by Judith James
Catherine dealt with what she had to, wrote Jamie a letter and gave it to Mrs. O’Sullivan, and set out the next morning in a cold rain, just past dawn. How strange we come to such cross-purposes, Jamie. Catholic against Protestant, king against king, though we both know better and want the same thing—an end to these infernal wars.
Granted what she’d always thought she wanted—the trust of her people and a chance to lead them—she had no choice but to leave the man she loved behind. Her father had always put duty before what he wanted, and now she understood the sacrifices he’d made. Jamie had never tried to rule or direct her. Like her father, he’d let her be, giving her respect and freedom, and accepting her as she was. Wasn’t that love? Why did she need more? Why couldn’t she accept them both as they’d accepted her? Like her father, Jamie was a good man, doing his best, and she could do no less. Hunching her shoulders against the wind, she turned her pony south.
Thirty-Three
It was a crisp, clear, mid-August night, and Jamie had stopped to camp on the banks of the Suir. Tomorrow he’d be back at Castle Carrick. Tomorrow he’d see Catherine again. She’d turned his world upside down from the first moment he saw her, and since then he’d made one inconvenient decision after another—rescuing her, following her home, giving up his pleasures and his women, sharing his adventures, and letting her in on secrets no one else knew. It had annoyed him terribly at first. He failed to see the reason for it and couldn’t understand, but once he’d stopped struggling and accepted the obvious, it all made sense. The sky is blue, when it rains you get wet, and I love Cat Drummond.
Tomorrow he’d tell her. She’d be difficult and sullen at first, upset at his abrupt departure and angry about Moll, but she was a reasonable girl, and she’d let him explain. He was done with intrigue and he’d tell her so. Charles, James, William, Mary, and sister Anne as well, every fucking Stuart on God’s green earth can go to hell! Tomorrow he’d cozen and cajole, explain and promise, and by the next moon’s rising, he’d be warm in bed with his woman, making sure she knew how much he loved her. He raised his wineskin to the stars. “To Catherine Sinclair, mysterious and lovely as the evening sky and seductive as a summer’s night. Her radiance puts the stars to shame and guides me through the dark. Tá grá agam duit. I love you, Catherine.”
Early the next day he arrived at Castle Carrick and knew at once that something was wrong. He tore through the castle room by room, calling her name, a sickening feeling building inside. “Where is she, Mrs. O’Sullivan?” he demanded, when she came running to see what was wrong.
“She’s left, Jamie. Her family came and took her. You’ve missed her by no more than a week.”
“They took her? You did nothing to stop them?” Hell and damnation! He should never have left her unprotected and alone.
“No, lad. She went willingly enough. She’s left you a letter.”
Gut twisting, he took the letter from Mrs. O’Sullivan, holding it carefully between his fingers as if it might contain some virulent poison. A part of him wasn’t surprised, had always expected that, sooner or later, he’d make one mistake too many and she’d leave him. Once again, he’d ignored hard lessons sternly taught, and once again, he’d been a fool.
“I’ll read this in my rooms. Kindly send along some whiskey and see to it I’m not disturbed.” He brushed past the eager children who’d come to greet him, sparing them not so much as a glance. He was chilled, though the day was warm, and when he sat at his desk, he felt weightless and hollow inside. A stiff shot of whiskey did nothing to warm him, so he followed it with another, and when he opened her letter there was only a slight tremor to his hands.
“So, Catherine, what exactly is there left to say?”
Dearest Jamie,
Our adventures in London and our idyll over the past few months will live with me forever, and warm me when I’m a woman grown old. You’ve been good for me and to me, but I’ve matters to attend to that are no concern of yours and can only cause you trouble.
You’ve given me my freedom, and in return I give you yours. I’ve written my solicitor agreeing to a divorce, and leaving him instructions to proceed. My previous contract with Cormac O’Connor and a healthy stipend to the powers that be should suffice to see the thing done. The solicitor should be able to find me when and if my signature is required, but I expect my written statement will be enough. I’ve sent a missive to my bankers instructing they release half my personal funds. I have, of course, retained all assets that properly belong to clan Drummond, but I’m sure the sum I’ve left you will more than suffice. As you’ve grown idealistic of late, I’ll make bold to insist you accept it, and to remind you that it’s safer to put your faith in the guinea than in kings.
I’ve no wish to be an inconvenience. It would ill become us both. Love shouldn’t be a burden and I regret if mine was one for you. You’ve given me many gifts—laughter, joy, pleasure, and my life not the least among them. I’ll be sad for a while, but in time, when I think of you, it will make me smile. Good luck, Jamie! I shall always think of you fondly. I thank you for your care of me, and wish you long life and happiness, and though you may not credit it, I wish you love. You deserve it, I wish you joy of it, and I hope someday it finds you. Farewell.
Your friend,
Catherine Drummond
“She wishes love to find me? She wishes me joy of it? She offers it, then takes it away! I asked her to wait. I trusted her. Bitch!” He crumpled the letter and threw it into the fireplace, and a moment later, he hurled his glass against the wall.
***
The Prince of Orange landed in November and Jamie, who wasn’t suited to farming and had lost interest in his horses and most everything else, was there to greet him. Within two weeks, most of the cities and bishoprics in England had declared for William, and a mass defection of officers had begun. John Churchill, King James’s commander in chief, was one of the first to abandon his Catholic king. The king’s second daughter, Anne, was not far behind.
Near the end of December, William allowed King James to f lee to France, and took over the provisional government. In February, Parliament resolved that James’s f light amounted to abdication and jointly offered William and Mary the throne. It was hailed as a bloodless revolution, and claimed that not a shot had been fired. The whole affair could not have ended better—for England, at least.
William wasn’t a man to neglect those who’d served him well. Jamie was warmly received at court. His Irish estate was confirmed and his English lands and title returned, and more lands were given him besides. The bloodshed he’d feared had been prevented, and with the new king’s gifts and favor, he was a man of inf luence, someone to respect. As for his wife, nobody asked. Unlike his royal cousins, the new king seemed to take little interest in anyone’s wife, including his own. Jamie should have been happy, at least content, but he took no pleasure in his holdings, no notice of the women who pursued him, and no interest in the affairs of the court.
Catherine was the only thing on his mind. He’d read her letter through an incendiary fog of hurt and anger, but he’d had time to ref lect since, and his fury at her abandonment had long since lost its edge. He thought about her by day, and dreamed of her at night, and every time he looked to the north, he felt sick with worry. James Stuart might have vacated the throne of England, but he was already making mischief in Ireland and the Highlands, with the help of the French. His supporters, the Jacobites, were a growing threat, and William was a fighting man. If they rebelled, William and his Orangemen would crush them, and Catherine and her family would be caught in their midst.
Although he’d thrown her letter in the fire, the contents were burned in his heart, and words he’d first regarded with dismissive contempt played increasingly on his mind. “I’ve matters to attend to that can only cause you trouble. Love shouldn’t be a burden and I regret if mine was one for you.”
It was always easier to see some things from a distance. She wanted to help her people as he’d tried to he
lp his, and she sought to protect him. She’d not awaited his return because she didn’t want him involved, and she’d not abandoned him, he’d abandoned her. I was gone six weeks without a word, and the last she saw of me I had a strumpet in my lap. Well… she’d also wished that love would find him and it had. She had, but they were on opposite sides of the Isle of Britain, and might soon be on opposite sides of another bloody war.
Thirty-Four
Catherine sat in the great hall, ensconced in the ancient seat she still thought of as her father’s. It had been in her family, a part of the chamber, for generations, and as her hands gripped its ornately carved arms she could almost feel the history coursing through it. May it lend me patience and wisdom. With Jerrod’s backing, Donald dead, and Alistair gone to France, her status as head of the clan had not been contested, but her people were a loud, opinionated lot who equated discussion with shouting and negotiation with shouting louder. They’d been known to argue over petty disputes for days, and this one had been raging for hours.
Greeted with joy by Martha, and cautious acceptance by the rest of the clan, she’d set to work avoiding an escalation of the feud with the Murrays, pointing out that Donald and his men had been in Murray territory, and too many men had been killed on both sides, leaving them weaker when they needed to be strong. “There’s a threat on the horizon much larger than our petty feuds and border disputes, gentlemen. We must look to what’s coming. We must sue for peace so we can prepare for war.”
She’d managed to cajole and coerce them into a grudging truce, but it seemed all of Europe was rolling the dice, and events were happening faster than she could contain them. Over the winter months, Ewen Cameron of Lochiel had undertaken to write or meet every chief of note in the Highlands, hoping to form a confederation of clans loyal to James to defend his Scottish throne. She’d responded, pledging loyalty, but had avoided offering aid. In March, King James had sailed from France to Ireland with an army of twelve hundred men. He’d landed in Kinsale, marched to Dublin, and was greeted as king of Ireland by cheering crowds.
She wondered what the O’Sullivans… what Jamie… thought of that. She’d been so busy she’d hardly had time to think of him by day, and though she ached for him at night, it was a dull, familiar pain now, no longer jagged and sharp. A good thing, too—he’d made no attempt to contact her, and though she might be disappointed, she wasn’t surprised. He’ll be alert to the danger, and the O’Sullivans, just like my folk, will be filled with patriotism, hope, and pride. How can we possibly keep them all safe?
Avoiding the maelstrom grew harder by the day. At the beginning of April, a convention in Edinburgh declared William the king of Scotland, but a number of people, most of them Highlanders, remained loyal to James. One of them, John Graham of Claverhouse, Viscount Dundee, known as Bonnie Dundee to his friends and Bloody Clavers to his foes, had decided to raise an army of liberation in concert with Lochiel, and was touring the Highlands with the royal standard, gathering clansmen for war. It was this they were discussing now. She rubbed her temples to clear her head, and returned her attention to Jerrod.
“There’s no staying out of it, Cat. It’s coming whether you will it or no. ’Tis said of us there are no better allies in all the Highlands. If we don’t stand with them, we’ll be shamed and dishonored. Our friends will turn against us and we’ll stand alone.”
She knew he was right. What Jamie had hoped to avoid for England was coming to her homeland instead, another religious and civil war. Highlander against Lowlander, Catholic and Episcopalian against Presbyterian and Covenanter, Williamite against Jacobite, Scot against English, and Scot against Scot. There was no avoiding it. Bloody hell!
Thirty-Five
It’s going to be a lovely sunset. Clad in helmet and leather cuirass and armed with her father’s sword and shield, Catherine watched from a hilltop overlooking the Killiecrankie Pass. The key communications route into the Highlands from Perth to Inverness, the six-feet-wide riverside track threaded through a steep, dangerous, densely wooded gorge, carved by the rushing waters of the Gary River. They’d been waiting, ducking potshots and sporadic cannon fire, since marching from Blair Castle and claiming the high ground in the mid-afternoon.
The ancient seat of the Dukes and Earls of Atholl, Blair Castle was the gateway to the Grampian Mountains. Whoever controlled it, controlled access between the Highlands and the Lowlands. The Marquis, its current owner, had prudently left to take the waters in Bath, and Dundee had taken steps to secure it for the Royalist cause. The moment he heard a government force under Hugh Mackay was on its way to reclaim it, he’d sprung into action. He’d held a brief war council with those clan leaders who’d arrived, and set out immediately to cut them off. They’d marched without halting, arriving before the Orangemen, and set up position on a ridge above the pass.
They’d been waiting nearly two hours for the sun to set so it wouldn’t blind them. Three hundred Irish under the command of Major-General Cannon had joined them, but from what Catherine could see, they were still outnumbered two to one. Outmanned, outgunned, but not outgeneraled. Her father had taught her that speed won battles, conferring the advantage of f lexibility, choice of terrain, and element of surprise, but Bonnie Dundee was the first man she’d seen put it so adeptly into practice. A valuable lesson, if I survive to remember it.
A cloud passed overhead and she shivered, though it was late July and hot. It wouldn’t be long now, a few minutes at most. She looked toward the horizon. The sun hung low and the sky had taken an orange cast against a background of magenta and purplish-blue. This will be my last sunset. I’ll never grow old. I’ll never have a child. At least I had the chance to know a man. I’ve had a lover. I’ve loved Jamie.
Jerrod sidled over next to her, and their horses bumped noses. “You’ve led us here, Cat. Time now for you to go.”
She snorted and made a rude gesture. “I’ll go when the other chiefs do, Uncle, be it up or down the hill.”
“Your father’d be bursting with pride, could he see you now, lass.”
“My father would have counselled me to do like the Marquise of Atholl and take the waters in Bath.”
But he wouldn’t have. The first battle in the Jacobite cause, a daring gambit against desperate odds—despite all his words of caution and prudence, he’d shared the Highland thirst for wild adventure, and he’d not have missed it for the world. And here she was, after all her efforts to avoid it, about to embark on a piece of foolishness and destructive waste her people had romanticised and gloried in for centuries, and the part of her that had listened with childish wonder to the tales of storytellers and poets, trembled in anticipation. She was about to lead her clan into battle. She was about to take part in the kind of heroic deeds men wrote songs about. Swept by a fierce hunger, all her senses heightened; afraid, exhilarated, and never more ferociously alive, she looked down the hill, her heart pounding with excitement, and then looked to Jerrod and grinned.
Thirty-Six
Jamie peered through the branches, scanning for movement along the ridge, but heavy foliage obstructed his view. Behind him, the walls of the canyon rose perpendicular to the angry waters that clawed at its jagged base, blocking most of what remained of the sunlight. Cavernous and deep, the narrow defile was cool despite the heat of summer. It had a dank, metallic taste and a claustrophobic air that reminded him of the inside of a cave. Despite their marked numeric advantage, their cavalry, and their guns, he didn’t like their situation or their odds.
This wasn’t the way to fight a campaign in the Highlands. Dragoons and cannon were little use against surefooted mountaineers in this terrain. If any-thing, they were a disadvantage, slowing them down and lending a false sense of strength. He knew Hugh Mackay had been a mercenary in Dutch service for many years and was no fool, but he’d been outmaneuvered and outf lanked, and he’d led them straight into what was obviously a highly vulnerable position. Hubris or folly, the results were the same. When they’d stopped at t
he far end of the pass, Dundee was waiting for them on the high promontory to their right. Everyone was surprised but Jamie.
So now, they waited, with cavalry, a baggage train, and four thousand English, Scottish, and Dutch foot soldiers, most of them raw recruits. They’d been firing anxiously into the hills with muskets and cannon on and off all afternoon. They’d yet to f lush the enemy out, though they’d caught a glimpse of Bloody Clavers. He’s waiting for sundown, and when he comes, half this lot will piss their breeks, while the other half will piss their breeks and run away. Jamie had been in more than enough engagements to know when a mission was in trouble, but that wasn’t what worried him now. He looked to the hills again, eyes straining to see in the gathering dusk, and still couldn’t find what he was seeking.
At seven o’clock, with the sun behind them, the Jacobites rose to their feet as one, dropped their packs and plaids, and came screaming down the hill. Firing, then dropping their muskets, they advanced relentlessly through three rounds of fire before tearing into Mackay’s forces, swinging their huge two-handed claymores without mercy as his panicked men struggled to reload. The onslaught was so ferocious that even seasoned soldiers had no time to fix their bayonets. Gunfire silenced, an eerie hush descended, and the only sound was that of grunting, the shriek and clang of battered metal, and the groans and truncated cries of dying men. Jamie thought he heard a familiar battle cry but didn’t have time to place it as, a moment later, Dundee and his cavalry charged Mackay’s center and swept it away.
Cutting his way through the throng, Jamie watched incredulously as the English cavalry f led into the pass without firing a shot. Locked toe-to-toe in combat with a grinning, blood-drenched Highlander, he had to disengage and jump aside to avoid being knocked into the river. Evenly matched in skill, size, and strength, Jamie had a mission, while his opponent fought for glory. In no mood for gallantry, he took the opportunity to deliver a vicious kick to the man’s kneecap, watching as he toppled over the rocks and slid into the torrent. His cry of alarm was lost in the rumble of the river as the swiftly moving water carried him away.