Chapter Thirteen
They were three more weeks at court. Nothing could have been more splendid than Prince Charles's Holyrood. The food was
sumptuous, as was the music, the entertainment, the people. It was a gold and gleaming time, when the great halls echoed with
laughter and dancing, when frivolous games and affairs of the heart were played with equal abandon.
From all over the country came elegantly dressed men in their powdered wigs, and glamorously gowned women to flirt with them.
Holyrood was gay and glittering, and in it Charles lived those weeks a true prince. It was a place and a time that would never be
forgotten.
Serena watched Brigham meld into this world he had been born for, while she, fueled by determination more than by confidence,
adjusted to the life of beauty and glamour.
There were new rules to learn, a new pattern to the days and the nights. Here, at the first court to grace Scotland in many years,
Serena discovered what it was to be Lady Ashburn. There were servants to attend her whether she wanted them or not. Because of
Brigham's position, they were given a gracious chamber hung with tapestries and appointed with elegant furnishings. She met more
people in a matter of weeks than she had in the whole of her life, many of whom had come out of curiosity, but more still who had come
out of loyalty.
Court life continued to make her uneasy, and often impatient, but the people who comprised it made her proud of her heritage, and her
husband.
Serena had the first true inkling of Brigham's wealth when he presented her with the Langston emeralds. With the help of his contacts in
London he had them transported from Ashburn Manor and gave them to Serena less than a week after they had exchanged vows.
The necklace was as stately as its name and glimmered with stones as green as the lawns of his estate. It was matched with a
bracelet and ear bobs that made Maggie's jaw drop. To accent them, Brigham commissioned a dressmaker. Serena found herself
gowned in silks and satins, in soft lawns and wispy lace. She discovered what it was like to wear diamonds in her hair and scent her
skin with the finest of French perfumes.
She would have given it all for a week alone with Brigham in a Highland croft.
It was impossible not to enjoy the splendor, impossible not to revel a little in the envious glances of other ladies as she was escorted
into a room by Brigham. She wore the gowns and the jewels, dressed her hair and felt beautiful. But as the days passed, she couldn't
shake the sensation that it was all like a dream. The lights, the glamour, the tinkling laughter of women, the sweeping bows of men, her
own easy relationship with the Prince.
But the nights were real. Serena clung to them as tightly as she clung to Brigham in the privacy of their marriage bed. She knew it was
temporary, and that its continuation was in God's hands. It was only a matter of time before Brigham would leave. They did not speak of
it. There was no need to speak of what they both understood. If force of will alone could bring him back safely to her, she could be
content.
At night she could be his wife freely, in heart, mind and body. By day she often felt like an impostor, masquerading in fashionable
gowns as a lady while in her heart she remained a product of the Highlands, longing to kilt up her skirts and race through the autumn
trees surrounding the park as the wind tore the leaves from the branches for a dizzying dance. Instead, she walked sedately with the
other women while the men held council or rode to the camp.
Because she loved, she put her heart and soul into being the kind of wife she thought Brigham should have. She sat, desperately
struggling to be attentive, through musical evenings. Though she found it absurd, she never complained about the necessity to change
from a morning dress to an afternoon dress, then again for evening. Only once, when she was sure she wouldn't be noticed, did she
accompany Malcolm to the stables to admire the horses.
She envied her young brother the freedom to take wild rides, but set her teeth and determined to enjoy her own demure ones.
"Do this, do that," she muttered as she paced alone in her bedchamber. "Don't do this, don't do that." Swearing, she kicked a chair with
the toe of the pretty slipper that matched her violet morning dress. "A body could go mad trying to remember the rules, then madder still
trying to live by them."
With a hiss of breath she dropped down into the chair, skirts billowing. She wanted the loch, the peace of it. She didn't just want to look
out at the hills and crags. She wanted to climb them. She wanted her breeches, she thought, and her boots. She wanted… Sighing,
she braced her elbows on her knees and cupped her face in her hands. Not an attitude suitable for Lady Ashburn, but Serena didn't feel
like Lady Ashburn at the moment. She was being selfish and ungrateful, she told herself. Brigham was giving her things many another
women would have swooned over. He was promising her the kind of life only a fool would toss aside.
And she was a fool, Serena decided, because she would have done just that if it wouldn't have meant losing Brigham, as well. Living
with dignity and propriety was a small price to pay for love. But oh, she had nearly botched it a dozen times already, and they had only
been married three weeks.
She heard the door open and popped up like a spring, smoothing her skirts. A breath of relief escaped when she saw that it was
Brigham. She would have hated for a servant to gossip below stairs about how Lady Ashburn sulked in her room with her elbows on her
knees.
Brigham lifted a brow when he saw her. He would have sworn she grew more beautiful each day, though he did wish from time to time
that she could wear her hair loose and free so that he could bury his hands in it at will.
"I thought you were going for a walk with your sister and Maggie."
"I was just getting ready." Automatically she reached up to pat her hair, afraid her pacing had loosened the careful arrangement. "I didn't
expect you back until much later. Is the council over?"
"Yes. You look exquisite, Rena. Like a wild violet."
With a laugh that was half sob, she raced into his arms. "Oh, Brig, I love you. I love you so much."
"What's this?" he murmured as she pressed her face against his neck. "Are you crying?"
"No—aye, a little. It's only that whenever I see you I love you more than the last time."
"Then I'll take care to leave and come back several times each day."
"Don't laugh at me."
"And risk fatal injury?" He tilted her head back so that he could kiss her properly. "No, my dear, I shan't laugh at you."
She saw it in his eyes, and knew then that she had seen it the moment he had come into the room. The courage she had promised
herself she would show wavered, but she willed it back. "It's time, isn't it?"
He brought her hand to his lips. "Come, sit."
"There is no need," she said steadily. "Just tell me."
"We march in a matter of days. Tomorrow you must leave for Glenroe."
Her cheeks paled, but her voice remained strong. "I would stay until you go."
"I would go with an easier mind if I knew you were safe at Glenroe. The journey will take longer because of Maggie."
She knew he was right, knew it was necessary, and tried to live with it. "You march to London?"
"God willing."
With a nod, she stepped back, but she kept his hand in hers. "The fight is mine, as well as yours, doubly so now that I am your wife. I
would go with you, if you would let me."
"No. Do you think I see my wife as a camp follower?" The look, the very familiar look, in her eyes warned him to change tactics. "Your
family needs you, Serena."
What of my needs? The words sprang to her tongue and were bitten back. She would do him no good by following him into battle. She
looked at her hand and cursed the fact that it was too weak to wield a sword, to protect him as he would protect her.
"You're right. I know. I will wait for you."
"I take you with me. Here." He brought their joined hands to his heart. "There is something I would ask of you. If things go wrong—" She
shook her head, but a look from him stopped her urgent protest. "There is a chest in my chamber, and a strongbox. In the box is gold
and enough jewels to buy your safety and that of your family. In the chest is something more precious that I would have you keep."
"What is it?"
He traced a fingertip along her cheekbone, remembering. "You will know when you see it."
"I won't forget, but there will be no need. You will come back." She smiled. "Remember, you have promised to show me Ashburn
Manor."
"I remember."
Lifting her hands, she began to undo the tiny buttons at her bodice.
"What are you doing?"
Smiling still, she let the dress open. "What I am not doing is going for a walk with my sister." She undid the satin sash at her waist. "Is
it improper to seduce one's husband at this hour?"
"Probably." He grinned as she tugged the coat from his shoulders. "But we shall keep it our secret."
They made love on the elegantly skirted bed, under the high canopy, with the sun coming strong through the windows. The proper
morning dress lay discarded in billows of violet. She knelt beside him, slender, with the light playing over her skin as she drew the pins
from her hair. Heavily, in a glory of flame-tipped gold, it fell over her naked shoulders and breasts. Brigham reached for it, wrapped it
once, twice, around his wrists as if to imprison himself, then drew her slowly down to him.
Their bodies fit.
They both remembered the loch, and another sundrenched morning filled with love and passions. The memory of it, and thoughts of the
cloudy, uncertain future brought them gently together. Selflessly they gave to each other, beautifully they received.
With a sigh, he slipped into her. With a murmur, their lips met and clung. Together they showed one another a new level of pleasure,
one that could be reached only through the purity and the passions of unconditional love.
It was the first of November when the march finally began. Many, Brigham among them, had urged the Prince to begin the campaign
earlier, moving on the advantage they had gained by taking Edinburgh. Instead, Charles had continued to hope for active support from
France. Money had indeed come, and supplies, but no men. Charles put his own strength at eight thousand, with three hundred horses.
He knew that he must make one decisive stroke, bringing victory or defeat in a short time. As before, he decided the best strategy was
a bold one.
Charles had a high opinion of his troops, as did the English. A few months before, the young Prince's ambitions and his ragtag troops of
rugged Highlanders had been laughed at. Then he had swept down on Edinburgh. His early victories, and the flair with which he had
brought defeat to the English had the uneasy government recalling more and more troops from Flanders, sending them to Field Marshal
Wade in Newcastle.
Still, as the Stuart army marched into Lancaster under the leadership of Lord George Murray, they met with little resistance. But the
celebration there might have been was offset by the disappointing number of English Jacobites who had rallied.
Near a hot fire on a cold night, Brigham sat with Whites-mouth, who had ridden from Manchester to join the cause. Men warmed
themselves with whiskey and wrapped themselves in plaids against the keening wind.
"We should have attacked Wade's forces." Whites-mouth tipped his flask. "Now they've called the elector's fat son Cumberland in
haste, and he's advancing through the Midlands. How many are we, Brig? Four, five thousand?"
"At best." Brigham accepted the flask but only stared into the fire. "The Prince is pushed two ways by Murray and O'Sullivan. Each
decision comes only after agonizing debate. If you want the truth, Johnny, we lost our momentum in Edinburgh. We may never get it
back."
"But you stay?"
"He has my oath."
They sat another moment in silence, listening to the wind crying over the hills. "You know that some of the Scots are drifting off, going
quietly back to their glens and hills."
"I know it."
Only that day, Ian and other chiefs had spoken together. They meant to hold their men. Brigham wondered if they, or anyone, fully
understood that the brilliant victories of their outnumbered and ill-equipped army had been won because the men hadn't simply been
ordered to fight, but had fought with their hearts. Once the heart was lost, so would be the cause.
With a shake of his head, he shifted his thoughts to practical matters. "We reach Derby tomorrow. If we hit London quickly, thoroughly,
we could still see the king on the throne." He sipped then, as someone began to play a mournful tune on the pipes. "We've yet to be
beaten. From what news you bring, there is panic in the city and the elector prepares to leave for Hanover."
"There may he stay," Whitesmouth mumbled. "My God, it's cold."
"In the north the wind has an edge as sharp and as sweet as a blade."
"If luck is with us, you'll be back to your wife and her Highlands by the new year."
Brigham drank again, but in his heart he knew it would take more than luck.
In Derby, with London only 130 miles away, Charles held his council of war.
Snow fell fitfully outside as the men rounded the table. A gloom was in the room, both from the leaden light and on the faces of men.
There was a good fire, but over its crackle and hiss the sound of the icy wind could still be heard.
"Gentlemen." Charles spread his fine hands in front of him. "I seek advice from you who have pledged to my father. It is boldness we
need, and unity."
His dark eyes scanned the room, lighting briefly on each man. Murray was there, and the man whom Murray considered a thorn in his
side, O'Sullivan. Brigham watched, holding his silence, as the Prince continued to speak.
"We know that three government troops threaten to converge on us, and morale among the men is suffering. A thrust, rapier-sharp, at
the capital—now, while we still remember our victories—is surely our move."
"Your Highness." Murray waited, then was given permission to speak. "The advice I must offer is caution. We are poorly equipped and
greatly outnumbered. If we withdraw to the Highlands, take the winter to plan a new campaign that would launch in spring, we might rally
those men we have already lost and draw fresh supplies from France."
"Such counsel is the counsel of despair," Charles said.
"I can see nothing but ruin and destruction coming to us if we should retreat."
"Withdraw," Murray corrected, and was joined by the assent of other advisers. "Our rebellion is young, but it must not be impulsive."
Charles listened, shutting his eyes a moment as one after another of the men who stood with him echoed Murray's sentiments.
Prudence, patience, caution. Only O'Sullivan preached attack, using flattery and reckless promises in his attempt to sway the Prince.
All at once, Charles sprang up from his chair, scattering the maps and documents spread out in front of him. "What say you?" he
demanded of Brigham.
Brigham knew that, militarily, Murray's advice was sound. But he remembered his own thoughts as he had sat with Whitesmouth by the
fire. If they withdrew now, the heart of the rebellion would be lost. For once, perhaps for the only time, his thoughts marched in step with
O'Sullivan's.
"With respect, Your Highness, if the choice was mine I would march to London at daybreak and seize the moment."
"The heart says to fight, Your Highness," one of the advisers put in, closely echoing Brigham's thoughts. "But in war, one must heed the
head, as well. If we ride to London as we are, our losses could be immeasurable."
"Or our triumph great," Charles interrupted passionately. "Are we women who cover our heads at the first sign of snow or who think of
only warming our tired feet by the fire? Withdraw, retreat." He swung back toward Murray, eyes furious. "It is one and the same. I
wonder if you have a mind to betray me."
"I have only a mind to see you and our cause succeed," Murray said quietly. "You are a prince, sue. I am but a soldier and must speak
as one who knows his troops and the way of war."
The argument continued, but long before it was finished, Brigham saw how it would be. The Prince, never strong of purpose when faced
with dissension among his advisers, was being forced to heed Murray's words of caution. On December 6, the decision to retreat was
taken.
The road back to Scotland was long, and the men dispirited. It was as Brigham had feared. When a halt was called to the exuberant,
aggressive advance that had given the clans such power since the previous summer, the heart went out of the rebellion. Men might still
talk of another invasion in the following year, but all believed in their secret hearts that they would never march south again.
They fell back behind the Scottish border and took Glasgow, though the city was openly hostile. The men, frustrated and disillusioned,
might have taken that Christmas day to loot and sack, had not Cameron of Lochiel's cool head and compassion dissuaded them.
Stirling surrendered just as reinforcements, men, stores and ammunition arrived from France. It started to seem as if the right decision
had been made, but if Charles now believed Lord George had been correct, he never spoke of it.
The Prince's numbers were again on the increase as more clans came to him, pledging heart and sword and men. But there were
MacKenzies and MacLeods, MacKays and Munroes who followed the elector's colors.
They fought again, south of Stirling, in the purple winter's dusk, Scot fighting Scot, as well as English. Again they tasted victory, but
with it came grief, as Ian MacGregor fell to an enemy blade.
He lingered through the night. Men who ride in battle need not be told when wounds are mortal. Brigham knew it as he sat beside the
old man with the night wind flapping at the tent.
He thought of Serena and how she had laughed when the big bear of a MacGregor had swung her around and around in her night robe.
He thought of riding with Ian through the winter wind and of sharing a bottle of port near a great fire. Now, approaching death seemed to
have stolen both size and strength so that he was only an old, fragile man. Still, his hair glowed rich and red in the pale glow of the
lamp.
"Your mother…" Ian began, reaching for Coll's hand.
"I'll care for her." They were men who loved each other too well to pretend there would be a tomorrow.
"Aye." Ian's breath hissed in and out, like wind through an empty husk of wheat. "The bairn—my only regret is I won't see the bairn."
"He shall carry your name," Coll vowed. "He shall know the man who was his grandsire."
There was a faint smile on Ian's mouth, though his lips were the color of ashes. "Brigham."
"I'm here, sir."
Because his vision was fading, Ian concentrated on the voice. "Don't tame my wildcat. She would die from it. You and Coll will tend to
little Gwen and Malcolm. Keep them safe."
"My word on it."
"My sword—" Ian struggled for another breath. "My sword to Malcolm. Coll, you have your own."
"He shall have it." Coll bent over Ian's hand. "Papa."
"We were right to fight. It will not be for naught." He opened his eyes for the last time. "Royal is our race, lad." He managed a final fierce
grin. "We are MacGregors despite them."
There were men dispatched to bear the body back to
Glenroe, but Coll refused to go with them. "He would have me stay with the Prince," Coll told Brigham as they stood out in the bitter
sleet. "That he died here, with our backs turned to London."
"It's not finished, Coll."
Coll turned his head. There was grief in his eyes, and also a bright anger. "No, by God, it's not."
The men of the clans grew dispirited, as it seemed ever clearer that the invasion of England was fast petering out into a holding action.
Desertions had become frequent, and the decision was made to consolidate forces in the north of Scotland. But the leaders continue to
bicker, even after the rebels forded the icy waters of the Forth and marched north up the Great Glen. For seven weeks that winter,
Charles made his base in Inverness. Inactivity again took its toll, dwindling the numbers of the so recently replenished troops. There
were short, sporadic, often bitter little battles during those weeks. The Jacobites were again victorious in the taking of Fort Augustus,
that hated English stronghold at the heart of the Highlands, but the men longed for a decisive victory and for home. Meanwhile,
Cumberland massed his forces. It seemed the winter would never end.
It was snowing when Serena stood by her father's grave. He had come back to them nearly a month before, and all Glenroe had wept.
Her own tears fell freely as she longed for him, for the thunderous sound of his voice, for the crushing strength of his arms and the
laughter in his eyes.
She wanted to cry out. Serena much preferred fury to tears, but the anger had drained out of her. There was only a sorrow, a deep,
abiding grief that stirred in her heart even as the child she now carried stirred in her womb.
It was the helplessness, she thought, that made a body weak and the heart brittle. No amount of work or temper or love could bring her
father back or take the dull pain out of her mother's eyes. Men fought, and women grieved.
She closed her eyes and let the snow fall stinging to her cheeks. There must be more, she thought, more than waiting and mourning.
She had already lost one man she loved. How would she go on if she lost another?
The rebellion, she thought with the first flash of fire she had felt in weeks. The damned rebellion was… was right, she realized, pushing
the heels of her hands over her face to dry them. It was right and it was just. If people believed strongly, they should be willing to fight,
and to die. Her father had said so, and had stood unwaveringly by his words. How could she do less?
"I miss you so," she murmured. "And I'm afraid. There's the child now, you see. Your grandchild." She smoothed a hand over the slight
slope of her belly. "There was nothing I could do to save you, just as there's nothing I can do to protect Brigham or Coll. I wish—Oh
Papa, I'm with child and part of me still wishes I could be a man so I could pick up a sword for you." She searched in her pockets until
her fingers closed over the handkerchief Brigham had given her so many months before. She laid it on her cheek, using it as a talisman
to bring him clearly to mind. "Is he safe? He doesn't even know we made a child between us. I would go to him." She felt the baby
quicken. "But I can't. I can't protect and fight for him, but I can protect and fight for the child."
"Rena?"
She turned to see Malcolm standing a little way off. Snow fell in sheets between them, but she could see the quiver of his lips and the
sheen of tears in his eyes. Wordlessly she opened her arms to him.
While he wept, she held him, finding comfort somehow in comforting another. He had been so brave, she remembered, standing so
straight, holding their mother's arm while the priest had said the last words over their father's grave. He'd been a man then. Now he was
a little boy.
"I hate the English." His voice was muffled against her shawl.
"I know. Mother would say hate is not Christian, but sometimes I think there is a time for hate, just as there is a time for love. And there
is a time, my love, to let go of it."
"He was a fierce warrior."
"Aye." She was able to smile now as she drew him back to study his tear-streaked face. "Do you not think, Malcolm, that a fierce
warrior might prefer to die fighting for what he believes?"
"They had retreated," Malcolm said bitterly, and Serena saw a glimpse of Coll in his eyes.
"Aye." The letter she had received from Brigham had explained the maneuver, his dissatisfaction with it and the growing dissent in the
ranks. "I don't understand the strategy of generals, Malcolm, but I do know that whether the Prince is victor or vanquished, nothing will
ever be the same."
"I want to go to Inverness and join."
"Malcolm—"
"I have Father's sword," he interrupted, passion darkening his eyes. "I can use it. I will use it to avenge him and support the Prince. I am
not a child."
She looked at him then. The little boy who had run weeping into her arms was a man again. He stood as high as her shoulder, his jaw
firm, his hand clenched on the hilt of his dagger. He could go, Serena realized with a flutter of fear.
"No, you are not a child, and I believe you could raise Father's sword like a man. I will not stop you if your heart tells you to go, but I
would ask that you think of Mother, of Gwen and Maggie."
"You can care for them."
"Aye, I would try, but every day the child within me grows." She took his hand in hers. It was stiff and cold and surprisingly strong. "And
I'm afraid. I can't tell Mother or the others, but I'm afraid. When I grow as big as Maggie, how will I be able to keep them safe if the
English come? I don't ask you not to fight, Malcolm, nor do I tell you you're a child. But I will ask you to be a man and fight here."
Torn, he turned back to stare down at her father's grave. The snow lay over it in a soft white blanket. "Father would have wanted me to
stay."
Relief coursed through her, but she only touched his shoulder. "Aye. There is no disgrace in staying behind, not when it's the right
thing."
"It's hard."
"I know." Now she slipped her arm around him. "Believe me, Malcolm, I know. There are things we can do," she murmured, thinking
aloud. "When the snow stops. If the Prince's troops are as close as Inverness, the English will not be far behind. We cannot fight in
Glenroe, there are too few of us, and almost all women and children."
"You think the English will come here?" he demanded, half eager, half terrified.
"I begin to believe it. Did word not come to us that there was a battle at Moy Hall?"
"And the English were routed," Malcolm reminded her.
"But it is too close. If we cannot defend, then we protect. You and I will find a place in the hills and prepare it. Food, supplies, blankets,
weapons." She thought of the strongbox. "We will plan, Malcolm, as warriors plan."
"I know a place, a cave."
"You will take me there tomorrow."
Brigham rode hard. Though it was nearly April, the weather remained cold, with snow often whipped up by the hateful wind. He
commanded a handful of weary, hungry men. This foraging party, like others that had been sent out from Inverness, went in search of
much-needed food and supplies. One of their greatest hopes, a captured government sloop renamed Prince Charles, had been retaken
by the enemy off the Kyle of Tongue, and her desperately looked-for funds were now in the hands of the enemy.
Brigham's party had found more than oats and venison. They had discovered news. The duke of Cumberland, the elector's second son,
lay in Aberdeen with a well-armed, well-fed army of twice their strength. He had received a powerful reinforcement of five thousand
German soldiers, who remained in Dornoch, blocking the route south. The word came that Cumberland was beginning his advance on
Inverness.
Hooves thudded on the layer of snow still covering the road. The men rode mostly in silence, edgy with hunger and fatigue. They wanted
a meal and the cold comfort of sleep.
Redcoats were spotted to the west. With a quick signal, Brigham halted his troops and scanned the distance. They were outnumbered
nearly two to one, and the dragoons looked fresh. He had a choice. They could run, or they could fight. Turning his horse, he took a
hard look at his men.
"We can make the hills and lose them, or we can meet them here on the road, with the rocks to their backs."
"We fight." One man fingered his sword. Then another and another added his voice. The dragoons had already spurred into a gallop.
Brigham flashed a grin. It was the answer he'd wanted.
"Then let's show them the faces of king's men." Wheeling his horse, he led the charge.
There was something fierce and chilling about a Highland charge. They rode as if they rode into hell, screaming in Gaelic and
brandishing blades. Wall met wall, and the lonely hills echoed with the fury. Around Brigham men fought like demons and fell dying from
the slice and hack of steel. Snow ran red.
It was unlike him to allow his emotions to surface in battle. Here, after weeks of frustration and anger, he let himself go, cutting through
the line of oncoming dragoons like a man gone mad. He saw no faces, only that nameless entity known as the enemy. His sword
whipped out severing flesh as he dragged his horse right, then left, then right again.
They drove the dragoons onto the rocks, pursuing them mercilessly. Weeks of waiting had worked like a cancer that came rising to the
surface to eat away at the civilized veneer.
When they were done five Jacobites lay dead or dying alongside a dozen dragoons. The rest of the government troop had fled over the
rocks like rabbits.
"After them, lads," one of the Highlanders shouted. Brigham swung his horse to block the next charge.
"For what purpose?" He dismounted to clean his blade in the snow. "We've done what we've done. Now we tend to our own." A foot
away, a man moaned. Sheathing his weapon, Brigham went to him. "The English dead will be buried. Our own dead and wounded will
be taken back to Inverness."
"Leave the English for the kites."
Brigham's head whipped around. His eyes had lost their fever and were cold again as they studied the blood-spattered face of the hefty
Scot who had spoken. "We are not animals. We bury the dead, friend or enemy."
In the end, the English dead were given cairns. The ground was too hard for graves.
The men were still weary, still hungry, when they turned their mounts toward Inverness. They rode slowly, burdened by their wounded.
With each long mile, Brigham thought of how close the dragoons had been to Glenroe.