The Gathering Storm (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 3) (54 page)

“Why does Daniel want to kill you, though?”

“I dinna ken, rightly. It’s probably nothing more than spite. He’s never forgiven you for not marrying him, and me for rescuing ye, as ye rightly said. I expect he’ll hate us even more, now ye’ve tellt the whole of society the details. It wasna widely known that he’d abducted you.”

“It is now,” Beth said dryly. “Do you think he’ll take up the challenge, then? Will you have to kill him?”

“I canna kill him, Beth. I’ve promised his father I’ll no’ hurt him, that I’ll look out for him when I can.”

“You’ve what?” said Beth, incredulously.

“Aye. Why d’ye think I didna kill him at the Fleet when he abducted ye? I wanted to, God knows.”

“I never thought about it,” said Beth. “But I thought you were Sir Anthony then, and he’s a bit squeamish about blood.”

Alex laughed.

“Aye, it’s a devil to get out of silk and velvet,” he said. “I’m going to have tae watch Daniel now, though. I dinna think he’ll take up the challenge to a fair duel. It wasna what he was after. If he does I’ll accept Frederick’s offer, and wound the young gomerel enough tae put him out of action for a wee while. I’m more worried that he’ll try something more underhand. Ye’ll have to be careful for a while, too, Beth. Dinna go out without Angus or Duncan, if I’m no’ with ye.”

“Why?” said Beth, thoroughly worried now. “What do you think he might do?”

“Nothing, until his shoulder’s healed, I hope. After that, I dinna ken. But I dinna want him to hurt you, because if he does, I’ll kill him, promise or no, and I wouldna feel good about that. I want to avoid that, I must avoid that, at all costs.”

“The earl must be a very good friend to you,” said Beth, knowing that Alex did not make promises lightly, and hoping he would now elaborate on the details of his friendship with this man he saw only seldom.

“Aye, he is” said Alex, and then he changed the subject to arranging times for Beth to give the others knife-throwing lessons, and would be drawn no further.

August, 1745

The atmosphere inside the stagecoach to London was somewhat merry, or at least as merry as it is possible to be when one has been closed up with one’s fellow passengers for several days in a contrivance with hard seats and ventilation only from inconvenient draughts, and then jounced along the rutted and sometimes dangerous roadways of England for over twelve hours a day.

Still, as this was the normal state of affairs when travelling by stagecoach, and as the journey was almost at an end and no one had been killed or even injured, the extremely malodorous clerk had dismounted at Birmingham, the coach had not lost a wheel, and the driver, whilst fond of his ale, was at least not
permanently
inebriated, there was cause for merriment indeed.

The company, overall, had been pretty good too, and the evenings in the indifferent inns along the way had passed reasonably well. The sprightly octogenarian widow travelling to attend her youngest granddaughter’s marriage, had had some interesting tales to tell of the old days, when Catholic James was on the throne, before the Glorious Revolution of 1688. She even remembered, as a small child, being held up to see Charles the Second as he drove past in his gilt carriage. The mirror-maker claimed to have travelled all over Europe, and told lavish stories of the Palace of Versailles and of the streets of Venice, which were not really streets at all, but canals, on which one could make love to dark-eyed beauties whilst floating along in strangely-shaped boats hung with glittering lanterns.

Only the young man with the strange accent who had boarded at Carlisle had nothing of interest to add to the conversation. In fact within an hour or so of him joining the stage, his fellow-travellers had come to the unanimous conclusion that there was nothing interesting about him at all. His clothes, though clean enough, were of a dull grey wool with no decoration, his hair (he wore his own hair, unpowdered too, which told a good deal about the lowliness of his birth) was a nondescript shade of brown, and he gave away nothing about himself, other than that he was from Carlisle, and was going to London to join his brother, who had already been living there for some time. He was pleasant enough, and courteous to the ladies; but clearly he had not had an eventful day in his life, and although he listened to his fellow passengers’ tales with polite interest, he asked no questions, nor did he supply any stories of his own.

Once they entered London, he spent most of his time looking out of the window, observing the press of people, traders, horses and coaches which crowded the streets and brought the stagecoach’s speed down to a crawling pace. After a while he announced that he thought it would be quicker for him to walk the rest of the way rather than remain cooped up in the coach for another hour or so until it reached the terminus at Holborn, and taking his (very small) bag from the floor between his legs, he leapt down from the coach and disappeared into the throng.

The young man had not wanted to take the stage at all; he would have preferred to ride. But he was travelling alone, and his journey had been a very long one, and to have made it on horseback without ending with his throat cut in a ditch would have been a miracle. His message was important. He could not risk it not being delivered. He smiled, glad to be almost at his destination. He was grateful to be in the air again; the adjective fresh could in no way be ascribed to the stuff which he inhaled as he made his way along the street. He had smelt all the odours which assailed his nostrils before; sweat, horses, various foodstuffs both fresh and rotting, urine, perfume, halitosis; but never in such concentrations as they now were. He tried not to wrinkle his nose with distaste, and, remembering the instructions he’d been given and occasionally asking the way, he slowly made his way to the north of the city, until he finally entered streets where the thoroughfares were wider, and less populous, and the hint of a smell of green fields refreshed him.

He stopped outside a large cream-coloured house surrounded by ornate iron railings. Several freshly-scrubbed steps led up to a green-painted door. The young man hesitated, excitement building in him, and took a moment to brush the dust from his coat, although he knew the people he was about to meet wouldn’t care about his appearance. Then he moved to the bottom of the steps, and as he did so the door opened and a man appeared at the threshold, his head turned back over his shoulder to address someone in the hall behind him.

The young man halted, his mouth slightly open. He had never seen such a sight in his life before. The vision before him sported a peacock-blue frockcoat lavishly embroidered with gold leaves and flowers, and matching satin breeches, fastened with silver buckles at the knees. His stockings and waistcoat were of a scarlet so bright it hurt the eyes, and expensive Brussels lace frothed at the man’s wrists and throat. Then the vision laughed lightly, and turning his white mask of a face forward, saw the young man at the foot of the steps; and froze.

“Holy Mother of God,” the vision said, and took an involuntary step backwards, colliding with and treading on the foot of his wife, who was right behind him. She cried out in pain and he reached back automatically to steady her, never taking his eyes off the young grey-clad man all the while.

Then he recovered himself, and glancing quickly up the street observed that there were a good many people about; people who would note and comment if a young man of low birth were admitted through the front door of the house of such an important gentleman as himself.

“Ah, I had all but given up on your ever arriving!” the fop called, holding up his hand to stop the man mounting the steps. “You will go round the back of the house to the kitchen immediately, where John will meet you and show you your duties.” He paid the man no further attention and turned back into the hall, where his wife was attempting to fight her way through yards of pink silk to assess the damage to her crushed toes.

“Now my dear, if you are really feeling so ill, then of course we will not go,” he said in a peevish voice which carried halfway up the street. “But I wish you had thought to tell me before I spent an hour dressing. Really, it is most inconsiderate of you. No of course not,” he continued, as though Beth was speaking to him, rather than merely staring at him as though he’d gone mad. “I would not dream of leaving you alone if you are ill.” He pushed her gently backwards into the hall, and, after glancing back quickly to ascertain that the young man had gone, he shut the door.

“What on earth’s going on?” said Beth as Alex made to run past her in the direction of the kitchen.

“Alasdair,” he said. “Alasdair’s here.”

“What? Peigi’s Alasdair? Are you expecting him?” She lifted her skirts and ran after him as he tore into the kitchen, her squashed toes forgotten.

“No,” he said. “There must be something wrong.”

In the kitchen Maggie and Iain had been sitting chatting at the table, but were now standing, looking at Alasdair with the same shocked expression that Alex, or rather Sir Anthony, had.

“What’s amiss, man?” Alex said as soon as he was through the door.

Alasdair stared at him for a moment. He had heard of Sir Anthony, of course, from other clan members who had seen Alex’s alter ego; but nothing could have prepared him for the real thing. If it wasn’t for the unmistakable rich deep voice that had just addressed him, Alasdair wouldn’t have believed his chieftain could be present under all the silk and paint. Certainly the fop at the door had neither sounded nor looked anything like Alex. It was remarkable.

Angus and then Duncan appeared behind their brother and Beth, and Alasdair remembered why he was here.

“He’s landed,” he said simply. “On the twenty-third, at Eriskay.”

No one asked who had landed. Alex sat down heavily at the table and removed his wig. Beth remained standing, unable to sit at the narrow bench in her hooped skirts. Duncan and Angus hovered behind her. The oven fire crackled merrily. The stew bubbled in the pot. Time stood still.

“Has he brought the French?” Alex asked finally.

“No,” said Alasdair.

Alex swore, fluently, in three languages. Time moved on.

“Has he brought anything? Except himself?” he asked hopefully.

Alasdair smiled wearily.

“He brought seven men wi’ him,” he said.

“Jesus,” said Duncan.

“No, he wasna among them, unfortunately,” Alasdair said irreverently.

“Neither was King Louis, I take it?” said Alex.

“No. He did have another ship, wi’ seven hundred Irish troops, and a whole load of weapons, but it had a wee set-to wi’ an English warship, and had to turn back to France.”

Alex scrubbed his fingers through his hair, violently.

“So he landed in Scotland last month, wi’ seven men and nothing else. Tell me he’s on his way home again, please,” said Alex, knowing already that if this was the case Alasdair would not have come over three hundred miles to tell him so.

“That’s what MacDonald of Boisdale tellt him tae do,” Alasdair said. “He went straight to see him, and tell him that the MacLeods and the MacDonalds of Sleat willna rise for him, as he hadna brought the French wi’ him. Boisdale tellt him to go straight home. Charles said that he
was
come home. He’s sent his ship back to France.”

This so clearly matched what Beth would expect the dynamic young prince who had won her affections in Rome to do, that she laughed. Everyone looked at her. Alex scowled.

“I’m sorry,” she said, blushing. “It’s just so typical of him though, isn’t it?”

“Aye, it is, the bloody idiot,” Alex said. “Tae arrive in Scotland wi’ no men, no weapons, and be told that two of the biggest clans willna support ye, and then refuse to see sense. That’s just what we need in a leader.” He stood up. “Let’s get out of these stupid clothes, Beth. Duncan, you take a message to Isabella to say that Lady Elizabeth is indisposed, but it’s nothing serious. Alasdair, have yourself a wash and a bite, and then we’ll all meet back here in half an hour or so.”

“Right, then,” Alex said later. “Tell us everything. Then we can decide what we’re going to do.”

They were all seated round the kitchen table, bowls of stew in front of them, cups of ale at their elbows. Alasdair, having already demolished one bowl while the others were changing or delivering messages, gratefully accepted a second helping. The food at the inns had been indifferent, to say the least, and his funds meagre.

“Aye. Well, as I said, he landed wi’ his seven men, and then the news spread like wildfire. Boisdale came tae him the next day, and then Charles moved on to Borrodale, to a farmhouse there. He sent letters out to all the chiefs, and a good few came and tellt him the same thing Boisdale did, to away off hame. But he wouldna go, and then Clanranald declared for him. Once he’d done it Glencoe and Keppoch joined too.”

“Glencoe?” Beth said, her eyes wide.

“Aye. It was from your cousins at Glencoe that we heard about the prince landing in the first place. Kenneth was all for me riding down to ye that night, but then we thought he might still go hame, so we waited a wee while to see what transpired.”

Alex was counting furiously.

“That’s still only six hundred men,” he said. “It isna enough to inspire the rest. Ye said MacLeod and Sleat willna commit. Lochiel willna either, and Lovat’ll no’ bring out the Frasers unless…”

“Lochiel’s declared for the prince,” Alasdair interrupted.

Alex stared at him in shock. The Camerons were a big clan, and powerful.

“No,” he said after a minute. “No. I dinna believe it. Donald wouldna do that, no’ without the French.”

“He has, though,” insisted Alasdair. “He rode up himself to see Charles, and they had an awfu’ long talk, so I heard, and Lochiel wasna keen, tae say the least. But the prince won him round, and he’s bringing the Camerons out. That’s when we decided to come and tell ye, because once Lochiel agreed, we knew others’d join. Glengarry already has. Charles is raising his standard at Glenfinnan on the nineteenth, and they’re all meeting him there, wi’ their men.”