Pursuit of Princes (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 5)

by Julia Brannan

  Neither could he bring her to trial and execution. If he did that, not only would she have the opportunity to use her beauty and apparent fragility to the very best advantage in the court, but the publicity of such a trial would undoubtedly bring her back to the attention of Prince William, who was currently involved with an actress of some sort and had all but forgotten her. Newcastle had no wish for the prince’s infatuation with Elizabeth Cunningham to be reignited. Even the thought of it made him shudder.

  None of the female Jacobite rebels had been executed anyway, and, nearly a year after Culloden, it was unlikely that any of them now would be.

  Damn, he thought, there must be something, some way to keep her from talking to those who would listen and take notice.

  He sat some more.

  And then it came to him. Of course. It was obvious. Why hadn’t he thought of it immediately? He rang his bell, and Benjamin was summoned. Once he was seated at his desk again and ready, the duke spoke.

  “I will dictate two letters. One to Colonel Mark Hutchinson and the other to Mr Samuel Smith,” he said. “Both are to be delivered with the utmost urgency.”

  For every problem, there was a solution. The duke relaxed back in his chair, smiled, and began dictating the content of the letters.

  * * *

  Scotland, May 1747

  It was a beautiful spring day. The sun was shining and was warm enough to evaporate the heavy dew off the grass and heather, the snow had finally melted from everywhere except the mountain peaks, and nature was bursting into life. Unfortunately that also meant that the redcoats, bored and restless after a long and brutal winter of enforced incarceration in their barracks, had also burst into life, and were back on the rampage.

  Alex and his men were lying at the top of the hill, looking down on the scene of wanton destruction being inflicted on the village below with a mixture of rage and frustration. Rage because they were aching to make use of the weapons they’d spent the winter honing to razor-sharp perfection; and frustration because there were just too many redcoats below for them to have any reasonable chance of surviving an attack in broad daylight.

  Alex had one all-important rule when deciding the viability of an attack; there had to be a good chance that all of his precious few men would come out of it alive, with few, if any injuries. The military side of his reasoning was that the longer he and his men survived, the more redcoats they would kill; and recklessly throwing themselves into situations where the odds were stacked against them was not the way to achieve that.

  A good methodology. But unfortunately sometimes it led to situations like this, where they were forced to watch as men were killed, women and sometimes children were raped, and the survivors driven away from their homes and possessions, which were then stolen or burnt. Alex was confident that none of the men would act without his direct order to do so; they could argue and debate all they wished when planning a raid or ambush, and did, but once in the field he demanded, and got, unquestioned obedience to his orders.

  It did not do morale any good, however, to watch wholesale destruction going on when you were helpless to do anything about it. When, from inside one of the huts below, a woman started to scream, first in fear and then in obvious agony, Alex decided enough was enough.

  “Come on, let’s away,” he said softly. “We canna do anything here. Dougal and Allan, you follow the redcoats at a distance later. I’ll send Lachlan over. If they dinna go straight back tae Inversnaid, but set up camp somewhere, send him back wi’ a message, and we’ll see if we canna take a few of the bastards tonight.”

  The men sighed, and reluctantly began to back away over the ridge.

  “Wait,” said Angus, who had remained in place and was still peering down at the village, which was slowly becoming shrouded in smoke from the burning thatch of the houses. “Something’s happening.”

  Alex moved back up next to his brother. Something was happening. The men had clearly finished their work and were standing about, waiting. The cattle had been too weak to walk after a harsh winter of little fodder and their blood being taken and mixed with oatmeal to feed their starving owners, so the soldiers had shot them. The bodies of several Highlanders who had attempted to resist were also strewn around the grass, and a pitiful line of ragged women and children were making their way out of their settlement away from the burning remains of their homes. Only one hut remained intact; the one that contained the screaming woman.

  All of the soldiers were looking at the hut expectantly. Alex got to Angus’s side just in time to see one of the soldiers disappear inside it and then reappear almost immediately, retching and then doubling over and vomiting at the side of the door.

  “What the hell’s going on in there?” Alex said, half to himself.

  The redcoat straightened up, approached the group of soldiers, half-hidden now by smoke, and said something, gesticulating back at the hut from which he’d just emerged before marching off to a group of six horses tethered at the edge of the village, mounting one and then turning back to the group.

  “Are you coming, or not?” he shouted angrily, loud enough for the ten Highlanders, now all back in place and observing, to hear. There was a low-voiced discussion from the group of redcoats, and then fully three-quarters of them followed the horseman, three of them mounting their own horses, the others following on foot as he rode out of the village along the glen. The remainder stayed in place, looking uncertainly at the undamaged hut, from which frantic but muted screams could still be heard.

  “I canna believe it,” Kenneth said in awe.

  Neither could Alex. It appeared that upwards of fifty redcoats were heading out of the valley, leaving only…

  “Twelve o’ the bastards left,” Iain said, smiling.

  …only twelve soldiers, plus whoever was in the hut. It was too good to be true.

  “Are we going to attack, then?” Allan asked eagerly.

  “Wait,” Alex said. It was a trap. It had to be a trap. In the last nine months of watching similar scenes of destruction, he had never seen such a thing. However large or small a group of soldiers, they always entered a settlement together, and left it together at the end. It made no sense to split up in the way they just seemed to have done.

  “Dougal, Allan, you’re fast,” Alex said. “Go round the side of the hill and watch to see if the redcoats double back. I’m thinking maybe they’re suspecting an ambush and are hoping to draw us out, then come back and slaughter us.”

  Allan and Dougal shot off like arrows, and the rest of the men settled to wait. Down below the remaining soldiers seemed to have settled to wait too. They certainly didn’t appear uneasy or apprehensive as you’d expect men who thought to be ambushed would look. In fact they were all sitting down, and one or two of them were sprawled at full length, as though hoping to have a nap.

  “How can they sleep, with that noise?” Graeme said, referring to the screams which showed no signs of abating.

  “If we attack, I’m taking whoever’s in that wee hut,” Kenneth said, his face set.

  After a short time Allan and Dougal reappeared, red-faced and breathing hard, but faces aglow with excitement.

  “They’re really leaving,” Allan said when he had breath enough to speak. “We followed them as far as the road, and they turned straight for the barracks.”

  Kenneth took out his dirk and raised his eyes heavenward.

  “Thank you, Jesus,” he said, then kissed the blade. “Can we take them? I canna wait to get my hands on the bastard in that hut.”

  “Aye,” said Alex, “we can take them. But no’ by charging straight down the hill, just in case they’ve got scouts we havena seen. We dinna want to give them time to get to the others. Hamish, you drive the horses away so they canna ride off and raise the alarm. The rest of us get as close as we can to them without them seeing us. If one o’ them does, we all charge. I’m thinking if we’re quiet and slow, we’ll get within about twenty feet or so, especially wi’ the smoke to
help us. Let’s go.”

  They went, edging first of all round the side of the hill and then crawling slowly and silently downhill on their stomachs, their illegal green and brown plaids blending perfectly with the hillside. Then, when they could go no further in that manner, they stood and charged as one into the village, drawing their swords and roaring in Gaelic, succeeding in frightening the recumbent redcoats half to death before they were among them.

  The ones who managed to actually draw their swords before being cut down made a fight of it, and for a minute or two the fighting was fierce. Out of the corner of his eye Alex saw Kenneth making for the hut and a man emerge from it, sword drawn.

  And then he forgot the man he was supposed to be killing, kicked him out of the way, and was running towards the hut screaming at the top of his voice as Kenneth brought his sword back in a huge arc with the obvious intention of decapitating the man on the spot.

  Later Kenneth would say that he had no idea how he managed to obey his chieftain’s order. It was too late to stop his sword hitting the target, but by a herculean effort he managed to turn the blade and rein in the power of the strike so that instead of taking the redcoat’s head off, the flat of the blade hit him in the side of the face, breaking his cheekbone and knocking him flat on the ground.

  The soldier lay for a minute, stunned, the side of his face numb, the coppery taste of blood filling his mouth. Through his ingrained will to survive he managed to remain conscious, aware that he had to defend himself. He shook his head to clear his vision, automatically reaching for his sword, which lay on the ground beside him where he’d dropped it. He managed to touch the basket hilt before his hand was pinned to the ground, his wrist cracking loudly as it snapped, and he looked up into the face of one of the largest men he had ever seen in his life. In his fist the giant held the bloodied sword that had hit him in the face, and his foot was grinding the soldier’s hand into the dirt.

  And then he relaxed and closed his eyes, because he knew he was a dead man, and he waited for the killing blow to fall.

  The killing blow did not fall.

  Instead, after a moment he felt his sword being pulled from his throbbing fingers, and then the pressure on his hand eased. He opened his eyes again. The giant had moved away and was standing a few feet away with a group of fellow savages, a puzzled expression on his face.

  Another man, not quite as tall but equally as fierce-looking was gazing down at him with cold blue eyes. His red-brown hair was long and hung loose on his shoulders, and his muscular legs were muddy and bare. He wore one of those ridiculous short skirts that the Highlanders loved, and a dirty shirt, now stained, as was the sword he held, with the blood of the men he had just killed. His men.

  The redcoat lifted his head, ignoring the pain that knifed down the side of his face, and looked around the clearing, taking in the lifeless scarlet-coated bodies. He inhaled sharply and turned to look back up at the man standing over him.

  “If you’re waiting for me to beg for mercy,” he said, “you’ll be standing there forever.”

  The Highlander smiled, and then to the redcoat’s utter disbelief, he spoke, not in the apelike gibberish they called a language, nor in the barbarous accent the Scots used when massacring the English tongue, but in a voice that made the young soldier’s blood run cold.

  “I am waiting for nothing of the sort, dear boy,” the savage said. “I confess I am somewhat distraught that you have forgotten me. After all, we were once so well acquainted, were we not? But it matters not, for I recognise you and that, after all, is the important thing.”

  The hand holding the sword, which had hung limply and somewhat effeminately at the Highlander’s side during this astonishing speech, now straightened, and the unmistakable long-lashed slate-blue eyes of Sir Anthony Peters regarded him for a moment with pure joy.

  “Hello, Richard,” he said pleasantly, and then, aiming very carefully, he drove his sword home.

  * * *

  Nine men and one woman were sitting in the saucer-shaped hollow on the hill overlooking Loch Lomond. Down below in the settlement the rest of the clan, who had restored and spent the winter in their lochside houses were preparing to move up to the large cave for an indefinite period, as the redcoats from the hastily rebuilt barracks at Inversnaid were now starting to ‘pacify’ the clans who resided around the loch, the MacGregors being a prime target.

  The nine fighting men and one woman had already moved their belongings, and were now eyeing the small cave with a mixture of expressions ranging from anxiety to distaste. Initially hollowed out to accommodate four men with a squeeze, over the winter it had been excavated some more, and would now hold six with ease.

  At the moment, however, it held only two, and the people sitting outside were discussing the situation in low voices.

  “It isna right,” Dougal said. “It’s no’ fighting fair.”

  “You could argue that nothing of what we do is fighting fair,” his brother Hamish pointed out. “The redcoats’d no’ say it’s fair for us to ambush them in the middle of the night when they’re all asleep in their tents. Or to pick stragglers off from the back of the line at dusk.”

  ”Or to pretend to be wolves,” Angus said, to laughter. Morag was sitting next to him, one hand on his knee, the other on her belly, which was swelling nicely with their first child. His arm was wrapped round her shoulder.

  “Aye, I ken that,” Dougal conceded, “but this is different. When we fight, we kill. We dinna deliberately stab a man in the gut, twist the blade and then bring him back here to let him die in agony. We canna call the redcoats savages if we behave the same way they do.”

  “He’s no’ behaving the way the redcoats do,” Angus said. “If we came upon a load of redcoats’ families, we wouldna rape and butcher them.”

  “That’s true,” said Allan, speaking for the first time. “He’s no’ behaving the way the redcoats do. And he’s our chieftain, so we have to accept that he’s got a reason for what he’s doing.” His words were belied by his facial expression, which stated clearly to everyone present that he was starting to wonder what he’d let himself in for by accepting this man as his chief.

  “He clearly kens the redcoat,” Hamish said. “He called him by name, did he no’, before he stabbed him? Has he a grievance wi’ the man?”

  Angus, Graeme and Iain shared a meaningful glance, and then Angus sighed and came to a decision.

  “Aye,” he said, “Alex has a grievance wi’ the man, although I dinna ken the whole of it. His name’s Richard Cunningham, and he’s Beth’s brother.”

  “Brother?” Allan said, shocked. “If he’s Beth’s brother, then he’s –”

  “No relation to you,” Angus interrupted. “He’s rightly Beth’s half-brother. They had the same father, different mothers. Beth and Richard hated each other. She told me a wee bit about him and I met him a few times myself. I couldna take to the man. She married Sir Anthony even though she couldna stand him, to get away from Richard.”

  “Aye, well, that worked out in the end,” Dougal pointed out.

  “It did. But there was something else. Do ye mind at Manchester, when we were moving north, Alex and Beth had the stramash and he didna speak to her for a while?”

  “Christ, aye,” said Dougal. “He was a bastard. I’ve never seen him so miserable. And angry wi’ everyone.”

  “Beth tellt Duncan what happened to cause that. I dinna ken rightly what it was, because she tellt him in confidence, but it was to do wi’ Richard.”

  “Richard is an evil, vicious piece of shite,” Graeme cut in suddenly. “I’ve known him since he was a child, and there’s always been something wrong with him. He used to torture animals then, and later he moved on to people. He whipped John for the fun of it, and beat Beth’s maid Sarah badly when she was in Manchester. He hurt Beth too. And he probably raped and murdered another maid, Martha, and tried to kill her baby as well. I’m glad that bastard’s finally dying. I’m not so happy with the way
of it, but more because it doesn’t seem the sort of thing Alex would do.”

  “So do ye think it’s because of Beth that –” Dougal began.

  “I dinna give a damn what it’s about,” Kenneth interrupted, speaking for the first time. “Alex has the right of it, and if he needs a rest, I’ll sit and watch the bastard writhe in agony mysel’, and wi’ the greatest pleasure. I’m only thankful that Alex stopped me killing him quick and clean, as I was about to.”

  The whole group looked at him in shock, not just at his words, but at the viciousness of his tone. Giant he was, fearsome in battle he definitely was, but he was not a vindictive or vengeful man. Unusually for the Highlanders, he was not one to bear a grudge for any length of time and was by nature gentle and caring.

  “You went in the hut,” Iain said softly after a minute.

  “Aye, Alex and I were the only ones to go in,” Kenneth said, “and I wish to God I hadna.”

  “What did you see?” Angus asked.

  Kenneth looked around the group, his eyes settling finally on Morag.

  “No,” he said.

  Angus took his arm from round his wife’s shoulder.

  “Morag, a graidh, will ye gie us a wee minute?” he said.

  Morag looked at Kenneth, took in the hard, tight line of his mouth, and without any argument stood up and walked away. Angus waited until she was out of earshot before he spoke again.

  “Kenneth,” he said. “I ken ye dinna want to talk about it, but if some of us are sitting here wondering what’s possessed Alex and doubting the right of what he’s doing, then we can be sure the whole clan are thinking the same. I dinna ken how long the man’s going to take in his dying, but I canna allow this to undermine our trust in Alex’s leadership.”

  “We’ll follow him anyway,” Dougal said. “He’s our chieftain.”