Tales from the Tent (4 page)

It was hard for her to understand the revelations pouring forth, and she at first refused to believe such apparent untruths.

‘It is the God’s truth, my lady. You are Scotland’s rightful heir.’

‘Then why do I not sit on the throne?’

‘Because the chiefs would have you silenced. They have word from the Vatican that a young prince, my rightful son, is as we speak being groomed to bring Scotland freedom.’

‘Then, mother, for that is who you will always be to me, time for planning.’

From that night onwards Charlotte lived only to be Queen!

Three more years passed, and having reached a certain status under the roof of her mother’s employers she spread, not the wings of a fair dove, but the sharpened claws of a fierce bird of
prey. Soon she found a position nursing in a home for recovering soldiers. In no time she caught the tired eye of a captain home from fighting in some far-off land. He was of blue-blooded stock
with property, just what she was looking for. Her claws gently dug in to the heart of this man twenty years her senior. Before fewer than ten months had passed she was the honourable Lady Lister,
seated in her new home three miles north of Inverness, with her so-called mother installed as housekeeper, and keeper of the secret. More important than anything else she was pregnant. ‘If
the clans do not accept my blood, then they will accept my son.’ She swore her womb carried a male child. If it did not, then she would continue producing children until it did! For this was
Charlotte’s plan.

But oh, how the best-laid plans fall prey to fate.

Much to her horror her husband fell, fatally wounded, during a skirmish in France, and never lived to see his twin sons being born. More’s the blessing on him, because the babies were so
badly deformed that Charlotte dared not let any eye fall on them. How could she now approach the chiefs? This was not foreseen. But so deep had her intent become that she refused to be daunted. She
would find a way, right or wrong.

There had still been no sign of the ‘impostor’. Perhaps he would refuse an invitation from the now restless clans. After all, having lived a charmed existence under the cloak of rich
indulgence in the fine palaces of Rome and France, he was hardly likely to put his life in danger for such a futile cause.

Seventeen years passed, her sons never having set an eye upon an open door or window. She herself found it difficult to spend any more time than necessary in that stinking room in the attic of
Lister House, set in the thickest of Caledonian forests. Only her once mother, the now old and bent housekeeper, fed and cared for those sad cripples who had once held all her hopes of bringing the
crown home from those greedy southern jailers.

Charlotte’s plan to put Scotland into the Royal Stuarts’ hands was indeed honourable, but she was becoming desperate, and desperate people do dishonourable things. In the days ahead,
not only did she stoop to unmentionable depths, but the Devil himself would have been proud of her, to say the least.

I now take a moment, reader, to tell you that my host, narrator of this historic tale, closed his journal and reminded me of the time, which was entering a summer midnight
hour. ‘I think our friend Portsoy is for staying the night in Perth, lassie. Do you think he’ll mind me kipping down on his bed?’

Mac certainly looked the worst for whatever journey he’d taken that day, and after all the poor soul was over sixty. I, however, was only fifteen, and this story would not keep in my head.
I needed desperately to know its end.

Just then, before either of us could say a thing, the door opened and there was my Daddy with the man himself, old Portsoy Peter.

‘This daft Morayshire man broke doon upon the Perth road,’ laughed Daddy, ‘I found him hitching a mile north o’ Scone.’

I found it hard not to laugh at the poor soul’s predicament, because he had been blowing a hardy trumpet that very morning about how his new-bought Bentley ‘was the maist reliant
motor vehicle in all the countryside.’

But when he saw his dear friend Mac lying sprawled upon his bed, storybook opened, he put the car aside for another day’s conversation. Daddy asked me to fetch a pot of tea while the
threesome had a wee crack. He’d been away himself most of the day at Stirling selling a vanload of brock wool.

Although pleased, as I always was, to see my father safely home, I was also annoyed that the pair had interrupted Charlotte’s tale. ‘Are we going to find the end of our story?’
I prodded Mac on the arm.

Now, I know this seems a bit uncommon to say the least, given the ungodly hour, but Daddy said he’d haggled all day with the rag merchant and would take a tale before bedding himself.
Portsoy, who’d heard Mac’s tales before, was also in the mood for hearing it again. So, after going hurriedly back to the beginning of the story for our added listeners, Mac continued
with ‘The Severed Line.’

One day, while out walking in the thick forest with her old housekeeper, Charlotte was stunned to silence by the appearance of a small band of passing tinkers. It was not their
lowly existence nor tiny abodes secured to bent backs that took her eye, but the fine fiery red hair cascading down a slender spine. The girl, Iona by name, was a mere fifteen, if that, with
flashing green eyes and oh! that so thick red hair—the hair of the Royal Stuarts.

Charlotte was already sealing the fate of this impoverished band, and before that fateful day slowed to its end she had paid two henchmen to slit all their throats. All but the wench. She was
gagged, bound hand and foot, and brought into the stately home. There she was forced up the winding metal stairway and thrown into the den of Charlotte’s twin sons. ‘I shall surely have
my heir to this country now,’ she cried, as she shook her fist at the heavens above and swore that this was a God-given day.

The two sons had grown up as twisted in mind as they were in their maimed bodies. The innocent tinker girl was subjected that night to the most horrific attack upon her small frame. Had the
housekeeper not entered later to remove her shattered and torn body, no one knows what they would have ended up doing to Iona that night. Next day Charlotte insisted her sons taste more, and in she
threw an exhausted and half-dead girl. This she did daily for a week, allowing both her sons to abuse her at will.

After that she imprisoned Iona in a tiny basement and waited. Within two months her housekeeper brought the news—Iona was pregnant. On the old housekeeper’s advice a warmer, more
comfortable apartment was prepared to imprison the mother-to-be. After all, it would be a royal Stuart who was coming once again to the Scottish nation, one whom the clans had been awaiting for a
long time. They would listen and believe Charlotte when the truth was shown to them. She would be the Queen Mother and instruct the new heir. Oh, how she schemed and plotted!

Now, while all was being prepared, the old housekeeper began to think remorsefully on the road her life had taken. She could feel that her life was slowly dwindling and felt it wasn’t
Charlotte’s fault but hers for disclosing the truth in the first place. She thought on the husband who had died far from his estate. She thought about the sadly malformed twins who had never
been kissed or cuddled by a loving mother, and now poor Iona, whose family had been murdered for sake of this woman whom she had nurtured.

Any day now Iona would give birth and then what? What if it was a girl? Would she be thrown into the den of the twins once again? What if it was indeed a son? Of course, with her task complete,
the young mother would never see another day. When would all this evil end? The old woman was the only one who could change things. Next day she set out to do just that.

While Charlotte slept, she went into the girl’s room, and just as expected the baby was moving into position for birth. Dressing Iona, the old housekeeper silently led her out of the large
house of Lister. On the way she told the lassie what Charlotte was planning to do. The pair walked on until, exhausted, they came to the shore. Iona was led into a small cave to hide and have her
child without help. You see, the old housekeeper had her own safety to consider.

Charlotte was seething with the red anger when she found that Iona and the housekeeper had gone, and she rode out to procure once again the assistance of her two henchmen who were living in a
dark hovel nearby. Riding madly through the thick forest the three came upon the old woman, who lied and said that when she rose that morning she too had found Iona’s bed empty and set out to
find her ‘before you, my mistress, awakened.’ Before walking off she called back to the death-minded threesome that she would take care of the boys, then she was gone into the
forest.

As the day’s sun was settling into the night sky, they were searching every inch of shoreline until a child’s cry brought Charlotte and her hired killers to the cave. As they
dismounted they saw a small figure silhouetted against the horizon; it was Iona standing above them on a ledge.

‘Have you a son for the throne of Scotland, lassie?’ Charlotte cried up to the visibly shaken girl.

‘Aye, mistress, see for yourself. I’ve done ye doubly proud.’

Charlotte could hardly believe her eyes, for there, lying wrapped in a torn shawl, were not one but two sons, each already showing a fine red hairline.

‘When I have my babies you know what to do with the tinker,’ she whispered.

The henchmen nodded in unison.

Iona was more than aware of her impending doom, but she was not going to go without seeing Charlotte’s face when the truth was revealed.

For as the lady of evil stooped to bundle up her heirs, two tiny heads rolled from their bodies at her feet!

‘See, wicked Charlotte, see your severed line!’ Those were Iona’s last earthly words as she leapt to a watery grave.

Charlotte screamed towards the heavens, blaming everybody but herself.

‘I will repeat this, others will be found,’ she screamed over and over again.

Those men of depravity had come even to their limit when witnessing this dreadful scene, and without payment they rode off into the dark forest, hoping never to set eyes upon Lady Charlotte
again.

However, when she at last arrived home yet another horror was to meet her eyes that day, because the old housekeeper had torched Lister House with Charlotte’s twin sons locked within its
walls. Charlotte and Lister House were never heard of or seen again. There are those who said she cursed Scotland from that day, and swore that the impostor would fail in any attempt he made to
unite the clans. And that he did. Strange!

‘Great story,’ whispered Daddy, not wishing to wake Portsoy who had fallen asleep earlier. He turned and whispered to me, ‘Mammy will want to know why you and
me hadn’t bedded until the second hour of the night, better no tell her we were tale telling.’ I smiled and promised, but hey, who could fool Mammy?

He then went off to his bed. But not I, no, I was still standing on that ledge with Iona watching the babies’ wee heads rolling at Charlotte’s feet. How could I sleep? I just had to
ask Mac if there was any truth at all in this tale. He never answered. I couldn’t help but smile to myself, though, as I watched him take those flashing white teeth of his that I’d
admired all day, and pop them into a glass half-filled with water.