White Rose Rebel

by Janet Paisley

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  WHITE ROSE REBEL

  ‘A feisty heroine, romantic dash, battle scenes of eye-watering gore’

  Financial Times

  ‘Not just a stirring tale of Highland passion and adventure, this is

  also an expertly plotted, psychologically insightful narrative from

  one of Scotland’s most exciting literary minds’ Kevin MacNeil,

  author of The Stornoway Way

  ‘A hot-blooded riposte to the Highland machismo of clan history’

  Sunday Herald

  ‘Will make your heart soar and your Saltire swing’ Daily Record

  ‘The inspirational story of Scotland’s warrior queen’ Herald

  ‘In the warrior woman of the Jacobite cause, ‘Colonel Anne’

  Farquharson-Mackintosh, Janet Paisley has found a feisty,

  feminist heroine for today. White Rose Rebel is more than a tartan

  bodice-ripper – it dramatizes the anguish, loyalty, treachery and

  brutality of civil war, before affirming the unquenchable

  power of love and freedom’ Dorothy McMillan

  ‘A swashbuckling adventure’ Gloss

  ‘Pacey, racy… a hot little kilt-lifter’ Sunday Times

  ‘Paisley is first-rate – she has reinvented the form and made it

  her own… She writes with a confidence that is informed by several

  factors – her obviously deep love for Scotland, her tenacity in espousing

  the liberty of the individual and her determination to ensure the

  presence of women in Scotland’s history… Her creation of

  Anne Farquharson is a triumph’ Scottish Review of Books

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Janet Paisley’s oeuvre includes five poetry collections, two of short fiction, a novella and numerous plays, radio, TV and film scripts. Accolades include a prestigious Creative Scotland Award (Not for Glory, stories), the Peggy Ramsay Memorial Award (Refuge, a play) and a BAFTA nomination (Long Haul, a short film). Her poetry and short stories have been translated into seven languages and are widely anthologized. White Rose Rebel is her first novel.

  By the same author

  FICTION

  Wicked!

  Not For Glory

  Wild Fire

  POETRY

  Ye Cannae Win

  Reading the Bones

  Alien Crop

  Biting through Skins

  Pegasus in Flight

  VIDEO

  Images

  FILM

  Long Haul

  PLAYS

  Refuge

  Straitjackets

  Winding String

  Deep Rising

  Curds & Cream (Radio 4)

  and co-authored with Graham McKenzie

  Sooans Nicht

  For Want of a Nail

  Bill & Koo (Radio 4)

  White Rose Rebel

  JANET PAISLEY

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)

  Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand

  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  www.penguin.com

  First published by Viking 2007

  Published in Penguin Books 2008

  1

  Copyright © Janet Paisley, 2007

  All rights reserved

  Grateful acknowledgement is made for permission to reproduce the following extracts:

  True Stories copyright © Margaret Atwood, 1981, reproduced with permission of Curtis

  Brown Group Ltd; ‘The Little White Rose’ from Hugh MacDiarmid’s Complete Poems,

  reproduced with permission of Carcanet Press Ltd.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  978-0-14-191056-7

  For Sarah and Melanie, guid-dochters, with love

  ‘There was a singular race of old Scotch ladies. They were a delightful set – strong-headed, warm-hearted, and high-spirited – merry even in solitude; very resolute; indifferent about the modes and habits of the modern world, and adhering to their own ways, so as to stand out like primitive rocks above ordinary society. Their prominent qualities of sense, humour, affection, and spirit, were embodied in curious outsides, for they all dressed, and spoke, and did exactly as they chose.’

  Lord Cockburn, 1779–1854

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to the Scottish Arts Council for financial support, to Judy Moir for sound editorial advice, to Rennie McOwan, Joan McNaught and Pamela Fraser for research books, to Lucy Conan and Johanna Hall at BBC Radio for the experience in dramatizing history, to Kevin MacNeil for essential assistance with Gaelic, and to Eirwen Nicholson for checks on historical accuracy.

  Don’t ask for the true story;

  why do you need it?

  It’s not what I set out with

  or what I carry.

  What I’m sailing with,

  a knife, blue fire,

  luck, a few good words

  that still work, and the tide.

  Margaret Atwood

  I want for my part

  only the little white rose of Scotland

  that smells sharp and sweet – and breaks the heart.

  Hugh MacDiarmid

  ONE

  In the distance there was a drum beating and the faint skirl of slow pipes. It was a call to the clans, for a chief was dying. At such a time even bitter enemies forgot their grudges, laid their swords aside and set off to honour the call. Undisturbed by the distant beat, a roe deer grazed in the fading light of dusk among heather and rock on the foothills of the Cairngorms. A shot cracked off, then another, with barely a heartbeat between. The deer staggered, fell.

  ‘Trobhad! Come on!’ Calling out in Gaelic, a young girl, maybe twelve or thirteen years old, dashed from the thicket of nearby trees, her grubby face alert with joy as she ran barefoot towards the wounded beast, the musket in her hand still smoking. Her long dark hair was crazily tangled but her dress, though clearly Highland, was velvet and lace.

  ‘Anne, fuirich! Wait!’ An older youth in a chief’s bonnet and kilted plaid emerged behind the girl, the second gun in his hand, the gleam of his red-gold hair still discernible in the gathering dark.

  Anne did not heed or hesitate. She dropped the musket as she ran, drew a dirk from the belt at her waist and, to avoid its hooves, leapt over the injured deer, short sword poised. As she leapt, the terrified animal thrashed, trying to rise. Its flailing
hooves smacked against her shin. Anne yelped, stumbling on to the heather. The youth, two steps behind, threw down his gun, drew his dirk, fell to his knees and yanked the deer’s head back to finish it. Anne lunged forwards on to its chest to plunge her blade first into the animal’s throat.

  ‘I got him,’ she said. There was challenge in her voice. The lad glanced at her across the shuddering carcass as the earthy stench of blood rose between them. ‘All right, MacGillivray,’ she conceded. ‘We both got him.’ Then she thrust her fingers into the slowing spurt from the deer’s neck and, with the middle one, drew a bloodied line down the centre of her forehead. ‘But it’s my kill.’

  Satisfied that her right was secured, she jumped to her feet. Pain twisted up through her body. The yelp was out before she could stop it. As she staggered, the young MacGillivray caught hold of her. Anne raised her long velvet skirt and looked down. Her right ankle had begun to swell. She tried again to put her weight on it, biting her lip so as not to squeal again with pain.

  ‘I’ll carry you,’ MacGillivray offered.

  ‘And what about the deer?’

  ‘It’ll have to wait.’

  ‘Gu dearbh, fhèin, chan fhuirich! Indeed it won’t!’ She would not lose the kill. There were few deer left on the hills, and they’d been lucky to find this one. Hungry folk were not the only hunters. ‘The wolves would have it before we were half-way home.’

  ‘I’ll put it in a tree.’

  ‘You’ll take it back to Invercauld. People won’t arrive to an empty larder now.’

  ‘They’ll bring food, if they can. It’s been a thin year for all of us.’

  ‘But he will eat.’ Her throat constricted. ‘And get strength from it.’ Her voice wavered. ‘Maybe then they can all go home again.’

  MacGillivray stared down at her. At nineteen, he was a full head taller. He could remind her that the dying chief couldn’t eat, hadn’t for days. Instead, he caught her round the waist, lifted and slung her over his shoulder.

  ‘What are you doing?’ She struggled.

  ‘Putting you in the tree,’ he said as he strode back to the thicket.

  While she shimmied her backside into the fork of the tree he put her in, MacGillivray primed and loaded her musket before handing it up.

  ‘But I still think it should be the deer.’

  ‘Will you go, Alexander?’

  He slung his own musket to lie across his chest and swung the deer carcass across his shoulders. He was not happy at the prospect of returning without her. They were not his clan. These were not his lands.

  ‘MacGillivray,’ she called as he set off. He turned, still ready to hoist the deer into the tree and her out of it. ‘That way,’ she pointed. ‘Follow the drum.’

  MacGillivray let his breath out, turned and headed the way she directed. The limp head of the deer banged against his back with every stride, blood still dripping.

  ‘Tell them I shot it,’ she yelled as he vanished out of sight.

  Now she was alone. Among the rocks, two courting wildcats circled each other, yowling. A hunting owl hooted. The moon rose above the hills. Its light made the pool of deer blood gleam in the dark. From the valley beyond, a wolf bayed. Anne shifted in the tree. If the pack came this way, they’d pick up the blood-scent and be after it. MacGillivray had slung his musket first. To load it, he’d have to drop the deer. The wolves would dart in. They would be ravenous, their natural caution blunted. He’d get one shot in, and time to load and fire again as they dragged the deer away but, with only a dirk to use then, if there were more than two wolves, the kill could be lost. Anne looked around the tree, hung her musket on a short branch and drew the dirk from her belt.

  By the time the moon reached eleven o’clock in the sky, the wolves had found the congealed puddle of blood. They could smell the sour stink of humans too, but hunger removes much reticence and the ribs of these three animals were visible through their scraggy pelts. One sniffed around the puddle. Another raised its head and yowled. The third picked up the trail of what to them was wounded prey and they all loped off, following it. The fork in the tree where Anne had been was empty. Near it, a jagged branch bore the pale white wood of a fresh cut.

  Dribbles of deer blood shone on the rough track made by MacGillivray. Breathing hard, Anne hobbled across rock and heather, a crutch hacked from the tree under her left arm, the butt of her musket under the right, her swollen ankle roughly bandaged by cloth torn from her skirt. She had gone some way towards Invercauld but not enough. From behind her, further back on the trail, a wolf howled. She stopped, half-turned, listened, trying to gauge how far, how fast. The heather-clad ground and low trees were cut against dark shadows deepened by the high moon. The front of Anne’s dress shone darkly in its light.

  Leaning on the musket butt, she touched the bloodstain with her hand. It was still wet. Wolves would not normally have troubled her. They were shy of folk but starvation changed both man and beast. That was why she was on the hill when she would rather be at home, and why she’d left the safety of her tree. Without thinking, she’d gone after MacGillivray to protect her kill. But in the time she’d taken, he could have reached Invercauld and be half-way back to fetch her so now, as the wolves followed the blood-spoor, they would find her instead, reeking of the deer they tracked.

  Heart thumping, Anne gripped the musket butt tight, swung round and lurched forwards, intending to travel faster. Instead, she slammed into something solid. Winded and disoriented at the sudden presence, it took her a few seconds to realize it was a man she’d walked into. He was dark-headed, long black hair to his shoulders, but old, maybe even thirty, and he was a stranger. Without speaking, he reached out and, though she ducked, clamped his hand on the top of her head and wiped the blood trophy from her forehead with his thumb.

  ‘Seadh, a-nis,’ he said. ‘So, it’s a warrior I’ve found.’

  Anne was sure that the tone of his voice betrayed a smile she could see no evidence of on his face. The lilt of it confirmed he didn’t belong in this glen.

  ‘Are you a MacDonald?’

  He seemed to find the question even more amusing than her kill mark and bent down, his face close to hers.

  ‘And if I was?’

  Using all the length and strength of her arm, Anne swung her musket hard. The barrel cracked across the man’s shin. He let out a yell and curled forwards instinctively, but the force of the blow threw her off balance. She lost her grip of the musket and staggered, about to fall. The man caught her shoulders, propped her up again on the makeshift crutch.

  ‘A warrior would know,’ he said, and there was no smile in his voice this time. ‘If you have a wounded leg, you attack with the opposite arm.’

  Anne didn’t need telling twice. She swung the wooden crutch. It, too, cracked across the man’s shin. He yelled again, crumpling back a step from her. Anne swayed but, being ready for it this time, managed to keep her balance and stay upright. The man recovered quickly. His dark brows frowned over angry eyes. Furious, he grabbed the crutch from her grasp, broke it in two over his knee as if it were kindling and tossed it away into the heather. Then he snatched up her fallen musket, pointed it in her direction and, as she stared defiantly, wavering now without any support, he fired.

  There was a loud yelp from behind her. Further down the trail, the lead wolf spun round as the ball bit into its shoulder. It whimpered and slunk off, limping. The other two halted and began to back away. Anne stared up at the man, her mouth open, impressed by his speed and accuracy. Her admiration came too late. The man glared back at her.

  ‘Now for you,’ he said.

  At Invercauld, the pipes and drums played on, slow and steady. Torches flickered like fireflies on the hills. All around the chief’s squat stone house small cooking fires flared in the dark. The air was heavy with expected sorrow and thick with murmurs. Beside the door of the house, the white rose of June bloomed, reflecting the moonlight from its ghostly perfumed flowers. Jean Forbes stood in the doorway wa
tching the torch-bearing searchers return from the hills. She was on edge, irritated more than worried. The young girl who clung to her side sensed her mother’s mood and seemed to be trying to hide among the folds of her skirts. MacGillivray hurried towards them.

  ‘She was gone,’ he said, his breath coming hard. ‘We ran all the way, by the shortest path. But she wasn’t there.’

  ‘Och! Then where?’

  MacGillivray spread puzzled hands. This was his responsibility and a heavy one at such a time.

  ‘Some of the men followed other roads home. She had cut a crutch and a tracker found her trail, but that will be slow.’

  Jean, the Lady Farquharson, was much younger than her dying husband – his fourth wife – and Anne was not her daughter. The girl could never do as she was told, and this was not a night when the clan’s attention should be distracted by a wayward, foolish child.

  ‘My husband will not hold on much longer,’ she snapped at MacGillivray. ‘She must be found!’

  MacGillivray had no answer for her ire, but he tried to frame one. As the first word of apology reached his tongue, a musket shot sounded behind him and silenced it. Alarmed, people turned towards the sound. In the muttering that followed, names were uttered, ‘McIntosh’, ‘Aeneas’, names spoken in recognition but with deference and respect. Then Aeneas McIntosh strode into the light from the doorway, musket smoking in his hand, Anne perched on his shoulders.

  Relieved, Anne’s kinfolk crowded around. Lady Farquharson noticed the missing girl first but it was the man who carried her whose presence was the greater pleasure.

  ‘Aeneas! Fàilte.’

  ‘Lady Farquharson,’ Aeneas responded. ‘My uncle sends his regrets. In his poor health, the mountain pass defeats him.’