by SJ Garland
Pretender at the Gate
S J Garland
MAPLE KAKAPO PUBLISHING
Napier, New Zealand
Title: Pretender at the Gate
Author: S. J. Garland
Publisher: Maple Kakapo
Address: 2069 Pakowhai Road, Napier New Zealand 4183
Format:Softcover
Publication Date: 11/2014
ISBN: ISBN 978-0-473-29437-3
For my sister, who has inspired me to be a better person since the day she was born. I love you.
Historical Note
1707 saw the signing of the Acts of Union in both the English and the Scottish Parliaments, creating what we know today as the United Kingdom. This brought two countries under one government and economic community for the benefit of all. Some historians may argue this union was inevitable after March 1604 when James I of Scotland became James VI of England, effectively bringing the Scottish and English Crowns to rest on one head.
To complicate matters, under the reign of Henry VIII, England became a protestant nation, and despite attempts to reverse the clock, remained so until James VI took the crown. The Stuarts would remain uncomfortably straddled between their Catholic faith and the Protestant faith of the country they ruled and were obliged to practice as head of the Church.
The Glorious Revolution in 1688 would see the end of the direct male Stuart Kingship in the Scotland and England. The Catholic King James II of Scotland and King James VII of England ousted from his throne in favour of his Protestant daughter Mary and her husband William of Orange.
By the time the events in this book take place in March 1708, James Francis Stuart, the son of the deposed James II of Scotland and James VII of England had the backing of the French King Louis XIV. The French King provided the mercenaries, ships and money to James Francis Stuart in the attempt in 1708 to take back the Scottish and English thrones. These attempts would lead to civil unrest for most of the 1700s, and would change the political and social landscape of Scotland and England.
Jacobite is the term applied to those who supported the return of the James Francis Stuart and his son Charles Edward Stuart to the throne. Individuals who supported James Francis Stuart’s Protestant daughters claim to the thrones called him the pretender or the old pretender in later years.
Chapter 1
The sun piercing through the darkened clouds of the spring afternoon made me look up from the steam engine drawings I had been perusing. I squinted against the bright light and wondered idly if this was a sign my time in purgatory might finally be complete. The ray of hope flickered with the passing of another cloud and died altogether in another moment. With a sigh I turned my attention to the cold teapot and the uneaten short bread biscuits at my elbow. A rare treat from my anxious maid, who hoped, it might bring me out of my woeful thoughts.
How could I tell her all hope of any future happiness had died, four weeks earlier? Crushed in the delicately gloved hands of the one person in the world I thought knew me better than myself. My hands clenched instinctively and my heart sank. My throat constricted as I thought of my last meeting with Philomena Clunes.
Four agonizingly long weeks ago, I had finally taken receipt of the gift I had specially made for Phil. The innkeeper gently handed me the wooden box sent from Geneva, over the tap. There were a few curious glances but I tucked the present under one arm and made my goodbyes.
The innkeeper had been busy with the mail delivery from the south. With only one coach per week, people stayed in the inn after receiving their post to socialise with friends. A couple of the residents called short greetings to me before I went out the door. Others kept their focus well away from my person, the troublesome Sassenach.
I walked out the door into the mid February winter snowstorm. Tucking the wooden box securely under my topcoat in order to protect the delicate instrument. I bent my shoulders to the wind. It was bitterly cold and I wanted to get up to Castle Markinch to give Phil her present straight away. I was as excited as a small child on Christmas receiving a gift when I thought of how her face would light up.
The suspicious looks and whispers behind the hands of some of the residents in the small highland village of Markinch where I collected the excise on Scotch did not bother me any more. The sad events of the New Year still caused a fission of grief when I thought of the betrayal of my first friend in this small close community. I assured my troubled mind of the certainty of my own death had I not pulled the trigger of my flintlock and caused his demise. Beathan Clunes death also meant the collapse of the Jacobite smuggling operation with the French, ensuring the safety of the English throne.
Passing out of the main village, I looked down the road to the south. Edinburgh lay beyond, Auld Reekie as the Scots affectionately called their capital. The cold snow and wind began to penetrate through the stitches of my newly made over coat and I doubled my pace as the road turned up to the left, into the wilds of the highlands.
The driving snow obscured the fens on either side of the road and I squinted to look through the thick fog. Puffing with the extra effort, I made a note to get away from my fireside more often. The red buildings of Deoch-an-Dorus distillery jumped out of the churning snow on either side of the frozen road. Using a gloved hand to shield my eyes from the driving wind, I spied the oil lanterns bobbing in their brackets next to firmly closed doors. The distillery workers had taken their trade indoors to escape the cold temperatures.
Nearing the end of my journey, I continued to walk north where I knew a warm smile and a glass of Scotch near a roaring fire would greet me. Although Magnus Clunes was still reeling from the death of his only son and heir, he was too proud to turn me away from the door. I spotted the cauldrons in front of the castle gate burning brightly in the wind and sighed with relief. Soon I would have respite from the cold and perhaps something far greater to carry me into the days ahead.
What I fool I had been, I thought as I threw the drawings down in front of me and walked over the crystal decanter of Scotch on the sideboard. I poured a glass with quick hands, letting some of the liquor spill over the sides. Closing my eyes I threw the whole contents down in one. The memory of that painful afternoon was already playing out and I could do nothing to interrupt its story and inevitable conclusion.
Looking down I thought of my enthusiasm as I used the heavy brass knocker to inform the Butler of my presence.
As the door opened, a gust of wind sent the Butler staggering backwards into the main reception room. I did not wait for him to bid me entrance, instead I rushed inside, grateful for the warmth of the fire burning in the oversized hearth. Above the mantle the familiar broadsword hung. The light of the flames appeared to make the metal burn and dance. The effect sent a chill up my spine.
Raised voices caught my attention and I looked at the closed door to the drawing room. The Butler cleared his throat behind me and spoke with a thick Scottish brogue. “The Master of the house is indisposed.” The Butler announced peering up at me through bushy white brows. He reminded me of one of my tutors as a child, always judging me and finding I was wanting.
“Good thing of have come to see the lady of the house,” I smiled back and turned towards the door. I reached out and opened the portal before the Butler could hurry across the room.
The drawing room was as opulent as ever. Set out in a blue colour scheme, with large chandeliers dripping with crystals lighting the delicately carved furniture. The mirrors shined and reflected the priceless tapestries and paintings adorning the walls. My boots sunk into the expensive Aubusson carpet.
Magnus stood with on
e hand on the mantel of the overlarge white marble fireplace. His face appeared ashen as he looked down at his remaining child. With her head turned I could not see her expression. The tilt of her chin indicated she stared into the burning flames, a letter in her hand.
The Butler cleared his throat, “you have a visitor.”
Glancing at the man’s expression I felt lucky he hadn’t given me a poke in the ribs with his elbow in order to remind my of my manners.
The occupants of the room shifted at the sound of the Butlers voice. Magnus looked up and stared at me from across the room, his expression a mixture of anger and surprise. The smile on my lips faded and I assumed a more