Read Online The Rebel's Promise by Jane Godman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jane Godman
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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
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
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