Flora McIvor Page 5

  ‘You have studied his character closely?’

  ‘Only by acquaintance, in Edinburgh.’

  ‘But he charmed everyone there, Clementina. Are you swayed by charm, even in religion?’

  ‘Yes, Flora, yes. You know I love the court life – dancing and music and costumes, and the intrigues and campaign. Why should I be left out when it is my family’s birthright?’

  ‘There are certainly more than enough intrigues, and squabbles. I just hope they do not ruin the expedition through divided councils.’

  There was no answer to that, and the two turned along the ridge, gaining a clearer view of the solid Ochils as they walked. Eventually they turned back towards the house, coming past a square dovecot into the garden and finally inside to warming broth by the fireside.

  Flora sat on her own in the parlour after lunch. Rose was resting in her room while Clementina was downstairs gossiping and interfering with the running of the house. The Exercises of St Ignatius lay unopened on the arm of her chair. It was strange how in this land without priests the devotional habits of a lifetime fell away so easily. Before the Church had given her restricted existence a pattern, depth perhaps, but now events were happening daily without any predictable shape.

  The weeks in Edinburgh had been unlike anything Flora had experienced, though she suspected that was true of everyone at the prince’s improvised Court. Charles was at the centre of it all, wholly changed from the spirited rebellious child of the Palazzo Muti. Apart from his pudgy cheeks and chin, all his puppy fat had gone. This accentuated his height, and he carried it with energy and command. Yet, like his younger self, Charles still had his feelings close to the surface which gave his manner an attractive openness and charm. And he encouraged everything around him to be full of life and energy with receptions, music, dancing and a constant bustle of meeting and greeting. It was as if everything was to be the opposite of his father’s stiff formality, and the austere piety that made the Palazzo such an ordeal for the young.

  Yet Flora could see there was another side to this newly adult Charles. Beneath the charm there was reserve and calculation. He knew that winning hearts and minds at Holyrood was essential to his cause, and that Court life must appear to honour everybody, without favouring one faction against another.

  For the uprising was mainly held together by Charles’ determination, his gambler’s instinct. The prince’s Irish and French advisers urged caution and based everything on the invasion of England assisted by a French army. The chiefs and most of the Scots Jacobites were intent on restoring the Stuarts in Scotland, so repairing their own traditions and fortunes. Every Highlander was avidly ambitious for personal title and favour. Charles’ Secretary, Murray of Broughton, juggled the factions at Council. Charles’ military commander Lord George Murray was given only limited authority, and was frequently contradicted by Colonel O’Sullivan, the senior Irish officer. The chiefs jostled for position at Court and on the battlefield. Did Charles at heart trust anyone?

  At least the adventures of Edward Waverley had offered some light relief amidst the tensions. He had blossomed in the atmosphere at Holyrood which allowed his genial, social side full play. He seemed most at home in the company of women, while Rose’s growing attachment was obvious for all to see, except Fergus.

  After the wholesale victory over Cope, the army delayed in Edinburgh with the mistaken hope of capturing its Castle. Inactivity and court life did not suit Fergus, who had filled this desultory interval with his ambitious plans for Clan McIvor. This involved marriage to Rose Bradwardine, as long as her father could be persuaded to settle his estate on her instead of a distant male relative who had committed the fatal error of remaining on the Hanoverian side. Fergus’ trump card in this campaign was the title of Earl that he had been awarded by King James for his loyal services in Europe. He now requested Charles to actively confer that title on his father’s behalf. The Baron could not resist alliance with Earldom. As Flora knew, Rose had not been consulted on any count.

  Charles however had asked Fergus not to press his just claim to the title at that moment as it would arouse the jealousy of the other chiefs, all of whom would expect some comparable honour. So Fergus had divulged his whole scheme to the prince in order to show why the Earldom was now essential. Flora could recall every word of Fergus’ account.

  ‘I was determined to leave him no pretence for ingratitude, so I explained why he could command any other sacrifice at this moment rather than renunciation of my title. I told him my full plan.’

  ‘What plan?’ Waverley had asked, his attention gripped.

  ‘Marriage, my dear Waverley, to Rose. And joining my title to the estate of Tullyveolan.’

  ‘Marriage to Rose?’ Waverley was clearly shocked but Fergus was in full flood and brushed him aside.

  ‘What was the prince’s answer?’ Flora intervened.

  ‘Answer? Curse not the king, Flora. He answered that he was truly glad I had confided in him as that would prevent disappointment. For, on the word of a prince, he knew that Miss Bradwardine’s affections were already engaged elsewhere and, moreover, he was under a particular promise to favour them. “So, my dear Fergus,” says he, very affable, “as the marriage is out of the question, there is no hurry about the Earldom.” And off he floated to flatter someone else’s hopes, without reward.’

  ‘What did he mean?’ Waverley managed to ask.

  ‘He intends to marry her off to one of his French or Irish entourage, O’Sullivan no doubt. But that man whoever he is had better look out for himself, as I will personally reward him in full measure. I could sell myself to the Devil or the Elector of Hanover if either of them promised revenge.’

  Away Fergus stomped in a fury, followed minutes later by a subdued and thoughtful Waverley.

  In the end, Flora was sure, Rose and Waverley would find their way to each other. As for Fergus, it was difficult to imagine any third person interrupting their long familiarity and dependence. Fergus was her only family, apart from adoption into the extended household of Palazzo Muti. If and when her brother married, Flora would continue in the same dependent way, as long as the Stuart cause required their service.

  Flora sat on by the fire as darkness gathered outside. When a maid came in to close the shutters and light candles, she found Flora dozing lightly her book of prayers still unopened.

  The first signs were small parties of stragglers, often no more than one or two in number, going past the house on their way north. This was no surprise as the clansmen, though keen to fight, were equally liable to make off home if there was plunder to be safeguarded, some slight to their honour, or crops to harvest. The real surprise was how disciplined the Highland army had been, marching south. There were of course no crops to harvest in December, and as if to prove the point, a hard frost set in with frequent flurries of snow.

  On the 14th of December the snow strengthened and in the afternoon darkness began to close in around the drifting white. Three men, ragged and shivering, sought shelter and were taken into the kitchen. They were Grants who had come out without their chief, and were now trying to get home before the mountain passes were shut down. They were definite that the prince’s army had already turned back for Scotland.

  Clementina brought the story upstairs but dismissed it as the self-justification of deserters. Nonetheless, as bad weather continued to keep the three young women indoors, their unease grew. The Grants had left after one night ready to gamble on their knowledge of the country. They could smell home even through the storm.

  There was however no doubting the next messengers who arrived two days later. They were a party of Camerons travelling north at speed and in good order. They were acting on instruction of their chief, Lochiel, who had been the first to raise his clan in Charles’ cause. Their mission was to organise supplies and reinforcements in Appin. The prince was on his way north. Having declared James King of England at Ashbourne, the army had pushed on a few miles south of Derby but then turned bac
k. There had been no battle and no sighting of any of the three armies that the Hanoverians had in the field. The Camerons delayed no longer but pushed on taking advantage of temporarily clearing skies. They left anxious speculation in their wake.

  ‘This cannot be the prince’s choice – to turn back with London in his sights!’ Flora could not imagine Charles giving way of his own free will, not when he was on the verge of realising his consuming ambition, against all the odds. Something else had intervened to thwart him.

  ‘What if English Jacobites are not joining the standard? They would all be in terrible danger.’ Rose sat by the fire twisting one hand in the other, with no attempt at composure.

  ‘Don’t be feeble, Rose,’ rebuked Clementina, ‘there is a whole Highland army on the march, with French, Irish and English volunteers. There is more to this than cowardly English Jacobites.’

  ‘In what way?’ quizzed Flora.

  ‘Lord George Murray’s way. He always thinks he knows better when it comes to tactics, and his heart was never in this expedition into England.’

  ‘Invasion, you mean,’ Rose corrected with a sob.

  ‘How can a rightful king invade his own country?’ challenged Flora.

  ‘But that’s exactly how many English people see it, invasion by a horde of barbarous savages. I’m sorry, Flora, you know that is not how I feel.’

  ‘It’s a Scottish army, Rose, Highland and Lowland, as you know,’ scolded Clementina.

  ‘But the prince has adopted Highland dress. Edward Waverley explained the English attitude to me, and Scots Lowlanders often feel the same. How will they manage in a hostile country without friends and –’

  ‘Well Prince Charles explained to me,’ Clementina cut in again, ‘how some people on his Council were determined to prevent any takeover of England.’

  ‘Which people? And why?’ demanded Flora. Clementina could be sweeping and vague in the same breath.

  ‘The chiefs. They want Scotland restored to its old self, not another distant king in London.’

  ‘That’s not true, not of Fergus anyway. He is determined to win Britain back for the Stuarts, all of it. We’ve spent our whole lives in that cause.’

  Yet even as she countered Clementina’s argument, Flora was wondering when the younger woman had become so close to Charles. Close enough it appeared to glean guarded opinions that would cause grave offence if spread abroad. Her mind was running back over the two days they had spent at Bannockburn on the way south, and the extended weeks at Edinburgh. She had not noticed any special intimacy between the prince and Clementina, but then she had not been looking. The Palace of Holyroodhouse had many more chambers than the Palazzo Muti.

  ‘Maybe the Irish or the French advisers are behind it?’ Flora wondered aloud.

  ‘Why?’ It was Clementina’s turn to challenge.

  ‘Because there has been no French invasion? And they counted on it before approaching London.’

  ‘Please,’ begged Rose, ‘let’s stop this. It’s pointless. We don’t know. All we can do is wait for more news.’

  The room subsided into uneasy silence. Flora and Rose took up book and sewing with little sign of attention. Clementina left to go downstairs, hungry for whatever news the next messenger might bring.

  The next morning brought no further news but better weather. There was a lightening of the gloomy skies and the wind dropped. When it seemed unlikely that any more messengers would arrive, Flora proposed a walk outside. Rose however again wanted to keep indoors, while Clementina was expending her pent-up energy in rearranging the pantry and annoying housekeeper, cook and maid by turn.

  Flora was glad to escape into the solitude of the fields for there was little sign of human life apart from the drifting smoke of cottage fires. Wrapped up tightly against the cold she walked with a firm tread out of the garden towards the hills. The tops were mantled in white as far as the eye could see. To the north, where the Ochils merged into the Highland ranges, the mountains were completely snow bound. Keeping to the higher slopes, Flora swung south till she came back to the main road. Everything was quiet with no sign of movement in either direction. The villages of Carnock and Plean huddled silently against the cold.

  The sun was very low now and dusk was gathering. But Flora was not ready to be cooped up again indoors with all the anxieties and frictions, so she followed the road past the back of the house and started out towards Stirling. At the top of the next ridge, castle and town were revealed on their rocky citadel, catching the last gleams from the west. Flora stood for a while tracing the contours of the ramparts, and was about to turn back for the house when a movement caught her eye.

  In the dip below her a small stream ran towards the Bannockburn. Across it ran a wooden bridge, offering a short cut into the Milton. Someone was below the bridge. As Flora moved carefully down the slope on the steep path towards the mill, she could see that it was a woman in dark clothes bent over the water. She appeared to be washing something in the icy stream. The path turned into a scatter of trees, and when Flora emerged again into view there was no sign of the woman. Flora went all the way to the bridge wondering where the dark figure had gone, and looked down in to the fiercely flowing burn.

  It was odd to be doing laundry outdoors on such a day. How had the woman disappeared so quickly? At least she had not fallen into those icy waters. And as Flora peered the atmosphere around her seemed to mirror the black currents. She felt suddenly chilled. Shaking herself into action, she climbed back up the path casting a few glances behind her, and within a short time she was knocking her boots clear of snow at the kitchen door.

  Flora was drying herself at the kitchen fire when Clementina appeared.

  ‘Do the poor people wash clothes in the mill stream?’ she asked, rubbing at her plaid.

  ‘Maybe in the summer but not in this weather. Why?’

  ‘I saw a woman at the bridge. I thought she was washing something.’

  Clementina looked at her strangely. ‘The main ford used to be there across the Bannockburn. There are stories about –’

  They were distracted by a scratching sound at the door. It became more urgent – mixed sobs and whimpers of distress. Clementina pulled the door open and a man crawled into the room, panting and sodden, but Flora knew him immediately for Calum.

  ‘Miss Flora, Miss Flora.’ He reached out blindly.

  ‘Calum, I’m here. It’s me, Flora. Tell me.’

  ‘McIvor’s taken, taken by the redcoats.’

  ‘And the others, what of the others?’

  ‘Ewan Dhu fallen. By his side. We would not leave him.’

  ‘The Baron, Calum, and Waverley?’

  ‘The Baron was not there. The Englishman is lost. Into the country, after the fight. I came at once… as fast as I was able.’

  The house keeper joined Flora beside the exhausted man with a flask of whisky in her hand, forcing some drops between his lips.

  ‘What fight, Calum?’

  ‘Not the prince, Miss Flora. We would never be leaving him. Fight without… McIvor fallen.’

  The head fell back on Flora’s arm. For now he could say no more.

  It emerged that Calum had run most of the way north, barely stopping for brief snatches of sleep. Carrying oatmeal in a leather pouch, and using cold water from streams, he had avoided any human contact until, half-dead with exhaustion, he reached his destination, Flora. It was tribute to his tenacity and endurance that by the succeeding afternoon, Calum was upright in the back parlour ready to tell the full story. His listeners had already received the main disastrous news, but they were nevertheless anxious to absorb every detail.

  As the slight, wiry figure drew himself to his full height, Flora was reminded of Calum’s role at Castle McIvor as fireside storyteller, reciting clan tales, historical legends, or stories of the fairy people for the entertainment of the chief’s family and household. He had often stood by the hearth in Flora’s drawing room in the same way. Yet his recitation now was no
fable but an immediate matter of life or death. Pushing back a tangle of matted hair, Calum began with an apology.

  ‘You will be forgiving, gentle ladies, my poor dress, and the bearing of such news, to the grief of our clan and the name of McIvor. But it was destined for such things to be, and it is being God’s hands.’

  Nobody spoke in case it delayed the narration. The reaction of the three young women was to lean forward more attentively.

  ‘The army of Prince Charles was at Manchester where the prince wished to be stopping for some days, to prevent the rumour that he was retreating. But McIvor was angry, in a rage of despair, blaming the Council of War, the Lord George and the prince himself for turning back from London. “The prize was in our grasp,” he was always saying to Euan Dhu, “for the Sassenach would be fleeing before us.”

  ‘But there was no help from the people of that city, and the redcoats were pressing upon us. So Lord George gave the marching orders, and the prince remained in his quarters until all was drawn up, and then rode to the front, rarely walking with his people as he was used to doing when we went to Derby.

  ‘But, truth to be telling, it was Lord George had the right hold of it, for we saw their horsemen in the distance, scouting against our rear. Now, your ladyships, I must be telling you that Clan McIvor are at the rear of the army, where all the bravest are found, along with Glengarry of MacDonell and Cluny the MacPherson with their kinsmen. So we saw the mounted redcoats buzzing like hornets on our flanks.

  ‘The prince is then at Lancaster and the men of the clans were all ready to fight as we did at the saltpans on Forth. Cumberland is the one we must be fighting and the prince agreed to the loyal protest of McIvor and all the chiefs. So Lord George and the Chevalier O’Sullivan chose ground for the battle with his Lordship saying that never was a better field for Highlanders seen since the Pans. But again the prince would be changing his mind and ordering a march to Kendal. Only a great many of the carriages and the four-wheeled carts could not be got forward because of the steepness of the hill and the badness of the road and the rain coming on with some turning to sleet and the churning of the track. For the wagons were too big for the roads, and too heavy on account of being weighed down with ammunition.