Pursuit of Princes (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 5)

by Julia Brannan

  “Thirty,” Angus said. “Not bad.”

  Alex shot him a withering look.

  “I did a hundred earlier. I only stopped now because ye came in. How was the hunting?”

  Angus grinned hugely.

  “One,” he said cryptically.

  Alex stared blankly at him for a moment, then understanding dawned.

  “Christ, Angus, ye didna…”

  Angus held up a hand.

  “Relax, mo bhràthair,” he said. “I was a good thirty miles away frae here, and it was an accident. The puir wee redcoat was unfortunately burnt tae death in a house he was firing.”

  Alex looked at his brother sceptically.

  “Aye, well, he may have had my dirk between his shoulders a few moments before that, but there was no one else nearby and the smoke from the burning thatch hid me from view anyway.”

  “I thought ye said the redcoats were riding out in large groups and sticking together, and that it wasna a good idea to attack them yet because the risk of capture’s too great.”

  “Ye were listening then,” Angus observed. “Aye, they are, and we did agree, but I was watching them from the side of the hill, and this one broke away frae the others to fire a cottage at the edge of the settlement, so I took my chance while I could. In, out, and gone.”

  Alex shook his head.

  “Ye havena changed, have ye?”

  “Aye, I’ve changed,” Angus replied earnestly. Then he grinned again, and the moment passed. “You have, too. Ye’ve wasted away. I can see your ribs.”

  Alex glanced down. It was true, he had lost a lot of weight. But then they all had, before Culloden. It was just that the others had put it back on again since, and he hadn’t.

  “I’ll catch up soon enough,” he said. “I’ve been working my arms and shoulders while I wait for my leg to heal a bit more. I need another crutch as well, I think. It’ll be easier to walk wi’ two, and I’m wanting to be out in the fresh air.”

  “I’ll find a branch later and make ye one, nae problem,” Angus said. He picked up a chair and pulled it over to the bed and sat down. “But I’m glad to see ye back with us, because I’ve news for ye. Two ships frae France came in to Loch nan Uamh last week, and they were carrying money, arms and brandy. There’s enough tae keep us fighting all summer. The captain didna ken about Culloden, for he’d been at sea for a month. Anyway, once he found out, he didna want to let us have the goods, but then a few days ago three navy ships came in, so they unloaded fast, and then after a wee stramash they set off for France wi’ some o’ the chiefs that wanted tae go.”

  “Did they take Charles? Murray? Lochiel?” Alex said, on full alert now.

  “No,” Angus replied. “Charles was already on the Long Island. They were trying to persuade the captain to go and find him and bring him back to Arisaig for a summer campaign, but then after the fight wi’ the other ships, they went straight back to France. They took the Duke of Perth and Lord Elcho, and a few others, and they asked Lochiel, but he wouldna go. Neither would Broughton. But the chiefs are rallying at Loch Arkaig to mount a campaign anyway.”

  Alex sat silently for a few minutes digesting this, while his younger brother fizzed with excitement, clearly wanting to charge straight into action. Alex understood now why Angus had taken a risk and killed the redcoat; he was desperate to continue the fight, to start to fulfil his blood oath to Maggie. No doubt the others were too. But he needed to know more. How many would rise? Would Charles agree to lead them again? Where was Lord George Murray?

  “Will we join them, Alex?” Angus asked finally.

  “We need to find out more,” Alex replied. “I’ll no’ drag you all into another rising unless enough come to make it possible.”

  “But we’re going to fight on anyway!” Angus argued.

  “Aye, we are. But there’s a big difference between another rising, and raiding from our own country, where we ken the land and can attack then melt back into the hills. We’ve been doing that for hundreds of years. If we rise again properly, Cumberland will come after us, and we need to be able to beat him this time. Call the men in. I need tae speak wi’ all of ye.”

  Angus shot off like a cannonball, while Alex put his shirt on and arranged his plaid as best he could without standing up, and prepared for his first meeting with his clan as their chieftain since the morning of Culloden, over three weeks ago.

  * * *

  “No, ye canna,” objected Kenneth, when he heard what Alex was proposing. There were general murmurs of agreement from the others.

  When the men had all assembled, Alex had asked Kenneth to carry him outside, because the cottage was far too small to accommodate them all, especially as many of the women had come too. He was sitting on a bench outside his front door, his clan sitting or kneeling on the ground around him.

  “Aye, I can,” Alex countered.

  “But ye canna even walk two steps yet,” Peigi put in. “How do ye expect to march halfway up the country to Arkaig?”

  “I dinna intend tae march. I’ll ride,” he said. He held up a hand to counter the dissenting murmurs from the others. “If Lochiel can ride wi’ two broken legs, then I can ride wi’ one. I’ll go slowly. Angus and Alasdair can walk by the side of me in case I have any problems.”

  “And if the redcoats come?” Angus said. “Ye canna exactly run away, can ye?”

  “The redcoats’ll no’ come this far south yet,” Alex said. “Inversnaid is in ruins, and the nearest barracks after that is Fort William. That’s why we’re safe here, for now. Once we get closer to Lochaber, we’ll cut across country. Aye, if I have tae gallop, the jolting will pain me, but no’ any more than it pained Lochiel, I’ll be bound. And he’s in more danger than I am. There’s a price on his head.”

  “There’s a price on your head,” Alasdair pointed out.

  Alex grinned.

  “No, there’s a price on Sir Anthony Peter’s head,” he said. “Alex MacGregor is in no more danger than any other member of the clan.” He looked around at the sea of doubtful faces, and remembered that just five days ago he’d lain in bed wasting away, waiting to die, and they all knew it. “I’m back,” he said to them. “I’m no’ at full strength yet, but I will be, and soon. And in the meantime I’ve got ye to help me if I need it. Or do ye no’ want to continue the fight? Because an ye dinna, tell me now. I’ll no’ force ye to it.”

  The roar of the clansmen allayed his fears.

  “Well, then,” he said. “Angus, away and find me another crutch. I can get a wee bit o’ practice in tonight. We leave tomorrow.”

  * * *

  In truth Alex fared better than he’d expected to. When he’d told the others he’d be at full strength again soon, he’d been stating a hope rather than a fact, but it was amazing what determination, fresh air and the support of your men could do for you. He was more grateful to Iain than he could say; without his intervention, Alex realised now that he probably would have given up and died.

  The pain of losing Beth had not diminished; he didn’t believe it would ever diminish. But he was young, and strong, or could be, and he had something to live for, even if it was not what he’d dreamed of. And that would have to be enough.

  He had managed to walk or rather hop a few steps, with two crutches, and was confident that he’d soon manage more. His broken leg was heavily splinted to protect it from breaking again should he have another fall, but the wound where the bone had poked through his shin was healing well, and apart from a constant dull headache he seemed to be suffering no lasting effects from the kick to his head.

  Even so, he was very glad to be arriving at Glencoe, three days after they’d set out. He had sent a scout ahead to make sure the way was clear and that he’d find a welcome there, and he felt a huge relief that tonight at least, he’d get to sleep in a bed of sorts. He was looking forward to that.

  He was not, however, looking forward to telling Ealasaid about the fate of her granddaughter.

  As they neared
the MacDonald settlement nestled in the mountains, to his surprise Graeme rode forward from the back of the line to join him. He’d only seen the Englishman a couple of times since he’d woken from his injury, and had thought the man to be keeping his distance.

  Graeme reined in alongside him, and slowed his horse to match Alex’s slow but steady pace.

  “How are you faring?” he asked, nodding at the splinted leg, which stuck out from the horse’s flank.

  “Better than I thought. It’s paining me, but it’s bearable,” Alex said. “You?”

  Graeme grinned.

  “I’m fine. I won’t be making the ladies swoon any more, but I’m getting used to it now.”

  Alex looked at the older man’s injury. One of the women had made him an eye patch which covered the worst of the sword cut, but even so, the wound extended for a few inches down his cheek, a raised angry welt.

  “Did ye wash it wi’ whisky?” Alex asked.

  “Yes, I did, and I’ve never known pain like it. I’ve a fearful respect for your brother now. How he didn’t kill Beth after she did that to him, I’ll never know.”

  Alex started involuntarily. Apart from Iain, since Alex had been told of her death no one had mentioned Beth to him at all. There seemed to be an unspoken agreement in the clan not to mention either her or Duncan to him. He knew why; they were waiting for him to bring up the topic, which they’d then take as tacit permission to speak of them.

  But Graeme isna of the clan, he reminded himself, and he loved Beth as much as I did, although in a different way. He must be grieving something fierce, too.

  He looked across at Graeme, to find the older man scrutinising him with one shrewd grey eye.

  “I miss her too, every minute,” Graeme said. “But not speaking of her won’t make us forget her.” He nodded down the track to where the first of the MacDonald houses were coming into view. “And you might as well make a start now, because you’ll have to tell her family soon, won’t you?”

  Alex looked ahead and shuddered again. He was dreading telling them, Ealasaid especially. They would certainly blame him, he thought, as he still blamed himself, in spite of Iain’s words.

  “Aye,” he answered simply.

  “Do you want me with you when you do?” Graeme asked unexpectedly.

  Alex’s first instinct was to say no, but then he realised that that was exactly what he wanted. He didn’t want to do this alone, and who better to face it with than someone who’d loved Beth since she was born?

  First, though, he had to meet with MacIain, and tell him the news. He was hopeful that the MacDonalds would join them, but after five minutes with the chief, he realised this was not to be.

  “We’ve no weapons,” the MacDonald chief said after listening to Alex’s news and proposal.

  Alex raised a sceptical eyebrow at that, and MacIain looked away.

  “Aye, well, none to speak of,” he amended. “I surrendered, Alex. We handed most of our weapons over to General Campbell. So did the Appin men.”

  “Campbell?” said Alex, stunned. “Ye surrendered tae a Campbell?”

  “Aye,” said Glencoe. “They’re no’ all the same. General Campbell is a fair man. I didna want to, but we’re too few to hold out, Alex, and we live within a morning’s march of Fort William, which is bristling wi’ redcoats. Cumberland’s already burnt Lovat’s house to the ground and ravaged the Fraser lands, and his soldiers are pillaging far and wide. Charles just wants to go back to France. Cluny’s hiding out, but the MacPhersons are surrendering. It’s over, man. Ye can stay here the night, and I’ll no hinder ye, but I canna come wi’ ye. I’m sorry. It’s over for me.”

  There was no point in arguing. The chief had made up his mind, and Alex couldn’t blame him. They were a small clan, and they had lands and a chance to get through this relatively unscathed if they kept their heads down. It was different for the MacGregors; they had neither legal lands nor a name, and when you had nothing, then there was nothing to lose by fighting for more.

  After eating dinner with MacIain he met up with Graeme, and, using his crutches, hobbled over to Ealasaid’s cottage, where she lived with her great-nieces and nephews.

  They were all waiting in the cottage, sitting on various stools round the central fire. Several candles had been lit in honour of their guest, and as a consequence when Graeme walked in the first thing he saw was a sea of white-blonde heads.

  “Jesus Christ,” he said in a choked voice.

  Alex turned to him in time to see him wipe a tear from his good eye.

  “I’m sorry, man,” he said. “I should have warned ye, but I didna ken they’d all be here together.”

  In the corner of the room a bed had been made up for Alex, and he sank down gratefully onto it. His leg was throbbing.

  Ealasaid was sitting on the one good chair, her hands resting in her lap. She looked at Alex, and nodded.

  “So, she’s gone then,” she said quietly.

  To his utter horror, Alex burst into tears. He hadn’t cried since he’d been told of her death, not even in private, and he had expected to tell her family then to somehow console her distraught grandmother. The last thing he had expected was for her to tell him.

  She was gone. It was the bleakness, the finality of the word that undid him. Because in that moment it hit him that Beth was, indeed, gone. He would never see her again, never touch her, never hear her voice, never smell her unique feminine scent. She was gone, and no matter how long he lived, he would never be able to tell her how much he loved her, how sorry he was that she’d died and he’d survived. Gone.

  It was beyond bearing, and he knew that even if they were to rise again, and win, and James Stuart take the throne; if the MacGregors were to get their name back, and their lands, still he would never be whole again. Because she was gone.

  To their credit they left him to cry, until finally, with a huge shuddering sob, he gained control of himself again and looked up at them through tear-drenched eyes.

  Graeme was still standing by the door where he’d stopped on seeing the sea of silver-gilt, but now he came in and bowed to Ealasaid.

  “Feasgar math,” he said in heavily accented Gaelic. “Tha mi toilichte ur coinneachadh.”

  “Mo creach, tha Gàidhlig agad!” she exclaimed.

  “I don’t remember much of it,” Graeme continued in English. “Beth’s mother taught me a little.”

  Ealasaid stared at the stranger, her eyes wide with shock.

  “I’m sorry, mo sheanmhair,” Alex apologised. “This is Graeme. He was a friend of Beth’s.”

  “I was her gardener,” Graeme elaborated. “I was with the family when the master married Ann.”

  “You must stay,” Ealasaid said immediately.

  “No, I have a place with Alasdair and –” Graeme started.

  “You must stay,” she repeated. “Robert, ye’ll sleep wi’ your uncle the night.” She turned back to the Englishman. “We have much to talk about, I think.” She looked over at Alex. “If you can bear to do so, laddie.”

  Alex glanced at Graeme, who nodded imperceptibly.

  “Aye, I can bear to do so,” Alex said.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Strangely, although the previous evening had been almost unbearably poignant, and he had found himself weeping again during the course of it, when they rode out the following morning Alex felt lighter, as though some of the weight of Beth’s death had been lifted from his shoulders.

  Not only had Ealasaid not blamed Alex for her granddaughter’s death, she told him he’d done the right thing by allowing her to be with him.

  “For she’d have followed ye anyway, and if it had been you to die instead of her, she’d no’ have regretted being with ye until the last second, would she?”

  “No,” Alex agreed. “She tellt me that herself.”

  “Well then, why should you regret her doing as she wished? Better ye were together for as long as ye could be. At least ye had that. Never regret what ye canna
change, laddie. I learnt that lesson the hard way. Now ye must carry on, as she’d wish ye to.”

  He had lain awake last night, thinking about it. The old woman was right. Iain was right too. He had to stop blaming himself. Beth would not want it so. And so he would stop. Somehow he would stop.

  The MacGregors reached the huts sheltered by the forest on Loch Arkaig on the fourteenth of May, to find a number of chiefs still present, including Lord Lovat the Fraser chief, who due to age and infirmity had been carried there by his clansmen, the Cameron chief Lochiel, Gordon of Glenbucket and numerous others who had either survived Culloden or had not managed to get there in time. Murray of Broughton, former secretary to Prince Charles was also there, still looking very pale and wasted from the illness which had kept him away from Culloden.

  He had written out a plan of action, which Alex now read. Certainly if all the clans mentioned in the plan did indeed rise and join together, with the supplies they now had they could mount a summer campaign that would keep Cumberland and his troops too occupied to ravage the Highlands as they were now doing. In that case it was feasible that the clans which had previously been loyal to the Hanoverians, but which were nevertheless suffering Cumberland’s reprisals, would join the Jacobites. And if Prince Charles had escaped to France as was rumoured, news that the clans were still fighting and that support for the Stuarts was growing, coupled with Charles’ charismatic entreaties, might well persuade King Louis to send the much-needed troops and arms to mount a more successful campaign.

  That was a lot of ‘ifs’, but there seemed no other option but to continue fighting. The duke had made it very clear that the clans were not going to be allowed to go home and continue with their normal lives, and he showed no signs of keeping his word about allowing those who surrendered to go free. No, to fight on was not only the honourable choice, but the only possible one for him. And if you were going to fight, you had to take a positive view.