Prologue
Clifton
Thursday, December 19, 1745
Light from the full moon sliced the landscape into sharply detailed white highlights and dark blue shadows. Robert Maxwell stood knee-deep in frost-bitten weeds, hands clamped around his musket, his every muscle ready to respond to the first hint of movement he might see. Even though he had fired it many times, it still felt foreign in his hands. Besides, he did not know if any of the balls had ever reached their marks, so he could tell himself he had never actually killed someone.
“They’re no’ comin’ this way,” Hugh MacBain whispered from beside him.
Robert nodded. He sincerely hoped the government men had run in another direction. The last time he had fought someone at close range was at Gladmuir, flailing madly with a pitchfork, more in self-defense than in any serious attempt to kill one of the English soldiers.
The crack of gunfire broke the silence, followed by shouts and the crunch of breaking branches.
Robert braced himself.
Another round of gunfire, this time more distant. It sounded as though the English had fled south, into the open moors. Robert allowed himself to relax.
Racing footsteps on the road, followed by more shouts.
Before he could fully register the figures sprinting towards them, he heard another crack and saw Hugh collapse forward.
His first thought was to try to help his friend. Then he saw the dark patch spreading across Hugh’s chest, and realized it was too late. Robert felt nothing as he raised his gun to his shoulder and took aim at the man who had just begun running again, a musket still smoking in his hand, dodging between his comrades.
With a sense of focused calm, he heard the report of his own shot and felt the recoil of the explosion through his body. The gritty smoke made him cough.
He had missed, he realized, with a surge of anger.
A second later, he saw a different man fall and begin to scream, clutching his shoulder. He struggled on the road, a patch of shiny darkness spreading out under him, and then relaxed and lay still.
“Look out!”
The yell snapped Robert to alertness just in time to see a bayonet blade aiming for his neck. Instinctively, he ducked away, pulling up his left arm to shield himself.
He saw the blade slice through his sleeve and bury itself in the outside of his shoulder. Before his mind fully acknowledged the injury, he wrenched himself away, ripping his body free from the metal.
Blood sprayed into the air, sparkling in the moonlight.
Someone grabbed him by the shirt collar, and pulled him off the road. Even with the pain in his shoulder, he could feel the sticky warmth of blood running down his arm.
“Get down.” Another hand pushed him into dead grass. Robert gripped his shoulder as hard as he could, but blood still welled up between his fingers.
He had to survive this, he thought. Anne and the children needed him. As he curled himself into a ball in the weeds, he remembered the reproach in her eyes as he explained why he was leaving. She had shook her head when he told her that returning James to his rightful throne would be good for Kelso. Good for them. That the only way to keep the country from falling into ruin was to take on those English traitors who thought they could bleed Scotland dry for their own profit.
Someone tugged on the back of Robert’s shirt collar. He raised his head, and saw his best friend from Kelso, Nigel Lane, bending over him.
“Can ye stand?”
Robert nodded as best he could, and let go of his shoulder for balance. More blood immediately coursed down his arm.
He pushed himself unsteadily to his feet.
Nigel pulled out his knife, and ripped into the hem of his own shirt, hacking off a strip of cloth, which he then tied around Robert’s shoulder, binding the injured arm to his chest. It helped ease the pain somewhat, but Robert could still feel blood leaking out of the wound.
“Ta.”
“Least I could do.”
“Yous! Come on, then!” Robert recognized Captain Moir’s voice. “We’re movin’ out.”
Robert picked up his gun from the weeds, and followed Nigel out to the road.
Derby
Thursday, December 5, 1745
Marian Cameron slipped along the hallway, holding up the hem of her airsaid so it did not swish against the floor. The previous day, she had been too busy, and the commanders too secretive, but this morning she had followed the Laird and his secretary to one of the inside rooms in Exter House.
“What are you doing?”
Marian jumped, even though she recognized her younger sister’s voice. “Alice! What are you--”
“Following you. And you haven’t answered my question.”
Marian sighed. Her sister seemed to enjoy getting underfoot. “They’re planning how to take London. How did you get in here?”
“I said I was looking for you.” Alice smirked. “The man at the door seemed to know you very well.”
“That’s how I got in, a’ pheasan,” Marian said.
“Ith mo faghean,” replied Alice. She paused. “Do you want to marry him?”
“Alice, leave off it. The meeting is about to start.”
“If you’re getting married, I want to be in the wedding. And—“
“Ist! You’re wasting time. And I’m not marrying him. He’s just Clanranald’s second cousin. He hasn’t got any land. Or money.” Marian turned the last corner, checking to see if any stragglers were approaching. Satisfied, she crept forward, and pressed her ear to the edge of the council-room door. She could hear voices, but only pick out a few words.
“We’ll never learn anything this way.”
“Ist!” Marian swatted at her sister, and missed.
“Why don’t you use your taibhsearachd?”
Marian glared at her. “It’s bad luck to talk like that. Besides, it’s dangerous. And someone might…notice.”
Alice rolled her eyes. “You’re just saying that because you don’t really have the Sight. Some taibhsear you are.”
“Fine,” Marian snapped, bristling at the suggestion of incompetence. “You keep watch.”
She drew a deep breath, and concentrated on pushing her tàslach outwards. For a moment, nothing happened, and Marian worried she would fail in front of her sister. She closed her eyes, and leaned against the wall, focusing her full attention on the space beyond.
This time, she felt a rush of chill and lightness. Part of her was aware of the dim hallway, and Alice standing nearby. Another part of her was vividly aware of being in a small room, full of men whom she had only observed at a distance. She slipped along the wall, trying to get a better view of the officers seated at the table.
Lord George Murray turned sharply. “What was that?”
Marian willed herself to stop moving.
Several of the men looked around.
“’Tis naught but a draft,” said the Duke of Perth. “Have on with the meeting.”
Marian allowed more of her consciousness to move into the room, until she was no longer aware of standing in the hallway.
Lord Murray rose to his feet; the expression on his broad face was grim. “Your highness, we must make plans for a retreat to Scotland as soon as possible.”
It took Marian a moment to understand what she had just heard. It seemed impossible that anyone, let alone Lord Murray, would give up now, with success just a few days march away.
“We are against three armies,” he continued. “If we defeat the first, we will still lose far too many men to keep fighting. We would need our French allies, and I would not rely on them.”
Dead silence greeted this statement. Marian wondered if she was imaging things. The hallway resolved more clearly around her, but she shoved her tàslach back into the room.
At the far end of the table, Prince Charles Edward Stuart rose to his feet. Marian had seen him many times from a short distance, talking with the laird, and he had always appeared happy; now she saw nothing but disappointment on his face.
“We move out tomorrow,” he said, his words measured. “If we are to meet our allies in London, we will have to move quickly. Lord Locheil, you will need to—“
“Your highness, I must object. Even if we defeat the Duke of Cumberland, we will be facing two other armies, much better equipped than ourselves—“
“Did we not take Prestonpans? And Edinburgh?”
“The people supported us there. Without Stewart in Edinburgh, we would not have—“
“And you think the people of London will fight against their rightful king? Now is our moment. Would you have us turn back when we are inches from restoring my father’s throne?”
Lord Murray paused. “Just because everyone is more than prepared to die for the sake of dissolving the union and restoring your father to his rightful place does not mean dying foolishly for the cause will accomplish that end.”
Several of the other men nodded.
“So you are suggesting we give up, a moment from success?”
“Your highness,” Lord Wymess rose to his feet. “I must agree with the General. On our own soil, with surprise on our side and the people behind us, we could outmatch General Cope. But we cannot face three armies at once, and odds are your highness would be killed or captured for ransom.”
“At the very least,” added Lord Ogilvy, “We will need to move north to meet Drummond and Strathallan.”
“I have already given orders that they move south to meet us. But that is another point entirely. We have morale on our side, and are positioned at an advantage. If we wait, we are only giving them time to build their defenses. Once we have shown we’re truly moving in on London, our English allies will rise to support us.”
“I agree with his highness,” said Lord Drummond. “Our men are ready, and if the English—“
“You’ve been talking of our English allies all year,” interrupted Lord Murray. “And you have yet to show us a single letter expressing their support. What proof do you have that they will cooperate?”
The prince averted his eyes. “I have not received letters, as such. This afternoon I had hoped to confirm—“
“So we have no allies in England?” Lord Murray’s voice became slightly louder. “We did not plan to take London by ourselves. We did this to free Scotland, not to set the whole island to rights while the English sit back and watch. And if these English and French allies of yours are nothing but hopes and speculation—“
“We have letters from the French—“
“Only guaranteeing aid in Scotland, Lord Drummond, as you are well aware. And they have already sent your brother with his men.”
Another silence followed. Marian could not believe what she was hearing. Just the day before she watched the cheering crowds outside and thought how near they were to their goal.
“We need London,” the Prince continued. “Once we have the city, the usurper’s government will collapse.”
“Your highness once again assumes that we could take London,” Lord Murray said acidly. “I see no other option but a retreat to Scotland. Who else is in favor?”
One by one, the men around the table stood
“Marian!”
For a moment, Marian was too transfixed by the scene in front of her to pay attention.
“Marian! Someone’s coming!”
Marian willed her tàslach back to her body, and immediately heard footsteps in the hall behind them. Alice grabbed her hand and dragged her around the corner. They heard the council room door open and shut.
“When are we going to London?” Alice asked, her face eager.
“We’re…” Marian could barely believe the words, even as she said them. “We’re not. We’re giving up.”
London
Monday, December 16, 1745
Alfred Grayson, sitting in a London coffeehouse with a cup in one hand and a newspaper in the other, was smiling. It had been a long time since he had last smiled sincerely. There were of course the pleasant smiles for his Catherine, the laughing smiles for his boys, the polite smiles for his betters, and so on. A smile for himself though, was a rare thing in these troubled times.
The war on the continent had not been going well. First there had been Cumberland’s bungling of the Fontenoy. Then the damn Scotch had raised the banner of another bloody pretender, and before the news had barely had time to spread, they had taken Edinburgh, defeated His Majesty’s commander in chief for Scotland, and completely slipped by Marshall Wade’s army to take Carlisle and Derby. King Louis’s puppet holding an English castle was simply too absurd to believe.
Alfred had expected upon obtaining this particular biweekly newspaper to see more dire news, but much to his surprise, it was the very reason he was smiling. The Young Pretender and his highland rabble were in retreat, maybe even gone from English soil as he was reading these words. This was a cause for celebration, and Alfred had allowed himself the indulgence of a second cup of coffee, whose effects on the movements of his hands and eyes he hoped would slip past Catherine’s notice. Alfred was sure that even without the Turkish drink his hands would still be shaking from excitement. The Scotch would no longer be stealing English livestock, burning English houses, or raping English women (and men if some of the more salacious stories were to be believed).
Alfred was so caught up in the good news that he had not noticed that someone else was standing in front of him until he heard his name called rather more loudly than was proper. Alfred looked up, and his mood was no longer quite so cheerful.
Sir Roger Gardner was ranked highest in Alfred’s list of people he did not like, and there were more than a few Frenchmen on that list.
“Alfred! What a fortunate coincidence to see you here. I was just saying to myself: ‘Who would be the person with whom I would most enjoy sharing this wonderful news?’ and lo and behold as I gazed upon you my question was answered. So have you heard?”
“Heard what, Sir Roger?”
“Why, the Stuart and his fanatic devotees are in full retreat.”
“In fact, Sir Roger, I had just found that out not an hour ago.”
Roger glanced down at the newspaper in Alfred’s hands. “Ah yes, it has made the papers. I suppose that your position does not require you to be informed of such matters in an official capacity?”
“Not unless the rebels require their land to be reassessed for taxes, I suppose it does not.”
“Taxes!” said Sir Roger, his grin betraying only a hint of his black teeth, “How clever of you, Alfred. I shall have to use that one at my next social engagement. And I am sure there will be plenty of celebrations to be had once the Duke of Cumberland chases the rebels into Scotland and finally puts that troublesome land to heel. Now that is a thing to look forward to. ‘Tis a shame I have no commission myself; it would be such good sport to kill a few Scotch before the Duke kills them all himself.”
“Now hold on, Sir Roger. The Scotch are subjects of the Crown, even if they are in rebellion. If killing them is necessary, so be it; it is, I suppose, a just punishment for treason. But one should not derive pleasure from killing one’s fellow citizens of Great Britain. Why, we would be no worse than the Highlanders and their hatred of all Englishman.”
“Come now,” said Roger, his pleasant façade beginning to slip, “The bloody Scotch started this rebellion. And this is only the latest in a string of them. You said yourself that they hate us all. They are, for all purposes, uncivilized savages.”
“First of all, Roger, a savage is, by definition, uncivilized. And, if they are uncivilized, it is must be because of the circumstances into which they were born. Why, if the wildest highlander had been born in Kent, he would be a very different person that he is now.”
“But these are not Kentish farmers we are talking about!”
“Which is why we are fighting them, I do not disagree. But they cannot be blamed for their barbarism. It is, in some sense, our fault for not working harder to civilize them. A proper Christian education would do wonders. Teach them morals, decency, proper dress, and all that.”
“Listen to this!” Roger shouted, drawing the attention of nearly everyone in the coffeehouse, “My friend here wants to ‘civilize’ the Scotch. Could you imagine it? The wigmakers will have to start investing in red powder. Cravats will come in plaid. There will be diamond necklaces fitted for ewes. Need I remind you, Alfred, that these are the same folk who still cling to the heathen gods of Caesar’s time? Their men delight to eat our flesh and the women to do things far worse.”
“Now…now, Sir Roger,” stuttered Alfred, beginning to seriously regret his earlier forcefulness, “there is no need to make a…a public spectacle out of a simple…um… gentleman’s disagreement.”
“Ah, but when one of these two gentleman is giving voice to what are obviously seditious thoughts…well, that calls for a response.”
Alfred noticed that that last remark had drawn quite a few patrons of the coffeehouse out of their seats. Several of them were dressed in a manner than suggested significant amounts of wealth or influence. He leaned close to Roger to whisper, “I think your little joke is beginning to attract some…attention.”
“Oh, my dear Alfred,” whispered Roger, “I’m having too much fun to stop now. You really do make it too easy.” Now returning to his previous volume, “And I say, my good gentleman, that you must answer to my accusations. To prove your loyalty to King George II, answer this question: ‘Should the rebels be put to death for treason?’”
“The leaders, the generals, the ones who incited the rebellion, of course. They are traitors.”
“And the soldiers?”
“Well, if they are captured in battle, if they are not citizens of France or another sovereign nation, I suppose that the law would require it, yes.”
“But you would be reluctant?”
“Once the Duke of Cumberland routs their army, the loss of life among His Majesty’s subjects would be rather staggering, but the law must be obeyed. That is the basis for stability in the realm.”
“What of their families?”
“Well, I suppose the widows and orphans will put a strain on the church’s generosity, but I think that some simple redistribution of land will help to ensure that the Crown receives what is owed to it, although there may be some temporary shortfall. Then again, given the amount of looting that tends to happen in such…”
“Temporary revenue shortfalls! No, I was asking about executing their families.”
“Executing their…their families?”
“Yes. They are obviously collaborating, or they would have turned in their husbands as soon as the men struck their colors for the Pretender. And since we have already established that they are members of a savage race, killing even more of them isn’t really that much of a difference. Honestly, we would be putting them out of their misery, since they certainly cannot be retrained to be loyal to His Majesty. Their minds are obviously too simple for that. Tell me, Alfred, what other choice do we have?”
Alfred was struck dumb. Roger might be playing with him, but the rising anger in his face looked real enough. Of course Alfred had heard the same opinion from many others, including some he might charitably call his friends. But never with such vitriol, and never before did he believe that someone would carry out such an inhuman act with his own hands.
He was just beginning to think of the best way to politely extricate himself from the escalating situation when another voice joined the conversation. “Yes. Let us hear your answer.”
Alfred was shocked to see the Earl of Hereford watching them. Of course there was nothing improper for someone of this rank being at this particular establishment, but Alfred had never known that it was one he frequented. Regardless of whether Lord Hereford was a frequent patron or a visitor, Alfred was now in much deeper trouble. The Earl carried enough influence to ruin him were he so inclined, and Alfred knew that the man in front of him was not someone who did not wish to appear weak when it came to the Scottish problem.
“Well, your Lordship, I think that there is merit to Sir Roger’s argument.”
“But what is your opinion, Mr. Grayson?”
“My…my opinion, m’Lord?”
“Yes, Mr. Grayson, what is, on your honor as an Englishman, your opinion?”
That had done it. Alfred could not lie directly to Lord Hereford, certainly not now that his honor may be on the line.
“Begging your Lordships’ pardon, but I am afraid I must respectfully disagree.”
Lord Hereford’s face flushed to the ruddy purple of a fresh bruise.
Alfred quickly excused himself from the coffeehouse. Luckily for him Roger, who could not bear for attention slip off of him for too long, had directed the crowd’s emotions into song.
Once he had escaped into the chilly London air, Alfred increased the pace of his strides, while the sound of voices ill trained for song were cut off as the door swung shut.
Edinburgh
Monday, December 16, 1745
Ina Bruce sat in the corner of the tavern, clasping and unclasping her hands around her beer. News of the continuing retreat had left her without her usual optimism. Her best friend, Tibbie MacDuff, slouched beside her, staring at the table.
“Tis a’ lost,” said someone behind her. “Now we’re goin’ back.”
“I told ye,” Tibbie said. She took a sip of her beer. “I said they couldnae win.”
“They? Whose side are ye on?”
Tibbie averted her eyes. “I told ye,” she repeated. “We shouldnae have come here—“
“Have ye given up?” Ina looked around the room, and saw more dejected people holding pint glasses and newspapers. “Are ye a’ givin’ up?” she asked, louder.
Several people raised their heads and glared at her. Ina recognized a few faces, people she saw each week at church or at the market. Mere months before, they had been in the street beside her, handing out leaflets and singing songs and squirming their way through the crowd to catch a glimpse of Bonnie Prince Charlie. Just a week ago, they had gathered in this same tavern, happily discussing the upcoming taking of London.
Now they just sat there.
“Tis no’ over,” Ina said. “Do you no’ remember our history?”
More glares.
“Sit down,” Tibbie hissed. “Dinnae make a fuss.”
Ina felt stung. Tibbie could at least have stayed silent. “Whist!”
“Tis no use,” someone said quietly. There was a general murmur of assent.
“Enough!” Ina shouted.
Dead silence. Everyone in the pub was staring at her.
“Ye were all Jamie’s men when there was aught asked o ye,” she said, trying to hide the hesitation in her voice. It was much easier to hand out leaflets to people who already agreed with her.
“We’re no fools,” a young man said. “We have our families an oursel’s to look after.”
“Aye, try bein’ on th’wrong side,” an elderly man shouted back. “If England is lookin’ to invade us, we’ll be no good for Jamie hanged.”
“Tis what’s wrong with ye.” Ina scrambled onto her chair to get a little height. “We make one retreat—one tactical retreat,” she paused for a moment to let the phrase sink in. She was rather proud of herself for having picked it up from one of the Keppoch men. “An a’ ye go runnin’ away.”
“Runnin’? Aye, because we’d fain no’ be killed, thank ye.”
“Aye, an’ what would our soldiers say if they heard we dinnae believe in them?”
There was an uncomfortable murmuring. Ina was pleased that she had struck a nerve.
“Think for a minute,” she continued. “We isnae runnin’ for want o’ winnin’. Would ye think to bide in England a’ winter? Before the French can help us?” She paused for effect, and to sort out her thoughts. The silent, intent stares all around her were unnerving. “But the lot o’ ye. One retreat to bide safe for th’winter, an ye think we’re losin’ and doomed.” She glanced at Tibbie, who had flushed bright pink. “We’ll hae our own country back before long, if we dinnae lose our hope.”
Ina thought a few people looked a bit less grim.
“Come on, then,” she said. “Dinnae just sit there! Let’s have a song!” She gave Tibbie a meaningful look; Tibbie had the better singing voice by far.
Tibbie hesitated, and flushed a deeper pink.
“Go on then.”
Tibbie cleared her throat, and stood.
“The standard on the braes o’ Mar
Is up an’ streamin’ rarely—“
Another voice joined them, and Ina felt herself smile a little.
“The gathring pipe on Lochnagar
Is sounding loud and sairly,
The Hieland men, frae hill and glen,
Wi belted plaids and glitterin blades,
Wi bonnets blue, and hearts sae true,
Are comin late and early”
Someone in the far corner of the room began clapping along with the beat of the song.
“Our prince has made a noble vow,
To free his country fairly,
Then wha would be a traitor now,
To ane we loe sae dearly,”
Most of the people were clapping now, and Ina felt her uncertainty fading. They had come too far, invested too much, to turn back now.
“We'll go, we'll go and seek the foe,
By land or sea, whereer they be
Then man to man, and in the van,
We'll win or die for Charlie.”
Several people rose and walked silently from the room. Ina watched them go, and felt a cold knot of fear forming in her chest. For the first time, she had no idea what to say to make them change their minds.