“Like as not,” Allan conceded. “Cumberland, I suppose, will return to the war on the Continent. A pity he proved unsuccessful in performing the task for which he was recalled to Britain. An enemy on its northern border will distract England from its task in Europe, to quell the power of France. But that need not concern us.” Allan laid his fingertips gently on side of her face. “Now, Flora, I have been speaking with your mother . . . “
She leaned into his touch with a sigh as much resigned as relaxed. In time she would marry him. He was quite the handsome fellow, with ample charm of manner and speech. But, more importantly, he needed her.
* * * * *
From James Boswell’s Journal of a Tour of the Kingdom of Scotland with Samuel Johnson: Isle of Skye; September 13, 1773.
Last night’s jovial bout disturbed me somewhat, but not long. The room where we lay was a room indeed. Each bed had tartan curtains, and Mr. Johnson’s was the very bed in which the Duke was to have lain in Armadale, but which he abandoned in his flight.
At breakfast we spoke to Miss Flora of her acclamation in Edinburgh, where the Prince jested with her, chiding her for helping his enemy. She told him, she said, that she would have done the same thing for him had she found him in distress.
It was not the escape that had destroyed Cumberland’s reputation, Mr. Johnson opined, but his abandonment of the field, both at the Spey and at Armadale, where the field was but a village wedding. And his appearance before his sailors attired in women’s clothing had only added insult to eclipse. “‘Billy the Lily’ Cumberland,” said he with a chuckle. “I hear that during his retirement in Bath, where he confined his strategizing to the game of whist, wags were given to presenting him with lilies. He would then rant and rain curses down upon all present, until he was at last carried away by a burst blood vessel.”
“If not for his royal connections he’d have faced court-martial, as did Cope,” Kingsburgh suggested, whilst his wife sat demurely refreshing our teacups.
“The war upon the Continent might have been won had Cumberland returned there,” I said, “instead of leaving France even stronger for the next conflict. It was in that struggle that young General Wolfe did well enough to save Hanover itself from France’s grasp, even though he himself died in the hour of his victory. Just as well he never knew how his victory contributed to our present stalemate.”
Mr. Johnson shook his head gravely, having always been of the opinion that had the English army been able to return from Germany then Charles would never had retained his separate throne. But, conversely, if England had been able to abandon the Scottish frontier, and its garrisons in Hanover, and those in Ireland as well—which, encouraged by Prince Charles’ Catholic Emancipation act, took the opportunity to rise—then perhaps the Continental wars of the last decades could have been won.
Still, Mr. Johnson went on to speak of the present political situation, which meets with his approval: How the French ship bringing Prince Charles’ father and brother to Scotland most conveniently—by English measures, at the least—sank in a storm, leaving the Prince to take up the crown of Scotland as Charles III. How, finding himself with no heirs acceptable to any British person save for his rivals the Hanoverians, he wed the minor Austrian princess who became mother to his daughter, Charlotte, the Princess of Albany, who has recently wed in turn young George III of England.
I have heard that Charles himself, disappointed in his hopes of the British throne, now contents himself with drunken rages. Perhaps all his victory at the Spey wrought for Scotland was to spare it the reprisals of a victorious Cumberland—who can say? For now the same economic forces which worked to unite our two countries almost seventy years since are now working to unite them once again. Why, I myself was drawn to London to seek my fortune, as Mr Johnson never fails to remind me, saying that the noblest prospect which a Scotchman ever sees is the high road that leads him to another country.
My heart was sore to recollect that Kingsburgh had fallen sorely back in his affairs, was under a load of debt, and intended to go to America. I pleased myself in thinking that so fine a fellow and his strapping sons would be well everywhere.
The MacDonalds could easily find occupation in the British Highland regiment lately raised by Lord North upon Queen Charlotte’s entreaty, eager as she is to find employment for her countrymen. And eager as he is to remove her countrymen, doughty fighters as they are, from the borderlands. Such a regiment, Mr. Johnson has often said, could be most advantageously utilized in the service of the American colonies, which are now sorely pressed by the extension of French Quebec beyond the Ohio River. How eloquently colonial loyalists such as Adams, Henry, Franklin, and Jefferson plead for the intervention of their motherland in local affairs!
Mr. Johnson saluted our hostess with his teacup. “Yours is a name that will be mentioned in history, and if courage and fidelity be virtues, mentioned with honor. For your loyalty to the house of Hanover, despite the dishonor of its son, does you and yours nothing but credit.”
Kingsburgh and his wife shared an enigmatic glance. “Ah,” said he with a shrug, “how these tales do grow in the telling.”
Miss Flora ducked her head modestly, and I detected yet another secret smile upon her countenance. I wondered at its origins, but she said nothing more.
Later Kingsburgh conducted us in his boat across one of the lochs, to where our horses had been sent round. Taking our leave of him, we rode on, speaking as we journeyed of the man who would never be king, carried over the sea from Skye.
* * * * *
Postscript: Charles Edward Stuart did not listen to Lord George Murray. He chose the worst possible stretch of ground for his battle with Cumberland, Culloden Moor near Inverness. His exhausted troops were massacred. The Bonnie Prince fled, becoming “the prince in the heather” of many a romantic tale, among them the story of Flora MacDonald disguising him in the clothes of her (nonexistent) maid Betty and conducting him over the sea from Uist to Skye.
William, Duke of Cumberland, earned his sobriquet of “Butcher” by enthusiastically pursuing an ethnic cleansing policy against the Scots. He returned to the Continental wars, but in 1757 was dismissed for making a deal with France which compromised Hanover. France was ultimately defeated, both in Europe and in North America, where after Wolfe’s victory at Quebec it ceded Canada to Britain. Without the pressure of French colonies to the north and west, and with increased taxation to help pay for the war, the English colonies began to grow restive.
In the ensuing Revolution, Allan MacDonald and his sons fought for the Crown, just as Allan had done during 1745-6.
Author’s Note
“Over the Sea from Skye” first appeared in Alternate Generals III, edited by Harry Turtledove and Roland J. Green, Baen Books, 2005.
This story was written for the third in a series of anthologies dealing with alternate history. (I also have a story in Alternate Generals I, “The Test of Gold”, which is collected in Along the Rim of Time.) The object of the exercise is to pick a point of departure—change something that happened—and extrapolate from there.
Since I was researching the history of Charles Edward Stuart or Stewart, Bonnie Prince Charlie, for a novel, The Secret Portrait, it wasn’t difficult to choose my point of departure as his winning rather than losing his rebellion. Neither was it hard to make the inimitable Flora McDonald my main character. She actually did tell Cumberland, while she was being held prisoner in London, that she would have done him the same favor she did Charlie.
One of my favorite Scottish musicians, Brian McNeill, sings a song about Flora titled, “Strong Women Rule Us All”, commenting on the fact that despite a very difficult life, Flora supposedly never cried.
Many years ago I picked up an old copy of Boswell’s Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides with Samuel Johnson at a garage sale. I wrote mock passages from it to use as the frame for this story, clarifying just what events Charlie’s victory might have caused. Or not caused, in the case of the never-f
ought American Revolution.
Charlie himself really isn’t mentioned in the story. My take on him is in The Secret Portrait, and it’s not an entirely flattering one. But then, I’m a Stewart myself.
The Rag and Bone Man
Agitated voices echoed off the walls of the forecourt. Anselm shook his head in disapproval. More than the usual number of pilgrims had passed through the priory today, the feast of St. Anne, and he was only too aware that not all of them came with pious motives.
He turned his face to the late afternoon sunshine. Even though the days were dwindling, still July was the best of the summer. Anselm supposed he could find a lesson in that, something about the waning days of one’s life being the richest. But he was tired after the day’s sacred labors and was content merely to bask in the warmth and light and the subtle scent of incense. Inside these walls was an enclave of peace, not quite of this world, on the threshold of the next. What better symbol could there be of that than the Holy House of Nazareth in the Lady Chapel behind the church, the replica of Our Lord’s childhood home?
The sound of running steps shattered his reverie. He opened his eyes to see young Brother Wilfrid bobbing before him. “Father Prior, one of the pilgrims has been found dead in the chapel of Mary and Martha.”
“May he rest in peace,” Anselm returned, wondering why Wilfrid was so disturbed. Every few days an ill pilgrim gave up the ghost here in Walsingham, if unable to find healing in this world, then more importantly easing his passage into the next.
“Father, he was murdered.”
Oh, thought Anselm. Yes, that was a problem. “Tell Brother Porter to shut all the gates and allow no one in or out,” he ordered Wilfrid, and he ordered his own aching body across the forecourt to the church.
Several people stood outside the door. All voices bar one, a woman’s in full lamentation, fell silent as Anselm approached. Glancing at the group, he assessed them as a motley collection of pilgrims no different from any other—save for my lady the king’s mother, who was bending solicitously over the howling woman. Sorry to see the dowager queen involved with such an unseemly matter, Anselm offered her a brief nod of sympathy.
The interior of the church was dark and cool. A double row of pillars led to the high altar and its crystal reliquary containing a few precious drops of Our Lady’s milk, bright as a star in a constellation of candlelight. Anselm bowed before it, then turned toward one of the chapels.
The room was small as a hermit’s cell—or a tomb. A man lay prone before the altar, but not in an attitude of prayer. A runnel of blood crept out from his body to puddle amongst the scattered rushes. Anselm knelt down and with an effort—the man was fleshy, Anselm was not—turned him over.
He knew this face, pale and distorted though it was. Hubert of Gillingsoke, a merchant who came to Walsingham more to peddle his wares to the pilgrims than to pay his respects at the shrine.
Hubert’s tunic was soaked with blood from the gaping wound in his throat. Anselm saw no blood trail, no smudges, no scattered drops—like a slaughtered cow, Hubert had dropped where he stood. The small knife he carried was still in its sheath. He had neither defended himself nor attacked another. The murder had been the work of only a moment. Had Hubert even seen his murderer’s face? Probably not, if the killing stroke had come from over his shoulder. His vacant eyes were already glazing over, drained of life and its passions, good or ill.
The odors of profane blood and profane body thickened uneasily in Anselm’s throat, almost masking the faint aroma of—smoke? One of the tall beeswax candles on the altar had been knocked over and extinguished. The cloth below it was singed. Worse, one end of the cloth was blemished with a crimson smear swiftly darkening into brown. The murderer had wiped his blade on it.
And the reliquaries? Anselm rose to his feet, frowning. The gold-rimmed crystal displaying one of St. Martha’s hairs was lying on its side. The jeweled casket containing St. Mary Magdalene’s finger bone was gone. . . . No, thank God and all His saints, there it was, on the floor behind the trailing end of the cloth. Reverently Anselm picked it up.
“Father Prior,” said Wilfrid’s voice behind him.
Anselm looked around and up. “It was your place to conduct the group of pilgrims about the grounds and keep watch over the relics.”
“And so I did, Father. Although this group was the last of the day, I didn’t hurry them at all—we stopped by the chapel of St Lawrence, and the holy wells, and the wicket gate. At the Lady Chapel each pilgrim passed through the Holy House and then each placed a coin in the collection box. . . . Well no, Hubert groped in his purse but offered nothing—instead he hissed angrily at his wife and she opened her purse. Until we came here to this chapel, nothing was different from any other day.”
“So how then, did this evil deed happen?”
The young monk retracted his stricken face into his black-cowled shoulders like a turtle retreating into its shell. “Ah—well—you see, Father, the old sister swooned and the young one asked me to bring cool water to bathe her brow. So I ran to the well.”
“Sisters?” Anselm did remember seeing two Benedictine nuns amongst the pilgrims outside. “Did everyone remain here in the chapel whilst you fetched the water?”
“No, Father. When I returned they were walking into the porch, the old nun supported between the young one and Hubert’s wife, and everyone else gathered close. We got her outside and set her down. Once the color came back into her face—it looked like bleached linen, it did—Hubert’s wife asked where her husband had gotten himself off to. I went with her to search him out and here he was. Like this. Murdered.”
“Was anyone else in the church when you left to fetch the water?”
“No one save our lady the king’s mother. After she paid her respects to Mary and Martha she returned to kneel before the high altar, as always . . .”
“Yes, yes.” Queen Isabella had established her own patterns of devotion over the years. The relic of St. Mary Magdalene, the beautiful sinner, was her favorite, but she paid most of her attentions to the Blessed Virgin Mother. If anyone needed to pry open heaven’s gates, it was Isabella. But then, if prayer could pry open the gates of heaven then hers would do so.
When Isabella took up her usual lodgings at the prior’s house last night, she’d told Anselm she wanted to ask his advice on the disposition of a relic. Several times during the day he’d wondered just what she meant. Could she, with her connections in France, have come by another relic of the Magdalene to add to the Holy Mother’s treasury?
He put his speculations aside. The matter of Hubert’s death, while hardly more important, was more pressing. “And our lady Queen Isabella followed the pilgrim group outside?”
“She was with the others when I came back with the water, Father, and right helpful she was, too, first with the sister, then with the wife.”
“So the church was empty when you came in search of Hubert here.”
“Yes, Father.”
“You should have made sure it was empty before you left. You should have summoned help for the sister instead of . . .” He stopped. No need to rub the boy’s nose in his folly. The deed was done. “Fetch a hurdle and several strong backs to carry him to the infirmary. And gather the entire group of pilgrims—including my lady the king’s mother—in my parlor.”
“Yes, Father.” Wilfrid hurried away.
Anselm listened to the slap-slap of the young brother’s sandals receding across the chancel of the church. The sacristy door creaked open and shut with a thud. He turned back to the inert flesh that had once been a man.
The flesh was weak, Anselm told himself. Pilgrims were often overcome by exhaustion and emotion, especially if they’d been fasting and walking barefoot—as well they should, if they wanted their prayers to be answered.
And then there was Hubert, his feet shod, his protruding stomach rarely if ever purified by hunger. Along with linen, wool, and silk he dealt in bits of rag and bone which he claimed were relics of th
e blessed saints but which, for all Anselm knew, he’d “discovered” in the midden behind his house.
If Hubert had tried to steal the reliquaries, all one of the other pilgrims needed to do was raise the alarm. And since, manifestly, neither reliquary had been stolen, the matter could hardly be a falling out of thieves. . . . Thieves. Anselm felt along Hubert’s belted waist and found two trailing ends of leather. That was it, then. His purse had been cut clean away. It was justice, perhaps, that a less-than-honest man should fall victim to one even worse.
Reminding himself that it was not his place to pass verdict on the dead, Anselm closed the staring eyes. For a long moment he knelt, listening, as though the man’s ashen lips would open and speak a name. But no. His silence was absolute. With a groan Anselm stood up, removed the altar cloth, and set the candle upright on bare stone.
Which was worse, the defilement of this sacred space or that Hubert had died unshriven? If he’d said his prayers properly in front of Our Lady’s shrine, though, surely she’d hear his confession even now and intercede on his behalf. “May God have mercy on his soul,” Anselm murmured, and turned toward the door.
* * * * *
The western front of the church shone brightly in the light of the setting sun. But Anselm was no longer aware of the light. Neither did he smell incense. He twisted his nose at the ripe reek of summer and mortality, smoke, cooking food, offal. He’d never felt so much under siege from the town, its high street crowded with inns and shops breeding sin and disease.
The Muse and Other Stories of History, Mystery, and Myth Page 22