Dynasty 8: The Maiden: The Maiden (The Morland Dynasty)

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  ‘I hope you receive a warmer welcome than I did,’ she said crossly. ‘He didn’t believe that I was his sister. I shewed him my patent, signed in his father’s own hand, which I said I supposed he must recognize, and he said that it didn’t prove I was the King’s daughter. So I asked him why he thought his father had written my name as “Fitzjames Stuart” and he looked very angry and said he had no idea, but still he didn’t greet me as sister. I cannot understand it. I would have thought he’d be glad.’

  ‘But what on earth are you doing here?’ Allen cried as soon as she paused for breath. She looked exasperated.

  ‘You know very well what I’m doing here – the same as you. I am going to cut my hair and fight for the Prince.’

  ‘You can’t,’ Allen almost wailed. ‘It isn’t right, or proper, or decent. It isn’t safe.’

  Marie-Louise linked arms with him affectionately. ‘Never mind all that,’ she said. ‘Just tell me why the Prince wasn’t glad to see me. He took my jewels and my gold readily enough. I thought he would clasp me in his arms – it is what I’ve dreamed of for so long.’

  ‘He is very proud, I have heard,’ Allen said. ‘He is the Prince of Wales and the regent of his father, and from a stiff-necked and a Catholic family. I suppose he did not relish being told his father had sinned like any mortal man. Besides, even if you are his sister, you’re only a half-sister, and illegitimate—’

  ‘What do you mean by saying if I am—’ Marie-Louise began dangerously, but he forestalled her.

  ‘Now please, don’t begin a quarrel. We’ve got to think how to get you safely away from here.’

  She pulled her arm free and turned to face him firmly. ‘I’m not going away, Allen, so you must make your mind up to it. I shall follow the Prince wherever he goes, even if he doesn’t want me, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me. I think perhaps he just doesn’t like women. Sir Thomas Sheridan hinted as much when I spoke to him. It is to Sir Thomas, by the by, that you had better make yourself known. And then come and see me again. I have something for you that I promised I would give into your hands.’

  The next morning, very early, the Prince’s army marched out to make a surprise attack on the government’s troops. Allen, suddenly very nervous, went with them, although he had managed to persuade Marie-Louise of the impossibility of her actually fighting in a battle. As it happened, he did not fight in the battle either, for it was all over in less than ten minutes. The government’s troops, despite being veterans of Dettingen, dropped their swords and fled, great numbers of them being killed, while the royal army suffered few casualties, and marched back to Edinburgh victorious and not a little surprised. The Prince gave orders that there should be no public celebrations of the victory, for though he naturally rejoiced at the outcome, he deeply regretted the necessity of spilling the blood of his own subjects. But though there were no public celebrations there was great private joy, and the taverns of the town were full that night with singing, cheering Jacobites.

  ‘So now,’ Marie-Louise said, ‘I suppose we march into England. How relieved I am that you were not hurt in the battle. And I must say that I am glad you have come – I was beginning to pine for a familiar face, though I daresay all the faces will grow familiar to me in time.’

  ‘Are you really determined to do this insane thing?’ Allen asked her wearily. She smiled.

  ‘Of course. I shall certainly march with you. In token of which—’ She pulled off the wig she was wearing to reveal her red-gold hair cut roughly short, ending just above her shoulders. Allen was shocked, and if anything could have convinced him how serious she was, it was this sacrifice of a woman’s greatest asset.

  ‘Your poor, poor hair!’ he cried. Marie-Louise fingered her rough bob with tentative fingers.

  ‘I must say there was an awful lot of it. It was quite difficult to cut through, which is why I made such a poor job of it. But it will come to good use – I shall use it to stuff a pillow, for when we sleep out.’

  Allen’s only reply was a groan.

  The news of the rout at Prestonpans reached Morland Place, but there was no other news, not of Jemmy or of those he had been seeking. Jemima prayed nightly for their safety, to which she must now add prayers for her father’s safe return. Lady Mary was calmly convinced, she knew not why, that Jemmy was dead, and though she did not speak of her certainty to anyone, she made her plans on that assumption. The duty of ruling Morland Place in Jemmy’s absence fell to her, and it was a difficult task, with Allen gone as well. Of his fate and Marie-Louise’s she had neither information nor curiosity, and she forbade speculation on the subject. In her presence, at least, the Young Chevalier and the Rebellion were never mentioned.

  The government, meanwhile, had not been idle: two further armies, including 6,000 experienced Dutch soldiers, had been raised and put under the command of the veteran General Wade, who had commanded during ’15, and Lord Ligonier. They marched north, and towards the end of October Wade was nearing Northumberland and Ligonier Lancashire.

  Their numbers far outstripped even the highest estimates of the Jacobite army, which was reported to be still in Edinburgh, apparently awaiting reinforcements; but the rout at Prestonpans had made everyone nervous, and there were many who thought the Highlanders were invincible, and not a few who hoped they were. At Morland Place such a sentiment was not permitted to be expressed, however strongly felt. Grim-faced, and with iron self-control, Lady Mary held the reins of government. Convinced as she was that Jemmy was dead, she did not speak of it nor put on mourning clothes: it was as near as she could get to keeping her promise of laughing at his funeral.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The worst moment in Pask’s life was when Jemmy fainted, leaving him, effectively, alone on the strange hillside in the downpour. For a while he gave way to his panic and terror, and he fell on his face and wept; but he loved his master, and awareness of Jemmy’s hurt made his lapse a short one. He sat up and bent over his master, pushing his tears away ineffectually with a wrist sodden with rain. There seemed nothing he could do to ease Jemmy’s position, except to try to cover him a little more from the rain. He pulled Jemmy’s own cloak more closely around him, trying to straighten it underneath so that it kept his body slightly away from the ground; he put his hat under Jemmy’s head for a pillow, and then took off his cloak and laid it over him.

  Pilot whickered as he stood up, and he paused for a moment to pat the horse, who was still holding his foreleg clear of the ground. Pask felt it over, and concluded that it was strained in some way, but not broken. There was nothing he could do for the horse, and nothing to hitch him to: he could only hope Pilot would stay where he was, for it would certainly be easier to find Jemmy again if the horse was near by. He looked around him once more to fix the place in his memory, and then caught up his own horse’s reins and led him back down the hill.

  But where to go? It was artificially dark from the rain-clouds, but true darkness would be coming soon, and he had no idea where the nearest dwellings might be. The last place they had passed, a village called Oakenshaw, was a long way back; on the other hand, he had no idea if there was anything at all ahead other than naked countryside. He hesitated, turned this way then that, and in his helpless frustration began to weep again. But his master lay up on the hillside there and would surely die if Pask did not get help soon. He braced himself and decided to go on, and prayed to God that he had chosen right.

  The rain eased, and became only a tolerable light fall, but it grew no lighter, and Pask knew that night was coming on. He rode on along the turf line of the Roman Road, and peered through the gathering gloom to right and left for a dwelling of any sort. The country was utterly empty, not even a sheep in sight; it was the absence of sheep that Pask, who had never been more than a few miles from Morland Place in his life, found the most disturbing. He began to recite the twenty-third psalm, inside his head at first, but then out loud, to comfort himself, and when he got to the end, he began again.

/>   The repetition must have hypnotized him, for he suddenly came to with a jolt to realize that it was full dark, and he could no longer see even the line of the road. His horse was plodding on uncaringly, but Pask knew that if there was to be a dwelling or settlement, it would be near the road, and if he strayed from it he would be utterly lost. He pulled rein and stared about him again in growing panic; and then he saw it, glorious, heartwarming sight! Away to his left, the yellow blossom of a light in the calix of darkness.

  The Young Chevalier and his army remained in Edinburgh all through the month of October, awaiting reinforcements from France and from Scotland. The news of the government’s troops under Wade and Ligonier had reached them, and they knew themselves to be outnumbered. Against that, the Prince had had a definite promise of troops from Louis, which were expected at any time, and he firmly believed that as soon as they entered England, men would flock to their banner. During the month volunteers drifted in, and by the beginning of November the Prince commanded 5,000 foot soldiers and about 500 horse.

  Allen had been given command of a troop of cavalry, and had spent the month getting to know them and giving them some basic training. He had been glad of the respite, both on his own behalf, for he was not sure how he would acquit himself in battle, and for Marie-Louise, who so far had been able to live in considerable comfort in Holyrood House, though she insisted on riding out with him every day to his training manoeuvres. Nevertheless he was glad when the Council of War was finally called, for he could not help feeling that if they were to act, it must be swiftly.

  At the Council, the Prince was for marching into Northumberland and tackling Wade straight away, sure that Wade’s troops would run just as Cope’s had. Others were not so sanguine, and some of the senior officers were for never leaving Scotland at all. Finally a compromise was agreed upon, whereby the army would cross the border into Cumberland and head towards Lancashire; that way they would be close on hand to join up with the French troops, which would land on the west coast, and Lancashire, being a Catholic county, would surely supply them with reinforcements. The Prince had no doubt about it.

  ‘A great body will join, as soon as I enter the country,’ he said.

  On 3 November, therefore, the army marched out of Edinburgh in two sections, the first under Atholl and Perth to head directly for Cumberland, the second under the Prince and Lord George Murray to take an easterly route with the purpose of deceiving Wade into thinking the whole army was heading for Newcastle. Allen and Marie-Louise travelled with the Prince’s army. Marie-Louise put on man’s clothes and a man’s wig for the first time, and rode her horse beside Allen’s at the head of his troop. Allen was at first distressed and embarrassed by it, but his men thought it wonderful, and had already made her a kind of figurehead or mascot, and cheered her mightily, calling her La Chevaliere, or the Princess, revealing that tongues had been busy during the month in Edinburgh. It evidently made them happy to have her there, and Allen finally gave up the unequal task of trying to persuade her to go home or to stay in Edinburgh, or at least to ride in the baggage carts and wear a dress.

  After Kelso they swung westwards and marched down Liddesdale to join up with the other army just north of Carlisle. The feint was successful, and Wade had not moved from Newcastle; moreover the snow had begun to fall in Northumberland which would hamper Wade’s movements. The Jacobites settled down to lay siege to Carlisle.

  Afterwards Pask always thought that God had guided him towards that particular light, for it was shining from the window of a house in which lived a Catholic priest. He was an eccentric, and perforce a lone and secret man, who served the Catholics of a number of tiny villages scattered over a wide area of that sparsely inhabited land. Consequently, he was only only too eager to help a man who had come to grief marching north for the Young Chevalier -which was what Pask told him when he discovered he was a Catholic – but also knew the area, having travelled it in all weathers for the last twenty years. Between them, he and Pask made a litter and, collecting together all the priest thought he might need for the journey, they set out at once. Pask had wandered quite far from the road, but the priest, Father Guilfoyle, said that he knew the place where Jemmy lay and would take him a shorter way back.

  It was hard going at first, being so dark, and though the priest knew his ground, Pask stumbled and blundered, leading his weary horse and trying to keep a constant distance between himself and the horse in front. Between them was slung the litter, and as Father Guilfoyle said, it would be no great effort to pull the thing apart, so hastily had it been bound together. Pask, through weariness, anxiety, and strangeness, had lost all sense of time and distance, and he had no idea how long they had been walking when the rain stopped and the clouds parted and a great white moon sailed clear, flooding the countryside with a brilliant blue-white light. By contrast it was now as bright as day, and being able to see, they made better time. They came to the place of the trees round the flank of its hill, and at once saw the bulky shadow of Pilot, still standing beside his master, head down and ears out sideways. Pask gave a cry and tried to hurry forward, and Father Guilfoyle restrained him.

  ‘Steady, boy, we don’t want you going down the same way. This ground is like glass. Let your horse pick the way.’

  He left Pask holding the horses while he went to look at Jemmy, and Pask heard Jemmy groan and say something, and relief that he was still alive flooded through him.

  ‘He’s in a bad way – I pray to God he won’t get pneumonia,’ Father Guilfoyle said. ‘Bring me the splints and bandages, boy – we must try to fix this leg so it won’t move too much.’

  Pask slithered down the last few feet with the things, and hunched there, watching while the priest worked. It was evidently a painful business, for Jemmy fainted again, but the priest said that it was a good thing, as it would hurt all the more when they had to move him. Finally he was wrapped in a blanket, and then came the task of lifting him onto the litter. It was a most difficult business, for the hillside was steep and slippery, and the horses had to stand exactly the right distance apart so that the litter was flat on the ground while they lifted Jemmy on. Jemmy was a big and heavy man, but at last it was done.

  Pask held his horse’s head, and said. ‘What about Pilot? We can’t just leave him.’

  The priest went over to the black horse and felt his leg, and then quickly pulled off his cravat and with sure fingers used it to bandage the horse’s fetlock. ‘He’s not so bad,’ Father Guilfoyle said cheerfully. ‘I’ll knot his reins round his neck, and he’ll follow us. We shan’t be going so fast. Now, boy, steady at your nag’s head, and look for my signals. All right? Now then, off we go.’

  So the strange procession started forward, Father Guilfoyle leading the way, Pask urging or slowing his horse as the ground demanded, his eyes constantly returning to the inert, rolling figure of his master, tied onto the makeshift litter, and Pilot limpingly bringing up the rear. It was no longer like a dream, he thought, but like a mild and bizarre nightmare… and like a nightmare it seemed to go on and on.

  Carlisle surrendered without casualties, Wade was snowed up in Newcastle, and the Young Chevalier’s army marched on southwards to I Lancashire. There was no resistance – the militia prudently sloped off to their homes as soon as the Jacobites drew near – and they were welcomed with mild enthusiasm. But on the other hand, there was no rush to the standard. Allen observed it all sadly, seeing more clearly every day how the times had changed, how the people now were different – they were comfortable, prosperous, contented – they were civilized. To them fighting was something to be left to the soldiery, and soldiers and civilians were two different sorts of things. They liked the look of the energetic, handsome young Prince, they were perfectly happy to acknowledge that his father was the true King, and if he managed to get to London and get himself crowned, they would accept him with far better grace than that old German George, whom they had never liked. But as for leaving their homes, arming themselves at the
ir own expense, and risking their lives in battle – why, it never crossed their minds.

  When they reached Manchester on 30 November they were greeted more enthusiastically, with church bells ringing, cheering crowds lining the streets, bonfires and torches, and a banquet prepared for the Prince and his officers. The Prince led the conversation at the table as to whether he would enter London on foot or on horseback, and what he ought to wear; but Allen saw Lord George Murray shaking his head gloomily. Though Wade’s army was still hampered by snow in the east, the Duke of Cumberland had taken over command of Ligonier’s troops, and was known to be at Stafford, threatening to bar their way south. Moreover, there was no sign of the promised French troops, although some arms and fieldpieces had been landed, and the only volunteers to join them at Manchester were two hundred unemployed labourers who came forward cheerfully to say that they had planned to join up with whichever army reached Manchester first.

  Marie-Louise put on a dress and her dark wig again for the banquet, and she sparkled in all the attention that was lavished on a beautiful woman who also happened to be the only woman in the company. Allen was profoundly grateful that there had been no fighting, and that she had not been put into any danger. He thought she seemed a little preoccupied, and from time to time he saw her give a curious little grimace, as though at a spasm of mild pain, but when he asked her if she was feeling well, she only laughed and said that she was in excellent health and spirits. The Prince seemed to have got used to her presence at last, and during the banquet he even addressed one or two remarks to her. She and he were the most cheerful and sanguine of the company, both believing that everything was going well, and that the march to London would be attended with ever more success.