custom and goodwill by spending all her time
nursing Beth. She owed it to them if not to herself to stop being so selfish
and repay their efforts on her behalf.
And the second was to tell her that Richard would be overjoyed if he
knew that she had utterly lost the will to live and had committed suicide
because of his attack on her.
She spent the next two weeks valiantly forcing down food, gritting her
teeth at the resulting stomach cramps, trying not to feel embarrassed when
she lost control of her bladder which happened frequently at first, enduring
the cramps and frustration once she tried to start performing herculean tasks
such as feeding herself and sitting up unaided; and all of it done with a
sullen and resentful attitude towards those who were resorting to emotional
blackmail to stop her killing herself.

It was only when she was finally capable of sitting, and was able to be lifted
out of the bed by Edwin and seated in a chair by the window for a short
period of time, and could look out at the people passing by in the street to
relieve the boredom of convalescence, that she saw the spire of a nearby
church. And suddenly the third reason, and the most important one, the only
one that really mattered, hit her.
If she had died in the prison cell, that would have been fine. But to
deliberately refuse aid and choose to starve to death, was suicide. In the
Roman Catholic faith, the faith to which both she and Alex belonged,
suicide was a mortal sin. If she died by her own hand, she would go to hell.
And if she went to hell she would never be reunited with Alex, because if
he was dead, as she believed he must be, he had died fighting for what he
believed in and for the right to worship freely, and would therefore be
certain of a place in heaven.
She had to live, and go on living, until God decided it was time for her to
die and join the only man she had ever loved, the only man she ever would
love. And if she was going to live, then she might as well do it
wholeheartedly, as she had always done everything.

That afternoon, to Edwin’s surprise, when he returned to carry her back to

bed Beth bestowed a smile on him which actually reached her eyes, and
asked him if he thought she might be able to attempt to stand by herself
soon.
“I’ll call for the surgeon and ask his advice,” Edwin said. “I don’t want to
say yes and then risk you breaking your leg.”
When Sarah came in later with some mashed potatoes and carefully de-
boned fish, Beth had pushed back the bedcovers and was attempting to raise
and lower her legs, her face contorted with the effort. Eyeing the stick-thin
shins on display, Sarah forced down the tears and pasted a smile on her
face.
“Dinner!” she said brightly. “And there’s a syllabub for dessert, too.”
Beth looked at her, grimaced at the bland food which was all her stomach
could tolerate at the moment, and pulled the sheet back over herself.
 “Edwin said that he’s worried I might break my legs if I try to walk right
now,” Beth said, “so I thought I’d build a little muscle without putting any
weight on them at first. When I was in the Tower,” she continued, lifting a
forkful of potato to her lips and blowing on it to cool it a little, “I used to
run on the spot, and hold a book at arm’s length for ages to stop my muscles
wasting away. When I think of all the walking I did, when we were…never
mind. I took my health for granted.”
“You’ll get it back,” Sarah replied.
Beth smiled at her.
“Yes,” she said. “I will. Thank you. All of you. I’m sorry I’ve been so
ungrateful. I’ve been feeling very low, but I’m much better today.”

“She’s turned the corner,” Sarah said later in the parlour. “I don’t know
what’s happened, but she’s suddenly got the will to live, really got it. She’s
not just eating and moving to please us any more.”
“Thank God for that,” Caroline breathed. “I’ve missed the old Beth, more
than I expected to. And maybe we can all start living a more normal life
now if one of us doesn’t have to sit with her every night for fear she’ll find
a way to kill herself.”
“I can’t imagine feeling so desperately unhappy with life that all you
want to do is end it,” Edwin said. “It must be terrible.”
“It is,” Sarah replied without thinking, then blushed as Edwin and
Caroline both looked at her. “But if you don’t give in to it, then time goes
by and things change, and one day you’re really glad that you kept going,
because life is a wonderful gift, and you come out stronger for having
survived the bad times.”
“Maybe she’ll be able to have visitors now,” Caroline said. “It’ll do her
good to have some different conversation. I know Tom wants to see her if
she wants him to, and Prince Frederick does, too. I didn’t want to take the
chance on letting them see her in case she was rude to them.”
“I don’t think she will be now she’s not angry with everyone who saved
her life,” Sarah said. “Can I ask a favour of you both?”
“Of course!” Caroline replied. “I don’t know how we’d have managed
without your help.”
“Don’t mention Mary to her. At all.”
They had agreed not to mention that Sarah was looking after her niece
while Beth was very weak, in case it reminded her of the baby she’d lost.
 “But surely once she’s a little stronger, she’ll be able to deal with it? You
can’t keep Mary from her forever,” Edwin pointed out.
“Maybe not. But will you let me be the one to decide when to tell her?
However long that might be? Please?” she added, with desperation in her
voice.
“Of course, if that’s what you want,” Edwin said. Caroline nodded
agreement. They wore matching puzzled expressions.
“It is. Thank you,” Sarah replied, with enormous and obvious relief.

***

Although not willing to talk about Mary, now that Beth was more receptive
Sarah told her the details of John’s escape from prison, and their attendance
at the execution of the other rebels.
“I know he knew things about Sir Anthony, but the authorities didn’t
know that so they didn’t question him, and he wasn’t going to volunteer
anything,” Sarah added. “I wouldn’t let him tell me anything either. I’ve
been interviewed by the Duke of Newcastle once, and I don’t want to know
anything that could hurt them…him,” she amended hurriedly.
Beth leaned forward in the chair she was sitting in and grasped her
former maid’s hands.
“I really appreciate that,” she said.
“John’s very fond of you,” Sarah said, her eyes on the thin hands linked
in hers.
“He is, but I mean I really appreciate you not saying anything to
Newcastle.”
“I didn’t have anything to say,” Sarah replied. “I never saw Sir Anthony
without his makeup.”
“No, but you could have given him descriptions of Jim and Murdo at the
very least.”
“I didn’t see what good it would do to give descriptions of servants, when
it was Sir Anthony they were interested in. Anyway, I only saw them a few
times,” Sarah persisted, her colour rising a little.
Beth released her hands.
“Did Caroline read you the message I sent for you, when I wrote to her?”
she asked.
Sarah blushed scarlet.
 “I read it myself,” she said. “I’ve learnt how to read, now. I’m slow,
though. I can write, too! I wanted to ask you if I can write to Thomas and
Jane, tell them that you’re alive. They’ll be so happy to know you’re well.”
“I’ll be able to write to them myself soon,” Beth said. “I’m getting the
strength back in my hands now. You might like to know that the person who
dictated the postscript was still alive on the morning of the battle. He gave
me a message for you.”
Sarah’s eyes widened. She stood up, looking frantic.
“I don’t know….do I want to hear it?” she said.
“I think you should, but it’s up to you.”
Sarah breathed in and out slowly a couple of times, and then came to a
decision.
“Tell me,” she said.
“He said that he loves you, and that if things had been different he’d have
married you, if you’d have him,” Beth told her. “But he said that if…you
know…that there are other good men out there and that you mustn’t keep
your promise, but look for happiness. And to remember the spider.”
Sarah sat down suddenly on the edge of the bed. Her chin trembled and
tears welled up in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. She wiped them
away impatiently.
“He hasn’t written to me,” she said. “Do you think…?” She didn’t finish
the sentence, but Beth knew what she was asking.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m not going to give you false hope, because
you deserve more than that. But it could be that because we lost, he thinks
it’s kinder to let you forget him and move on with your life.”
“I can’t forget him,” Sarah said. “I’ll never forget him. How can I? And I
would marry him, if he still wanted to. I don’t care about his stupid king,
and who won or lost. And I don’t want anyone else. Is there…no, of course
not.”
“Is there what?” Beth asked.
“I was going to ask if there was a way of contacting him.”
“No,” Beth said. “There’s no way I know of. If we tried, we’d betray
him, and others.”
“Better not to know, then,” Sarah said, blowing her nose furiously.
“Better never to know than risk that. If you can live with it, I’m damn sure I
can.”
“I can live with it,” Beth replied. But I don’t know how.
Once the Christmas season was over and Beth was able to stand and walk a
few steps before her growing, but still very weak muscles started to shake, a
trickle of visitors was allowed in to see her. The first one was Tom, who had
been desperate to see her and apologise to her in person for months. She
reassured him that she’d forgiven him long ago for his part in her abduction,
and far from apologising to her he must accept her gratitude, and must also
convey that gratitude to Ned, because without his intervention she would
have died.
The next visitor was Prince Frederick, who waved away Beth’s attempts
to thank him for rescuing her, saying it was only what anyone would have
done, that he owed her that and more for giving him a story to dine out on
for years when she’d impaled Lord Daniel with her knife.
And then, at the start of February, when Beth was able to walk properly,
when she had regained most of the weight she’d lost and a good deal of her
strength, and was sitting in the library downstairs reading a book, the Earl
of Highbury was announced, and upon her saying that she was certainly
well enough to receive him, he was admitted.
She rose and curtseyed, and said how honoured she was to have such a
distinguished visitor. He in his turn took a seat and commented on how well
she was looking. She ordered refreshments, and the polite conversation
flowed freely while they awaited the sandwiches and coffee they’d ordered.
“Edwin told me that you were at death’s door,” Highbury said. “But you
seem radiant. And may I say that your hairstyle is very fetching, if a little
unusual.”
Having endured two days of Sarah’s attempts to comb out the mat that
had once been so admired by society, Beth had told her to just cut it all off
and have done with it. It was starting to grow back a little now, the silver
waves reaching to chin level.
“It’s a lot easier to look after,” Beth said, with her customary lack of
vanity. “I’m sorry if the scar is unsightly, although you don’t seem the sort
of person to be perturbed by that.”
The earl smiled.
“Very little perturbs me,” he said. “And the wound has healed well. The
surgeon made an excellent job of stitching it. In time it will be hardly
noticeable, I think.”
 “Oh!” Beth replied, clearly disappointed. “I was hoping it would
disfigure me.”
“Whyever would you want that?” he asked with genuine puzzlement.
“Because if I am ever released from prison, I don’t want to excite the
interest of any men. Ever,” she added with finality.
“Ah, you mean like Daniel,” he said.
“No, I mean like anybody. I wish to remain single.”
“I think you may have a good chance of that, being both a traitor and
without any dowry at all,” he said, his eyes sparkling as he looked at her. “I
believe it all went to Ch –”
He stopped abruptly as the door opened and a servant entered, bearing a
tray of refreshments. They resumed their small talk, commenting on the
weather, the likelihood of snow, and the contents of the indifferent novel
she was reading. And then the servant finished bustling about, the door was
closed and they were alone. After a minute or so Beth stood up, and
walking to the library door, opened it with a flourish. The hallway beyond
was empty. She closed it again and came to sit down.
“Have you heard from him?” She asked the question she’d been burning
to ask from the moment he’d been announced.
“No,” Highbury said. Beth paled, and he hurried on. “But that doesn’t
mean anything, my dear. We had an agreement that if he was betrayed, he
was on his own. He is a man of honour, as we both know. He would not
compromise me by trying to make contact.”
She looked down at her hands, which were resting in her lap.
“He said he would come for me, if he lived,” she said sadly. “I waited for
him, thinking he might have been injured, that he had been delayed…but
now…it has been ten months. If he was alive he would have tried to reach
me, I know he would.”
“No one knew you had been arrested,” Highbury pointed out. “It was a
remarkably well-kept secret, you know.”
Beth looked at the older man sitting opposite. His eyes were warm,
understanding.
“Do you think Alex would have been put off by that? He would have
found me. If anyone could, he would. We both know that.”
“He could have been taken prisoner,” the earl said. “That is possible.”
She stared at him.
 “You have made enquiries!” she said, and it was not a question. He
smiled.
“I have made some discreet enquiries, yes, although I admit I should not
have. There is no one of the name of Alexander MacGregor on the available
lists of prisoners. But he may have used another name, especially being a
MacGregor.”
She thought for a moment, then shook her head.
“No, he was too well known as the chieftain, and as a member of the
council,” she said. “Somebody would have revealed his real name.”
“Although Broughton has not,” the earl said softly.
“You know about that?”
“Yes. Although Broughton does not know me, or anything about me.”
“They brought him to see me when I was being interviewed by
Cumberland,” Beth said. “William was very disappointed when Murray
said he had never seen me before.”
“He did that? Interesting,” Highbury said. “Maybe he is not the complete
traitor most of the Jacobites think him to be. He could profit greatly from
revealing the identity of Sir Anthony.”
“I know. I am very grateful to him, anyway.”
“You are alone in that, I think. Even his wife has disowned him.”
“Oh, that saddens me. He loves Margaret very much. I thought she at
least would stand by him.”
“Would you stand by Alex if he was captured and turned king’s
evidence?” Highbury asked.
Beth thought for a minute.
“He wouldn’t do it,” she said finally. “Under any circumstances. But
Murray is different. He was never a soldier. He wasn’t accustomed to pain.”
“Neither are you, Beth. But you have endured the most terrible pain, and
yet you have told nothing. Which is why I am here. I wanted to thank you
for revealing nothing about me, and to tell you that I admire you
enormously. And I am not alone in that. If, or rather when you are released
from prison, you will not be without friends in London.”
“I thank you for that, my lord –”
“William, please.”
“I thank you for that, William. But if I am ever released from prison, I
will leave this godforsaken city and never return. I hate the place. It holds
no happy memories for me. And I have no wish ever to return to society
again.”
“Where will you go?”
“I will go home,” she said simply. And he did not ask her where that was,
because he already knew.

***

Scotland, February 1747

Captain Richard Cunningham examined his new quarters minutely. The

newly rebuilt room was small, but comfortable. The interior walls had been
whitewashed, the wooden bed was plain but functional, and had been made
up to military standards. His spare uniform had been brushed and pressed,
and hung on a hook behind the door. There was a small chest in which,
neatly folded, his spare shirts and stockings had been placed. A fire was
burning in the small grate, and a pile of logs was stacked at the side of it.
There was not a speck of dust in the room, and absolutely nothing that he
could find fault with.
He scowled blackly, and pulling off his boots, moved to the small
window and stood looking moodily out at the snow-covered mountains that
hemmed the barracks in. It had been hell getting here. Even he, who was
afraid of nothing, had found himself trembling as they’d crossed the
mountains, dreading at every moment that his horse would put her foot
through the snow into fresh air rather than solid ground and catapult him
over the side of the ridge to certain death.
But his bay mare had been sure-footed, and now he was here, in a foul
mood, as he had been almost continuously for the last six months, ever
since the Duke of Newcastle had stabbed him so comprehensively and
effectively in the back.
Of course he hadn’t intended for Richard to torture his sister, especially
as she was in a delicate condition! That had been the very reason why he
had asked him to have a word with her, hoping that filial attachment would
prevail where other methods had failed. It was hardly the duke’s fault if the
captain had assumed that by ‘a word’ he meant commit acts of unspeakable
brutality! In fact by his vicious and inept attempt to extract information
from his sister, which had resulted in the miscarriage of her baby, he had
deprived the duke of his best chance of finding out the true identity of Sir
Anthony Peters.
Yes, he had most certainly mentioned that the young lady was enceinte.
He remembered quite clearly mentioning it. It was hardly his fault if the
captain had not heard him, and had misinterpreted his clear and precise
instructions not to physically assault the prisoner.
In fact, the duke had finished, in view of the appalling fiasco he had
made of what should have been a gently persuasive interrogation of his
sister, it was better he depart the capital immediately and return to Scotland.
Perhaps given time, a considerable amount of time, he might redeem
himself by an assiduous attention to duty.
The lying, two-faced fucking aristocratic bastard! Richard turned from
the window, and moving across to the fireplace grabbed the poker and
stabbed it into the hearth so viciously that a shower of sparks flew out onto
the small brightly coloured hearthrug, the only homely touch in the
otherwise Spartan room, threatening to set it alight. He stamped out the
smouldering embers with his stockinged feet and sat on the chair, staring
into the flames with deep malevolence.
One day he would get his revenge. Not on Newcastle; as much as he
would love to disembowel the scheming piece of shit and watch him die
writhing in agony on his exorbitantly expensive Aubusson carpet, Richard
knew that would only ever be a happy daydream. He was not stupid enough
to attempt to assassinate the brother of the Prime Minister.
But one day, hopefully, he would meet his sister again. And that would be
a glorious day indeed. In fact, it would be a glorious several days. At least
having a free rein in this savage dungheap of a country had given him the
opportunity to hone his skills, and he was now confident that he would be
able to keep her alive for days in excruciating agony.
If she was still alive. Having been packed off almost immediately after
the humiliating interview with Newcastle to Scotland, he had been unable
to find out whether or not his ministrations had resulted in Beth’s demise.
But he could wait. In the meantime, as soon as the snows melted enough for
him to take his men out on raids he would make the most of this
opportunity to show how effective he was at bringing the rebels to heel.
The barracks had only recently been rebuilt sufficiently to house a
regiment, which meant there were plenty of Highlanders in the vicinity who
no doubt thought they had got away with their treachery unscathed. He was
about to disabuse them of that notion. In the meantime, while waiting for
the weather to improve he intended to bring his men up to scratch so that
they would obey him without question when he commanded them to do
things they might otherwise balk at.
He threw another log on the fire, and sat back. Yes. Even if he couldn’t
make the duke’s life hell, or, at present, his sister’s, he was certainly
distressing his wife, and he could also make his mark here.
His career had suffered a setback, that was true. But here was his chance
to redeem it, to prove himself the equal of Scott, and of Hawley, who he
admired greatly. And he intended to make the most of that.

***

“Really, it’s quite ridiculous!” Edwin fumed on his return from Whitehall,
where the Prime Minister had informed him that now Miss Cunningham
was ambulatory, certain precautions would have to be taken to ensure that
she did not try to escape.
“I can understand it, Edwin,” his wife said reasonably. “After all, she’s a
very valuable prisoner.” Caroline was engaged in throwing a ball gently to
her son, in the vain hope that he would catch it. He certainly held his hands
out, laughing, to receive it, but had not quite grasped the fact that he had to
bring them together to actually catch the ball, with the result that it hit him
repeatedly in the chest and then fell to the ground. But he was happy
enough picking it up from there and giving it to her to throw at him again.
And it was a very soft ball, so the repeated collisions with his sturdy little
chest would do him no damage.
“They didn’t think her that valuable last November, when they were
happy to let her die!” Edwin said.
“No, but we must think of Beth’s welfare now. She’s happy, or as happy
as she can be, living here with us. Until she is pardoned, we must do
everything we can to keep her with us. And if that means having a constant
guard outside her quarters and bars on the window, so be it. I’m sure she’ll
agree to it. She’ll still be able to receive visitors. And she’ll still be with
people who care for her.”
“You’re right,” Edwin said. “But it feels like an insult, somehow. Other
messengers don’t have soldiers posted in their houses.”
 “No, they don’t. But then you and I both know that unlike other
messengers we are not indifferent to our charge, and are not
accommodating her for financial gain. And Henry knows that too. I don’t
believe he’s trying to insult you. If anything he’s trying to protect you. If
she does escape, you cannot be blamed if you’ve agreed to abide by all the
precautions.”
“You don’t think she’ll try to escape, do you?” Edwin said, suddenly
alarmed.
“No, I don’t. She has given her word that she won’t, and I believe her.
Now, let us look on the bright side. Freddie will be very excited to have real
live soldiers in the house. I hope they like children, that’s all,” she said.

When Caroline went up to explain about the results of Edwin’s interview

with Henry Pelham, Beth was sitting by the fire re-hemming some sheets.
Next to her was a basket full of assorted items of clothing, all of which
were in need of some minor repair. She took the news that the windows
were to be barred and a soldier posted in the hall in her stride, as Caroline
had expected.
“You know, you really don’t have to do that,” Caroline said, sitting down
opposite her.
“I don’t mind at all,” Beth replied. “It keeps me occupied, and it takes
some of the burden off the maids.”
Caroline sat for a minute watching Beth’s nimble fingers as the needle
flashed in and out of the cotton automatically. The seam was perfect, the
stitches tiny, and yet Beth was hardly paying any attention to what she was
doing. It was mesmerising.
“Anne would like to pay you a visit, if you’re not averse to it,” she
inserted into the silence. The fingers faltered for a second, and then carried
on.
“Why would I be averse to it?” Beth said. “It’s not Anne’s fault that
Richard’s an animal. I pity her. Is she still living with your aunt?”
“Yes,” Caroline said. “I told her Richard’s in Scotland at the moment, but
I think she feels safer living in Hertfordshire. She hasn’t recovered from his
last unexpected appearance at the house.”
“Tell her she’s welcome to visit,” Beth said. “It’ll be nice to see a new
face.”
Anne turned up two days later. Afraid the presence of a child might upset
Beth, she had left little George with Philippa and Oliver, but had brought
with her presents, including flowers, and a tonic wine she had made herself.
“It is delicious,” she said, pouring a glass for Beth, “and contains
powdered gentian root, which will help to stimulate the appetite, prevents
swooning, and comforts the heart.” She looked at her subject doubtfully.
“Although I admit you are looking very well, far better than I had
expected.”
Beth dutifully drank the potion, and had to admit that it was indeed
delicious, and knowing Anne’s comprehensive knowledge of medicinal
herbs, it would probably be effective too.
“I’ve been here for four months now,” Beth reminded her. “I looked very
different when I arrived. I’m completely well now. That’s why there’s a
soldier outside the room, in case I attempt to overpower Edwin and
Caroline and flee.”
Anne’s subsequent look of alarm at this prospect reminded Beth that,
although kind and caring, and more confident now she was under the
beneficial influence of Caroline’s eccentric relatives, her sense of humour
remained non-existent.
“How are you, Anne?” Beth asked, hoping to put her at ease. “And
George? He must be a fine boy by now.”
“He is very well,” Anne said happily. “He’s talking now and knows his
numbers to a hundred, and all the colours, and he looks more like Stanley
every day. I had hoped to have his miniature painted, but he will not sit still
for long enough. Oh! I’m sorry!” she finished inexplicably.
“Why are you sorry?” Beth asked.
“I thought perhaps you…I had not intended to speak about George, in
case…” She wrung her hands in her lap, and blushed.
“Anne,” Beth said gently. “You are very kind. But you know I cannot
avoid children, nor do I wish to. Freddie comes in to see me most days, and
we play little games together. If anything I should be apologising to you for
not warning you what a bast…brute my brother was before you married
him.”
To Beth’s amazement and relief, Anne neither defended Richard nor
came out with some platitude about owing him her loyalty as his wife.
“I do not think I would have listened to you if you had,” she said sadly
instead. “I was very lonely after Stanley died, and he…he seemed to care
for me. I was very foolish.”
“I don’t think Richard has ever cared for anyone but himself,” Beth said.
“Do you intend to stay at Harriet’s on a permanent basis? I know Richard is
in Scotland now, but he will probably return in time, and it is imperative
that…”
To her surprise, Anne immediately burst into tears.
“I’m sorry,” Beth said. “I should not have mentioned him. I meant only
to advise you…but I have distressed you.”
“Oh, God!” Anne cried. “I am so afraid!”
“He cannot hurt you from Scotland,” Beth said gently.
“But he is,” she wailed. “He is seeking to take George from me!”
“What?! But he is not George’s father! How can he do that?”
Anne didn’t reply, but instead made a valiant attempt to bring her
emotions under control, and after a few minutes of gulping and hiccupping
while Beth put her arm round her sister-in-law’s shoulder and offered her a
handkerchief, she succeeded in regaining control of herself.
“I am so sorry,” she sniffed. “I came here to cheer you, not to distress
you.”
“I am not distressed,” Beth said. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“He has written to me and told me that as I have deserted him without
reasonable cause, he wishes to take charge of George immediately.”
“But you’re his mother! And he is Stanley’s son. Surely Richard has no
rights at all?”
“He does,” she said sadly. “When I married him, everything I had
became his.”
“All your money, yes,” Beth said, “and your property. But not your
child!”
“It would have been different of course, had Stanley known. He was so
meticulous with legal matters,” Anne said. “I am sure that he would have
named me in his will as legal guardian if anything happened to him. But of
course he didn’t know I was with child when he died.”
“You mean that just because Stanley didn’t name George’s own mother
as his legal guardian before he died, that means my bastard of a brother can
take him?!” Beth cried. “That cannot be right. You must fight this, Anne.”
“That’s what Harriet said. She said…she said some bad things. But yes,
she said that she will fight it through the courts if she has to.”
“Well, then,” Beth said soothingly. “I am sure everything will be fine.”
“What Aunt Harriet actually said was that if she lost the case, she’d cut the
bastard’s balls off herself and choke him with them,” Caroline elucidated
when Beth broached the subject after dinner that evening. The three of them
had retired to the parlour to enjoy a bottle of orange wine which Anne had
brought for them, and which was absolutely delicious.
Edwin winced.
“I am only repeating the words of my dear aunt,” Caroline said coolly.
“Although I’d like to watch when she fulfils her promise.”
“How can she not win?” Beth said. “Anne’s George’s mother! And
Richard’s insane!”
“Even so, it’s distinctly possible that she will lose, in spite of her
influence,” Edwin explained. “Because in law Richard has done nothing to
justify Anne leaving him, and in view of that he can automatically claim
custody of George. The courts won’t grant Anne custody unless there are
extremely powerful reasons to do so, because if they do it will set a
precedent.”
“But there are extremely powerful reasons to do so!” Beth fumed.
“We know that, but Richard has not been charged with raping Sarah, nor
has he been charged with murdering your servant and attempting to murder
her child,” Edwin pointed out. “As far as the law is concerned, he’s a
respectable captain in His Majesty’s forces.”
“And if he wins, then Anne will either have to surrender George to him,
or return to live with him as his wife,” Caroline said.
“Of course she might be allowed to keep George temporarily, because
Richard is on active service and a Scottish barracks is no place to keep a
child. Although he may engage a nanny, and take him anyway.”
“Anne will never allow that,” Caroline said. “George is her life. She will
go back to him.”
“She cannot go back to him,” Beth said frantically. “If she does George
will die, and soon, and she will follow, and it will look like an accident.
Richard has changed. I have not told you this, but when he came to see me
in prison, I taunted him. The Richard I knew would have lost his temper and
beaten me to death, which is what I wanted then, as you know. But he is
different now. He’s colder, and controlled. If Ned hadn’t come in when he
did, Richard could have tortured me for hours, maybe days without killing
me.”
 “But he did nearly kill you,” Caroline pointed out.
“Only because he didn’t know I was pregnant,” Beth replied. “He didn’t
hit me hard enough to kill me. It was the miscarriage and the loss of blood
that nearly did that. He is much more dangerous now than he used to be.”
The three of them sat and thought about it.
“Perhaps we could have a word with his colonel, Hutchinson, isn’t it?
Maybe he can persuade Richard to abandon this custody idea,” Edwin said
doubtfully.
“Could the colonel demote him if he refused?” Beth asked.
“No. He would have to commit a serious breach of military law for that.”
“Then he wouldn’t agree. Richard’s only weakness is his ambition. He
wants to be a general one day,” Beth said. “You said there would have to be
powerful reasons for the court to grant Anne custody. What sort of
reasons?”
“Well, the chancellor has parens patriae jurisdiction. So if for instance it
was feared that a father was going to put his child into prostitution for
example, or indoctrinate it in the ways of the Roman Catholic Church, or
otherwise corrupt it morally. That sort of thing.”
“I wouldn’t underestimate Harriet, though,” Caroline said reassuringly.
“She is not enamoured of Richard, and would do a good deal to thwart him.
And she really does know everyone. We must wait and see what happens.
We can’t do any more for now.”

The next day Beth discussed the situation with Sarah, who shared her
outrage and her fear for what would happen to Anne and George if Richard
won the case.
“It’s terrible. I don’t know why any woman with independent means
chooses to get married at all,” Beth said.
“You married Sir Anthony, though,” Sarah said.
“I didn’t have independent means. I wouldn’t have looked twice at him if
I had,” Beth said. “Anyway, I wasn’t really married to him, as Cumberland
and Newcastle delighted in pointing out. I was his whore.”
“Do you ever wish you hadn’t?” Sarah asked. “Married him, I mean, real
or not?”
“No,” Beth replied without hesitation. “I love him. I will always love
him. ‘I am yours until I die, I will love you, and only you, and will take no
other’,” she finished softly, almost to herself. She remembered his voice as
he’d spoken the words, the gentle strength of his hands as he’d cupped her
face, the scent of the suede gloves he’d worn, the blue intensity of his gaze.
“Who said that?” Sarah asked.
“Sir Anthony. When we were on our honeymoon in Italy. Anyway,” Beth
said, pulling herself with obvious reluctance from the past, “Anne did marry
Richard, and now she and everything she owns including George belongs to
him, it seems.”
“Let’s hope he comes to see me when he comes back to London, then,”
Sarah said.
Beth cast a puzzled look her way.
“After last time,” Sarah explained, “I bought a pistol, and Caroline taught
me how to shoot it in case Richard ever came back. I’m a decent shot now. I
keep it under my shop counter all the time. In fact I threatened John with it
before I knew who he was. I always thought that if Richard came back I’d
threaten him with it too, to make him go away, but in view of what you’ve
told me about how he’s changed, I think I’d just shoot him the moment he
came through the door.”
Beth looked at Sarah in amazement. She was serious.
“You can’t do that!” she said.
“Why not?”
“Because if you did, you’d hang!”
“Not if I said he’d tried to rob me, and rape me.”
“Sarah, he’s a soldier, a captain, not a beggar. You couldn’t just kill him
and get away with it.”
“I’ll take my chances then,” Sarah said. “Because I’ll be damned if I’ll let
that bastard get anywhere near me or…near me again. He’d kill me anyway
if he did. At least if I hang I’ll have the satisfaction of knowing he’s already
burning in hell.”

***

“Good morning!” Beth said brightly to the redcoat guard stationed outside
her room as she opened her door the following morning. “Have you
breakfasted already?”
The soldier almost smiled at her and then stood to attention and
attempted a frown, reminding himself, as he had to several times a day
under the onslaught of her persistent friendliness to him, that she was a
traitor and his job was to ensure she didn’t escape, not to become her friend.
“I am not hungry,” he replied formally. His stomach grumbled, giving the
lie to his words.
“Hmm. Are Sir Edwin and Lady Caroline at home?” she asked
conversationally.
“I believe they are,” he said.
“Excellent. Then I will join them. I should be with them for at least half
an hour, so if you want to go to the kitchen and get something to eat, I
promise not to run away.”
He didn’t reply, but followed her down the stairs and stationed himself
outside the breakfast room door. From inside came the clattering of cutlery
and the soft murmur of conversation. His stomach rumbled once more. A
moment later the door opened again and Beth reappeared, carrying a plate
with two warm spiced rolls.
“I suspected you were too conscientious to abandon your post. There you
are,” she said, handing him the plate. “Now you can do your duty without
going hungry.”
This time he did smile at her. She really was kind. Such a shame she was
a rebel.

Beth returned to the breakfast table, and sitting opposite Caroline and
Edwin, spread butter on a roll and took a bite. She sighed blissfully. She
was going to miss these rolls. She was going to miss a lot of things. She
swallowed.
“I have made a decision,” she announced. Edwin looked up from his
newspaper and Caroline, drinking tea, eyed Beth over the rim of the cup.
“I have imposed upon your kindness for long enough. No, please hear me
out,” she said when both of them instantly made to speak. “I know you’re
going to say that I can stay here for as long as I like, but I can’t stay here
forever, and because of who I am I don’t think I’ll ever get a pardon if I
won’t reveal the true identity of Sir Anthony. I’m completely well now, so
I’ve decided it’s time that I faced up to reality. I’m ready to go back to
prison, and I want you to send a message to the Duke of Newcastle and tell
him that I want to talk to him.”
The reaction from the two people listening to this could not have been
more different. Edwin grinned from ear to ear, while Caroline looked at
Beth in utter shock and disbelief.
“That’s the best news I’ve heard in a long time,” he said. “I mean, you’re
welcome, you know that, to stay as long as you want, and after you’ve
spoken to Newcastle we can arrange for you to come back here until your
release. I’m sure that once you’ve told what you know, that will be soon.”
“I’m not sure about that,” Beth said, “but I’ve decided to tell what I know
anyway.”
“It’s the only sensible thing to do,” Edwin agreed. “After all, if he is
dead, as you think, then revealing his identity can’t hurt him, and if he
isn’t…well, he’s abandoned you, and he really doesn’t deserve your
loyalty.”
Caroline, who had remained frozen until now, suddenly put her cup down
on the saucer with a clatter.
“I can’t believe this,” she said incredulously. “After everything they’ve
put you through to make you talk, why now, when you’re safe and
Newcastle’s obviously given up on you telling him anything, do you
suddenly want to give evidence against the man you say you love?”
“I need to talk to Newcastle because a lot of people have already been
hurt by my silence,” she said. “I need to do what I can to make things right
and to stop anyone else suffering. And I’m the only one who can. I know
what I’m doing. And I think Anthony would approve.”
“You’re doing the right thing,” Edwin said. “I’ll send a message straight
away.”
Beth stood up.
“Thank you,” she said. “And thank you for everything you’ve done for
me. I don’t think I can ever repay you.”
“You don’t need to repay –” Edwin began.
“Who is he?” Caroline interrupted.
“Who is who?” Beth asked.
“Anthony. Who is he, really?”
Beth coloured slightly, but remained calm.
“I think the Duke of Newcastle should be the first to know,” she said.
“Why? We won’t tell anyone. And after all, we deserve to know. He
masqueraded as our friend for over three years.”
“He didn’t masquerade…no,” Beth replied. “What I have to say is only
for the duke to hear. I’m sorry.”
She turned away, and walked to the door.
 “What are you up to, Beth?” Caroline asked suspiciously as Beth opened
the door.
“Nothing,” she said without turning back. Then she went out, and closed
the door gently behind her.

***

The Duke of Newcastle, as expected, was ecstatic to hear that the stubborn
Miss Cunningham had finally come to her senses, and revised his whole
schedule for the following day so that he could see her.
Her appointment was for one o’clock, and she was in her room trying to
decide between two suitable outfits when there was a knock at her door. She
opened it to reveal a maid in a state of nervous excitement.
“You have a visitor, my lady,” she said, bobbing a curtsey.
“You don’t have to call me my lady,” Beth replied. “Who is it?”
“It is I,” came a voice from down the hall. “I hope you don’t mind. I have
brought someone who particularly wanted to see you.”
The soldier immediately shot to attention, and the maid curtseyed so
deeply she almost fell over.
Beth stepped out of the room and curtseyed expertly.
“Your Royal Highness,” she said. “What an unexpected pleasure! Of
course I don’t mind. I’ll come downstairs directly. Would you care for
refreshments?”
The prince waved his hand dismissively in a gesture reminiscent of Sir
Anthony.
“Oh no, let us not be formal. If it does not disturb you, your apartment
would be fine. Your reputation will be quite safe. We have a chaperone.” He
smiled and stepped to the side, revealing Prince Edward, who, slight as he
was, had been concealed behind his father.
She invited the royal pair in, and soon they were comfortably seated in
her tiny living room, Prince Frederick opposite her, and Prince Edward,
after a perfunctory ‘good morning’ by the window, where he gazed absently
out onto the street.
“You have grown considerably since we last met, Your Highness,” Beth
said to the boy, who did not appear to hear her and continued to look out of
the window.
 “He celebrated his eighth birthday last week,” Prince Frederick said
proudly.
“Happy birthday, Your Highness,” Beth said. “I am sorry I am a little
late.”
No response. The proud father sighed.
“Eddie did say that he particularly wished to see you,” he said. “I of
course also wished to see you. I have grown fond of you in the last months,
and am so happy that you are about to put your future happiness first. I am
sure it is what your husband would have wished.”
He was a kind man, still referring to Anthony as her husband, even
though his brother and Newcastle had both made a point of telling her she
was his whore and therefore ruined.
“It is what Anthony would have wished, yes,” she said. “He told me I
should betray him if I was ever arrested.”
“It is to your credit that you have held out for so long,” the prince replied.
“Although they are my enemies, I admire the loyalty that both Anthony and
Charles inspire in their friends and followers. There was a considerable
reward out for the capture of both, but no one has ever claimed it.”
Beth looked at this scion of Hanover, who had damaged his reputation to
save her life.
“Your Highness,” she said impulsively. “I have made no secret of the fact
that I am a Jacobite, and have spent the last years actively working to
remove your family from the throne. I will always believe that the Stuarts
are the rightful monarchs of Great Britain, and if they are restored to their
place, I will rejoice. I do not mean to insult you. I am just stating my
opinion. But I have to say, with the exception of King James and his son,
that you are the most fitted to succeed to the throne, and if I have to accept
a Hanoverian monarchy, then you are the only member of that family under
whom I would be happy to serve.”
The prince smiled.
“I am not insulted, Elizabeth. I am honoured that someone as committed
as yourself to the Stuart cause considers me a worthy alternative to my
cousin. No,” he continued as she made to speak, “I am not being sarcastic. I
know what a compliment you are paying me, and I accept it as such. I hope
one day to be a worthy king, and when I am I also hope that my eldest son,
indeed all my children, will enjoy a cordial relationship with me, as I
unfortunately do not with my father, as everyone knows.”
 “I am sure they will. Your devotion to your family is well known, Your
Highness,” Beth said.
“I want you to know that once your interview is over, I will try to obtain
a pardon for you,” he said.
“No,” Beth answered, to his surprise. “You have done more than I ever
would have expected. After today I want you to forget about me. I want no
more help, from you or anyone else. I will accept my fate, whatever that is
to be.”
“You feel guilt for what you are about to do. But you do not need to. I
know of no other woman who would have endured what you have and
refused to give up her husband. If he is alive, I am sure Anthony will
understand what you are doing.”
“Anthony is dead,” she replied flatly. “I have resisted accepting that for
so long. But now I know it to be true.”
“He thinks of you,” Prince Edward said suddenly, making both adults
jump. He had been so silent they’d forgotten he was there. He turned from
his perusal of the street and directed his gaze at the fireplace. “All the
time.”
“Who does?” his father asked, puzzled.
“He doesn’t know, you see, that’s why,” he said absently.
“Eddie, please don’t speak in riddles. What do you mean?” Frederick
asked his son. But Edward seemed to have lost interest, and had already
turned back to the window. “I am sorry,” the prince said. “He can be a
little…er…odd at times. He doesn’t mean anything by it.”
“He’s fine,” Beth said, looking at the boy strangely. “He warned me that
Lord Daniel was going to hurt me when we were playing cricket, just
before he threw the ball at me.”
The prince laughed.
“When in fact it was the other way round, as I remember. It took him a
long time to heal from the wound. His reputation has never recovered! But
now I think we have taken up enough of your time. I’m sure you wish to
prepare yourself for your interview.”
“I do need to,” Beth said, pulling herself back to the moment. “In fact I
would appreciate your opinion on my choice of outfits. I am undecided at
the moment.”
He advised the navy blue and white striped silk as being the most
appropriate, and wished her the very best of luck, stating that he would
honour her wish not to help, if that was what she really wanted, but he
would most certainly never forget her, and would be delighted to hear from
her when she wished to renew their friendship.
And then he left, taking his son with him, and Beth turned her attention
to dressing and calming her nerves in readiness for the forthcoming
interview, which she knew was not going to be easy and in which she would
have to employ all the skills Sir Anthony Peters had so painstakingly taught
her.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Whitehall, London

“Good morning, Miss Cunningham,” the Duke of Newcastle said, by way

of greeting the young woman who had just entered his chambers. He was
hopeful that this interview would be more productive than the previous one
had been.
“Good morning,” Beth said coolly, and without curtseying or being
invited she walked across the room and took a seat opposite the duke, who
was seated, as was his custom, behind his imposing walnut desk.
“I take it you do not object to my clerk, Benjamin’s presence? He will
record the details of our interview,” Newcastle said. Beth turned to the
corner of the room, where a young man was sitting behind a smaller, sloped
desk, quill and paper at the ready. She smiled at him, a smile of warmth and
friendliness, and he inhaled sharply, felled by her outstanding beauty,
outlined perfectly by the shaft of early April sunshine falling onto her face,
which highlighted the glossy silver-blonde cap of hair, the perfect skin, and
the cerulean blue of her eyes.
“I trust that this time Benjamin will be gainfully employed?” the duke’s
voice cut in. Benjamin blushed and bent his head immediately to his task.
Beth turned to face her interrogator.
“Indeed he will. I have information for you which I am sure you will
wish to act upon immediately,” she reassured him.
“Excellent!” he said, relaxing a little. “I am glad to see you looking so
well.”
“I confess that I am surprised to hear that,” Beth answered. “After all,
you did your very best to achieve my death. I expected you to be somewhat
disappointed rather than happy by my current state of health.”
“I assure you, Miss Cunningham, that your brother acted completely
contrary to my orders. I asked him to have a word with you in the hopes
that familial advice would make you see sense, when it seemed nothing else
could. I was both shocked and dismayed when I heard of your injuries.
Captain Cunningham was severely disciplined for his behaviour.”
Beth smiled.
“I am sure he was. Did you believe then that my injuries would best be
treated by my being incarcerated in a damp, cold cell and slowly starved to
death?”
“Mr Jones –”
“-has been severely disciplined. I am sure,” Beth interrupted, to the
duke’s astonishment. No one ever dared to interrupt him. “Your Grace, I am
not a fool; please do not treat me as one,” she continued. “Mr Jones was
ordered by someone in very high authority, not only to starve me to death,
but to hide the knowledge of my whereabouts from anyone who asked
about me. Otherwise he would not have dared to attempt to lie to Prince
Frederick himself. My brother is a brute, and has good reason to wish me
dead. I know that you did not know that when you sent him to me. But there
is only one thing Richard cares about, and that is military advancement. He
tortured me because he believed that he had permission to do so from
someone who could positively influence his career.”
“I do assure you that I gave him no such permission,” the duke said,
frantically indicating to Benjamin to stop transcribing the interview.
“Very well, then. If I am to believe you, the only other people who have
such influence and who knew I was a prisoner, are the Duke of Cumberland
or the Elector. Are you telling me that one of them ordered that I be tortured
and then starved to death?”
“I am telling you nothing of the sort. Indeed, madam, it is supposed to be
you who are telling me something today,” Newcastle replied hotly.
Beth sat back in her chair and folded her hands demurely in her lap.
“You are right. Benjamin, you can start writing again. I am sure His
Grace will want what I am about to say to be recorded.”
To the duke’s irritation Benjamin immediately picked up his quill in
response to her command, only belatedly realising that he should have
waited for the duke to give the order. Newcastle nodded curtly to him, and
the clerk bent his head over the paper.
“When you ordered my brother to have ‘a word’ with me, you made him
very happy. As soon as he entered my cell I knew he would try to kill me,
because it would probably be the only opportunity he would ever have of
stopping me from telling you what I know. Unfortunately for him I
survived, and after what he did to me I no longer see any reason to protect
him. My brother is a traitor, Your Grace.”
The duke looked at her disbelievingly.
“You wish me to believe that your brother, who is known for his devotion
to the army and his zeal in pursuing rebels, is a Jacobite?”
“No. Richard is not a Jacobite,” Beth responded. “But he knew I was, and
has known it since he came home after our father died. He also knew Sir
Anthony was a Jacobite, and that he was a spy, although he does not know
his true identity.” She looked across at Benjamin, who was writing fiercely,
and waited a moment for him to catch up.
“When my father died, he left very little money. But, as is widely known,
he did leave twenty thousand pounds in trust for me as a dowry, which
could only be accessed either when I married or when I reached the age of
thirty. If I died before either of those things happened, the money would go
to building a foundling hospital. Richard was desperate to purchase a
commission, and was willing to overlook the fact that I was both a Roman
Catholic and had great sympathy for the Stuarts, because he believed that I
could make a good marriage to someone who could help him advance in the
army. As you can imagine, I was averse to this, but as he displayed so well
in Newgate last August, he could be very persuasive.
“When Sir Anthony showed an interest in me, Richard was ecstatic.
Anthony was well known for his generosity and his stupidity. When my
brother discovered he was a Jacobite spy, Anthony offered to pay for his
promotion if he would keep quiet. And Richard agreed, because he knew it
was his only chance of getting preferment, as he had no money of his own.
Anthony subsequently paid for another promotion, for the same reason.
“When Lord Daniel discovered that Anthony was a spy, it was Richard
who warned us we were about to be denounced. He was terrified that if we
were caught we might betray him. He gave us the chance to get away, and I
was very grateful for that. Until our last meeting. After that I have no reason
to be grateful to him ever again.”
Newcastle sat in silence for a moment, digesting this unexpected
information.
“How do I know that you are not inventing this out of pure malice
against your brother?” he asked. “After all, if nobody else knew that Sir
Anthony was a spy, how did Captain Cunningham find out?”
 “He came into the library at Lord Edward’s one evening and found me
with a rosary. He took it from me and threw it into the fire. Sir Anthony
disturbed us in the middle of our argument, and we left. But a little later I
went back to see if there was anything left of the rosary. It held great
sentimental value for me. Sir Anthony was still there, and we spoke
together. Unknown to us, Richard was listening outside the door. He
threatened to denounce us then, but Anthony agreed to pay for his
commission if he would keep quiet. We already intended to marry, but
thought it better to do it quickly, as it would seem more natural for a man to
pay for his brother-in-law’s commission, and of course, once married we
had access to the dowry, which helped to fund not only Richard’s
commissions, but also the uprising.”
“Do you have any proof of this?” the duke asked.
Beth considered for a minute.
“No written evidence, no. But it is a matter of record that Anthony paid
for both of Richard’s commissions, and that he funded his lifestyle until he
married Anne Redburn and became wealthy in his own right. Also, if you
interview Richard and ask him about the library and the rosary, you will be
able to see for yourself if he is lying. His colour alone will tell you that, but
even as a small child he always gave himself away in an untruth. There is a
muscle in his cheek which twitches whenever he’s lying. He’s quite
unaware of it, but Father always knew whether he was guilty of some
misdemeanour or not by that.”
The Duke of Newcastle pursed his lips.
“Benjamin, will you step outside for a moment?” he said.
The clerk looked somewhat surprised at this unexpected command, but
obeyed immediately. Once the door was closed, Newcastle sat forward and
leaned his elbows on the desk.
“As you know, when I asked your brother to speak to you, I did not know
you were with child,” he said softly. “I discovered that later, and once I
knew I ordered that the interrogation be stopped. I was sorry that you
miscarried.”
“I’m sure you were,” Beth replied. “You hoped to use the baby to
blackmail me into betraying its father.”
The duke ignored that comment.
“Afterwards the captain told me that he had not intended to injure you
badly, merely to force you to tell him the identity of Sir Anthony. He said he
did not know you were pregnant.”
Beth laughed.
“Of course he told you that. He would hardly reveal that I told him
myself I was pregnant and begged him not to hurt the child. Nor would he
tell you that he was not interested in knowing about Sir Anthony. He knows
Sir Anthony could incriminate him if he was captured. Why do you think he
threw the guard out of my cell? All he wanted to know before he murdered
me was the location of my dowry. He had been to visit our solicitor in
Manchester, who told him I had withdrawn it all. I’m sure Mr Cox will
corroborate that. Once Richard knew that the money had been spent, all that
remained was for him to kill me, making it look as though he had just been
a little over-zealous in his interrogation.”
“Very well, then,” said the duke. “Let us assume that you are telling me
the truth for once.”
“I have always told you the truth,” Beth replied.
“The best way you could prove that the information you are giving me
about your brother is true, and not merely malicious,” Newcastle continued,
“would be to cooperate with me fully by now revealing the identity of Sir
Anthony.”
“As I said, Your Grace,” Beth replied, “I have always told you the truth,
and I will continue to do so now. Richard and I have never been close and I
will not deny that I despise my brother for what he did to me. Richard cares
about only two things; money and power. He has now obtained the first by
marrying Anne Redburn, although he still wanted my dowry to spite our
father, who left him nothing. The second he is obtaining by rising higher in
the military. If you wish to disregard what I have told you today, and are
happy to have a man who is willing to compromise his loyalty to the
Hanoverians in the pursuit of power, then so be it. It has certainly worked to
the advantage of the Stuarts so far, and may do so again in the future. As for
my husband, I thought I had already made it very clear that I would never
betray him, under any circumstances. If you think there is anything
whatsoever that you can do to change my mind on that, you are very much
mistaken. I have told you everything I am ever going to tell you. It is up to
you to act on it or not, as you choose. And now I have spoken my last words
to you.”
She sat back calmly, folded her hands once again in her lap, bestowed her
cool blue gaze on him and remained silent while he urged her to reconsider,
advised her that she would neither be pardoned nor returned to the care of
Sir Edwin Harlow, and finally, called in the guards and told them to take her
to the Tower for the present. Then she stood and silently left the room.

When she had gone the duke sat for a while, pondering his options. Not
regarding Captain Cunningham; he knew what he would do there. He
would write an urgent letter to Colonel Hutchinson telling him what Miss
Cunningham had said and ordering him to interview the captain
immediately, and that if he had any suspicions at all, to send him under
guard to London for further questioning. No, that was an easy decision.
Hutchinson was an intelligent man of integrity; if Cunningham was hiding
something he would certainly find out.
The issue that concerned the duke now was the sister. She posed far more
danger to him personally. If that idiot keeper Jones had not brought a
surgeon to her directly after the interview with Cunningham, she would
certainly have died and saved him a good deal of trouble. But as it was she
had survived and here she was, a constant thorn in his side.
If it came to it, no one would believe the word of the keeper if he said the
duke had ordered her to be kept in solitary confinement and deprived of
food. Indeed he had not ordered it; he had merely suggested it.
But Elizabeth Cunningham was another matter. She had friends in high
places; Sir Edwin Harlow, a rising star in the Whig government; his wife
Caroline, whose family, if somewhat odd, were influential and indisputably
loyal to the Hanoverians. And the heir to the throne had actually rescued
her, and sent his surgeon to ensure her recovery! They would certainly
listen to her if she told them that he had ordered her torture and starvation,
even though he had covered his tracks as far as possible.
It was true that she was a confirmed traitor and that her word was
unreliable; but she was also beautiful. There was an increasing outcry
against the brutality of the treatment being meted out to the defeated
Jacobites in general; imagine the damage a beautiful, intelligent, high-born
woman could do to his popularity, were she allowed to. She could not
destroy him, but she could certainly cause a lot of damage.
The duke weighed up his options.
He could not return her to Newgate hoping she would die there, not now
it was known that she was a prisoner. She had already cheated death twice.
And she was of noble birth. He could not keep her in the Tower either,
where she could and would be visited, and able to spread her poison against
him.
Neither could he bring her to trial and execution. If he did that, not only
would she have the opportunity to use her beauty and apparent fragility to
the very best advantage in the court, but the publicity of such a trial would
undoubtedly bring her back to the attention of Prince William, who was
currently involved with an actress of some sort and had all but forgotten her.
Newcastle had no wish for the prince’s infatuation with Elizabeth
Cunningham to be reignited. Even the thought of it made him shudder.
None of the female Jacobite rebels had been executed anyway, and,
nearly a year after Culloden, it was unlikely that any of them now would be.
Damn, he thought, there must be something, some way to keep her from
talking to those who would listen and take notice.
He sat some more.
And then it came to him. Of course. It was obvious. Why hadn’t he
thought of it immediately? He rang his bell, and Benjamin was summoned.
Once he was seated at his desk again and ready, the duke spoke.
“I will dictate two letters. One to Colonel Mark Hutchinson and the other
to Mr Samuel Smith,” he said. “Both are to be delivered with the utmost
urgency.”
For every problem, there was a solution. The duke relaxed back in his
chair, smiled, and began dictating the content of the letters.

***

Scotland, May 1747

It was a beautiful spring day. The sun was shining and was warm enough to
evaporate the heavy dew off the grass and heather, the snow had finally
melted from everywhere except the mountain peaks, and nature was
bursting into life. Unfortunately that also meant that the redcoats, bored and
restless after a long and brutal winter of enforced incarceration in their
barracks, had also burst into life, and were back on the rampage.
Alex and his men were lying at the top of the hill, looking down on the
scene of wanton destruction being inflicted on the village below with a
mixture of rage and frustration. Rage because they were aching to make use
of the weapons they’d spent the winter honing to razor-sharp perfection;
and frustration because there were just too many redcoats below for them to
have any reasonable chance of surviving an attack in broad daylight.
Alex had one all-important rule when deciding the viability of an attack;
there had to be a good chance that all of his precious few men would come
out of it alive, with few, if any injuries. The military side of his reasoning
was that the longer he and his men survived, the more redcoats they would
kill; and recklessly throwing themselves into situations where the odds were
stacked against them was not the way to achieve that.
A good methodology. But unfortunately sometimes it led to situations
like this, where they were forced to watch as men were killed, women and
sometimes children were raped, and the survivors driven away from their
homes and possessions, which were then stolen or burnt. Alex was
confident that none of the men would act without his direct order to do so;
they could argue and debate all they wished when planning a raid or
ambush, and did, but once in the field he demanded, and got, unquestioned
obedience to his orders.
It did not do morale any good, however, to watch wholesale destruction
going on when you were helpless to do anything about it. When, from
inside one of the huts below, a woman started to scream, first in fear and
then in obvious agony, Alex decided enough was enough.
“Come on, let’s away,” he said softly. “We canna do anything here.
Dougal and Allan, you follow the redcoats at a distance later. I’ll send
Lachlan over. If they dinna go straight back tae Inversnaid, but set up camp
somewhere, send him back wi’ a message, and we’ll see if we canna take a
few of the bastards tonight.”
The men sighed, and reluctantly began to back away over the ridge.
“Wait,” said Angus, who had remained in place and was still peering
down at the village, which was slowly becoming shrouded in smoke from
the burning thatch of the houses. “Something’s happening.”
Alex moved back up next to his brother. Something was happening. The
men had clearly finished their work and were standing about, waiting. The
cattle had been too weak to walk after a harsh winter of little fodder and
their blood being taken and mixed with oatmeal to feed their starving
owners, so the soldiers had shot them. The bodies of several Highlanders
who had attempted to resist were also strewn around the grass, and a pitiful
line of ragged women and children were making their way out of their
settlement away from the burning remains of their homes. Only one hut
remained intact; the one that contained the screaming woman.
All of the soldiers were looking at the hut expectantly. Alex got to
Angus’s side just in time to see one of the soldiers disappear inside it and
then reappear almost immediately, retching and then doubling over and
vomiting at the side of the door.
“What the hell’s going on in there?” Alex said, half to himself.
The redcoat straightened up, approached the group of soldiers, half-
hidden now by smoke, and said something, gesticulating back at the hut
from which he’d just emerged before marching off to a group of six horses
tethered at the edge of the village, mounting one and then turning back to
the group.
“Are you coming, or not?” he shouted angrily, loud enough for the ten
Highlanders, now all back in place and observing, to hear. There was a low-
voiced discussion from the group of redcoats, and then fully three-quarters
of them followed the horseman, three of them mounting their own horses,
the others following on foot as he rode out of the village along the glen. The
remainder stayed in place, looking uncertainly at the undamaged hut, from
which frantic but muted screams could still be heard.
“I canna believe it,” Kenneth said in awe.
Neither could Alex. It appeared that upwards of fifty redcoats were
heading out of the valley, leaving only…
“Twelve o’ the bastards left,” Iain said, smiling.
…only twelve soldiers, plus whoever was in the hut. It was too good to
be true.
“Are we going to attack, then?” Allan asked eagerly.
“Wait,” Alex said. It was a trap. It had to be a trap. In the last nine
months of watching similar scenes of destruction, he had never seen such a
thing. However large or small a group of soldiers, they always entered a
settlement together, and left it together at the end. It made no sense to split
up in the way they just seemed to have done.
“Dougal, Allan, you’re fast,” Alex said. “Go round the side of the hill and
watch to see if the redcoats double back. I’m thinking maybe they’re
suspecting an ambush and are hoping to draw us out, then come back and
slaughter us.”
Allan and Dougal shot off like arrows, and the rest of the men settled to
wait. Down below the remaining soldiers seemed to have settled to wait
too. They certainly didn’t appear uneasy or apprehensive as you’d expect
men who thought to be ambushed would look. In fact they were all sitting
down, and one or two of them were sprawled at full length, as though
hoping to have a nap.
“How can they sleep, with that noise?” Graeme said, referring to the
screams which showed no signs of abating.
“If we attack, I’m taking whoever’s in that wee hut,” Kenneth said, his
face set.
After a short time Allan and Dougal reappeared, red-faced and breathing
hard, but faces aglow with excitement.
“They’re really leaving,” Allan said when he had breath enough to speak.
“We followed them as far as the road, and they turned straight for the
barracks.”
Kenneth took out his dirk and raised his eyes heavenward.
“Thank you, Jesus,” he said, then kissed the blade. “Can we take them? I
canna wait to get my hands on the bastard in that hut.”
“Aye,” said Alex, “we can take them. But no’ by charging straight down
the hill, just in case they’ve got scouts we havena seen. We dinna want to
give them time to get to the others. Hamish, you drive the horses away so
they canna ride off and raise the alarm. The rest of us get as close as we can
to them without them seeing us. If one o’ them does, we all charge. I’m
thinking if we’re quiet and slow, we’ll get within about twenty feet or so,
especially wi’ the smoke to help us. Let’s go.”
They went, edging first of all round the side of the hill and then crawling
slowly and silently downhill on their stomachs, their illegal green and
brown plaids blending perfectly with the hillside. Then, when they could go
no further in that manner, they stood and charged as one into the village,
drawing their swords and roaring in Gaelic, succeeding in frightening the
recumbent redcoats half to death before they were among them.
The ones who managed to actually draw their swords before being cut
down made a fight of it, and for a minute or two the fighting was fierce. Out
of the corner of his eye Alex saw Kenneth making for the hut and a man
emerge from it, sword drawn.
And then he forgot the man he was supposed to be killing, kicked him
out of the way, and was running towards the hut screaming at the top of his
voice as Kenneth brought his sword back in a huge arc with the obvious
intention of decapitating the man on the spot.
 Later Kenneth would say that he had no idea how he managed to obey
his chieftain’s order. It was too late to stop his sword hitting the target, but
by a herculean effort he managed to turn the blade and rein in the power of
the strike so that instead of taking the redcoat’s head off, the flat of the
blade hit him in the side of the face, breaking his cheekbone and knocking
him flat on the ground.
The soldier lay for a minute, stunned, the side of his face numb, the
coppery taste of blood filling his mouth. Through his ingrained will to
survive he managed to remain conscious, aware that he had to defend
himself. He shook his head to clear his vision, automatically reaching for
his sword, which lay on the ground beside him where he’d dropped it. He
managed to touch the basket hilt before his hand was pinned to the ground,
his wrist cracking loudly as it snapped, and he looked up into the face of
one of the largest men he had ever seen in his life. In his fist the giant held
the bloodied sword that had hit him in the face, and his foot was grinding
the soldier’s hand into the dirt.
And then he relaxed and closed his eyes, because he knew he was a dead
man, and he waited for the killing blow to fall.
The killing blow did not fall.
Instead, after a moment he felt his sword being pulled from his throbbing
fingers, and then the pressure on his hand eased. He opened his eyes again.
The giant had moved away and was standing a few feet away with a group
of fellow savages, a puzzled expression on his face.
Another man, not quite as tall but equally as fierce-looking was gazing
down at him with cold blue eyes. His red-brown hair was long and hung
loose on his shoulders, and his muscular legs were muddy and bare. He
wore one of those ridiculous short skirts that the Highlanders loved, and a
dirty shirt, now stained, as was the sword he held, with the blood of the men
he had just killed. His men.
The redcoat lifted his head, ignoring the pain that knifed down the side of
his face, and looked around the clearing, taking in the lifeless scarlet-coated
bodies. He inhaled sharply and turned to look back up at the man standing
over him.
“If you’re waiting for me to beg for mercy,” he said, “you’ll be standing
there forever.”
The Highlander smiled, and then to the redcoat’s utter disbelief, he
spoke, not in the apelike gibberish they called a language, nor in the
barbarous accent the Scots used when massacring the English tongue, but in
a voice that made the young soldier’s blood run cold.
“I am waiting for nothing of the sort, dear boy,” the savage said. “I
confess I am somewhat distraught that you have forgotten me. After all, we
were once so well acquainted, were we not? But it matters not, for I
recognise you and that, after all, is the important thing.”
The hand holding the sword, which had hung limply and somewhat
effeminately at the Highlander’s side during this astonishing speech, now
straightened, and the unmistakable long-lashed slate-blue eyes of Sir
Anthony Peters regarded him for a moment with pure joy.
“Hello, Richard,” he said pleasantly, and then, aiming very carefully, he
drove his sword home.

***

Nine men and one woman were sitting in the saucer-shaped hollow on the
hill overlooking Loch Lomond. Down below in the settlement the rest of
the clan, who had restored and spent the winter in their lochside houses
were preparing to move up to the large cave for an indefinite period, as the
redcoats from the hastily rebuilt barracks at Inversnaid were now starting to
‘pacify’ the clans who resided around the loch, the MacGregors being a
prime target.
The nine fighting men and one woman had already moved their
belongings, and were now eyeing the small cave with a mixture of
expressions ranging from anxiety to distaste. Initially hollowed out to
accommodate four men with a squeeze, over the winter it had been
excavated some more, and would now hold six with ease.
At the moment, however, it held only two, and the people sitting outside
were discussing the situation in low voices.
“It isna right,” Dougal said. “It’s no’ fighting fair.”
“You could argue that nothing of what we do is fighting fair,” his brother
Hamish pointed out. “The redcoats’d no’ say it’s fair for us to ambush them
in the middle of the night when they’re all asleep in their tents. Or to pick
stragglers off from the back of the line at dusk.”
”Or to pretend to be wolves,” Angus said, to laughter. Morag was sitting
next to him, one hand on his knee, the other on her belly, which was
swelling nicely with their first child. His arm was wrapped round her
shoulder.
“Aye, I ken that,” Dougal conceded, “but this is different. When we fight,
we kill. We dinna deliberately stab a man in the gut, twist the blade and then
bring him back here to let him die in agony. We canna call the redcoats
savages if we behave the same way they do.”
“He’s no’ behaving the way the redcoats do,” Angus said. “If we came
upon a load of redcoats’ families, we wouldna rape and butcher them.”
“That’s true,” said Allan, speaking for the first time. “He’s no’ behaving
the way the redcoats do. And he’s our chieftain, so we have to accept that
he’s got a reason for what he’s doing.” His words were belied by his facial
expression, which stated clearly to everyone present that he was starting to
wonder what he’d let himself in for by accepting this man as his chief.
“He clearly kens the redcoat,” Hamish said. “He called him by name, did
he no’, before he stabbed him? Has he a grievance wi’ the man?”
Angus, Graeme and Iain shared a meaningful glance, and then Angus
sighed and came to a decision.
“Aye,” he said, “Alex has a grievance wi’ the man, although I dinna ken
the whole of it. His name’s Richard Cunningham, and he’s Beth’s brother.”
“Brother?” Allan said, shocked. “If he’s Beth’s brother, then he’s –”
“No relation to you,” Angus interrupted. “He’s rightly Beth’s half-
brother. They had the same father, different mothers. Beth and Richard
hated each other. She told me a wee bit about him and I met him a few
times myself. I couldna take to the man. She married Sir Anthony even
though she couldna stand him, to get away from Richard.”
“Aye, well, that worked out in the end,” Dougal pointed out.
“It did. But there was something else. Do ye mind at Manchester, when
we were moving north, Alex and Beth had the stramash and he didna speak
to her for a while?”
“Christ, aye,” said Dougal. “He was a bastard. I’ve never seen him so
miserable. And angry wi’ everyone.”
“Beth tellt Duncan what happened to cause that. I dinna ken rightly what
it was, because she tellt him in confidence, but it was to do wi’ Richard.”
“Richard is an evil, vicious piece of shite,” Graeme cut in suddenly. “I’ve
known him since he was a child, and there’s always been something wrong
with him. He used to torture animals then, and later he moved on to people.
He whipped John for the fun of it, and beat Beth’s maid Sarah badly when
she was in Manchester. He hurt Beth too. And he probably raped and
murdered another maid, Martha, and tried to kill her baby as well. I’m glad
that bastard’s finally dying. I’m not so happy with the way of it, but more
because it doesn’t seem the sort of thing Alex would do.”
“So do ye think it’s because of Beth that –” Dougal began.
“I dinna give a damn what it’s about,” Kenneth interrupted, speaking for
the first time. “Alex has the right of it, and if he needs a rest, I’ll sit and
watch the bastard writhe in agony mysel’, and wi’ the greatest pleasure. I’m
only thankful that Alex stopped me killing him quick and clean, as I was
about to.”
The whole group looked at him in shock, not just at his words, but at the
viciousness of his tone. Giant he was, fearsome in battle he definitely was,
but he was not a vindictive or vengeful man. Unusually for the Highlanders,
he was not one to bear a grudge for any length of time and was by nature
gentle and caring.
“You went in the hut,” Iain said softly after a minute.
“Aye, Alex and I were the only ones to go in,” Kenneth said, “and I wish
to God I hadna.”
“What did you see?” Angus asked.
Kenneth looked around the group, his eyes settling finally on Morag.
“No,” he said.
Angus took his arm from round his wife’s shoulder.
“Morag, a graidh, will ye gie us a wee minute?” he said.
Morag looked at Kenneth, took in the hard, tight line of his mouth, and
without any argument stood up and walked away. Angus waited until she
was out of earshot before he spoke again.
“Kenneth,” he said. “I ken ye dinna want to talk about it, but if some of
us are sitting here wondering what’s possessed Alex and doubting the right
of what he’s doing, then we can be sure the whole clan are thinking the
same. I dinna ken how long the man’s going to take in his dying, but I
canna allow this to undermine our trust in Alex’s leadership.”
“We’ll follow him anyway,” Dougal said. “He’s our chieftain.”
“Aye, we will,” Angus agreed. “But until now we’ve done that because
we’ve complete confidence that when he makes a decision, it’s based on
reason, and is just. If ye ken something that will make what he’s doing now
reasonable and just in the eyes o’ the clan, Kenneth, ye need to tell me at
least, as Alex’s brother, and as the chieftain when he’s no’ here. Then I can
choose whether to tell the others or no’.”
They all watched as Kenneth sat in silence for a while looking down at
the ground. His enormous forearms rested on his knees, his strong, long-
fingered hands clenched into fists. Then he nodded to himself and looked
up, speaking directly to Angus.
“Alex glanced in the hut after he saw I’d knocked the redcoat down. He
saw the woman, but he thought she was dead. I went in after wi’ the thought
to bury her,” he said. “When I got close to her I saw she was alive, but the
only kind thing I could do was to kill her, quickly. She was tied to the roof
beam, her hands above her head. And her arms…Christ!” He stopped for a
moment, and, taking a great shuddering breath, fought to bring his emotions
under control. “He was flaying her,” he continued, his voice harsh with
suppressed rage and hatred. “He’d cut the skin at her wrists, and had peeled
it back, very carefully so she wouldna bleed to death, both arms, right back
to the oxters, like he was skinning a rabbit. And he’d started to cut down her
sides too. She was alive and she was conscious, and I’ve never seen
anything like it, and never want to again. No one could do that, no’ without
a good deal of practice first.” He looked around the group of silent, white-
faced men. “I hope the bastard takes weeks to die, and then I hope he burns
in hell for eternity. And that’ll still no’ be long enough.”
The silence after Kenneth had finished was profound and prolonged.
After what seemed to all of them like a very long time, Angus stood.
“Are we all in agreement that Alex has the right of it?” he asked quietly.
Wordlessly the men nodded.
“I’ll away and tell him, then,” he said. “It’ll comfort him to ken that
we’re all in accord wi’ him.”

***

Alex sat on a flat-topped stone in the cave, carefully whittling away at a

piece of wood with his sgian dubh. After a while he stopped, and observing
his handiwork, smiled.
“Aye, it’ll do. I havena got the skill of my brother, but even so it’s a
bonny way to pass the time,” he said pleasantly to the man sprawled on the
ground a little further back in the cave.
 Richard’s back was propped up against the stone wall so he was half-
sitting, his legs stretched out in front of him. The left side of his face was
puffy and black with bruising, the eye on that side almost closed. His right
arm, the wrist badly swollen, rested uselessly in his lap. There was some
sort of protuberance in the cave wall behind him, which was pressing into
his spine. Bracing his left arm on the dirt floor, he attempted to shift
position a little, halting abruptly as the pain knifed through his gut. White
lights danced across his vision and he clenched his teeth, determined neither
to faint nor cry out. He couldn’t stop the shivering, or hide the icy sweat
which soaked his hair and shirt, but he was damned if he’d give voice to his
agony. He could not last much longer now, surely? He must have lost a lot
of blood; the constant pins and needles in his arms were intensely painful,
his heart was racing, and his breathing was fast and shallow.
“Ye’ll no’ bleed to death,” Alex said conversationally, as if reading his
mind, “no’ if my aim was true. And I think it was, because it’s been over a
day now. No, ye’ve a wee while to go yet.”
Had it been a day? He had no idea how long it had taken them to carry
him to where he was now, because when they’d lifted him he had fainted
from the pain. But he knew it had been dark when he’d woken for the first
time in the cave, and now it was daylight; the sun filtering through the
foliage hiding the cave entrance told him that.
He was very thirsty. He ran his tongue around his lips, which were dry
and cracked. Alex, seeing the gesture and interpreting it correctly, put down
the little carving and the knife, and reaching for a flask at his side, moved
across to Richard, holding it to his lips then tilting it. The cool water poured
into his mouth, and he swallowed, thinking in that moment he had never
tasted anything as delicious as this.
And then the water hit his stomach and he convulsed with the pain, and
this time in spite of all his efforts, he did cry out, tears of agony and rage
spilling down his cheeks. Alex waited patiently until the spasm had passed,
and then offered the flask again.
“No,” Richard managed, fighting back nausea. Going down it had been
agony; he could not begin to imagine what it would feel like to vomit it
back up again. Sweat poured down his face, dripping off his chin.
Alex observed him coolly.
“Aye,” he said. “Maybe ye’ve no’ got as long as I’d hoped.” He sat back
down and picked up the carving and knife again. “I’d offer to fetch ye a
priest,” he continued calmly, “but ye’re no’ of the faith, an’ it’d take a lot
longer than ye’ve got left to make your confession, I’m thinking.” He
settled back to his carving, the wisps of wood drifting to the floor in front of
him.
The nausea successfully suppressed, Richard observed his torturer, taking
in the long fingers wielding the knife expertly, if not artistically. A scar
snaked across the back of the man’s right hand; a battle wound, most likely.
His sleeves were rolled up, exposing strong brown forearms, dusted with
reddish hair. No doubt his upper arms and torso were equally heavily
muscled; certainly his long legs, visible from the knee downwards due to
the kilt he wore, were perfectly defined. He had the body of an athlete,
every inch of him betraying him for what he was; a seasoned warrior in the
prime of life.
It was unbelievable that the man sitting in front of him now was the same
perfumed and powdered limp-wristed molly who had pranced around the
drawing rooms of London society, dressed in eye-wateringly hideous
shades of silk and velvet. Everything about him was different; the voice, the
mannerisms, everything.
Except the eyes. Now he came to think of it, Sir Anthony Peters had
bestowed the same icy blue stare on him on more than one occasion in
London. When they’d rescued his bitch of a sister from Lord Daniel at the
Fleet Prison, for one. Now that he thought about it, he realised that he
should have suspected something was amiss with the man then. No one as
feeble as Sir Anthony seemed to be would have behaved as he had that
night when the whore Sarah had come bursting into Lord Edward’s drawing
room with the news. Even so, the man was a master of disguise, Richard
had to give him that.
“Even if I was a papist, I’d have nothing to confess,” Richard inserted
into the silence, trying to move his mouth as little as possible because of the
pain it caused him. “I’m a soldier. I do my duty. I’ve nothing to repent of.”
“I dinna ken the whole of what you’ve done, but if I was as close to
meeting my maker as you are, I’d be at least repenting what ye did to that
woman yesterday, murdering Martha and trying to kill her bairn, and
attempting to rape your own sister,” Alex replied coldly.
“Is that what Beth told you?” Richard said. He smiled, and then wished
he hadn’t as the skin stretched over his ruined cheek, making him gasp with
the pain. “She didn’t tell you that she begged me for it then, that she came
to my room every night until I gave in to her?”
“Ah, no, mo bhràthair-cèile,” Alex replied softly. “Ye’ll no’ rouse me to
finish ye off wi’ your lies. I ken the truth of it. Ye can answer to Beth
yourself in…” He lifted the candle that was standing in a stub of wax at his
feet, so that it shone full onto Richard’s face, “…maybe a couple of hours
or so.”
Richard’s mind was slowing. He knew this because it took him a few
minutes to absorb the words and realise the import of them. When he did,
he laughed involuntarily, and then cried out in pain. A new wave of sweat
oozed through his pores, drenching his shirt under the scarlet coat and
running into his eyes. He waited a moment until he was sure he could speak
without crying out, and then he looked up at his brother-in-law.
“You think she’s dead?” he asked.
“I ken well she is,” Alex replied. Another wisp of wood joined its
comrades on the dirt floor.
“She isn’t dead, you fool,” Richard replied contemptuously. “I saw her
myself, just a few months ago. She’s in Newgate Prison.”
Alex stopped whittling for a moment and met Richard’s gaze, slate-blue
meeting bloodshot brown.
“I’m no’ sure what your motive is for lying,” Alex said after a minute,
“but she killed a redcoat and was shot on the day of Culloden.” He looked
away and observed his handiwork again.
“You didn’t see it though, did you?” Richard persisted.
“I didna need to. My brother tellt me himself, and if ye’re addled enough
to think I’d believe you over him, ye’re closer to dying than I thought.”
He was close to dying now; the numbness had spread to the top of his
arms, and he only knew his legs were still there because he could see them,
stretched out uselessly in front of him.
“She stabbed a soldier; the Duke of Newcastle told me that. She was shot
in the head though, here,” Richard said, automatically trying to lift his hand
to the left side of his face, then giving up. “She was shot in the left side of
the head,” he continued, “and she’ll be scarred for life. But she didn’t die.
Cumberland sent her to London to be treated, hoping she’d talk. You’ll be
pleased to know she didn’t betray any of you worthless scum. But she paid
for it.” He had Alex’s full attention now and smiled again, ignoring the
resulting pain.
 “Ye’re lying,” Alex said, but there was doubt in his voice now.
“I wish I was,” Richard said viciously. “I wish the fucking bitch had died.
It’s because of her that I was sent back to this shithole. She wouldn’t tell me
anything when they let me see her either, and Newcastle –” He stopped
abruptly. Shit. He hadn’t meant to say that. He hadn’t meant to say anything
that would give this savage bastard pleasure.
But then he looked at the savage bastard and thought he saw a
momentary expression of pain cross his face; he believed now that Beth
hadn’t died at Culloden. Now he’d be roused to anger, or grief, or
something, and with luck the fucker would put him out of his misery.
“When did they hang her then?” the fucker asked indifferently, “or did
they burn her at the stake?”
“I’ve no idea. I doubt they have, though. I don’t think they’ve killed any
of the rebel bitches yet. And even though she’s a traitor, she is beautiful.
Newcastle hates her guts, though. I doubt there’ll be much left to hang by
the time the warders and turnkeys have finished with her.” He eyed Alex
intently, hoping to see a sign that the expression he’d seen before had been
pain, but all he saw was utter indifference.
Christ, the man was made of stone! The pained expression must have
been a trick of the light. He had stopped carving his stupid bit of wood
though, and instead was turning the knife over and over in his hand,
obviously pondering something.
A short time passed, during which Richard’s mind wandered. He had
always thought to die in battle, or since he had married Anne and money
was no longer an issue, perhaps to become a general and live to a fat old
age, stumping around the battlefield giving orders and making the soldiers’
lives hell. At least as a captain he’d managed to make a few men’s lives
hell, had toughened them up a bit, if not for as long as he’d expected. If
only he’d been able to take this bastard with him, that would have been
something to be proud of, even if no one ever knew about it. But although
Richard had many faults, he was realistic; he no longer felt any pain, his
heart was slowing, and he could feel the extreme lethargy of blood loss and
infection threatening to pull him into unconsciousness, and then death. He
could not kill this man, this arch-traitor who was sitting so coolly watching
him die; but he might yet cause him pain. It was worth a try.
With every ounce of his remaining will, he held death at bay and spoke,
his tongue thick and heavy in his mouth, his voice slurring.
 “Did she get a chance to tell you she was pregnant, before you left her at
Culloden?” Now the big Highlander stopped twirling the knife and looked
directly at him, and Richard saw the distress clearly in his face. “No, I see
she didn’t,” he continued. “She probably didn’t know herself then. She tried
to use it to avoid being…questioned, but Newcastle let me have some nice
family time alone with her anyway.” His eyes started to close, and he forced
them open with an effort. He wanted to see this bastard suffer. “At least I
got that,” he said, almost to himself. “I got to make that bitch pay for
everything. God, that was fun, hearing her scream.”
The Highlander was staring at him now, his body rigid, the hand holding
the knife so tightly that his knuckles were white. If I wasn’t about to die
anyway, Richard thought, I’d actually be afraid of this bastard.
“Don’t worry though, I did you one favour, at least. I made sure there are
no bastards of yours running around London. She lost the brat just after I
left her in her cell, screaming for mercy. Of course one of the turnkeys or
guards might have put another one in her belly by now, who knows?”
Alex lunged suddenly, gripping him by the throat and half-lifting him off
the floor.
“You’re lying,” he said, his voice harsh with pain and rage.
Vaguely, Richard realised that he no longer felt any pain at all; even the
hand squeezing his throat like a vice he registered only as a sense of
pressure. This is it, then, he thought calmly.
With an immense effort he smiled, for the last time.
“Why would I bother lying now, when the truth is so much better?” he
said. And then he heard the Highlander’s roar of agony and dimly registered
the first blow to his already ruined cheek, before, finally, death took him.

The MacGregors had in the main now abandoned their settlement, had
moved their belongings up to the main cave and were lounging around on
the saucer-shaped depression outside it, taking in the last of the afternoon
sun. When they heard their chieftain’s roar of anguish, as one they all
moved instinctively towards the small cave, the men’s hands gripping the
hilts of their swords. Then they stopped uncertainly. When Alex had carried
the redcoat into the cave, he had told his clansfolk not to disturb him. They
all looked to Angus, who thought for a moment then came to a decision.
“I’ll go,” he said.
 He was about ten feet from the cave entrance when the foliage covering it
parted and his brother emerged, stopping him dead in his tracks. Alex’s face
was white and drawn, and he seemed to have aged ten years. His right hand
was covered to the wrist with gore. He stood for a moment, squinting as his
eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight, and then he moved forward.
“He’s dead,” he said as he reached Angus. “Take the body back to the
hut. Leave it there, so it can be found.”
Angus nodded, and then to his surprise Alex continued past him and
strode towards the edge of the depression.
“Where are you going?” Angus called.
Alex turned back to face his clan. “Beth’s alive,” he said to them, his
voice husky with emotion. “I tellt her to be strong and that I’d come for her.
She’s kept her promise. Now I’m going to keep mine.”
Then he turned, and started to make his way down the hill.

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 HISTORICAL NOTE

As is now my habit, and because some readers have told me they find it
interesting, I’m enclosing a note about the historical background to some of
the events featured in the book.

In the prologue I mention that a signed letter was found on one of the dead
rebels to the effect that Prince Charles had issued orders to the Jacobites
that no quarter was to be given to the enemy at Culloden. This was certainly
given as a justification for the brutal behaviour of the British troops towards
the rebels in the days following Culloden. The day after the battle
Cumberland gave orders to his men to search the area around the battlefield
for rebels, and in them he stated: ‘the public orders of the rebels yesterday
was to give us no quarters’. This was taken by the men as an order to kill all
rebels they met, which they subsequently did.
The Jacobite leaders categorically denied that any such orders were given
by Charles, and it does seem odd that he would do so, when until then he
had been renowned for his mercy to what he considered to be misguided
subjects of his father. There are surviving orders written by Lord George
Murray, none of which mention that no quarter was to be given, and yet the
press were told that such an order had been found, and this was widely
printed in the newspapers at the time as justification for the brutality meted
out to the rebels both at Culloden and later.

In Chapter Three I detail the attempt by the rebels to continue the fight.
This happened pretty well as I’ve described it in the chapter. Lord Lovat
did, after prevaricating all the way through the rebellion and sending the
Frasers out under his son, the Master of Lovat, finally commit
wholeheartedly to another rising. He was cordially hated by John Murray of
Broughton, and distrusted by many others.
The aim of Cumberland appears to have been to wipe out the Camerons
in a pincer movement, but the northern arm of the pincer movement under
Lord Loudoun got bogged down in the dreadful conditions, made worse by
the frequent heavy rainfall, and failed to arrive in time to stop Lochiel and
his men escaping along Loch Arkaig. Lochiel did watch helplessly as the
whole of his clan lands went up in flames, which must have been extremely
distressing for him.
It does seem that Cumberland offered Lochiel favourable terms if he
agreed to surrender – Lochiel mentions this himself in his later account,
Mémoire d’un Ecossais, and Glencarnaig was also told that if he would
surrender, the proscription of the MacGregors would be lifted. His reply to
the offer was as I’ve written.
Eighty-one Grants surrendered on the advice of their chief, who had
taken no part in the rebellion himself. They expected, once they had laid
down their arms, to be allowed to return home, but instead they were
imprisoned on transports at Inverness, some being sent to Barbados, and
some to English prisons. Three years later, only eighteen were still alive.

I also mention in Chapter Three the Highland hut constructed for the Duke
of Cumberland by his loyal Highland regiments. This is true, and to his
credit he did live in it, to the delight of his men, although he must have
found it extremely primitive and uncomfortable.

In Chapter Five I talk about the cattle auctions at Fort Augustus. These
really did take place, and cattle dealers came from all over the lowlands of
Scotland and England to take advantage of the ridiculously low prices they
were being sold for. This was a deliberate attempt to starve the Highlanders
by depriving them of their only means of sustenance through notoriously
harsh winters, which had considerable success. The starving women and
children did beg at the gates, and ask to be allowed to lick up the blood of
the slaughtered animals. The men were forbidden to give them any food or
money at all.

Chapter Six deals in part with the escape of John Betts, John (Jack) Holker
and Peter Moss. As I wrote in the historical note to The Storm Breaks, they
were real people. Nothing more is known of John Betts than that he was an
Ensign in the Manchester Regiment, was captured at Carlisle, imprisoned in
Newgate Gaol along with the rest of his regiment, and subsequently
escaped, along with John Holker and Peter Moss. I’ve appropriated him and
given him a history as Beth’s stable boy, and a future, although he
disappears from history after his escape. John Holker, however (who also
features in Books One and Four) was apparently sheltered for six weeks by
a stallholder before making his way to France and becoming a lieutenant in
the Irish Brigade. He went on to have a very distinguished career in France.

In Chapter Eight, John and Sarah attend the execution of the Manchester
Rebels. Again, I’ve drawn this directly from history, even down to the
weather and the unease of the crowd at the men having no Christian priest
to minister to them on the scaffold. Thomas Deacon did throw his hat to the
crowd, and it would be nice to think that it was returned to his father,
Bishop Deacon. Thomas’s head was placed on a spike on the Market Cross
in Manchester, and his father was later fined for raising his hat to his son’s
head as he passed by and saw it.

The Duke of Cumberland was indeed feted all over the country as the hero
of Culloden, and when he returned to London in July, St James’s Palace was
besieged by people hoping to catch sight of him, and the city erupted in
celebration.
However, as early as May questions were being raised as to why none of
the prisoners taken at Culloden were listed as wounded, and if it was true
that no quarter had been given, even to the injured. Numerous stories
started to circulate that all the wounded rebels had been summarily
slaughtered, and reports coming back to London from Scotland of
continued acts of brutality following the battle, led to a newspaper reporting
at the end of May that when the duke returned to London he was to be made
a Freeman of the Guild of Butchers. The name stuck, and the Duke of
Cumberland has gone down in history as Butcher Cumberland. Historians
have disputed whether he deserved the nickname or not. I have examined
the evidence on both sides and come to my own personal conclusion that
his treatment of the Highlanders did warrant the appellation.

In Chapters Eight, Nine and Eleven I discuss Newgate Prison. Daniel

Defoe, who had briefly been incarcerated there, described it in his novel
Moll Flanders as, ‘That horrid place…an emblem of hell itself’, which
aptly summed up the eighteenth century view of it. Even by the standards of
the day, Newgate was a dreadful place.
 The first reference to Newgate being used as a prison was in 1188, but
the prison Beth is in had been rebuilt after the great fire of London in 1666.
It was said to be one of the most expensive places to lodge in London, as
the warders extorted every penny they possibly could from their prisoners.
Some of the charges have been documented, but they would vary according
to the wealth of the inmate. They were charged 2s6d on entry to the prison
if they wished to be removed from the reception cell (a dungeon through
which an open sewer ran), a further 2s6d to have manacles removed, and
then a variable fee for everything else from reasonable food to coal,
candles, receiving visitors etc. Prisoners who were unable to pay were
treated abominably. They were also charged a fee to leave the prison – even
if they’d been found not guilty of the crime they’d been arrested for. If they
couldn’t pay the fee they remained in prison.
The keepers paid good money for the position, as they stood to make a
fortune from the extortion. There is an interesting document in the National
Archives in London, in which the rebel prisoners lodged an official
complaint against the warder (Richard Jones) in September 1747, regarding
the conditions they were kept in and the extortionate amount of money he
demanded even to allow a surgeon or apothecary to visit. Mr Jones of
course strenuously denied the allegations.
After Culloden the prisons really were full to overflowing, which led to
even worse conditions than normal, not only at Newgate and other land-
based prisons, but also on the transport hulks, ships which were docked at
Tilbury and other ports for the purpose of receiving the overflow of
prisoners. These were widely condemned as hell-holes, with prisoners being
kept in the most unbelievable conditions and dying like flies (as Caroline
mentions in Chapter Fourteen - they really did run pleasure cruises out to
the hulks).
In an attempt to reduce the overcrowding, a lotting system of rebel
prisoners was brought in, in which the common prisoners would draw lots
in groups of twenty. One man would draw the short straw and be tried for
his life, the others, if they agreed to plead guilty would receive ‘His
Majesty’s Pleasure’, most of them being transported as indentured servants
to plantations in America or the Caribbean; others were forced to enlist in
the army, or remained in prison until they either died or were eventually
released.
 Gaol fever (typhus) was justly feared by everyone. It was carried by fleas
and lice, and spread like wildfire amongst the prisoners, due to the
insanitary conditions. It was largely ignored by officials until 1750, when
forty-three officials at the nearby Old Bailey died of it, including the Lord
Mayor. It was thought to be spread by foetid air, and a windmill was
installed on the roof to provide ventilation. Seven of the eleven workers
died of typhus while installing it.

In Chapter Nine I give a description of Prince Charles as he comes down

the hill to see Alex. This is lifted in its entirety from a description of him
when he was on the run in Scotland, from April until September 1746. He
certainly seems to have thrived on the excitement and danger of being
hunted and passed from one loyal clansman to the next, many of whom
risked their lives to keep him safe.
However, anyone who has been to Scotland on holiday and experienced
the dreaded midge will be amused to know that they drove Charles insane
as well, biting him very badly as he lurked in the heather on overcast days.
Some things never change!
I won’t go into detail about his adventures with Flora MacDonald, when
he was disguised as her maidservant ‘Betty Burke’, as this story is widely
known. It is however true that Kingsburgh’s wife, upon seeing him pacing
up and down the hallway of her home in his long dress, described him as
‘an odd muckle trollop’ and was somewhat afraid of the appearance of this
strange woman.
Charles was indeed sheltered for several days in July 1746 by the Seven
Men of Glenmoriston (in fact eight men), a group of freedom fighters or
terrorists, depending on your point of view, who vowed to continue the
fight, and had some remarkable adventures worthy of a novel in their own
right.
John Murray of Broughton was arrested, and later did turn king’s
evidence, giving information against Lord Lovat and naming a number of
the English Jacobite leaders as well as the Welsh leader, Sir Watkin
Williams Wynne. He was universally hated and vilified for this, by Prince
Charles and others, and understandably so, but in his defence, he was sick
and exhausted, very worried for his wife who was heavily pregnant, and
disillusioned with many of the chiefs, who had let him down badly when he
was desperately trying to rally them to continue the fight after Culloden by
means of guerrilla warfare. He did remain devoted to the Stuart cause to his
death, in spite of being ostracised by the Jacobites and deserted by his wife.
And he certainly did not tell everything he knew – he did not reveal the
whereabouts of Lochiel, or of Prince Charles, and it is feasible that he
would not have betrayed Beth or Alex either. He seems to have mainly
given information about chiefs and leaders who promised support for the
Stuart restoration but failed to deliver on those promises.

In Chapter Thirteen I point out that Earl Albemarle ordered Inversnaid

barracks to be reoccupied with the express intention of keeping the Loch
Lomond MacGregors in check. This did happen, but I admit to having taken
liberties with the date this was done in order to allow Alex and his clan to
spend some time unmolested at home, and to carry out various raids once
the redcoats started to relax their vigilance. In the book it is reoccupied over
the winter of 1746/7, but this in fact happened sometime in the summer of
1746.

I also realise that many of you will not know what a link man was. Link
men (or more often boys), were frequently to be found hanging around
theatres and other places of entertainment. They would carry a lighted torch
and offer to lead people home at night, when there was little if any street
illumination. They were very poor, usually dressed in rags, and not always
honest – sometimes instead of taking a customer home, the link boy would
conduct him down an ill-lit alley to be robbed by a gang of thieves, for a
share in the proceedings.

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 ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Julia has been a voracious reader since childhood, using books to escape the
miseries of a turbulent adolescence. After leaving university with a degree
in English Language and Literature, she spent her twenties trying to be a
sensible and responsible person, even going so far as to work for the Civil
Service for six years.
Then she gave up trying to conform, resigned her well-paid but boring
job and resolved to spend the rest of her life living as she wanted to, not as
others would like her to. She has since had a variety of jobs, including,
telesales, Post Office clerk, primary school teacher, and painter and gilder.
In her spare time and between jobs, she is still a voracious reader, and
enjoys keeping fit, exploring the beautiful Welsh countryside around her
home, and travelling the world. Life hasn’t always been good, but it has
rarely been boring.
A few years ago she decided that rather than just escape into other
people’s books, she would quite like to create some of her own and so
combined her passion for history and literature to write the Jacobite
Chronicles.
People seem to enjoy reading them as much as she enjoys writing them,
so now, apart from a tiny amount of transcribing and editing work, she is a
full-time writer. She has recently plunged into the contemporary genre too,
but her first love will always be historical fiction.

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 Follow her on:

Website:
www.juliabrannan.com

Facebook:
www.facebook.com/pages/Julia-Brannan/727743920650760

Twitter:
https://twitter.com/BrannanJulia

Pinterest:
http://www/pinterest.com/juliabrannan

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 Also by Julia Brannan

The Jacobite Chronicles

Book One: Mask of Duplicity

Book Two: The Mask Revealed
Book Three: The Gathering Storm
Book Four: The Storm Breaks
Book Six: Tides of Fortune (early 2018)

Contemporary Fiction

A Seventy-Five Percent Solution

The Bigger Picture (late 2017)

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 Table of Contents
Also by Julia Brannan
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
HISTORICAL BACKGROUND NOTE
THE STORY SO FAR
LIST OF CHARACTERS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
HISTORICAL NOTE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
FOLLOW HER ON:
Also by Julia Brannan

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