Rebellion & In From The Cold (25 page)

Her eyes were very intense. “Why?”

“It was also a matter of honor.”

Serena closed her eyes. Then, lifting his sword hand, she kissed it, almost reverently. “Thank you.”

“Thanks are not necessary for killing a vicious dog.” But he tensed even as she held his hand against her cheek. “You knew of this. Is that why you came to me tonight, why you agreed to be my wife?”

“Aye.” When he started to pull away, she held him only tighter. “Don’t. Let me say it all. It wasn’t for gratitude that I came, though I am grateful. It wasn’t for obligation, though I owe you a debt that can never be paid.”

“You owe me nothing.”

“Everything,” she said passionately. “When I dream now of that night, when I see my mother’s eyes after he had done with her, when I hear in my mind the way she wept, I will know that he is dead, and that he died by your hand. Knowing that, there is nothing I would deny you.”

“I didn’t kill him for your gratitude or to put you under obligation.” His voice was stiff. “I want you as my wife, Serena, intend to have you, but not because you feel you owe a debt.”

“I know that.” She knelt beside him and putting her arms around him, buried her face in his neck. “Did I not tell you already that I come to you willingly? Can you doubt it after what we’ve shared?” She pressed her lips against his skin, then skimmed them up to his. “When I was told of the duel, of his death, I was glad, afraid, confused. Tonight, I lay in bed and it all came so clear. It was not your fight, my love, not your family, not your mother. But you made it so. He might have killed you.”

“You have a poor opinion of my skill with a sword.”

Shaking her head, she drew back a little. He could see by her face that she would not be put off lightly. “I bound your wound. Your blood was on my hand, as my mother’s was that night so many years ago.” She held it, palm out. “You bled for my family. I will remember that until the day I die. I loved you before, Brigham. I had already accepted I would love no other. But tonight I came to see that you had honored my family as a man honors his own. I shall honor yours, if you’ll let me.”

He took the hand she held out to him and turned it over so that the emerald lay dark upon her finger. “I leave you with my heart, Serena. When I return, I’ll give you my name, as well.”

She opened her arms to him. “For tonight, give me your love once more.”

Prince Charles set his royal feet on the thin soil of Scotland in high summer, but not, as he and many others had hoped, in triumph. He was advised by MacDonald of Boisdale as he landed on the island of Eriskay to go home. His reply was terse, and telling.

“I am come home.”

From Eriskay, he and the seven men who had sailed with him traveled to the mainland. There, too, the Jacobites were filled more with concern than enthusiasm. Support was slow in coming, but Charles sent out letters to the Highland chiefs. Cameron of Lochiel was among them, and though his support was given reluctantly, and perhaps with a heavy heart, it was given.

So it passed that on August 19, in the year 1745, before some nine hundred loyal men, the standard was raised at Glenfinnan. Charles’s father was proclaimed James VIII of Scotland and James III of England, with the young Prince as regent.

The small force moved eastward, gathering strength. The clans rallied, words were pledged, and men bade goodbye to their women and joined the march.

Brigham’s journeys through Scotland with Ian and with Coll had given him a knowledge of the land. They were able to make good time, ironically enough on one of the roads built to discourage Highland rebellion. Using this, and the rugged hills for cover, they avoided the government garrisons at Fort William and Fort Augustus.

Spirits were high, the men as rough and ready as their land. It had only taken, as Brigham had always imagined, the energy and force of the young Prince to bind them together. When men thought of the battles ahead, they thought not of their mortality but of victory, and of a justice that had been denied them too long.

Some were young; Brigham saw the future in their eager faces, in the way they laughed and looked at the Prince, who wore the dress of the Highlands and had fastened a white cockade, the symbol of his house, on his blue bonnet.

Some were old, and there the past could be seen, the ageless pride, the battles already lost and won. They looked to the Prince, with his fresh Stuart blood, as the glue that would hold the clans together.

But old or young, eager or heavyhearted, Charles swept them along by the force of his personality alone. This was his time, and his place. He meant to make his mark.

The weather held fine, the breezes warm. It was said by some that God Himself had blessed the rebellion. For a time, it seemed so. The men and weapons that had been lost to the Jacobites when the
Elizabeth
had turned back were forgotten. Peat was plentiful for fires, and the water was fresh from icy mountain streams. The pipes were played, whiskey was drunk, and by night the men slept the good sleep men do when they begin an adventure.

It was to Brigham that word came that a government army had been dispatched north, headed by General Sir John Cope. Brigham took the news directly to the Prince as the men broke camp and prepared for the day’s march. Brigham watched the full, almost girlish mouth curve up into a smile that
was very much a man’s.

“So we shall fight, at last.”

“It appears so, Your Highness.”

The morning was warm, with the soft, watery light of Scotland gaining strength. The camp carried the scent of horses and soldiers and smoke. The rugged hills were softened now by a springy spread of heather. A golden eagle, early to the hunt, crested overhead.

“It seems a good day to fight,” Charles murmured as he studied Brigham’s face. “You would prefer we had Lord George with us.”

“Lord George is an excellent field commander, your Highness.”

“Indeed. But we have O’Sullivan.” Charles gestured toward the Irish soldier of fortune who was organizing the men for the day’s journey.

Brigham already had doubts in that quarter. He didn’t question the Irishman’s loyalty to the Prince, but he felt there was more flash than caution. “If we are engaged, we shall fight.”

“I look forward to it.” Charles fingered the hilt of his sword as he gazed around him. He felt something for this land, something deep and true. When he was king, he would see that Scotland and her people were rewarded. “It’s been a long journey, Brigham, a far distance from Louis’s court and all those pretty faces.”

“A long journey, Your Highness,” Brigham agreed. “But one well worth the making.”

“I should tell you that there were tears on some of those pretty faces when you left. Have you taken time to break hearts in Scotland, as well?”

“There is only one face for me now, sire, and one heart I will take great care not to break.”

The prince’s dark eyes were alight with amusement. “Well, well, it appears the dashing Lord Ashburn has fallen for a Highland lassie. Tell me,
mon ami
, is she as pretty as the luscious Anne-Marie?”

Brigham managed a wry grin. “I would beg Your Highness to make no comparisons, particularly in front of the Highland lassie. She has a rare temper.”

“Does she?” With a delighted laugh, Charles signaled for his mount. “I am most anxious to meet her and see what manner of woman snared the most sought-after man at the French court.”

The pipes sounded along the road, but Cope’s troops were never seen. Word came that he had detoured to Inverness. The road to Edinburgh lay open to the rebels. Three thousand strong, they captured Perth after a short, vicious battle. Victorious, they continued their drive south, engaging and routing two regiments of dragoons.

The fighting seemed to fuel the rebels. Here at last was action instead of talk, deeds instead of plans. With sword and pipe, shield and ax, they were like a fury. Survivors would spread tales of their maniacal skill and daring that themselves would serve as a weapon.

Joined by Lord George Murray at Perth, they entered Edinburgh and took it for their own.

The city was in a panic. News of the invasion had preceded the Highland forces, and rumors flew about barbarians, cannibals and butchers. The city guard had fled, and while Edinburgh slept a party of Camerons rushed the sentries, and control was gained.

Under the Prince’s command, there was no looting, no pillaging. The people of Edinburgh were given justice and compassion, as was due the subjects of the true king.

It was only a month after the standard had been raised at Glenfinnan and James had been proclaimed king, and his son and regent was preparing to open a royal court at Holyrood House.

Coll was beside Brigham when the Prince rode his gray gelding into Holyrood Park. A crowd had gathered to watch him. Shouts and cheers followed them, for the people saw their heart’s delight in the
young man in his tartan shortcoat and blue bonnet. Perhaps he was not yet England’s Prince, but he was theirs.

“Listen to them.” Coll leaned forward in the saddle and grinned. “Here is our first real victory, Brigham, and by God, it has a good feel.”

Brigham steadied his mount as he maneuvered through the narrow, crowded streets. “I’ll swear he could drive them to London now with only a word. I can only hope the supplies and men we need will arrive before it comes time.”

“We could be outnumbered ten to one today and never taste defeat. It would be as it was at Perth and, aye, at Coltbridge.” The early-autumn breeze drifted, making Coll grimace. “But in God’s name, this place is filthy. Give me the open Highlands and the hills. How does a man breathe,” he wondered, “without the room to draw air?”

Edinburgh was packed with houses and shops, some still fashioned of mud and wood. The stone buildings rose high, like aeries, with the fronts four or five stories high, and the backs often stretching nine or ten stories down the perilously steep hills.

“Worse than Paris,” Brigham agreed. The stench drifted out from crowded lanes, and waste and garbage clogged the alleys, but the people, cheering the Prince, seemed oblivious to it all.

Above the slums, the filth of the alleys and the dirt of the streets was the Royal Mile. Edinburgh Castle, majestic, already glamorous with age and history, guarded one end of that great street. Where its slope ended was Holyrood House, where palace and abbey stood together elegantly poised before the rough crags. It had already been the scene, time after time, of turbulence and passion. Mary, Queen of Scots, had been its most famous and doomed inhabitant. She had lived there, marrying her cousin Henry Stewart of Darnley in Holyrood Abbey, and seeing her lover Rizzio murdered by him in the little supper room of her apartments. Her son James had been born in the castle, and had survived a troubled and turbulent boyhood to become king of England, as well as Scotland.

It was here, at this site of pomp and intrigue that James’s great-great grandson Charles would hold his court, bringing Holyrood House to life once more.

He rode toward the palace that had once housed his ancestors. Dismounting, he walked slowly under the archway, to appear moments later in the window of his new apartments, waving to the shouts of the crowd.

Edinburgh held the Prince, and he held Edinburgh.

He was to prove this only days later, when Cope moved his troops south.

Primed, even eager, the Jacobites met the government army east of the city at Prestonpans. Red-coated dragoons faced the Highlanders, who were dressed for battle in kilts or close-fitting trews. Brigham, with a leather shield in one hand and his sword in the other, joined the MacGregors. For a moment the field was eerily silent, with only the hollow sound of the pipes rising into the misty air. Like the heartbeats of men, Brigham thought, men who were willing to die. Opposing standards waved, caught by the early breeze.

The first charge sent birds wheeling and screaming up the sky. Men on foot met with a thunderous crash of sword and ax. Here, as they had on the route south, the Scots fought like demons, hacking with blades, pressing on even when bloody. As had happened before, the English infantry couldn’t withstand the violence of the Highland charge. The red line wavered and broke.

The cavalry surged forward, vicious hooves striking, claymores glinting. Brigham ignored the cries and curses around him as he met his man. A shot rang whistling past his ear, but his eyes never lost their icy determination. The Campbell on the road from London would have recognized it. Brigham was a man who was willing to die but confident he would not.

Smoke from cannon and mortar grew thick, so that men on both sides fought in a fog. The heat of battle set sweat pouring as freely as blood so that the stench of both stung the air. Already carrion birds circled overhead, lured by the battle sounds.

As Brigham maneuvered his mount through what was left of the English lines, he could see the white cockades of the Jacobites and the plaids of MacGregors, MacDonalds, Camerons. Some fell around him, victims of bayonets or swords. Again and again the ground exploded where mortars struck, flinging out rock and dirt and deadly metal. Men screamed as they were struck down. Others died in silence.

Within ten minutes, the battle was over. Dragoons sought safety in flight and raced to the concealing hills on horse or on foot. Blood streaked the thin grass and stained the gray rock. The bodies of the dead and wounded lay sprawled on the ground. That day the pipes played in victory, and the standard of the House of Stuart was held high.

“Why do we stay snug in Edinburgh when we should be marching toward London?” Coll demanded as he strode out into the courtyard at Holyrood, a plaid wrapped around his shoulders to ward off the chilly dusk.

For once Brigham could only agree with Coll’s impatience to be doing. They had been nearly three weeks at Charles’s newly established court. The court itself was very glamorous, with levees and councils in the palace, but the Prince had not forgotten his men and so divided his time between Holyrood and the camp at Duddingston. Morale was good, though there was more than one man among them who would have agreed with Coll’s sentiments.