Wolf, Joan (16 page)

Van awoke early on the nineteenth of August to the sound of the piper who was pacing back and forth in front of the castle with a stately tread. The notes of his tribute to the prince filled the morning air:

Oh, Charles, son of James, son of James, son of Charles,

With you I'd go gladly when the call sounds for marching...

Van hastily got out of bed.

Niall had scarcely slept at all. Today was the day the prince would raise the standard. The chosen place was a narrow valley at the end of Loch Shiel, Glenfinnan by name. There on this day were to gather the MacIans, the Camerons under Lochiel, the MacDonalds of Keppoch and Lochaber, and assorted other clans from the surrounding area. Today the clans would officially announce that they were in arms against the usurper king who sat on the British throne.

Alasdair was attired in the full panoply of his rank when he came punctiliously to bid his wife farewell. For the last few weeks they had spoken to each other with cool courtesy when it was necessary to communicate, and that was all. Frances had not forgiven him for raising the clan and he had not forgiven her for opposing him.

Frances was sitting up in bed when he came into the room. He wore the kilt today, not the trews, and at his waist hung a dirk and wrought-steel pistol. The rest of his weapons consisted of a broadsword, which dangled by his side, and a target which hung upon his shoulder. His bonnet was decorated with an eagle's feather, the sign of a chief. He looked barbaric, magnificent, and tough as nails.

"I will be saying good-bye to you," he said formally.

"Good-bye, Alasdair," she replied. "Godspeed."

He kissed her cheek, a kiss cold as a knife, and then was gone.

Gone to what? Frances though bitterly as she lay back and stared at the canopy over her. Gone to rebellion, to battle, to ultimate disaster.

He knew that. He
had
to know that. He was much too astute not to understand what he was doing. And yet, the prince had called, and so he went.

She could forgive such a reaction in Niall, but not in Alasdair. A grown man should be more flexible, able to change and revise his thinking with the times. But not Alasdair. Oh, never Alasdair. He would bring them all to utter desolation, but he would have remained true.

She could see him now in her mind's eye, marching at the head of his clan, head up, frown between his eyes. She felt such fear for him. She felt such fear for them all. With a heavy heart she pushed back the covers and got out of bed.

The prince and a small party of followers were already at Glenfinnan when the MacIans arrived, marching in two long lines, led by their chief and their piper. Niall's heart swelled as his clansmen filed into the glen and his father went to give allegiance to his prince. Then came the sound of the Camerons' battle song: "Clanna nan con, Thigibh an so, thigibh and so..." "Sons of the dogs, come hither, come hither and you shall have flesh." Lochiel's men also were pouring down the hillside. Soon the little glen was filled with clansmen and the aging Duke of Atholl, one of the staunchest of veteran Jocobites, unfurled the prince's red-white-and-blue standard. Charles Edward then stepped forward to speak.

Niall was perfectly happy. There in that rocky glen, looking out toward the loch, the sea, and the Western Isles, was gathered the last feudal army ever to assemble on British soil. Niall looked around at the brilliant tartan colors, the bonnets and feathers, the flash of sun on sword and pistol. The prince finished speaking and a great roar rose to the heavens. The Rebellion of 1745 had begun.

PART II: The Year of Charlie

Scotland and England, September 1745-April 1746

CHAPTER 13

The ancient palace of Holyrood was ablaze with light on the evening of September 18. For years the traditional home of the kings of Scotland had lain empty of royalty, serving only as a garrison for English troops. But on this glorious evening the palace of Scotland's hereditary kings was once again occupied by its rightful owner. The day before, with pipes skirling and tartans swinging, Prince Charles Edward Stuart had entered Edinburgh and taken up residence in the palace of his ancestors.

Torches were flickering along the length of the Canongate as Frances and Van drove their carriage toward the palace where the prince was giving a reception and ball for his loyal adherents. All of Edinburgh lay at his feet. All, that is, except the English garrison still holding the castle at the other end of the Royal Mile. Tonight, however, it was possible to forget that stubborn spot of resistance and rejoice in the ease with which the prince and the clans had conquered all opposition up till now.

Van's face was lit with excitement as she and Frances alighted at the blazing door of the palace and began to make their way along the long dark halls and passages that led to the audience chamber and state reception gallery where the ball was being held. The halls were filled with people, and Van looked around her for a familiar face.

"Your father said he would be waiting for us," Frances said as they reached the door of the reception gallery. Alasdair had been in a conference with Lord George Murray and the prince that afternoon when his wife and daughter arrived in Edinburgh, and they had not yet seen him. The two women paused in the doorway and while Frances searched the crowd for her husband, Van eagerly tried to find the prince.

She spied him almost immediately, at the far end of the gallery, a tall handsome young man in Highland dress. He was unmistakably royal, she thought as she watched the smiling ease with which Charles Stuart was talking to a man she did not know. Van's eyes went from the prince to circle the room, and her heart swelled with emotion. Here they were, in Edinburgh, in the Palace of Holyrood. A Stuart once again in his proper place. And the clans had done it unaided. Van's chin came up a little and she too began to look for her father.

Frances saw him first. Alasdair's back was to the door and he appeared to be deep in conversation with a tall, haughty-looking man she recognized as Lord George Murray, the Duke of Atholl's brother, who had been named commander of the Jacobite army. Frances looked at the back of her husband's head and almost instantly he turned and saw them.

Van's eyes glowed with pride as she watched her father coming toward them across the crowded floor. He wore a red velvet coat and dress kilt and his unpowdered hair was tied back in a queue with a velvet ribbon. A large diamond pin adorned the fine lace at his throat. He stopped before them and spoke to his wife.

"I am sorry you had to come alone. I could not get away earlier."

His voice was formal, his gray eyes cool. Some of the brightness left Van's eyes. She had been aware ever since her return home that something was wrong between her father and her mother. She had hoped, after the clans had had such a signal success in the taking of Edinburgh, that the coolness between her parents would have dissipated. Alasdair looked from his wife to his daughter and his expression became less stern.

"Can you introduce us to the prince, Father?" Van asked.

"I am looking forward to doing so," he replied and his look at her became positively approving. Van was aware that she was looking her best this night, in an ivory taffeta ball gown with a silk tartan sash that crossed her breast from shoulder to waist. Her only ornaments were the heirloom pearls she wore at her throat and her ears. She looked very well, she knew, but still she was not half as beautiful as her mother. Frances' dress was more sophisticated than Van's simple taffeta, a blue satin that was cut over her shoulders and breast. The close-textured, pearly skin it revealed was as soft and resilient as a young girl's. Frances was beautiful indeed, but Alasdair's eyes as he looked at her held none of their old accustomed glow. They were hard, ironic almost. He offered his wife his arm and they began to cross the floor toward the gallery where the prince was receiving his guests.

Van felt her heart begin to accelerate as they approached the young man whose praises had been sung in her ears ever since she could remember. Here was the Stuart himself, Scotland's lawful ruler, her father's dedicated vision in the flesh.

He was tall and his hair was a light reddish-brown and his complexion was fair. On his breast shone the star of the Order of St. Andrew. He looked up as Alasdair approached him.

Her father bowed respectfully. "Your royal highness, may I present my wife, Lady Morar, and my daughter, Lady Vanessa."

The prince smiled and held out his hand. "Lady Morar. I am delighted to meet the lady of one of my most loyal adherents."

Frances curtsied gracefully. "Thank you, your royal highness."

Charles then turned to Van. "I would know your parentage anywhere, Lady Vanessa," he said. "You wear it on your face." His brown eyes smiled at her in frank admiration. "It takes no master of ceremonies, you see, to introduce a MacIan to a Stuart."

Van smiled radiantly back and sank into a deep curtsy. "This is a great moment for us all, your royal highness."

"Indeed it is." He raised her to her feet and turned courteously to include Alasdair in the circle of his attention. They stayed talking for almost five minutes before the prince's attention was claimed by someone else.

"I can quite see why everyone is wild over him," Frances said as they walked slowly down the gallery. "He is extremely charming."

"He is a prince in every imaginable way," Alasdair said.

"He is a Stuart," said Van, and her father smiled at her.

"He is indeed, my daughter." Van looked once again around the room. "Where is Niall?" she asked.

"He will be here," her father returned. Then, "Ah. I see Alan MacDonald." He gave Van a swift sideways look before saying to the approaching young man, "How are you, Alan? A splendid evening, is it not?"

"It is that, sir." Alan's hair, reddish like the prince's, only darker, was covered by powder. He wore a dark green coat that made his hazel eyes look greener than usual. "I was hoping you would dance with me, Van."

She smiled. "Certainly. If it is all right with you, Mother?"

"Go right ahead, darling, and enjoy yourself."

"I've hardly seen you since you came home from England," Alan said to Van as they took their places for the dance.

"You've been busy," she said with an approving smile. Alan was looking splendid tonight, she thought. He and a company of Lochaber MacDonalds had taken a small garrison of English troops and made them prisoners a few weeks ago. Niall had been very proud of his friend's exploit. Van grinned at him. "Isn't this exciting, Alan? Did you ever believe we would be dancing together in Holyrood Palace?"

"Of course I believed it." He smiled back at her. "You are looking beautiful tonight," he said. "You are the most beautiful girl in the room."

This was not a conversation Van wished to pursue. She shook her head. "No. My mother is."

At that he laughed. "Certainly, your mother is beautiful," he agreed.

At that moment the music started up and they were forced to break off talk and bow to each other. As the dance finished Alan said, "Come and sit by me for a while. I want to talk to you."

Van agreed and they found seats along the wall. "I missed you while you were in England," Alan said when they were sitting side by side on small velvet-covered gilt chairs. "You seemed to be gone a very long time."

Van looked at him, a slight frown between her black brows. Surely Niall had told him about Edward, she thought. But Alan's face, filled with tenderness, warned her suddenly that her brother had said nothing. Anger flared in her heart. Damn Niall, she thought. He might at least have spared her having to tell Alan herself.

She looked away from Alan's face to the brightly lit ballroom. The dancers swirled gracefully and she thought of her reply. What was she to tell him? That she was going to marry the Earl of Linton? But she was not going to marry the Earl of Linton. Perhaps for now it would be best to say nothing.

"A great deal certainly happened in my absence," she prevaricated.

"Aye." He followed her lead. "Everything happened so quickly, it seemed. We raised the standard and the Sassenach ran for Inverness. We marched to Edinburgh with very little opposition."

"Are the English still in Inverness?" Van asked curiously.

"No." Alan's look was surprised. "Did not your father tell you? The English army is at Dunbar. We will be marching out to meet them the day after next."

Van felt her heart jolt. "No." Her mouth was dry. "I did not know. We did not see Father this afternoon." She wet her lips with her tongue. "Does this mean that there will be a battle, Alan?" she asked.

"Aye." He looked pleased at the prospect.

Van's hand went to her throat. "Dear God."

"Now, Van, do not be fretting yourself." She stared into hazel eyes which were clear and full of confidence. "The noise of the pipes alone will frighten the Sassenach back to England," he said reassuringly.

He was not in the least afraid, Van thought. Suddenly she was filled with admiration for him, and pride too. He was a Highlander. The blood stirred in her own veins. "But the English are professionals," she said, echoing words she had heard before. "They have artillery and cavalry."

"They will not stand against the clans," he replied and, against all logic, Van was swayed by his sublime confidence. After all, she thought, the right was on their side. She smiled at him and felt him take her hand into his.

"We must talk, Van," he said softly. "After the battle."

She drew a long, uneven breath. "Aye," she said. "After the battle."

"Alan MacDonald." A young man in a blue tartan kilt was bowing before them. "I demand that you introduce me to Lady Vanessa," the stranger said with mock truculence.

Alan frowned and Van gave him a sympathetically amused smile. Reluctantly Alan presented the newcomer to her and Van politely accepted Donald Stewart's invitation to dance. The floor was filled with couples. On the eve of battle the mood of the ball was wildly gay, a mood that Van found infectious. When Donald Stewart said something to her, she laughed and answered and, catching sight of Alan over her partner's shoulder, she sent him a particularly beautiful smile.