“I’m going to renew my acquaintance with a young man. I’ll explain more later. Better if you don’t say anything until I tell you to. And, whatever happens, don’t draw your sword, for God’s sake. You thought Richard was dangerous, but the man we’re about to meet could eat Richard for breakfast, if my instincts are right.”
As John had in the past found Graeme’s instincts to be very right, he was thoroughly alarmed as he followed the older man up the narrow, dark stairway.
Graeme stopped at a scuffed wooden door, knocked once and then opened it immediately. He stepped in, John at his heels, to be faced by three ferocious-looking muscular Highlanders, dirks drawn and poised ready to attack. Graeme and the man who was obviously the leader of the three stared at each other for a few seconds and then the Scot muttered something in Gaelic, and his companions sheathed their blades, but kept their fists wrapped around the hilts.
Graeme stepped forward, hand outstretched.
“I thought it best to get this meeting over and done with, so you can be reconciled with your wife without any awkwardness,” he said amiably. “You know my name already, and this is John Betts, Beth’s stableboy as was. You’ve no doubt heard of him, and how trustworthy he is.” He waved a hand at John, who stood frozen under the glare of the three large Scots looming over him, wondering how on earth they could possibly know about him, and at that moment sincerely wishing they didn’t. He fought the urge to turn and run, and succeeded only with a conscious effort.
“Now,” continued Graeme conversationally, “are you going to introduce yourselves properly, or am I to call you Sir Anthony, Murdo and Jim for the rest of the campaign?”
* * *
By the time Beth succeeding in discovering the whereabouts of her elusive husband and clansmen, and had located them next to the fire in the public bar of the Angel, the table was awash with empty wine bottles and most of the men were somewhat the worse for drink.
“Ah, mo nighean bheag!” beamed Alex tipsily, trying to hold his arms out to welcome her whilst simultaneously pointing at his knee to indicate where she should sit, with interesting results.
“I,” she said pointedly, keeping out of arm’s reach, “have been hunting all over Macclesfield for you, for three hours.”
“Aye, well, Graeme tellt us ye were meeting him here at nine o’clock, so we didna worry that ye’d no’ find us,” Alex replied.
Beth opened her mouth to say that the MacGregors might not have been worried, but she had been, then thought better of it. Clearly he had come to some sort of accord with John and Graeme, who were both at the table and appeared to be on amicable terms with the MacGregors. She was not in the mood for nagging, any more than Alex was in any condition to listen. She looked round the table, took in the various degrees of inebriation of its occupants. Alasdair and Simon were at the melancholy stage, Dougal was smiling vaguely at nothing in particular, Robbie Og was leaning against the fireplace, fast asleep. Kenneth was humming a little song to himself, while John was finishing off a bottle of wine and doing a reasonable impression of the leaning tower of Pisa.
Alex lunged forward, succeeded in capturing a piece of his wife’s skirt and pulled her on to his knee.
“Ah, but I’ve missed ye awfu’ sore, mo chridhe,” he said before kissing her soundly, to the applause of the MacGregors and the occupants of an adjoining table. Robbie started at the sudden noise, then relaxed back into sleep.
“I’ve missed you, too,” she said a little breathlessly when he released her. She took in the gathered clansmen. “I’ve missed all of you this last week, God knows why. I must be going daft.”
There was a cheer, and during it Alex took the opportunity to kiss her again.
She smiled, and lifting a bottle, took a deep swallow of its contents. Clearly she had a lot of catching up to do. She looked from Angus to John, then back to Angus.
“How much?” she asked.
Angus regarded her with clear blue innocent eyes, confirming her suspicions.
“How much what?” he responded.
“How much did you bet John that he could drink you under the table?”
He did not reply, but the expression of angelic innocence spread across the rest of his face.
“John,” she said. “Don’t pay him, he’s cheated you.”
“Man of honour, me,” John mumbled, fumbling in his pocket for a coin, which he scrutinised fuzzily, before placing it on the table and collapsing gracefully sideways into Kenneth’s arms.
Angus reached for the coin, but Beth succeeded in grabbing it first.
“A sovereign!” she said, aghast. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself. In fact you all ought to be ashamed of yourselves.”
“Dinna be hard on Angus, Beth,” said Simon. “He couldna resist the chance to cozen a Sasannach. It’s nobbut a wee bit of fun. I daresay he’ll gie the laddie his money back tomorrow.”
“I will not!” said Angus, clearly debating whether to fight Beth for the gold coin, and wondering if Alex would take her side or not.
“I’m a Sasannach,” Beth pointed out.
The men pondered this as though it was a completely new concept to them.
“Och, no,” said Kenneth, pausing in his humming. “Ye canna be a MacDonald and a MacGregor and a Sasannach. It isna possible.”
For the first time Beth fully realised that what Alex and Duncan had been telling her off and on for two years was really true. They had accepted her, completely and utterly. She was one of them, forever. A warm glow spread through her, which had nothing to do with either the wine or the fire. She smiled happily round the table, and Angus seized the opportunity to wrestle the coin from her while she was distracted.
“You can keep it,” she said magnanimously.
He looked at her suspiciously.
“But tomorrow, when he’s sobered up…” She paused and glanced across at the supine figure of her ex-stableboy. He looked like a child, curled up against Kenneth’s enormous chest. “The day after tomorrow, when he’s sobered up,” she amended, “it’s only fair that you have another wager, to redress the balance.”
“What sort of a wager?” Angus asked, raising his arm, the gold flashing at the end of his fingers. The barmaid appeared instantaneously and another three bottles of wine were ordered.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Beth said, as though trying to think of something suitable. “How about a knife-throwing contest?” she suggested after a minute. “I taught him the basics years ago, before he left to join the militia. He’ll be a bit rusty, I expect, but at least he’ll have a chance.”
Angus grinned. He had been one of Beth’s better pupils, and could now get within three or four inches of his target, if he concentrated.
“Aye, nae problem,” he said happily.
Beth smiled. Across the table Alex, Duncan and Graeme, who had seen John throw the knife at Beth while Angus had been preoccupied with boiling gravy, exchanged a look of amused sympathy with each other.
The wine arrived. Kenneth stopped humming, settled John gently down on the floor, and stood.
“How about a wee song?” he boomed across the tavern. There was a chorus of agreement. “I learnt a bonnie one the other day, by the name of ‘Captain McKean.’” Several people laughed. “If ye ken the song, then join in, for God’s sake. I’m loud, but I canna carry a tune so well.”
He cleared his throat and began in a wobbly baritone:
“’Bonny maidens all both great and small,
Come listen awhile to my ditty…’”
Within minutes the whole room was either humming or singing along. It was going to be a long evening. Beth settled back into Alex’s arms and put her lips to his ear.
“I’ve missed you so much,” she said. “I can’t believe it’s only been five days. Have you got us a room for the night?”
“Aye,” he said, “in a manner of speaking.”
“What does that mean?”
“Lodgings are awfu’ hard to come by, wi’ us des
cending somewhat unexpectedly on the town, and they no’ being over sympathetic to us,” he explained, enunciating each word carefully, as people do when aware they no longer have complete command of their tongue. “We’ve got a room, but we’ve to share wi’ the others.”
“All of them?” she asked. “Is it a big room?”
“Middling to large,” he said vaguely. “We’ll be warm, at least, and I’ll find us a wee corner where we can be a bit private. D’ye mind?”
Yes, she did. She’d hoped to have him all to herself tonight. She sighed, and he looked hazily down at her, his brow creased with worry. He’d had a lot on his mind with the council, she knew that, and tonight he seemed to be relaxing completely for the first time in a while.
“No, I don’t mind,” she said. “I’ve got used to making love with my husband outdoors, within a few feet of twenty other men. I suppose there’s no difference between being outside and inside, really.”
“Oh, there is,” said Alex happily, in his inebriated state taking her literally. “When ye’re indoors, there’s nae chance of your plaid blowing away while ye’re…”
She leaned up and kissed him hastily, cutting off the rest of the sentence before Graeme, sitting to Alex’s right, could hear it. She still thought of Graeme as a surrogate father, and blunt and broadminded as he was, she had no wish for him to hear the graphic details of her sex life.
Although he would no doubt hear something of it later, if he was to be sharing the room as well, she thought anxiously.
By one o’clock in the morning, however, when the MacGregors finally did repair to bed, Beth had caught up with the others in the matter of alcohol consumption and neither knew nor cared what Graeme heard or thought of her physical reunion with her husband.
All she knew was that she was back where she belonged, curled in her husband’s strong, loving arms, and that she did not intend to spend another night apart from him, ever, if she could help it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Derby, December 5th, 1745
The house in which the general council was meeting was a very pleasant one. On entering the town the previous day, Prince Charles had been lodged at Exeter House, a recently modernised mansion which faced on to beautifully landscaped gardens, at the end of which flowed the River Derwent. The room itself was also very pleasant. Decorated in shades of gold and cream, it was warmed by a log fire, and comfortable seats, refreshments and wine were provided for the council members.
Unfortunately the pleasantness of the surroundings was not matched by the mood of the prince and the council members, which had deteriorated dramatically following Charles’s opening assumption that they were only meeting to discuss the preferred route the army would take to London.
“We did say in Manchester that we would review the situation once in Derby,” Lord George Murray explained to the furious prince once he’d discovered the true reason for the meeting.
“I know,” Charles replied hotly. “But I cannot conceive how you could even think of retreating at this point! We are right on the brink of victory. One more push will bring the whole Hanoverian regime to its knees, surely you can see that?” He looked around the room at the sea of dispassionate faces, and addressed himself to the Duke of Perth, who he knew until now had always been in favour of advance. “We are five, six days at the most from London! We cannot stop now!”
“Your Highness,” said Lord George, with the patient tone of voice one adopts when explaining something to a small child, “it is true we are only a few days from London, but we have an army ahead of us at Finchley, which we will have to defeat before we can enter the city. If we beat them, we still have the citizenry of London to deal with. And we have General Wade and the Duke of Cumberland behind us.”
“Exactly!” cried Charles triumphantly. “That is why we cannot think of retreating! We have a much better chance of beating the army at Finchley than we do the combined forces of Wade and the Elector’s son! Once we have won at Finchley, nothing can stop us taking London.”
“Except the Londoners,” said Lord Kilmarnock. “If we win the battle at Finchley we will enter the city in no state to deal with an uprising from the citizens.”
“And Cumberland and Wade will not just sit back in the north and wait for us to settle ourselves at St. James’s, Your Highness,” added Lord George. “Our feints up to now have been successful in confusing them as to our intended direction. But soon they will know where we are headed, and then they will pursue us.”
“Good!” cried Charles. “Our men are ready for a battle. A victory is just what they need to raise their spirits.”
Lord George closed his eyes in exasperation.
“With all due respect, Your Highness,” he said, trying unsuccessfully to hide his impatience, “brave and worthy though our men are, they canna defeat an army of four thousand at Finchley, an uprising of the citizens, and the combined armies of Wade and Cumberland, all within the space of a few days.”
“There will be no uprising of the citizens.”
Everyone turned to look at the MacGregor chieftain seated by the window, having almost forgotten his presence in the chamber. Although he attended all the meetings, he only normally spoke to calm the atmosphere when Lord George and the prince were in deadlock, and did not usually voice his opinions.
“How can you know that?” asked Clanranald.
“You’re forgetting, I lived in London for over four years,” Alex said, standing up and coming over to the table round which the others were seated. “I lived in society as Sir Anthony, and with the ordinary people in various other guises. Ye dinna need to fear the aristocracy. Most of them are only interested in saving their property. They’ll either leave or compromise when the prince enters London. As for the common people, those who are secretly sympathetic to us will rise once they ken their lives are no’ in danger if they do. The ones who are against us, like the nobles, will leave or stay quiet. The bulk of the citizenry are fickle. They can be easily swayed one way or the other. Gie them what they want and they’ll cheer you all the way to the throne, Your Highness.”
“And what is it they want?” asked Lochiel.
“What they expect from royalty. A pageant, colour and glitter. Bonfires, fireworks. A handsome benevolent prince who behaves royally, but treats his subjects as human beings. For thirty years they’ve had a king who doesna have a notion what it means to be royal. He hides away in his crumbling palace, coming out a couple of times a year to wave reluctantly from the balcony. He has no Court, never rides out to greet his people, dresses and behaves like a peasant. Even the Whigs dinna like him. The people only ken what he looks like from engravings in broadsheets. Dinna underestimate how unpopular George is. He inspires no loyalty. The people willna risk their lives for him.”
“Why should they risk their lives for the prince then, if they willna risk it for their anointed king?” asked Keppoch.
“They willna see it that way,” said Alex. “All they’ll see when we enter London is that we’ve won. Ring the bells, play the pipes, let the prince ride in on a great horse in all his finery, waving benevolently to the crowd. Make a great proclamation to them, laying their fears about a violent Catholic restoration to rest. Declare a public holiday, throw some coins about. They’ll worship you, Your Highness. I’d bet my life on it.”
There was a pause while the men took this in. Prince Charles looked hopefully round the table. Perth was with him, Keppoch and O’Sullivan too, he thought. Lochiel was wavering. Lord George was not. His face was like granite.
“Ye might be willing to bet your life on it, MacGregor,” he said now. “But ye’re wanting to bet ours, too. We’ve been in England for a month, and we’ve only a handful of new recruits to show for it. Where are all the English Jacobites?” He looked at Charles. “Ye tellt us the north would rise for us as soon as we crossed the border, and they havena. Why should the Londoners rise for us, when no one else has?”
“Because, as Alex says, when we enter Lon
don they’ll know I’ve won!” said Charles. “The English will rise. Even now Sir Watkin Williams-Wynn is raising a great troop of men. I expect them any day.”
“He has a good point, Lord George,” conceded the Duke of Perth. “And it must be said that if the people havena joined our cause, they havena joined the Elector either. We’ve ridden unopposed through half of England and we’ve had a good reception in a lot of places. Many of them are sympathetic to us.”
“It takes more than sympathy to win a war!” said Lord George angrily. “You say you expect the English to rise any day. Where are they?”
“I have written to Sir Watkin…” began Charles.
“Aye, so you say,” interrupted Lord George. “But if you’re so sure they’ll rise, as you claim to have been from the minute ye raised your standard at Glenfinnan, then you must have had a surety from them, in writing. Ye’ve implied as much, many times. Now is the time to produce it.”
Prince and lord glared at each other across the table. Charles held on to his temper with difficulty.
“As I was saying,” he said coldly, “Sir Watkin, Lord Barrymore and Sir John have pledged support…”
“Then your secretary Broughton must have a copy of the agreement, including when they intended to raise their men and how many they were pledging. Bring him in now, and let us, finally, see this document. Once we’ve seen in black and white what we can expect from the English, then we can discuss the possibility of advancing to London.”
Lord George sat down even though the prince remained standing, his lips compressed in a tight line, his face red with fury that his word was being doubted. Alex stood to one side. There was nothing he could do at this point. The prince must produce his evidence now, if there was any. The English had not given him any written pledges. He could only hope they had written secretly to Charles.
“Alex negotiated with the English leaders on my behalf,” said the prince after a tense silence. “He will tell you what they said if you do not believe me.”
Alex felt the despair like a lead weight in his stomach. They had not written. Charles had misled them all, and unless he produced a miracle he was about to pay for it with a crown.
The Storm Breaks (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 4) Page 17