by Alan Gold
“Not true, sir,” said Pelham. “The English people might not have taken to you, or your heir, but your second son, the Duke of Cumberland, is loved and admired. He’s a brave and respected commander of our finest men.”
“My younger son is a wonderful man. Would that my oldest son and heir were such as he! But what I say to you is true. I’m not the idiot you make me out to be, Mr. Pelham. I know that I’m hated for sending English troops to help decide the Austrian succession. I know they detest me for sending three hundred thousand pounds to Princess Maria Theresa to help her fight against the French. But the English forget that I’m also the Elector of Hanover and that my father was invited to take the throne of England. Invited, Mr. Pelham. But it would have been better if we’d stayed where we were, instead of enjoying the ridicule and contempt of all England.”
The prime minister sighed. “Whatever disdain the people had for you, sir, will be as nothing if they learn that you’ve deserted them in their hour of need. But you can turn that disdain around if the Britons see you as their leader in their time of crisis. I tell you, sir, that the Pretender Stuart won’t advance much further south toward London before he’s stopped by the duke, your son. And then the tables will be turned so quickly that all England will cheer for the family from Hanover who saved them from the Stuart family from Scotland. You’d be amazed how patriotism can make the people rally around a king. Please, Majesty, trust your prime minister in this matter. I have your interests at heart. Do not desert England. Do not vacate your throne.”
ARMADALE ON THE ISLAND OF SKYE IN THE OUTER HEBRIDES
DECEMBER 20, 1745
She sat on the rocks watching the fishing boats bobbing up and down in the sultry water. The heavy gray sky, a weak sun only a suggestion beyond the drab clouds, and the bleak menace of the thick and sluggish sea made her feel as though this was the very end of days. The morning was morose and the dark clouds, pregnant with rain, hung over the island like a fist of doom. Wrapped in two woollen shawls and a long thick skirt, still the icy chill managed to reach into her clothes and make her skin shiver.
Twice her mother had called from their house along the shoreline; twice she’d ignored her plea to come back to the house and eat her breakfast. Exhausted from barely having slept that night, confused and angry with life itself, Flora sighed deeply, picked up a stone lying at her feet, and tossed it into the lethargic water. It sank to the bottom without making more than the smallest splash.
A crunching sound of gravel and stones told her that somebody was approaching from behind her. She turned, looked up, and saw Hugh standing above her. But she looked back to sea and buried her head in her hands. The very last thing she needed was his gloating.
“Lass, come up and eat your breakfast. Your mother’s worried about you. I’m worried about you. Come back and join us, darling.”
“I’m not hungry, father,” she said, her voice barely audible above the morning wind that was beginning to blow stronger as the day began to grow older.
He looked at his stepdaughter and sniffed the air. He didn’t like the portent of violence that he could smell presaging a coming storm. For Hugh, who had lived beside the sea all of his life, the smell of a storm was as distinct as the smell of salt in the sea. He could almost taste the anger of the Almighty.
“Lass, it’s already a freezing cold morning, and there’s worse to come. I sense a blizzard brewing over the mountains. You’ll need food inside you to ward off the chill. Come on, Flora love. Don’t be silly now. There’s nothing you can do, and no harm will come to our family. Indeed, if there’s any good for Scotland out of the whole sorry mess that your Charlie has created, then it’s you and your mother who’ll enjoy the benefits.”
He sat beside her and put his arm around her.
There was no anger in her voice, only resentment. “Benefits? So we’ll benefit while Bonnie Prince Charlie and his army flee back to Scotland to be rounded up like Highland cattle and humiliated by the king’s son.”
“And what’s wrong with us benefiting? I said right from the beginning that the prince’s mission was foolhardy and that he was bound to come to grief. He did well to get as far as a hundred miles shy of London, I’ll say that much for him. He got much further than I expected. But even his own council of war saw sense when they assessed the situation, and forced him to turn around and retreat . . .”
“They’re a motley crew of artless beef-witted clack-dishes,” she said vehemently. “Cowards, the lot of them, who should hang their heads in shame at the disgrace they’ve brought to the prince and to all of Scotland.”
“No! They’re experienced military men who know when to fight and when to save the lives of those in their charge. They saw it was madness for him to continue traveling south and headlong into London like some crazed cow in heat, knowing that for certain he’d be destroyed and take thousands of Scottish lives with him. Barely a single Catholic Englishman rallied to the prince’s support. The Frenchies have stayed away like the double-dealing bum-baileys we know them to be, and the Welsh and Irish are too frightened to leave their own lands for fear of George’s retribution. So what chance did the lad have to reach London and live, let alone take the fight to them and put their armies to flight?”
“But William Wallace nearly succeeded . . . he took the fight to the English; he crossed the border and rode down into their lands and they were forced to beg him for peace,” she said.
“Stories, lass, and nothing more than legend. Mere tales told by ignorant folk about a Scots hero, which our people tell to give us pride in ourselves. That’s because we’ve been a vassal state of the English since the time of King Edward Longshanks. And don’t forget that Wallace was hung, drawn, and quartered and led his men into disaster; it took Scotland hundreds of years to recover from his madness. I pray to God that Scotland doesn’t suffer again for the madness of a pretender king.”
“But that’s not the case with Charlie. Oh father, he was so near. I could almost taste the sweetness of his victory. I was so certain that he could have scared off fat George and the rest of those mollyrooks down in London. It would have taken just one battle for him to win, and then we’d have a rightful Stuart on the throne,” she said, her voice close to tears. “But instead of that, he turned tail because of the cowards who marched behind him, and he retreated in shame without having fought one single army on English soil to claim his family heritage. I’m so ashamed of being a Scots woman.”
“Never say that,” Hugh scolded her. “Never be shamed by what your leaders do in your name. And don’t confuse a tactical withdrawal for good military reasons, with a cowardly escape. The Bonnie prince didn’t escape, because he’d fought no army in England. He just made a smart move to fight the English on his own terms.”
“But if he’d fought them, he could have won,” Flora said, but the certainty in her voice was no longer there.
“And he still could, lass,” said Hugh.
She turned around and looked at him, trying to ascertain his meaning.
He continued, “His supporters are right here, in Scotland. This is where he must stake his claim and be crowned king. He has the right to demand the return of Jacob’s Pillow, the Stone of Scone. It’s one thing for the Plantagenet kings to have stolen it and the Tudors to have kept it, but it’s of no value to these arse-fiend kings from Germany. These Hanoverians don’t understand the value of the Stone of Scone to us Scots, and I’m sure that in the pursuit of peace, they’ll be willing to give it back as a token. And once the Stone is back on Scottish soil, your Charlie can be crowned rightful king and successor of Robert the Bruce. All he has to do is bring his army home, rouse loyal Scotsmen and women to the cause, and send the Duke of Cumberland and all the other generals packing. And then . . .”
He remained silent, but the look of eagerness on her face, which had been missing since she’d heard the news of his retreat, encouraged him to give her hope in the future.
“And then, given enough time and
support, and assuming that he isn’t reckless and stupid, and further assuming that King George and his successor are as unpopular tomorrow as they are today, there’s no reason why King Charles Stuart couldn’t raise a loyal army of Scotsmen and march south to be joined by tens of thousands of Englishmen who detest the Hanoverians, and claim the throne of both nations.”
Flora looked at him in astonishment. “Do you really think he could? Right now, all that Scotland knows is that he’s a failure. They see him flying to England like a bird and fleeing home like a rabbit.”
Her father smiled. “Oh, the fine gentlemen and ladies in Edinburgh will no doubt laugh in their glasses of wine and their cups of coffee at his exploits, but the men and women of the Highlands will see things differently. In Edinburgh, they’ll see a young, foolhardy, and impetuous man, but in the Highlands, we’ll see a brave and resilient king. As the days pass, we won’t remember his turnaround in Derby, but his successes in Prestonpans and the border skirmishes that he won so brilliantly.
“When Charlie returns over the border, it’s likely all Scotland will rise up in his support. Then, when the Duke of Cumberland comes to fight him, he’ll find a forest of prickly Scottish thistles arrayed against him, thorns stabbing him where it hurts most. I think it’s likely that thanks to your Charlie, Scotland will finally separate from England and that the Stuarts will again be the kings of this realm. There’s little enough support for our union with England anyway.”
“But if he succeeds, you’ll be branded a traitor,” she said, her words little more than a whisper, barely audible above the growing voice of the wind.
“That’s something with which I’ll have to deal when the time comes. Now, lass, come away and eat your breakfast before there’s not enough of you left to celebrate Charlie’s coming victories.”
Chapter Four
ARMADALE ON THE ISLAND OF SKYE IN THE OUTER HEBRIDES
APRIL 2, 1746
It was an exhausted sun in a limpid sky that greeted her early morning walk down to the sea. Everything else—the new green grass, the leaves emerging on the sturdy branches of the trees, the smiles of the clan folk as they walked along pathways no longer snowbound and rock hard—was fresh and invigorating. But the sun was weak and languorous as though its efforts to shine and spread its light and warmth through the dead of winter had drained it of energy so that it neither shone bright, nor did it warm the newly bared skin of the inhabitants of the Island.
She sat on the rocks watching the fishing boats bobbing up and down in the sparkling water, but there was nothing bright in her life. Unlike the other folk of the clan who welcomed the end of the winter and the coming of the warmth of spring, Flora dreaded each day for the news it would bring. While their lives were dominated by repairs to their farms or homes and by the prospect of the coming dances and fairs in spring and summer, her life was dominated by the invasion of a young man from Italy.
Prince Charles had won some significant battles and his enforced retreat had been orderly. But now she’d learned that the Duke of Cumberland had come by ship near to Inverness on the far side of the country. And with him came thousands and thousands of troopers and cannon and artillery. Fresh troopers, well rested and fiercely armed.
But the prince and his Highlanders were exhausted after fighting other English generals at Falkirk; yes, the Highlanders had won the battle, but at the cost of most of their ammunition and any remaining strength, they had after tramping hundreds and hundreds of miles through the worst days of a terrible winter. And from what she’d been told by a traveling knife sharpener who’d visited Skye from the mainland, many of the Highlanders had deserted the prince after Falkirk and returned to their homes. They assumed that the battle for the prince had either been won and he would be crowned king of Scotland, or lost and he would be destroyed by Generals Wade or Ligonier or Cumberland or one of the other fat gentlemen soldiers from South of the border.
And Flora had just learned that the prince was due to leave Glasgow at any day now, where he had been resting and regrouping, and would travel to Inverness in order to meet with the duke and fight him. All of Scotland anticipated the coming battle. Many were convinced that after his run of victories the prince would easily win on firm Scottish ground. Others, such as her father Hugh, understood the exhaustion and depletion of the prince’s army and were skeptical of his ability to win a major battle. When he and his friends met, they would say quietly and in confidence to each other, as though they didn’t want the deity to hear, that the prince hadn’t been properly tested by a real army and when he was, he would be annihilated.
Flora had argued vehemently, telling Hugh that the prince’s brilliant victory at the Battle of Prestonpans would be sung by balladeers for all time; Hugh had smiled and said that if the Englishman General Cope hadn’t been such a bootless clapper-claw, he’d have won the battle easily.
And now Flora had to tell her family the decision she’d come to. It wouldn’t be easy. She had traveled on her own before, but not this far, and not on such a mission. Yet she had to do it. She had to be there if only to see him, if only to be one of the Scots who would cheer him on. It was her duty.
She stood from the beach and began to walk toward her family’s croft. She practiced the words she would need to use in order gain their consent. And if their consent wasn’t forthcoming, she would go anyway, though the arguments would be furious and bitter.
But the question that she knew Hugh would ask was one that she herself couldn’t answer, for she simply didn’t know why she was so drawn to a man she’d never seen, never spoken with, and about whom she knew practically nothing. Some stories put about concerning him were that he was excessively tall and muscular and brave and steadfast and a superb horseman and swordsman and shot, with a barrel chest and sturdy and shapely legs. He was said to be handsome and gallant and with gentle continental manners, yet with a subtle and witty mind.
Other stories told of him being little more than a dwarf, two heads shorter than a grown woman, that he spoke with a terrible lisp, and that he stank of French wines and was continually drunk; and worst of all was that he demanded pleasure from every woman who crossed his path, whether they were a ten-year-old scullery girl or a grand-matron in shawls sitting at a window and barely able to move. It was said, but she’d shuddered in disgust when told, that if a mother and daughter were introduced to him, he’d insist on having his way with both of them and at the same time.
So did she want to see him and wish him well because of a need within her to determine who was the real Bonnie Prince Charlie, or was there a deeper reason that she couldn’t even admit to herself? Why go across the country just to gain a glimpse of him, when portraits of the young man would soon enough appear in some rich person’s home when she accompanied her friend, Lady Margaret Macdonald. These would give her a good indication of which story concerning his looks she should believe. So that wasn’t the reason; and anyway, she’d never met the king of England, but she knew that she’d hate him on sight because he was fat and stupid and he detested the Scots. So it wasn’t because of curiosity concerning his looks that drove her need to see him, although the idea of seeing him in the flesh sent a frisson of excitement through her body.
In her own mind, in her nighttime dreams, she saw Prince Charlie as a tall and magnificent young man riding confidently on a blindingly white Highlands stag, holding tight to the huge beast’s horns, charging up the steep hills of a distant glen, dashing and handsome and courteous, doffing his cap to her as he thundered by to the accompaniment of pipes and drums.
In her fancy, Flora would be standing on the top of a hillside as he galloped toward her; and as he drew closer, she imagined him holding out his arm as the beast raced by, hoisting her up onto the back of his stag to carry her from the hill where she’d been looking out to the far sea, and galloping toward distant and mysterious lands. And she’d ride behind him on the back of the stag, clasping him around his waist, feeling his taut muscular stomach as h
e rode the beast, her hands inside his leather jerkin, her thighs joining with his legs in an intimate embrace as he breasted the hill and took her home to deposit her with Hugh and her mother Annie. And for the hour-long journey that she straddled the beast’s back behind her prince, while she held him tightly with her arms feeling different parts of his lithe and handsome body, they shouted to each other over the howling wind and talked about every subject conceivable. She advised him about his ambitions and what his first acts should be as king of Scotland, and he listened to her in respect and admiration. But even though these night dreams helped her to get to sleep, the reality was that in the morning, her bonnie prince was still struggling to get the Scottish people to accept him and most were more content to sit and wait and see what would happen.
So what was it that compelled her to want to go and see him, even if it was from afar? Was it because he could become her king? If so, why travel across the nation in a time of war, when all she had to do was to wait for his coronation and then she would see him soon enough when he went on a royal procession to Edinburgh or Glasgow and the whole family would travel there just to stand in the crowds and wave and cheer him on.
Perhaps it was her devotion to him as a loyal subject; yet how could she be loyal to a man they called the Pretender who hadn’t yet earned the right to sit on a throne by defeating his enemies into submission? Not only was the English enemy all over Scotland, but at least half of Scotland viewed him as an interloper and wanted nothing to do with him.
So why was she even contemplating undertaking so perilous a journey when knowledge of the outcome of the future engagement would be known by the people of Skye within days of the final sword being sheathed?
And that was what she didn’t know, and couldn’t answer when Hugh would undoubtedly ask her the questions that had been running untrammeled through her mind. Why was she soon to pack her traveling belongings for a journey to Inverness in order just to stand and stare at a man she’d never met? A man she wanted to call king?
