When Fate Dictates (15 page)

“There you go, that wasn’t so difficult now
was it?” he said calmly, passing the little boy back to me. “Oh and
the answer is yes, by the way.”

“Yes?” I asked.

“I have got time to mix his oats. I have put
his bowl on the table downstairs.”

“I love you Simon, thank you,” I said, going
on my toes to kiss him lightly on the cheek.

“I must go now, I have a meeting, but if you
have a mind to, you can both come down and see me this
afternoon.”

I had little in-depth knowledge of the
feeding habits of a baby, but to my mind Duncan had developed a
very healthy appetite. For a limited period, the rags soaked in
milk had worked to satisfy his needs, but it had not been long
before we had to move onto mixing the goat’s milk with something
more substantial. Now his morning meals consisted of oats mixed
with milk and on the odd occasion where we were unable to find
oats, bread soaked in milk. It was with great pride that I watched
the spoon in his little plump hands as it waved, uncoordinated,
from the bowl to his mouth. He giggled as I gently wiped his pink
round cheeks, which had received the majority of the content of the
spoon. “Mummy loves you,” I said, setting him down on the mat.

Simon was down at the river, busying himself
with the forging of new business relations and acquaintances,
carving out a seemingly profitable existence from the import of
foreign goods. York’s rivers proved especially useful in this
regard and most days we could find him at his warehouses on the
banks of the river Ouse. He was always either awaiting the arrival
of some goods from some far off country or loading up the crates
that had come off the boats ready for transport elsewhere in
Britain. I didn't have a great mind for business and thankfully
Simon never requested my input.

One late afternoon toward the end of
September, Duncan and I wandered down to the river to watch the
boats as they sailed the waterways, industriously going about their
business. We found Simon at his warehouse, supervising the loading
of a consignment bound for London. He smiled across at us as we
wandered toward him. Duncan fought wildly with me, trying to escape
my arms when he saw his daddy. Shouting excitedly the only word he
had as yet learned to say, “Dadda, dadda,” repeatedly, until Simon
took him in his arms and hugged the excited child.

“Have you been a good boy for your mummy
young Duncan?” he asked, smiling with obvious pride at his son.
“Well wee Duncan, do you know what I have got for good little
boys?” he said, tickling his sides as Duncan squealed and wriggled
with delight. Simon handed him gently back to me and thrust his
hand into his pocket pulling out a white bent stick resembling a
miniature shepherd’s staff. I gazed in wonder at it, thinking it
must be made from porcelain. Then much to my surprise, Simon handed
it to Duncan.

“You can’t give him that; he will put it in
his mouth,” I said indignantly, grabbing the white stick off the
boy. “Have you taken leave of your senses, Simon?”

His body shook as he let out a loud deep
laugh. “That’s exactly what I hoped he would do with it Corran.” I
looked at him, eyes wide and startled.

“Why do you want the lad to put a porcelain
staff in his mouth? If he bites it he will cut himself and if he
swallows it he will choke. I can’t see much good coming from it
either way,” I barked.

“Try it Corran, put the stick in your
mouth.”

“Simon, you are just being silly.”

“No, Corran, I mean it. Put the stick in your
mouth and you will see what it’s about.”

Agitated I did as he asked. “Oh my goodness!”
I exclaimed in delight, as the silky sweetness of the white stick
ran over my tongue, “What is it?”

“It’s a sugar stick,” he replied, watching
Duncan with obvious delight as he grabbed another stick off his
daddy and followed my lead in sampling the gift.

“Where did you get it from?” I asked.

“They are part of my latest consignment. They
are going to London, to the Palace for the King,” he said, his ego
clearly inflated by the prospect.

“That is impressive,” I whispered, not
wanting to commit treason or bruise his ego too badly, but
compelled to mention my own personal feelings toward the King. “I
am sorry Simon, but I’m not too big a fan of the English King as
you well know and I didn’t think you were too fond of him
yourself.”

“Aye, and he may want more of these little
sugar canes. It is a very good thing to have the King as your
customer, like him or not,” I nodded understanding the wisdom of
his words but a hint of fear crept through me, for I could not see
how this alliance could ever be a happy one.

“You see Corran,” he began, pausing briefly
to sample his own sugar cane. “It would be very good if I could go
to London and speak with the advisors to the King personally. There
is a lot of potential trade to be had off the Palace.”

“Oh Simon do you have to? We don’t want for
anything, your business is doing well and you still have the gold.
Why do we have to dabble with the Crown?”

He frowned thoughtfully. “I hear you Corran
and you are right, but to pass up this opportunity would be
madness. We can never do better than to have the Crown as our
regular customer and to get the Crown I will need to go to
London.”

Putting my hand in my pocket I removed a
white square of linen cloth; walked slowly away from Simon to the
river and dipped the cloth in the foul smelling, thick muddy water.
Duncan protested loudly as I removed the white stick from his hand
and proceeded to wipe forcibly at the gooey mess it had made of his
hands and face. I kept my back to Simon, neither of us choosing to
speak for some time, each of us busy with our own thoughts.

“I had hoped we could all go to London,”
Simon called eventually, “I have made inquiries and there is every
chance that we could find a decent place to live in the city. It is
a wonderful, vibrant and exciting place Corran and I am sure you
and Duncan would love it.”

I stood for a while considering what he had
said, absently rocking the child in my arms. “When are you planning
to go?” I asked softly, still not turning to face him.

“January or February next year.”

I raised my eyebrows, knowing there was no
one to see the look. “That soon?” I questioned, finally turning to
meet his eyes. I could feel the panic rising inside me and tried to
hide it from my face. “Does it have to be so soon; could we not
wait a year and then go?”

He shook his head. “No Corran, it has to be
soon. If we wait, we risk losing the interest of the Palace.”

“But you have this business and we have the
house and how could we make so many arrangements in only six
months?”

“Don’t worry Corran, I will make the
arrangements. You won’t have to do anything, other than see to our
wee baby.”

Despite my objections, it was becoming
painfully obvious that Simon had made his decision and I doubted
that there was anything I could say, or do, which might change his
mind. Resigned, I turned my attention to the practical aspects of
what he was proposing.

“I guess Duncan will be nearly a year old by
then, better than if we were to try and travel with him now. But by
then the weather will not be in our favor,” I said, more to myself
than Simon. “Going south at that time of the year will be difficult
but I suppose it can’t be as difficult as the journey we had to
make here.”

Again, silence fell upon us as my mind
focused on the life he was about to take us to and the one we were
about to leave. The baby weighed heavily in my arms and I looked
around for somewhere to sit down; settling eventually on a sturdy
looking wooden box.

“How far is London from here?” I asked,
reminding myself that regardless of any objections I may have to
this plan, Simon had made up his mind to go and that undoubtedly
meant that we would go.

“It is a fair distance,” he said honestly,
“but there are carriages we could take that would make the journey
a lot simpler.”

“A carriage?” I questioned. “That sounds like
an awful extravagance?”

“It’s only money Corran, and I have made
enough of it already off these little sugar sticks to pay for a
carriage three times over.”

“I am taking Duncan home for his dinner, we
will see you back at the house later,” I said, shaking my head at
his frivolity and rising to leave.

“Corran, don’t be angry with me. I just want
to give you and Duncan the best.”

I ignored him. He could justify his actions
anyway he wanted to himself, but I knew that he was not doing this
for the baby and me. He was a gambler and this adventure had far
more to do with his personality than it ever would have to do with
Duncan and me.

So it was that with much sadness I came to be
packing and preparing to leave our home in York, for what Simon
perceived to be the gold paved streets of London and the Palace. I
had to admit that the prospect and adventure of the trip had
brought a buoyancy and excitement to Simon I had never seen before.
Duncan, who had grown into an active, robust, little boy, was
definitely buoyed by the general buzz of activity around him. But
for myself, I could not shake the feeling of dread and doubt that
hung heavy around me. It seemed that what we had in York was as
close to perfection as life could offer. The sense in gambling all
that on a dangerous and long journey to London, where we may or may
not attract the attention of the King – who had been the one to
order the massacre of my people and the decimation of my home –
held little joy for me. I was frightened; it was that simple.
Frightened and struggling to justify the gamble Simon had forced
upon us. But then I reminded myself I was married to a gambler, a
gambler I loved more than life itself, and by association that
meant my life would always contain great risk.

“You know lass,” he said as we lay in each
other’s arms in our bed in the house in York for the last time,
“London is a magical place and I know you will love it.”

I sighed deeply, knowing in my heart that he
could not be more wrong. What I loved more than anything in the
world was our little family and home here in York.

******

February 1697

Simon spooned a large mouthful of lamb stew
hungrily into his mouth. Swallowing hard, he rested his elbows on
the table, his chin cupped in the palms of his hands, his eyes
surveying me quizzically. I put the cloth I was folding down and
looked back at him. “Why do you stare at me so?” I asked.

“I was just thinking that you don’t look
yourself somehow. You look... very sad,” he said, a frown across
his brow.

I forced a smile, knowing it would not reach
my eyes. “No Simon, I am not sad, just thinking over our travel
plans and making sure in my mind that I have not forgotten
anything,” I lied, hoping he would accept my explanation.

The truth was that I felt overwhelmed by a
paralyzing fear. My mouth was dry, my heart raced, the palms of my
hands were damp and in the pit of my stomach I just knew that the
road ahead was not the right one for us.

I looked around the front room of our house.
It felt cold, I thought dimly, but then I remembered that was
because we had no fire burning. Why would we need a fire? We were
leaving today. The bags and chests we had neatly packed lay against
the wall, waiting to be piled onto the carriage. The rickety old
stairs stood as though nothing had changed, but in my mind I could
see the room above them. Cold as the day we arrived, bare and empty
as the fireplaces. The treasures we had found in the chest returned
to storage and the lid firmly closed on this chapter of our
lives.

I watched as Duncan climbed awkwardly onto
his daddy’s lap and as Simon lovingly put his arm around his son to
help him; how he scooped some meat onto a spoon and then fed it to
the little boy. Their movements were slowed to my eyes. I felt as
though I were in a dream, watching my life through a hazy fog of
detachment. I could hear Simon and Duncan but their voices carried
an echo of distance. The knot of fear in my stomach tightened, my
fists clenched and I realized I was holding my breath. Something
was very wrong.

My eyes darted frantically around the room,
searching for the source of my fear, but everything looked as it
should. Instinct took my eyes to the door, seconds before a loud
thunderous bang came from behind it. There was a scraping and
clanging of metal as I watched the door fall in before me. I stared
in horror as the march of Red Coats trampled over the oak door and
into our front room.

“Dear God!” I screamed. “Dear God, no!”

Simon was on his feet, pistol in hand, Duncan
beside him crying. He pushed the little boy away but Duncan clung
to his father’s trousers. Simon was shouting, but I could not hear
the words, he raised his pistol and held it steady at the mob. I
ran to my little boy and grabbed him, pulling him away from his
father. He fought wildly, kicking desperately for his daddy as I
closed my arms around his little body, holding him tightly against
me. I backed under the stairs and into the far corner of the room
as more Red Coats with their rifles and bayonets stormed the room.
They had their pistols fixed on Simon. They were shouting orders,
he was shouting back and then I heard the shot, saw the smoke from
the pistol and watched him fall. The room went quiet as Simon’s
body hit the floor. I opened my mouth to scream but nothing came
out. The room was spinning, my legs felt weak and I could not
breathe. The men in the Red Coats turned to me; I pulled Duncan
tight against my chest, my eyes darting like a cornered mouse
across the faces around me. Then I saw him, the man with the copper
hair from the glen. I met his eyes. Defiantly I held his stare,
daring him to meet my eyes. I burrowed into his soul, willing him
to take the shot, encouraging him to finish what he had started. He
raised his pistol to my chest and in that instant of unflinching
deadlock I did not care if he pulled the trigger or not. Suddenly,
like a demonic troubled dog, he shook his head ferociously,
shuddered and dropped the pistol to his side, waving an order to
his men. “We are done here,” he shouted, spitting onto the floor in
front of him, before turning to lead the mob out of the house. I
stood stock still in the corner of the room as the last Red Coat
marched purposefully over the oak door. And then I listened to the
rhythmic march, the step of each boot as it trampled its way along
the narrow cobbled alley. I cowered with the child in my arms,
frozen, listening, even after the last faint tap of the march had
gone from my ear.