The Rebel's Promise Page 6

  “I did not know what I was doing,” The words came tumbling over themselves, fast and furious, and Rosie had to bend her head to catch what he was saying. “I thought he was being kind, he bought me food and gave me ale. I began to feel strange … lightheaded …Then he said I should write my memoirs … for posterity. He told me what to write – even that bit about you and Jack, about sharing a bed,” Harry hung his head in shame. “Then, once I had written it and signed my name on it, he laughed. Told me it was a confession and that I could hang as a traitor with you and my father alongside me. Please say you forgive me, Rosie.”

  Automatically, Rosie soothed him and, eventually, exhausted from weeping, he made his way upstairs, a sad, drooping figure. Beau, always responsive to his moods, adopted a similarly woebegone attitude. Tom appeared in the doorway, wondering what was going on.

  “I need you to find Jack for me, Tom.”

  The stricken look in Rosie’s eyes worried him. She looked worse now than when she had found her father’s body slumped in his chair.

  “Harry and I are in trouble and we need him … more than the prince does.”

  ***

  The fickle Scottish weather had done its worst while Tom travelled steadily northwards. But, as he approached the town of Inverness, the driving rain finally ceased. A weak April sun tried briefly to warm him before the low, trundling clouds descended once more.

  The Prince’s retreat into Scotland had been marked by a series of skirmishes. Although he had won a victory at Falkirk, there was a sense, from the newspaper reports – which Tom avidly scoured each day – that the Jacobites were being driven relentlessly further and further from their goal. King George had sent the Duke of Cumberland, the Young Pretender’s own cousin, to take charge of the government armies. His tactics of relentlessly haranguing the Jacobites seemed to be paying off. When Tom had set off on his quest, it was widely reported that both the Prince and the Duke were close to Inverness.

  Tom’s subsequent journey further north was punctuated by a series of encounters with people travelling in the opposite direction, all of whom were full of news. It became clear that a major battle had taken place at Drummossie Muir near Culloden. The Jacobite forces were in chaos having been convincingly defeated by the red coats. The prince himself had fled. Horrific stories emerged of the Duke of Cumberland’s determination to ensure there could be no further rebellion by those loyal to Prince Charles. With that end in mind he had given his men an order to give the Jacobites ‘no quarter’ and any wounded or fleeing rebels were speedily put to death. Tom was sickened to hear of the atrocities committed by the king’s soldiers against the men, women and children of the highland clans. In any other circumstances, Inverness, at such a time, would be the last place he wished to visit. But, in addition to the news he was getting of the battle, he remembered that Jack’s mother was a Scotswoman and that her family home was close by.

  The outskirts of the town were surprisingly quiet. The citizens going about their business in a peaceful way which belied the awful events which had just taken place. Although there were red-coated soldiers about, Tom was not challenged by them. He rode into the courtyard of an inn and slid gratefully from his horse. Every bone in his body ached and he was damp, cold and mind-numbingly tired.

  He was gratefully tucking into a bowl of hearty beef stew mopped up with thick chunks of bread when a commotion near the door caught his attention. The landlord was talking in an urgent undertone to a fierce looking man, clad in the tartan of his clan, who was leaning against the door jamb. It appeared that the landlord did not want this visitor to enter the taproom.

  “I’ve not spent the last few days hiding in the shadows, avoiding the redcoats just to have my own brother turn me away.”

  The brutish man complained, ignoring the frenzied efforts of his companion to shush him. Eventually, talking in undertones, they seemed to reach an agreement. The rebel was hustled unceremoniously up the back stairs and emerged again half an hour later, dressed in more conventional attire. Sitting opposite Tom on a rough-hewn bench he too began to devour a huge plate of the thick, steaming stew.

  Catching Tom’s eye on him, he paused warily, “Good,” he indicated the food with a nod of his head and Tom agreed. “Travelled far?”

  “From Derby,” Tom informed him, and the other man studied him thoughtfully, “In search of a friend.”

  “Aye?” the tone was neutral, his eyes watchful.

  Tom decided it was a case of ‘nothing ventured’. “My friend was with the prince,” his companion cast a quick look around the tiny taproom. They were alone, “And I travelled here to discover what has become of him.”

  “Aye?” It was remarkable how much expression could be packed into that single syllable. “If your friend was with the prince at Drummossie, he is dead or has fled. There’s nought left of the prince’s forces.”

  “He is Lord St Anton …”

  “Lord Jack?” the clansman quickly stifled his exclamation and continued in a quieter voice, “’Tis Lord Jack ye seek?” At Tom’s nod, his companion grinned, “He is well known in these parts, his lady mother was born and bred in yon Fort Kilcroath. ‘Tis many a time I’ve seen him wear the clan tartan. Why, I was with Lord Jack at Swarkestone Bridge!”

  Offering up praise for this piece of good fortune, Tom decided to deflect him from his reminiscences. “How fared your clan at Drummossie?”

  The other man’s brow darkened and he shook his head, “We fought a desperate fight but we could nae match their muskets and lances with our broad swords. When we got up close we even threw stones at them - so wild were we! But Cumberland was prepared for us this time,” he shook his head bitterly, “They slaughtered those who lay wounded. But we’ll pay yon fine duke back in his own coin, you mark my words.” Glancing up towards the open doorway, he noticed a small group of soldiers in the courtyard and rose swiftly to his feet.

  “Tell me … did Lord Jack survive Drummossie?” Tom asked in an urgent undertone.

  “Nay …” he shook his head joylessly but, before he could finish, one of the soldiers entered the taproom and the clansman slipped speedily back up the stairs.

  Although Tom looked constantly for the talkative rebel soldier later that night and before he rode off the next day, he saw no further sign of him. The man appeared to have vanished, much, Tom was sure, to the relief of his beleaguered brother. Riding onwards to the castle at Kilcroath, he crossed moors thick and spongy with heather through rolling mists that chilled the air. The castle itself was a grey, brooding presence, perched high on a rocky outcrop. It was built to repel invaders rather than welcome visitors.

  It was most unlikely, he decided, that an English stranger would be greeted here with open arms. He dismounted and, drawing his pocket knife, cut through the girth which held his saddle in place before leading his horse up to the castle gates. Although they were closed, as he approached an elderly man came along a path which ran perpendicular to his own. As they met in front of the imposing façade, he cast an expert eye over Tom’s mount. Spitting on the ground in a decidedly unwelcoming fashion, he growled tersely.

  “Girth’s broke. Only a bloody dunderhead wouldnae notice!”

  Tom, taken aback at this unusual form of greeting, found himself stammering an excuse under the weight of that baleful glare. The only response he received was a look of withering contempt.

  “Bring yon beast through. I’ll check it o’er.”

  He marched off through the gate, which had been opened for him and Tom followed. The inner courtyard of the castle was a bustling hive of activity. No-one took any notice of the large, travel-stained Englishman. Tom followed his new found friend towards the stable block and, in response to a peremptory command, handed over the reins. It was a long, long time since he had last been made to feel like an errant child, he reflected sheepishly.

  ‘Auld Rab’ – as one of the braver stable hands called him – might have been somewhat lacking in social graces but there was
no denying his skill with a horse. Tom was amazed to see his mount, a bad tempered plodder by the name of True, following Rab around like an overgrown puppy, whickering at him and nudging him affectionately in the ribs.

  “Yon crabbit wifie’ll gi’ ye some scran,” Rab jerked his head towards the nearest doorway. Tom, correctly interpreting his words to be an invitation to enjoy the castle’s hospitality went through it.

  ‘Yon crabbit wifie’ turned out to be a buxom, smiling young woman called Kirsty. She greeted Tom with evident interest, plying him with eager questions as she fetched bread, cheese and ham.

  “I’m surprised you’d venture into these parts at such a time,” her accent was softer than Rab’s, and she was definitely kinder on the eye.

  “I’m looking for a friend,” he explained, accepting a trencher of ale form her with a smile of thanks. “He would have been with the Kilcroath clan,” he watched her carefully from under his brows.

  “Och!” Kirsty shook her head sadly, “This clan was wiped out by those murdering devils in red coats! Why, ‘tis feared that even our dear Lord Jack – the sweetest, kindest laird of them all – was slain,” her merry face fell at the thought.

  Tom felt his heart thud uncomfortably.

  “Do you know that for a fact?” and, when she regarded him in puzzlement, explained, “That Jack … that your laird was killed?”

  “He is not the laird here, you understand, but one of the family. Lord Jack’s mother was bred within these walls but she married a fine English lord. Aye, and when Lord Jack stayed here just after Falkirk, ‘twas like a ray of sunshine lit up the auld place, wherever he goes there is laughter,” she smiled reminiscently. Tom knew from those words that the man she described was, without a shadow of doubt, the same man he sought.

  “But then he went away, and we all know his love for the prince. So ‘twas clear he went to join him once again. Anyhow, some of the men who fled Drummossie Moor sheltered here until the soldiers had moved on. They told us that all of those of high rank in Clan Kilcroath were killed in a last ditch attempt to breach the government lines. Lord Jack would not stand back at such a time, no, much more likely he would be the one to lead the charge!” Tom had to agree with this summation, “Besides,” she added glumly, “If Lord Jack was still alive, he would have come here to safety.” Tom bowed his head for a moment as the pain of what she was saying hit him.

  When it came time for Tom to leave, Kirsty was clearly disappointed. He surprised himself with the realisation that he would like to stay. No-one was more heart sore at leaving, however, than True, who hung his head and plodded even more than usual.

  Turning the horse’s head towards the south, Tom started on the long journey home. He would not be able to tell Rosie with total certainty that Jack was dead. He would have to tell her it was the most probable outcome. His heart felt like a lead weight in his chest. Not only would he have to break this awful news to Rosie – her second bereavement in a month – but he too had lost a man he liked and admired. True cast a few longing glances back at Fort Kilcroath, now a mere speck in the distance, harrumphing to indicate his displeasure, and Tom patted his neck.

  “I know,” he muttered, “I would have happily stayed a while longer, too.”

  Stopping in Newcastle on his way back to Derbyshire, Tom purchased a copy of the Newcastle Courant. He read its account of the battle and the subsequent rout of the Jacobite forces. Any hopes he might have still cherished that Kirsty was wrong were swiftly put to flight. The newspaper confirmed that all high-ranking members of the Kilcroath clan had indeed been slaughtered at Culloden.

  Chapter Four

  Rosie steadfastly refused to listen to Tom. It simply was not true, she explained patiently. She would know if Jack was dead. She would feel it. She didn’t feel it … so he must be alive. In the face of all of Tom’s evidence and calm reasoning, this remained her stance. She spent long hours each day curled up on the window seat watching the wide sweep of the drive. But the only person who came to call – and he with relentless inevitability – was Sir Clive.

  Rosie’s recalcitrance had worn his patience to the point where it was threadbare. The witless chit appeared not to comprehend that danger she and Harry were in. More importantly, the difficult position in which Sir Clive found himself. He must secure her promise to marry him, and do so quickly. Only his betrothal to an heiress would satisfy the demands of his creditors – some of whom were less than scrupulous in their dealings with tardy clients – and buy him some much needed breathing space. And then, who knew what might happen? He was due a run of luck. The dice could not remain so steadfastly against him forever …

  Preparing to enter Delacourt Grange through the long French windows, which opened from the drawing room onto the garden, Sir Clive overheard a very interesting exchange between Rosie and Tom. “Miss Rosie, you must accept the truth,” Tom’s voice was infinitely gentle, “Jack is dead …”

  Rosie sighed, “Tom, I know what you heard and what you read, but I cannot believe it to be true …” she broke off, hearing Sir Clive’s slight movement, and he stepped fully into the room, with a bow. Tom, throwing him a glance of intense dislike, went about his business.

  “Sir Clive, if you have come to renew your threats …” Rosie’s voice was weary.

  “Not at all, my dear,” he informed her blithely, “I merely came to ask how you will feel when your brother’s head adorns a spike on Tower Bridge.”

  She stiffened in distaste and, pausing for effect, he added, “A fate which your lover has at least escaped by being killed in battle. Luckily for you, since, once the true depths of your own treachery are known publicly, you might well have been taken to view his severed head. Even, perhaps, have been forced by the mob to kiss those cold, grey lips. There is not much sympathy shown to those who take a traitor to their bed.”

  That strange, other-worldly streak in him surfaced now. As it always did when he was excited or blood-thirsty thoughts stirred his passions.

  “I take it you are referring to Lord St Anton?”

  Rosie hid her shaking hands in the folds of her wide skirts, “You seem to know a great deal about his lordship’s fate, Sir Clive?”

  “Oh, ‘tis well known that your fine beau died a hero’s death on Culloden field, my dear. You seem doomed to lose the all of the men in your life this year, do you not?” He counted on his fingers, “First your dear father, then your beloved St Anton,” he smirked and she wanted to slap him.

  Which was a good thing, she reflected, since it was the first real emotion she had felt since Tom had returned from Scotland.

  “And now you are about to condemn your brother to a traitor’s execution … But I am keeping you from that task. I will bid you a good day.”

  He bowed low and, smiling to himself at her stricken look, departed back through the French window. He would return on the morrow, at which point he anticipated that he would finally receive a favourable answer to his proposal of marriage.

  ***

  Jack paused awhile on Swarkestone Bridge, marvelling at the tranquillity of the scene on this sunny morning. Although there was a faint chill in the air, the sky was bright and a light wind scattered powder puff clouds across the clear expanse of blue. The scent of fresh cut grass and damp woodland reminded him that he was home – back in England – and for good this time. The thought made his pulse quicken.

  He dismounted and walked his horse over the long bridge, pausing to look into the calm waters below. According to legend Swarkestone Bridge was built in the thirteenth century by two beautiful, noble sisters who had been betrothed to a pair of handsome knights. One evening, the knights attempted to cross the hazardous River Trent on horseback at the fording point. They were swept away and drowned whilst the helpless sisters looked on. Devastated by their loss, the sisters were rumoured to haunt the bridge on stormy evenings when the water was high. It was difficult to reconcile the serenity of the scene with the ghost story or the horror of his own memories. He li
ngered at the spot where he had been shot by a young redcoat and where, in that brief horrific moment, the course of his life had been altered. Suddenly impatient with himself for wasting precious time on this nostalgic divergence, he leapt back onto his horse and began the final stage of his long journey.

  It was over six months since he stole away in the middle of an icy January night, a fugitive wanted for that most heinous of crimes … treason against his king. Tom Drury had escorted him to the Scottish border. From there Jack had made his way to Falkirk to seek an audience with Prince Charles, the beleaguered Young Pretender. He had explained his plight to his commander and friend. However disappointed Prince Charles had been by the defection of one of his most senior officers, he had graciously released him from any obligation to serve him and wished Jack well. The prince was somewhat distracted by battle plans which were already underway. When Jack arrived at his mother’s family home at Kilcroath, there were celebrations underway to mark the Jacobite victory at Falkirk.

  He had stayed just a short time at Kilcroath, as his only business there had been to gather together funds for his journey to France. Also to compose a letter to his father’s brother, William Lindsey, a wily and wise diplomat who had the ear and the confidence of King George II. In it, Jack expressed his penitence and asked his uncle to intervene on his behalf with the king. It cost him a pang to write those words. His pride was dented by the need to beg a monarch he secretly despised … but Rosie was worth it. The pain of being away from her was physical. He needed to assuage the hollow ache in his gut, and he knew the only cure would be to hold her in his arms once more. The Jacobites were on their way north when Jack secretly made the crossing to France. He was saddened that he was unable to tell his friends and family at Fort Kilcroath where he was going. But it was too dangerous to allow anyone to know of his whereabouts or destination. His head would be a prized trophy for the King’s supporters.