The Enchantress (Book 1 of The Enchantress Saga) (47 page)

When Lord Falconer subsequently heard the details of the Battle of Culloden, even he was glad he had not been there to share in the doubtful glory of the butchery and savagery that had followed it – Cumberland being determined to put an end to the Rebellion once and for all.

Prince Charles escaped from the field and some of his commanders, incurably optimistic, regrouped to meet in another place and plan to rally. But the Prince was done for. He, with scant thanks for all they had done, bade his supporters disperse while he became a fugitive with a price on his head.

For weeks after Culloden Brent Delamain found it impossible to rid his mind of the sounds of the battle, the screams of the wounded, the savage cries of the Highlanders trying to resist defeat, the relentless sound of gunfire and of steel upon steel. As a special category prisoner Brent had been cast into the dungeons of Edinburgh Castle; special because he had been so close to the Prince, a captain in his Life Guards. Brent had served in all the encounters since Clifton and battle had taken its toll of him; he was a silent man, a man of iron and bitterness. He blamed the undisciplined Highlanders and the personality of the Prince, whose spirits were either up or down but never seemed capable of maintaining that balance, that detachment, that was so essential for a successful military commander.  His temperament was too mercurial, too uneven and, in fact, it only flourished at its best when he was hunted as a fugitive although Brent at that time could not know this.

Brent was lucky to be alive. His brother Tom was dead, killed very early in the battle, as the waves of government soldiers bore down upon the tired and grossly outnumbered Jacobite army.  Brent had seen the way the wounded were dealt with as he waited to be led away, sabred or shot to death where they lay, just as his men had dealt with the wounded Hanoverians in other engagements.

It was sickening and horrible and now that it was over he was glad to be out of it, although he knew that death inevitably awaited him because of the degree of guilt attributed to him. The majority of prisoners taken at Culloden had been sent to Inverness for shipment to London, and dreadful stories had come back of the conditions in the transport ships in which the men were confined, many of whom died of untreated wounds and disease.

But Brent was incarcerated in Edinburgh Castle along with other gentlemen and members of the nobility including the Earl of Kelly, the Duchess of Perth, Lady Ogilvy and, most important of all, Murray of Broughton who had been so instrumental in bringing the Prince to Scotland. Those who were in prison in Scotland did not expect to remain there long. It was known that the English victors would not attempt to hold trials in Scotland and, uncertain of his fate, Brent nevertheless prepared himself for the end. Whatever happened to him the Cause was lost indeed.

Stewart Allonby, in prison in Carlisle, had waited much longer for his sentence. The lots that had been cast among the ordinary soldiers to stand trial did not apply to officers and Stewart had been sent to London for trial at Southwark. After the vengeance taken on the men of the Manchester Regiment, all of whom had been sentenced to death and barbarously executed on Kennington Common in July, Stewart expected no mercy. But to his surprise his cousin George Delamain, urged on by Emma, spoke for him. It was submitted that he was only a half-hearted supporter of the Young Pretender and that, moreover, he had not drawn sword or fired a gun in battle, which was true, his duties at Carlisle keeping him off the ramparts.

Worn out by months of waiting and repeated bouts of gaol fever Stewart did not deny his lack of fervour, and was rewarded with a sentence to be deported to His Majesty’s Colonies and to remain there for the rest of his life. He was then returned to Carlisle to await shipment from Liverpool and, dazed, he still did not know whether it was better to have died or to be forced to live forever so far from the home, the country which he loved.

Two days after his return Stewart was summoned before Carruthers, the Keeper of the Carlisle Gaol, and told he had a visitor. Carruthers was aware of the importance of Sir George Delamain’s evidence in securing leniency for Mr Allonby and smiled on him kindly.

‘You were lucky, Mr Allonby, in that your cousin spoke for you.’ Stewart looked at the floor. He was not proud of George’s intervention. He had also been surprised by it.

‘I know not whether I prefer death to a life of exile.’

‘Oh come, sir. They say his Majesty will extend a general pardon once all is cleared away. You will not be gone long. In the meantime I have a surprise for you. Miss Delamain who accompanied her brother to your trial is here to see you.’

‘Emma?’

Stewart’s eyes, sunk deep in his head with suffering, momentarily brightened.

‘Emma was
there
?’

‘You did not observe her in the crowd?’’

‘I have been in prison six months Mr Keeper. It does not make the senses alert. That and the prison fodder.’

The Keeper turned away and shuffled some papers. He had expected very few to survive their trials, certainly not Stewart Allonby. The prisoners from Carlisle had been very harshly dealt with. The Manchester Regiment who, after all, had played very little part in the war had been savagely butchered. The behaviour of the Scots was considered more forgivable than that of the English who had turned against their King. Carruthers was sorry that he had not treated Mr Allonby better. He was now trying to make amends.

‘You may use my room to see Miss Delamain, sir. I will have her brought to you.’

Stewart turned his back and gazed out of the window. He was uncertain whether he wanted to see Emma; how he felt about her. He heard her come softly into the room but still he did not turn.

‘Stewart?’

Stewart closed his eyes, his jaw working hard to hold back his emotion. He felt her hand on his arm, her fingers slowly tightening.

‘I look awful, deathly pale ...’

‘I know.  I saw you in court. But alive! You are
alive
Stewart. You have a chance.’

‘Thanks to George.’

He felt Emma remove her hand and her voice was low.

‘I knew you would be bitter. But I did not care. I know how you felt about the Prince, how disillusioned you had become with the Cause. You told me in your letters. Not to
die
for him now, Stewart.’

‘Oh, Emma ...’

Stewart turned towards her and she threw herself into his arms. He was so weak that he could hardly support her and for a while they leaned on each other. How beautiful she looked, he thought, stroking her hair seeing the tears cascading down her cheeks. Weeping for
him
?  What had he done to deserve it?

‘I am not worth the tears, Emma. I am not a hero, not even a brave man, not even dedicated.’

‘But you are alive and I love you.’

It was the first time she had told him. She looked up into his eyes, pale gaunt man that he was, tired and disillusioned. He had .lost stones in weight and dark shadows framed his eyes. But she loved him, had come to love him through his letters from prison, his need of her.

‘How can you love
me
?’

He pressed her close to him again scarcely believing.

‘I do. And I will stay with you, Stewart, wherever you go – to the West Indies or America – I will join you as soon as I can. Whatever your circumstances I will be by your side.’

So it was worth it. He had lost a cause, but gained the love of a woman he had always cherished. Was it true, after all, that good did come out of evil?

‘Oh, Emma, Emma, I do not deserve you. I do not deserve this.’

He hugged her again then pushed her gently from him and wearily went to sit on a chair. He felt his legs could scarcely support him any longer.

‘Unless I recover my strength I shall not survive the voyage. I shall die like those poor men in the transports in Tilbury.’

‘Don’t worry. I have the measure of Carruthers. He is anxious to please, seeing George is so powerful. You will be well fed.’

‘And Brent?  What news of Brent?’

Emma’s proud noble frame, so upright in front of her lover, seemed to sink.

‘For some reason the authorities are treating Brent with severity. There are reports that he was ruthless in battle against the English, his own countrymen. He was seen to strike many down at Falkirk and Culloden. It is this that tells against Brent than anything else. When he was in London George made enquiries in the highest of circles; he even had an interview with the Duke of Newcastle himself. But the English Jacobites are not popular with the Hanoverian Court – hated even worse than the Scots.’

‘Then it is hopeless for Brent?’

Emma gazed at her beloved and her eyes again filled with tears. Would they could both be safe – lover and brother. It was too much to expect, too much to hope for. Brent would be hanged and Stewart live out a life of bitterness and misery in the undeveloped American colonies, far from home.

‘Our family has suffered too much for the Stuarts,’ she said, nodding her head in reply to Stewart’s question. ‘They have lost everything. They do not even have the advantage of admiration for the Prince although he is hunted all over the Highlands, a price of £30,000 on his head and none betray him.’

‘He inspires great loyalty, he has such charm,’ Stewart reached up and took Emma’s hand, putting it to his lips. ‘But he was not a good commander. He would not have made a good king. He was over fond of his own way, his own opinion. Nay, I’m disillusioned, I’ll admit. The Stuarts are surely gone forever and Hanover firmly entrenched on the throne of England. Would I were at my home on Lake Derwentwater, going out to hew wood. Would all this had never happened. The Cause lost and I humiliated by my cousin having to plead for me. Now Tom is dead, killed in battle and Brent sure to hang.’

Emma’s eyes were wet with tears and she pressed Stewart’s hand tightly.

‘I didn’t know Tom so well, of course; he was older than I and always lived abroad. Mother said he wanted to die if he could not win.’

‘How does your mother bear up to all this?’

‘She is very brave; also she has had comfort during the past months.  The most curious thing, Stewart.  Brent sent a gypsy woman with a sick baby to take shelter with us and Mother has become very fond of the baby. The gypsy woman, who was not the mother, has gone on her way and Mother has taken over the baby.’

‘Your mother has taken a gypsy baby?’

‘She thinks it is not. She is a dear little thing, very blonde with blue eyes, called Morella. She could almost be a Delamain. Mother mourns, of course, for Tom and Brent and you. But Stewart listen, there is the oddest story I have to tell you that Mary told me. And here I have hope for Brent.’

‘And that is?’

‘Before they were married a gypsy came to your home, do you remember?’

‘I do,’ Stewart said bitterly. ‘Well I remember her.’

‘It seems my brother was once enamoured of her.’

‘Mary knows that?’

‘Brent told her after the wedding. However the gypsy, Analee, has, by the most curious chain of circumstances, married my sister-in-law Henrietta’s cousin, Angus Falconer. They met in the war or something. I know not quite what.’

‘Lord Falconer has married
Analee
?’

Stewart could not keep the incredulity out of his voice.

‘He was much taken by her and cared not what people thought. Now she is always at his side. It is rumoured her strange gypsy powers even saved his life.’

‘So, what is the plan?’

‘Mary has gone to Falcon’s Keep to plead with Analee, whom she got to know well, to intercede with her husband to save Brent.’

‘’Tis a slim chance.’

Emma nodded. There was a knock on the door. Emma took Stewart’s hand and looked into his eyes. They had never made love, never even kissed. Now Emma felt she wanted this thin defeated prisoner more than anything in life.

‘Stewart,’ she said quietly. ‘I will follow you. I will find where you are and get a boat as soon as I can.’

‘But the conditions ...’

‘No matter what they are I will share them with you. I love you too much to let you go.’

Stewart looked at her and took her tenderly in his arms. The moment he’d always waited for had come too late.

‘How can I say no?’ he said brokenly. ‘Even though I have nothing at all to offer you.’

And for the first time they kissed, before the door swung open and the gaoler came to take Stewart back to his cell.

The Marchioness of Falconer sat at her escritoire in her own salon on the first floor of the mansion which overlooked the elaborate gardens and the lake in the far distance. Beyond that was the uneven range of the Cheviot Hills. She wore a simple pentelair that now suited her more ample figure. It had a round décolletage which emphasized her magnificent bosom and she wore it with a plain petticoat of the same dark green silk which rested on a domed hoop. Like a simple countrywoman a handkerchief was tied round her neck and she wore no rings or jewels except for her necklace which she never removed.

Her feet were bare and tucked under her chair as she tried to grasp the simple arithmetic of her household accounts which she prepared under the tutelage of his lordship.

Analee had taken to her new status with a natural dignity which impressed all who met her – the local worthies and the members of his majesty’s army who called to pay their respects to his lordship and wish him health and happiness. At night she entertained regally, dressed in the latest mode, her hair dressed and ablaze with jewels. But by day she wore simple clothes and on retiring she lay, as she always had, naked except for the close companionship of her loving husband.

Analee, looking forward to the future, aware of the child quickening inside her, the heir to the Falconer estates and fortune if were a boy, thought only sporadically of her former life and the happier she became the less she missed it.

She still loved to wander barefoot around the estate, and she and Nelly would talk of the old times, sometimes with laughter, and occasionally with tears when they thought of the fate of the Buckland gypsies, the harshness the war had brought to so many people.