White Rose Rebel (13 page)

Cope was on his way in as Aeneas went out. He paused on the step to let the Highlander pass, greeting him with a nod that was returned. Cope let the lack of salute pass. He was learning a little about Highland ways.

‘Every inch a chief,’ he said to Louden, watching Aeneas stride away. ‘Fine-looking, well-made and no manners.’

‘Different manners,’ Louden corrected. ‘I can’t decide if he’s a brave man or a coward but I wouldn’t want his marriage bed, not now.’

‘Would you have wanted it before?’ Cope asked.

‘Oh, aye,’ Louden laughed. ‘Anne Farquharson could rouse most men between the sheets. And out of them, as we’re hearing. Have you come for a nightcap?’

‘With news,’ Cope said. ‘But it will slip down easier with a drop of port behind it.’ Louden ushered him inside, followed and shut the door.

The company engaged in musket drill in the square recognized Aeneas as soon as he turned the corner towards them. Relief wrote itself on all their young faces. They had not been issued shot and they knew why. They might have defended themselves if their chief had failed them. Now he was here there was no need for fear. They were safe. Lieutenant Ray stopped barking orders and turned to salute Aeneas.

‘Captain,’ he clicked his heels.

‘Lieutenant,’ Aeneas sighed. ‘Maybe we could forgo the formalities till I’m in uniform?’

‘Sorry, Captain,’ Ray saluted again. ‘They say troop ships are coming with more reinforcements. Do you think we’ll see action soon?’

‘Let’s hope not.’

‘I ask because I’m eager, not because I’m afraid,’ Ray said indignantly.

‘Then you’re a fool,’ Aeneas told him. ‘Men will die in this, Ray. And every one will be someone I know. Men I’ve fought. Men I’ve hunted with. Men whose cattle I’ve stolen and whose wives or daughters I’ve bedded. But I don’t relish the death of a single one. So let’s hope, instead, that a show of strength is all it takes and this insurrection melts away without a shot fired. Killing is a duty, but men should get their pleasure from women.’

A loud round of applause and cheers rose from the company. Ray spun round and they leapt back to attention.

‘Will you stand the men down?’ Aeneas smiled.

‘Captain.’ Ray snapped out a salute, missing Aeneas’s wince as he turned to the company again and called out, ‘Stand easy!’

Aeneas walked away to his quarters, grinning now he had his back to the over-eager Englishman. When he found his room, it was adequate. A bunk, table, chairs and a decanter of whisky courtesy of King George. Troop ships. It was early days. If the reinforcements were generous, the Jacobite chiefs would withdraw.
Life was hard won in the clans and not spent where it would profit none. A few days could see the end of this. He was pouring a second glassful when the last post sounded and his door was knocked. It was Ray who came in.

‘All settled, sir,’ he said.

Aeneas raised a finger, forestalling the salute.

‘Fine,’ he said, lifting an empty glass.
‘Uisge beatha?’

‘Oh, whisky. Yes, thank you.’ He watched Aeneas pour a generous measure. ‘You know, I met a madwoman on my way up to Inverness. She was with a tribe of savages. Forced me off my horse and put my wife on it. She spoke the Irish too.’

Aeneas recognized the story. Meg and Cath would be pleased to have grown to a tribe. He handed Ray his drink and went over to the window. Outside, the night was lit by a bright waxing moon.

‘A madwoman, indeed,’ he said.

Charles Edward Stuart stood outside his tent at the Glenfinnan encampment. Like his cousin, the Duke of Cumberland, he was twenty-four years old, the son of a king. There the resemblance ended. Charles might have stepped straight from a child’s fairy story, elegant, tall and handsome, his face fine-boned, his body lean. Dressed now in red-tartan philabeg and plaid topped with a scarlet jacket, he wore a white powdered wig, a blue sash slung over his shoulder. Before Scotland united its parliament with England, when the Scots king sat on both thrones and ruled Ireland, his grandfather was deposed by the English, who put a Dutchman in his place. When that line died without heir, his father waited to be called, but again the English chose a foreigner, a German from Hanover, whose son, George, now ruled. Prince Charles had come to win back his father’s throne.

‘
La victoire est certaine
, O’sullivan,’ he said to the Irish adjutantgeneral beside him. There were a million Scots. More than half lived in the Highlands. ‘There are six hundred thousand people in these hills, at least fifty thousand trained warriors.’

‘They won’t all come out, sir.’ It was Lord George Murray who answered. ‘And Cope’s troop ships arrive at Aberdeen. As soon as those reinforcements join him in Inverness, he’ll want to engage us.’

‘With a paltry few thousand?’ The Prince was scathing. Born and raised in Italy, he spoke French to his Scottish commanders, a language they shared. ‘Cumberland must think we are easily frightened. We will have
deux armées
, Lord George. Five, ten armies!’

Cheering from the east side of the camp interrupted the boast. All three men turned towards the interruption. A woman, dressed in blue and riding a white horse, rode down the slope towards them. It was Anne Farquharson, the Lady M
^c
Intosh. MacGillivray
rode beside her. Behind them marched several hundred troops, cheering as they came in sight of the already assembled clans, those with pistols firing in the air.

‘You see?’ The Prince smiled at Lord George.

As the Clan Chattan troops veered off to spare ground, Anne and MacGillivray rode on towards the standard to present themselves. Lord George was beside Anne as she dismounted. He had brought her mother’s clan, the Murrays.

‘You must be saddle-sore,’ he said. ‘But it’s a pleasure to see you. I was in two minds about the wisdom of this. Word of your action decided me.’ He led her over to the Prince. ‘My cousin, sir. Colonel Anne Farquharson, the Lady M
^c
Intosh.’

The Prince immediately took her hand and, much to Anne’s amusement, kissed it.

‘La belle rebelle,’
he exclaimed. ‘We hear you have inflamed the countryside. Now I see why.’

‘No, sir,
vous êtes trop généreux
,’ Anne said, ‘that was yourself.’ She presented MacGillivray as lieutenant-colonel of her troops. He would lead them on the field. Wine was brought as the other chiefs crowded round to congratulate her: Lochiel, Keppoch, Glengary, Ranald, M
^c
Gregor, Lords Elcho, Tullibardine and the Ogilvies. Anne raised her glass.

‘Prosperity and no Union,’ she toasted. It was a declaration she had not made since her father’s death but one she relished now. The response resounded around the camp, falling like an echo as those further out took it up.

‘Prosperity and no Union!’

O’sullivan waved MacGillivray over to register his force on the roll.

‘Six hundred warriors,’ MacGillivray told him. ‘Two hundred women and children in support.’

Nearby, the Prince spoke into Lord George’s ear.

‘Must they bring so many women?’

‘It’s the other way round, sir,’ Lord George told him. ‘The wives and mothers who bear them, and will bury them, decide when clans will fight. It’s the women who bring the men.’

Margaret Johnstone, the Lady Ogilvie, stole Anne away to meet some of the others.

‘I didn’t expect so many,’ Anne said, looking round as they walked through the camp. Everywhere, groups were settled round fires, cooking. Swords and dirks were sharpened, pistols cleaned and polished.

‘What else can we do? If we don’t end this Union, our way of life will soon be gone.’ She slipped an arm through Anne’s. ‘What do you think of our Prince?’

‘Oh, he’s fine-looking, with his clothes on,’ Anne joked. ‘If he leads as well as he charms, we’ve already won.’

Margaret stopped to introduce her to Margaret Fergusson, the Lady Broughton, a stunning woman wearing a feather-plumed hat and fur-trimmed outfit, whose equally dapper husband, Sir John Murray of Broughton, was sharpening her sword.

‘Call me Greta,’ she said. ‘I’m dealing with recruitment and supplies.’

‘Sir John is the Prince’s secretary,’ Margaret said.

‘But when we engage,’ Greta boasted, ‘he’ll ride with Lord Elcho’s cavalry.’

‘Do we have enough horses?’ Anne asked.

‘Not yet,’ Greta grinned. ‘But we’ll solve that soon. You can help.’

‘I’d be pleased to,’ Anne said, ‘but I mean to go home.’

‘You’ve been very brave,’ Margaret said. ‘I couldn’t have left David.’ Like Anne, she was twenty, the same age as her young husband, a wealthy lord who could afford early marriage. ‘I had to persuade him, you know,’ she said. ‘Men don’t always understand what we’re losing. If English attitudes finally overwhelm us, men would have rights and power. We’d have none.’ She squeezed Anne’s arm supportively. ‘But you’ll convince Aeneas. You’ve inspired so many.’ She pointed to a trouser-clad woman busy directing the erection of tents. ‘That’s Jenny Cameron. She heard what you were doing, rode out and raised three hundred for the cause. Oh, and Isabel forced Ardshiel out because of you. He’ll arrive soon.’

‘Forced him out?’

‘Yes,’ Margaret laughed. ‘Said she’d raise and command their people herself if he’d stay home and keep house. Handed him an apron!’

Both of them giggled at the thought of burly Ardshiel in an apron, poring over household accounts, supervising the dusting or baking of bread. But Anne’s mood wasn’t lightened by it. Ardshiel had come out. Aeneas had gone to the other side. If he’d done nothing, if he’d waited, as he first said, that might have been bearable. This was not.

As soon as she could escape the energy and excitement of the camp, she wandered off alone to the edge of it. A massive full moon was rising, cut across by thin purple cloud. It was like the wound in her heart, splitting her in two, she in one place, Aeneas in another. Her husband had joined the enemy. There was no greater hurt he could do.

When MacGillivray found her, sitting on a rock, she was staring at the risen moon.

‘Your tent’s ready,’ he said, coming up behind her. ‘And supper is about to be served.’ When she did not respond, he turned her to him. Her eyes were luminous in the dark, bright with unshed tears. ‘Hey.’ He pulled her close, wrapping the warmth of his arms around her.

‘I can’t be this alone,’ she sobbed. ‘Not now, not here. He should be with us. He should be beside me.’

‘I know.’ MacGillivray pulled her tighter to him, his anger at Aeneas, the man he considered a brother, suddenly fierce. They stood a long time, holding each other, until Anne’s tears ran dry, until their bodies began to remember fitting into the shape and warmth of each other, of being this close, and it seemed as if no time at all had passed since then, as if nothing had changed.

‘I’m not as strong as I thought,’ she said, looking up at him.

She would kiss him now, he could see that. And if she did, they would stay together, at least that night, rocking each other into old familiar ecstasies. And it would do nothing to lessen the wrench he’d feel when she left in the morning, which is what she would
do, for she wanted him now only to fill the emptiness of Aeneas’s absence and not for himself. He put his hands on her shoulders, stepped back from her.

‘You’re stronger than you know,’ he said. ‘You’ll persuade him. Aeneas is no government lackey. Here is where he wants to be.’

‘He told you that?’

‘As good as. He only went to protect the lads in the Watch.’

‘He could have brought them here.’

‘But he believes we’ll fail.’

‘And we will, if we divide against ourselves.’ Anne would not be mollified. ‘That’s what I’ll tell him, when I get back to Moy.’

At dinner, MacGillivray sat with Margaret and Greta on either side of him, flirting outrageously. Anne sat opposite, next to Lord George. The Prince had appointed her cousin commander-in-chief. His head was full of tactics.

‘We’ll break camp tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Our numbers can’t be sustained in this area for much longer.’

‘Do you go to engage Cope?’ Anne asked.

‘No, I think we’ll do better for the time being to go around him. Let him scurry about the Highlands. I have other plans.’ He looked at her seriously, sympathetically. ‘What of you? Margaret says you’ll return to Moy.’

Anne nodded.

‘In the morning. I’ve done what I had to do.’

‘But you’ll need protection there.’

‘Aeneas won’t let harm come to his own house.’

‘I’m sure he won’t, or at least he’ll try to prevent it. But you’re perilously close to Ruthven barracks. The government army is assembling there. Some officer might seek his spurs by arresting the rebel Lady M
^c
Intosh.’

‘No, George!’ Anne was shocked. Her marriage had proved insecure, now the safety of her home was in doubt? ‘But I must see Aeneas.’

‘Let him bring himself, if he will. Your absence will surely weigh on his conscience. Come with us, at least for a time. I’ll draw Cope
away from Inverness. Then, if you must, you can return home with impunity.’

‘It will work,
vous verrez
,’ Anne insisted. ‘No one will be hurt.’

‘I think it’s a great plan.’ Beside her, Greta backed her up.

‘Me too,’ Margaret agreed. ‘Wish I’d thought of it.’

They were in the state room at the palace of Holyrood, at the foot of Edinburgh’s Royal Mile. They had been camped there for a week, the capital city’s gates shut against them. The Prince had forbidden storming the walls, unwilling to lose lives or alienate his father’s subjects inside those gates. Every day, more and more sympathizers climbed or bribed their way out to meet him, to pledge their loyalty before sneaking back into the city for the ten o’clock curfew.

‘
Mais oui
, if I hold a ball,’ the Prince said. ‘The music will distract the guards and provide cover.’

‘A fine idea, sir, to be sure,’ O’sullivan agreed. ‘Very fine.’

‘As long as my men go in first,’ Lochiel insisted.

‘No one would deprive you of that right,’ Lord George assured him. ‘Anne, we’ll leave it to you to persuade MacGillivray.’

The three women set to work, Margaret and Greta with their needles, Anne with her charm.