The Black Knave

by Patricia Potter

  “Ah, the lovely lady. She is well?”

  “Very.” Rory tucked the pistol back under his coat.

  “She plays dangerous games.”

  “So do you, Captain.” Rory felt immensely reassured that the man knew not to mention names. “My last shipment?”

  “Safe,” the French captain said. “I expect they are in Paris now.” He hesitated, then added, “You are the true Black Knave?”

  Rory shrugged.

  “You speak like an English aristocrat.”

  “I can play one as well as an old fisherman.”

  “And a woman, I heard.”

  At Rory’s frown, he shrugged. “I do hear gossip, monsieur. Rest assured, I wish to know nothing more. Now, do you have the money?”

  “Aye. One thousand pounds. Five hundred for this trip, five hundred for another next month.”

  “And the cargo on this trip?”

  “Four men, three women, six children.”

  The Frenchman pulled out a map and spread it on the table. He pointed out a spot on the coast between Port-soy and Cullen. “Tomorrow night. Two hours after midnight. I will have a boat already ashore. I will not wait more than an hour.”

  Rory nodded. “Done.”

  “And now the money.”

  Rory took out a wrapped package from under his shirt. He watched as the captain counted it, then nodded. “I want you to pick up another load the same time next month. Same place.”

  “I enjoy doing business with you, monsieur. Would you care for some fine French brandy?”

  “Aye,” Rory said. “The same you gave to our friend?”

  Renard nodded. “She was to keep that for herself.”

  “She knows how much I enjoy it,” Rory said. “If you have any aboard ship, I would like to purchase a keg.”

  “Ah, a man of fine taste.”

  “Nay, it’s for Cumberland.”

  The Frenchman raised an eyebrow. “Cumberland?”

  “He likes fine wine.”

  The Frenchman roared with laughter. “I do not know your game, monsieur, but I think I like you.”

  Rory shrugged, though he was pleased. The Frenchman was obviously a rogue and a rebel, much like him. And Rory instinctively trusted him, perhaps because of Elizabeth’s appraisal. Trust came to him rarely.

  He took a quick gulp from the goblet, and he and Renard talked about the dangers of the voyage. Smuggling had become far more difficult since the English wanted to ensure that Prince Charles did not escape to France. Renard’s ship was sleek and fast, dependent on speed and stealth rather than arms. But every voyage carrying Jacobites was dangerous, though smuggling other goods was generally overlooked.

  “Why do you do it?” Rory asked.

  The Frenchman shrugged. “I do not like the English,” he said simply. “Some of my best customers have been hanged, or worse.” He grinned. “And it pays well.”

  Rory finished the brandy. “I have a cargo to fetch. Tomorrow night.”

  The Frenchman nodded. “I will not wait,” he warned. Then he picked up the card Rory had given him. “You might be needing this, monsieur.”

  Bethia considered how to go about what she wanted to accomplish.

  She was more than a little disgruntled that her bridegroom had disappeared again for an unknown period of time. He now intrigued her more than a little. Not, in any romantic way, she hurried to reassure herself, but as a puzzle she wanted to solve.

  She also had to admit deep in her heart that she had enjoyed their exchange several nights ago. He might be a dandy and a traitor to Scotland, but he was no’ a lack-wit. So why did he so often play that role?

  But finding the answer to that question could wait. She had a goal—namely, one of getting her brother away from Cumberland. Then perhaps they could both flee Scotland. They would have friends in France, fellow refugees. Fellow Catholics. She could earn their way as a governess. That would be far preferable than being amidst the slayers of her family, this next of traitors.

  Then she remembered her oath. But didn’t her brother’s life and well-being mean more, much more than her word to her family’s enemies? Her country’s enemies? He had no safety now with the MacDonell name.

  She tried to silence her conscience. Smother it off with plans. First she needed clothes, then a way to sneak away from Braemoor.

  And money. They would need passage money. At least she had a few coins now, her winnings from the other night. She also had the household accounts, but thievery had never appealed to her. Not even from the king’s Scottish lackies.

  A few more games with her husband and she might have enough.

  But for now …

  She dressed in a comfortable but comely gown. She had seven now. Four new ones, and three cut from dresses formerly owned by the Forbes women. Bethia did not like the idea of wearing dead women’s clothing, and the marquis had told her she could order new ones. Still, it was a waste not to use the fine materials, especially since she did not plan to be here long.

  The dress was blue, a color that had always flattered her. She meant to visit Alister, the one person who had been friendly and sympathetic. She’d received little information when she had asked him about the Black Knave. But perhaps he would be more helpful in finding new clothes for the stablelad. Then she could take the boy’s present clothes without anyone noticing it.

  The Black Knave had been described as an old woman, a young man, even a devil capable of changing shape. Why not a lad?

  She may even aid the real Black Knave by further confusing the authorities.

  Trilby dressed her hair, pulling it back with a plain silver clasp, allowing it to tumble down her back in curls. Then the maid pinned a cap on her head and studied her handiwork with pride. “Ye look lovely, my lady.”

  Bethia squinted at herself in the mirror, trying to see what Trilby had seen. It had always hurt to be plain, and time had not changed that. The others in her family had all been handsome or beautiful. Only she had those terrible freckles, a too-wide mouth, and too-thin face.

  Loneliness overwhelmed her. She missed her family, especially her fa, who had always called her his bonny lass, and her mother, who had loved her ugly duckling. Her brothers who had protected and teased her. All were gone now. Her mother had died after a long illness; her father had followed within five months. The physician said his heart stopped, but Bethia knew it was because it had also been broken. She had never seen two people more in love.

  She’d once hoped …

  She thrust that thought aside. She would never have what they had. She might escape this marriage by running away, but she would never marry again. Even though her vows were not witnessed by a priest, nor had the marriage been consummated, she knew she would never be able to recite them again without believing it a sin.

  “My lady?”

  Trilby’s voice shook her from her musings.

  Bethia stood, so quickly that the stool fell over. The noise made her cry out, and she bit her lip. The memories were too strong, the hurt too deep, the loneliness too pervasive.

  Which was why she had to do something. Otherwise she would be consumed by guilt, by surviving when so many others had died.

  “Fetch my cloak,” she said.

  Trilby’s eyes questioned her, but she didn’t voice them. It was obviously not her place to do so.

  “I am going for a ride into the village to see about getting some new clothes for the lads who work here,” she said.

  “Would you like me to go with ye?”

  “Do you ride?”

  Trilby dropped her gaze. “No, my lady.”

  “Then I shall teach you if you wish.”

  “Oh, yes, my lady.” She hesitated. “Would ye teach me to read, too?”

  Bethia hesitated. She was not at all sure she would be here that long, and she tried not to make promises she could not keep.

  But Trilby’s face fell at the silence.

  “We will get started tomorrow,” Bethia said gen
tly, and Trilby’s lips broke into a huge smile.

  It would be good, Bethia knew, to keep herself occupied, particularly in the evenings. She usually had supper in her room, feeling awkward in the great hall without the marquis at her side. Although she knew she had won over a few members of the household, the tacksmen were still hostile, and she realized she was the object of any number of jests. The woman unwanted by her husband.

  She did not feel it her duty to suffer their insolence, although she had supped with them on several occasions, not wanting it to appear that she feared them, or any Forbeses, for that matter. She was mistress of Braemoor. She refused to allow anyone to forget that.

  And today she would discover whether her husband spoke truthfully. Whether, indeed, she was to have freedom of movement.

  Moments later, she arrived at the stable. The stable-boy greeted her with a broad smile that warmed her. She had at least two friends here now.

  “I would like to take a horse into the village,” she said.

  The tall, thin figure who had been taking out the puppy to drown suddenly appeared out of the shadows. He did not touch his forelock as many of the servants did.

  Instead, he just stared at her.

  She held his gaze until finally he was the one to lower it.

  “The mare, please,” she said.

  “Ye should be takin’ an escort,” he said.

  “I believe the marquis made his orders quite clear,” she replied, hoping that he had indeed instructed the man as he’d said in his letter.

  The man muttered under his breath. “’Tis dangerous for a lady tae ride alone.”

  “That is my concern. I do not intend to go far.”

  He muttered again.

  “What is your name?”

  “Ned.”

  “And the boy’s?”

  “Jamie.”

  “Can Jamie ride?”

  “Aye, like a lord,” the man said, some of the scowl leaving his face.

  “Perhaps he can come with me, then.”

  Ned looked as if he would refuse, then realized that he could not do so. Though he had little apparent liking, or respect, for a Jacobite, he could not refuse the lady of the house.

  “Jamie,” he said, “saddle the small chestnut for yerself. I will saddle the mare fer the marchioness.”

  Bethia’s heart lightened. Not only would she have companionship, but small lads seemed to hear more than adults ever believed. She also knew that her ride would draw less comment with a groom in tow, regardless of the fact that the lad would be useless as a protector.

  She waited until they were well outside the walls of Braemoor. She slowed the horse and waited for the lad, who was riding a respectful distance behind her, to catch up. He hesitated, then, at her smile, guided his horse alongside.

  “Tell me about Braemoor,” she said, knowing that in a few moments she would change the subject to far more important topics.

  Rory traveled late into the night, then stopped at the edge of a dense forest. It had not been an easy night.

  He worried over Bethia, whether he’d made the right decision to give her a measure of freedom. After all, what trouble could she possibly create? She was busy transforming Braemoor into something livable. And he refused to be someone’s jailer. It went against his grain. He’d felt a prisoner in Braemoor far too long to wish it on anyone, particularly an innocent like Bethia.

  So with her distinctively stubborn face in his mind, he drifted in and out of sleep, and finally started at dawn for the place Ogilvy was secreted. This would be a long day if he were to deliver his charges to Renard in less than twenty-four hours.

  Still wearing his English uniform, he left before dawn and rode into the forest. Though it was cool, he’d taken off his coat at midday. He suspected other fugitives might be hiding in the forests, and he did not want his coat to flag attention.

  He was looking for a hunting lodge where Ogilvy had intended to hide. Once owned by the Gordons, it had been abandoned years ago. Now that family was nearly extinct, few remembered the old lodge. Ogilvy, though, had visited it as a boy and thought it the best place to hide. He’d been safely accompanied there by Alister, who’d drawn a map for Rory. The lodge would be his first stop, then a cave where more Jacobites waited, and finally a small farm where the last of his fugitives waited.

  The path seemed to end, and Rory cursed. He looked at the scribbled map, then searched the dense woods for an opening. Finally he gave his horse its head, and the animal found an opening he’d not been able to see. An hour later, he approached a larger building than he’d expected. It was made of dark stone and blended into the equally dark forest.

  He whistled once, then again. A head cautiously poked out the door, and Rory sighed with relief. He dismounted, led his horse to a tree and tied the reins to a low-hanging branch. He turned and saw a pistol aimed at his heart.

  “Ah, you do not want to shoot me,” he said, spinning the card with the black jack toward him. “You will never get to France.”

  The hand wavered for a moment, then lowered the weapon as weary eyes studied him. “That uniform …”

  “It is easier to move about as a soldier,” Rory said. “You will have to wear one yourself.” He looked at Ogilvy, who was still wearing his clan’s tartan. It was filthy and bloodied.

  Ogilvy, little more than a boy, shook his head stubbornly. “I will not wear that bloody uniform.”

  “Then I have wasted my time,” Rory said. “There is no other way of getting you to the coast, and the ship leaves tonight. I have other passengers to pick up along the way.”

  Ogilvy looked both hunted and haunted. He hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. “When do we leave?”

  “As soon as you change clothes and clean up.” Rory went back to his horse and fetched a bundle. He threw it to the young Ogilvy. “There is a corporal’s uniform in there, along with a knife for shaving. Your beard comes off.”

  Ogilvy’s hand went up to the red bush that ran from cheek to below chin. He hesitated.

  “I do not believe the French ladies care as much for beards as the Scottish ones,” Rory said. “And they prefer bodies with heads to those without them.”

  Ogilvy scowled at him, but then his gaze went to Rory’s arm. “Is your arm all right?”

  “A pretty girl fixed it for me,” Rory said lightly.

  Ogilvy hesitated a moment. “Who are you?”

  Rory shrugged. “No one special. Now get on with it.”

  Minutes later, they were riding toward the coast to collect the other refugees. The earl and his lady, whom Rory had found several days before his marriage, as well as one other man who had fought with the Jacobite cause, were staying in a small farm near the coast. The farmer was one of many who had come to Rory’s attention as one willing to help stop the bloodshed. The earl and his wife—and their demanding ways and many complaints—had probably changed the farmer’s mind by now. The other group, now staying in a cave, included two women and four children. They’d reminded him of that first forlorn group of women and children who were now in France. These women were also new widows, members of prominent Jacobite families marked for extinction by Cumberland.

  Rory and Ogilvy moved swiftly, Ogilvy riding a horse Alister had supplied earlier. Noon became late afternoon. They reached the cave just as the sun was descending.

  Both men took off their red coats, since the children particularly were terrified of English uniforms. Rory whistled.

  A face appeared from underbrush that hid the cave, a small one. Rory tossed him a card, and he emerged, eyeing both men suspiciously.

  “Aye, but ye are a foine lad,” Rory said, aging his voice.

  The lad’s eyes widened, then he grinned. “You are the old man.”

  “Aye. I have been drinking from the fountain of youth,” Rory said, chuckling. “And this gentleman with me is Andrew Ogilvy, who is wanted nearly as badly by the English as you.” He reached the lad and put his hand on his shoulder. He was thi
rteen, the son of a Cameron who had been one of Prince Charlie’s earliest supporters. That made him a particular target of Cumberland. Cumberland had sworn to hunt down and kill every Cameron over the age of twelve. With him was his mother, now a widow, and her sister, who’d been wed to a Stewart who’d been hanged after Culloden. Because the boy had a price on his head, Rory had thought it wise to separate him from the other refugees. If one group was discovered, at least the other would have a chance.

  “And where are the rest of your people?”

  “In the back of the cave. ’Twas decided I was the swiftest of them, and if any soldiers came I could lead them away from here. I already planned my trail,” he said proudly, his body seeming to gain two inches in height.

  “Ah, you are a brave lad to risk your life for the others,” Rory said.

  “Are you the Black Knave?” the lad asked.

  “Nay, I am only one of his helpers. But we must hurry. A French ship will meet us in a few hours and you will be safely on your way to France.”

  The boy disappeared into the cave. Several moments later two women and a gaggle of children emerged. Where there had been six souls, there were now at least twelve, some as young as four or five. All were ragged.

  Rory’s heart dropped. How could he get so many, and some so young, to the coast without notice?

  He looked at the two women, one the widow of an earl, the other her daughter.

  “They kept coming,” she explained. “It was as if they knew they would find safety around here.” She looked at Rory anxiously. “We canna leave them. Several are MacDonalds.”

  Rory knew what she was saying. Cumberland was also a particular enemy of the MacDonalds. Once in France, he thought, the children would be cared for by refugee societies, or by earlier Jacobite arrivals.

  He turned to Ogilvy, who still sat his horse. “If I give you directions, can you gather up others at a farmhouse on the way?”

  “Aye,” Ogilvy said, his gaze still on the children. “I can take at least one of the lads with me.”

  Rory shook his head. “No. You have to move fast, and I do not want you stopped.”

  “What about you? Good God, man, you canna do it alone.”

  “I will manage,” Rory said, adding a prayer under his breath. He took out a card from a pocket in the uniform. “Give this to the farmer. You will be the Black Knave.”