Hawley waved the whip to stop, gripped Ewan by the hair and jerked his drooping head back. He was unconscious. The jailer threw a cup of water in his face. Hawley waited. The post-rider had been captured by a detail out from Stirling castle. The idiots there had kept him several days while they read the dispatches, worried for their own sorry necks, before they had sent their captive on, under guard.
Ewan’s eyes flickered open, dull with pain. Hawley bent down close to the side of his head; his thin snake-lips brushed the tormented cottar’s ear.
‘The Jacobite whore,’ he hissed. ‘Where is she?’
Ewan’s mouth moved. No sound emerged. Hawley bent closer.
‘Say it again, man.’
‘Pòg,’ Ewan muttered, coughed, ‘mo thòn.’
‘In English!’ Hawley shook the cottar by the hair.
‘Go,’ Ewan gasped.
‘Yes,’ he encouraged. ‘Go, go where?’
‘To hell.’
Hawley let go the man’s hair. The jailer raised the whip. Hawley stayed his hand.
‘Rub some salt in his back,’ he said. ‘We don’t want to kill him, not yet. He’ll talk. It’s just a matter of time.’
Anne held out a small silver box to Lady Farquharson.
‘A present,’ she said. ‘The ladies in Edinburgh use it all the time.’
Lady Farquharson flipped the lid and stared at the brown powder.
‘Ciod e? What is it, gunpowder?’
‘Snuff. You take a pinch –’ she showed her ‘– then you sniff it up your nose.’
‘Really?’ Her stepmother was not convinced. Anne had brushed it back into the box, not put it in her own nose.
‘Go on,’ Anne urged. ‘Try it.’
Lady Farquharson took a pinch, sprinkled it into the V-shaped depression on her thumb as Anne had demonstrated, and sniffed.
‘Oh,’ Anne reached out and snapped the box shut, ‘and you’ll need a handkerchief.’
‘What for?’ Lady Farquharson sneezed.
‘That’s what for,’ Anne said.
Lady Farquharson sneezed again, and again. Her eyes streamed.
‘They do this for pleasure?’ she asked.
‘They do. You’ll see in a minute.’ They were outside at the door of Invercauld, Anne’s horse saddled and waiting. She’d sent her remaining guard on ahead and had dallied long enough. It was early, first light, but in winter the Lairig Ghru was impassable so she must take the longer route around the mountains. She turned to her sister.
‘I have to go.’
‘Let me come with you, at least to Moy,’ Elizabeth begged.
‘Not this time.’ She gave her a hug. ‘Keep practising with Dauvit,’ she whispered, grinning, in her sister’s ear. ‘You’ll learn a lot.’ Then she took her leave of James, smiled at her stepmother, now staggering about a little, still sneezing, mounted Pibroch and rode off.
‘Well, my goodness,’ Lady Farquharson kept repeating, clutching her forehead. ‘My goodness me.’
Four hundred miles away, MacGillivray strode into the war council with Lochiel. They were in Derby, a few days from London, and should have been celebrating. The march down, thanks to George Murray’s skill in outmanoeuvring General Wade’s army, had been uneventful. Their spies reported London was in uproar, militias that would be no match for armed Highlanders were being raised. King George had his personal belongings packed on a Thames barge, ready to escape. They should have been celebrating, yet the faces round the council were tense. Runes lay scattered across the map on the table top. The Prince almost wept.
‘You heard that man,’ Balmerino thundered. ‘Cumberland has his veterans back from the continent. Ten thousand seasoned troops, advancing on us as we speak.’
‘The informer is a spy,’ the Prince said, ‘a government agent. He lies.’
‘Somebody lies,’ Margaret Johnstone, the Lady Ogilvie, spoke quietly but her voice carried more approbation for it. ‘What happened to the promises of English support?’
‘Only a handful at Preston,’ MacGillivray backed her up, ‘two hundred in Manchester.’ The people of England had responded in various ways, fearful, curious or friendly, but they had not joined the march.
‘Pitiful,’ David Ogilvie agreed.
‘We don’t fight England’s battles.’ Lochiel thumped the table with his fist.
‘If indeed they have one, except against us,’ Kilmarnock added.
‘Mon dieu, the good people of England will not fight against their true Prince.’ The Prince slapped his forehead.
‘They don’t fight for you, either,’ Jenny Cameron pointed out.
‘The French army’s after assembling at Dunkirk.’ O’sullivan came to the rescue. ‘Ready to embark, so it is.’
‘Show me,’ George Murray asked.
‘What?’
‘The letters from the French.’
‘Ah, well –’ O’sullivan was caught out ‘– I wasn’t thinking to bring them.’
‘Sir John?’ Lord George turned to the Prince’s secretary.
‘We only have earlier communications,’ the dapper man stared down at his feet. ‘The confirmation hasn’t come yet.’
MacGillivray leant forwards.
‘Show me the promises from England’s Jacobites,’ he said.
Sir John continued to stare at the floor. Greta Fergusson, his wife, put an arm round him. A feather fluttered from her outfit to the floor.
‘There are none,’ she said.
George Murray stared at the Prince.
‘You deluded us.’
‘You would not have come else,’ the Prince declared. ‘Yet now we can take London. Fait accompli. Tomorrow, it will be ours!’
‘No English support,’ Balmerino growled, ‘and nothing from King Louis but empty words.’
‘The French army is coming,’ the Prince shrieked. ‘Trust me.’
‘We trusted you about the English support,’ MacGillivray pointed out.
‘Louis will not let me down,’ the Prince waved his hand in panic at the table. ‘The runes never lie!’
Lochiel snatched up the runes and ground them in his fist.
‘George, George.’ The Prince grabbed Lord George by his coat. ‘We can take London, you know we can. Tell them.’
‘We’re going home,’ George Murray said. ‘We’ll wait there for the French to come. Those for?’
Every hand rose except from Prince Charles and O’sullivan. Lochiel blew the dust out of his palm across the map. In a body, the Scottish commanders left the room. The Prince threw his chair across it.
‘J’ai promis mon père,’ he shouted. ‘You are fools, fools! I will never, never consult with you again!’
With every stride, Pibroch carried Anne over the route her wedding party had taken. Then it had been a sedate trot, with an overnight stop, a slow, celebratory advance through lush, green countryside. Now it was a brisk canter, the horse’s hooves drumming on road, splashing through fords, thudding across open land, past forests of naked trees. Twice they stopped to rest, drink water and walk for a bit. It was cold, but winter would not grip till the year turned.
The December light was already failing when they arrived at Moy. Anne’s trepidation returned. She was glad of the dark here. It wrapped around like a comforter, blotting out sights she couldn’t bear to see: the tree she’d hidden in by the loch; the space where the platform was for her wedding; the bedroom window behind which she had first known her husband, that she had leant out of, afraid that Aeneas and MacGillivray were fighting to the death.
When Will, the stable-boy, ran to take her horse, he was wordless with surprise at seeing her. Inside, the Dowager sat beside the fire reading her Scots Magazine, attempting to look unperturbed, though she must have heard the horse arrive. When it was Anne who entered the hall, she threw the publication aside.
‘Anne!’ she exclaimed with relief. ‘I thought, when I heard the one horse, it would be Aeneas.’
‘And that worried you?’
‘After your troops arrived, yes. But we had words last time he came, and he stays at the fort now.’ She took hold of Anne’s hands. ‘All that can wait. It’s so good to see you.’ She called Jessie in and asked the excited girl to fetch ale.
‘Not ale,’ Anne said. ‘I’ve got something better.’ She put the small box she’d carried in with her on the table and opened the lid. ‘Tea.’
‘I’ve heard of tea,’ the Dowager said, frowning at the black dry flakes in the tin. ‘Ciod e? Is it food?’
‘Or seasoning?’ Jessie put a bit on her tongue, then spat it out. ‘It’s got no taste.’
‘You make it into a drink,’ Anne said. ‘The Edinburgh ladies have it for their four hours now instead of ale.’
‘They drink for four hours?’ The Dowager was impressed.
‘From four o’clock till eight, when they socialize in their parlours, before dining. Their ministers preach against tea-drinking to make them go back to ale, but they won’t. I thought, if it annoys that dour kirk, it must be a fine drink.’
The three women peered at the tea leaves. Anne, having only a vague idea of how it was prepared, gave Jessie instructions. The tea duly arrived, in a steaming kettle, with three tankards, a dish of sugar and a jug of cream.
‘I arranged for a teaset to be sent,’ Anne said, ‘but this will do for now.’
Jessie was not convinced. She set down a flagon of ale.
‘I brought this too,’ she said. ‘In case.’
The tea was not a great success. The taste was pleasant enough, though bland, but the black leaves floating in it stuck in their mouths and put them off. They resorted to ale.
‘Now that we are as grand as ladies in Edinburgh,’ the Dowager said, spitting out yet another tea leaf, ‘you must tell us all about your adventure.’
Jessie brought steaming plates of minced collops and mealy potatoes through to the fireside. Knowing there was a story in the offing, Will came in from the stable to join them. With Anne and the Dowager settled in the big chairs, him on the hearth and Jessie on the footstool, it began. She told them about meeting the Prince and, since they’d yet to see him, was urged for detail. What did he wear, what colour were his eyes, hair, how tall was he, was he as good-looking as everyone said? Similar detail was asked of the arrival in Perth, the capture of Edinburgh, Prestonpans, the crossing of the border. It was a long story, almost four months of adventure, a story they would retell, that would be passed around the clan, a story for the long cold winter nights.
‘Will they be in London now?’ Will asked when she finished, his eyes shining, one side of his face red with the heat.
‘They should be.’ Anne nodded. ‘Maybe the Prince sits on the throne tonight.’ That news would travel fast, but, even with fresh riders and mounts relaying it, would still take a few days to arrive.
‘Tell us again about putting MacGillivray in a dress,’ Jessie giggled.
The Dowager chased them off to their beds. It was late enough for those with daylight rises. But, instead of laying a wet peat on to damp down the fire for the night, she stirred it up, added a log and poured more ale for herself and Anne.
‘There is a bit of the story you missed,’ she said, ‘on the battlefield, you and Aeneas.’
‘How do you know?’ Anne was puzzled, then it dawned. ‘Did he tell you?’
‘He did.’ The Dowager nodded. ‘But I want to hear it from you.’
So Anne told her what had happened, about MacGillivray’s danger, the redcoat with the axe, the pistol shot, and her frozen, unable to speak, at the shock of seeing Aeneas, so close, close enough to leap off her horse and embrace, except for the way he looked at her, close enough to speak, until he walked away without a word.
‘Why did you leave that part out?’
‘I didn’t want them to know –’ her eyes filled with tears ‘– that their chief thinks so little of me, to save MacGillivray but treat his wife with such contempt.’
‘Oh, Anne, a ghràidh –’ the Dowager got out of her chair and down on her knees in front of Anne’s seat ‘– you’ve been so strong. Don’t cry. Here.’ She handed her the handkerchief tucked in her waist. ‘Dry your eyes.’
‘I can’t bear it that he hates me so much.’
‘That’s because you love him.’
‘No.’ Anne blew her nose. ‘I don’t know that I do.’
‘Why else would you care what he thinks?’
‘I don’t know what he thinks. He won’t talk to me.’
The Dowager took and held both her hands, looking earnestly into her eyes.
‘He thinks you came on to the battlefield to shoot him.’
‘What?’
‘Because you thought he would kill MacGillivray.’
‘No!’
‘Your pistol pointed at him.’
‘Because the redcoat fell before I could fire. I didn’t see Aeneas till then.’ It had only been seconds. She replayed it in her head. The smoke, seeing him there. Her finger on the trigger. The look on his face. The look on his face.
TWENTY
Birdsong, a tangle of sound. Chirps, cheeps, the low burbles, a caw. Anne woke, disorientated, in the wood-panelled room. Bright winter sunlight crept in through the shutters. She stretched, arching back against the bulk behind her. Aeneas? Then she hadn’t only imagined him coming home in the night. She spun round but, no, it was only the pillow, dragged under the cover during sleep to fill the empty space. Memory fed her another sound, the clash of steel. She got up then. It had all happened. She wasn’t there but here, and alone.
Downstairs, Jessie had fires blazing and served hot porridge in the dining room.
‘I’ve a pair of kippers or some salt herring, if you want,’ she said when Anne came in. ‘There’s not much brought in by the clan, with so many being away and just the Dowager here.’
The Dowager was already seated, salting her breakfast, the table strewn with her papers. The Caledonian Mercury was standard fare and she filled the gaps left by its three weekly editions with the Edinburgh Courant. Now that war justified the expense, the Spectator and London Evening Post had joined them, more pertinent now despite the delay of their journey. She liked to read while eating.
‘The English papers seem amazed our army behaves on the way south,’ she said.
‘Porridge is fine,’ Anne told Jessie. ‘The fish will keep.’ She sat down at the table. ‘What does “behave” mean?’
‘I think they expected rape and pillage,’ the Dowager considered, ‘with us being barbarians.’ But she could not keep a straight face. They both laughed.
‘We pay for everything,’ Anne said. ‘It’s friends we seek, not enemies.’
The Dowager indicated the steaming kettle on the hearth.
‘We thought you might like some of your tea.’
Anne shook her head. ‘I’ll stick with ale, at least until the tea service arrives.’
‘The Edinburgh kirk will love you for it,’ the Dowager said, dryly.
‘I doubt I’ll ever redeem myself,’ Anne said, ‘after rescuing Shameless from that sour minister’s notion of justice.’
While they ate, the Dowager gave her the estate news. The Shaws had lost one son, the body brought home by his older brother, stitched into his Black Watch plaid by some kind Lowlander. The journey took him two weeks, what with dragging the pallet he’d made from branches to carry the corpse. There were several dead, or believed dead, a few that Anne knew from Moy.
‘And Màiri had the word from Aeneas, her Lachlan fell.’
‘The blacksmith’s son? But he’s with us,’ Anne said. ‘His father got him off the field. It was only flesh that was cut, and he is so proud of the scar. All the way down his back, it goes. But he’s alive, and doing well.’
‘By all that’s wonderful.’ The Dowager beamed. ‘Will can run over to Màiri’s when he gets back from Inverness. I sent him to light the fires for me, take the chill off. It won’t do, a house being empty in winter.’
>
Anne had more good news. Most of the young McIntosh captives from the Black Watch, missing after Prestonpans, had joined the Jacobite army, fifty of them. She couldn’t remember all their names but had kept count. The Dowager knew of some who’d written from Edinburgh, but not that many. Anne frowned. The rest should have written home before crossing the border. She’d insisted on it.
‘Did Shameless get himself safe home?’ she asked.
He and Howling Robbie both, Robbie without a parole as well as short of an arm, the right one, and him right-handed, or was. The parole stipulated the holder would not fight the Jacobites again, on pain of death. Robert Nairn had meant to issue Robbie’s at the hospital in Edinburgh but that was forgotten in the kerfuffle with the incensed minister at the Mercat Cross. Without one to show the terms of his release, Robbie might be considered a deserter. So Shameless had crossed out his own name on the one he had, inserted Robbie’s instead and went off back to the fort again.
‘He can’t do that,’ Anne objected. ‘We’ll have him on our records.’
‘If he’s ever taken, we’ll plead for him,’ the Dowager said. ‘He surely can’t die of stupidity.’
The rest of the news was of ordinary things. Meg’s cow looked fit to survive the winter now she wasn’t around to drain its blood. Old Tom was much the same, despite, or because of, the regular broth. Cath’s baby was crawling.
‘Did she stay with Ewan?’
‘Ewan went with you,’ the Dowager said.
‘Yes, but I sent him home, at the border, with the mail.’
‘Och, well, there’s your answer,’ the Dowager said. ‘He’ll be delivering every bit and piece himself. Do you know Cath’s baby is his?’
Anne nodded, distracted. She was trying to count the days, how many? Too many, she was sure.
‘So did Seonag,’ the Dowager rambled on. ‘Loved the baby, of course. The living are to be treasured. But she dusted Ewan down. Funny creatures, us women. We expect men not to mind sharing us, but if they do it, that’s a different story. But, then, I suppose we’re made for it and no man ever was. It’s all they can do to keep one woman satisfied, if that.’
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