Legacy (11 page)

The thought of Traquair terrified Katrine. She and Alasdair had visited the house many times from early childhood. The Maxwells were cousins to both the Murray and Douglas sides of their family. But this was different. Traquair was where Mairi and Jeanne had been killed. It was also the last logical resting place for the stone. There was no other place she could think of to look.

There was another complication that Katrine refused to admit even to herself. Duncan Forbes was at Traquair. The persistence of his suit had not abated even when her pregnancy became obvious. Her English husband was very far away, and his last letter was over four weeks old. It was rumored that Prince Charles was expected at Traquair. Duncan, a Whig and Hanover supporter, had been sent to persuade Charles that his cause was hopeless, to lay down his arms and return to France.

***

Richard Wolfe cursed fluently and kicked the rock under his boot. It had been weeks since he’d heard from Katrine. Now, when he was at Nairn and less than a day’s journey from Blair, his position as aide to the duke of Cumberland made it impossible to go to her. The duke’s army of nine thousand foot and horse soldiers was camped on Drumossie Moor, a wide bare plain that might have been made specifically for the maneuvers of the disciplined infantry.

To the south, across the River Nairn, was the broken, hilly ground George Murray had chosen for the battle site. He had been rebuffed by the Irishman, O’Sullivan. Prince Charles, blinded by the man’s flattery, chose to accept his counsel rather than the hard-headed appraisal of Murray, who had proven himself to be a brilliant military tactician. Richard knew there was little doubt as to the outcome of the battle to come. The five thousand Jacobite troops, weak from lack of provisions, hadn’t a chance.

He drew his cloak around him and looked disapprovingly at the primitive beauty of Drumossie Moor. If he never saw this godforsaken country again, it would be too soon. He missed the manicured loveliness of the England countryside. He missed his valet and his library and the gracious decorum of life at Ashton Manor. He missed breakfast in the sunlit room near the conservatory and the excellent claret waiting for him in his wine cellar. He missed discussing horseflesh with his groom and finances with his secretary. He missed clean sheets and feather mattresses and warm bathwater. Most of all, he missed Katrine. He ached for the mere sight of her. Christ! How had he, Richard Wolfe, become embroiled in this absurdity? He closed his eyes and prayed for the first time since he was a boy. If God was merciful, when next he stood before his wife, it would be without her father’s blood on his hands.

“Richard?” The quiet voice interrupted his thoughts.

He turned, and his eyes widened. George Murray, immaculately dressed in wig and hat, stood before him.

“How did you manage to pass through our lines?” Richard asked.

Murray’s smile was grim. “There are enough Scots in the duke’s regiment to make one more nearly invisible.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” Richard’s pain was genuine. Never, in his darkest moments, had he believed it would come to this.

George smiled again. “I didn’t come to blame you, lad. I came to ask a favor.”

“You know I won’t let anything happen to Katrine or your family,” Richard assured him.

“It isn’t Katrine I worry about. ’Tis the clans. Cumberland knows that if the prince’s cause is to find support anywhere in Britain, it will be the Highlands. Use your influence, Richard. Plead for mercy.”

“You speak as if the outcome is a foregone conclusion.”

Murray gestured toward the wide expanse of plain that was Drumossie Moor. “Have you ever seen a more inappropriate ground for Highlanders?” he asked the younger man.

Richard, who knew something of the Highland clans’ sole battle tactic, that terrifying uncontrolled charge followed by merciless work with a broadsword and dirk, had to agree. “I didn’t realize O’Sullivan’s influence carried such weight.”

“O’Sullivan has a way with words,” replied George dryly, turning away.

“Wait.” Richard’s voice stopped him. “How did you leave Katrine?”

“She is well,” replied George without turning around. “Take care, lad. Every bairn needs a father to keep him in line.”

Richard watched his father-in-law’s tall, raw-boned figure disappear into the mists.

***

Charles Edward Stuart looked every inch a prince as he lifted Katrine’s hand to his lips. “Your father never told me that you had married, Lady Katrine,” he said. “Who is the fortunate man?”

She lifted her chin and met the dark eyes of her prince defiantly, “He is English, Your Grace. Perhaps you’ve heard of Richard Wolfe?”

“Indeed I have,” replied Charles pleasantly. “A good man.” He looked pointedly at Katrine’s protruding stomach and grinned. “Apparently marriage agrees with you. In France you were not so encumbered.”

She blushed. “I apologize for receiving you in this condition. My visit to Traquair House was unexpected.”

His eyes twinkled down at her. “Apologies are unnecessary, lass. You are lovely as usual, and motherhood is a noble undertaking. May I escort you to dinner?”

At that moment Katrine realized what it was about this tall, slender young man that won hearts to his cause. She smiled. “I would be honored, Your Grace.”

Dinner was excellent. His lordship’s cook, upon learning that Prince Charlie himself would be dining at Traquair, outdid himself. The roasted lamb was pronounced delicious, the pasties light and rich, the black pudding and haggis the best the assembled guests had tasted.

Herbert Maxwell, laird of Traquair and an ardent Jacobite, was delighted. With the exception of Duncan Forbes at his table, the evening could not have been more perfect. If Duncan’s mother had not been a Maxwell, the man would have been shown the door and hospitality be damned. Maxwell shook his finger at his unwelcome guest. “How dare you suggest that our prince will not be victorious?”

Duncan’s mouth thinned. “Easily,” he replied. “His forces are outnumbered by a highly trained, well-fed, well-paid army.” He focused his attention on the prince. “I beg you, sir. Fall back. Disband your men and return to France. Nothing will come of this but destruction of the Highland clans.”

“Are you omniscient, Forbes?” The prince’s brown eyes glinted with anger. “Can you assure the government forces their victory and my own defeat?”

“It does not take a genius to do so,” Duncan replied bluntly, “only a man with his eyes and ears open.”

The prince inspected his wineglass. “How interesting an interpretation.”

Katrine saw the pulse leap in Duncan’s throat and marveled at his ability to keep his temper. “Are you aware that Cumberland intends complete annihilation of the clans?” he demanded. “There will be no quarter given, not even to the wounded. Glens will be laid to waste and looting sanctioned. Leaders will be executed, and those that are spared will be stripped of their hereditary powers. Is that what you wish for those whose loyalty is yours?”

“Not even Cumberland would stoop to such butchery,” protested Maxwell.

“Would he not?” Duncan spoke softly, but no one could mistake his meaning. “Why don’t you ask Katrine what matter of man he is? She knew him in London. Perhaps another Jacobite can convince you.”

“Katrine?” Charles smiled across the table at her. “Do you agree with Duncan? Shall I call an end to our cause?”

“Would you?” Her large, black-lashed eyes challenged him.

“No,” he replied honestly and grinned.

She smiled wearily and rose to her feet. “Then I’ll bid you good night.” All three men rose, but she waved them to their seats. “Don’t get up. I can find my own way.”

Katrine climbed the stairs that led to the guest bedchambers. But instead of turning down the corridor that led to her room, she moved in the opposite direction toward the secret stairs that led to the hidden priests’ rooms. Last night, in her dreams, Mairi had come to her once again. This time Katrine willed herself to stay calm, refusing to succumb to the terror of the dark passageway and steep, slippery steps. Instead she concentrated on landmarks, committing to memory every turn, every miss, every ancient smoking sconce, on her way to the crypt.

She had awakened early that morning alert and rested for the first time in months, her senses sharp with awareness. Her eyes sparkled, and the dark shadows beneath her lashes had disappeared altogether. Hope surged through her veins. She felt piercingly, vibrantly alive, like a felon destined for the gallows who is unexpectedly reprieved at the final hour. The answer had come to her when she tripped over a jagged irregular step. In a sudden rush of memory, Katrine realized she had traveled this way before, first as a little girl with Alasdair and later with Gavin Maxwell, Herbert’s oldest son. She knew where to find Mairi’s passageway.

Now, all she needed was a chance to search the rooms above the secret stairway in privacy. The men were still arguing among themselves, and her pregnancy had given her the excuse to retire early. Her maid wouldn’t look for her for another two hours.

Rubbing her arms against the chill, Katrine carefully climbed the twisting stairs. The well was so narrow that she found herself walking sideways in order to squeeze through the narrow turns. Her breath came in shallow gasps, and she stopped several times, bracing herself against the walls. Finally, she was at the top. She didn’t bother to search the rooms but went directly to a rosewood panel near the mantel. Mairi had led her down, not up. Wherever the stone was hidden would not be at the top of Traquair House.

Using all her strength, Katrine pushed on the carved wood and held her breath. A door, cleverly carved to match the wall, opened onto a narrow stone tunnel. Sighing with relief, she leaned against the wall and pushed a tendril of hair from her forehead with a shaking hand. This was it, the passageway that led to the Stone of Destiny.

Breathing deeply, she straightened and looked around. Spying a footstool in the corner, she pulled it out, anchored the door open, and stepped inside the tunnel. She walked slowly, shifting her weight to accommodate the stitch in her side that grew more irritating by the minute. Ignoring the tightening bands of pain around her back and stomach, she continued down the passageway. Her excitement grew as she recognized the jagged irregular step from her dream. In the distance a pale glow beckoned her. The space narrowed and darkened. Katrine could no longer see the light. She hurried forward, gasped, and doubled over as a knifelike pain gripped her. Holy God! Could it be the child?

Katrine turned back, frantic with fear. The stone would have to wait. She stumbled as her foot searched the darkness for a hold on the step. How far had she come? Would there be time enough to return? Running her hands along the walls, she climbed, half walking, half crawling her way up, stopping only when the waves of pain rocked her with an intensity that sucked out her breath and drew the waning strength from her limbs. Her stomach felt very hard. Suddenly she gasped. A flooding warmth rushed down her legs, soaking her undergarments and ruining her satin slippers. Was it blood? Horrified at this unknown phenomenon, the fine edge of her control slipped away. Shaking with fear for her unborn child, Katrine cried out, “Help me. Oh, God! Someone please help me.”

Duncan Forbes knocked softly on the door to Katrine’s bedchamber. If she was already asleep, he would leave the message with her maid. Moments before, a Forbes clansman had arrived at Traquair, reporting that the Jacobite army under the command of George Murray had assembled at Drumossie Moor. The duke of Cumberland and his troops, which included Major Richard Wolfe, were still at Nairn celebrating the duke’s birthday. Forbes grimaced. He did not relish the idea of telling Katrine that her child might share a birth month with the second son of England’s king. He knocked again. Whatever his personal feelings, Katrine had a right to know that her father and husband would be on opposing sides of this battle.

A maid answered the door. When she saw who it was, her heavy-lidded eyes widened, and she curtseyed deeply. “I beg your pardon, sir,” she stammered. “My lady hasn’t returned yet, and I was busy with the clothespress.”

His eyes, skimming over her dilated pupils and sleep-slack features, dismissed her excuse. “Has your mistress not returned from dinner?” he asked.

“No, m’lord.”

Duncan knew she was not lying this time. He frowned and turned away. Where could Katrine have gone?

He walked past his own room to the end of the hall. The twisted stairway leading to the priests’ room was illuminated by the flickering flames of the candle sconces mounted on the opposite wall. He hesitated, chiding himself. What possible reason could Katrine have for climbing the secret stairs in her condition? And yet she hadn’t returned to her room and she wasn’t in the library. He’d checked there first.

Lifting the candle branch from the wall, Duncan sighed and moved into the shadowed alcove, its confining space almost too narrow for the breadth of his shoulders. His instincts regarding Katrine had never been accurate. From the time she was fifteen years old, he had loved her to distraction. She had been half his age and he’d convinced himself it would be better to wait, at least until after her first season, to approach her with his regard.

For three years he’d bided his time, calling upon a lifetime of discipline, waiting and watching while younger, more ardent men claimed her dances, squired her to parties, and rode with her on the moors. It was only right, he argued with himself, that Katrine should have her youth. She was a beautiful, vibrant young woman. She was also fiercely patriotic and exceptionally intelligent. Duncan had counted on that. No callow, unschooled youth would satisfy her for long. In time, her eyes would turn to a man of experience, a man with influence, a man who had sewn his oats and would appreciate a woman with a mind of her own. Never, in his wildest dreams, had he imagined that he would lose her to an Englishman. He still refused to concede defeat. A battle lay ahead. A battle from which a great many would not return. It was entirely possible that Katrine would find herself a widow. Duncan was too honorable a man to wish death on anyone, but if fate were to decide Richard Wolfe’s time was at hand, he would be there to help Katrine move on with her life.

The stairway was dangerously slick. She couldn’t possibly have managed it. He would have turned around, but a single nagging doubt kept him moving upward. Finally he reached the top. Lifting the candles above his head, he looked around and froze. A wooden panel stood ajar, revealing a narrow passageway.

The muscles stood out on his neck. Drawing a deep breath, he strode forward holding the candles before him and pushed the panel wide open. “Katrine,” he called loudly. “Katrine, are you down there?”

A sobbing moan reached his ears.

Uttering a vile expletive, Duncan forced himself to think clearly. She was obviously injured. He would need both arms. Anchoring the candle branch through a niche in the wall, he removed a single candle and forced himself to descend the narrow stairs carefully. When he finally reached her, he saw that his worst nightmare had come true. Katrine was in the throes of childbirth.

He looked at the narrow stairwell and cursed again. Carrying a woman swollen with child through that narrow corridor was impossible. There was no help for it. Katrine would have her child on this damp, vermin-infested floor, and he, Duncan Forbes, lord president of the Court of Session and a bachelor unaccustomed to children, would be her midwife.

She was barely conscious. “Duncan,” she whispered, “is that you?”

“Yes, dear,” he replied in a voice that was far calmer than he felt. “Don’t be frightened. I’m here now.”

She spoke through cracked lips. “The bairn will come soon.”

“I know,” he said hoarsely, reaching for her hands. “Do you know what to do, Katrine?”

She shook her head. “Do you?” she asked hopefully.

“Of course,” he lied, placing the candle on an empty step and standing to remove his coat. “The first thing we must do is make you more comfortable.” He bunched the coat into a pillow and placed it beneath her head. Reaching for the hem of her gown, he eased it up over her thighs, grateful for the shadowed darkness of the corridor. The desire of his life had been to lift Katrine Murray’s skirts, to peel back her stockings and run his hands over the length of her long, slim legs. His mouth twisted wryly. He was doing exactly that, but it was in far different circumstances than he had imagined.

Her legs were wet with what could only be blood. Bile rose in his throat. He forced himself to look at the juncture between her thighs, but the single candle was inadequate to see properly. He needed the branch. “Katrine,” he said, his voice low. “I need more light. There are candles at the top of the stairs. Can you manage if I leave you for a moment?”

He thought she nodded, but he couldn’t be sure. He didn’t wait to find out. Never in his life had he moved so quickly. Within seconds he was back, positioning the candle branch. Her stomach had tightened like the skin of a drum. She reached for him, and unreservedly, he gave her his hands. Lifting her head, she dug her nails into his skin and cried out, a frightening, primitive, unrecognizable sound that turned the blood in his veins to ice. Again she cried out, her head thrashing on his coat. Her eyes were wild, and there was blood on her lips. When it was over, she sank back against the steps, drained and white. Duncan reached for the candles to ascertain her progress when another spasm hit, racking her body and arching her back. Again she tore at his hands, crying out her pain, begging for release. He clenched his teeth, and the muscles tightened along his jaw. How could a human being bear such pain?

She clutched his arm. “He comes, Duncan. I can feel it.” Her voice cracked. “Help us.”

Unable to resist that piteous plea, Duncan squeezed her hand and nodded. Kneeling between her knees, he waited for endless seconds until Katrine’s tortured body expelled a wet, black-haired head. Gently he cradled it in his palm and with his other hand worked the infant’s shoulders free. Finally, in a rush of blood, the rest of the body slid into his arms.

“’Tis a boy,” he announced and wiped the mucus from the tiny puckered mouth.

A healthy wail broke the anxious silence. Katrine laughed, a rich, silvery peal that sounded remarkably healthy.

Duncan stared down at her in surprise. That sound couldn’t possibly have come from the torn body lying on the stairs. “Are you all right, Katrine?” he asked.

“Oh, Duncan. I’m so grateful. How did you know I was here?”

“Never mind. You need a woman to see to you.” He looked at the cord still attached to the baby. “I’ve got to get you out of here. Can you wait until I go for help?”

“I can bear anything now.” She held out her arms for her son. Balancing the baby in one hand, Duncan shrugged out of his shirt and wrapped the infant in the expensive linen. He handed him to Katrine and kissed her lightly on the lips. “I’ll be back soon.”

***

“I don’t think this surprise march is a good idea, Murray,” O’Sullivan remarked. “The men are tired and hungry. Why not let them have the night to rest?”

George Murray did not bother to explain that because of their inferior numbers and the Irishman’s choice of battleground, a surprise attack was their only hope. “Cumberland will be celebrating his birthday,” he said instead. “The soldiers will be drunk as beggars.”

“I pray you may be right,” said O’Sullivan. “The prince arrives tonight from Traquair. He won’t be pleased if you muddle this one.”

The entire rebellion had been a hopeless muddle from the beginning, reflected George as he walked, still in his kilt, through the columns of exhausted clansman. They had marched for two days without sleep, and their food and provisions had inadvertently been left behind at Inverness. The grumbling he heard among the ranks was not his imagination. The men were losing heart. If only they could fight from the hills where the ground was thick and marshy. Because there was nothing else to do, George gave the order to march. It was eight o’clock and very dark, and he had only five thousand soldiers.

Cursing, the men complied.

They were to march around Nairn and strike the English under cover of darkness. After only an hour of marching, Murray found that nearly one-third of the men had left to forage for food. Precious time was wasted while officers rounded them up.

The ground was a giant bog, and more and more men, disgusted and nearly dead with fatigue, crawled under the bushes and fell asleep. The march was halted while O’Sullivan and Murray argued in the fog. Finally George cursed. “If we are to reach the English before dawn, there can be no more delay.”

Again the troops moved forward, but this time pale streaks of dawn lit the sky. They could hear the English troops stirring in their camp. There would be no surprise attack on Nairn. Dispirited, George Murray gave the order to retreat, and the starving, weary soldiers marched back to Drumossie Moor. There was still no food. No longer able to stand upright, they fell where they stood and slept. Less than an hour later, the drums rolled signaling the call to order. The battle had begun.

***

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” Katrine demanded.

Duncan Forbes grinned and gestured toward the child in her arms. “We were otherwise occupied,” he reminded her.

Katrine’s eyes softened as she looked down at the bundle nestled close to her heart. She touched her lips to the tiny head and inhaled deeply, loving the sweet baby scent of him. She thought of her aborted journey to find the stone and pushed it to the back of her mind. Scotland’s Stone could wait. She smiled at Forbes. “’Tis true, we were. But now, I must see my husband.”

“That isn’t possible,” replied Duncan flatly. “You’ve not yet recovered, and a battlefield is no place for a woman and child.”

“Your house is there, Duncan,” she coaxed him. “Surely, as guests of the lord president of the Court of Session, no harm will come to us.”

He tried to reason with her. “I cannot guarantee your safety on such a journey, but I will take a message to your husband personally.”

She shook her head. “No, Duncan. If you won’t help us, I’ll find someone else.”

“Katrine,” he begged her, “be reasonable.”

She refused to listen, and when their conversation was over, Forbes retreated to his own room, where he threw himself, fully clothed, on top of his bed and cursed the hold Katrine Murray had over his heart.

Years later, when he stopped to recall the relentless pace of the next two days, he would shudder and wonder, not for the first time, if he’d been afflicted with temporary madness. Or perhaps the tales of witchcraft in the Murray family were true. From the first moment he had seen her, Katrine had bewitched him. There could be no other explanation for such a deviation in his normally excellent judgment.

At first light, they traveled north, skirting Edinburgh, and crossed the Firth of Forth at Grangemount. They spent the night at an inn near Dollar. The following day they passed through Perth and changed horses at Blairgowrie. Duncan argued for stopping at Blair Castle, hoping that Janet Murray would convince her daughter to end her journey there, but Katrine would have none of it. She ordered the coachman to continue on to Drumossie.

And so it was, that in the early hours of April 16, the Forbes travel coach bearing its long-suffering master, a squalling infant, and his bone-weary mother, rolled into the courtyard of Culloden House. It was close to dawn.

Bidding her host good night, Katrine closed the door of her room and, for one blissful moment, closed her eyes and leaned her cheek against the engraved wood. Thank God the bairn was taken care of. After feeding him, Katrine had handed him to Duncan’s housekeeper with a sigh of relief.

There was no time to lose. Pushing away from the bracing support of the door, she looked for her trunk. It was tucked away in an alcove beneath the window. She knelt before it and lifted the lid. Every muscle in her aching body protested as she pulled on a warm cloak, woolen stockings, and sturdy boots. She stared down at her belly, the puckered flesh extended from childbirth, and grimaced. The breeks would never fit. She must brave the cold in the loose dress she had worn on the journey from Traquair.

Less than a quarter of an hour later, in the light of a brilliant dawn, she rode her horse past the rallying Jacobite troops toward Nairn. Foot soldiers were drawn up in two lines, the cavalry in the rear. The prince’s meager artillery, only thirteen assorted guns, were on the left, center, and right of the front line. Even an inexperienced observer like Katrine could tell that the men had lost heart. Many were still asleep. She bit her lip and urged her mount forward, praying that Cumberland’s army had not yet begun their march.

On the knoll near Leanach Holding, Katrine heard the unmistakable sounds of horses’ bridles and boots marching in cadence. She reined in her horse and listened carefully. It could only be the government troops. She was too late. Richard would never leave his command, even if it meant facing her father across a broadsword. Patting her mare’s heaving flanks, she turned back toward Culloden. There was a vantage point near Leanach Cottage, where she could watch the battle undisturbed.

The two armies did not face one another until almost eleven o’clock. Katrine caught her breath when she recognized the man on the gray gelding. Charles Stuart in his tartan coat and cockaded bonnet looked as jaunty as ever. His front line consisted almost entirely of clansmen, standing from three to six deep. On the right of the front line, Katrine recognized her father commanding the Atholl Brigade, which included Camerons, Stewarts of Appin, and Frasers, all wearing their clan tartans. In the center, she saw the Chattans, MacLachlans and MacLeans. She frowned. What were the MacDonalds doing on the left? Since Bannockburn, their position had always been on the right. Katrine knew what such a mistake would mean to the proud Highland MacDonalds. More importantly, the position put them at a serious disadvantage. The two front lines were not equal in length. The right of the prince’s army was perhaps one hundred yards nearer Cumberland’s front line than the left. In a charge, the MacDonalds would be slaughtered.