Lady Anne Livingstone was Countess of Kilmarnock through her marriage and, in her own right, Countess of Linlithgow, and of Callandar. Her aunt, the Countess of Erroll, was chief of Clan Hay and, as Lord High Constable, held the highest status in Scotland, supreme officer of the Scottish army, second only to the Crown. Lady Livingstone was her heir and, like her powerful, elderly aunt who had sent troops to support the cause, she was a staunch Jacobite who persuaded her husband to join the rebels. Reluctantly, she had accepted her oldest son should take the careful precaution of joining the government troops. Now she was beginning to enjoy herself.
‘When we gang doon, say as little as ye kin help,’ she instructed
as she dressed Anne’s hair. ‘That Highland lilt will gie ye awa for sure if ye talk ower much.’
In the dining room, aides milled about, waiting. The general stood with his back to the women as they entered, studying Kilmarnock’s portrait on the wall. Anne recognized him at once as the same general who’d been enraged that Aeneas had hanged Ewan. Hawley’s reaction to the cottar’s death didn’t fit with the stories she’d heard of him since, a man fond of using the gallows. Aeneas wasn’t just
with
the enemy now, he
was
the enemy, uncaring, brutal, inhumane. The two of them clearly deserved each other.
‘Your husband is with the rebels,’ Hawley said, addressing his hostess without turning.
‘He is,’ the countess answered, ‘and my son is with you.’
Lord Boyd had turned to greet his mother as she came in. He was now looking at Anne.
‘Lady Forbes,’ the countess lied, using Anne’s stepmother’s name to introduce her to the company. ‘Jean. She’s come new tae the toon. My son, James.’
Lord Boyd bowed. He was not fooled, not for a moment, but he couldn’t guess what his mother was up to or who their guest really was, and took his seat. The other aides were English and even less likely to suspect anything was unusual. Hawley barely looked at Anne. Instead, he studied the food. The table was laden with dishes: crowdie and cockaleekie soups, brown trout with shallots baked in butter, salmon with cream and parsley sauce, thick venison stew, grouse with rowan jelly, stovies, glazed swedes, steamed beets, pickled artichokes, onions stuffed with duck liver, thin barley bread, oatcakes, soft cottage cheeses, baked syrup apples with wild almonds, fruit jams and jellies, gingerbread, seed cake and a variety of sweet tarts.
‘You eat well in Falkirk,’ Hawley said, seating himself.
‘We dae,’ the countess agreed. ‘Though no often wi an army oan the doorstep.’
Anne dipped her head, hiding her smile with a pretended interest in her soup.
‘We’ll leave soon,’ Hawley said, ‘to relieve Stirling. The rebels besiege the castle. It will be their final act.’
The meal continued. Anne said little, though every time she spoke, young Lord Boyd glanced at her and blushed. She flashed him a smile when he did, which only caused him to blush more. One day he would be High Constable of Scotland, inheriting three earldoms through his mother and one from his father. She wondered if he genuinely supported the government or if father and son simply hedged each other’s bets. It might not be too long before she found that out.
For a skinny man, Hawley ate greedily, tearing at meat with his teeth, chewing audibly, gulping ale. His mean spirit must prevent fat settling on his bones, Anne decided. The man had no conversation, mostly grunts, and she daren’t lighten the company. That was left to the countess and Hawley’s aides. Eventually, they rose. They had been at table for two hours, more than long enough. Idly, Anne took her glass of sweet wine to the window and gazed out. The sky had grown dull and heavy with dark rain clouds. Wind buffeted the glass. Spots began to spit on it, multiplying rapidly.
‘Thae soldiers oan the brae will be yours then,’ she said.
‘What?’ Hawley asked.
‘I didnae ken ye had so many in plaids.’
She had said too much. Lord Boyd excused himself and headed outside. It only mattered now if he returned to denounce her.
‘My army is camped on Bantaskin flats,’ Hawley sneered, ‘as it would be. Artillery isn’t drawn up and down hills without cause.’ He glanced briefly out of the window. A hard rain scudded along, skelped by wind. ‘Those will be estate workers.’
‘Would ye care for a drink of tea, General?’ the countess asked. ‘I’m telt it’s a particular like of London.’
‘Not of mine,’ Hawley said. ‘A glass of brandy, if you have any.’
As the countess obliged, Lord Boyd came hurrying back in.
‘General, sir, you’d better come quickly,’ he said, glancing at Anne, too much a gentleman to betray her, too much a caring son to reveal his mother’s part in this. ‘The Jacobite army is up on the moor.’
The other aides rushed outside. Hawley became angry at the fuss.
‘You’ve seen the same workers as this woman.’ He waved rudely at Anne. ‘The rebels won’t advance. Not on a superior force.’ He took his brandy from the countess. ‘Your son should learn the art of war.’
‘You’ll hae much tae teach him,’ she smiled.
One of the aides rushed back in, his uniform wet, his face chalk-white.
‘General,’ he reported, ‘the rebels are indeed up on the hill, lining up for battle, and above our troops! Can’t you hear?’
Anne threw the casement window open. Above the battering wind and rain, the sound of the pipes skirled in.
Hawley galloped into his camp, his aides beside him, a napkin from the meal still at his throat. He ordered the artillery up on to the moor, but the rain had softened the ground at the hillfoot. The big guns became mired and stuck, wheels churning in the mud. Screaming orders at his troops, Hawley urged the dragoons and infantry up the slope. In possession of the high ground above them, the rebels waited, lined and blocked.
The redcoats struggled up the hill against the blustering storm, forming their lines east of the enemy, on lower ground. The two armies faced each other, neither with artillery. The Jacobites’ few pieces maintained the siege at Stirling. Hawley’s lay at the bottom of the slope, a slope that still favoured the Jacobites. Wind and rain squalled at their backs, blasting down into the government soldiers’ faces.
Hawley grabbed a telescope from an aide and scanned the enemy lines: the barbaric tribes to the front; Lord George commanding the right flank; no command on the left; far in the rear, with the Irish Piquets and
Écossais Royaux
as reserves, the Pretender Prince. There was no sign, anywhere, of a wild warrior woman riding a white horse. His supreme confidence in himself, rattled by the enemy’s unexpected advance, returned. His force outnumbered the rebels by about a thousand regular troops. He could easily negate the disadvantage of the incline. The Highlanders who fronted Lord George’s formation could not face horses. One charge would dispel them. He brought the cavalry up front.
Seeing the enemy horse move forward, Lord George sent out the order to hold steady. His numbers were less than he’d hoped. The Prince had insisted two thousand stay at Stirling to maintain the siege. O’sullivan had not yet appeared to command the left wing,
leaving those chiefs without direction. Volleys of musket fire began from the enemy lines. Out of range, it was pointless, could only be intended to deter a charge before the cavalry were fully positioned.
‘Hold fast! Hold fast!’ Lord George shouted. Even over the buffeting wind, he could hear the click of misfires, due to the rain, among the government guns. The storm was with the Jacobites, their pistols shielded from the wet by their bodies.
The order to hold fast repeated along the lines. Tense with frustration, the Highlanders stood.
‘Why do we not go?’ Fraser asked MacGillivray. They were ready, eager for it.
‘George knows what he’s doing.’ MacGillivray was grim, taut. He watched the government horse line up. Dragoons had the advantage of slashing down. The upward stroke of a broadsword to a mounted opponent had far less force. They were also close-ranked, without space to walk between them. If they came up like that, there would be no room among them to swing a sword.
Lord George drew his pistol. The Highlanders scrugged bonnets and drew theirs.
‘Forward together, march!’ Lord George yelled.
This was different. He wanted them in tight formation, no wild charge. MacGillivray was puzzled. Roaring Highlanders rushing at them might have spooked the animals into kicking or running off. If he was to risk being ridden down, he’d rather have a claymore than a pistol in his hand and take the chance he could behead the beast then stake its fallen rider. But he obeyed the order, setting the required marching speed, aware of the nervous tension in his warriors, a step behind him. Their whole front line marched forward
en masse
towards the waiting horse. Seeing the clans come down the hill, the dragoons below spurred forward, riding up towards them, keeping their tight formation and very quickly at full trot.
Marching beside MacGillivray, MacBean tucked his plaid tighter round his girth.
‘Here they come,’ he muttered.
As the gap closed, Lord George ordered halt, aim, fire. The pistols were discharged. The volley took almost half the dragoons off their horses. Some, the wounded or frightened, broke away, cantering off the field. Riderless animals followed. The others kept coming, picking up the pace to a gallop.
‘Dirks,’ MacGillivray shouted, drawing his own and holding it up so those behind could see in the pelting rain. ‘Down!’ he yelled, throwing himself on to his side on the sodden ground. From MacDonalds to Murrays, the whole front line dropped, curled, foetus-like. The ground shook with the thunder of hooves.
As the horses reached the row of human obstacles, they leaped to clear them. Twisting round, MacGillivray thrust his dirk up into the belly of the beast above him, rolling out from underneath as it squealed and staggered. All around, the other clansmen followed suit. Blood spurted, animals shrieked then toppled. The Highlanders strove to avoid flailing hooves and falling beasts, rising, if they still could, to deal with downed riders. Upright again, Mac Gillivray grabbed the dragoon he’d unseated and slit his throat. A weight thumped against his back, bringing him down, hard, a struggling horse on top of him, the breath forced out of his lungs. He gasped, but no air filled his chest. With one arm trapped, he couldn’t rise enough. Legs scrabbling, he tried to bring his knees up to push. His back refused to arch under the heavy weight. His lungs burned.
The Jacobite second line had swung into action, slashing at any animal still standing, dispatching dragoons. Horses screamed and whinnied, kicking out. Donald Fraser ran to his chief and, with old MacBean’s help, dragged him from under the dying beast. On his knees, MacGillivray drew in sweet, deep breaths. While he recovered, Fraser and MacBean stood guard. It was unnecessary. The cavalry charge was over. The surviving dragoons turned and fled on foot. Now the Jacobites could use their swords. MacGillivray got to his feet.
‘Claymore!’ The cry went up. Blades flashed. War cries roared. The Highland charge rushed forwards.
Lord George had hoped to keep good order but, without a
commander on the left flank, that was impossible. The MacDonalds, Camerons, M
c
Intoshes and Farquharsons were off, tearing into the ranks of foot. Some chased fleeing dragoons down the hill past groups of locals who sheltered under trees, watching the battle.
Fighting in the centre, Clan Chattan parried bayonets with targes, cutting and slashing their way through the English infantry. As tight together as they dared for fear of wounding each other, they chopped and hacked, while bodies fell before them. In the thick of it, Duff, the Edinburgh shoemaker, wondered how he came to be here. A bayonet thrust towards him. He ducked aside. From behind him, a pitchfork speared the hapless redcoat. It was Meg, grinning with gap-toothed glee. The government lines broke. Whole companies ran from the field. Jacobites chased after them. With his right wing still battling those companies that held fast, the disorder of the left wing was exactly what Lord George had feared. Without O’sullivan to constrain them, clan after clan broke away to pursue the deserters.
‘Stop pursuit!’ Lord George ordered.
Kilmarnock rode out from the rear, galloping after the scattered Highlanders to relay the order.
‘We should sound the retreat, sir,’ Lord Boyd prompted, for the second time. They had retired from the hill when the dragoons fled. ‘The Highlanders won’t stop fighting till we do.’
Hawley would not give the order. He sat on his black horse, telescope abandoned across his lap, grimly watching the rout of his forces. The battle was over, lost in twenty minutes. Cope would enjoy hearing of this. Cope would be laughing now. Cope would be a rich man, calling in their bet. He, Henry Hawley, would be ruined and disgraced. His only comfort was that no woman had a hand in his defeat. At least he could not be taunted with that.
In deepest misery, he led his officers back to camp to fire their tents before making their escape. While hundreds of his soldiers surrendered to Lord George, only one prisoner was brought before him. Dishevelled, his hat lost, after falling when his horse stumbled
as he galloped to constrain exuberant Jacobites, long hair tumbling over his face. Hawley knew that face from the portrait that hung in Callendar House. It was the Earl of Kilmarnock.
‘I hope you enjoyed the hospitality of my home, General,’ Kilmarnock said.
Hawley glared down at him. The man seemed amused, despite his situation, as if he was aware that the extensive dinner had prevented the earlier discovery of the Jacobite army.
‘Your wife might have some explaining to do,’ he spat.
‘The countess is generous,’ Kilmarnock smiled, ‘particularly to guests such as yourself and Anne Farquharson.’
‘Farquharson?’ Hawley frowned, the name rang a bell but not the right one. ‘Forbes, she said.’
Kilmarnock shook his head.
‘You must have misheard. It was Lady M
c
Intosh,
Colonel Anne
Farquharson.’
A titter ran round the surrounding aides, quickly stifled. A dark flush spread over Hawley’s pallid face. He snatched up the telescope and swung it. It cracked into two pieces across the side of the earl’s head, bruising his cheekbone and splitting the skin at his eyebrow. Kilmarnock staggered. Blood trickled into his eye.