White Rose Rebel

by Janet Paisley

  ‘Kiss me,’ MacGillivray said, his breath condensing in water droplets on her flushed cheeks, ‘before your sister comes out.’

  ‘You can kiss me in front of her,’ Anne said.

  ‘Then she’d think I preferred you, and what would that do for my reputation as a blade?’

  ‘I’ll do something for your reputation.’ Anne grinned, scooping up a handful of snow which she showered him with. ‘Now you’re a greyhead,’ she giggled.

  ‘Then we’ll grow old together,’ he retaliated, showering her.

  Anne grabbed another handful, packing some in her fist and chucking the rest as he dodged it.

  ‘Hey, trobhad an-seo, kiss first,’ she said, when he packed a huge snowball to throw back, holding her arms out. He leapt over to her, jumping through the snow, put his arms round her waist, his mouth on hers. She looped her arms round his neck and dropped the snow she’d kept in her hand down inside his plaid, inside his shirt. That did it. As he wriggled against the melting chill at his spine, he wrestled her down into the snow.

  ‘You can have me out here,’ he threatened. ‘And be frozen to me for ever.’

  ‘A m I scared?’ she laughed. ‘Do I look scared?’ And she stuffed more snow down his back.

  A snowball skelped against the side of MacGillivray’s head. He looked round. Elizabeth. He jumped up to arm himself. Elizabeth already had her second but missed. MacGillivray didn’t. The soft snow thumped against her chest. Anne rolled over and got up to join in, the two young women taking on the warrior. Squeals and laughs and shouts erupted in the still, white air. Eventually, exhausted, they walked back to the house, MacGillivray with an arm around each of them.

  ‘Thanks for the snow-warrior,’ Anne said, giving him a peck as they kicked and scraped their shoes clear. ‘We’ll be safe while he’s out there.’

  ‘My lady,’ MacGillivray promised, ‘I’ll give you an army to guard you.’

  The next day, there were three snowy Highlanders, the next, five. Finally, there were seven.

  ‘The number of mystical things,’ he said. ‘You’ll never need more protection than that.’

  ‘Tapadh leibh, my lord,’ Anne smiled. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I would protect you for ever,’ he said, seriously.

  She knew that. He would always be there when she needed him. The hurt part of her was buried deep when he was near. She was glad of him, glad of the snow, the peace and rest it brought. All their tomorrows should be this good, this right. The white-out was surely an omen, as their troops came home, that turned the world Jacobite.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The ice that had formed inside the stone walls began to melt. Drips ran down, harder to catch on the tongue. They collected where a cup-shaped hollow in one block of stone held them. A queue formed. Ragged, hungry and crowded together, the prisoners were desperate with thirst. The freezing stone dungeon of Carlisle Castle might have held fifty. Three hundred were crammed into it, men, women and children.

  Clementina huddled into her father for warmth as they edged along the line towards the only water supply. High above, through the bars of the small stone window, she could see snow still falling, the flakes like black rain against the grey-white sky. Sometimes food came through that window, a loaf of bread pushed between the bars, a risky gift given by some compassionate Carlisle citizen. Very little came through the rough thick door. The guards were redcoat soldiers under orders to keep their captives on short rations. Hunger wasn’t new to Clementina but, in Edinburgh, there had always been ways to get some food. Not here. Not inside these hard, chill walls crammed with bodies and limbs and empty mouths.

  Even through his plaid she could feel her father’s bones, sharp, angular. He shivered, coughing. She squeezed tighter to him as they shuffled forward another step to the tiny well in the stone wall.

  ‘Colonel Anne will come fur us,’ she said. ‘I ken she will.’

  ‘Aye, lassie,’ her father coughed. ‘Aye.’

  A woman in the far corner, giving birth, moaned and screamed. Those nearest tried to give her space where there was none. A wet rag was passed across, hand to hand, till it reached the labouring woman. One of those attending held it to her mouth to suck. Another woman began to hum softly, then sang quiet words in her foreign Gaelic tongue.

  Bheir me ò, horo bhan o;

  Bheir me ò, horo bhan i.

  Others began to join in, even the English recruits. The song had become an anthem, the words translated and learned over the weeks they’d been imprisoned.

  Thou’rt the music of my heart;

  Harp of joy, o cruit mo chridh’;

  Moon of guidance by night;

  Strength and light thou’rt to me.

  Despite the soft, black snow seen falling above, there was a thaw coming and a baby being born among them. Clementina and her father edged closer to the small pool of water welling in the stone groove.

  Bheir me ò, o horo ho;

  Sad am I, without thee.

  Lightning slashed across the night sky, searing the underbelly of stormclouds. Thunder growled, boomed and cracked among them. Rain battered on the cobbles, bouncing high, flooding the gutters. Aeneas stared out at it from the window of his quarters in Fort George. The sudden thaw had been quickly followed by this wild weather. Opposite, a horse stood, dripping miserably, tied outside Lord Louden’s offices. It had arrived a moment ago, Aeneas just too late to the window to see who rode in on it.

  The Jacobite army camped at Ruthven barracks. Cumberland’s army marched north to Aberdeen. The next battle would be here, in the north, as soon as winter lifted. Even without the French army, all bets were on the Jacobites, unbeaten in every engagement. Here, on their home ground, they outnumbered everything the government could produce. Cumberland, despite his Dutch and Hessian auxiliaries, had only mustered eight thousand men. The Prince, if he pulled in all his scattered troops from the areas they held, could command fifteen thousand.

  There was scant hope for Scotland either way. If he believed his nation would grasp its freedom with maturity, he’d take his men to Ruthven and join the insurgency. But the Prince, victorious, would soon enforce a reunited kingdom. He wanted a throne and subjects, not free peoples running their own affairs. Aeneas spread his hands to grip the window frame, rested his forehead against the glass. Maybe he was fooling himself. Maybe he wasn’t here to protect Moy for his clan. Maybe it was just pride, and he wasn’t man enough to admit being wrong. Maybe he couldn’t face Anne, humbled, and back down. Not to the woman he loved, not to a wife who loved another man.

  A shaft of light from Lord Louden’s quarters cut across the rain-washed cobbles, illuminating the driving rain as the door opened. A caped and hooded woman slipped out, hurriedly mounting the waiting horse. An assignation, in this weather? There was something faintly familiar about the figure, the way she moved, known but beyond recall. Aeneas slid the window up to peer out. Rain pelted into his face. Louden stood in the doorway of his offices. The woman jerked the reins, ready to ride off.

  ‘The reward is yours,’ she shouted. ‘MacGillivray’s mine.’ Her voice was half-heard over the blustering wind. Lightning flashed, thunder rolled, and she was gone, kicking the horse away, fast. Was it Anne, did he not know his own wife, or did he imagine what was said? Aeneas closed the window.

  He was towelling his face dry when his door clattered open, letting in the squall and, with it, James Ray.

  ‘We’ve to muster at once,’ the lieutenant gasped. ‘Their Prince is unprotected, and we know where he is!’

  In the master bedroom at Moy Hall, Anne sat in front of the glass fixing her hair, straightening the bodice of her white dress, fingers working fast. Lightning lit up the room, a flicker of brightness. Thunder cracked then grumbled, momentarily blotting out the music in the background. She had been away long enough and would be missed. Standing up, she flounced her wide skirts, smoothed the blue sash at her waist and turned to go. The tidy, unslept-in double bed stopped her in her
tracks, her marriage bed, the memory of it a sudden, painful loss. As fast as it cut her, she shook it off as foolishness. The past was done with. MacGillivray did not give her grief.

  She left, closing the door, and crossed the lobby to the large reception room. It was alive with noise, music, chatter. MacGillivray waited just inside the door.

  ‘It’s going well,’ he said. ‘He’s almost cheered up.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Anne glanced around the room, checking. Jessie and Will, dressed up for the occasion, moved around with trays, serving titbits and drink. After the rigours of battle, the hard march home, everyone was enjoying the opportunity to relax, pleasurably. Silks, satin and lace swished around the room. Robert Nairn flirted with a musician. Margaret danced with Lord George, her husband with Greta. Sir John chatted with O’sullivan and the Prince. He did look happier. His regal face had lost its petulance.

  ‘Where’s Elizabeth?’ she asked.

  ‘She went to lie down after supper,’ MacGillivray said. ‘Headache.’

  ‘I thought she’d be in her element, dancing and flirting with all these young bloods. I should see if she’s all right.’

  MacGillivray caught her arm as she turned, drawing her close.

  ‘Dance with me first.’

  Across the room, the Prince waved and called. ‘Anne!’

  ‘Too late.’ She raised her eyebrows at MacGillivray, then swept over to the group.

  The Highlander leant back against the panelling, foot tapping to the rhythm. Jessie passed, on her way out, the spanking white apron tight over her gently swelling belly.

  ‘Dance with me, Jessie,’ he winked.

  ‘Can’t,’ she blushed. ‘I have to get more food. You’d think they were never fed.’

  MacGillivray swung the door open for her with a flourish, making her giggle.

  Across the room, the Prince was all compliments.

  ‘You are the only bearable thing about our retreat, ma chère Anne,’ he said. ‘If you’d been with me at Derby, London would have opened its gates.’

  ‘Better to be champion of Scotland,’ Anne smiled, ‘than Lord in the Tower.’

  ‘Not while Cumberland takes back everything we gained.’ His sulk was in danger of returning.

  ‘Au contraire, it only seems that way. He can’t win now.’ Anne tried to mollify him. ‘The English people won’t fear our victory quite so much when it’s won here.’

  ‘They might even rejoice,’ he pondered.

  ‘Of course they will, cela va sans dire. Especially when you achieve it without French help. Their old enemy would have caused alarm. Resistance, even. Your tactics will be lauded.’ Anne was tired of humouring this arrogant and petty man. Surely he must see through her?

  He didn’t. He nodded in appreciation of his own imagined talents.

  ‘When the storm is over,’ he mused, ‘I’ll bring the army out of Ruthven to capture Inverness.’

  Anne raised her glass, toasting the idea.

  ‘Now, I like the sound of that,’ she said. Aeneas might sleep his last night in the enemy’s bed. Tomorrow, he could be forced to surrender.

  Beside the door, MacGillivray watched, impressed. Even across the room he could tell Anne wound the Prince around her little finger. He wondered how she could be bothered. The man was a liability, not an asset, having to be cajoled instead of providing authoritative command. His youthful good looks and charm, when he applied them, brought money and support, but a leader needed more than that.

  At his side, the door swung open. Elizabeth came in. MacGillivray peeled himself off the wall.

  ‘I thought you’d retired for the night,’ he said.

  ‘A wonder you even noticed,’ Elizabeth retorted. ‘Your eyes never leave my sister.’

  ‘Well, you have my undivided attention now,’ he grinned. ‘You’ve changed your dress.’ She wore a very low-cut hooped gown with a tight bodice that thrust her breasts up and out. ‘If my heart wasn’t taken, Elizabeth, you’d have it.’ Then he frowned and laid the back of his hand against her forehead. ‘You must have a fever. Your hair.’ He took hold of one damp curl, played it between his fingers.

  ‘I went out for some air,’ Elizabeth said, looking away from him.

  MacGillivray glanced at the window. Rain battered against it, lit up by another flash of light.

  ‘In that?’

  ‘Why, Alexander –’ Elizabeth looked up, meeting his eyes ‘– are you afraid of a storm?’

  Jessie rushed into the room, almost knocking Elizabeth down, her face alarmed.

  ‘Anne,’ she called. ‘Come quick!’

  MacGillivray vanished out of the door. Anne hurried over to it, reassuring her guests as she did.

  ‘An accident in the kitchen, no doubt. Please, continue, enjoy yourselves.’ At the door, she saw Elizabeth. ‘Keep them happy,’ she said as she went past.

  MacGillivray was already downstairs. Anne ran to join him. In the hall, Donald Fraser carried in a soaked, hooded rider. MacGillivray helped him get the storm-exhausted woman to a seat. Anne pushed the sodden hood off the rider’s face. It was the Dowager, grey-faced, gasping.

  ‘Louden’s coming,’ she got out. ‘He knows the Prince is here.’

  Anne turned to MacGillivray, speechless. Then she whirled round and ran back half-way up the stairs.

  ‘George! Margaret!’ she shouted.

  The two of them appeared, with Lord Ogilvie, at the top.

  ‘You have to get the Prince away,’ Anne yelled at their startled faces. ‘Now!’

  All three vanished back into the room.

  ‘Jessie, get the room cleared. All of them, out!’ Anne turned and ran back to MacGillivray.

  Before Jessie could move, the Prince bounded out of the door, O’sullivan beside him.

  ‘Mon dieu! Out of the way, girl.’ The Prince pushed Jessie aside, running on down as the others followed. The strains of music fell away and died.

  ‘Get them round the loch,’ Anne urged MacGillivray, ‘to the summerhouse. They can shelter there.’

  ‘I’m going nowhere,’ he said. ‘Better they take him than you!’

  ‘We need him,’ Anne snapped. ‘A body with no head soon dies. You’re the only one who knows the way. Get out of here, through the kitchens. Go, go!’

  Musicians clattered their instruments down the stairs. MacGillivray ushered the alarmed guests through the dining room. Anne spun round to Fraser.

  ‘Muskets, Donald. Fetch what we have. Jessie, help him.’ They dashed to fetch them. ‘Elizabeth –’ Anne turned to her sister, standing alone at the top of the stairs ‘– fetch my pistols down.’

  ‘You can’t take on an army by yourself.’

  ‘Move, don’t talk!’ Anne shouted.

  Will stood, bemused, at the foot of the stair. As Fraser and Jessie dropped muskets, pistols and bags of powder and shot on the hall table, Anne whipped up a gun and tossed it to him. He looked at it, bewildered, as if he’d no idea what it was for.

  ‘Can you load, Will?’

  ‘Load?’

  ‘Watch Donald, do what he does.’ Anne started to tip powder into the breach of another.

  The Dowager coughed, leant forward.

  ‘I can load,’ she said, and began to do just that.

  ‘Is there anybody else, Donald?’ Anne asked.

  ‘Meg and that Duff were in the stables. They’re coming in. And I shouted my Lachlan out the forge.’

  Elizabeth came down the stairs with Anne’s pistols.

  ‘Six, that’s good,’ Anne said, grabbing the pistols to load them.

  ‘Seven,’ Jessie corrected, loading a musket.

  Anne hesitated, but the girl drew her a look that brooked no argument.

  ‘Seven’s better,’ Anne agreed.

  ‘You must be mad,’ Elizabeth worried. ‘Louden has two thousand men.’

  ‘Magic number, seven,’ Anne said, watching Will fumble with his musket. ‘Can you shoot, Will?’

  ‘At somebody?’ Will l
ooked up, horrified. His musket pointed at Anne.

  ‘We want delay, not engagement,’ Anne said, pushing his gun barrel up. ‘Fire into the air.’

  Will pressed the trigger. The shot exploded into the ceiling.

  ‘Not now, idiot!’ Jessie screamed at him.

  ‘Look after him, Jessie,’ Anne said, looping bags of powder and shot around their necks. ‘Right, let’s go. We’ll get the others outside.’

  They all ran to the front door, the storm blustering in as they opened it.

  ‘Not you.’ The Dowager caught hold of Elizabeth’s wrist as she followed them.

  Elizabeth looked down at her. The woman had a grip like iron.

  ‘I was only going to close the door behind them,’ she said. ‘I don’t suppose they’ll be back soon, do you?’

  Outside, the group of seven ran, bent against rain and wind, towards the road from Inverness. Anne squinted around as she ran, the downpour soaking her hair and face. If they could make Louden pause or hesitate, vital minutes could be won. Lightning flared, lit up the scene. The peat stacks near the road loomed up, great rectangular shadows in the dark.

  ‘The peat stacks!’ she shouted. ‘Use the peat stacks!’

  Donald and his son ran to one nearest the roadside. Anne took the next one up. The others placed themselves, peering round.

  ‘Keep behind them,’ Anne shouted. ‘Will, you hear?’

  ‘Aye,’ he shouted back, cowering near Jessie.

  ‘When they come after us,’ Anne yelled, pausing to let a roll of thunder die away, ‘drop the guns and get out of here. You know the ground, they don’t!’ Their wet tartan would help them vanish quickly in the grey-black night. She gritted her teeth. In a white dress, even rain-soaked, one spark of light would have her stand out like a beacon. As if to mock, a great bolt of lightning lit up the glowering clouds.

  Back in Moy Hall, the Dowager had her breath back. Elizabeth watched the older woman peel off her sodden cloak and hang it to dry.

  ‘You shouldn’t be out on such a night, at your age.’

  ‘Why not?’ The Dowager looked round at her. ‘You were.’