“I’m sorry we’ve had to do this, Andrew,” Ramsay said quietly as his two henchmen helped him turn Andrew to face the wall. “I hope you don’t get too cold while you’re waiting. Next time we meet, I hope to be speaking for King Charles of America.”
Ramsay soon left with Justin and the two Bostonians, each of them apparently carrying a small sack of gold. Andrew knew they would be back for the rest, so he made only a tentative testing at his bonds, but he was not surprised to find that all the knots were secure and beyond his reach.
He heard them come back twice more before they took out all the gold. He thought two or three more men might have joined them to assist, but he could not be certain. Someone put a blanket over him before they left the last time, but no one spoke to him.
Once they had gone for good, he tried not to doze, for he feared falling asleep in the cold and freezing to death, but it was difficult after the first hour or so, especially in the dark, and with wrists and ankles already numb from being bound. The whine of the wind gradually died down, but the cold did not diminish. He roused sluggishly some little while later at the sound of intruders making their stealthy way across the squeaking floorboards upstairs.
The narrow beam of a shielded lantern soon came probing down the stair, followed by cautious footsteps. He kept very still until low voices confirmed the newcomers to be Arabella and the prince. Then he grunted to attract their attention and tried to wiggle under his shrouding blanket.
Arabella bit back an exclamation and flew to his side, her gloved fingers tugging at the gag. The prince approached more slowly and grimaced as he dropped to his knees to cut the ropes binding Andrew’s wrists. A bruise shadowed his left temple.
“You were certainly right about Ramsay,” he muttered, wincing as the rope parted and his whole body rocked backward slightly. He steadied himself against Andrew’s shoulder and paused briefly to press the back of his knife hand to the bruise, grimacing again before shifting to cut the ropes still binding Andrew’s ankles. “Are you all right?”
Andrew spit out the last of the gag and nodded, himself gasping through clenched teeth as Arabella helped him sit and he brought his arms from back to front to rub his wrists where the ropes had chafed.
“I’ll be fine,” he murmured. “And I can see that Arabella seems to have suffered little harm. What about you? Did you really need to make your part so convincing?”
“Believe me, it was not my decision,” the prince said sourly, still sawing at the ankle ropes. “He certainly wasted no time once he decided to bolt. I gather that Justin went with him?”
Andrew nodded, groaning and stretching out his legs as the prince freed his feet and circulation began to return.
“Aye, and he’ll need to be very, very careful. James is no simpleton, nor the men with him.”
“That much is certain,” the prince said. “Clearly, he had planned this in advance. He even took the talisman, so that it could not be used to track him. Do you know who they were?”
“Aye, two of them, at least,” Andrew replied. “I saw only Cluny Richardson and Archibald Campbell, but several more came to help carry away the gold. I would guess that he has at least half a dozen or so, if he hopes to get the gold away safely.”
He let the prince help him to his feet, leaning on both him and Arabella as circulation slowly returned.
“We must return to Philadelphia as quickly as possible and book passage on the first available ship. I shall also send word to Simon regarding what’s happened. I should like to bring him with us, but we dare not leave Washington unguarded.”
“Does he need guarding, through the winter?” Arabella asked, collecting Andrew’s walking stick and pressing it into his hands. “Morristown should be safe enough, and he has his bodyguards.”
“But no one else in whom he can confide regarding what has been building these five years,” Andrew replied, letting them help him toward the cellar stair. “I sense that what James has done may affect what is planned for the General. No, Simon must stay. It is Justin on whom much now depends.”
Chapter Twenty-four
Justin knew they were watching him closely for the first few days after leaving New York, so he was especially careful to do nothing that might make them doubt the sincerity of his apparent defection. A total of four more Bostonians besides Cluny and Archie had aided in the removal of the gold from New York, all of them well-known to Justin, most of them signatories to the original offer that Ramsay had made to Charles Edward Stuart in 1775. They were wary of him when they first started back to Boston; but when he made no attempt to stop them or flee or communicate outside their immediate circle, everyone began to relax a little.
He did his best to encourage their confidence and to convince them that he shared their single-mindedness. One night, affecting overindulgence in drink, he let himself be drawn into a maudlin reminiscence of his face-to-face meeting with Charles Edward Stuart—for none of the rest had ever actually met the King. By the time they set sail for France, the gold now repacked in two well-trussed oaken casks amid their baggage, he had half convinced himself that he really was the ardent Jacobite they believed him to be, ready to set aside loyalties even to family, in the furtherance of the Stuart cause.
They made port at Marseilles late in February, and reached Florence in early March. The day was cold, but bright with the promise of the coming spring. Riding up the Via San Sebastiano in the carriage they had hired to carry their baggage—especially the two casks of gold—Justin cast a covert glance at James Ramsay, sitting anxiously at his side. The casks lay under their seat. Four of the Bostonians were riding ahead of the carriage and two behind, all well armed with pistols at saddlebows and swords at hips. All of the men sported white cockades in their tricorns, even the driver hired with the carriage.
Justin kept silent as they drove through the colonnaded entrance to the Palazzo San Clemente and pulled up in the courtyard, though he was as impressed as the rest of them. Several grooms came running to see to the horses, and the Bostonians moved quickly to take charge of the oaken casks as Ramsay and Justin disembarked from the carriage. Ramsay led them briskly up the front steps as a butler appeared from between the double front doors.
“We have come from America to see His Majesty,” he said as the Bostonians began to congregate behind him, two pairs of them struggling with the casks. “Please ask if he will receive us.”
When the butler displayed some uncertainty over the English, Justin repeated the request in French. Immediately the man bowed them inside, conducting them through a fine entrance hall painted in the Pompeian manner. Above the door leading into the remainder of the house was rendered a lavish depiction of the British Royal Arms, retaining the fleur-de-lis of France but omitting the detested white horse of Hanover. A thistle and a rose flanked the traditional supporters of lion and unicorn, and above was painted the King’s own name and style: Carolus III Mag. Britaniae et Hib. Rex, and the date of his accession, 1766.
Through a succession of airy and elegant salons the servant led them, under the scrutiny of frescoed heroes, gods, and goddesses who lounged amid classical landscapes or peered down from trompe l’oeil balconies. After ascending a wide stone staircase, they found themselves at last admitted to a more intimate reception chamber that was a departure from the classical splendor of the rest of the palace, hung with crimson damask and with family portraits gazing down from lavish gilt frames.
At the far end, flanked by golden doors, a gold-and-crimson canopy of state overhung a gilded chair set thronelike on a small riser. Behind the throne a rich tapestry again displayed the rightful Stuart arms as King of Scotland, England, France, and Ireland. A silk rug covered the riser, another larger one spread directly before it, covering most of the white marble floor.
“Attendez ici, messieurs, s’il vous plaît,” the butler said, before withdrawing.
The minutes lengthened into half an hour, punctuated by the ticking of an ormolu clock on the mantel of a wh
ite marble fireplace along the right side of the room. Ramsay directed the placement of the casks slightly behind him, flanked by his Bostonians, and fidgeted. Justin kept his own sober counsel, well aware what was likely to occur once the King emerged, if all had gone according to plan.
The golden door to the left of the throne opened. First to appear was the King’s longtime manservant, John Stewart, followed by the King himself. Another retainer brought up the rear: Saint-Germain’s servant, the faithful Rheinhardt, though no one in the room besides Justin would be aware of that.
Allowing himself to relax just a little, Justin turned his full attention on the King, who slowly made his way to the riser and its waiting throne. He had aged considerably since Justin last had seen him, and the intervening years had not been kind. His black suit was of fashionable cut, the smallclothes of a dazzling whiteness against the light blue of his Garter sash, but the familiar face was puffy and drawn beneath its formal wig, the brown eyes tired and lusterless. A slight stoop accompanied his gait as he made to mount the riser, leaning on John Stewart’s arm, but suddenly recognizing Justin, his face brightened and he changed direction.
“Mr. Carmichael, how very pleasant to see you again,” he said, holding out his hand in greeting.
Emotion choked at the back of Justin’s throat as he knelt to kiss the royal hand, and he had to work at recovering his composure as he rose, bowing again.
“Your Majesty is kind to remember,” he murmured. “May I present my companions? This is Dr. James Ramsay, from Boston.”
Ramsay, too, knelt, ducking his head over the royal hand, then proceeded to introduce the other awestruck Bostonians, who also had sunk to their knees. Charles moved graciously among them, giving each his hand and inquiring about their connections with the Jacobite cause, finally moving back to let himself be handed up the riser so he could take his seat. When he had done so, and at his gracious gesture, all of them rose. Justin had faded to one side as the King moved among the others, well content to let Ramsay have center stage for now.
“Gentlemen, this demonstration of your loyalty brings unexpected pleasure to an old man,” the King said quietly as Rheinhardt and the other servant took up posts to either side of him. “Would that I might have given you greater cause, in these years since your fathers gave so much for me in our beloved Scotland. How may I serve you today?”
Visibly bracing himself, Ramsay took a step forward and bowed nervously.
“Sire, half a decade ago I and several others present were among those who offered you a Crown in America. In your wisdom you chose to decline it at that time, but we come now to extend that offer once again. Come to America and become our sovereign Stuart prince, and from there direct the redemption of your Kingdom of Scotland from the British usurpers.”
“A generous offer, Dr. Ramsay,” the King replied. “But what makes this offer different from the previous one? We all are five years older now, and alas, no nearer to recovery of the rightful Crown of my ancestors.”
Boldly moving to the foot of the riser, Ramsay dropped to one knee in entreaty.
“Sire, early in 1746, just before Culloden, word reached Scotland of French gold finally on its way to aid your cause,” he said. “Alas, it arrived too late for that venture, but some of your loyal followers took charge of it, to keep against the day when another attempt might be made. I speak of the forty thousand louis d’or buried by Archibald Cameron at Loch Arkaig, only part of which was ever recovered, and for the loss of which several honest men were accused unjustly of having taken it for their own purposes.”
“There was much confusion in those times,” Charles said neutrally.
“Indeed, Sire. What was little known is that approximately half the gold was taken to the New World and hidden there, against the time when Your Majesty might be persuaded to use it for another attempt to take back your Crown. Recently, on his deathbed, the son of one of the men responsible was able to give us information regarding the whereabouts of that gold. We here present it to Your Majesty—nearly twenty thousand louis d’or—and pray that this will serve as added inducement to join your loyal subjects in America, and a means to mount a successful assault against the British usurpers.”
As he gestured behind him, two Bostonians raised the lids of both casks to reveal the bright glitter of gold. At the same time, Ramsay reached into his coat and produced a folded piece of yellowed paper, which he extended to the King.
“We found this in one of the caskets, Sire,” he said, handing it to Charles. “I believe Your Majesty will find it of interest.”
It was the proclamation of Charles’s regency. The King put on the spectacles that John Stewart handed him and scanned down the faded print, his face going very still. When he had finished reading, obviously much moved, he folded the document carefully and handed it back to Ramsay, his gaze shifting again to the casks and the men kneeling hopefully around them. In silence he removed his spectacles and gave them back to Stewart. His halting movement showed his years as he slowly stood, gesturing for Ramsay to rise.
“I should like to speak with you in private, Dr. Ramsay,” he said, moving to the edge of the riser and letting Rheinhardt hand him down off the step. “Mr. Carmichael, please join us.” He glanced at the second attendant. “John, please see that wine is brought for the refreshment of our guests.”
Justin fell in behind Ramsay as they followed Rheinhardt and the King through the golden door. The small chamber beyond, fitted as a robing room, gave into a short corridor, down which Rheinhardt slowly led them, matching his stride to the King’s halting gait. He paused to open the first door on the right, standing aside with a bow for the King and his companions to enter.
Justin was prepared when Ramsay came to a dead halt in front of him, and set his hands firmly against Ramsay’s shoulders when the doctor would have backed away from the black-clad man waiting for them. Ramsay’s head snapped around wildly, hurt betrayal in the look he gave Justin as Rheinhardt closed the door behind them and leaned against it.
“Good morning, James,” said Saint-Germain. His hands were clasped behind his back; his gaze was cool and inscrutable. “I wish you had not done what you did. Fortunately, the situation is not beyond redemption. Sire, will you join us in Lodge?” he asked, turning to gesture toward a door behind him.
Ramsay gave no resistance as Justin took his arm and moved him forward, following Saint-Germain and the King. Saint-Germain himself opened the door, leading into a candlelit chamber whose furnishings and black-and-white floor tiles declared it a permanent Lodge room. Mirrors and mirrored wall sconces reflected back the light of dozens of candles all around the room, revealing several others seated to either side of the vacant Master’s chair—Andrew Wallace, Arabella, and the Prince de Rohanstuart. They rose as the King entered.
Saint-Germain nodded to them as he ushered the King across the checkered floor. Rheinhardt remained outside to tyle the door, closing it behind them. Installing the King in the Master’s chair, Saint-Germain took that of Past Master, directly to the King’s right hand. The prince was farther to his right, Andrew at the King’s left. Arabella had the chair to Andrew’s left.
Justin, after bringing Ramsay to the center of the room, moved quietly to the empty chair next to the prince. Though it was the King who formally presided, no one present could have any doubt who was really in command—and who was on the carpet.
“I regret the necessity for this interview, James,” Saint-Germain said, settling in his chair. “It is not a trial, but it is a hearing to discover the reasons for your actions and to determine what must be done because of them. Dispensing with overmuch formality, I declare this Lodge open in the degree of our Inner Circle, reminding all present of your oaths to keep silent regarding what shall pass within these walls.” A casual gesture with his right hand brought a deeper hush to the room as Saint-Germain added, “Justin, please bring a chair for our brother.”
Justin complied with alacrity, taking up a gilt-framed st
raight chair from beside him and moving it behind Ramsay, who sank down on it gratefully, eyes averted.
“First of all,” Saint-Germain continued when Justin had regained his seat, “allow me to congratulate all of you on the zeal with which you set about to recover His Majesty’s gold. You cannot have known that I have been aware of its existence and even its approximate location for some years; nor can you have been aware that I had particular reasons for allowing the gold to remain where it was.”
His gaze swept them mildly, then returned to Ramsay.
“That having been said, I wish to reassure you that the mere recovery of the gold presents no obstacle to the greater strategy now unfolding upon the Master Tracing Board. Indeed, the circumstances by which you were led to seek the assistance of the Ba’al Shem suggest that the time had come for the gold to reenter the equation—and Andrew’s report had assured me that he intended no decision to be taken regarding its disposition until my instructions were received.
“You were aware of this intention, James, and of my broader instructions regarding anything to do with His Majesty’s affairs,” the Master said softly. “Nonetheless, you made a unilateral and precipitous decision to act as you saw fit: to take the gold by force, bring it here, to His Majesty, and reiterate your offer of five years ago.”
“I thought it was the timing you disapproved of before,” Ramsay murmured, defiance smoldering in his eyes as he dared to look up. “I thought we were all working toward a Stuart restoration. If it does not happen soon, it cannot happen!”
“I quite agree,” Saint-Germain said mildly. “An eventual Stuart restoration has been and is a goal fervently to be sought, but it must be accomplished in due season or not at all. By repeatedly tantalizing His Majesty with hopes unsupported by actual wherewithal, you but add to his burden, at a time when years and personal disappointments only underline the precarious nature of his position.”
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