Pursuit of Princes (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 5) Read online

  Their hideout has been discovered by a group of rampaging soldiers. The sergeant stabs Maggie, Beth kills him and whilst running away is recognised by the Duke of Cumberland, who gives the command not to shoot her, but too late. The remaining women are raped and killed and their bodies burnt with the barn. When Angus arrives he finds Maggie who tells him of Beth’s death, before dying herself. Angus searches for but cannot find Beth’s body, and assumes it has been burnt along with the others.

  He returns to Ruthven, where the surviving Jacobites have gathered, determined to fight on. He tells Iain and Alex the bad news. The MacGregors resolve to continue the rebellion and avenge the death of Maggie and Beth.

  STUART/HANOVER FAMILY TREE

  LIST OF CHARACTERS

  Alexander MacGregor, Highland Chieftain

  Angus MacGregor, brother to Alex

  Morag MacGregor, fiancée to Angus

  Iain Gordon, liegeman to Alex

  Alasdair MacGregor, clansman to Alex

  Peigi MacGregor, wife to Alasdair

  Kenneth MacGregor, clansman to Alex

  Janet MacGregor, clanswoman to Alex

  Dougal MacGregor, clansman to Alex

  Hamish MacGregor, brother of Dougal

  Lachlan MacGregor, a child

  Alexander MacDonald (MacIain) Chief of the Glencoe MacDonalds

  Ealasaid MacDonald, grandmother-in-law to Alex

  Allan MacDonald, great-nephew to Ealasaid

  Robert MacDonald, brother of Allan

  Meg MacDonald, sister of Allan and Robert

  Fergus MacDonald

  Prince Charles Edward Stuart, eldest son of James Stuart (the Pretender), exiled King of Great Britain

  Donald Cameron of Lochiel, Chief of Clan Cameron

  John Murray of Broughton, former secretary to Prince Charles

  Prince Frederick, Prince of Wales, eldest son of King George II of Great Britain

  Prince Edward, youngest son to Prince Frederick

  Prince William Augustus, Duke of Cumberland, second son of King George II

  Thomas Pelham-Holles, Duke of Newcastle

  Benjamin, his secretary

  William Anne Keppel, Earl of Albemarle

  Lord Edward Cunningham

  Isabella Cunningham, eldest sister to Edward

  Clarissa Cunningham, middle sister to Edward

  Captain Richard Cunningham, cousin to Edward

  Anne Cunningham, wife to Richard

  George Cunningham, Anne’s son

  William, Earl of Highbury

  Lord Daniel Barrington, his son

  Thomas Fortesque, MP

  Lydia Fortesque, his daughter

  Lord Bartholomew Winter, great uncle to Anne Cunningham

  Lady Wilhelmina Winter, his wife

  Edwin Harlow, MP

  Caroline Harlow, wife to Edwin

  Freddie Harlow, their son

  Toby, their manservant

  Lady Harriet, Marchioness of Hereford, aunt to Caroline

  Lady Philippa Ashleigh, cousin to Caroline

  Oliver, Earl of Drayton, husband to Philippa

  Graeme Elliot, Jacobite soldier

  Thomas Fletcher, former steward to Beth MacGregor

  Jane Fletcher, his wife

  Ann, their adopted daughter.

  Sarah Browne, a businesswoman

  Mary Browne, her infant niece

  John Betts, Jacobite soldier

  Edward Cox, a solicitor

  Colonel Mark Hutchinson, a dragoon

  Captain Matthew Sewell, a British soldier

  Sergeant Williams, a British soldier

  Sergeant Applewhite, a British soldier

  Private Thomas, a British soldier

  Private Ned Miller, a British soldier

  Thomas Miller, brother to Ned

  Mr Carlton, Yeoman Warder

  Kate, a maidservant

  Richard Jones, Keeper of Newgate Prison

  Downes Twyford, a turnkey

  Catriona, Fiona, Annie, Màiri, Isobel, Jacobite prisoners

  Mr Platt, surgeon to Prince Frederick

  Prologue

  Inverness, late April 1746

  Prince William Augustus, Duke of Cumberland, was sitting in his quarters enjoying a rare moment of solitude. Reluctant to disturb his peace even to call for a servant, he poured himself a glass of brandy, unbuttoned his coat, and sat his considerable bulk down by the fire to enjoy the warmth. He took a deep draught of the amber liquor and sighed with satisfaction, sitting back in the chair and stretching his legs out toward the hearth.

  There was something deeply satisfying about staying in the rooms previously occupied by your enemy, drinking their brandy, eating their food. It was all the sweeter when you knew that enemy was now probably sleeping in a smoky primitive hut or hiding in a cave, and living off whatever meagre provisions his fugitive cohorts could come by.

  As if on cue the rain pattered against the window and the sky darkened in preparation for the deluge soon to come. The duke smiled. Yes, very sweet indeed. He would have to call someone to close the shutters and light the candles soon, but for now he was happy to sit by the light of the fire and contemplate the two glorious weeks since his overwhelming victory over the rebels on Culloden Moor.

  The last days had been busy to say the least, and the following weeks would also be filled with activity; but the worst was over. The rebels were defeated and scattered, and by God he would do his utmost to make sure they never rose again. He had made a good start; around fifteen hundred of the vermin had died on the battlefield itself, and many more, most of them wounded, had been hunted down and killed by his soldiers in the following days as they hid in the woods and huts around the area.

  It had been a good idea to set guards around the moor for a couple of nights after the battle; it had stopped the women and surviving rebels from collecting their wounded, and had in the main saved the soldiers from having to wade through the dead finishing off the injured rebels, as a good many of them had happily perished of their wounds. He’d heard that one or two of the sentries had been upset by the cries and moans of the dying men as they’d guarded the field, but he had no time for such sentimentality. He had not begun this affair, but he fully intended to end it, once and for all, and every rebel that died on the field was one less to hunt down later.

  Of course a good many had escaped; too many. He would not be able to kill them all, but he would make their lives hell in whatever way he could. To that end even now four more battalions were riding north from England to join him, and he had dispatched bodies of soldiers all over the Highlands to scour the country for rebels. The men had been ordered to leave no stone unturned, and to destroy all means of livelihood of the rebels as they went.

  In fact his intention was to pacify the Highlands as a whole. It was ridiculous that in an otherwise civilised country with a sophisticated legal system and a just government, there were still vast swathes of the north inhabited by barbarian savages dressed in rags which barely covered their private parts, speaking gibberish, attacking each other and anyone else they took against on a whim, and paying heed only to their chiefs, in defiance of the laws of the land, the monarch and even God Himself. It was insufferable and could not be tolerated any more. The whole of Scotland was steeped in rebellion to the bone, and must be brought to heel.

  He had not disclosed his intention to break the power of the chiefs and bring the Highlanders to accept the civilised ways of the south to his men, of course; there were too many Highlanders in his own army for that to be wise at the moment. To give them their due, his Highland regiments had fought well, although he was uncertain whether that was because they were loyal to their rightful monarch or because it gave them the opportunity to settle old scores with rival clans. Whatever their motives, he needed them for now. But that did not mean he had to trust them. Any of them.

  Now the fighting was over he’d had to start taking prisoners, although they cost money to keep and were damned inc
onvenient; but he had already received word from London of murmurings as to why so few of those wounded in the battle had been taken prisoner.

  Damn them for mealy-mouthed old women! They would not be quibbling about mercy if they had had to spend a winter as he and his men had, in this Godforsaken gloomy hellhole with its horrendous weather, treacherous bogs and dark looming mountains, continuously threatened by bands of filthy bare-arsed heathens.

  He had responded to the murmurs by reporting that before the battle Charles had ordered the rebels to give no quarter to the government troops. A signed order to that effect had been conveniently discovered on one of the dead rebels. Cumberland was pretty sure it was a forgery, but it had silenced his detractors, and for that he was grateful. And he could also argue that his men had finished off the injured while their blood was up directly after the battle; that was understandable, and would explain the miniscule number of wounded prisoners.

  Anyway now, if the reports recently arrived from London were to be believed, the country was singing the praises of the conquering hero in every newspaper, bells were ringing day and night and a multitude of balls were being held in his honour. In the people’s eyes he had delivered the country from a papist king, had ensured the continuation of the Hanoverian monarchy, and had restored peace to Great Britain. It was a wonderful feeling, and he would like nothing more than to head straight to the Capital and bask in the glory of his victory.

  He smiled to himself, drained his glass, then got up and poured himself another.

  He must not let the adulation go to his head. It was not over yet. In order to justify the adoration of the population, he had to ensure that there would not be another rising. There were still thousands of rebels at large, no doubt plotting another campaign. Many of them had gone back to their hovels, presumably thinking they would be allowed to continue their lives as they or their fathers had done after the ’15, hiding their weapons in the heather thatch of their squalid little huts and waiting for the next call to arms.

  Not this time. His men had their orders; and he would ensure they were obeyed. The rebels would come to heel or they would die, and Cumberland didn’t care much which option his commanders chose to adopt. Every dead Scot was one less to rise again.

  Some of the chiefs had been killed at Culloden, which was helpful, and the first reports had put Lochiel, the bastard who had effectively started the rising, among them. But he had now heard that the Cameron chief, though wounded, had been carried from the field by his men and was hiding out somewhere. Well, a large body of men was now on its way to lay the Cameron lands waste. They would burn the whole damn place to the ground, and as many Camerons as they could with it. It would be good to take Lochiel alive if possible, but dead would be fine, too.

  His third cousin Charles was another matter. He had also escaped the field, and it was imperative that he be caught before he could find a ship to carry him to France to cause more trouble. All that was known of his whereabouts was that he had spent the night of the battle with Lord Lovat, the wily old Fraser chief, and had then headed west, towards the coast.

  A number of search parties had been sent out to apprehend the Young Pretender, and the duke was confident they would succeed. They had been instructed to take him alive, although secretly Cumberland hoped that he would be killed. The thirty thousand pound reward for his capture did not specify that he had to be alive, and it would be a good deal more convenient if his troublesome cousin did not survive to come to trial. Should he die, then all chance of the Stuarts ever regaining the throne would die with him. The Old Pretender James was too old and dispirited and his second son Henry had neither the personality nor the reputation to raise an army.

  But Charles had proved that he not only had the physical ability to lead a rebellion, but also the will and determination.

  And, Cumberland grudgingly admitted, his cousin also had what King George would never have; the charisma to win people to his cause, and the ability to enchant commoner and noble alike.

  He shuddered at the thought of Charles bringing all that intelligence and personality to his trial with the eyes of the world on him, and what a monumental problem that would create for the House of Hanover. Like it or not, he was of the blood royal, and by right of heredity heir to the throne, and executing a member of the royal family, no matter how troublesome, had never been an easy matter. No, far better if he were to be regrettably killed while resisting capture.

  There was another rebel though, that the Duke of Cumberland most definitely did want taken alive. Officially he was third on the list of wanted men, after the Young Pretender and the Cameron chief; but secretly, if he could only capture one of the three, he would, without a moment’s hesitation, choose the traitor known only as Sir Anthony Peters. What he wouldn’t give to have that simpering, painted bastard rotting in the filthiest darkest dungeon he could find.

  Charles had been brought up to believe his father was the rightful king of Great Britain, and that it was his mission in life to regain the throne for him; that he had attempted it was fully understandable. Similarly the Camerons had never pretended to be anything other than Jacobites; Lochiel’s grandfather had fought at Killiecrankie with Viscount Dundee in 1689, and his father had fought in the ’15; and the current chief was respected by friend and foe alike and said to be a man of honour, if such a thing was to be found in the Highlands.

  But Sir Anthony Peters, whoever the hell he really was, was the most dangerous of all; intelligent, charismatic, and a consummate actor, he had deceived everyone. No one, not even the arch-spymaster Newcastle had suspected him for a moment of being anything other than an incompetent, bumbling molly. And all the time he had been collecting intelligence and passing it on to France and to the Stuarts. The royal coffers had even financed the bastard to go to Rome and entertain Charles!

  The duke shuddered as he thought of the times his father had entertained Sir Anthony in his private chambers. As a personal friend of the king he had never been searched; had he wished to, he could have assassinated the monarch at any moment. It did not bear thinking about.

  He had made a fool of them all, and Cumberland hated him more than he had ever hated anybody in his life. It had been impossible to even attempt to apprehend this chief of traitors; no one knew what he looked like, what his real name was, or even his nationality.

  Until now.

  Now the duke had a prisoner, someone who knew exactly what Sir Anthony looked like, and most probably his true identity, too. A prisoner who had also been thoroughly deceived by the man, and in the worst way possible. A prisoner who would no doubt be happy to divulge all, once recovered from the life-threatening injury. He had already sent his captive to London in utmost secrecy accompanied by one of his most accomplished surgeons, who had been told to ensure the survival of his patient at all costs. The surgeon had protested; to move the injured person could, in itself, be fatal.

  But Cumberland had felt he had no choice; whilst it was possible that Sir Anthony lay dead on the battlefield or was amongst the corpses that had strewn the road all the way to Inverness, he could not be certain. And if the traitor found out about the duke’s secret ace, he would no doubt attempt a rescue, or more likely a murder. With his skills, he could no doubt infiltrate the barracks at Inverness and sweet talk any jailor into allowing him in to see the prisoner.

  No. The only way to discover the identity of Sir Anthony Peters, and to bring him to justice, if he was still alive, was to remove the prisoner from any danger of rescue, regardless of the cost.

  Now he awaited news from London of their safe arrival. Once he had that, he could relax a little. His surgeon would do his utmost to restore the prisoner to health, and then, when he returned to England, he would undertake the interrogation himself. He felt himself to be in a unique position to do so. After all, the prisoner had professed a deep fondness for him, back in those happy days before circumstances had torn them apart.

  Now things were different, very differe
nt, and the duke was confident that this time there would be nothing to stop him achieving his heart’s desire and capturing his nemesis, all in one fell swoop. It was a cheerful thought, and one that would lighten the dark days to come while he brought this foul country to heel.

  The young prince smiled, and wrapping his podgy fingers round the glass, raised it to his lips in a silent toast to providence, who was, indeed, smiling on him.

  Life was good. Very good indeed.

  CHAPTER ONE

  London, April 25th 1746

  “God, do we really have to do this?” said Edwin gloomily as the carriage, having managed to travel the prodigious distance of twenty yards down the road, lurched to a standstill yet again. He pulled the leather curtain to one side to ascertain the reason for the delay, although he already knew what it was; the whole of London was ablaze with bonfires, lit in celebration of the Duke of Cumberland’s great victory over the rebels at Culloden, and the streets were thronged with people in various states of inebriation. The news had arrived in the Capital two days ago, and since then, between the noise of people singing and shouting and the incessant ringing of bells, Edwin had had no sleep at all. “Now I know what the great fire must have looked like,” he grumbled, letting the curtain fall back into place.

  “Yes we do,” his wife replied briskly, answering his question rather than his observation. “You can’t spend the whole of your life working. You have to have some leisure time.”

  “I don’t call attending a party I don’t want to go to, full of people I don’t want to speak to, leisure time,” he protested. “I was hoping for a quiet evening in front of the fire with you and Freddie.”