It was Will’s voice she would choose as her favourite feature of him. Mellow, not pitched too deep and capable of a deliciously sparkling laugh when she could provoke it. His American accent was addictive and contrasted with her Welsh lilt, which had been overshadowed, but not forgotten, by her years of attending a fine British public school. She could strengthen it as she chose, of course, but then she could also mimic Will’s southern American English, or adopt her cousins’ Cornish brogue with ease, because of a finely tuned ear for language.
‘… black lines of negative energy, Curry lines of natural radiation, Hartmann lines of magnetic energy …’ She let his soothing voice warm her, while she wondered which of the energies had aligned to bring him to her. She was twenty-seven, and had begun to believe her sister’s quip that she was a serial lover without the love.
Finishing her history degree — specialising in late eighteenth century social and cultural life — had been a milestone in her life. She had enjoyed drilling down to understand the social mores of the era, its language and developments. But what was the benefit in knowing that soup was placed at one end of the table and fish at the other, and that custards and vegetables were never placed centrally; or about the introduction of vaccination against smallpox; or that John Wesley founded the Methodists in the late 1730s, and that the Royal Academy of Arts was founded in 1768? She’d studied the paintings of Gainsborough and Reynolds but preferred the work of Hogarth, whose dark, satirical scenes of life she found more intriguing. She had liked the enrichment her studies provided but truly, what good could they do her, other than enabling her to teach history, perhaps? Or become a historian? Neither of these options appealed. She hardly needed the money.
She’d returned to Wales for the long summer break, but had rejected her parents’ suggestion to join them at their holiday cottage in Brittany in favour of taking up her cousin’s invitation to visit Cornwall and enjoy some summery days in Penzance, where she could think and make decisions. It was there that she’d decided she would answer the nagging voice in her mind and set out on the journey that she’d not discussed with anyone yet: writing a novel. It was such an exciting notion it seemed truly all-consuming. She felt ready to sit down and write. It would be fiction, of course. Historical fiction? She wasn’t sure.
She hadn’t known what she wanted to do with her life four months earlier. Did she want a career? Did she want to remain in academia? Did she want to join the family retail business? Or did she just want to travel for a year? She could, for her allowance from her parents was generous, plus they’d offered to buy both their daughters a house or an apartment, whichever they preferred, in any city they liked. She was embarrassed that her life was so easy and had hesitated to go hunting for property, despite her father’s urgings.
‘London, New York, Paris, Rome … Cardiff,’ he’d quipped over the phone. ‘Just find what you want and let’s get you settled into a place of your own.’ She could hear her mother coaching him in the background, no doubt forgetting just how sensitive phones were today. Jane loved her for it, could hear how much her mum wanted to encourage her to spread her wings, even while feeling the umbilical cord straining, wishing she could keep her child close.
‘… and dowsers are getting quite a following,’ Will was saying beside her. ‘But then, water is energy, and animals and birds have followed instinctive pathways for centuries. Which of us can categorically say that they aren’t tapping into some energy line that guides them to a watering hole, or fruitful feeding grounds, or nesting sites?’
She blinked herself out of her thoughts, smiling at him. ‘It’s a tough one,’ she said noncommittally.
‘I don’t believe you’ve heard anything I’ve said,’ he chastised.
‘I hang on your every word, William Maxwell of Nithsdale.’
‘Have you been looking into my history?’
She shrugged. ‘No, but maybe I should learn more. Do you know anything about him?’
Will paused outside a shop selling outrageously priced shoes and handbags. The shop had Jane’s instant attention.
‘Know about him? My mother dines off him, Jane. Scottish noble, fought at the Battle of Preston, thrown into the Tower by the King of England, sentenced to death as a traitor … yadda yadda.’
‘You’re kidding!’ She turned from the black patent-leather loafers that she’d been studying in the shop window to look at her fiancé.
He grinned. ‘I’m not.’
‘So, yadda yadda?’ Jane shook her head slightly. ‘What happened?’ His background had genuinely pricked her interest; which student of history wouldn’t be sucked in by that ancestry?
‘I’m bored with it,’ he said, waving off her curiosity. ‘My mother tells every girl I’ve ever gone out with that we’re related to the famous Nithsdales. And you know how we Americans love even the vaguest notion of a royal link to Britain. I think some women have hung around me not because I was fascinating them, but because they loved the whiff of noble ancestry.’
‘Sorry for mentioning it,’ she said. ‘Hate to be like all the others,’ she added, feigning a pointed tone.
He ignored the barb. ‘You’re not like all the others. And that’s why you’re the one I love. You’re the woman I want to spend my life with, have children with, grow old with and —’
‘Trip the magical ley lines with?’ she cut in, her humour returned.
‘Absolutely. We’re on a straight track together. Not even death can break it.’ At her shaken expression he sighed. ‘Come on, how do you fancy a tour of the Tower? And then I’ll buy you a slap-up lunch at the Arts Club.’
She shrugged a shoulder. ‘I’ve seen it many times.’ She knew he’d also toured London previously. ‘Are you a member of the Arts Club?’
‘Fully paid up, of course, by my father. He knows about these things.’
A Porsche screeched to a halt at the traffic lights and a couple, not long past their teens and dressed in the aggressive clothing of the emerging punk movement, banged the hood. The driver, dressed in a dazzling disco-style burnt-orange shirt and burgundy jacket, had to be a stockbroker, Jane thought. And she imagined that the burgundy jacket had matching disco flares that would further offend his attackers. He glared, but wasn’t prepared to say anything to the scary-looking pair in T-shirts bearing swastikas. The man’s jeans were deliberately torn, she was sure, as were the girl’s fishnet tights emerging from a too-tight, short leather skirt. Must be freezing, that get-up, Jane mused, noting the spiked cuffs around their wrists and the chains hung from their waists, but most of all the impressively spiky mohicans towering from their otherwise shaved heads. She didn’t dare stare until she and Will were well past them.
The lights changed, the disco Porsche roared off and Jane had to wonder whether the political message of moderation was having an effect on any demographic. It was being called ‘the winter of discontent’: industrial disputes just seemed to be gathering more and more momentum, affecting every aspect of daily life. A general election was looming and that likely meant even more financial indecision and everyone feeling unsettled. Not only was a change of leadership for Labour in the air, but also the potential for Tory-led government and a new broom. Margaret Thatcher was exciting, her father thought, even though she was a woman. ‘Now we’ll see some change,’ he had promised as the new Tory campaign began to yell that Labour Isn’t Working. And, truth be told, it wasn’t. Yet though Jane had no interest in politics, her history studies had shown her that no matter who was in power people always found something to complain about.
The rich just always get richer, Jane, one of her university colleagues had quipped. It was an oblique dig at her social situation, which she generally avoided discussing … but then, her brand of jeans alone said more than enough about her financial standing. She knew it was hopeless to join in political discussions. No one took her seriously.
They were now meandering out of the Seven Dials area, sharing a smile as they passed the hotel and thei
r bedroom, overlooking the central point from which all the roads radiated, then wandered toward the Royal Opera House.
‘This whole area is about to get a major redevelopment,’ Jane remarked. ‘I’ve always loved Covent Garden as it is, though. I hope they don’t clean it up too much.’
The noise from the pubs they passed was relentless. She knew from her past experience of living in London that this area always seemed to be throbbing and full of people no matter what time or season it was, or which government was in power.
They strolled down onto the Strand, where double-decker buses ground past. She saw advertisements on two of them promoting Evita, with a little-known singer in the title role of Eva Peron. The singer, Elaine Paige, was causing a stir in the entertainment sections of the newspapers, she’d noticed, and besides, it was a Lloyd Webber musical — it had to be great. She made a note to get some tickets while she was in London.
Surprisingly agile black London cabs darted around them, in and out of the river of cars, searching for a gap to fill in the traffic. She and Will wandered around Trafalgar Square and along Piccadilly, ultimately joining the river of pedestrians flowing into the Tube station below.
It was to be a single-stop journey, then they could stroll to the Mayfair-based Arts Club through Green Park. Will was attracted to the linear clock in the station concourse, which was stretched across a map of the world. Jane had passed it many times and never noticed it.
‘I might have guessed … another straight track?’ she baited.
‘Correct — time is a straight line to and from infinity,’ he said, putting an arm around her shoulder and pulling her to him as he stared at the map. ‘Look at this amazing clock, would you?’ Will sighed. ‘Somewhere in the world, the sun is always shining.’
‘Of all the most powerful ley lines in the world, which would you like to visit?’ she asked, reaching both hands around his waist so they were as close as two people could stand.
‘Good question — but I think what you’re referring to are the major Earth vortices, which are spots on our planet that some people consider of huge significance, where ley lines intersect and so on. Right?’
‘I have no idea,’ she replied, waving a hand. ‘Pick just one.’
‘Hmm. Rapa Nui — Easter Island — in the south-east Pacific is hugely tempting.’
‘Where those amazing statues are,’ she said, recalling seeing pictures of the Polynesian monoliths with their enigmatic expressions.
‘Lhasa in Tibet is also somewhere I’d love to see.’
‘Choose!’ She grinned. ‘Simple question.’
Will pondered the map for a few moments while Jane watched his neat, spare profile. He was frowning, seemingly taking her frivolous query very seriously. Finally, he pointed to the middle of a continent she had never visited. ‘I think number one on my must-visit list of great Earth vortices has to be Ayers Rock.’
‘Australia?’
He nodded and his gaze became distant, but there was a new sparkle in it as he answered. ‘Every day I fight the urge to go with the New Agers and believers. They attribute huge spiritual and “special” energy to what the indigenous people of Australia call Uluru.’ He kissed her and his focus snapped back to alert. ‘Besides, that particular monolith has always intrigued me. It’s where important ley lines intersect which, if you follow the believers, gives it vast magical powers. I may be a scientist, but as I said I can’t help but want to believe in the magic. Ayers Rock looks different at various times of the day and in its changing seasons, rising out of the great desert the way it does — an island mountain. I think I have to feel its magic, if it exists. That’s the role of a sceptic, isn’t it — to test those kinds of claims? And, more importantly, I’d like to climb it and write my name in its book at the top.’
‘Really?’
He nodded dreamily. ‘Ayers Rock is maybe three hundred million years old.’
‘That seems like forever.’
He grinned. ‘That’s how long my love for you will endure.’
She gave him an affectionate punch. ‘Come on, let’s head down before it gets too busy.’
As they turned away from the clock, loud voices echoed around the station as a stream of young men, football supporters by the look of their similar scarves, ran through. When people stopped to let them by, they yelled at them, frightening many. Several of the football fans were pushing at each other — initially play-fighting, but then it became less friendly. Jane instinctively shrank back behind the strapping frame of Will.
Four of the young men — fuelled by alcohol, Jane could see now from the bottles in their hands — laughed and cajoled their way closer to the clock where she and Will were standing.
‘Where the fuck are we? Does anyone know where England is?’ one called out and pointed at the map. They laughed, and offensive name-calling was exchanged.
But then one of them turned and in that split second Jane connected with a gaze, angry-bright from liquor, sliding over her and Will.
‘What are you fuckers starin’ at, then?’
‘Minding our own business, fella,’ Will said amiably. ‘We’ll get out of your way. Come on, Jane,’ he said firmly, and pushed her forward.
‘Hey, Jane,’ another mocked, ‘can we have your purse, please? Me mates and I ’ave run out of cash.’
Jane ignored them and kept walking, but suddenly felt her bag being yanked off her shoulder. Comically, in that moment, all she could think about was how much money that bag had cost yesterday in Knightsbridge. And instinctively she yanked it back.
‘Let go!’ she snapped.
Will spun around. ‘Hey, guys, really, we want no trouble,’ he appeased, his tone even, his hands open.
‘Yeah? But we do, mate! We want some trouble. I hate fuckin’ Yanks too.’ The man was bulky and the same height as Will. Jane thought he seemed older than most of the gang, and he looked like he worked out, if his thick thighs and biceps were anything to judge by. He seemed to be pulsing with unspent energy, like a stormy sky, with its constant grumble of thunder threatening to unleash a lightning strike. Don’t strike us, she pleaded inwardly. We’re going to be married.
It was wry indeed, she realised, how she embraced the notion so easily in this moment of fear.
More of the mob turned their way, and Jane could see commuters moving back, some heading for telephone booths — hopefully to call police — while others were craning around, no doubt searching for a glimpse of the station’s security team.
Will shrugged, remaining impressively affable. ‘I have Scottish blood, if that helps you hate me less …’
Jane believed he’d said it reasonably, humorously even, but she thought she saw the flash of a blade. The mood was spiralling downward and they were suddenly the target of the men’s anger. Will would have to fight, but she knew he was capable of it. They might not have known each other long, but they’d filled that short time with endless conversations that stretched into the early hours. Will had been a jock at school, and beneath his expensive Barrymore-collar shirt and flared jeans lurked a body that rippled with muscles. He worked out with weights, he ran several miles each morning and he knew how to box — middleweight champion in his senior years, apparently. And he was also a martial arts expert, if all that business he’d told her about Japan was accurate. Nevertheless, she didn’t want to see him prove any of it.
‘Here, have it,’ she said, pulling her old leather purse from the bag and tossing it at them. She needed a new purse and she wasn’t carrying more than forty pounds in cash. Hopefully they’d take the money and toss the purse, but if they did take her Barclaycard, so be it. She could cancel it in a blink. Pity to lose the other guff she carried around, but suddenly she no longer cared.
They jeered and started to scatter everything from her purse on the ground, skimming her regular credit card, library card and the emergency American Express card that her father funded, and she’d forgotten about, at people like one might skim a stone acr
oss the water’s surface. No one spoke; some people were frozen, others were shuffling away from the trouble. She envied the latter group as she and Will stood momentarily mute, knowing it was better to let them have their petty fun.
‘Thanks, whore,’ their tormentor spat.
‘Asshole,’ Will muttered.
Jane cut her fiancé a look of horror, but sensed the insult had slipped out before he could censor himself.
‘What did you say, Yankee-boy?’ the thief demanded, the tattoos on his arms twitching as though his muscles were spasming beneath them.
‘Nothing,’ Will replied. ‘You got what you wanted. We’re leaving.’
She didn’t see it happen. Even when Jane felt herself pushed off-balance behind Will, she didn’t know what had occurred. She was aware of Will’s head whipping to one side and his layered hair flipping back. The crack of his neck sounded deafening, but worse was the second crack of his head against a pillar. He toppled like a tree being felled — Jane still clutching his arm — and she heard his skull hit the cream-coloured tiles of the station floor. His once-laughing face was now slack, his beautiful blue eyes closed, his mouth open and bleeding from where he’d bitten his own tongue.
The men ran off, laughing, but not before flinging her emptied purse back at her. Jane didn’t care about anything except seeing Will open his eyes and smile at her again. She shut out the sounds of concerned voices, of a distant ambulance siren, and ignored the helping hands of commuters that tugged at her.
‘Don’t move him again!’ she begged them, as Will was rolled onto his back and she caught sight of the depression on the side of his head where he’d cracked it.
The siren intensified in her mind and suddenly Jane could no longer breathe.
THREE
Scotland, September 1715
The Jacobite Rising had become official with a public declaration by Lord Mar:
… having taken into consideration His Majesty’s last and late orders to us, find that now is the Time that he ordered us to appear openly in arms for him, so it seems to us absolutely necessary for His Majesty’s service, and the relieving of our native country from all its hardships, that all his faithful and loving subjects and lovers of their country should, with all possible speed, put themselves into arms.
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