The Rebel's Promise (8 page)

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 lingered 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.

There followed a long, frustrating exile holed up in a friend’s chateau near Paris, waiting, hoping and corresponding with his uncle. The news from Scotland was depressing. Cumberland appeared to have the rebel forces on the run. Finally, word of the dreadful rout and subsequent massacre at Culloden reached him. He bowed his head in pain at the thought of the brave men – his friends and his clan – who had thrown down their lives for the prince’s cause. A hopeless cause, it was now clear.

Then, at last, the letter he had longed for arrived. Because he had played no part in the events after Derby, and because of his uncle’s devoted services to the crown, King George II – accepting his assurances of penitence and allegiance – had graciously granted John Lindsey, fifth Earl of St Anton, a full pardon. Jack was free to return home.

Jack paused again, an hour later, on an incline at the edge of dense forest, looking down on the large, golden manor house that slumbered below him. It was set like a jewel in the green tapestry of well-ordered farmland. The soft, aromatic breeze stirred his memory and Jack’s heart beat a little faster. Delacourt Grange at last! He had dreamed of this homecoming throughout the intervening months and now he felt like a nervous teenager, coming to call on his sweetheart. His mind easily conjured up a vision of Rosie, his darling, laughing love. He had promised to come back for her and now, at last, he was here! And a free man. A short laugh escaped his lips. Eagerly he nudged his horse onwards, down into the valley.

Riding up to the wide front porch, he dismounted. He used the heavy knocker to rap out a tattoo on the door, waiting impatiently and tapping a booted foot against the worn sandstone of the step. When his summons was not answered quickly enough, he knocked again, louder and longer this time. The door was opened slowly to the accompaniment of a woman’s grumbling voice. The complaints stopped abruptly as Mrs Glover beheld the visitor. Her rosy cheeks blanched as she stared at him in shock.