The Blood of Roses

by Marsha Canham

  Alex set his teeth and narrowed his eyes to see past the throbbing pinwheels of light. “Count … Fanducci? … I understand I owe you a debt of gratitude for saving my life.”

  “No, no, no, no! No debts, signore. We just consider it a … mmm … come si dice … an exchange. Si. An exchange. One favor to another.”

  “Favor? What manner of favor can I do for you? And how the devil did you get onto the battlefield?”

  “Ahh, signore! Not-a by choice, believe me. I was-a pressed into joining those thugs. I was-a on board a ship—the Tuscany—bound for Inverness when the Inglaz-y come up from-a nowhere and blow her out of the water. The crew was-a made prisoner; I, too, was-a thrown in the bilges, but when the captain found out-a who I was, he released me on-a my own parole. Not so these bastardos! They find-a me on the road and blam! I’m-a made to work for them, or they take-a me out and shoot me! Me! Giovanni Fanducci! Shot like a common guttersnipe.”

  There had to be a clue here somewhere, Alex surmised. And a means of keeping his sanity. “You say you worked for them? Doing what?”

  The Italian’s brows arched and a slim-fingered hand clutched the lower tier of lace of his jabot. “Signore! I’m-a Count Giovanni Alphonso Fanducci. To the Inglaz-y, I’m-a the representation from Roma. The neutral. But they choose to ignore-a this. To them, I’m-a also the threat, because I’m-a come to Scotland to offer my services to Prince Charles.”

  “And these … er … services?”

  The count smiled wanly. “I make-a the guns, signore. I make-a the finest guns this side of-a the ocean … perhaps the whole world!”

  Alex felt his head take another spin downward and his stomach lurch upward. A master gunmaker from Italy? Fanducci looked like he would be more at home tuning the strings of a harp in a bordello.

  “You do not-a believe me, signore?” the count asked, visibly offended by the lack of response.

  I haven’t wakened from the nightmare, Alex decided. The ache in his head was getting bad enough that his entire body felt numb, and he was about to ask Struan for that pint of whisky Archie had mentioned when he vaguely saw both MacKail and MacSorley stiffen to attention. They reached instinctively for their swords, but the Italian was that much quicker, freezing their intentions with two distinctive metallic clicks.

  The handsome pair of snaphaunce pistols he held had appeared from nowhere and were unlike anything the Highlanders had ever seen before. The wooden stocks were filigreed with fine threads of silver wire, woven in patterns so minute and intricate as to flatter the hands of royalty. Each pistol had over-and-under barrels inlaid with gold; each barrel had its own flintlock mechanism operated by triggers positioned in sequence within the guard. Four shots could be fired almost simultaneously and would, regardless of aim, obliterate the greater portion of a man’s chest at close range.

  The bright azure eyes that gleamed straight along the barrels were no longer dancing with good humor. The features surrounding them were no longer foppish or dandified, and the hands balancing the heavy weapons were rock hard and taut with sinew. They had not wavered a breath.

  “Signores,” the count said quietly, looking from Struan’s glowering might to Aluinn’s deadly calm. A deft flick of both thumbs released the tension in the mainsprings and the locks of the pistols were adjusted into a safety position. “My handiwork, if-a you please?”

  Another graceful flip of his wrists and the pistols were reversed so that the butts were presented for inspection. Taken aback by the foreigner’s speed and evident skill with the guns, Aluinn and Struan exchanged a wary glance before each accepted one of the snaphaunces.

  “My family,” the count explained casually, “makes-a the guns now … mmm … eighty years. We make-a the fine guns for all the nobility of Europe. On board the Tuscany, we put two thousand guns—no, not so fine as-a these, but still the best-a guns money could buy. All I’m-a have left to show are these two, and … mmm … three, four more not so fancy. My … molds and chisels and files went-a down with the Tuscany, so”—he spread his hands apologetically—“all-a you get is me, but, I could perhaps be of some assistance to your own gun-a-makers, no?”

  Aluinn fingered the exquisite tooling on the pistol, then turned it over to examine the gilded grotesque on the butt. He sighted along the upper barrel, noting the fine weight and balance, the clever way the serpentine heads of the flintlocks curved into a circle through which to align a target. The lockplate bore the maker’s name, Fanducci, set into a relief of the family crest; below it, the year 1742.

  “A remarkable piece of workmanship,” Aluinn murmured, returning the gun to Fanducci. “Unfortunately, we have no gunmakers of comparable skill traveling with us … none at all, to be absolutely truthful. You would find your talents sorely wasted.”

  The count looked crestfallen. “But … I’m-a come the long way, signore. I would do anything to help in this venture. In Italy, we have-a the big respect for your King-a James. He fights the … mmm … big odds, no? So does his son?”

  “Big odds, yes.” Aluinn smiled. He glanced down to see what Alex’s reaction to all this had been, but the heavy black lashes were closed, his lips slightly parted, his breathing deep and even. Seeing the bandages on Alex’s head, a thought occurred to MacKail.

  “You say you were pressed into service with the English, but you never did elaborate as to what capacity.”

  The Italian smiled wryly. “Bah! The Inglaz-y think that because Giovanni Fanducci makes-a the pistols, he also knows how to make-a the big bastardos shoot farther, straighter.”

  “The big bastardos? You mean the cannon?”

  “Si, si. The cannon.”

  “And? Do you?”

  The count caught a glimpse of eagerness in Aluinn’s gray eyes, and his frown melted into a conspiratorial smile. “But of course, signore. To make-a the small gun shoot farther, straighter, it is … mmm … prudent to know how the big bastardos shoot.”

  “Do you think you could teach a handful of jack-a-napes how to load and fire the artillery pieces we’ve captured?”

  “Signore MacKail.” The Italian drew himself to his full, bejeweled height. “I, Giovanni Alphonso Fanducci, could-a teach the birds how to swim if that was-a what the prince asked of me.”

  “Just a few basics on cannonry will do,” Aluinn said dryly. “Enough to justify hauling them farther than the nearest sink hole.”

  “Sink-a hole?”

  “Bog,” Struan provided. “Quagmire.”

  “Ahhh, such-a the waste, signores. No, no, no, no, I’m-a teach.”

  “In that case,” Aluinn stretched out his hand. “Welcome to the army. You will have to meet with Lord George Murray first, but I’m sure he will be pleased to have you join us.”

  “Aye.” Struan growled amiably, handing back the snaphaunce with an obvious show of reluctance. “Calls f’ae a toast, by my mind. MacKail?”

  “Save me a few drams, I’ll be along directly.”

  Struan glanced down at Alexander. “Aye, well, I’ll bring ye a keg here afore I go tae check on the men. Fanducci? Ye’re welcome tae join me if ye’re belly’s keen on seein’ the inside O’ yer throat.”

  “Scusa, signore,” the count objected delicately, “but my family also makes-a the best wine in all Italia. Fanducci bambinos are weaned from the breast to the grape, then back-a to the breast again as-a full grown men. I think … mmm … it would be fair to say you would have-a the disadvantage.”

  MacSorley’s grin spread across his face and his nostrils flared with the scent of easy prey. “Ye wouldna care tae put a wee wager on that, now would ye, laddie?”

  The count’s brows crooked upward. “Wager, signore?”

  “Aye. That fine brace O’ pistols ye’re wearin’, f’ae instance.”

  Fanducci’s hand instinctively caressed the butt of one snaphaunce. “And-a you, Signore Struan? You have-a something to wager of comparable value?”

  Struan’s white teeth flashed through the parted wire bush of his
beard. “I’ve a handsomer, deadlier weepon tae wager in Ringle-Eyed Rita.”

  “Ahh … Struan …”

  MacSorley held up a hand to stop Aluinn’s objection, and the count looked from one man to the other.

  “Might I ask-a what kind of weapon this rink-a-lied rita is?”

  MacSorley chuckled bawdily. “The kind O’ weepon, laddie, what turns a grown man’s knees tae water. The kind what takes shiny breeks like yourn an’ stiffens them tae leather afore ye even ken there’s sum’mit down there.”

  “Bene, bene,” Fanducci said softly. “She’s-a the woman. In that-a case, signore”—he bowed elegantly—“I accept.”

  “Last man standin’ takes all?”

  The count nodded graciously.

  The bloodied, mud-streaked Highlander laughed, startling many of the dozing wounded awake. He wrapped a trunklike arm around the Italian’s immaculate shoulders, and, as they walked toward the open air, he cast a wink back in Aluinn’s direction.

  “This shouldna take too long, MacKail. I’ll be back in a blink tae keep ye company.”

  “I’m not sure whether to feel slighted at being left out of the wagering,” Aluinn murmured, “or relieved.”

  “With Rita as part of the stakes?” Alex said, opening his eyes a slit. “How about just plain lucky?”

  Derby, December 1745

  4

  Catherine led her horse slowly along the sun-gilded pathway, her footsteps crunching lightly on the brittle crust of hoarfrost that coated the forest floor. The trees were naked, stripped of their summer greenery and fullness. The bared branches left great gaps of crystal-blue sky overhead, the color so intense it hurt the eyes to stare upward too long. The sun on her back was warm, turning what might have been another dismal winter morning into a brief escape from the gloom and silence of her rooms at Rosewood Hall.

  The air was clean and crisp, faintly tinged with wood-smoke. In league with the sun and fresh air, the brisk canter that had brought Catherine across the fields and into the forest had left her cheeks touched with a blush of pale rose. Her hair, never known for its willingness to respect the orderly confines of combs and pins, trailed over her shoulders in shiny wisps, clinging to the lavender velvet of her riding suit like fine silk threads. The suit was tailored snugly from shoulder to waist, falling from there in deep, rich folds of velvet to within an inch of the ground. An abundance of cream-colored lace was gathered in dainty scallops at her throat and wrists, and as she walked, a hint of similarly adorned petticoats splashed up over the toes of her Moroccan leather boots.

  Catherine hated the winter months. Hated the month of December in particular when the constant dripping, drizzling chill out of doors made it too drafty and damp to feel comfortable indoors. The brilliant colors of fall had all faded, burned dull and lifeless by the frost. Days were short, gray, and dreary; evenings were long, lonely, and miserable, and, by necessity, spent before a stifling hot fire.

  An even worse prospect looming in the skies was snow. Catherine knew this happy little interlude of sunshine was only a cruel prelude to the heavy, wet, mushy stuff that melted and seeped into clothing, ruined shoes, and generally sent her mood spinning into an abyss of bad temper. She had never enjoyed winter, not even as a child. Never felt the urge or the inclination to don bulky layers of clothing and feign throes of rapture while slogging and sledding through the wretched business. Thankfully, there had been but a few brief flurries in Derbyshire so far this season, none of which had survived on the ground more than an hour or so. She had heard reports of heavier snowfalls farther north, of cruel winds and cutting storms of sleet and hail, hindered by banks of fog that froze into solid walls of ice.

  Weather, so she heard, was being made the convenient scapegoat in affording the army excuses as to why it had been unable to prevent Charles Edward Stuart from crossing the border from Scotland into England unmolested. Three battalions of Guards and seven regiments of government infantry had been pinned at Newcastle by the snow and fog, effectively stopping Field Marshal George Wade from marching out to meet the invading army.

  Taking advantage of the weather, the prince’s forces had crossed into England on November 8, half by a westerly route over the River Tweed, half by an easterly cut across the River Esk. By the next day the entire rebel force—reputed to be upward of twenty thousand strong—had rendezvoused unchallenged at the outskirts of Carlisle and, after placing the town and castle under seige, received its unconditional surrender on the fourteenth. On the fifteenth, Charles Stuart had ridden triumphantly into the English city to proclaim his father king and himself regent in the presence of the lord mayor and the entire cheering population.

  Incredible as it seemed, until then no one in Parliament had taken the threat of invasion seriously; no one had even taken the necessary steps to block the main roads into England. The handful of token patrols that had been dispatched to guard the border and report on any untoward activity had either been swept up by the avalanche of marching Highlanders or had fled with all due haste, not troubling themselves to take notice of the numbers or whereabouts of the attacking forces. At the time of the defeat of the army at Prestonpans, there had been fewer than six thousand regular troops available in England. Following the astonishing news of the prince’s victory, a hasty appeal was sent to Holland for troops to honor their treaty with England. William, Duke of Cumberland, was also recalled from Europe, and Admiral Vernon was ordered to abandon his patrols of the Mediterranean and concentrate his navy in the Channel and along the English coast.

  It took time to move men and equipment from the Continent, however, and the Jacobite army had begun its advance southward on November 20, marching boldly through Lancaster to Preston. Field Marshal Wade, aware of the relatively small number of Highlanders who had achieved the staggering defeat of Cope’s army, was loathe to risk his inadequate forces without reinforcements, and made only one attempt to harass the rebels from Newcastle before hurriedly retreating behind the city’s defenses again.

  Catherine, her loyalties torn, did not know whether to applaud or dread each report she heard. She could not deny the pride she felt upon first learning of the audacious victory at Prestonpans, knowing Alexander and his clansmen would have played a vital role in the events. Yet she had been raised in a Whig household. Her father was a staunch Hanover supporter, as were most of their friends, neighbors, and acquaintances. She herself had been presented at court and had met the pudgy German king on more than one occasion.

  With the fall of Edinburgh and the defeat of Cope’s army, Scotland belonged to the Stuarts. Why could they not have been content with that? Only the castle at Edinburgh, two small garrisoned forts—Fort William and Fort Augustus—and the city of Inverness remained in Hanover hands. Probably … possibly, if the Scots had kept to their own borders and taken immediate steps to bring about a peaceful alliance with England, they could have avoided any further bloodshed. Instead, they had invaded England’s sovereign territory. To add to the insult, they did so after deliberately and openly allying themselves with England’s hereditary enemies, France and Spain. That alone would ensure the emnity of the military, regardless of any political or social sympathies toward the Stuarts. The three nations had fought too many wars for England simply to sit by and watch their enemies obtain a foothold on their isles.

  Certainly it was all the fashion to speak at dinner parties of the prince’s charm and the tragically romantic history of the Stuarts. But more, Catherine suspected, with an eye toward what might well lay ahead if his army reached London than out of any true sense of affection for the dynasty. Outside the gaily tolerant parlor discussions, the country militias were being brought up to strength. Several noblemen were raising regiments of cavalry and infantry at their own expense; the city of York alone had armed four hundred men for its defense, and even the fox-hunting gentlemen of the area had formed themselves into a colorful regiment of hussars.

  Cities that lay directly south of Preston and Manchester
began to empty of their more weak-hearted citizens who defended their actions with rumors of the Highlanders’ unbridled savagery. The inevitable tales of assault and rape had black-busked matrons swooning by the droves. Parlor conversations often ended abruptly in a crush of silks and satins as the women fainted en masse over ill-timed and graphic descriptions of how the Highlanders offered live sacrifices to their Celtic druids.

  Catherine, who had been to Scotland and seen the gentle honesty of Lochiel and his clansmen, wanted to scream at the absurdity of the lies, and constantly had to remind herself that her husband was supposed to be an English businessman away seeing to his enterprises in the North American colonies. She had to hold her tongue and resist the urge to contradict the stories, regardless of how outlandish or ridiculous they became. It was difficult and draining, especially since many of the fleeing refugees found themselves the center of attraction at so many luncheons and parties that they fled no farther south than Derby.

  Lady Caroline Ashbrooke, not to be outdone by any of her peers, managed to score a brilliant coup in the acquisition of Captain John Lovat-Spence as a houseguest. Wounded at Prestonpans, he had been on his way home to recuperate and had stopped in at Rosewood Hall to pay his respects to Lord Ashbrooke. Ten years Lady Caroline’s junior and unable to resist her porcelain beauty and soft, violet-gray eyes, the captain had been in residence ever since. His understandable reluctance to disclose too many details of the battle fell easy prey to Lady Caroline’s powers of persuasion, and, at her behest, he stunned selected audiences with eyewitness accounts of the surprise attack.

  Catherine had initially avoided his company, preferring the solitude of her own rooms to the silly squeals and heaving bosoms of the gossip sessions. She had further cause to resent Lovat-Spence upon noting his early-morning departure from her mother’s bedroom the day after his arrival. But her curiosity won the better of her and she found herself drawn to the parlor, hoping there might be some mention made of a tall, black-haired specter taking to the field astride a midnight-black destrier.