‘One rope and I’d be over,’ MacGillivray protested.
‘And the whole city alerted,’ Anne said.
‘Then pass me off as a lawyer.’
‘Did you ever see a six-foot lawyer with thighs such as yours?’ Anne smiled. ‘Besides, this will amuse everyone and take the sting out.’
‘Not out of me, it won’t,’ MacGillivray railed. ‘I’ll be a laughing stock.’
‘Only among your own,’ Anne giggled. ‘The Edinburgh folk wouldn’t dare. Green silk,’ she couldn’t resist adding. ‘It will go wonderfully with your hair.’
‘No ringlets,’ MacGillivray insisted. ‘I would go to my grave first.’
She had won.
‘A very pretty bonnet,’ she promised. ‘And a fan.’
Later that night, Duff peered out from the guardhouse in the city walls. He was a squat, thick-set man, a shoemaker, more at home bent over his cobbler’s last than manning Netherbow Port with a musket in his hand. In the dark, he could see little outside the window beyond the first few buildings. From further down the Canongate, he could hear music from Holyrood. The Jacobites played the rebel song, ‘The Auld Stuarts back Again’. All night, they’d treated Edinburgh ears to jigs, strathspeys and reels. Now, it sounded like the party was coming to an end. Above him, in the tower, the bell would soon toll the night curfew.
His fellow guard had gone down below to usher in a group of women, pocketing their bribes. They worked it between them, twice the usual fee for entry and exit, half to the guards, half to the city. Duff took the payments on their way out. Men were rarely admitted, as a precaution, and were rigorously checked but, with none in this group, his companion was quickly finished. Duff heard him climbing back up the turnpike stair.
‘Hoi,’ a voice called from outside the gate, ‘you forgot me.’
Duff threw open the window and peered down. A woman stood below, hands on her hips, wealthy by the look of her, with a feather-plumed hat and fur-trimmed outfit.
‘Name yersell,’ he called back. He wasn’t sure why he asked. One woman couldn’t be a danger, even if she gave a Highland name or had an unfamiliar accent.
‘You dare ask my name?’ The woman was indignant. ‘Name yourself.’
‘Duff,’ he called back, equally indignant. ‘Duff, the shoemaker.’
‘Then I’m your wife, idiot,’ she yelled up at him.
Duff was triumphant. He didn’t have a wife! She tried to trick him. His fellow militiaman reached the top of the stair. Duff turned to him.
‘I dinnae hae a wife,’ he said. A dirk pointed at his throat. It
wasn’t the other guard who’d stepped into the guardroom. It was a woman in a green silk gown, a very tall woman in a bonnet, the dirk in her hand.
‘That’s a pity,’ she said. Her voice was deep and rich with a Highland lilt to it. ‘But if you keep quiet while we let her in, you might live long enough to get one.’
Duff was in no danger of making a sound. The point of the dirk pressed sharply against his Adam’s apple. Now that he’d turned, he could see, through the side window, that down below, inside the gate, the other guard lay motionless on the ground beside it while a third woman unbolted the footgate, a young, slender woman with dark hair. She was one of the group which had just entered, the others having vanished up the King’s High Street.
Down on the Canongate, as the footgate opened again, Lochiel’s men emerged from the shadows of deserted buildings, racing past Greta into the city. Inside, a few took over from Anne to unbolt the great metal cart gates, pushing them wide so the rest of the Jacobites could flood in behind them. As the Netherbow bell sounded the curfew hour, the rest hurried to the other three ports to relieve the guards there of their posts. In the castle at the top of the hill, the garrison drew up the drawbridge when they realized what was happening. By the time Lord George rode up to the gates, Edinburgh was taken. The only casualty was a guard with a sore head.
‘It did work, George,’ Anne said as he arrived. She was seated by the gate, sharing a flagon of ale with Greta. In the doorway to the guardhouse, sharing a similar flagon with the bemused Duff, was MacGillivray, bonnet thrown off, his red hair dull gold in the moonlight.
‘I like the dress,’ Lord George called up. ‘Green suits you.’
The following morning, Anne watched the Prince make his triumphal entry into Scotland’s capital. He’d waited for daylight so the people could enjoy the spectacle. In full Highland dress, with an array of pipers marching before him and the Netherbow bell announcing his arrival, he rode up from Holyrood with his entourage. Waiting to introduce the provost, Anne felt triumphant too. On the way south, they’d taken Perth. Now, they had Edinburgh. The streets were lined with folk, all wanting to see Prince Charles.
The city had lost much of its wealth since parliament removed to London, the country’s lords and ladies a rare sight on its streets since then. The new elite were merchants, lawyers and scholars from the university, altogether less generous with the poor, more sparing with their coin. Still, their women fronted the crowds of fleshers, baxters, coopers and shopkeepers, dressed in their finest and fluttering fans as the Prince passed by. He nodded left then right to them as he went.
Arriving at the City Chambers, he leant over to O’sullivan, who rode beside him.
‘Is Edinburgh stuffed with simpering giglets?’ he asked.
‘If you wouldn’t mind humouring the ladies, sir,’ O’sullivan replied. ‘They might well have a bob or two we could be making good use of.’
When they dismounted, the Prince offered Anne his hand to be kissed.
‘Ma belle rebelle,’
he said, ‘you are worth ten men.’ He glanced at Provost Stewart. The man was terrified, his powdered periwig askew under his hat. ‘It is most kind of you to welcome me to your fair city,’ he said.
Unsure if this was warmth or sarcasm, the provost almost forgot
his fear for his neck. He had locked the city gates against the rebels, but neither the Union nor the Whig government was popular here and while their forces still garrisoned the castle behind him, it was Jacobite swords that swung in his streets.
‘But ye’re maist welcome, sir,’ he said, bowing and bobbing. ‘It’s just, we havenae much here and you’ve a sizeable army.’
‘Ma foi!’
the Prince exclaimed. ‘We are not common thieves come to rob you. We will billet where there is space. What provisions we need will be paid for. Now,
mon ami
, if you lead the way, I will address your council.’
Anne watched them go. The Prince, with his instant charm and regal air, was strangely out of place here. The city was a crowded, filthy place, smelling of human waste. Its buildings towered above narrow streets and dark closes. Only where she stood, on the wide King’s High Street, did daylight have any hope of penetrating. MacGillivray, having shed his silk gown, organized provisions for their own regiment. Lochiel’s men were stationed around the castle perimeter, in case the small government force voluntarily locked inside should suddenly be afflicted by foolhardy courage and emerge to do their duty. A hand tugged at her skirt.
‘Missus, missus, yer ladyship.’
Anne looked round. A grubby young girl, maybe twelve years old, had a hold of the cloth. The child’s hair was lank, her feet bare, her clothes made of sacking. Having got Anne’s attention, she let go.
‘Ma faither will fecht for ye, if ye gie us a penny for breid.’
The girl’s Scots tongue was unfamiliar. Anne understood the Doric Scots of Aberdeenshire but had rarely heard the southern form except when city beggars overwintered with poor cottars, abusing the law of hospitality afforded to any in need. Like most chiefs, she spoke Gaelic, French and English. Only cattle-rieving Highlanders had a grasp of Lowland Scots. But what she de ciphered, she doubted. If the girl’s build and health were any guide, the man, if there was such a person, would hardly be fit to hold a weapon, far less swing it.
‘What’s your name?’ she asked.
‘Clementina. Please, missus lady. We’re stervin enough tae die of it.’
That might well be true. Anne dug into her drawstring purse, taking out two pennies. No doubt she’d be surrounded by urchins and beggars as a result, but this child was sore in need of a decent meal. A wash would not have gone amiss either. She handed the girl the coins.
‘Here,’ she said. ‘Get yourself some broth to dip your bread into.’ The girl had the coins from her hand and was gone, melting quickly into the crowd. She could easily have been a ghost, with her pale, grey skin. This city was bound to be haunted by many. Five women crossed the road towards her. No ghosts these, Anne smiled. They were too vibrant, full of life. It was Greta, with Margaret and three others from their army.
‘One diversion deserves another,’ Greta said. ‘Will you help me now?’
They made their way to the city stables. While the two grooms goggled at so many glamorous women, the farrier was delighted to do business, until he heard what it was.
‘But I cannae sell ye the horses,’ he protested. ‘They’re stabled here and arenae mine tae sell.’
‘You have some for hire,’ Greta insisted. ‘The rest you can deal for your customers. How you share the profit is for you to decide.’
The man would not have it, proclaiming he’d be out of business without horses.
‘How sad,’ Greta said. ‘Don’t you think that’s sad, ladies?’ They all agreed it was, indeed, extremely sad. Greta drew her sword. ‘Bloodshed on such a happy day would be even more sad,’ she said.
The farrier grabbed a hot iron from the forge. He turned with it in his hand to find the tip of Greta’s sword against his chest. Anne’s pistol pointed at his head. The other women had their swords covering the grooms.
‘Are we supposed to do this?’ Anne asked Greta.
‘What, shoot the farrier?’ Greta queried. ‘Only if he supports German Geordie and the Whig government.’
‘I dinnae, I dinnae,’ the man protested.
‘Or if he attacks the forces of his rightful king,’ Margaret added.
‘I wouldnae,’ the man said, dropping the iron back into the fire, shouting, ‘Prosperity and no Union,’ as he did so and adding, for good measure, ‘Long live King James!’
‘Well,’ Greta smiled. ‘It seems we have a good patriot here, ladies. Prince Charles will hear of you, my man,’ she told the nerveless farrier. ‘Now, if you and your grooms would just saddle up the stock.’
Before long, they rode five new mounts down the Canongate, leading another twenty horses behind them. At Holyrood, Sir John Murray of Broughton was delighted with his cavalry.
‘Twenty-five new steeds,’ he crowed. ‘Greta, you’re amazing.’ Dapper as he was, instead of swinging his wife around and ruffling her feathers, he took her hands and they danced a few steps of a jig.
Anne had to turn away. The neat little man’s exuberance over his wife’s exploits distressed her. If only she could expect similar joy from Aeneas. She would return to him soon. There was no reason to stay longer. Cope had re-embarked his troops at Aberdeen to sail for Edinburgh when he discovered Lord George avoided him by marching south. It would be safe at Moy again, safe from Cope’s army but not her husband’s ire. She went up to her room in the palace. It was glorious, tastefully furnished with an ornate carved ceiling and rich drapes at the windows. But it wasn’t home.
Outside the window, she could see the high grassy mound of King Arthur’s Seat, where many of the troops had chosen to camp in the open air they were used to. Turning her head, she could also see right up the Canongate, its dilapidated, once-grand houses also taken over as billets, to the Netherbow port, its metal gates open wide now and guarded by Jacobites. A rider rode out through them, coming down the hill at speed. He was excited, she could tell, shouting news she could not hear at this distance to everyone he passed. She could see it catch them and spread, their heads turning, groups forming, the word shared. The rider was MacGillivray.
By the time Anne got herself down the wide stairs and out to the front of the palace, he was off his horse, tying it. All around, people rushed, their lingering ended as a sense of purpose energized them all.
‘Anne!’ MacGillivray called as he saw her. ‘Cope has arrived at Dunbar. George sent me down to say we leave to engage him soon.’
‘Then he thinks we’ll win?’
‘He must do. But, win or lose, we have to fight sometime. That time has come. Will you stay to see us off?’
Anne hesitated. Win or lose? If they lost, she would arrive home like a beaten dog. But if they won?
‘No, I won’t see you off,’ she said. ‘I’ll come with you.’ More than Perth or Edinburgh, a triumph on the field would prove the justness of her actions. A victory would show Aeneas how wrong he was.
Cope had chosen the flat ground of Prestonpans as his battlefield. In the bright September sunshine, more than two thousand troops were ranked behind cannon. They were in a strong position. The sea behind protected their rear. A great boggy marsh made their left flank inaccessible to Highland warriors who charged on foot. The only approach was head on or on their right, where the artillery was formed up.
‘Look at their guns, Alexander.’ Anne was mounted on Pibroch, beside MacGillivray, on a rise to the west overlooking the battlefield. ‘We can’t match cannon.’
‘We’ll be past before they can fire more than once,’ he said.
It was bravado and she knew it. Neither of them had seen a battle, but anyone could tell a head-on charge on foot would see dozens cut down before they reached the enemy lines. MacGillivray, like other Highland chiefs, led from the front, never asking any man to do what they would not face themselves. He would be charging, with her people, into hell-fire.
Further along the ridge, she could see Lord George wrestling with the problem. He was deep in discussion with the Prince,
O’sullivan, the Duke of Perth and the recently arrived Earl of Kilmarnock. Their army was now three thousand strong, greater than the one they faced but not so well equipped. It would be suicide to fight them here.
‘I’m going to tell George we won’t fight.’ Anne tugged at Pibroch’s reins. MacGillivray still scoured the enemy. He threw out his arm, pointed towards them.