Tides of Fortune (Jacobite Chronicles Book 6)

by Julia Brannan

  Jamie carried on to where the others were watching their rapidly diminishing chieftain with amusement, looking disgruntled at not being able to pass his message on to its intended recipient.

  “Is it good news?” Alasdair asked immediately.

  “Aye, I think so, Pa,” Jamie said, sitting down on the vacated rock. “At least there was an awfu’ lot o’ screaming and cursing and suchlike, and then I heard the bairn cry. And then Ma came out and tellt me to fetch Angus and tell him that everything was well.”

  There was a communal sigh of relief. The company cheered up immediately.

  “Did she say if it was a laddie or lassie?” Alasdair asked.

  His son shook his head.

  “Ah well, it doesna signify as long as it’s healthy,” Alasdair said.

  “Will I fetch the whisky then?” Allan suggested hopefully.

  Kenneth patted him gently on the back, which nearly sent the slender young man sprawling on the grass.

  “Aye,” Kenneth said. “We can make a start now, and then once we’ve got the new faither back wi’ us we can celebrate properly.”

  The new faither stopped at the closed front door of the house, suddenly extremely nervous, uncertain as to the best way to proceed. He lifted his hand, and then realising how stupid it was to knock on your own door, opened it and took a step inside. They were living in Alex’s house, and Morag was currently sitting up in the bed, which had been brought down from the loft when Alex had been injured and was still there, because if the clan had to abandon their settlement for the cave again, it was easier to dismantle furniture that was on the ground floor, if there was time to do so.

  He stood there, not knowing whether he was welcome or not, feeling shy and awkward, a small child again. There was a strong dark smell of blood, and the room was very warm due to the fire blazing in the hearth. Peigi, who was sitting at the bedside, looked up at him and smiled. She stood up and walked past him, squeezing his shoulder as she did.

  “I’ll just be outside,” she said.

  After she had gone he still stood unmoving, paralysed with shyness and shame at the pain he’d caused her.

  “D’ye no’ want to say hello to your son?” Morag asked softly, when it became apparent that he might well stand there forever if she didn’t say something.

  He moved across to the bed, looking down at his wife and at the small, neatly wrapped bundle cradled against her chest. Then he knelt down and looked with wonder at the tiny puckered face of his first child.

  “My God,” Angus breathed, awestricken. He looked at her, and his eyes filled with tears. “I’m so sorry, mo chridhe,” he said.

  Morag’s eyes widened with shock.

  “Sorry? What for?” she asked. “Did ye no’ want a bairn after all?”

  “What?” Angus said. “Christ, aye, a bairn, of course! He’s…I canna believe he’s real. No, I’m sorry I put ye through all that pain. I didna ken how bad it would be for ye. I swear I’ll no’ touch ye, ever again.”

  Morag laughed.

  “Angus MacGregor, ye’re the biggest eejit on God’s earth. And I love you.” She looked at the cut on his head, which had scabbed, and at the developing bruise around it. “I’m the one who should be sorry. Are ye hurt?”

  “No. But ye tellt me I was a bastard, and no’ to come near ye, and then when I heard ye crying out, it fair broke my heart,” he said.

  “Aye, well, I was a wee bit fashed wi’ ye then. But no more. I didna mean what I said. Look at what we made. Is he no’ the most beautiful bairn in the world?”

  He was, without doubt, the most beautiful bairn in the world. He was fast asleep after the ordeal of being born, smacked to shock him into breathing, then washed. His eyes were tightly closed, his little brow creased in a frown, his lips pursed. A fuzz of pale hair could just be seen on his forehead, the rest of his head and body being obscured by the blanket he was wrapped in. Angus’s heart swelled with pride and joy, till he thought it might burst from his chest. Tears spilled over his eyelashes, running down his cheeks.

  “I canna believe it,” he said. “I canna believe he’s mine. Ours,” he amended. “He’s beautiful, God, he’s so beautiful. Can I hold him?”

  “Of course you can,” she said, smiling. “He’s yours.”

  He leant over, and with infinite care picked up the tiny bundle, holding it against his chest.

  “Welcome to the world, my son,” he said, bending to kiss the tiny nose. “Tha gràdh agam ort.” He looked across at his wife. “I love you too, so much,” he said, leaning across to kiss her as well. She shrank back in the bed.

  “I smell horrible,” she said. “And I must look awfu’ bad. Will ye ask Janet to maybe help me clean myself a wee bit?” He looked at her. Her skin was pale and greasy, and her hair hung in lank sweaty strings around her face. She did, indeed, look and smell bad.

  Angus got off his knees, sat on the bed next to her and swung his legs up on top of the blankets. Still cradling his son in his left arm, he wrapped his right around Morag, adjusting position until she was resting against his chest. Then he bent his head and kissed her hair.

  “You have never been more beautiful than you are right now, mo leannan,” he said with absolute sincerity.

  She smiled and leaned into her husband’s warm body. Her eyes closed.

  “I bought ye a wee something when I was in Glasgow,” he said. With some difficulty he managed to reach the pocket of his coat, from which he retrieved a small parcel. He handed it to her.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed on opening the tissue-wrapped present to reveal a slender silver bracelet, its links carefully crafted into a Celtic pattern. “It’s beautiful!” She slipped it on her wrist and held her arm up to the firelight to admire it. She turned her head and kissed his chest, which was the only part of him she could reach without moving, which she didn’t want to do.

  “I bought it to cheer ye, because the baby was lying badly and causing ye pain,” he said. “I didna ken he’d come so soon. I’d no’ have gone at all, an I had.”

  “Ye couldna have done anything if ye’d been here,” she said. “Did all go well in Glasgow?”

  “Aye,” he replied, not wanting to disturb this perfect moment by telling her that he’d killed a man in cold blood in a dirty alleyway, Beth was, after all, dead, and Alex was careering off to France with his wits no doubt scattered. Time for that later.

  “I dinna think he’s early,” Morag said. “Peigi said he’s bonny and full-size. I think we got our dates a wee bit wrong.” She held her wrist up to the light again, turning it so the firelight danced across the links. Angus smiled. It had been a good choice of gift. “I canna wait to see his wee cradle. Have ye finished it yet?”

  “Almost,” he said. “I can finish it tomorrow, if I spend the day on it.”

  He remembered the previous child he’d made a cradle for, how he’d smashed it to pieces in the throes of grief after the baby it had been intended for had not lived long enough to sleep in it. At that time he had vowed never to make another one. Strangely, it had been Iain who’d come to him, asked him if he was going to make one for his own child.

  “No, it doesna seem right. Ye were no’ supposed to ken about it, anyway,” Angus had said.

  Iain had smiled.

  “We kent ye were making us something for the bairn, though we were no’ sure what,” he’d replied. “It was Beth who tellt us, afterwards, about the beautiful knotwork ye carved into the piece she found. Ye should make one. Ye’ve a God-given talent for the carving, and it wasna you making a cradle that caused the bairn to come before his time. I’d like to see what it would have looked like,” he’d finished.

  So Angus had made a cradle for his baby. He had not kept it a secret that he was doing so, but he told Morag he didn’t want her to see it until it was finished.

  “Shall I send Allan for Father MacDonald the morrow?” he asked.

  “Aye, that would be wonderful,” Morag said sleepily. “Are we still naming him A
lexander after your faither?”

  “Aye, if it’s what you want too,” he said. It was the tradition, to name the first son after the paternal grandfather. “If his hair stays the same colour, Sandy’ll suit him well, and avoid confusion wi’ his uncle having the same name.”

  “I’d like that. Hello, wee Sandy,” Morag said, her eyes closing.

  Angus lay there, enjoying the warmth and weight of his wife against his right side and his son against his left.

  At this moment, life was perfect.

  When Peigi returned a few minutes later, intending to send Angus out while she cleaned the room and the new mother up a bit, the three members of the family were all fast asleep on the bed.

  Peigi watched them for a moment, then smiling to herself turned and left them alone, closing the door very carefully behind her.

  Then she made her way down to the lochside to join the celebrations, which were already well under way.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Fontainebleau, France, September 1747

  “God, but it’s good to see you, man,” Lochiel said, taking Alex’s hand and shaking it before pulling him into a brief but fierce embrace. “Sit down and make yourself at home. Will ye take a dram?”

  “I will. It’s been a long journey, and I’m a wee bit tired, I’ll no’ deny it.”

  Alex had paid an exorbitant amount of money to lie in the bottom of a fishing boat along with part of the catch, and had been tossed about so much during the voyage from Dover to Calais that when he’d landed, wobbly-legged, soaking wet and stinking of fish, he’d been aching from head to toe and desperately in need of a bath, clean clothes and sleep.

  He had taken a room, paid another princely sum for a bath to be prepared for him, and then sank into it with a sigh of utter bliss. He was covered in bruises from being thrown about, but he was in France, his portmanteau had been wrapped in oilskin and was dry, so he had clean dry clothes to put on, and the landlord had promised a hearty meal would be ready once he was clean and refreshed.

  The following morning, having slept rather later than intended, he’d set off southward, deciding to delay visiting Charles until he had more information regarding what he was up to and how welcoming the French court currently was towards the Stuart prince. The last news he’d had was of Charles’ disastrous mission to Spain, which had failed to attain the support he had hoped for to launch a new expedition to England, and must certainly have discredited him with the French.

  To that end, Alex made a detour around Paris and headed southeast to Fontainebleau, where Lochiel had set up his home in exile along with his family. The Cameron chief would be sure to know what was going on, and would give an honest, intelligent account of it. Added to which Alex liked and respected Donald Cameron enormously, and looked forward to seeing him again.

  He sat now in the luxuriously appointed apartments that had been allocated to Lochiel, and listened to the pleasant sound of whisky being poured into crystal.

  “You’ve no’ done too badly for yourself, Donald,” Alex said, looking around the room they were sitting in.

  “Aye, Anne likes it, we’re safe, and it’s a good place for the bairns. The boys are learning to hunt, and are training in arms now too. I’m no’ ungrateful, ye ken, but I’d give it all up in a heartbeat to be going home at the head of my clan, even if I had to live in a bothy when I got there,” Lochiel said with great feeling. “Ye ken my father died recently?”

  “No, I didna. I’m sorry for it.”

  “Thank you. Well, I’ve been the chief since he went into exile thirty years ago, but I’ll inherit the title now too, no’ that it means anything any more. Even so, I should be with my clanspeople. That’s where I belong, no here.”

  “Ye canna go back, man. The Indemnity Act excluded you, and your lands are forfeit to the Crown,” Alex pointed out.

  “It excluded the MacGregors too,” Lochiel retorted. “Are ye intending to return to Scotland when you’ve finished your visit?”

  Alex laughed.

  “I am. But the MacGregors are accustomed to hiding, and no one kens the identity of Sir Anthony Peters. Everyone kens who you are. If ye go back, ye’ll be executed.”

  “Were you no’ concerned that Broughton would betray ye, as he has others?” Lochiel asked.

  “I was, aye. When I first heard about Broughton, I couldna believe it. If anyone else except your brother had tellt me I’d have thought it was just more scurrilous lies put about by the Whigs. When I got back home we all moved to a safe place, because I kent that if the Elector found out that Sir Anthony Peters was no’ only a Highlander but a MacGregor too, he’d have done everything he could to wipe out the whole clan. If Murray had been going to betray me, he’d have done it straight away. But no one has come for us, at least no more than they have for any of the Highlanders, and that taught me something.”

  “What?”

  “Murray’s no’ as bad as ye think he is.” When Lochiel made to protest, Alex held up his hand. “Think on it, Donald. Lovat was condemned by his own actions – he’d have been executed anyway. And the others he informed against, all of them had let the cause down – Traquair, the English leaders who didna rise. And yet if he’d have admitted that he kent the true identity of Sir Anthony, he’d have been able to name his price for the information. But he hasna. He canna have done.

  “And the only reason I can think of for it is that when he was taken he was verra sick, and angry because the cause had been lost due to those who wouldna rise. He wasna a soldier, inured to pain as we are; he was afeart of torture and execution, and he had his wife and family to think of. Ye ken how he adored Margaret. So he compromised to save his life and his family’s inheritance, but only informed on those he blamed for the failure of the rising.”

  Lochiel finished his whisky in silence, poured another and sat back, thinking this over.

  “Well, I canna dispute what you’re saying, except to ask ye a question. I ken how you loved your wife too. Would ye have turned traitor to protect her inheritance, or yourself?”

  “No. But I tellt her to betray me if by doing so she could save herself.”

  “And do ye think she would have done, if she hadna died at Culloden? Because having met her on several occasions, and Margaret too, I dinna think either of them would have turned evidence, even though they were no’ soldiers and inured to torture, but women. Which makes it even worse that Murray did. And I…” Lochiel’s voice trailed off as he noticed the expression on his guest’s face, which was one of extreme emotion that he was trying unsuccessfully to hide. “What is it, man?” he asked, alarmed.

  Alex rubbed his hand through his hair. Then he drained his glass, closed his eyes for a moment, and with a huge effort of will, composed himself.

  “Beth didna die at Culloden,” he said. “That’s one reason why I’m here.”

  “What do ye mean?” Lochiel asked. “Where is she?”

  “I think I must tell you what’s happened. And then you must tell me true the state of our cause, for that will determine how I proceed. There’s no’ many I trust now, but you’re the most honourable man I know.”

  Lochiel smiled at the compliment. Coming from the most accomplished spy and now the most wanted fugitive the cause had known, that was praise indeed. He called for more liquor and for food to go with it, then asked not to be disturbed unless the chateau was burning down.

  Then Alex told his friend everything that had happened, from when he’d killed Richard, to finding out for the second time that Beth was dead. By the time he’d finished, evening had fallen, Lochiel had lit candles and thrown wood on the fire, and three bottles of fine wine, as well as the remaining whisky, had been demolished.

  “Christ, man, I dinna ken what to say to you,” Lochiel said. “I canna imagine how you must feel. Ye must stay the night. In fact, ye can stay as long as you want to, take some rest and time to grieve for her. Anne will be delighted to have you here, and the bairns too.”

  “Thank y
ou, I will stay a few days. Then I want to visit the prince, find out what’s happening. We’ve had no news from him since May. Once I realised that I couldna do anything by staying in London, I thought to come straight here and find out for myself rather than wait for Cluny to let me know.”

  “Ye’ve heard nothing since May?” Lochiel repeated, aghast.

  “No, the last we heard was that Charles had been to Spain. I canna imagine Louis would take kindly to that, so I thought to come here first to find out how the land lies between them.”

  “I think we should call for more whisky,” Lochiel said. “Ye’re going to need it.”

  Alex had been slouched back in the chair, the combination of alcohol, fatigue and emotion having drained him, but now he sat up, alert again.

  “What’s amiss?” he said. “Tell me. What’s the wee gomerel done now?”

  Lochiel made no comment on the disrespectful reference to Prince Charles. They were speaking openly to one another, and bluntness was not out of place.

  “It’s no’ that wee gomerel this time,” he replied, “but his brother, and his father, for that matter. Henry was made a cardinal in July.”

  He could not have heard his friend right. A cardinal? No. Never. Alex’s expression told Lochiel what he was thinking.

  “Aye, that’s what I thought too, when I heard,” he said. “I thought it couldna be true. The Stuarts would never destroy their own cause so comprehensively. But that’s exactly what they’ve done.”

  “What the hell was Henry thinking? Could Charles no’ put a stop to it?”

  “Charles didna ken about it till it was over,” Lochiel said. “He went to Henry’s to have dinner wi’ him in April, but he wasna there. He sent Charles a letter a few days later apologising and saying he couldna stand the hostility of the French and had gone to see his father. Charles accepted it. After all, Henry was always sensitive, easily upset by malicious talk. The first he knew was when his father wrote to him to tell him, in July.”