19
It seemed to take an eternity to dispense with the formalities. Lochiel had been welcomed into the crowded great cabin of the Du Teillay with the enthusiasm accorded a long-lost relative. The Prince and his staff of seven advisers who had embarked with him from France had lavished food and drink on the Cameron chief, who, along with Alexander and a half dozen envoys from neighboring clans, were charmed and disarmed by his humble graciousness.
Charles Edward Stuart was the perfect host. He had deliberately dressed to downplay his heritage, wearing plain black breeches and a coat of cheap broadcloth. His shirt and stock were made of cambric, not very clean; his wig was sparsely curled and fit poorly over the pale copper hair beneath. He was a handsome man, a fact that added to the romantic aura that surrounded him, at least where the Jacobite ladies were concerned. His blue eyes were large and expressive, his nose thin and prominent, his mouth as prettily shaped as that of a woman. There was a calmness about him, an assuredness unhampered by his youth or inexperience. It was the confidence of royalty, of knowing his cause was right and just and that there could be, should be, no possible argument against it.
He was also a very clever prince, playing with the emotions and sentiments of his guests as if they were instruments to be finely tuned prior to a performance. The opening chords were struck without warning, without preamble, shortly before midnight.
“Now that you have toasted your loyalty to my father’s cause, my faithful Lochiel, perhaps you will tell us what manner of support he may count upon from the beautiful glens of Lochaber.”
One by one the voices around the dining table fell silent and the earnest faces turned toward Donald. Even Alex, who had been aware of the subtle manipulation of the conversations all through the evening, looked to his brother to see if the experienced statesman had been expecting the trap to be sprung.
Alex had to admire the young man’s audacity. The dinner had been sumptuous; the wine had flowed like water. And now the regent planned to serve himself along with a hefty side dish of sentiment for dessert. He was, after all, a prince born to the royal house to which Lochiel had pledged eternal allegiance. This same royal prince had embarked against all odds, armed only with the might of his personal convictions and the hope of persuading—or shaming—his father’s subjects to join him in a holy war.
Lochiel set his empty glass on the table and waved away a servant who rushed over to fill it. “Perhaps, Yer Highness, ye could tell us first what support we might expect from yer cousin King Louis, an’ when it might arrive.”
The Prince’s smile did not waver. “As you know, my father’s cause has the full support of the French government. Even as we speak, Louis is conferring with his ministers to finalize the plans for a full-scale invasion of England, to be coordinated, naturally, with our own army’s march south.”
A rousing cheer was prompted by one of his advisers, the Reverend George Kelly, in a tactful attempt to forestall identifying exactly which army the Prince was referring to. This time Alex was not alone in glancing along the table, firm in his opinion of their host’s poor choice of companions. Kelly was thin-lipped and bald as an eagle, with the same predatory instincts. The Irishman, O’Sullivan, boasted some military experience, but discreetly avoided giving references to specific battles fought. Sir Thomas Sheridan was seventy years old and had been Charles’s classroom tutor. William Murray, the exiled Marquis of Tullibardine, was so crippled by the gout he could not walk without a stick. Aeneas MacDonald was a Paris banker whose only function as far as anyone could determine was to enlist the aid of his elder brother, the chief of Kinlochmoidart. Francis Strickland was the sole Englishman in the group, a Roman Catholic from Westmoreland whose family had always been loyal to the Stuarts. At the moment both he and the seventh member of the elite assembly, Sir John MacDonald, appeared to be more interested in the quality of the claret than the conversation—as if they had heard it all before.
These were the men closest to the Prince, the men who had vowed to see him claim the throne of England in his father’s name. Of the seven, O’Sullivan seemed to be the slipperiest, exchanging frequent glances with Charles and prompting him with either a nod or a shake of the head.
Alex lowered his gaze and wiped at the beads of sweat that had formed on the outside of his tankard. He could not say anything. Protocol demanded his silence, but inwardly he was screaming for Donald to be on his guard.
“I am glad the French are sendin’ troops,” Lochiel continued. “We can well use their trainin’ an’ experience tae organize our own efforts.”
“As I said, the King of France will need assurances that we have an army willing to support my father’s holy cause.”
“Which ye canna raise, Highness, wi’out some show o’ good faith from France. An army needs swords an’ muskets, lead f’ae shot, an’ gunpowder—”
“The cargo bay of this ship is full of muskets and broadswords,” the Prince interrupted hastily. “Bought on my own initiative.”
“Aye, but a broadsword canna stop a cannonball,” Lochiel pointed out gently. “An’ the English army has cannon by the score. We have but a few rusted weapons an’ none who ken how tae fire them.”
“Men can be taught to fire cannon,” O’Sullivan said wanly.
“Aye.” Lochiel looked at him. “They can be taught how tae light a fuse, but learnin’ how tae aim an’ hit a target takes practice, an’ we have neither the powder nor the shot tae squander.”
The Prince surged to his feet. “Were you or were you not the chief instigator of the committee formed to entreat my father to return to Scotland?”
“I were on the committee,” Lochiel agreed freely. “I still am, so far as I know, an’ will be until we find a realistic way tae bring King James home.”
“You doubt my sincerity in this venture, sir?” the Prince asked stiffly.
“On the contrary, I find ye a remarkable young man. Furthermore, I believe if anyone could lead an army tae victory in Scotland, it could be you.”
The Prince flushed under the compliment and sank slowly back into his chair. “Then why do you hesitate—you who have the power to sway half the clans in the Highlands in our favor. Why?”
“The men’s hearts are wi’ ye, Highness, but their heids—” Lochiel threw his hands up in a gesture of helplessness. “After the calamity last year—”
“Surely you cannot hold me to blame for that? We had twenty-two ships bulging to the seams with men, guns, and supplies … all of it collected through my persistence.”
“Aye, an’ most o’ it lost through French incompetence.”
“The fleet encountered a storm in the Channel—”
“Any fool knows the worst storms o’ the year are in February. I ken yer hands were tied; ye had no choice but tae sail when the French decided they were ready tae sail—but by the Christ, the Royal Navy knew tae the day, the hour, the minute when the first ship left port an’ where it was bound.”
“There are spies in every conflict,” O’Sullivan declared.
“Aye. An’ ours tell us the French have as yet made nae move tae send help. In fact, they tell us the King’s ministers are so dead set against any further involvement wi’ us, they have drawn the treasury purse strings shut.”
Two red splotches colored the Prince’s cheeks as he stood again. With a visible effort he forced himself to remain calm, to turn from the table and pace the length of the cabin until he stood near the multipaned gallery windows. Light from a brass lantern poured over his head and shoulders, gilding him in an aura that could not have been more unnerving had he been standing in a church nave.
“We must not bicker amongst ourselves,” he said tautly. “Indeed, we must not quarrel, especially over an incident that occurred better than a year ago. The main thing to remember is that we set sail then with seven thousand French troops. There are at least that many again waiting to embark at the first word of our army marching south.”
Lochiel steadied himself,
astounded by Charles’s refusal to admit he had entered into this present endeavor without the slightest proof of solid support from either side of the Channel.
“Highness—” He laid his hands carefully on the table. “There will be nae army marchin’ south. At the most ye could raise two, three thousand men—maybe—but it still couldna be called an army, for ye’d have nae weapons, nae food, nae money tae pay them—”
“Would we have their loyalty?”
Lochiel’s face flushed at the quiet inquiry. “I can speak only f’ae masel’, an’ in that ye have ma most passionate loyalty. But loyalty canna buy guns. Loyalty canna grow men out o’ the ground tae fill the ranks o’ an army.”
“We were led to believe we could rely upon twenty, thirty thousand faithful Highlanders.”
“Then ye were poorly advised, sir. A damned sight more poorly advised than even the English garrisons posted here, f’ae they can tell ye within ten men how many each clan could put intae the field, how well they would be armed, an’ behind whose standard they would march.”
“I have heard the rumors, sir, that our cause has suffered grave losses to the lure of Hanover gold. Still others remain silent, too ashamed, I must surmise, to acknowledge their king’s plea for help. Others have had to be cajoled to come down out of their mountain strongholds to appease me with their patronizing bromides.” He paused, watching the insult darken Donald’s complexion. “I tell you now, I will not be patronized. I will not be swayed by cowards and naysayers. The time is right to strike, and to strike hard! The main bulk of the English army—including its artillery—is across the Channel fighting in Flanders. The few regular troops that remain are not sufficient to withstand a Highland army, regardless of whether it is but one-tenth the promised strength.
“All we need,” Charles continued, addressing his rhetoric to the rapt and silent group, “is a single victory to prove to the whole country that we are committed to our cause. All of our friends who have doubted us would come forward; all the foreign aid we might need would pour into our borders. Gentlemen”—he squared his shoulders and faced them fully so that the dazzling light from the lantern spilled over his regal countenance, making it appear to glow from within—“this is my home. This is my country. These are my Highlands as much as they are yours. The blood of my ancestors stains the soil beneath my feet, and their voices cry to me through the glens and mountains. I will not go back to France in defeat again. I will stay and fight to restore honor to my father’s name though not another single man has the courage to stand by my side!”
A sickening wave of humiliation drained the blood from Donald’s face, yet he still groped for threads of reason. “Aye, Highness, aye. Perhaps ye should remain in the kirk. Perhaps, wi’ time an’ care, ye can win over yer detractors, prove tae them ye are indeed committed tae victory. In the meantime, I would personally guarantee yer safety, f’ae as long as it takes—”
“My safety? You think I care one whit for my safety? And would you have me skulking from cave to cottage to avoid the hounds the English would undoubtedly set after me while we waited for an army formed out of pity to grow around me? No, my good Lochiel. I will, indeed, stay in Scotland, and I will, indeed, walk these glorious hills, but not as a criminal, not as a thief in the night, not as a beggar seeking alms. In a few days, with the few friends I have, I will erect the royal standard of the House of Stuart and proclaim to the people of Britain that Charles Stuart has come home to claim the crown of his ancestors—to win it back or to perish, if need be, in the attempt.”
A round of furtive glances was exchanged around the table. Only one pair of dark, midnight eyes did not waver from the ashen face they had been watching throughout the Prince’s impassioned speech. Alex saw the tears in his brother’s eyes and the small half-circles of blood cut into the flesh of his palms where his fingernails had forced him to maintain his silence.
Slowly, the Prince looked directly at Donald also. “You say I have your loyalty, Lochiel, and so I believed or else why would I have been drawn so relentlessly to these shores? You and my other faithful Highlanders filled me with such hope … with the heart to keep on going even though man and nature pitted their fury against me. My Highlanders, for we share the same blood, the same courage, the same quest for honor … or so I thought.”
The golden head tilted up again, angling the angelic face into the full sphere of light. “I would force no man to stand by my side if he lacks the faith or trust to do so. Lochiel may stay at home if he finds he has so little hope for me and my cause. There he may learn the fate of his prince from the newspapers … and perhaps offer a toast or two in our favor. Surely that would not be too much to ask?”
Donald Cameron stared unblinkingly at the gilded prince. He rose slowly to his feet, his body rigid and trembling, the tears falling in two shiny streaks down his face. Through a sluggish wave of helplessness, Alex heard his brother’s voice break the crystalline silence.
“No, by God. I will not keep tae my home while ma prince fights alone f’ae ma king … nor will any man over whom nature or fortune has given me power.”
There was more, but Alex did not hear it. He found himself thinking, irrationally, of an avalanche he had witnessed once. One small step had sent half a mountain exploding down upon an unsuspecting village. He had the same feeling now, that he was poised to take that one small step, and if he did, the only way to go was down.
20
The storms that had plagued the skies over Achnacarry finally dissipated, and on the fifth morning of Lochiel’s absence the sun made an appearance over the horizon. The mists were reluctant to leave the coves and inlets of the loch, and the forests rained dew for another full day before they, too, relinquished the dampness and began to steam dry. Catherine took long walks in the garden and along the shoreline. She ventured bravely into the woods with Deirdre and their shadow of silent guards to pick wild berries, and while there discovered a narrow stream that looped its way through the saplings, its waters flashing silver with salmon.
She startled Aluinn MacKail one morning by joining him unexpectedly in the courtyard and requesting to be allowed to accompany him on one of his rides. After a brief debate and a longer delay to arm a mounted escort, they rode up into the hills, where she was afforded a breathtaking overview of the castle, the loch, the seemingly endless rolling sweep of Highlands. Seeing the appreciation in her eyes, Aluinn told her some of the Cameron history. He pointed out the ruins of an ancient keep nearby and filled her imagination with stories of medieval battles and feuds. He spoke of Alexander and hinted at a misspent youth, but never broached the subject of his exile, and Catherine did not give any inclination that she knew. By the end of the first morning they were both relaxed and laughing, and she hoped somehow that she had gained an important ally should the need for one arise.
As the days stretched into a week, so, too, did Catherine’s patience stretch to the breaking point. She was still wracked with doubts, confused by what she was feeling, but as bad as it was suffering alone, she suspected the real trial would begin when and if Alexander came home. To that end she rehearsed whole speeches and thought of countless arguments to present both for and against the idea of her remaining at Achnacarry. She walked the gardens tirelessly, one turn convincing her she was a fool to even entertain the notion of staying in Scotland, the next convincing her she would be a greater fool to leave. Always at the back of her mind was the very real possibility that she was debating with herself needlessly. Alexander Cameron was as stubborn as he was proud. If he had already made up his mind to send her away—and had she not badgered and insisted repeatedly that he do just that?—no amount of rationalizing would budge him.
Also at the back of her mind was the recollection of his telling her he had a distinct and everlasting aversion to marriage. What made her think a single night of passion had changed his opinion? He must have spent many similar nights with many other women over the years. Perhaps she was reading far too much into a few m
urmured phrases, a too-soft caress, a dark promise in the depth of his eyes. Perhaps it was nothing more than what he had so bluntly told her the next morning—a matter of too much temptation combined with too much wine.
She simply did not know anymore. There were no storms to affect her senses now, no providential bolts of lightning to frighten her into seeing something that was not there. What had seemed so clear then was, in the stark reality of daylight, a confusing and hopeless situation. He did not want her. He could not possibly love her. Perhaps she should go home, if only to get away from the mystic beauty of the mountains and the treacherously hypnotic effects of heather and peat smoke. Would she be so willing to cast her lot to the wind if she found herself back at the River Spean confronting a dozen filthy militiamen?
The answer was a resounding no. She would die of sheer terror if she had to endure what lay beyond these thick stone fortifications. She was soft and she was pampered, and she honestly did not know if she wanted to change, or if she could change.
Always sure of herself in the past, she now felt mired in doubt and uncertainty. She wanted to stay. She wanted to go. For the first time in her life she wanted someone to tell her what to do, but even the obscure and tinny voice of her conscience remained stubbornly silent.
“Cow piss,” Rose announced, her voice almost causing Catherine to spill her wine. “Take ma advice, hen: A wee tot o’ cow piss an’ vinegar each mornin’ an’ yer bairns will all be laddies. I ken. I’ve had six o’ ma own.”
“Cow piss me arse,” Jeannie countered derisively. “All that’ll gie ye is a sour belly an’ no’ much more. Beetroot jelly. Tha’s what ma mither told me, an’ all twelve o’ ma bairns are laddies. Ye take a wee dram, ye see, an’ muckle it on his nether parts just afore—”
The Pride of Lions Page 31