Tapestry (5 page)

The men ran off, laughing, but not before flinging her emptied purse back at her. Jane didn’t care about anything except seeing Will open his eyes and smile at her again. She shut out the sounds of concerned voices, of a distant ambulance siren, and ignored the helping hands of commuters that tugged at her.

‘Don’t move him again!’ she begged them, as Will was rolled onto his back and she caught sight of the depression on the side of his head where he’d cracked it.

The siren intensified in her mind and suddenly Jane could no longer breathe.

Scotland, September 1715

T
he Jacobite Rising had become official with a public declaration by Lord Mar:

The Earl of Nithsdale stood on the steps outside Terregles House for the final hug that he dreaded. It would have been so much easier if none of the servants had lined up, his daughter had not been dressed in her Sunday best, holding hands with Cecilia, the lady’s maid, and especially if his wife — oh, his wife — were not looking at him that way. He knew she was proud of him, but he also knew she was frightened for him. This was no reiver skirmish. This was war with the red-coated English Army, and their horrible drums and pipes and better weapons and battalions of well-drilled soldiers — not farmers and smiths, bakers and millers carrying hand-me-down weapons. William
mentally shook his mind free of what he could not control, and focused on departing with a smile of reassurance to all those counting upon him.

Sparsely wooded areas clung near the grand home, but sprawling beyond was the heather-covered moorland, and right now those tiny bell-shaped flowers were in full pink and the earthy, herbal fragrance rode in on the soft breeze that charged into their small valley. William took a slow, deep inhalation of the aroma of his beloved heath around Terregles. ‘I shall miss this.’

‘You will be home soon enough, my lord,’ his dear wife replied, squeezing his hand. ‘Fare thee well, Will,’ Winifred said, affectionately holding that hand to her face before kissing it. William suspected her sorrows had been wept in private, and was glad to avoid any unseemly display. He could always count on Winifred to be strong for them both.

‘You knew it might come to this,’ he whispered. ‘Our situation was better suited to being the rebellious one.’

She nodded her understanding. Families around Scotland were dividing their loyalties. Even if they were wholly Jacobite, one side would opt to show its support while the other remained loyal to George. Winifred understood that in truth most didn’t care who sat on the throne far away in London, but everyone in Scotland genuinely cared about allowing Scotland to rule itself. Winifred’s staunch faith meant she had encouraged William to be on the side that raised the flag for King James, while his brother-in-law, equally patriotic to Scotland, would look to remain loyal to England.

Thus Charles, Lord of Traquair, would not be fighting with Mar, but would take responsibility and care for Winifred and the children. William was grateful for her assurance, her determination to send him off without any extra guilt beyond the crushing weight of what he was already experiencing. ‘Charles has far more to lose financially, and a far larger family
to protect. I know he will look after us.’ That was Winifred’s way of telling him she understood, trusted his decision.

‘And I know I can rely on your strength, Win.’ He kissed her tenderly on her lips, uncaring that they were surrounded by servants as well as a gathering of vassals and tenants obliged to follow their lord into battle.

William finally broke the kiss to bend on one knee before a child. ‘Darling Anne, be good for your auntie,’ he said, pinching his only surviving daughter’s plump cheek, grinning broadly to hide his concerns. ‘And I need you to take care of your mother for me. Will you do that, precious girl?’ Anne nodded and smiled shyly at her father as she clutched a knitted bunny.

Winifred had been determined that their son not be used as barter in any violent actions that might be destined to find them, for the region of Terregles was said to be the most Puritan region of the country, where Catholics were regarded as idolaters, their houses constantly searched. William was grateful for that foresight today, because getting young Willie away now would have been almost impossible with the new blockades in place.

William and his men finally departed in a slow, snaking trail. Among them were a few mounted men, but the rest were a raggle-taggle band of farmers who carried picks, pikes and the odd sword between them. William had learned that the Duke of Argyll — a firm supporter of the Hanoverian dynasty — had already arrived at Stirling Castle and was mustering troops and new volunteers by the day to slaughter into submission similar bands of men who were mustering to join Lord Mar.

Within two days William was in the thick of the action, gathered at Perth and enjoying some early success in the highlands. The clans pushed south, heading into the north-east of England, where sympathies for the Jacobites simmered. News was getting through that Lord Derwentwater, among others, had finally declared for James and had mustered men and was even now awaiting the arrival of his Scottish brothers.

A first real blow came with the death of the French king Louis XIV a few days after his seventy-seventh name day; the powerful sovereign surrendered to the excruciating agony of senile gangrene, taking to his bedchamber, slipping into a coma and dying at the start of September. His infant great-grandson was named his heir, while his effeminate brother, the Duc d’Orléans, was appointed regent.

‘He is a different animal from his brother and has little allegiance to us,’ William admitted to his fellow lords. ‘I have no doubt he is cuddling up to the English Crown,’ he added with disgust, knowing the English ambassador in Paris would likely be pressing hard to unload Louis’s ships, which had been bound for the anxious rebels in Scotland. They had been counting on the French king’s support, but with Louis XIV dead, their campaign felt on suddenly shaky ground.

London, December 1978

J
ane sat hunched and mute between her parents in a surprisingly light-filled room, specifically set aside for relatives of patients. They could make their own tea and coffee, which was only marginally better tasting than the generic coloured liquid spewed out by the vending machines on the levels below the hushed, breathless corridors of Neurology’s intensive care. But they were now two days into the trauma of Will’s attack and used to the nondescript beverages and plastic cups that threatened to collapse with each sip.

‘John said they’d get in around 2 p.m.,’ she heard her father say.

‘How far north had they gone?’ her mother asked. Jane didn’t think it mattered, but she suspected her parents were simply making conversation.

She felt her father shrug beside her and check his watch. ‘Argyll somewhere … on the west coast, I gather. They were having a good holiday until a few hours ago. Apparently Diane was humming with excitement at visiting the ruins of Terregles House.’

‘Oh, don’t tell me — the Earl of Nithsdale’s country mansion?’

‘One and the same.’

‘I’m sure she’s desperate to see John’s name in
Burke’s Peerage
,’ her mother remarked in a sarcastic tone.

‘Don’t, Mum,’ Jane whispered.

‘Sorry, darling. We’re all tense.’

‘This looks like the doctor,’ her father murmured, and stood up as a bearded, middle-aged man approached.

‘Jane,’ the man said, offering his hand, smiling warmly from above his loud, wide tie and looking more like a cuddly TV presenter than an eminent neuro-physician.

Will had been transferred from St Thomas’s Hospital, where he had first been rushed to the emergency rooms in the ambulance, unconscious and mostly unresponsive. The trauma team at St Thomas’s soon decided that Will needed the specialist round-the-clock intensive care that was best provided by the Institute of Neurology in Queen’s Square, assuring Jane and her parents it was the best place for someone in Will’s condition.

But to her it smacked of doom. Why wouldn’t he just wake up, open his eyes, and tell her he was sorry he’d left her for a while? They were on holiday, for heaven’s sake, planning a wedding and getting parents acquainted. Starting a life together, talking about Australia together. She would agree to climb his bloody rock for their honeymoon if that was what it would take. She hadn’t lost that love of his dewy-eyed pleasure in the mysterious that defied his logic, his training, his knowledge.

Guilt gathered in her throat like a dam, holding back the waters of shame. Was the attack on Will her punishment for not loving him as he loved her?

She’d hated the way her parents had moved into the same hotel as soon as they’d received the horrifying news. And as lovely as he seemed, she didn’t want to shake the physician’s hand. She didn’t even want to be talking to him, because it was like surrendering any hope that Will might suddenly wake up. She wanted to be walking around London with him, eating lamb shanks at the Arts Club, strolling through Green Park, or maybe travelling on the train to Scotland, where he was supposed to be giving his lecture next week.

Jane felt a pressure on her shoulder from the cuddly-looking doctor’s hand. ‘Shall we sit down in here?’ he offered, gesturing toward a smaller room. She didn’t even know she was standing, or that he’d already introduced himself to her parents, who were making polite conversation to fill the terrible gap between not knowing and dreading what might be coming. And now she realised she was seated, her gaze desperate to focus beyond the window-scape visible from whichever floor they were on; frigid, naked trees swayed in the winds of the worst winter since the twenties, or so the weathermen were speculating. Their branches looked like supplicants praying to heaven.
Please let him wake up!
she prayed with them. But Dr Harris — was that his name? — was gently calling her to attention.

‘Jane, I need to explain to you what has happened to Will. It’s important you understand.’

‘Is he dying?’ she asked, her emotions helplessly raw as she snapped her gaze back to his, challenging him, ignoring this gentle first push of his into the bubble within which she’d been trying to cocoon herself.

He didn’t flinch, didn’t look away or betray any sign of nervousness. ‘In my opinion he’s already dead,’ he said, delivering the cruel words far too tenderly. ‘Forgive me for my bluntness, but I suspect you would rather I was honest.’

Harris looked at the trio of shocked expressions, but was obviously used to facing such situations because he didn’t apologise again, didn’t clear his throat or fiddle with his flame-coloured tie, its pattern making Jane feel dizzy. Instead he marched on, laying out the facts.

‘It was what we call a king hit, delivered by someone who, I suspect, knew exactly what he was doing.’

‘But that couldn’t kill him, surely?’ Jane’s father said.

Harris looked thoughtful. ‘Yes, it could, but in fact it didn’t in this case. What it did do was knock Will unconscious. The real damage was inflicted first when his head hit a pillar
and then when it slammed into the hard tiles. It was a triple whammy, you could say.’

‘Will’s a fifth dan in karate,’ she offered, trying not to sound angry, but knowing she did anyway. It was like trying to argue with a traffic inspector who’d already written out the parking ticket. Harris looked just as implacable as ever. ‘I just don’t understand.’ She shook her head. ‘He’s breathing, right?’

Harris gave a small shrug. ‘Yes, that’s because we’re keeping him alive, Jane. But I think a decision will have to be made when —’

‘No!’ She looked around at her parents. ‘Absolutely no way! Will’s going to wake up.’

‘I doubt it, Jane, not in the short term,’ Harris said in such a tender voice she wanted to beat her fists against him. ‘My experience tells me that even if by some miracle he did wake, the damage might be unbearable for you, for his parents and no doubt for Will himself. You told me how active he is. Would you want Will to exist in a vegetative state? Because that’s what the future could hold, whether he breathes for himself or we keep him breathing.’

Out of control
, a voice whispered in her mind. Although she’d promised herself no more crying, because it made her feel weak when she most needed to feel strong, a treacherous pair of tears leaked down her cheeks at his words. She hurriedly wiped them away.

She found her grit. ‘You are to keep Will breathing.’ She stood, shaking off her parents’ hands as they immediately reached out in concern. ‘I want some air,’ she pleaded, and opened the door before anyone could protest.

Behind her she heard Harris muttering placatory words to her parents, and then she was gone, hurrying along corridors, down stairways, through various doors, desperate to drag cold air into her lungs to shock herself out of whatever dulling stupor was telling her Will was going to be just fine.

She burst out into the hospital gardens and sucked in deep, chilling breaths as she leaned a hand against the wall. Her engagement ring sparkled arrogantly. Designed by Will, of course — an academic who was creative and spiritual, a scientist who wanted to believe in the mystical … in magic! She shook her head. Despite her shock on that fateful morning beneath Eros, she’d loved his ring on sight — just as she had fallen for him on first sight, with his alarmed apology and loopy grin — and she remembered now that same crooked, delighted smile as he’d pushed the ring onto her finger after she had accepted his proposal so lightly and without truly meaning it.

Now they were telling her he was as good as dead. How ridiculous. She would have laughed out loud if it hadn’t been so terrifyingly real. All her uncertainty had fled. She could love him; she would learn how. The years would do it. He made her laugh, he made her cry out when he touched her, he made her feel safe. They’d been meant to meet, meant to be together. If they could only be together, she would get as used to Will as a comfy old pair of jeans that hugged you close, but never constricted. It was her failing, not his, that she hadn’t told him she loved him with all of her heart. Her hesitation was only habit, she was sure of it. Everyone knew she was not usually one to fully commit to anything. But she was certain now. She
did
want to marry him. She
did
want them to be together, forever, tripping the ley lines fantastic!

‘Darling?’ interrupted a trembling voice.

‘Mum … I can’t.’

Her mother, elegant as always, nodded. ‘Nor would we ask that of you yet,’ she said. The word
yet
was swallowed, probably so it wouldn’t resonate too loudly with Jane that Harris had given her parents a time frame for consideration. She heard it, but was able to ignore it. ‘The Maxwells are here,’ her mother continued.

She nodded, weary and heartsick. ‘Where?’

‘They’ve gone directly to see Will. Are you up to seeing them, or should I …?’

‘No, no … of course … I mean yes, of course I am. I must. They’re probably feeling just as traumatised as I am.’

Her mother’s hug threatened to make her cry again. ‘We’ve got to keep being strong now for each other, darling. You need time to accept what has happened and then — only when you feel strong enough, I promise — we will help you formulate a plan. All right? No snap decisions.’

Jane could see her father hovering in the background. These were uncharted waters for her parents; they too were used to being in control. She’d never seen her father appear so hesitant, but it reassured her when he came up to her. ‘Come on now, Jane. Show the spine I know you have. You’ve got a long journey ahead and you need to dig deep. Harden up. Take charge, my girl.’

She sniffed and nodded. It was what she needed. Her mother’s sympathy only hurt her more. Her dad’s gruff way was the right approach — always had been for her. ‘It’s too soon. I was hugging him, and the next moment he was unconscious. Dad, Will could have killed that man with his karate. I cannot switch him off.’

‘You’ve got to put that to the back of your mind right now, Jane, or it’s going to undo you. We’re all praying,’ her father said, his voice shaking slightly, but his expression gritty, ‘that Will recovers.’ Old Spice cologne wafted toward her and the familiar smell rallied her. ‘But these are such early days,’ he continued. ‘We have to get you through the shock and out the other side, where you can think clearly.’

She wondered if Harris had used that phrase; they didn’t sound like her dad’s words. It didn’t matter. Whether she was thinking clearly or not, she was convinced of one fact: she had no intention of taking Will’s life support away. He was going to recover. She was going to find a way through to that moment
when he would open his eyes and say her name again in that lovely voice of his.

Clustered with the others around Will’s bed, Jane wondered why they were all whispering, herself included. If anything, the nurses were encouraging family members to talk to Will.

‘It can help,’ one said to Jane, squeezing her arm, after changing Will’s dressings. She wore a badge that told Jane her name was Ellen. She was about Jane’s age, and no blousy uniform could hide the attractiveness that shone from a sweet, round face with a dazzling white smile. She was tanned too, and that heightened the glow she cast about her.

‘He looks so young,’ his mother remarked, unable to stem her tears. ‘I can see him as a boy, just like in that photo we have on the piano.’ She began to weep again quietly.

Jane swallowed, looked away from Ellen and took her mother-in-law’s hand, hoping it would help. ‘The nurses say it’s a long road ahead for everyone. Don’t think about yesterday, they tell me. Just think about today and achieving tiny improvements, small milestones.’ She glanced at Ellen, who nodded encouragingly.

‘And the tomorrows will take care of themselves,’ Diane said, nodding as she pressed an embroidered handkerchief to her nose and glanced at Will’s father, who was grinding his jaw, staring at his son in such deep shock he was yet to say anything.

But as if his wife’s sniff were the cue, at that moment he unleashed his anger. ‘My son was a walking weapon, damn it! Fifth dan black belt!’ he spluttered. ‘No one could do this to him — no one! What the hell happened down there, Jane?’ he snarled.

Wrung out, Jane could think of nothing to enlighten or comfort his family. ‘It’s a blur, John. I didn’t see what happened because Will pushed me behind him. It happened in the blink of an eye. I think he was protecting me, and so was unable to protect himself.’

‘Will is a master practitioner,’ Maxwell snapped, his expression disgusted. ‘He chose not to help himself and that has always been Will’s problem. He’s weak! A walking lethal weapon who won’t pull the trigger!’

Jane closed her eyes momentarily to draw some calm. ‘Will sees his karate as a philosophy — he uses it for spiritual guidance, not as a weapon.’

Maxwell glared at her. ‘It’s a fighting craft, Jane. It’s there to be used so you can protect your own life
and
the lives of those you love!’

Will’s mother gasped and wept a little harder. It was obvious Maxwell was used to winning in everything. Jane couldn’t have cared less about him and his anger at this moment, but she was perceptive enough to realise it was the raw pain of a father talking, with little rationality behind it. So she said nothing, simply sighed and nodded.

‘Well, he can’t stay here,’ Maxwell growled, as though the silence had finally broken through whatever barrier had been holding him back. ‘I’m not leaving my son in this place.’ His American accent sounded suddenly harsh, aggressive.

Jane’s father blinked. ‘What would you suggest, John?’ his singsong Welsh accent a foil in its mellowness.

‘He can come home.’

Startled, Jane glanced at her parents, then shook her head at her mother, who seemed ready to launch a counter-argument. ‘The decision’s mine, surely?’ Jane wondered aloud to her in-laws.
Does a fiancée not count?

‘I’ve made a few calls,’ John Maxwell said, as though she hadn’t spoken. ‘I’ve contacted one of the top neuro guys in the States and he wants Will brought to John Hopkins in Baltimore. My boy is going to get the very best care that money can buy.’