Death at Glamis Castle (15 page)

He wrapped the plaid blanket closer around his shoulders, trembling at the thought of those deceitful, dangerous betrayers who had promised their loyalty and allegiance to the man they called their Bonnie Prince, and then had viciously turned on him, revealing themselves for the pitiless mercenaries they were, willing to deliver him for the price that was on his head. He had managed to escape only when one had fallen into a drunken slumber.

Cold to the bone and trembling at the confused memory of all that had happened to him since he had left the safety of Glamis Castle, the prince pulled his knees to his chin and leaned back against the stone wall of his cell. He had just roused from another snatch of fitful sleep and had no idea what time it was, but he could tell from the light shining through the tiny aperature close to the stone ceiling that it was day. Morning? Afternoon? And was it still summer, or was autumn already upon them?

He could not say, nor could he tell how many days had passed since he had last known where he was or been in touch with his own
true
men, those who had pledged to help him evade Cumberland's searching armies. For the prince, the passage of time had become a dreamlike procession of long-ago events, intruding like dim and shadowy ghosts into a present in which they did not belong.

How long since the march into England, where they had come so close to London—and would have triumphed, but for the perfidy of the French and the cowardice of the English who called themselves his friends?

How long since the slaughter at Culloden Moor, where upwards of a thousand of the best and the bravest of Highlanders were lost, and he himself had been covered with the filth flung up by the English cannon balls?

How long since he had sought refuge, first with Lord Lovat at Gortuleg, and then, when that gentleman offered him neither counsel nor aid, with the Laird of Glengarry? By that time, he had totally renounced his efforts to regain the Stuart throne from the Hanoverian usurpers, his sanguine hopes extinguished like flickering candles in the black despair of his defeat.

But when was that, and when was
now
? He could not tell, only that there had been a stay of some weeks, perhaps a comfortable month or two, in seclusion at Glamis Castle, under the protection of the Earl of Strathmore. A pleasant time, when he had been surrounded by things in which he could take pleasure: books and art and music, and walks about the land.

The Prince sighed and looked with distaste around the dim, musty-smelling room. Other than the two straw mattresses stacked together on which he was sitting, there was only a tipsy chair, a wobbly stool, and a table on which stood an ancient wine bottle decorated with the waxen rivulets of long-ago candles, into which Flora MacDonald had stuck a taper the night before.

Flora.
He half-smiled as he thought about her gray eyes and graceful movements, and the lines from the poet Lovelace which she had recited to him last night, after she had found him in the dark woods and brought him here.
“Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage; Minds innocent and quiet take that for an hermitage.”
Well, his mind was neither innocent nor quiet, and he could hardly take this damp cell for an hermitage.

But he appreciated Flora's efforts to hearten and soothe him, and when they reached Skye and safety, he would see her amply rewarded for all that she had suffered for his sake. He might even do more than that, for he was beginning to acknowledge to himself (although not yet to her) that he felt a tender affection for the girl, so sweetly innocent, so careful of his person and comfort—and beautiful, too. He might take her to France with him. He might marry her and make her a princess, the wife of the Stuart king-to-be, the mother of Stuart princes.

The Prince stirred, stretched, and frowned. Now that he was awake, he was also hungry, and he hoped that Flora would not forget where he was or fail to bring him something to eat—and especially that she would not allow herself to be taken captive by the King's men who were pursuing them both.

But his apprehension was short-lived, for there was a noise at the door. It opened with a heavy groan, and Flora appeared with a large tea tray.

“I've brought you something to eat, m'lord,” she said, smiling.

He understood her easily, in part because his hearing was not as impaired as he liked to pretend, in part because she was careful to say her words distinctly and to speak directly to him, so that he could watch her lips.

He smiled and threw off the blanket. “What a feast!” he exclaimed, seeing that not only had she brought him a large pot of tea, but fruit and cheese and oatcakes and his favorite ginger biscuits. “I shan't go hungry. Thank you, my dear.”

“Guid.” She returned his smile. “If ye'll be only a little patient, sir, and make nae noise at all, ye'll be perfectly safe here.”

His brow clouded, and he frowned petulantly. “But I thought we were going to Skye,” he muttered, going to the table. “I am more than ready, now that I'm free from those dreadful men. The French ships may already be waiting at Skye, Flora, so we should not delay much longer.”

“We
are
going tae Skye, sir,” Flora replied, pouring his tea. “Just as soon as it may be arranged. But I do hope that ye'll restrain yer eagerness, and that ye'll trust me.”

He pulled up the tipsy chair. “I shall try, Flora.” He gave her a small smile. “And I must trust you, mustn't I? My life is in your hands.”

Clarence
Michael Harrison

 

 

 

 

Kate looked down at the gold watch pinned to her dress. Seeing that it was nearly lunchtime, she turned back toward the castle, hoping that Charles might finish his tasks and arrive in time to join her and tell her what was going on. At a distance, she had caught several glimpses of men and wagons moving through the park, and a bivouac area had been set up in a large field at the rear of the castle. Obviously, Colonel Paddington's men were going about their business, although what that business was, she hadn't a clue.

The morning mist was brightening, the pale sun shining behind it like a silver coin. Her camera on a strap around her neck, Kate was strolling through the garden at the south-east corner of the castle, enjoying the colorful begonias and pelargoniums, the gay scarlet salvias and glowing golden chrysanthemums, their colors the brighter against the gray of the day. Clematis and roses made a lovely pastel display against a rosy brick wall, and several varieties of hydrangea were heavy with bloom, the heavier for being damp still with the morning's chilly mist. She had nearly reached the main entrance of the castle when she heard hurrying hoofbeats and turned to see a hired carriage coming fast along the lane. Glamis Castle, it seemed, was about to receive another guest.

The carriage pulled up in a shower of gravel, and a liveried man seated beside the coachman jumped down to open the carriage door and give his hand to an alighting woman. She wore black and was heavily veiled, and it was not until she lifted her veil that Kate realized, with some surprise, that the woman was Princess Victoria, daughter of King Edward and Queen Alexandra.

Kate had first met the Princess during the year after she and Charles married. They made occasion to see one another when they were both in London, and since Victoria—or Toria, as she was called by her family and friends—was a loyal reader of Beryl Bardwell's novels, Kate always inscribed a first-edition copy of each book to her. Toria, now in her early thirties, was Queen Alexandra's only unmarried daughter. She served as her mother's companion and personal secretary, rarely venturing far from the Queen's side. An encounter with her here, in this remote corner of Scotland, was startling, to say the very least.

Kate stepped forward. “Welcome to Glamis, Your Highness,” she said and dipped a practiced curtsy.

“Hello, Kate,” the Princess said with no surprise in her voice. She held out both her hands eagerly, and Kate rose. “I have been hoping that you would come to Glamis with Lord Sheridan. It's been far too long since we've seen each other. Do you remember that wonderful day last winter when we stole away and went shopping at the new Wool-land in Knightsbridge? I certainly do—and I treasure the tea gown I bought there, even though Motherdear objects to my wearing it.”

Kate went to the Princess and took her offered hands, and they exchanged affectionate kisses. “You thought I might be here?” She gave a chiding little laugh. “Well, then, you certainly know more than I, Toria. Perhaps you'll let me in on the secret.”

The Princess did not answer, for behind them, the coachman lifted the reins, and the carriage moved off. At the same moment, the castle door opened, and the house steward, Simpson, came out onto the steps. At the expression that came and went on his face, Kate judged that he recognized the Princess, was surprised to see her, but also understood why she had come—which was certainly more than Kate could fathom. It was true that Balmoral, the royal Scottish retreat, was no more than a day's journey by coach, and that the Duchess of Fife, Toria's older sister, lived not far away. But Glamis was rather out of the way and certainly not on the usual route of travel.

Simpson made a deep bow. “Your Highness,” he said with aplomb. “Welcome to Glamis. I regret to say that Lord and Lady Strathmore are not in residence at the moment, and that Lady Glamis has just this morning departed. But the staff and I shall certainly do all in our power to make you comfortable during your stay.” It was the only speech Kate had heard from him, and there was not a trace of Scots in it. The man was obviously a Londoner.

“Thank you, Simpson,” Toria said. “I'm sure I shall be quite all right. Might it be possible for me to have the Rose Room? I should also very much like some luncheon, the sooner the better.” She began to strip off her gloves. “And immediately after lunch, I should like to have a talk with you and Duff about my—” She paused, with a quick glance at the man who had helped her down from the carriage, who was now standing beside her trunk. “About Lord Osborne.”

“Very good, Your Highness,” Simpson said. “The Rose Room, Thomas,” he added to a footman, who went to help the waiting manservant with the trunk. As a gong sounded somewhere inside, Simpson bowed again to the Princess. “As to luncheon, ma'am, it is just now being served in the family dining room. Of course, if Your Highness would like to freshen up first—”

“Luncheon,” the Princess said decidedly, “is of the highest priority. I've come from Denmark, and it was not convenient to stop for breakfast.”

Kate, too, was hungry, her own breakfast having consisted of bread and butter and coffee procured on the railway platform in Perth, and had spent the last hour repenting of her decision not to let Flora bring a tea tray. But only a few minutes later, she and Toria were in the pleasant and informal Strathmore family dining room, with pots of ferns at the window and pastel watercolor landscapes on the walls, an agreeable change from the forbidding portraits of ancestors that hung everywhere else.

Kate unfolded her napkin across her lap. “I was very sorry to hear of your aunt's death,” she said. “Please accept my condolences.” The news of the long-expected death of the Dowager Empress Friedrich had been in all the newspapers, along with reports of the Royal Family's trip to Germany to attend the funeral. “You were in Berlin with your mother and father?”

“In Hamburg and Potsdam,” Toria replied, “where the ceremonies for Aunt Vicky took place. Papa has stayed on for a planned state visit with Cousin Willie.” She made a little face, and Kate was reminded that none of Queen Victoria's English grandchildren had any admiration for their German cousin, who was now the Kaiser. “And Motherdear has gone on to Denmark,” Toria added, “for her usual visit with Grandmama and Grandpapa. I left her in Bernstorff.”
Motherdear
was her children's name for the beautiful Queen Alexandra. The Queen's parents were the rulers of Denmark, and she always spent a few late-summer weeks with them.

“And you have come to Glamis,” Kate remarked thoughtfully, as a footman set steaming bowls of giblet soup before them. “I should rather have expected you to stay in Denmark with Her Majesty.”