The Jacobite's Wife

by Morag Edwards

  ‘He’s a good man,’ I whispered.

  Mr Blackstone reddened. ‘I’m sure he is. Bankruptcy isn’t about personal worth but loans are always about profit. This plan will hold the estate for your son, whatever happens. If I may speak plainly, I’m sure your husband will not be content to farm quietly at Terregles Castle. What if he is imprisoned again or even killed? If he signs this, no one will be able to confiscate your land.’

  ‘But what of my son? William may resent him.’

  ‘I’m a lawyer, Lady Nithsdale,’ he sighed. ‘Those are matters that you must resolve.’

  Book 4: 1715–1716

  Chapter 16

  On this perfect day in Braemar, after eight years of broken promises, muddle and disappointment, I allowed myself to believe that perhaps this was our time. Men from the highlands and lowlands of Scotland gathered for a hunting party, united in their hatred of English rule and the betrayal of the Articles of Union. It felt like an occasion of crystal joy, giving hope for what might yet be achieved.

  William and I walked arm in arm on the edge of the gathering, looking for Mary and Charles. I wore one of my finest gowns, a leftover from St Germain, let out and trimmed with new lace. William carried our little daughter Anne on his shoulders, supporting her with his free hand. Our son was at school in France, paid for by my widowed sister Mary. Anne pushed William’s wig over his eyes and he pretended to be cross with her but she wasn’t afraid and she tried it again until he had to be firm. Her bottom lip protruded in a pretend sulk and I tickled her bare foot, making her giggle.

  From where we stood, on a bank slightly above the crowd, we could see across to Braemar Castle set low by the river, like Terregles but much grander. The mountains circled us, those furthest away dark brown with a dusting of snow. Behind us, a gentle hill rose, sculpted like a mature woman’s breast. The highest ground was purple with heather, studded with outcrops of grey stone and stunted trees between the rocks. Away from the crowds, curlews rose, their rising call burbling, reminding me of the heath at home. Grass carpeted the lowest slopes in the fading sepia of early autumn and the hillsides flickered from brown to gold as the sunlight scattered in the path of the scudding clouds.

  I felt a fierce mix of love and pride as I leaned against William’s shoulder and watched the mass gathering of the clansmen and lowland lairds, with their families and servants, in front of the castle. For me the Highlands were a new land and the men who belonged here, the fabulous chiefs, were as exotic as any foreign prince. They wore their hair long and loose, with plaid over their shoulders and belted at the waist. Their wives were strong, dark-haired women with blue eyes who watched their husbands closely as they bent over to kiss my hand, a gesture that somehow combined chivalry and flirtation in a single sweep.

  ‘Win, look, it’s the Earl of Mar.’ William pointed to a small man in full highland dress circulating in the crowd, shaking the hands that reached out to his and slapping the chiefs on the shoulder as if they were his brothers. He carried a sword that ran the length of his shoulder to his ankle.

  I had expected a more romantic figure on a grand horse. ‘So that’s our leader. He doesn’t look powerful enough.’

  ‘He’s the best we’ll get. Remember he was only a civil servant in Queen Anne’s government but he has the money and connections to pull this off. He doesn’t have to be a fighting man himself.’

  ‘But wasn’t he one of the commissioners who worked for the union with England?’

  ‘Mar’s on whichever side puts butter on his bread. I heard he’d been snubbed by George of Hanover, who didn’t want him in his new government. Never scorn a small rich man.’

  ‘But can he be trusted? Won’t he just change sides again?’

  ‘Who can we trust here?’ William swept his hand across the crowd. ‘How many of these are spies for the English or the French or the Spanish? We can only use the moment for our own ends. Once it’s over we’ll see who’s loyal.’

  I heard our names called from below and we climbed down the bank to meet Mary and Charles. Someone began to play a flute and I could smell roasting meat as the venison from yesterday’s hunt turned on spits. The men had hunted in the Forest of Mar the day before and William told me of brandy served from a deep hole in a boulder by the side of a rushing burn. It was surprising that so many deer had been killed, I thought. When they returned from the forest, William and Charles had been in no state to ride, let alone hunt.

  ‘This is so exciting,’ Mary clasped my arm. ‘We’ve seen Rob Roy MacGregor. He’s in a tent over there.’

  Even in Dumfries we had heard of the famous Rob Roy. Charles linked arms with us both. ‘Come on, I’ll introduce you.’

  We pushed through the crowds, Charles and William pointing out the clans McLachlan, Rollo, Drummond and McDonald who had set up camps around the edge of the field, their servants and dogs guarding their territory as if part of their fiefdom. Banners proclaimed their clan loyalty, their support for King James and the end of the union. Between the highland camps, local people were selling food and drink and jugglers entertained groups of children. One tent seemed busier than most; a crowd gathered outside hoping to catch sight of the hero within. Charles pushed confidently through and into the tent. I was blinded by the unexpected gloom but saw a tall man pull away from a group to slap Charles on the shoulder. The two men hugged in the fierce, embarrassed way that men do and they came into the light of the entrance where we stood, hesitant. Rob Roy snapped his fingers and a servant brought wine and a rough Scots bread to a table outside, in view of the adoring crowd. Squeals of delight and whistles encouraged Rob Roy to give a full bow to the crowd, who roared their approval. He turned to me, his eyes roaming over my body. Finally, he held my eyes in a deep, experienced gaze that made William move to my side. As we sat around the table, the crowd fell silent, hoping to catch a word from his lips.

  ‘So, Charles Stewart,’ Rob Roy sprawled in his seat, ‘are you going to shift your lazy arse and fight for your country?’

  Charles indicated William with a nod of his head. ‘I’ll leave that to you younger men. My brother-in-law will be fighting with the lowland men.’

  Rob Roy raised his pewter tankard to my husband, and William flushed with pleasure.

  ‘And what will your role be?’ I asked our host, unsure whether to call him Rob or MacGregor.

  ‘The wee man over there,’ Rob Roy indicated the Earl of Mar with a backward jab of his thumb, ‘wants me to help bring out the clans.’

  ‘You mean, to be a sort of figurehead?’

  ‘That’s it, lassie. I’ve no fighting experience but he thinks the chiefs will come out for me. He’s no fool, the Earl of Mar.’

  ‘But he does need some experienced soldiers, don’t you think?’ William interrupted. ‘Who do you think he’ll recruit?’

  As the men fell into a deep discussion of tactics, I studied Rob Roy’s long red hair, burnished in the sunshine, and his fine tanned features, and thought he was quite the most desirable man I had seen since we left France. A clansman joined us and leant on Rob Roy’s shoulder, whispering in his ear. MacGregor rose and bowed deeply to the women. ‘I’m afraid I must go. I’ve kept my good men waiting long enough.’ He shook hands with Charles and William and we were left to finish our wine. The crowd sighed in disappointment and I felt myself do the same.

  ‘Charles, how do you know him?’ Mary’s cheeks were flushed with pride.

  Charles grinned and put his hands behind his head. ‘He owes me money.’

  ‘Don’t we all?’ I heard William mutter.

  The men spread their coats on the grass and we sat close to one of the roasting spits where a small band of fiddlers cajoled the cooks to keep turning the handles, although they were already stripped to the waist and streaked with sweat. Men and women began to dance, stepping and turning to the music. As more wine and brandy were drunk, the laughter rose and the pace of the dancing became faster, more tumbling and chaotic. Charles and William followe
d a rumour that flagons of brandy were being served behind the castle. Anne pulled me over to join the dancing and by the time the men returned my hair had fallen loose across my shoulders and I felt the excitement of laughter and music as if I were a young girl and not a matron of almost forty-three.

  We bit into tender slices of meat served on slabs of potato bread, the juice running down our chins and onto our fine clothes. The Earl’s brandy burned our throats and throbbed through our veins. The music was the sweetest ever heard, the people the most beautiful, the smell and taste of the food the finest. I loved every person that shouted and swayed in the crowd. We were a band of heroes, brothers and sisters united. Everyone was my friend. Mary began to sing a ballad that Lucy had loved and I joined her, our voices rising in what I believed was beautiful harmony until we both began to cry, as we remembered her mother. Lucy had died two years before, her final years spent at Traquair House with her daughter. Privately, I believed that disappointment with her son had hastened her end but I knew that she was happy with Mary, helping with her many grandchildren where she could. Will had spent much time there too, sharing lessons with his cousins and having the companionship of older boys. Our home was no longer a comfortable place for our son since his father could not hide his resentment that the estate now belonged to Will.

  I pulled my knees towards my chin and resting my cheek there, turned my face to look at Mary. ‘I miss your mother.’

  ‘Yes, I do too … every day,’ Mary replied, her eyes glistening.

  ‘When I was in labour with Anne, she sat with me for three days. I thought I would die. But she called for a woman from the village and between them they turned the child. Anne was born within minutes.’

  ‘Ah, I never heard that story.’ Mary closed her eyes and began to rock gently, humming the song again.

  I remembered how Lucy had wept with relief and joy after the birth and knelt at my bedside, asking me to join her in a prayer of thanks. Although I had closed my eyes as I cradled my newborn daughter, I gave no thanks to God but only to my mother-in-law. If God was given credit for Anne’s safe birth, I reasoned, he must be responsible for all the babies lost and I could have no truck with a God so cruel.

  A shadow fell across me. A young man’s body blocked the sun and I struggled to see his features.

  ‘Aunt Winifred?’

  I struggled to my feet and peered at him. It must be my sister Frances’ eldest son. How did I look? I wiped a hand across my mouth in case he kissed my cheek.

  ‘Mary, Charles, can I introduce my nephew, the 5th Earl of Seaforth.’ I spoke with care in case I slurred my words.

  He sat with us on the grass and accepted some brandy. ‘I’m here to bring the Mackenzie out to support the cause. I’m the head of the clan.’

  I couldn’t remember his age; but he was surely not old enough to be fighting? ‘Of course you are,’ I agreed, wondering why my tongue didn’t shape the words in the way I wanted. ‘My husband, the Earl of Nithsdale,’ I struggled with Nithsdale and had to repeat it, ‘is going to fight with the lowland lairds.’ We looked at William, asleep on the grass, his mouth open, with Anne spread across his chest.

  My nephew exchanged a few polite words with Charles and Mary, and I remembered to ask after the health of my sister. After these pleasantries there fell a tense and disapproving silence. My nephew finished his brandy and excused himself, brushing down his smart new uniform before striding away to join his clansmen.

  The sun had set behind the mountains but there were many hours of daylight ahead. We found water to drink and washed our hot faces in bowls of scented water carried through the crowd by servants from the castle. The Earl of Mar was a thorough man, who knew how to throw a party.

  We decided to walk again, attracted by the call of highland pipes from across the green. In the fading light, the jugglers had replaced their balls and hoops with flaming torches and the tumbling embers rose and fell against the dark backdrop of the hills, sending out sparks like fireflies. A familiar face, like us somewhat the worse for the Earl’s brandy, clasped William’s arm and we gasped in delight to see one of our companions from St Germain. He asked for news of my sister Lucy and I felt proud to tell him that she was now the Prioress of her convent. He told us of the loneliness suffered by Queen Mary Beatrice since the death of her daughter from smallpox. This shocking news had failed to reach me at Terregles and I felt sadness for the old queen. She would find comfort in her religion but fate had dealt her too harsh a blow in taking her daughter. I reached out for Anne and pulled her close.

  The men boasted of the hunting party. Who had killed the most deer? Who had drunk the most brandy? Anne became fractious and tugged on my hand so Mary and I took her to find a puppeteer. No doubt to the relief of their parents, he had gathered around him most of the small children. A pretty woman stood to one side with three children hanging from her petticoats and another, a baby, in her arms. Mary, who was attracted to small children like wasps to end of summer fruit, tickled the baby and Anne peered out from my petticoats at the other woman’s eldest child. In the unspoken way of children, the two joined hands and ran to sit and watch the puppets. The remaining two clasped their mother’s skirts for only a second or two more before they waddled away to sit with the older children

  ‘Thank goodness,’ the young woman sighed, ‘my nursemaid is lying in the castle with a fever and my husband has left me to make plans with the Earl of Mar. I’m Mary and my husband is Viscount Kenmure. He’s been asked to command the lowland force.’

  I saw the skin on her neck redden with pride.

  My husband had hoped that he would be asked to lead these men and I tried to swallow my disappointment. I felt a band tighten around my throat and moved away knowing that my eyes must be bright with tears. One day William must have the chance to show his worth. Even if he dies, let him be proud in death.

  As the light fell, the clansmen, the lowland lairds and all the families gathered around a platform which had been constructed for the day. Servants lit torches on three sides and we waited, the drunken laughter and loud voices rising and falling then gradually softening until a hopeful and expectant silence held our tongues, interrupted only by the lowing of distant cattle on the hills. The sad notes of a single highland piper drifted towards us from the castle and we turned, watching, waiting.

  The sound of pipes soared then retreated with the wind but gradually became more substantial, until we were able to see the piper, followed by the Earl of Mar and behind him, a standard bearer. Three pipers on the stage joined the lament as Mar climbed onto the platform and stood before us, his hands crossed before his chest. He remained with his head bowed until the music stopped. A moment of breathless quiet was followed by a roar of welcome from the crowd. Bonnets were thrown and men whistled their approval.

  One by one the clan chiefs and the lairds were called to the stage, including my husband, his back held straight with pride. The men joined hands above their heads in a chain of loyal brotherhood; Highlanders, Lowlanders, Catholics, Episcopalians, Protestants, united in common cause against the union. The crowd gave an ecstatic roar. One of the young men on the stage smiled at the fair young woman we had met by the puppets. She waved at him and blew a kiss. So that was Kenmure. He stood on the Earl’s right and to his left was a middle-aged man who, unlike everyone else, was dressed for battle.

  ‘Who’s that man?’ I whispered to Charles.

  ‘It’s Mackintosh of Borlum. He’s to lead the men down from the north to join the lowland forces. He’s a very experienced soldier.’

  We were shushed by the crowd. The Earl of Mar had produced a parchment and waited for silence. I should have listened more closely but I was watching William, searching his face. Did he know that he had been usurped by Kenmure? Had he guessed from his place in the line what the positioning on the platform meant?

  But in the almost darkness, as bats fluttered around our heads the hush was broken by these words, spoken by the Earl.

&n
bsp; ‘Now is the time for all good men to show their zeal for His Majesty’s service, whose cause is so deeply concerned, and the relief of our native country from oppression, and a foreign yoke too heavy for us and our posterity to bear; and to endeavour the restoring, not only of our rightful and native king, but also our country to its ancient, free and independent constitution under him whose ancestors have reigned over us for so many generations.’

  The flag bearer stepped forward and unfurled the Standard of King James III of England and VIII of Scotland. The flag-bearer was a young man, not quite grown, and he struggled with the weight of the pole. He tugged at the flag to allow the wind to catch and unfurl its bold message. As the standard was raised the orb toppled to the ground and rolled across the stage, settling at the feet of Viscount Kenmure.

  I gasped and bit my hand to stop myself from crying out. I had a vision of Kenmure’s head lying on the earth at Tower Hill. I heard my voice, ‘No! No!’

  Kenmure’s precious wife covered her mouth and stared at me. Fear crumpled her innocent features. I saw William shake his head and frown.

  Charles called out, ‘No Union! God save King James!’ and the crowd bellowed with relief.

  Chapter 17

  ‘My darling boy,’ I wrote, ‘I am glad that you are finding your Greek lessons a little easier. We miss you so much, especially Anne who pines for her big brother. We have some very exciting news. The king’s standard was raised at Braemar in September and there is a great army assembled in the north, ready to fight for the restoration of King James and put an end to the despised union with England. Your father is to fight too, leading our local men, and he has spent many weeks preparing …’