Pretender at the Gate
S J Garland
MAPLE KAKAPO PUBLISHING
Napier, New Zealand
Title: Pretender at the Gate
Author: S. J. Garland
Publisher: Maple Kakapo
Address: 2069 Pakowhai Road, Napier New Zealand 4183
Format: Softcover
Publication Date: 11/2014
ISBN: ISBN 978-0-473-29437-3
For my sister, who has inspired me to be a better person since the day she was born. I love you.
Historical Note
1707 saw the signing of the Acts of Union in both the English and the Scottish Parliaments, creating what we know today as the United Kingdom. This brought two countries under one government and economic community for the benefit of all. Some historians may argue this union was inevitable after March 1604 when James I of Scotland became James VI of England, effectively bringing the Scottish and English Crowns to rest on one head.
To complicate matters, under the reign of Henry VIII, England became a protestant nation, and despite attempts to reverse the clock, remained so until James VI took the crown. The Stuarts would remain uncomfortably straddled between their Catholic faith and the Protestant faith of the country they ruled and were obliged to practice as head of the Church.
The Glorious Revolution in 1688 would see the end of the direct male Stuart Kingship in the Scotland and England. The Catholic King James II of Scotland and King James VII of England ousted from his throne in favour of his Protestant daughter Mary and her husband William of Orange.
By the time the events in this book take place in March 1708, James Francis Stuart, the son of the deposed James II of Scotland and James VII of England had the backing of the French King Louis XIV. The French King provided the mercenaries, ships and money to James Francis Stuart in the attempt in 1708 to take back the Scottish and English thrones. These attempts would lead to civil unrest for most of the 1700s, and would change the political and social landscape of Scotland and England.
Jacobite is the term applied to those who supported the return of the James Francis Stuart and his son Charles Edward Stuart to the throne. Individuals who supported James Francis Stuart’s Protestant daughters claim to the thrones called him the pretender or the old pretender in later years.
Chapter 1
The sun piercing through the darkened clouds of the spring afternoon made me look up from the steam engine drawings I had been perusing. I squinted against the bright light and wondered idly if this was a sign my time in purgatory might finally be complete. The ray of hope flickered with the passing of another cloud and died altogether in another moment. With a sigh I turned my attention to the cold teapot and the uneaten short bread biscuits at my elbow. A rare treat from my anxious maid, who hoped, it might bring me out of my woeful thoughts.
How could I tell her all hope of any future happiness had died, four weeks earlier? Crushed in the delicately gloved hands of the one person in the world I thought knew me better than myself. My hands clenched instinctively and my heart sank. My throat constricted as I thought of my last meeting with Philomena Clunes.
Four agonizingly long weeks ago, I had finally taken receipt of the gift I had specially made for Phil. The innkeeper gently handed me the wooden box sent from Geneva, over the tap. There were a few curious glances but I tucked the present under one arm and made my goodbyes.
The innkeeper had been busy with the mail delivery from the south. With only one coach per week, people stayed in the inn after receiving their post to socialise with friends. A couple of the residents called short greetings to me before I went out the door. Others kept their focus well away from my person, the troublesome Sassenach.
I walked out the door into the mid February winter snowstorm. Tucking the wooden box securely under my topcoat in order to protect the delicate instrument. I bent my shoulders to the wind. It was bitterly cold and I wanted to get up to Castle Markinch to give Phil her present straight away. I was as excited as a small child on Christmas receiving a gift when I thought of how her face would light up.
The suspicious looks and whispers behind the hands of some of the residents in the small highland village of Markinch where I collected the excise on Scotch did not bother me any more. The sad events of the New Year still caused a fission of grief when I thought of the betrayal of my first friend in this small close community. I assured my troubled mind of the certainty of my own death had I not pulled the trigger of my flintlock and caused his demise. Beathan Clunes death also meant the collapse of the Jacobite smuggling operation with the French, ensuring the safety of the English throne.
Passing out of the main village, I looked down the road to the south. Edinburgh lay beyond, Auld Reekie as the Scots affectionately called their capital. The cold snow and wind began to penetrate through the stitches of my newly made over coat and I doubled my pace as the road turned up to the left, into the wilds of the highlands.
The driving snow obscured the fens on either side of the road and I squinted to look through the thick fog. Puffing with the extra effort, I made a note to get away from my fireside more often. The red buildings of Deoch-an-Dorus distillery jumped out of the churning snow on either side of the frozen road. Using a gloved hand to shield my eyes from the driving wind, I spied the oil lanterns bobbing in their brackets next to firmly closed doors. The distillery workers had taken their trade indoors to escape the cold temperatures.
Nearing the end of my journey, I continued to walk north where I knew a warm smile and a glass of Scotch near a roaring fire would greet me. Although Magnus Clunes was still reeling from the death of his only son and heir, he was too proud to turn me away from the door. I spotted the cauldrons in front of the castle gate burning brightly in the wind and sighed with relief. Soon I would have respite from the cold and perhaps something far greater to carry me into the days ahead.
What I fool I had been, I thought as I threw the drawings down in front of me and walked over the crystal decanter of Scotch on the sideboard. I poured a glass with quick hands, letting some of the liquor spill over the sides. Closing my eyes I threw the whole contents down in one. The memory of that painful afternoon was already playing out and I could do nothing to interrupt its story and inevitable conclusion.
Looking down I thought of my enthusiasm as I used the heavy brass knocker to inform the Butler of my presence.
As the door opened, a gust of wind sent the Butler staggering backwards into the main reception room. I did not wait for him to bid me entrance, instead I rushed inside, grateful for the warmth of the fire burning in the oversized hearth. Above the mantle the familiar broadsword hung. The light of the flames appeared to make the metal burn and dance. The effect sent a chill up my spine.
Raised voices caught my attention and I looked at the closed door to the drawing room. The Butler cleared his throat behind me and spoke with a thick Scottish brogue. “The Master of the house is indisposed.” The Butler announced peering up at me through bushy white brows. He reminded me of one of my tutors as a child, always judging me and finding I was wanting.
“Good thing of have come to see the lady of the house,” I smiled back and turned towards the door. I reached out and opened the portal before the Butler could hurry across the room.
The drawing room was as opulent as ever. Set out in a blue colour scheme, with large chandeliers dripping with crystals lighting the delicately carved furniture. The mirrors shined and reflected the priceless tapestries and paintings adorning the walls. My boots sunk into the expensive Aubusson carpet.
Magnus stood with one hand on the mantel of the overlarge white marble fireplace. His face appeared ashen as he looked down at his remaining child. With her head turned I co
uld not see her expression. The tilt of her chin indicated she stared into the burning flames, a letter in her hand.
The Butler cleared his throat, “you have a visitor.”
Glancing at the man’s expression I felt lucky he hadn’t given me a poke in the ribs with his elbow in order to remind my of my manners.
The occupants of the room shifted at the sound of the Butlers voice. Magnus looked up and stared at me from across the room, his expression a mixture of anger and surprise. The smile on my lips faded and I assumed a more sober demeanour. We had never spoken of my role in his son’s death. I kept promising myself a time would present itself, but it never did.
“Esmond, this is a surprise” Phil had stood up from her seat, her expression neutral, her Scottish accent mild in comparison to the Butlers. Not the welcoming smile I had anticipated on the way through the storm.
I carefully retrieved the wooden box from under my topcoat and presented it to her on one hand. It was large enough to cover my whole palm and fingers.
“I have brought something for you,” I couldn’t keep the smile out of my voice. I wanted her to open it straight away.
Phil gave me a half smile and looked torn. It was not like her to be shy. We were friends, allies even. She had saved my life over her brother’s only a few weeks ago. She opened her mouth to speak and Magnus rested a hand on her shoulder and she looked up at her father.
“I hae some work tae attend.” His voice sounded gruff as he searched his daughters face. “Captain Clyde-Dalton” he nodded stiffly in my direction before walking out through doors leading to the formal dining room.
Watching her father walk out of the room, she stared at the closed door for a full minute.
“My faither is nay well,” Phil sighed and crumpled the paper in her hand. Her distracted gaze fell on the wooden box, “what has ye out in the snow storm?”
“You will have to try and guess,” I replied playfully and walked the rest of the way into the drawing room. The blue and silver made the room cold and yet the fire burned brightly. I sat in the chair opposite Phil, she watched me with a curious expression.
“Would ye care fur a wee dram?” She asked and I felt as if she might be stalling.
Nodding in assent I watched her skirts twitch as she moved around the sofa to the sideboard and pour two glasses of Scotch. She took a deep breath and turned back. I wanted to memorise exactly how she looked in this moment. The opening of the box would change our lives forever. This afternoon would link us forever.
Phil’s hips swayed as she walked back and handed me the crystal glass. Our fingers briefly touched and I felt the same familiar spark of awareness burn through my stomach as I watched her pupils contract.
“Can I open it?” Phil asked as she sat roughly on the chair opposite. She took a deep drink of the Scotch.
I watched her lips touch the glass and wanted the next few moments to be over, so I could press my own mouth to them. Lifting my own glass, I drank the whole in one. Setting the glass down on the small table at my elbow without looking, I stared into Phil’s face. Her glasses magnified her green eyes and I found completeness in them I never believed possible.
Breathing deeply, I set my pride aside and reached down into the part of my soul as a man I chose to ignore. Not now, I needed this strength, even though it made me vulnerable. I held out the wooden box and watched as she eyed it curiously. My hand shook as she relieved me of the parcel.
Phil held the box at eye level in front of her and I watched as she considered the various methods she might employ to gain entry. I admired the way her mind ticked through each possible option and discard the unfeasible. She smiled and tapped the wooden lid. She set the box on her lap and opened her sporran. It was unusual for a woman to carry one, but there was nothing ordinary about the woman in front of me. She took out a long metal hook and set to work on the small metal nails holding the lid on.
“Phil” I whispered and she looked up at me, smiling with anticipation as the nails gave way. “In your eyes I see the gateway to a thousand futures, all of which were closed to me before I met you.” The smile on her face froze and my heart began to beat widely in my chest. I felt like a green soldier facing his first cavalry charge. “You cannot be ignorant of my feelings and I flatter myself believing I know a little of yours.”
The half opened lid sat forgotten and I watched as Phil studied my face. Her voice caught and I held up a hand to silence her. Reaching out I put it over her own hand resting on her lap.
“I know I haven’t spoken to your father yet, there will be problems, after. Well after everything that has happened it has only brought us closer together.” I leaned forward on my chair and reached for the box. I used brute strength to open the lid, forcing the nails to give way. I glanced down and saw the straw lining. Holding the box out in both hands now. “All my instincts tell me this is the path I was meant to follow, with you by my side there is nothing we cannot accomplish.”
“Esmond” Phil choked.
“Look inside and you will know how much I adore you” I whispered and gestured with my chin towards the box.
Licking her lips, Phil reached inside and removed the stuffing. With a small exclamation she looked up at me and grinned. Without another hesitation she reached both hands inside the box and lifted the object out.
“It is magnificent Esmond, where in the world did you get it?” Phil breathed the words as she admired the jewelled bird perched on her palm.
“A friend of mine knows of a clock maker in Geneva who makes them,” I raised an eyebrow and reached for the small object. “Watch this,” I used a finger to trace the breast of the bird down to the tail. Smiling when I found the small nub, I cranked it around a few times and let go.
The small bird encrusted with emeralds, rubies and other precious stones shuddered for a moment before the beak moved. A song gently sounded in the drawing room and I watched as Phil stared with rapt attention at the mechanical songbird.
I took one of Phil’s free hands and waited until she looked up at me, “Philomena Clunes, would you do me the honour of becoming my wife and making me the happiest of men?”
Sure of her answer, I leaned forward on the chair and prepared to kiss her for the first time as my fiancée.
Blinking several times, Phil’s mouth hung open. She held up a hand to hold me back. I felt a frown cross my features. Phil sat back in her chair.
Swallowing hard Phil looked steadily into my eyes, “I cannot.”
“Of course you can” I reassured her, “I know your father will need some time to come to terms with our union. I know I will make you happy Phil, do not deny you have feelings for me.”
“You’re right,” Phil stood abruptly and stood behind the chair she had vacated. I watched her with growing concern, the songbird forgotten in my palm. “My faither will nae give us his permission, he is still distraught over Beathan’s death.” She looked down at the cushion, “as am I. There will nae be room in my life for the man who killed my brother.”
“Where is this coming from?” I stood angry now at Phil’s rejection, at her lack of honesty. “If this is how you felt, you should have said something sooner.” I opened and closed my mouth several times. No words came to mind, only a blinding pain.
“It can never be Captain Clyde-Dalton, you must reconcile yourself to this” Phil stared hard at my chest.
I blinked at the memory of my last private audience with Phil. I had walked away and sought comfort in solitude. I did my work counting the excise and returned home only wanting to be alone. For the most part this suited the residents of the highland village. All except for a very few were happy the Sassenach was seen and not heard.
Pouring myself another glass of Scotch I shrugged and took the whole bottle back to my favourite chair near the fire. Setting the bottle down on the table at my elbow, I looked across the room at the jewelled bird. I had placed it on the writing desk in front of the window. I wanted to crush it into dust. Its beauty a
nd fragility stayed my hand. Instead, I had taken it apart and removed the music box, it would never sing again. It remained in blissful silence even though its mouth opened and closed.
The heavy sound of horse hooves moving at a quick pace had me out of my chair before I realised my body had reacted. Standing at the window I looked out into the late afternoon gloom and squinted in the direction of the thundering noise. Counting down I waited for the small party of horsemen to come into view, turning right onto the road leading up to Deoch-an-Dorus from the road south. There were at least six mounted soldiers, along with a prison carriage pulled by a team of four. All of them were heavily armed and I searched their garb for an indication of whose orders they carried out.
Rumours had been drifting through the highlands since Beathan’s death in the New Year, the Pretender, James Francis Stuart was planning an invasion. He had secured support from powerful Scots Laird’s and was going to take his throne back by force. Using the Scots loyal to him in order to punish his wayward daughter.
Could this be an attempt to turn the villagers of Markinch into Jacobite supporters? Heart in my throat I tried to remember the lesson’s Tavish had given me in identifying clan tartans. I turned and ran up the steps to the second floor of the cottage where my room was located. I grabbed my fur lined frock coat from a peg on the wall and settled it over my shoulders, pushing my arms through the sleeves. I ran to my trunk in the corner and threw open the lid. I took out my weapons of choice. Two tomahawks fashioned in the New World, specifically balanced for me in another life. Stowing them into the specially made pockets on the inside of my coat I looked at my father’s sword.
It hung on the wall above the trunk and I reached for it. Admiring the sharpness for a second, I shoved it into place at my belt. Snatching up my two flintlocks from the table beside my bed, I shoved them into their holders. I took a deep breath and ran down the stairs. I ripped open the door and slammed it shut as I pulled leather gloves over my hands.
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