by Stella Riley
When informed of their orders, Major Moulton said laconically, ‘Look on the bright side. By the time this is over, you’ll be able to draw your own maps.’
‘By the time this is over,’ retorted Eden, ‘nobody will want them.’
* * *
It took two long days of hard riding to reach Caithness and when they got there, Colonel Morgan’s reaction was much as Eden had expected.
‘Bloody hell,’ he groaned. ‘We’ve only been here four days. It’s going to take at least five to get to Aberdeenshire. And do you know what’s going to happen when we get there, Colonel? The General will have received fresh intelligence which requires my presence on the opposite side of the country. My arse has barely been out of the saddle for a month or more … and my horse has begun to hate me.’
‘Ah,’ said Eden gravely. ‘It’s bad news when they do that.’
‘Isn’t it?’ Morgan stood up and stretched. Then, musingly, ‘Why Braemar? Monck can’t seriously think Middleton might make it to the lowlands. And even if he did … what then? By now, his force must be half what it was.’
‘Less,’ agreed Eden. ‘The Governor at Blair Atholl put his current strength at no more than fifteen hundred.’
‘Well, if that’s so and we can only find him, this whole ridiculous business is as good as over.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘Unfortunately, finding him has been the crux of the problem all along. I’ll swear the damned man’s a ghost.’
* * *
On July 10th Sir Aubrey stood under an overcast sky on Tower Hill. The crowd around him was large and tightly-packed but Aubrey had taken the precaution of tucking his hair inside a broad-brimmed hat which he wore low over his face and shrouding his person in a shabby black cloak. He hoped he looked suitably nondescript and little different from those around him.
On the previous day word had leaked out around the City that Somerset Fox’s sentence had been commuted to life imprisonment or transportation to Barbados. Peter Vowell was due to be hanged at Tyburn within the next few hours. And the noisy jostling crowd in which Aubrey now stood was waiting to see not one but two men lose their heads. It seemed that the government – perhaps in a fit of economy – had decided that John Gerard’s execution should be immediately followed by that of Dom Pantaleon Sa; the Portuguese gentleman who, the previous November, had mistaken some poor fellow for Gerard and murdered him. Aubrey wondered if John appreciated the irony of the situation … then decided that it was unlikely. He couldn’t even appreciate it himself. He just felt sick and, never having watched an execution before, hoped that he didn’t disgrace himself.
The headsman was already on the scaffold, along with a cleric and two Army officers and there were soldiers all around to hold back the crowd in the event of trouble. From what Aubrey could see, there wouldn’t be any. Of the people nearest to him, most seemed to be in a mood of cheerful anticipation – as if seeing someone decapitated fell into the same category as a puppet show or a wrestling match. Some of them were even eating. The scents of meat and pastry and onions flavoured the air. Something unpleasant rose in Aubrey’s throat and he had to swallow hard to rid himself of it. Then there was a collective stirring amongst the spectators … and John Gerard was led up the steps of the scaffold.
He looked exactly as he’d done the last time Aubrey had seen him. His clothes unostentatious but neat, his expression calm, his posture relaxed.
How can he do it? Aubrey wondered. How can he climb those steps so steadily, without any hesitation, knowing what awaits him at the top? I don’t think I could. I think they’d have to carry me. Oh God, John … you never did anything to merit this.
Gerard was holding some sheets of paper. An Army officer stepped forward and said something, Gerard replied and the officer shook his head. With an air of regretful resignation, Gerard slid the papers into the breast of his coat.
Then, stepping to the edge of the platform, he waited for the crowd to fall silent and said, ‘I’m not permitted to read my last words to you – though I hope that, in time, they may find their way into print so that my brother may know that I whole-heartedly forgive him for testifying against me. For now, however, I would say just this.’ He stopped, seeming to take a breath. ‘I die a faithful subject and servant to King Charles the Second, whom I pray God to bless and restore to his rights. And had I ten thousand lives, I would gladly lay them all down thus for his service.’
Tears stung the back of Aubrey’s eyes and he blinked them away.
He’s only twenty-two years old, for God’s sake. Just twenty-two – three years younger than I am myself. How can they do this?
Gerard knelt briefly before the clergyman, before rising to unlace and remove his coat. Although he didn’t seem to hurry, there was an eagerness about him now … as if what lay ahead was something to be accomplished without undue delay. On his knees before the block, he paused for perhaps a minute, hands clasped and eyes closed. Then he laid his head down and spread out his hands.
The axe came down hard, cleanly and with a sound that Aubrey hoped he never heard again. Forcing himself not to look away, he watched the executioner hold up his friend’s bloody head and say the words. Then, he swung round and started pushing his way through the crowd. It was done. Over. John was dead. Let the rest of them stay to watch Dom Pantaleon being butchered if they would. Aubrey merely wanted to get as far away from this hellish place as he possibly could.
* * *
Six days after Colonel Gerard went to the block, Colonel Morgan’s troops arrived at Granton-on-Spey to be met by one of General Monck’s gallopers with a message.
Having read it, Morgan looked around at his fellow Colonels and said, ‘Change of plan, gentlemen. Middleton has doubled-back and is apparently still in Perthshire, so the General wants us to make for Ruthven – where we may or may not, depending upon the circumstances, rendezvous with him. Since, from here, our route lies along the banks of the Spey, we should be able to complete it in two days’ march. In fact, I fear that we must.’
The following day took them as far as Kincraig which meant another night under canvas. Over supper with the other officers, Eden said, ‘What do you think our chances are?’
‘Of catching up with Middleton?’ Tom Morgan toyed idly with his tankard of ale. ‘Failing fresh and useful intelligence, much the same as they’ve always been, I imagine.’
‘Oh. In other words, I shouldn’t get my hopes up.’
‘Or hold your breath,’ remarked a Captain from the far end of the table. ‘Wild geese are easier any day of the week.’
They didn’t find General Monck at Ruthven. They did, however, receive a message from him saying that Middleton’s Horse now stood at a mere twelve hundred or so; that he was still in the region of Loch Rannoch and that, if he was now heading north again, the only route open to him was the pass linking the upper reaches of the River Garry with that of the Spey.
‘Assuming Monck’s intelligence is correct, Middleton is moving more or less directly towards us,’ said Eden. ‘Shall Major Moulton and I try finding them?’
‘By all means,’ came Morgan’s laconic reply. ‘The rest of us will continue along the Spey, before turning into Glen Garry. There’s a place near the loch called Dalnaspidal – not, since you’re unlikely to meet any friendly locals, that there’s anything to tell you that. But you’ll recognise it because it’s just about the only piece of level ground suitable for making camp. If you haven’t already re-joined us with news, you’ll find us there.’
Setting out at first light on the following morning, Colonel Maxwell and Major Moulton rode on through Kingussie to comb the area around Dalwhinnie and the most northerly reaches of Loch Ericht. They found precisely nothing.
‘Damn,’ breathed Eden, when they stopped at around noon to eat some bread and cheese and rest the horses. ‘Morgan thought this would their easiest route northwards from Loch Rannoch but, if that’s so, we’d have seen some sign of them by now. The fact that we haven’t is beginning to
suggest that Middleton may be heading due north towards Loch Garry.’ He stopped and fixed Ned with a grim stare. ‘Oh hell.’
Ned opened his mouth, closed it again and then said, ‘If he does that, Morgan will meet him head on.’
‘Yes.’ Eden was already swinging himself back into the saddle. ‘Let’s go.’
They finally caught sight of the Royalist army half-way down Loch Garry. Examining it through his perspective glass, Eden said, ‘They’re getting ready to move. I’d say Middleton’s Horse numbers a lot less than we thought … but on the other hand, he has got some Foot with him.’ He folded the glass. ‘Right. Back to warn Morgan.’
When they reached the main force, it had barely arrived at Dalnaspidal and most of the men were just beginning to unsaddle their horses. Hurling himself from his own saddle and tossing his reins to Ned Moulton, Eden ran through the troop shouting, ‘Stop – stand! Where’s Colonel Morgan?’
‘Here,’ said the Colonel, emerging from a knot of officers. ‘What is it?’
‘They’re no distance away – probably with the same idea you had about camping here. Roughly eight hundred Horse and the Foot following some distance behind. If you advance now, you can take them.’
Morgan wasted no time but immediately began issuing orders. In less than ten minutes, the entire troop was once more on the move and at a smart pace. Riding alongside Morgan, Eden rapidly supplied such information about the terrain as seemed useful and then fell silent, his eyes searching for the first sign of the enemy.
They came upon them even sooner than he’d expected, approaching from the western side of the loch. Taking in the situation at a glance, Colonel Morgan spared a second to cast a triumphant glance at the sky and breathe, ‘Oh my God. Finally.’
Then he issued the order to charge.
Thundering onwards with the rest, Eden recognised the exact moment when General Middleton saw disaster staring him in the face and attempted to avert it. In the last critical minutes before Morgan’s force reached his own, he must have barked an order to retreat – whilst already knowing that it was too late. His infantry were far enough back to turn and run. But his Horse, attempting now to wheel about, had run out of time. As Morgan’s troops hurtled down on them, the Royalist van found itself abruptly transformed into the rear and thus was left with no choice but to meet the attack as best it could, unsupported by the rest of their fleeing army.
Christ, thought Eden grimly, as no more than a hundred fellows turned back to meet the onslaught, it’s going to be a bloody massacre.
And then the two forces collided and for a brief time, wielding his sword for the first time since Worcester, Eden let instinct and physical reflex take over. Shots were fired, swords sang and scraped, voices screamed over the din; he was surrounded by all the familiar sounds of battle and for a few minutes he almost enjoyed it.
But despite the chaos in their ranks as those trying to flee hampered those determined to do battle, the little troop of Cavaliers fought hard and with a wild sort of gallantry born of desperation. Travel-weary and severely outnumbered as they were and with hope of nothing save defeat, still they offered the kind of resistance that Eden couldn’t help but respect. He even felt sorry for the poor bastards.
The action was brief and bloody.
Eden started fighting to disarm rather than kill and shouting at the enemy to surrender. Some of them listened and followed his advice, dropping from their saddles to drive their swords into the moist peaty ground. Others, when the sheer hopelessness of their position could no longer be denied and further resistance was clearly futile, abandoned their horses and started escaping into the bogs in the wake of the Foot.
Gradually the field cleared, leaving behind the dead and injured. Eden looked on it without pleasure and then turned to await Colonel Morgan’s instructions, hoping he wouldn’t order a pursuit.
He didn’t. Instead, he said, ‘Let them go – but round up their horses. They’re irreplaceable hereabouts and, without them, Middleton’s finished.’ And with a sudden sharp-edged smile, ‘Well done, gentlemen. Let’s send the glad tidings to General Monck.’
* * *
Colonel Maxwell and Major Moulton remained in the highlands for two more weeks, grimly assisting with what could only be called a mopping-up operation.
Monck turned his attention to the Earl of Glencairn, now lurking in the region of Aberfoyle, and Colonel Morgan marched off to drag Middleton from his lair in Caithness. Of the numerous prisoners taken, many bowed to the inevitable and bent the knee. The highland rising was over; and just to make certain, a campaign of the torch rather than the sword destroyed places where the insurgents had once sheltered and hostages were taken to ensure good behaviour. No more enamoured with burning the countryside than he’d ever been, Eden was relieved when his term of service came to its natural end.
* * *
Retracing their steps southwards through the first days of August and in increasingly fine weather, Eden and Ned arrived at Brandon Lacey late one afternoon to an initially warm welcome from Venetia which cooled considerably when she saw what Eden had brought for the twins.
‘A drum and a penny whistle?’ she said. And then, acidly, ‘It’s clear how little you know of small children. The boys can make quite enough noise without this kind of help.’
Eden grinned and said, ‘The choices were limited. But at least Rosie’s doll isn’t noisy. Where is she, by the way?’
‘Out with Gabriel. And as usual I expect he’ll bring her back far later than he should and too full of curd tart to eat her supper.’ She finished pouring ale for both men and said, ‘I take it he hasn’t written to you?’
‘If he has, his letter is somewhere in the wilds of Scotland. We’ve been moving around rather a lot.’
‘The rising is over?’
‘Yes. We defeated what was left of Middleton’s army on the 19th of last month. And though neither he nor Glencairn have been taken yet, neither is in any position to fight on.’
Venetia sat down, her expression resigned.
‘It was never going to work, was it?’
‘If by that you mean could it ever have resulted in the restoration of Charles Stuart – no. It couldn’t.’
Major Moulton said, ‘In York we heard that, aside from the widowed Queen, the entire Stuart faction had been thrown out of Paris. If that’s true, it means the Protector has decided to get into bed with Mazarin rather than Philip of Spain.’
‘I don’t know what he’s decided. But the rest is true enough. Charles left Paris at the end of June and is staying with his sister, the Princess of Orange at Spa.’ Fixing Eden with a very direct gaze, she said, ‘I’m surprised at you, you know. I’d have thought that you’d be done with Cromwell by now. How much further does he have to go before you realise that he’s a bigger tyrant than the man whose head he cut off?’
‘I know what Cromwell is,’ came the even, if ambiguous reply. ‘Like the rest of the country, I’m waiting to see what happens once Parliament is sitting.’
‘Oh – so am I. In fact, I’m looking forward to it.’ She smiled sardonically. ‘Would you like to know where Gabriel is right now?’ And then, without waiting for an answer, ‘He’s doing what he’s been doing every day for the last two weeks. He’s out taking ale with every man in the hundred who has a vote.’
Eden eyes widened. ‘He’s going to stand?’
‘He’s going to stand,’ agreed Venetia, ‘and has written to Lambert saying so. As to why … I’ll leave him to explain that to you himself.’
* * *
The twins’ delight in their gifts coupled with their father’s slightly sore head resulted in them being banished to the nursery almost immediately. Rosie, by contrast, settled happily on Uncle Eden’s knee clutching her doll and informing him that her name was Araminta. It was therefore some time before Gabriel was alone with his two guests and able to ask about the Scottish campaign.
‘All in good time,’ replied Eden. ‘First, I want to
know what made you change your mind about standing for Parliament.’
‘Three trials for treason conducted by a High Court of Justice,’ said Gabriel crisply. ‘In short, I had a letter from Sam Radford.’
‘The editor of the Moderate?’ asked Ned, surprised. ‘He’s a friend of yours?’
Gabriel exchanged an amused glance with Eden.
‘I suppose you could call him that. We’ve certainly had dealings with each other from time to time and his wife is my foster-brother’s niece – which makes him a relative of sorts.’
‘And what,’ asked Eden politely, ‘did Sam say that carried more weight than anything Lambert or I said?’
‘He told me what the newsheets had told me already. That John Gerard, Peter Vowell and Somerset Fox were found guilty of treason by a High Court of Justice. He also pointed out – just in case I didn’t already know – that treason cases are supposed to be tried by a jury and that therefore the use of a High Court indicates a determination to secure a guilty verdict.’
‘And that annoyed you enough to make you decide to stand?’
‘Not just that – or not entirely. Sam has apparently had the opportunity to interrogate a fellow who was in the assassination plot and is currently lying low in Shoreditch. The same opportunity, one might say, that Cromwell’s people must have had with numerous other fellows. Yet according to Sam’s informant, the plot wasn’t hatched by Gerard at all; Vowell’s involvement amounted to rounding up a few horses; and Fox was supposedly encouraging apprentices to riot. It doesn’t sound like something deserving death, does it?’
‘Not when you put it like that,’ agreed Ned. ‘But perhaps Radford was misinformed.’
Gabriel looked at Eden, his expression gently enquiring.
‘Do you think that likely?’
Eden huffed a resigned breath. ‘No. But I’d rather not discuss it.’
‘Ah,’ was all Gabriel said.
