Pursuit of Princes (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 5)

by Julia Brannan

  Alex was struck dumb for a moment. Since the day he’d killed his wife, Kenneth had never spoken a word about her, and all of the MacGregors had come to believe he never would. That he had now broken his silence spoke volumes about how desperately he wanted revenge. Alex could not deny him that. It was his right as a Highlander.

  “Aye,” he said.

  “And me too,” an English voice came from a short way behind. Alex braced his hands on Kenneth’s back and raised his head to meet Graeme’s grey gaze.

  “I thought ye’d want to go home, now it’s over,” Alex said.

  “We’re not sure it is over yet. I’m not ready to go back to growing carrots and cabbages,” Graeme replied. “I’m not sure I could stand Thomas and Jane saying ‘I told you so’. And it’s a long way back to Manchester. I’d just as soon get a bit more sword practice in before I go. And,” he continued in a softer voice, “I wouldn’t be averse to killing a few more of the bastards myself. I’ve known Beth since she was born. She’s…she was precious to me.”

  “Aye,” Kenneth said. “We’ll make a Highlander of ye yet.”

  “Not if I’ve got to wear that stupid petticoat you’re all so attached to, with nothing underneath,” Graeme retorted. “My balls still ache just thinking about it.”

  They all laughed, and the serious moment passed. Then they continued in silence, each occupied with his own thoughts, but all of them looking forward to arriving home, if for different reasons.

  Fort Augustus, May 23rd.

  “What, all of them?” the Duke of Cumberland said incredulously.

  “We did take five of them prisoner, Your Highness, one of them an officer,” Colonel Hutchinson said nervously.

  “How the hell did six hundred men manage to escape nearly three thousand coming at them from all sides?” Cumberland said, making it clear that he didn’t consider five prisoners to be even worth mentioning.

  “Er…it was not an easy march,” Hutchinson said. “Colonel Howard said it was the most fatiguing march he’d ever made, and Lord Loudoun’s troops were held up by the treacherous conditions coming over the mountains at Glengarry. The weather has been truly awful,” he finished.

  “I know what the weather’s like!” Cumberland said hotly. “I’ve marched all over this bloody country for months. And so has Loudoun. And what of Lochiel?”

  “He got away, Your Highness.”

  Cumberland closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

  “So a man who’s been shot in both legs and is a complete cripple can run all the way along the loch and disappear into the mountains, while Loudoun’s men, all able-bodied, are incapable of catching up with him?”

  Colonel Hutchinson opened his mouth.

  “I don’t expect an answer to that, Colonel,” Cumberland said wearily. “So, they all got away. Is there any good news?”

  As far as the colonel was concerned, no, there was not much in the way of good news. But he was not here to give an opinion, as he well knew.

  “Colonel Howard is going to dinner in Lochiel’s house, Your Highness. He awaits your orders as to what to do with the house, but he has demolished all the dwellings he came across on his way there, and the men are rounding up the cattle to drive here to be sold. And Lord Loudoun says that some of the Camerons have sent to say they will surrender their arms tomorrow.”

  “How many is ‘some of’?” the duke asked.

  “We believe about a hundred, Your Highness,” Hutchinson said.

  “Well, that’s better than nothing, I suppose,” Cumberland conceded. “Tell Howard to burn Lochiel’s house and all its outbuildings to the ground. All of it. I want there to be no sign that there ever was a house at Achnacarry. The Camerons as a clan are finished, and I want them to be very clear that I mean that.”

  After the colonel had left to snatch a hasty meal before riding off yet again to deliver his commander’s orders, Prince William Augustus sat back and sighed. Some people just had the luck of the devil. It seemed that Charles had escaped to France, although that had not yet been confirmed. But he had been sure that this time Lochiel would have been dragged before him as his prisoner. How he had managed to escape was beyond him.

  It was this bloody country. Dull and gloomy, with black brooding mountains and never-ending rain, it was enough to sap the spirit of the most cheerful of men. No wonder morale was low. After all, many of the men had been here for months. They needed a distraction, a little fun. He would organise some games for them, horse riding contests and suchlike, to lift the spirits.

  He had no idea why the Highlanders not only endured living here, but apparently had a great attachment to the place. It would be understandable if they had seen nothing else, but most of them had marched as far south as Derby, had seen the beauty and fertility of the English countryside, and how superior it was to the bogs and crags of Scotland. How could they still cling to their little hovels and have such blind allegiance to their petty tyrant chiefs, once they had seen an alternative? It was incomprehensible.

  Damn the Camerons, and their chief! It was not over yet. He might have lost Charles, but he would not give up the hunt for Lochiel, and would see the traitor’s head on a spike at the Tower of London yet, next to Lord Lovat’s.

  And speaking of the Tower of London…Cumberland smiled. It had been five weeks since Culloden. Surely his prisoner would be well enough by now to be questioned, gently? He had hoped to do it himself on his return to London, but he realised now that he would have to stay another few weeks at least, to ensure that Scotland realised he meant business. And he would never forgive himself if the man he wanted most of all were to escape to France because he insisted on conducting the interrogation himself.

  He would write to the Duke of Newcastle tonight, and see if the prisoner was willing to volunteer the identity and whereabouts of Sir Anthony Peters to him without any persuasion at all. It was highly likely, he thought.

  He reached for the bell to call a clerk, and then changed his mind. He could not risk the secret being exposed to anyone, not while he had no idea who Sir Anthony was. He would write the letter himself and send it by the most secure route possible.

  He pulled out paper and ink, and taking out his knife, sharpened a quill, whilst pondering how to word his letter to his friend Thomas.

  He would salvage something from this otherwise disappointing day after all.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  London, June 1746.

  The young woman sat in an armchair and gazed blankly out of the window of her well-appointed second-storey living room at the expanse of grass below. She sat there for many hours every day, and every day the view was the same. To the right she could see the huge brooding edifice of the White Tower and the wall of the inner ward. To the left she could see the buildings of the Royal Mint.

  Occasionally a uniformed yeoman warder or his wife would cross the grass, and sometimes some of their children would play there, throwing a ball to each other or spinning crazily until they became dizzy and fell over. It was strange to see children playing so happily on the green which had seen so much death; Lady Jane Grey, Anne Boleyn, Catherine Howard, to name but a few, all of them for treason. The young woman wondered idly and disinterestedly if she would one day join the list, and if she, along with so many other traitors, would be buried in the Chapel Royal of St Peter ad Vincula, which could be seen on the other side of the green. She doubted it. More likely her body would be buried in an unmarked grave somewhere, and she would be forgotten.

  The chair she was sitting on had a comfortable padded seat and was covered in expensive blue silk brocade, as was the cushion she had placed at her back. The frame and legs of the chair were elaborately carved with acanthus leaves, which were covered in gold leaf.

  The chair was one of a matching pair, its partner being situated around a beautiful walnut tea-table, the legs of which were decorated in a similar pattern to that of the chairs and the three-seater sofa which flanked one side of the table, ideal if the young wo
man were to entertain friends.

  The young woman had no friends to entertain, and if she had, they would not have been allowed to visit her in any case.

  A large and exquisitely patterned Aubusson rug covered most of the floor, and two ornately carved tables stood at either end of the sofa. On each a candelabra was placed, each one holding five expensive beeswax candles which in the evening would be lit and would enhance the cosiness and luxury of the room, the walls of which were decorated in shades of cream, with gilded mouldings. The fireplace was of marble, and a fire burned merrily in the hearth. Above the fireplace was a space where at one time a mirror had hung, but this had been removed when the young woman had taken up residence.

  Through a door to the right of the fireplace was a bedroom, which was as luxuriously appointed as the living room, with a mahogany four poster bed, complete with comfortable feather mattresses and pillows, linen sheets, soft woollen blankets and a silk brocade eiderdown which matched the bed hangings. There was a mahogany dressing-table from which the mirror had been carefully removed, a chest for clothes which was full of fashionable gowns, and a beautiful writing desk, which was empty of writing materials, but on which was stacked a small selection of books. In one corner of the room was a bathtub, with a ewer and basin to the side for if the occupant wished to wash herself rather than bathe.

  The young woman had no need of a kitchen; all her meals were brought to her by a servant. If she wished to have a bath, she had only to ring a bell and a servant would be set to filling the tub with buckets of piping hot steamy water into which would be sprinkled lavender or rose petals to scent the water. A maid could be called for at any time to help her dress her hair and clothe her body in one of the beautiful gowns that had been provided for her, as she had had no appropriate clothing of her own when she had arrived. Overall the accommodations were delightful, and any young woman of breeding would have no cause for complaint at the quality of either her surroundings or the food.

  Beth MacGregor couldn’t give a fig for her accommodations. Or the food. Or the gowns.

  Instead she wore her shift, over which she had tied a dressing-gown, and she braided her hair herself. The maid, after some time spent twiddling her fingers awaiting her mistress’s summons, had been set to other tasks.

  It was true that she did eat the food provided, and drank, though very sparingly, of the fine wines which accompanied her meals, and which she watered down, having no wish to become intoxicated. But for all the appreciation she showed for the food it might as well have been gruel; she ate purely for nourishment, because she could not afford to become weak and therefore vulnerable when her ordeal began, as she was sure it would, sometime soon. Indeed she had no idea why she had been kept waiting so long. Perhaps they hoped to bore her into submission. If so, they would not win. Whatever they did, they would not win. On that she was resolved.

  In the meantime she slept for as many hours as she could, read whatever book she had been brought (she was provided with a new one every week), and then sat by the window, and waited.

  And remembered.

  The last thing she remembered before being in this room was running down the slope after killing the sergeant who had bayoneted Maggie. She remembered it in so much detail that if she closed her eyes she was there again, watching the look of surprise on the sergeant’s face as he clutched his throat, from which her knife protruded. She hadn’t actually seen him die, but she was certain that he could not have survived; she had aimed very carefully to ensure he would bleed to death in moments, and still felt a savage sense of satisfaction about it. She regretted the irretrievable loss of the knife, but she felt that her mother would have approved of the final use to which it had been put.

  She would not have been allowed to keep it here, anyway. She was not even allowed embroidery materials; she had asked and been refused. Presumably they thought she might try to kill herself with the tiny scissors, or attempt to kill her guard and escape.

  She remembered her head jerking back as the soldier made a lunge for her headscarf, and the sting as it was pulled from her head, taking some of her hair with it. And then she had run, bounding through the heather like a hare, the cool fresh Scottish air filling her lungs, her hands lifting her skirts so she would not trip as she tore down the slope, trying to give the rest of the women time to run in other directions whilst the soldiers were all focussed on her. She wondered now how many of them had escaped the redcoats.

  And then there was nothing.

  She did not remember being brought from Drumossie Moor to the Tower of London, although she knew the journey must have taken several days. She did remember waking briefly, and someone washing her face gently with warm water, but she didn’t know who had washed her or where she was at the time. After that she had vague memories of a dimly lit room, and someone speaking softly to her. Then she was being burnt alive whilst just beyond the light of the flames shadows danced, laughing and mocking her agony; then the fire was gone and instead she was buried in snow, her clothes and body soaking wet, shivering violently, while someone hammered a nail slowly into the side of her head and she screamed that she would not tell, no matter what they did, she would not tell.

  And then she had awoken properly to be told by a thin-faced exhausted-looking middle-aged man that the fever had broken, she was through the worst now, and it was certain she would survive her injury. She just had to be careful not to move for a day or two.

  She could not move anyway; the slightest movement of her head had caused her intense agony, and even the soft light of the candles set about the room caused her pain. So she had lain very still staring at the elaborate bed hangings as the exhausted man explained that he was a physician, that he had tended her since she had been shot some three weeks previously, that she had had the worst fever he had ever known, and he had despaired of her surviving on more than one occasion. But, he had told her, she was young and strong, and clearly possessed of a great will to live, although she would not have done so without his expert care, which had all been provided by His Royal Highness Prince William Augustus, Duke of Cumberland, at great expense.

  He had gone on to explain that she was now in the Tower of London and was the duke’s prisoner, although she was not being kept in the main part of the Tower, but instead was lodged in the house of one of the Yeoman Warders, and was to be provided with every luxury, at the duke’s express order. She was extremely fortunate; most of the female rebel prisoners were being held in Newgate Prison, in which conditions were very different, but, on account of her high birth and of the special regard in which His Highness held her, she was to have the best of everything.

  Beth supposed that she should at that point have expressed her undying gratitude to the physician for saving her life and to the Duke of Cumberland for his consideration; but she did neither, and instead just remained staring at the bed hangings until the physician grew tired of waiting for a response and left her to rest.

  She was not grateful. She knew that her life had not been saved because the Duke of Cumberland cared for her. Nor was she being lodged in comfort because of her aristocratic blood. She was here now, and alive, for one reason only; because she was the only person they knew who could reveal the true identity of Sir Anthony Peters, probably the most hated man in Britain, apart from Prince Charles Edward Stuart, of course. And she also knew that she would never reveal his true identity; and because of that she was most ungrateful.

  She was ungrateful to the surgeon who had fought so hard to save her life; she was ungrateful to the duke, who, she was told, had been present when she was shot and who had intervened immediately; and she was ungrateful to the idiot who had shot her and missed his aim. Instead of going straight through the back of her head and blowing her brains out as he had intended, and as she now wished it had, the bullet had skated along the side of her skull, fracturing it and gouging out a deep furrow which extended for some six inches along her head, ending at the side of her eye. She would have a scar
, the physician had told her, but it would fade in time, and much of it could be covered by her beautiful hair or a wig, in any case.

  As though she gave a damn about how she would look as she rode to the scaffold or the stake.

  It was her extraordinary hair that had saved her life, the physician had continued; due to its remarkable colour the duke had recognised her. How fortunate!

  How fortunate indeed, she thought glumly now as she watched the sky darken and the rainclouds gather over Tower Green. As for her beautiful hair, she hated it. It had brought her to this gilded prison, and would in time, she was sure, lead her to torture, and then to death.

  She must not think of that. Thinking of it would bring dread, and dread would bring weakness; and she must not weaken.

  Once certain that the wound was healing well and that all danger of infection or fever had passed, the physician had disappeared and instead she had been attended by a series of servants, the men in a livery of mustard yellow, the women in striped cotton dresses with neat aprons. All of them had treated her with the utmost respect, as they had no doubt been ordered to; and all of them remained silent as they cleaned the rooms, lit the candles or the fire, and brought her her meals.

  At first this hadn’t bothered her; trying to speak had made her head ache dreadfully, as did any noise, so she was grateful for the quiet. Any movement at all had been agonising, especially the act of eating, as the action of chewing had made her head throb so badly that more often than not she had vomited up her food while a maid held a bowl in front of her, which was then taken away, while she lay back on the pillows, tears streaming down her face and the muscles of her neck corded as she fought the agonising pain in her head.

  Over the last few weeks though, the pain had slowly diminished, and now she could eat, drink and walk about the room with the only result being a dull throbbing, which was annoying but bearable. In the absence of a mirror she had examined her wound with her fingers once the dressing had been removed, feeling the ridged and puckered skin gingerly, and remembering another ridged scar, that had snaked across a strong masculine hand, bisecting the knuckles of his index and middle finger.