And now she actually did strike him, so beside herself with rage was she. She hit him a blow on the upper arm with her stick, and staggered off-balance in the process, so that he had to jump forward and catch her to prevent her from falling. It was a feeble blow, and hardly hurt, but he was more concerned for her than angry.
‘Mary, calm yourself, for God’s sake. You don’t know what you are saying.’
She looked bitterly up at him, enduring his hands which prevented her from falling, sick with helpless rage.
‘I know what I am saying. I know more than you think I know. I know you, my fine husband, and how you have wished me dead.’
‘I never have, Mary, I swear it,’ he said distressed. ‘I care for you.’
‘Liar!’ she shrieked breathlessly. ‘I know where your heart is, and it is not with me.’ Jemmy turned white, wondering how she could possibly have discovered the truth and then she went on. ‘But I have the laugh of you – she rejected you, didn’t she, and not even for another man. She rejected you for her Saviour, for her faith. Whenever I think of her in that nunnery, I smile for joy.’
Jemmy set her carefully back on her feet, and said quietly, ‘I shall send for your woman. I think you should rest, take a cordial. I am sorry it distresses you, but I must go after Marie-Louise and try to bring her back. She might be killed.’
‘I hope you are killed,’ Mary hissed. ‘I should laugh at your funeral, yes, and dance at it, if you hadn’t crippled me. No, leave me alone, I shall get to my room without help.’
Allen reached Aberlady on 10 September, and with a great deal of emotion, went to see Aberlady House. Part of it was still in ruins, but one wing had been restored, and it was evidently occupied. He sat on his horse at a safe distance for some time, looking at it. It was from this house that his mother had escaped, bringing him with her, when he was a babe in arms; it was in this house that his father had died, and his brother had been murdered; in this garden, his aunt and cousin had been hanged by the Hanoverian mob – perhaps from that very tree. There was a tightness in his throat which would have made it impossible to speak, even if he had known what to say, though Colin was looking at him curiously, wondering at his long reverie. Allen said a prayer in silence for the departed ones, and then with a nod to his servant, turned away.
‘Is that the house that should have been yours, sir?’ Colin asked after a while, and Allen nodded. ‘It’s a handsome enough place, sir,’ the young man added obligingly. ‘I daresay the King will give you a pension to help rebuild it, when he is home again.’
When they got near Edinburgh they stopped at an inn to get the latest news, and discovered that the Prince of Wales was camped at Perth, where he had been for almost a week.
‘More people joining them every day,’ the innkeeper said in a neutral voice, eyeing his customers carefully. In this part of the world, there was never any knowing with strangers which side they might favour, and it was best to avoid shewing sympathy either way. ‘Lord Ogilvy’s gone there, they say, and Lord George Murray’s expected. There’s a big army of them, though some say it’s no more than a rabble. You can’t expect Highlanders to behave like German soldiers.’
That seemed to cover it either way.
‘Now sir, some supper? I’ve a good mutton broth, and buttered eggs with spinach, and a rice pudding. Or should you desire something with a little more body to it? Some haggis, maybe, or cabbie-clow?’
‘I am very hungry,’ Allen said. ‘I should like all you have mentioned, but what, pray, is cabbie-clow?’
‘You’re an English gentleman, I plainly see,’ the innkeeper said doubtfully. ‘Cabbie-clow, that’s salt cod, boiled up with parsley and horse-radish, and we serve it up with egg-sauce and the bottoms of rachetcocks.
‘You may be forgiven for thinking I am English,’ Allen said, ‘but in fact I am a Macallan from Stirlingshire, though I have been out of Scotland since the year ’16.’
‘Is that right, sir? Well, Macallan’s a good name, as good as any, I’d say. I’ll bring your dinner by and by. Will you take a dram with it?’
The meal came, and the two men ate with appreciation. The mutton broth was so full of good things it was almost solid – a multitude of vegetables had gone into it, bread for thickening, and even prunes. Rachetcocks turned out to be artichokes, and were a delicious foil to the rich pungency of the cabbie-clow; and the rice pudding was unlike any that Allen had tasted before. The rice had been cooked in milk, to which had been added butter, eggs, cream, and sugar, a few raisins, a dash of brandy, and a sprinkling of grated orange rind and ground cinnamon and nutmeg, all baked in a pastry-case.
They finished off their meal with a few more drams, and then stretched out their legs before the fire, and Allen remarked to Colin. ‘Well, I had heard that Scotland was a barbarous place, but if the food is always as good as this, I shall have nothing to complain of. I shall be proud to admit to anyone that I’m a Scot.’
‘Yes sir,’ said Colin doubtfully. He was too young and earnest to understand a jest. ‘Anyone would be, sir.’
Allen looked at him, and sighed inwardly. ‘Yes, of course. Well, we had better enjoy this comfort while we have it. Tomorrow we ride for Perth, and I doubt that the camp will offer us anything like the luxury of this excellent inn.’
They set off early the next morning, and rode inland to find a crossing of the great river Forth, and once across it promptly got lost. When they arrived at Perth it was to learn that the Young Chevalier’s army had left for Edinburgh on the 11th, the same day that Allen and Colin had left Edinburgh for Perth.
At first, Jemmy found the trail easy enough to follow. She had followed the rivers on the early part of her journey, the Ouse and the Ure as far as Topcliffe, then the Swale and the Whiske to Northallerton; but after Northallerton he could find no trace of her.
‘She must have got a guide from somewhere. She must have,’ he said again and again. The last guide had taken her to within sight of Northallerton, and then she had seemed simply to disappear, for all the news he could get of her. He tried a few casts northwards, for that seemed the most obvious option, and drew a blank. Then he widened his sweep, and tried along the bank of the River Swale, which led north-westerly, and at last at a place called Catterick he discovered an old shepherd who said he had seen two travellers going along the old Roman Road, Dere Street as the local people still called it, a day or two back. Two people on horseback, he said.
‘A woman and a man?’ Jemmy asked eagerly. The old shepherd shook his head.
‘Nay, maister, it warn’t a woman. Two men. Two men on ’osses, gentlemen’s ‘osses.’
Jemmy shook his head. ‘No, no, it couldn’t have been. A woman and a man, I’m looking for.’ For the Princess had set off accompanied by a groom – at least she had had the sense not to go entirely alone. Then Jemmy had an idea. ‘Did they have a mule with them? A white mule?’ Perhaps it was Allen and Colin the shepherd had seen. He was old, after all, and might not have a very clear idea of how long ago he had seen the travellers.
‘No mule,’ he said. ‘Just two men on two ’osses. Riding north up the Roman Road. Posting along good, they were. If you wanted to catch ’em up, maister, you’d need to get on a bit.’
Jemmy ground his teeth with frustration, but in the end he decided that it must have been them. The old man’s eyesight might not be all that reliable, and he had seen them from a distance, after all. In any case, it was his best – his only – lead. The Roman Road, if he stuck to it, would eventually lead to Edinburgh, and it seemed likely that the Princess would have known that too. Roads in this part of the world were few and far between, and of a quality better not spoken of, but everyone seemed to know Dere Street, and the line of it, running straight as an arrow as it did, unlike the winding, tortuous local roads, was easy to see and to stick to.
They had reached the place north of Willington where the road, after running due north mile after mile, made its abrupt swing inland, heading north-west tow
ards Hexham, when the rain began. The sky had been growing more leaden for some miles past, and now it grew quite dark, and a cold wind sprang up just before the rain began to fall. It quickly grew heavier, falling like iron nails from the lowering sky. The horses laid back their ears resentfully, but Jemmy spurred on, hunching under his cloak and trying to turn his face out of the wind. Soon, however, it was hammering down, and the drops running off his chin and hair were making their way inside his clothes and soaking him clammily. Pask had borne everything so far with silent fortitude, but he felt this was too much.
‘We’d better find shelter, master, or we s’ll be drawned,’ he yelled through the hissing of the rain. The horses shied as a gust blew directly into their faces, and Jemmy was forced, reluctantly, to agree. But where would they find shelter? It was an empty country, this, hilly, green and deserted. They had seen no houses for a long time, and there were none in view now, nor even a bit of forest to offer shelter. There was a tall hill to the left of them, and halfway up it a clump of trees and a bit of drystone wall. Perhaps there had once been a sheep byre there, or even a shepherd’s hut. At all events, it was the nearest thing in sight to a windbreak, though the hillside was steep that led to it.
‘Up there!’ he shouted through the roar of the rain, pointing with a hand that channelled the cold water down his sleeve. Risk looked upwards doubtfully but it was evident to him, too, that there was nowhere else. They turned their horses off the road, and towards the slope of the hill.
‘The next place we come to, we must hire a guide,’ Jemmy said. ‘There’s no point in hurrying, now we don’t even know if they are on the same road, and a guide will at least take us from village to village.’
He kicked Pilot forward, and the horse ducked his head and set his shoulder to scramble up the slope. The turf was greasy with the rain, and his hooves slipped a little, and he dug his toes in, snorting with the effort. They had climbed a good way up towards the little outcrop with the trees when a whole section of turf came away under Pilot’s hooves, ripping away from the raw, slippery red earth as easily as one might skin a freshly-killed rabbit. The horse stumbled, slipped, tried to recover himself, and fell, rolling a couple of dozen feet down the hillside before he managed to stop himself. Jemmy was pitched off at the first stumble, but his foot caught in the stirrup, and despite his efforts to save himself, he was dragged after, and half under, the horse.
When Pask reached them, having flung himself from his horse and slithered and scrambled down, torn between haste and fear, Pilot was on his feet, trembling, and holding one forefoot clear of the ground, trailing his broken reins. But Pask had no time to see to the horse just then. He crouched down in the icy, hissing rain, to help his master.
Jemmy groaned, and then, rolling his head over, was sick. His face was very white and pinched with pain, and when he had finished retching, he tried to sit up, with Pask’s help, to see to his injuries.
‘My leg,’ he gasped. ‘I think—’
‘Try not to move, master,’ Pask said, and bit his lip in the endeavour not to cry from his fear and panic.
‘Help me – sit up,’ Jemmy said with difficulty. Pask got his shoulder behind Jemmy’s and propped him halfway up, and Jemmy reached hands that trembled shamefully towards his right leg. It was twisted strangely, and when he tried to move it the pain almost made him faint. His breeches and stockings were ripped and through them he could see the horrible lacerations which were just beginning to bleed in pinpoints from the glistening white flesh where the skin had been torn away. His calf-boots had saved the lower part of his leg from similar injury, but as Jemmy cautiously, nauseously, felt around, he knew that the lacerations were as nothing.
‘It’s broken,’ he said. ‘In several places, I think.’ Pask gave a cry of alarm, and Jemmy felt his consciousness slipping again.
‘Get help,’ he said desperately, trying to grasp Pask’s arm to emphasize his words, but his fingers would not grip. ‘Leave me, get help.’ And then the roaring blackness overcame him.
On Tuesday 17 September, the Young Chevalier rode into Edinburgh at the head of his troops. The streets were lined with cheering crowds, to whom his followers distributed white cockades; the Prince, tall and handsome on his white horse, bowed to left and right, receiving the homage of his people. He wore a tartan coat with the star of St Andrew pinned to it, and red velvet breeches and on his blond hair a bonnet of blue velvet, edged with gold lace and decorated with a white satin cockade. It was a sight to overjoy the people, long starved of processions and handsome Princes and all the glorious show of kingship. At the Mercat Cross, the heralds proclaimed his father King James VIII of Scotland, and the Chevalier Prince Regent, and then he rode through the city to the Palace of Holyrood House, where his grandparents, James II and Mary of Modena, had last stayed as Duke and Duchess of York. The government troops were garrisoned at the Castle, a mile away on its great and brooding rock, but they made no move against the Young Chevalier or the enthusiastic townsfolk who proclaimed him.
Marie-Louise had been two days in Edinburgh, staying in lodgings in the Grassmarket, and as soon as she learned that the Prince had gone to Holyrood, she sent her groom with a message to him, welcoming him to Scotland, offering her services, her money and her jewels, and begging the favour of an interview. The groom came back with a civil enough message, though not in the Prince’s own hand, inviting her to the celebratory ball at Holyrood. Marie-Louise was delighted, for it would give her the opportunity to dazzle, to make a grand entrance, though she regretted not having secured a private interview with the Prince first.
‘What is he like? Is he as they have described him?’ she asked eagerly.
‘He is very handsome, my lady,’ the groom, Simon, replied. ‘A tall young gentleman, with a ruddy face and fair hair, and very striking dark eyes, my lady, just as they say.’
‘Stuart eyes,’ she cried at once. ‘Like grandmother’s. My mother had blue eyes, I suppose that is why I don’t have them.’
‘His Highness does bear a very striking resemblance to your ladyship,’ Simon said, and Marie-Louise was pleased, although she had sense enough to know that Simon would have said it whether it was true or not.
‘You had better pack everything, and we will take it to the Palace when we leave for the ball. We will be staying there from now on,’ she said.
She wore the same dress that she had worn for Jemima’s birthday ball, the pearl-trimmed white satin and lace. It was the only rich dress she had brought with her, and she had brought it in anticipation of just such an occasion. She dressed her hair as she had done then, with pearls and white feathers, and added a white satin cockade, in honour of the Prince. She had to struggle with her hair, for she was not accustomed to doing it herself. The sooner she cut it off, and dressed entirely as a man, the better. She had dressed in man’s clothes on the journey here, to make travelling easier, wearing a dark wig over her own hair, but she had not wanted to part with her crowning glory before seeing the Prince for the first time. Simon packed all the rest of their belongings and took them and the horses to Holyrood, while the Princess made the journey in a hackney carriage.
She made her entrance, and was well-pleased with the effect. She was certainly more handsome, more richly dressed, altogether more striking than anyone else present, and as soon as she walked into the ballroom all eyes were on her, some speculative, all admiring. She heard herself announced as the Countess of Strathord, heard the name passed from mouth to mouth as she walked between the assembled people, but her eyes were on the figure of the Prince, resplendent now in red coat with the blue sash and star of royalty pale across it.
Reaching him, she went down into a deep curtsey, and said. ‘Your Highness.’
‘Rise, Lady Strathord. I am delighted to receive you here,’ said the Prince. She was surprised by his accent – she had not expected him to sound so like a Scot, though it would do him no harm this side of the border. She rose and looked into his face, and received his
smile.
‘I am more delighted than I can say to be here, Your Highness,’ she said, ‘and to see you here in your rightful home.’
‘Thank you,’ he said. She was scanning his face eagerly. Yes, he was handsome as they had said; and he resembled his father, as far as she could tell from such portraits as she had seen; but, despite his smile, he was so cold! She had planned to greet him as her brother, but she saw now that it was not possible, with this young man, to do anything so passionate and spontaneous at a public reception: it must wait until her private interview with him.
Still searching his face she said, ‘I would be glad to have the favour of private speech with Your Highness.’ She saw a slight frown gather at the words, and hurried on. ‘There are certain things I have to offer in the way of money and information which I feel Your Highness would be glad to have. My uncle, the Earl of Chelmsford, has been intimately involved, I believe, in the planning of this venture.’
His face warmed a little. ‘Ah, you are Chelmsford’s niece are you?’ he said. That, and much, much more, she cried in her heart, but not aloud. ‘Well, Lady Strathord, I will see you in the morning, if you would like to speak to Sheridan, Sir Thomas Sheridan, about it.’
It was a dismissal, and aware that there were others waiting behind her to make their obeisances, she curtseyed again and moved away. She was disappointed she could not deny, but tomorrow would see everything made plain; tomorrow her brother would clasp her to his bosom, and confide in her, and share his adventure with her. It was for this that she had come. For now she would enjoy the ball, and look for Allen: she had not forgotten that she had something for him, too.
Allen arrived in Edinburgh again at the same time as the news that the government’s troops under Sir John Cope had landed at Dunbar, and had set up camp at the edge of a marsh at Cockenzie, a few miles outside Edinburgh. He was weary from his fruitless journey, but glad that he had missed nothing more material to the Cause than a ball. He found Lady Strathord at once, for she was in the anteroom when he went to report his presence and offer his sword to the Prince.
Dynasty 8: The Maiden: The Maiden (The Morland Dynasty) Page 28