The Enchantress (Book 1 of The Enchantress Saga) (38 page)

‘Take both the women on your horse to Falcon’s Keep,’ the Marquess said with pretended indifference, ‘and enough of those female blatherings. And be quick back, McNeath, d’ye hear? Make sure my castle is well protected, but I think the Highlanders will avoid it on their way north. Be off now.’

And the Marquess returned to his soup without another glance at the women who, after curtsying once more, were ushered out of the tent by a respectful and delighted McNeath.

If he was not mistaken, the servant thought he had seen a singularly saucy look in the eyes of young Nelly as,  earlier, she had eagerly scoffed up the food provided for the two women , casting him grateful glances.

***

At Carlisle where his army regrouped on 19 December, Prince Charles once again set about quarrelling with his commanders. He was gracious enough to congratulate Lord George Murray on his victory at Clifton. This brief period of amity was disrupted however when the Prince announced that he would pull out of Carlisle but leave a garrison there for its defence. His Highness was anxious now to return to Scotland where Lord John Drummond, the brother of the Duke of Perth, awaited him with fresh forces brought from France. From here he would launch another and, he felt, more successful attack on England which would take him to London.

Lord George Murray, still deathly tired after his days in the saddle tried to argue with his leader, but he was not supported by the other officers even though they privately agreed with him that Carlisle was not capable of being defended. Since the retreat from Derby the officers had grown wary of the Prince whose sudden violent and petty moods, whose long periods of silence and dejection, when he refused to talk to anybody, were so much at variance with his erstwhile good humour. No one liked to anger the Prince further at this stage by publicly disagreeing with him.

Accordingly, telling them that as soon as he had reformed his army he would return and relieve them, the Prince left a garrison of about 400 men and marched with the rest to the border which he crossed on 20 December, his twenty-fifth birthday. As he turned from the swirling waters of the Esk and looked back onto English soil little did he know he would never return to it again, at least at the head of an army.

Among those left behind to defend the town was Stewart Allonby. As many of the Highlanders as possible had been taken with the army because of their unpopularity with the townspeople, and most of the men who formed the garrison were English, either local men or men from the Manchester regiment. Many remained at their own wish, being reluctant to cross the border to Scotland.

Stewart was depressed about his chances of survival but determined to do his duty.

‘I would dearly love to come with you, Brent, for I think we shall be massacred here.’

‘And I would like to stay,’ Brent replied, clasping his cousin’s hand. ‘But it is not to be. Farewell, cousin, we shall soon return to relieve you.’

‘Will you?’ Stewart said bitterly, sitting on an upturned box in the bare room of his billet. The townspeople had set themselves resolutely against the Jacobites and there were few comforts to be had. The kindly host who had formerly been only too glad to accommodate Stewart now barred him. ‘I doubt it. The Prince will not see England again. Can’t you see now, Brent, he never had a chance? Why, everything about him is un-English, even his accent, which he cannot help because he was born and brought up abroad.’

‘Aye, but they say King George in London speaks with a German accent,’ Brent replied dryly.

‘It is his manner, his dress. Always the plaid, the kilt ... you can see how the English people would not take our army seriously, even though some of us are English and wear not the kilt. Very few.’

‘We must not give in, Stewart,’ Brent replied sternly. ‘We have committed our lot to the Prince.’

‘Aye, ‘tis too late,’ Stewart said. ‘Too late.’

The bugle sounded in the yard below and Brent saw the ranks of tired dispirited soldiers forming. The Prince and Lord George Murray were at opposite sides, the one looking proud yet and determined, the other bitter, but his haughty head raised higher than ever.

‘They never got on, those two,’ Brent said, shaking his head. ‘You may contribute much of our defeat to that fact. ‘Twas disastrous.’

Stewart stood behind his cousin and clapped him on the back. ‘You said not to talk of defeat, Brent. Now you do it. Go with them and fight, man, and we shall hold out until you return.’

But the small outnumbered garrison had no hope of holding out, as everyone knew. The big cannon from Whitehaven were rolled up to Carlisle and the Duke of Cumberland himself directed the bombardment of the city. Beside the massed ranks of the enemy without the walls, the garrison knew that not only was the populace not on their side but the government forces outnumbered them by about five to one. When the guns did arrive they knew they had no chance and on 30 December the governor, Mr Hamilton, hung out the white flag.

There was some pretence at bargaining for the lives of the garrison and the Duke of Cumberland concurred, only because he was anxious to go back to the south where he had been urgently sent for to command an anti-invasion force on the coast. But he agreed to the terms to save unnecessary expenditure of lives of his own soldiers and in the sure knowledge that his father the King would mete out justice ‘as they have no sort of claim to the King’s mercy and I sincerely hope will meet with none.’

The townspeople went wild with joy as the disciplined Hanoverian army reoccupied the town and the ragged remnant of the Jacobite army, some having gone without sleep for nights on end, were herded into the dungeons of Carlisle Castle – Stewart Allonby, bleeding from a wound in the head, among them.

Colonel Lord Falconer was well pleased with the swift capitulation of Carlisle, although to his mind ten days in taking the town had been ten days too long. It was not really until the 18-pounders arrived under his escort from Whitehaven that he knew the end was near.

The Marquess had campaigned hard all year and he was anxious for a rest. He had scarcely left the side of the Duke of Cumberland, a man with whom he had little in common though he admired his qualities as a commander and a soldier. Many times had he personally witnessed the King’s younger son’s bravery on the field of battle in the Continental wars.

Although the Duke was exactly the same age as his adversary Prince Charles he was very different to look at, being grossly overweight and having the Hanoverian proclivity for self-indulgence. However he was popular with the men who served under him and had given him the name ‘Bluff Bill’ for his easy-going ways. The Falcon sought an audience with the Duke before he returned to London and asked if he might have leave to visit his estates. The Duke had just enjoyed an excellent meal of fish, five kinds of meat and several bottles of wine provided by the grateful citizenry, and was sitting with his jacket undone over his corpulent stomach picking his teeth when Lord Falconer stood before him with his request. The Duke eyed one of his best commanders indulgently.

‘Why, I see no reason not to grant your request, my dear Marquess,’ the Duke said in his guttural German-accented voice. Though he had indeed been born in England, German was still widely spoken at the court. ‘But hurry south won’t you, soon? For I shall need you to keep the French away from our shores. You know how they fear Le Faucon!’ The Duke grinned.

‘Surely they will not attempt this now, your Royal Highness?’

Cumberland shrugged his podgy shoulders and screwed up his small pig-like eyes.

‘The brother of the Young Pretender, Henry, is active in France on behalf of his father. Let us hope now they will not consider such wastage of men worthwhile.’

The Duke belched and summoned a servant. ‘A glass of wine for his lordship!’

The servant hurried over and poured some claret into a crystal glass. The Duke raised his glass and bowed to his colonel.

‘You will be well rewarded for your help to me in this campaign, Angus. After I have reported to the King my father, I hope he will consent to have you gazetted a lieutenant-general!’

The Falcon bowed very low. He was not a soldier for the honours it brought, but to have his qualities so well regarded was very rewarding. It had never occurred to him for a moment that the Hanoverians might be defeated nor the Prince victorious. But now the thought did cross his mind that, had things gone a different way, he would be languishing in the dungeons below this very room where the Duke and himself, glasses raised, were drinking a toast to his Majesty King George II.

The Marquess of Falconer stretched his long legs before a roaring fire and reflected that it was good to be home. It had not taken long to send the Jacobites packing, but the weather had been wretched and his quarters uncomfortable. He was a soldier and used to any amount of hardship, but there was a lot to be said for a warm fire, a comfortable bed, and ... He thoughtfully got up and pulled the bell rope by the fire.

The gypsy had served him at table, the tall good-looking gypsy, that is: he neither knew nor cared what happened to the smaller, plain one. And what a woman she was, this gypsy as, clad only in her simple skirt and bodice with nothing on her feet, she had plied silently between table and kitchen under the direction of the major-domo.

He had tried to engage her eyes, but to no avail. Her long lids were lowered over her eyes so that he could not see their expression. No matter. To look at her was good enough; he had no need to see her eyes or hear her speak. Her breasts thrust hard against her bodice which was but carelessly laced, and the sight of them swelling above her neat décolletage almost put him off his food. But not quite. Food was just as important as dallying with a woman, or nearly as so. For instance it gave one the strength to employ one’s amorous powers to good effect. McNeath entered silently, bowing to his master.

‘Your wish, my lord?’

‘Fetch me some brandy, McNeath, and you can ask that gypsy girl to come here ... you know, the tall one. The one who served me at table.’

McNeath raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He understood quite well to which girl his master was referring. Knowing his master’s inclinations, he himself had made sure she had waited at dinner. He had seen how his master had observed her when he’d first seen Analee, kneeling beside her dead husband.

‘Yes, tell her to fetch me the brandy,’ Angus winked and settled in his chair. He leaned his head back and half closed his eyes, remembering her dark, almost savage beauty. He wondered where she came from. And then he heard a movement and, opening his eyes, saw her before him carrying a tray on which there was a decanter and a heavy crystal glass.

‘Pour for me will you? What is your name, did you say?’

‘Analee, my lord.’

‘And have you settled down here Analee?’

Analee didn’t reply and his lordship turned to glance at her. ‘Well?’

‘I do not wish to stay here, sir. I am a gypsy girl, not happy in a house.’

‘Well if you want to go into the cold with marauding bands about it is up to you,’ Lord Falconer turned and, with pretended indifference, settled in the chair.

‘The Highlanders have returned to Scotland, sir.’

‘Only for a short time, they hope. Come here girl.’

Analee placed the tray on a nearby table and stood for some time looking at it without moving. She had lain with worse men than Lord Falconer, far worse; but there was something about his easygoing assurance that she objected to.

‘You feel you have “bought” me, my lord?’ she said pointedly, remaining where she was.

‘Bought
you?’ Lord Falconer wondered whether he could believe his aristocratic ears.

‘With the warmth and food, the shelter from marauding soldiers.’ Analee dwelt heavily on the word ‘marauding’ for the benefit of his lordship. ‘So unlike yourself, my lord. They will pillage and rape regardless, whereas you,’ she turned and stared at him derisively, ‘wish only to rape in the comfort of your own home.’

His lordship jerked back his head. He was annoyed, indeed dumbfounded. Who did this creature imagine she was?

‘I wish no such thing. Leave immediately, if you so desire.’

‘Thank you, my lord. I will.’

Analee was about to take the tray and leave the room when his lordship sprang from the chair and within two bounds stood before her.

‘Here wait. What did you say your name was?’

‘Analee,
my lord, as I have said.’

‘I thought it was maybe
Lady
Analee such is the haughty tone of your speech. How dare you talk to me like that?’

‘I apologize, my lord, if I misunderstood your intention.’

The Falcon felt himself flush, while the commotion in his loins engendered by his previously lewd thoughts grew more persistent. The girl, the gypsy brat was looking at him with the most tantalizing, provocative air, her eyes blazing with scorn and her lips half parted. Curse her!

He gave a deep breath but, unable to maintain control, seized hold of her shoulders and crushed his mouth down on hers. At the same time he got a knee between her legs and pushed her against the broad sofa that stood alongside the window. She put out her arms to prevent herself from falling and thus lost all means of protecting herself and all the time, relentlessly, unyieldingly his lordship’s mouth bore harshly down on hers thrusting her head backwards.

The Marquess began to straddle her on the sofa, and Analee was aware of the enormous strength and power of the man. But although she was angry she was not frightened. There was something so deft, so expert about his lordship’s actions, that she realized she was in the grip of a practised seducer and marvelled at the skill with which he had manoeuvred her into this position. Glancing up at him, Analee was reminded of some great untamed savage with his dark looks and thick black hair falling over his face.

Looking down at her, completely in his power, Angus saw a face not contorted with fear, but one in command of itself, angry, but not as angry as he would have expected almost ... could one
possibly
say, half amused?