1746 - Drummossie Moor

[Calder]

Drummossie Moor
By Stuart Slade

Advance Guard, Government Army, Drummossie Moor, 16 April 1746

"You have done wonders with the Army, Sir. I thought after Falkirk Muir, it would be months before they would be fit to take the field." Prince William Augustus, Duke of Cumberland had had a largely unsuccessful military career and so had sought expert help to put an end to the Jacobite rising. Acutely aware of his own shortcomings, he had sought a field commander who could win the battles needed to end the rebellion. His search had led him to the Manor of Avebury. He had spoken with the Lord of the Manor for most of the day and by the end of that discussion, he knew he had found his man. "You have turned this defeated rabble into a formidable force in just six weeks."

"They were never a rabble, Your Grace, they are good men, stout of heart and keen to show it. They were poorly used by your predecessor in command and confused. All they needed was for us to win their trust and for them to know what was expected of them." Sir Stewart Parmenio's horse whinnied slightly and shifted around. Parmenio reached down and patted him on the neck to calm him. Next to him, the Duke of Cumberland looked enviously at the sleek, grain-fed thoroughbred. All of Parmenio's command party were mounted on horses of similar quality. They put the mounts of Cobham's and Kerr's Dragoons to shame. "But that we could not have done had it not been for Your Grace's authority that ensured the Army has the equipment and support we need."

The Duke flashed a suspicious glance at Parmenio, wondering if the comment had been either mocking or obsequious but that glance told him it was neither. Parmenio had simply stated the truth; the job of preparing the Army for battle had needed support from all departments of government. The fleet provided its supplies and the Ordnance a powerful and well-practiced train of artillery. In the final analysis, Parmenio was a simple country squire and lacked the authority to ensure proper support. The Duke of Cumberland was the second son of the monarch and that made all the difference. "You are sure My Cousin will stand here?"

"He must, Your Grace. His sole remaining source of supply is his depot at Inverness and if he does not hold here, it will be ours in a day or so. Already his men are on short rations and they have had to abandon much of their artillery. If he does not hold, then his army will melt away. And that will suit neither of us."

"How so, Sir?" The Duke was very curious.

"Your Grace, this damned stupid war happens every few years. Since 1688, the Highlanders rise, spread chaos and confusion and then, when they are defeated, disperse to their homes to gather their strength for the next performance. It is time for this to end. There is no worse curse on a country than civil war and England has seen too much of it. We must put an end to this cycle and that means destroying both the Highland army and the clan system that supports it. We must win this battle here, pursue the defeated enemy without mercy and break the system that maintains them. We will not be thanked for so doing, but it must be done."

"That will be my part, Sir Stewart. If there is to be public reproach for the actions we must take, then it should fall upon me, and upon me alone."

Parmenio nodded. He was not surprised by the Duke's statement. The Duke of Cumberland was a popular man in England and over the last few weeks, Parmenio had come to understand why. Being a son of the King and thus of high estate, he would undoubtedly get all the credit for the victory Parmenio would win today. It was a measure of the Duke's character that he would also shoulder the blame for what else had to be done.

"Your Grace, Sir Stewart, Prince Charles Edward Stuart has arrived. His men take position on the field now." The Duke of Cumberland managed to maintain his composure at the sight of the rider who had just arrived. It wasn't the sight of another one of Avebury's grain-fed thoroughbreds that surprised him, nor the news that the Jacobite Army had arrived on the field, welcome though that was. It was that the rider, and de-facto commander of the Duke of Kingston's Light Horse was a woman. The command formally belonged to John Mordaunt but he, like Cumberland himself, knew that his real duty was to provide the political cover and backing for what had to happen after the battle. In any case, he had been promoted to command the 5th Brigade of nearly 1,200 bayonets and had little time for a detachment of 200 light cavalry. When his replacement in charge of the Kingston Light Horse had been approved, there was no indication that the new commander wasn't male. Parmenio had made it clear that his agreement to taking charge of the campaign against the Jacobites was conditional on her appointment being approved. In any case, Cumberland had been appointed as Colonel of a Regiment at the age of four years and didn't feel himself in a position to complain.

"How do they form?" Parmenio had to know that as soon as possible for it would determine much of what happened. His own forces were arriving in four columns and how they would be deployed on the battlefield was a decision that had to be made now.

"In line, my Lord." Semiramis knew how to scout and to give her commander the information needed. "Lord George Murray's division of 1,500 bayonets is to the left of the line flanked by the Culwhiniac Enclosure. Lord John Drummond's Division with a 1,000 bayonets forms the center on Murray's right. The Duke of Perth's Division with 900 men forms the right resting on Culloden Park. John Roy Stuart's Division moves to the rear. I believe it is the reserve.

"The Macdonalds will not take kindly to that. They believe that the right of the line belongs to their clan by tradition and all else is an insult." Cumberland looked at Semiramis carefully, noting the prominent hooked nose, the tightly-curled black hair and the dark brown eyes shining brightly with the sheer joy of battle. He also noticed that she was riding astride her horse rather than side-saddle. Of course to lead a cavalry charge or scout an enemy line riding side-saddle would be a new tactical development. And I note also how she distinguishes between what she knows and what she deduces. I suspect this young lady is very firmly not one to be trifled with. How goes the old line? 'The Assyrian came down like a wolf upon the fold?' Cumberland remembered the quotation without realizing how appropriate it was.

"Very well. Semiramis, move your regiment around to the right flank. When the Jacobite line breaks, keep then running and saber anybody who tries to stop." Parmenio made his final decisions. "Igrat? Ride to the Earl of Albermarle's column and give my respects to Major-General William Anne van Keppel. Ask him to kindly deploy his column in line of battalions between the Leanach Enclosure and Drummossie House. Then go to General John Huske and ask him to deploy his troops in a second line behind our first. Finally, go to Lt. Colonel Mordaunt and request that he readies his brigade for an advance on the enemy."

Parmenio dropped his voice slightly. "All that done, go see Naamah and Gusoyn, ensure that they are well-placed and set up. Then get back here as fast as that horse will carry you."

Igrat gave him a mock salute with her plumed hat and took off at a full gallop. Cumberland looked at her depart, again noting that she rode astride her horse as well. "I'll wager no cavalry regiment in Europe has horses like yours. I do not suppose I can prevail upon you to sell some to the Army?"

"I am sorry, Your Grace, but we have only a small herd and the ones we have here are the pick of that. I will promise you, though, the next foal we have, be it stallion or mare. A gift in honor of our service here today." Parmenio was watching Igrat threading her way, still at full gallop, through the ranks of the arriving Government regiments. The official returns of the Army didn’t show it yet, but their ranks were much fuller than they had been. Over the six weeks Parmenio had been rebuilding the Army, Cumberland had put up six pounds bounty for each man who enlisted. Unable to persuade the Treasury to part with the funds, he had taken them from his private purse. He had also persuaded the Navy to provide two complete six-gun batteries of six-pounders. They weren't on the official returns either. Parmenio hoped they would be a nice surprise for the Jacobite Army,

"That is a noble gesture, Sir Stewart. I thank you." Cumberland shivered. "The wind is picking up and there is rain blown on it. Soon, I think, we will have snow or sleet."

"So I believe, Your Grace. That is why we broke camp at five. I wanted to be here in time to position ourselves so that the wind and rain will be from our backs and into the faces of the Highlanders. That will do much to dampen their ardor."

"And do no good at all for their musketry, I'll be bound. It is when I see others have thought of things like that, I understand how little I know of soldiering. You are doing our King a great service today."

Baggage Train, Behind Government 5th Brigade, Drummossie Moor, 16 April 1746

"Are you happy, Gusoyn?"

"Naamah, I am surrounded by cavalrymen in tight trousers. Of course I am happy." Gusoyn was laughing as he looked up from where he was tending the fire that, in defiance of the foul weather, he and Naamah had built. It wasn't for warmth, not directly, but was boiling a large cauldron full of water. It was one of three such fires and cauldrons around the casualty station Naamah was setting up. She had ordered the suttlers to set up their wagons so that they shielded the station from the biting wind and fine drizzle. Awnings had then been stretched out to provide overhead cover. The shelter was pleasant, especially since the rain was already beginning to turn to sleet, but there were ominous scenes there as well. Wooden tables, their surfaces scrubbed clean with boiling water and waiting for the wounded soldiers to arrive from the battle line. Several of the officer's ladies were standing next to the tables, most of them surprised and some quite outraged that they had been suddenly drafted into the effort to treat the wounded.

"The guns haven't started firing yet so we have a few minutes in hand before the wounded start to arrive. When they do, the first step is to inspect each man's wounds. Some will be minor, flesh wounds. They will go to you women who will be stationed over there. You will wash the wound with the hottest water you can bear and then bandage it with the clean bandages. If the wound is too large to close, it must be stitched shut."

One of the women seemed outraged. "How can you ask us to . . . . why should we do this for the common soldiers?"

"Because I will pistol you on the spot if you don’t." Naamah left it there but something stirred in her slime-green eyes that suggested she thought summarily shooting people who disobeyed her orders was a very good thing. Around her, the camp women from the baggage train, mostly the wives of those 'common soldiers' murmured appreciatively. As far as they knew, it was the first time a concerted effort was being made to treat the wounds suffered by the rank and file as well as those of the officers.

"The second group are those whose wounds are mortal. They will die and any attempt to save them will distract attention from those who can be saved. We have set up a dying area over there. Such men will be taken to it and there given what they need to pass their remaining time in as much comfort as possible. There is good quality rum and brandy there, if they ask for drink, give it to them. Wives, you may sit with them but be careful what you say. Do not give them cause for worry or grief."

Naamah looked around. "Third group. The ones we can save but will need much effort. Remember, if we move fast, we can save a man's life when his leg has been blown off by a cannon ball but not if he has a puncture through his abdomen or his back is broken. Each wound we treat in the operating area must be cleaned thoroughly, broken bones set, slashes stitched and bandaged. After a wound is washed, throw the water away, swab the bowl with boiling water, throw that away and then refill the bowl ready for the next casualty. We are going to see a lot of slash wounds from those Highland broadswords. They are ugly and disfiguring but if we keep them clean, the victims will recover."

"Your ladyship, may I ask why?" One of the camp women looked curious.

"The honest answer is I don’t know. What I do know is that in the absence of cleaning, most of the men brought here will die of infection. I have seen that if wounds are washed and kept clean, many fewer men die of infection. The worst enemy we have is Lockjaw and that is a terrible way for a man to die. I have noticed that the muddier a wounded man is, the more likely it is for Lockjaw to strike. So we wash, wash, wash."

She was interrupted by the sound of a horse galloping up. Igrat reined her mount in and slipped out of the saddle. Her horse reached around and nuzzled her affectionately while she ran her eyes over the people gathered. "Ho, Nammie."

"What's happening, Igrat?"

"We're moving into position right now, the Jacobites are doing the same. The boss wanted me to make sure you're set up and ready. And that you're safe and well-guarded. He says the shooting will start an hour before noon and it will all be over within an hour." Igrat dropped her voice. "Don't expect any Jacobite casualties to be brought in. This won’t be that kind of battle."

Naamah nodded. "There are times when I don’t like Parmenio. Still, he's the expert."

Igrat nodded, remounted and spurred her horse back towards the command group. As she rode, she noted that the cold and sleet were getting worse and she was glad of the cloak that protected her from the misery of cold and wetness.
Behind 34th (Cholmondley's) Foot, Government Army, Drummossie Moor, 16 April 1746

"Request Colonel Martin move the 8th Foot into the Leanach Enclosure and man the walls. We'll get the Highlanders in a crossfire as they come in. If the Regiment is assaulted in the Leanach, they are to hold there."

Igrat acknowledged the order, turned her horse and set off at a full gallop again. Cumberland watched her depart, accompanied by a barrage of complimentary coughs from the men of Barrell's Foot. He noted that she took the time to acknowledge the compliments with a wave. "Sir Stewart, our cavalry is commanded by a one woman and another carries your orders. I fear, Sir, you have the strangest command staff in the Hanoverian Army."

"Your Grace, that girl can get a message through a battlefield faster than anybody else I know and when she delivers it, the recipient gets every word exactly as I said it. That is a gift beyond price." Parmenio was watching the Jacobite Army. "See, Your Grace, the enemy line is displaced; it is canted towards us here. It is as we suspected, they will hit our left. The marsh in the center will funnel them towards Barrell's Regiment. That bottleneck is where we will aim the Coehorns. The Highlanders will not like the taste of shell poured into their ranks."

"I think not." Cumberland paused as smoke rose from the Jacobite ranks, marking the opening cannonade. "For what we are about to receive, may the Good Lord make us truly thankful."

"Three hundred paces. We are just out of three-pounder range." Parmenio looked at the ragged pattern of shot landing on the middy ground, most of it well short of the Government line. "Gunners who do not know their trade are shooting into the wind and sleet with damp, poor-quality powder. We have little to concern us there. It is time that we showed them how it is done."

The orders had been pre-issued and the gunners had been waiting anxiously for the Jacobites to open fire so that they could teach their opponents a lesson in good artillery practice. For little fault of their own, the Hanoverian artillery had not shown well at Prestonpans and Falkirk Muir and they were more than ready to redeem previous failure. They were well-fed, well rested and above all determined. Their three pounders, ten guns in all, opened fire in a rippling barrage that started down one end of the gun line and sent a torrent of shot at the Jacobite regiments. Carried by the wind, the shot arrived in tight pattern that slammed into the center of the MacDonald regiments. Large hones appeared in the masses of men drawn up there; whether they were casualties or men flinching from the artillery was something Parmenio couldn’t see.

Not to be outdone by the Army gunners, the Navy crews on the twelve six-pounders fired their pieces in a solid blast that pounded the center of the Clan Chattan line. Parmenio could see that the mud and soggy ground was absorbing much of the killing power of the guns but also that the artillery fire was causing great gaps to appear as the inexperienced, ill-trained clansmen bunched together for mutual support. The result was inevitable; as the thinly-stretched Jacobite line started to buckle under the strain, their officers were moving up their reserves to fill the gaps. With each regiment that moved forward, the tactical options left to Charles Edward Stuart began to decline.

"Should we not charge?" Cumberland was watching the artillery make practice on the Jacobite line. The three pounders were doing well enough but it was the six-pounders that were doing the greatest execution. They only fired two shots for every three from the smaller guns but even at 300 paces, the greater damage they caused was clearly visible. It was apparent also that the Jacobite morale was failing under the relentless battering and their line was already beginning to become ragged as men started to fall away from their positions.

Parmenio shook his head. "Your Grace, this is just the start. I'm going to hammer them with our guns until one of two things happens. Either they charge into our musketry and mortar fire and then die on our bayonets or they break and run and our cavalry will slice them up. Either way, that army is not getting off the field alive. Personally, I would prefer them to break; it will cost us fewer men to cut them down as they run."

"This does not seem quite fair somehow." Cumberland sounded saddened.

"That's because we are doing it right. If it is a fair fight, then somebody has done something very wrong."

The minutes ticked by as the Hanoverian guns pounded the Jacobite line. With each of those minutes, the signs of disarray in the enemy line became more apparent. It wasn't just the artillery fire galling the men, the scattering of sleet had turned into a steady downfall as the temperature dropped. With the wind also picking up and blowing it into the Highlander's faces, it would be hard for them to see what was happening and that was as bad for morale as anything else.

"What the devil is Bonny Prince Charlie doing?" Parmenio frowned mightily. Leaving men to suffer under artillery like this is unprofessional. Make your mind up man, charge or run. One thing or the other.

"My Cousin," Cumberland's voice had a reproving edge to it, "is moving now. See, the Clan Chattan Regiment start to advance. The whole right wing is following them. Right into Hell itself."

[Calder]

Chapter Two
Surgeon’s Lines, Behind Government 5th Brigade, Drummossie Moor, 16 April 1746

“And so it starts.” Gusoyn had noted the silence that fell across the baggage train as the thunder of guns had rolled across the moor. He felt that thunder was, perhaps, the wrong word. Even though the Jacobite line was barely a half-mile away, the sound of their barrage was more of a patter than anything more malignant. The guns were the small three-pounder battalion guns and they were firing into the ever-strengthening wind and rain. That alone muted the sound. The Hanoverian gunners drowned them out when they let fly with their coordinated barrages. For those with the wits to hear it, that alone was a fair prophecy of the events to come.

“Two roundsmen comin’ in!” The call came from one of the children in the baggage train who had been put on top of a cart as a look-out. His voice was filled with the pride of a child entrusted with work that he knew to be important.

“And we have our first customer.” Gusoyn glanced around. The strengthening wind and the slow shift of the weather from rain to sleet had driven people in to the treatment tents where there was shelter and warmth from the fires. “We are getting crowded in here.”

“As long as the visitors keep out of our way.” Naamah looked over to where the roundsmen were bringing in a man who seemed to be covered in blood. “What happened to this man?”

“Rebel shot hit a stone wall and fragments showered him. He’s cut up bad My Lady.”

“What’s your name, soldier?”

“Private McCrimmon, My Lady. Jamie McCrimmon. You’d nay think that handfuls of gravel will injure a man so bad.”

“We’ll see. Gusoyn, a glass of brandy for this brave soldier.” That was the pre-arranged code that indicated a man who had a good chance of survival but needed immediate work. The brandy was more than just a treat, getting him drunk was the start of dulling the inevitable pain. “Then help me get his uniform off.”

“My Lady!” McCrimmon seemed shocked at the suggestion, something that made Gusoyn laugh to himself.

Naamah shook her head. “Jamie, you’ve got nothing down there I haven’t seen before. We’ve got to get the gravel and stone splinters out of your wounds. So, let us do our job.”

Half way through the process, Gusoyn leaned forward and said, very quietly, “Don’t be alarmed man, everything that should be there, still is and unharmed.

That made Naamah smile. She remembered the description that she had once read of Gusoyn 'He understands the meaning of all questions that are asked to him, reconciles estranged friends, and gives honor and dignity to all by his presence.’ That writer was very perceptive and saw into the heart of a man most overlook. “All right, that thick uniform did more than just keep you warm. Most of these wounds are shallow scrapes and we’ll just clean them out. Your shoulder and arm have deep penetrations and I think there are fragments in there. More brandy?”

Naamah soaked the cloths in steaming water and quickly worked along the lacerations left the gravel. Her first cloth quickly grew brown with the mud she was swabbing out so she took a clean cloth and gave the dirty one to Gusoyn. “Smell that, if there is the stench of you-know-what, we’ve got problems. All right, Jaimie, we’ve got these scrapes clean. We’ll leave them open to the air to dry. Now let’s look at the shoulder.”

“It’s clean Nammie. No animal dung in there. Or human come to that.” Gusoyn had an acute sense of smell, much more so than Naamah.

“Thank the Gods for that. Here we go. Hold him down.” Naamah had taken a pair of long tweezers from the boiling water and now held them in her hands. Suddenly, without warning, she stuck them into the first of the splinter and pebble wounds and felt around for anything in there. McCrimmon screamed as the sudden pain penetrated the fog that the brandy had placed in his mind. The sound drowned out the ‘ting’ as a pebble was dropped into a tin dish.

Naamah worked fast, it was one of those times that trying to be gentle would simply prolong the pain. By the time she had got to the last puncture wound, she had found six more pebbles or stone fragments, a stone splinter almost an inch long and a small piece of iron from the 3 pounder shot. She guessed that, together, they had made infection and lockjaw almost certain had they not been removed. She picked up a bottle that contained almost pure alcohol, carefully distilled, and poured it over the bloody mess that had been McCrimmon’s shoulder. He screamed again, then managed to gain control of himself. “My Lady, that is a crying shame to waste good grog.”

“You can have more brandy if you want it.” Naamah looked down, while she spread a poultice of thyme, sage, lavender and mint over the wounds before bandaging them. “You’ll be taken to the recovery tent now. Every few minutes I want you to lift your head and touch your chest with your chin. As long as you can do that, you’ll be fine. If you have problems, send for me immediately”

She hadn’t told him that was the test for lockjaw. Nevertheless, he looked at her and whispered “Thank you, My Lady.”

"More casualties are coming in, Nammie." Gusoyn had glanced at the receiving area and seen a scattering of wounded. None were serious enough to warrant her attention. She had briefed the regimental surgeons on the need for cleanliness and made sure they understood the consequences of them disobeying her on that matter. He watched her walk over, check the work being done and smile approvingly. The pressure hadn't started yet; the test would come with the Highland Charge and the flood of casualties that result. As long as the surgeons remembered the instructions they had been given then, all could be well.

Naamah had returned. "Cannon fire is still going on. I'd have though we would be hit harder than this."

Gusoyn took out his watch. "The barrage has been in progress for, I would say, twenty minutes so far. I have spoken with the soldiers. They say the Jacobite artillery is landing short because their untrained gunners do not make allowance for firing into the wind. I think Parmenio must have thought of that and positioned us accordingly."

Behind Cholmondley's Regiment of Foot, Government Army, Drummossie Moor,

"You were right, Sir Stewart, the rebels are concentrating on our left and their charge forces them to bunch together as they funnel through the gap between the marsh and the Leanach Enclosure. This will be bloody."

Parmenio nodded, gauging the time carefully. Then, as the lead elements of the Highland charge were solidly locked into the funnel, he signaled to the drummers and the roll they beat out reached the crews of the six 12-pounder Coehorn mortars. They were the heaviest artillery on the battlefield and they fired shell rather than shot. With their skilled, well-disciplined crews, they were the first line of defense against the screaming charge that was bearing down on the two regiments that formed the British extreme left. Parmenio could see the shells being lofted towards the Highlanders and could follow the trail of smoke left by the burning fuses. They arched up and over before exploding in evil-looking clouds of black smoke as they descended on the Highland charge.

The effects were immediate and appalling. Where the shells had exploded, they had left the ground covered with the dead and maimed bodies of the Highlanders. The mortar crews had specific orders; they were not to shift fire but to continue pounding the gap through which the charge had to pass. The Highlanders couldn’t stop; the men behind the front ranks provided too much pressure to allow that. And so, more and more men were being forced into the meat-grinder Parmenio had carefully set up.

Now, the drum rolls echoed across the battlefield again. The wind and sleet prevented Parmenio from hearing the orders but he knew what they were. They would be the same for Price's, Dejean's and Barrell's Foot and Colville's Fusilier's.

"Front Rank, Present. . . . . Front Rank by volley, fire."
"Middle Rank, Present . . . . Middle Rank, by volley, fire."
"Rear Rank, Present. . . . . . Rear Rank, by volley, fire."

The front ranks of the charge, already weakened and disorganized by the mortars, were scythed down by the musket volleys reinforced by deadly blasts of grapeshot from the three pounders. At the same time, Wolfe's Foot opened up with volley fire from behind the wall of the Leanach Enclosure. Their fire was also deadly and it served to force the weight of the charge slightly to the right so that it would strike Dejean's Regiment of Foot. With the closing range, Parmenio noted something. At a distance the kilts worn by the Highlanders had hidden the fact that most wore only a thin shirt under the folds of their tartan. Now, he could see how poorly clothed they were for the blustering wind and constant sleet. Those men have to be soaked with the sleet and chilled to their bones. If we had not killed then today, they would surely have died of pneumonia later. What the hell did their quartermaster think he was doing?

"The men may complain of their uniforms, Your Grace, but in this weather, the thick cloth keeps them as dry and warm as possible. They will still be chilled but it is not a killing cold."

"And they are positioned so the wind from their backs is prevented from dampening their powder." Cumberland looked sadly at the scene in front of the Hanoverian line. "Damn me for saying so, Sir, but these men may be just militia yet the Regulars themselves would be proud of how they stand and fight today."

"They remember their bayonet drill as well." What was left of the Highland Charge had made contact with the right of Barrell's Regiment and the left of Dejean's. The British Foot had been carefully trained to thrust at the man to their right, not at the one to their face. As a result the bayonet thrusts were bypassing the Highlander's targe shield and striking under their right arm for a sucking chest wound. Parmenio had fought enough battles while Naamah treated the wounded to know that such wounds were almost invariably fatal. In contrast, the slashes from the Claymores rarely were as long as the wounds were cleaned. He was impressed to see just how effective the socket bayonets were proving against the Highlanders. Well, that's the end of pole-arms. Even the Sarissa is dead and buried now.

The Highlanders had been slightly fortunate in that their charge had drifted to the right in response to Wolfe's Regiment firing from their left. The execution from the cross-fire had been dreadful but some of the men had hit the gap between the Barrell's and Dejean's. They penetrated between the two and could have turned to roll up either but they never got the chance. Sempill's and Conway's Regiments of Foot had been placed in a second line for just this eventuality and their volley fire cut the Highlanders down before they could do any damage.

"Igrat, go to the drum line and request the drum-major order Price and Colville's Regiments to advance in line for thirty paces, wheel to their left and deliver fire into the left flank of the Highlanders. Sempill and Conway's Regiments to advance in line and take the place of Price and Colville. Then get back here."

Cumberland watched as Igrat galloped off to the drummers. "May I ask who is that lady, Sir?"

"My daughter." Parmenio was watching carefully as the maneuver started. It was quite simple as all good battlefield maneuvers were. Only amateurs try complex moves. Cumberland blinked with shock that a father would risk his daughter's life on a battlefield. Parmenio noted the reaction. "As I said, she is very good at her job making her presence here is more than half a step to victory. And she would not forgive me for the insult to her pride if I left her at home while the rest of the family fights."

In front of them, the battle was ceasing to be combat and had become a slaughter. More than half the Highland Army was now in a pocket with Hanoverian foot on each side and in front with the three pounders still blasting them with grape. The only way out for the wretched Highlanders was to retreat by running the gauntlet of the shellfire from the Coehorn mortars. It was a measure of how desperate to escape the lash of musket-fire and the pummeling of the three pounders that the survivors were trying to do just that. Parmenio used his experience of more battlefields that the Duke of Cumberland could believe possible to estimate the casualties the Highlanders had suffered. There's at least twelve hundred dead in there, the Gods have mercy on them.

"Sir Stewart, the MacDonalds have refused to advance!" The Duke of Cumberland had forgotten about the left wing of the Jacobite line. Parmenio hadn't, he'd been keeping an eye on it to check for movement but he had Semiramis and her cavalry over there and he was content with her ability to handle the situation. She wouldn't throw her men away as her predecessor had done at Falkirk Muir.

"Now that's useful."

The Duke looked at Parmenio with astonishment at Parmenio's calm words and then burst out laughing. "Well said, Sir. In front of us, the survivors of the charge are in flight. Perhaps we should advance?"

Parmenio returned the compliment. "Well said, Your Grace. Let us do just that. Igrat, drum line again. This time, request the drum-major to order the entire line to advance upon the enemy. Then get to Semiramis and tell her to get ready to pursue when the Jacobite left breaks. And it will, this battle is nearly over."

Igrat pulled out her timepiece and looked at it. "I hope so. Sir John Cope wagered me ten thousand pounds that you would be beaten here just as he had been at Prestonpans. I took his wager, then added to it at odds of three to one that you would win in less than two hours. Of course I am just a foolish woman and he took great pleasure in telling me so."

Parmenio winced as Igrat turned her horse and set off back to the drum line. Behind her, Cumberland shook his head. "Did I hear that right, your daughter has won thirty thousand pounds by wagering on this battle? Remind me never to cross wits with her. Although, I do think she might make an extraordinary Duchess of Cumberland?"

Parmenio was saved from having to answer by the drum roll that ordered the advance. One thing was apparent right away; where the Highlanders had allowed their charge to be deflected by the marsh in the middle of the field, the Hanoverians is not. They continued to advance straight ahead, plowing grimly and irresistibly through the mire. He nodded in satisfaction because he was beginning to be proud of this army and the men in it. It was not every army he had commanded that won such a distinction.

"Sire, there are deserters in the enemy ranks. Some still wear their red coats." A rider had come up from the area where the Highland Charge had been massacred.

Cumberland looked across the field. "As deserters they should be tried and hanged. If they still wear the red coat, there is no doubt of their guilt. Pistol them. The rest of the wounded, leave to the mercy of God for we have no time to deal with them."

"The MacDonalds have broken!" The cheer went up from the Hanoverian ranks. Parmenio looked across in time to see the Jacobite left dissolving into chaos and fleeing. Semiramis had wasted no time; her cavalry were already moving forward and breaking into a trot. She knew her trade well; she would save her horses until the last few yards of any charge. Parmenio even felt sorry for the men she would be pursuing. Most had been brought to this battlefield by the merciless working of the clan system and they had little choice in their fate. And that is why the clan system has to go.

Kingston’s Light Horse, Right Wing

"Charge!" Semiramis shouted the order out. The MacDonald regiments in front of her cavalry were breaking under the murderous Hanoverian artillery fire. Some were standing, but already those with weaker spirits were heading for the rear. That left them out in the open, where they were exposed to a charge of the Light Horse with the three squadrons of Cobham’s Dragoons in support. Technically, Semiramis was only in charge of the Kingston Light Horse, but in reality, she commanded Cobham’s Dragoons as well. The Colonel of that regiment, Lt Col William, Lord Ancram had been told by the Duke of Cumberland, in no uncertain terms, that he was along for the ride and not to get in her way.

By the time the charge was fully developed, most of the MacDonalds had broken and were fleeing for the rear. Semiramis drew one of her pistols, fired it at a tacksman who was trying to rally his men, then tossed the empty into a saddlebag that was held open for the purpose. One day in the future, a cavalryman will carry one pistol with ten rounds, not ten pistols with one round. Even while the thought crossed her mind, she had drawn her sabre and closed on a knot of MacDonalds who hadn't turned and run yet. Her arm was outstretched, the sabre pointed straight at one of those men. Over the last six weeks, Achillea had spent most of her time trying to break the English cavalrymen of their habit of slashing wildly at everything in sight. She had succeeded, in training at least, of driving home the lesson that 'the point will always beat the edge'. Semiramis had no doubt that as soon as the fight was on, those lessons would be forgotten.

Her own sabre transfixed the man in front of her as she crashed into the small group. They'd fired a ragged patter of shots at the approaching cavalry, bringing down two horses and then tried to fend off the rest with Lochabar axes. They had failed, dismally, and now they paid the price as Kingston's Light Horse rode them down. The rest of the MacDonalds were fleeing down the Moor Road, throwing way their muskets in a desperate attempt to get clear of the slaughter. Semiramis saw one of them turn and lift his arms in surrender only to have them sliced off at the elbow by a slash from a trooper. Told you. Semiramis thought, mentally addressing Achillea who was actually several miles away.

The Moor Road ran through a dip in the ground with stone walls either side. There was nowhere for the routed men to go except ahead and Kingston's Light Horse were already cutting them down. Semiramis heard the clansmen screaming with terror as they ran in mortal fear and urged her cavalrymen on in pursuit. It was a pursuit that would last all the way to Inverness.

Behind Cholmondley's Regiment of Foot, Government Army, Drummossie Moor,

"Advance will halt!" The drum-roll gave the order as the front line reached the line held by the Jacobite forces before the battle had started. By tradition, with all organized resistance having ceased and the cavalry in hot pursuit, that marked the point where victory was manifest. With more than half the Jacobite Army dead or dying on the field and the rest fleeing for its life, there was no dispute over who had won.

"Royal Salute, Present Arms!" Across the battlefield, the Hanoverian infantry came to attention and lifted their muskets in salute.

Igrat consulted her timepiece, a very expensive watch of great quality. "One hour and eight minutes, Father. I am now thirty thousand pounds richer."

"That loss will ruin Sir John Cope." Cumberland had remarkably little pity in his voice. "Sir Stewart Parmenio, the battle is won. You have rendered great service to the King and to our family. This will not be forgotten. Now, I take command from your hands with all the thanks that I can muster."

Cumberland dropped his voice slightly. "On a private matter between us, Sir, may I have permission to pay court to your daughter? I believe she will be a fine Duchess and would do honor to our family."

"My family would be honored, Your Grace." Parmenio looked over at Igrat who smiled slightly. She will tell Cumberland that she is barren and thus cannot fulfill the primary duty of bearing an heir. But she will agree to be his mistress. I know my Iggie. Across the moor, he saw lines of prisoners from the French and Irish contingents being brought in. They were soldiers, not rebels and they would be treated as such.

Surgeon’s Lines, Behind Government 5th Brigade, Drummossie Moor

"We have the Butcher's Bill." Gusoyn presented the list to Naamah. "We received 259 casualties, of whom 100 had but minor wounds and have now returned to their unit with brandy from us and twelve shillings from the Duke. Of the 159 remaining, 55 are mortally wounded and will not survive until tomorrow. They are in the dying tent of course. A total of 104 wounded are seriously injured but should recover. Those who have lost their lives or are not fit for further service will receive 12 guineas from the Duke's private purse and his thanks. The rest, who return to the ranks, 12 shillings."

Naamah nodded. "I will go to the dying tent. Arrange for a courier to take the Butcher's Bill to the Duke. Igrat will be with Parmenio."

Naamah left the treatment tent and started to walk through the snow to the dying tent. Half way there, she saw a body laying in the frozen mud, already covered with a light dusting of snow. It was the woman who had complained so volubly about being asked to treat the wounds of 'common solders'. Her throat had been cut.

[Calder]

Chapter Three

“There is no doubt that she is dead." Gusoyn looked at the body of the woman. Her throat hadn't just been cut, it had been ripped open, the weapon that had killed her leaving her neck little more than a jagged and torn mess. "The question is, who is she?

"The question is, who killed her? This wound is not that of an accident or suicide. Who she is, forms a part of that of course." Naamah felt she recognized the woman but couldn’t place her.

"Beggin' yee pardon, My Lady." One of the camp women had come to have a look and seen the victim clearly. "I dinna know her name but she is the woman who did'nae want to help heal our men's wounds. The one yee said yee would pistol if she did na get on with ta work."

"Ah yes. Thank you." Privately Naamah thought that the woman had stated the obvious; everybody had seen her threaten to shoot the woman whoever she was. I suppose it’s lucky everybody saw me remain in here until Gusoyn and I found her body and brought it in And there were plenty of witnesses to us doing that. Also, that she has been dead for at least thirty minutes. It says a lot about the baggage train that her body was there for 30 minutes while the camp followers just stepped over it. "This wound is a real mess. Any idea what sort of weapon?"

Gusoyn shook his head. "It is blunt-sharpened, of that I am certain. Therefore an Army weapon but which one I cannot tell. Could be a sword and there enough of those around here. Or any kind of knife. Not a bayonet."

"The way it had ripped and torn the flesh bears you out. Blunt-sharpened edges inflict wounds that are hard to close and very hard to keep uninfected. I noticed that the soldiers here have the socket bayonet, a spike. It would inflict a puncture, not a gash like this."

"A spade also. Swung with enough force, the spades the men use for digging around camp would do this. Some of them even blunt-sharpen the edges to make them better weapons.”

“And those edges would be foul beyond belief.” Namaah shuddered slightly. To many, her obsession with cleanliness was verging on the maniacal. In reply, she could point to the number of people she had kept alive simply by preventing wounds from becoming diseased. The thought had, however, given her an idea. She used her fingers to carefully part the ragged flesh. “This wound seems clean. Can’t see any dirt or soil in it.”

“Unlikely to be a soldier’s knife then. Not a ranker’s anyway. Could be one of the civilians here or a staff officer.”

Gusoyn was interrupted from his train of thought by a disturbance as a rider pulled up outside and came in. It was Igrat and the way the weather had continued to deteriorate was shown by the layer of snow on her hat and cloak. The leather riding trousers she wore were also white with snow and frozen sleet.

“My Lady,” The formal address to Naamah was a concession to the audience. “I have been asked by the Duke of Cumberland to advise you that Kingston’s Light Horse have taken Inverness and that the baggage train is to move there, soon enough to take shelter from the storm if that is possible. Most are agreed this will get a lot worse before it gets better.”

“Light cavalry taking a defended, garrisoned city? I find that hard to believe.” Another officer had just come in, presumably to see how his men were doing.

Igrat, Naamah and Gusoyn exchanged knowing smiles. The Daimones Prodromoi had done that several times. Igrat had the answer ready. “The citizens of the city threw the gates open, Sire, and invited our cavalry in. A Jacobite regiment that was assigned to march to the city as its garrison, changed sides and sworn loyalty to King George. For what that is worth for they have changed sides several time already.”

“My apologies, My Lady. I meant no disrespect and beg forgiveness if any was given.” The Officer came over and looked at the body on the table. “Dear God, this is Lady Beverly Wilberforce, wife of Captain Horace Wilberforce of Pulteney's Regiment of Foot. They are next in line to us and I know Captain Wilberforce and his Lady well.”

“Then you had better go to him and bring him back here. There are questions that must be answered if the murderer of Lady Wilberforce is to be brought to justice.” Naamah paused. “You did not introduce yourself, Sir.”

“My apologies again, My Lady. I am Captain Lyndon Rodney of Blakeney's Regiment of Foot. Our Regiments were often brigaded. The line is moving out from the Jacobite position and heading for Inverness. I will find Wilberforce and bring him here instead.”

As Rodney left, the sound of intermittent pistol shots were carried in on the wind. Naamah looked curiously at the world outside the warmth of her treatment tent. “I thought the fighting was done.”

“It is, My Lady.” One of the wounded soldiers spoke up. “The Lowlanders are pistoling the Highland wounded.”

“And we are worried about the murder of a single woman.” Gusoyn made the remark quietly but obviously not quietly enough. One of the men present pushed his way over, bristling with anger.

“I would introduce myself, Sir. I am Dougal Paterson, Ensign of the North British Fusiliers, a Lowland Regiment. In our shires, for generations without number, a man could not leave his house for a day in the fields or hunting to provide for his family without fear that raiders from the Highlands would come down, carry off his livestock, rape and murder his wife and burn down his croft with his bairns locked inside. For generations, Sir, the Highlanders have looted and burned whole stretches of our countryside. It is time this pillage of our lands ended and we intend to see that it is so. Do ye have a problem with that?”

“Ensign, may I ask you, in honor of our victory today, to generously let this matter drop?” Naamah didn’t want to have to patch up the survivors of the duel that would otherwise be inevitable. Not to mention fatal for the poor Lowlander. “My colleague spoke out of turn, it is true, but it was from ignorance not malice. We come from the west country where such terrors are unknown, in living memory at least.”

“My Lady is right.” Gusoyn looked suitably penitent. “I spoke carelessly from haste and ignorance and meant no offense. I ask for your forgiveness and thank you for correcting me on this matter. Would you be so generous as to take my hand and share a brandy with me in fellowship?”

The crisis had faded away with the clink of glasses and the swallowing of excellent brandy obtained for the wounded but barely used. Naamah sighed quietly with relief and turned to Igrat. “Iggie, I hate to ask you to go out again in this weather but we need help here. Not with the wounded but with Lady Wilberforce. My gut tells me there is more to this than meets the eye. Could you ride to Nairn, find Conrad and bring him here please? By tomorrow, we will have moved to Inverness so you two should find us there. Somewhere.”

“Inverness Castle.” Igrat grinned. “The Duke of Cumberland told me where he intends your surgeon’s lines to be located. He also wants to marry me.”

“Duchess of Cumberland?” Naamah, from centuries of practice, did not burst out laughing. Igrat shook her head, almost imperceptibly.

In the background, Ensign Paterson had heard the exchange and thanked God that his hot temper had not earned him the enmity of a family that could soon be closely related to the Hanoverian dynasty. He resolved, as he had many times before, to be more circumspect in his dealings with strangers.

The Braeval Inn, Nairn, Inverness.

Igrat’s arrival in the Braeval Inn caused something of a stir. It wasn’t just that the sight of a woman walking alone into a bar raised eyebrows although that was indeed something unheard of. In fact, an unescorted woman out alone in any place was almost equally rare. The more observant though noted the four pistols she was carrying and the knives showing from each of her riding boots. That suggested that this woman might be more than capable of looking after herself. The fact that she was well-covered with snow from the steady downfall that had become established, also surprised nobody. Anybody who had been out for more than a few minutes would be the same. It was the fact that she was wearing leather riding breeches that and thigh-length boots that caused the attention. They were not the attire associated with ladies yet the arrogant strut that she adopted as she crossed the room though was undoubtedly the mark of somebody of consequence. Every man in the bar came to the conclusion that their visitor was a mystery but a very attractive one.

Igrat had been riding for just over two hours and was deeply grateful for the warmth her riding breeches, heavy leather jerkin, double-thickness wool coat and equally thick cape had given her. The time taken to ride to Parmenio and seek his clearance for the task Naamah had asked of her had added to the ride. On the other hand, the fact she wouldn’t have to search for Conrad because she knew exactly where he was had saved valuable time. Some of that time she had used to make sure her horse was properly stabled, had been given a thick blanket to keep him warm and provided with a generous bucket of grain and mash to eat. That made him better-fed than most of the countryfolk in those parts. Igrat believed his work today had deserved it.

“Your best brandy, Landlord.” Igrat’s voice broke the silence. She eased up to the bar and looked around. Again, the more perceptive noted that her back was to the wall and her eyes were scanning the room. They also noted that she seemed amused by what she was seeing.

“I am sorry, lassie, but we do nae serve unescorted ladies here. Nor so we serve ladies with spirits.”

Igrat just stared at him. He saw her eyes, partially shielded by heavy lids and as sleepy as if she had only just woken up, and felt them bore into him. He could swear that his manly parts were shriveling under that steady gaze. She said nothing but he felt somehow compelled to take down a bottle of brandy from the shelf, stop and replace it with a better one, then put the bottle beside her. She poured herself a glass and swallowed it.

“By the Lord, ‘tis cold out there.” Her voice was low-pitched, warm and friendly.

Across the room, a man finished adding up all the evidence and concluded that somehow this strange woman was associated with the armies that had been forming for battle on Drummossie Moor, near Culloden some ten miles away. It seemed incredible but there it was. “Begging your pardon, My Lady, but do you know of the battle that was to be fought at Culloden?”

His words broke the ice and another voice chipped in. “Aye, has the Bonnie Prince won another victory?”

Igrat was amused by the wince that went around the bar. Every sensible person knows that it is wise to find out who won a battle before declaring a position on the combatants. “The battle was joined at half past eleven this morning. By forty minutes past noon, the Jacobite Army was broken with very heavy casualties. At least two thousand dead lie on the battlefield with many more as the cavalry pursued the fleeing men. The cause of the Young Pretender has died with them. Hanoverian cavalry has already taken Inverness and the rest of the Duke of Cumberland’s Army is marching there now.”

“And Culloden itself, My Lady. Was the town burned?”

Igrat shook her head. “There was no fighting in the village itself. The battle was a mile to the west and the Jacobite Army fled northwest, taking the pursuit away in that direction. Your family should be safe, as long as people there do not act foolishly.”

The man nodded his relief at the news was tangible and seemed to sweep out from him in waves. “Keep their heads down, say nothing, stay inside and if soldiers ask for food, give it to them readily and with good cheer. That was my advice to my wife and children.”

“That is good and sensible advice.” Igrat knew that the pursuit would be vicious but believed that those who were ridden down would have brought much of the harm on themselves. “I would not delay in returning to them though. The Hanoverian Army is well-supplied, they are not short of food. Or ammunition.”

“Beggin’ your pardon My Lady, but it sounds as if you were on the battlefield itself.” Another man had spoken and his tone was quite different. The questioner was suspicious, and Igrat knew that the real inquiry was Just who the devil are you?”

Igrat decided it was time to borrow some of Naamah’s character. “Just one of a group of devout ladies who wish nothing more than to treat the wounded. I was sent here to find herbs and bandages for those stricken and suffering.”

“Hanoverian?” The same man was still suspicious although he was now outnumbered. Igrat was very good at faking sincerity.

“We treat all those who are brought to us.” Igrat had noted that wounded French soldiers from the Royal Escossais and the Irish Picquets had been brought in for treatment. It was the rebels who had been left to die or pistoled.

“My Lady.” A familiar voice came from the stairs that led to the rooms upstairs. Conrad was being careful since he didn’t know what name Igrat was using right now. “I believe I may have been expecting you?”

“Are you Conrad Anderson? I am Lady Isadora Shaftner.”

“I am he, and may the Lord be praised, it is you I await. I have collected the supplies you and your fellow-ladies asked for.” Igrat reflected that Conrad must have been listening out of sight to get his bearings before making an entrance. He might be annoying but he is not foolish. She thought with the affection that always slightly surprised her.

“That is wonderful news. There are so many wounded to be treated that we need all the help we can get. But we cannot leave tonight, not with the storm in full force. It may slacken by dawn and we should plan to leave then.”

Conrad agreed; he turned to the host and called him over. “Is there room here, suitable for a Lady who has been stranded by the storm?”

The Host nodded. “We do have such a room, My Lady, for travel emergencies such as this. It has a small side room for a maid and the door is solid with a strong lock.”

“I am travelling without a maid but the room sounds perfect. Is there a meal I can order?”

“We have stew on the stove, made from good Highland venison, with fresh-baked bread. Not refined fare for a Lady I fear, but hot and filling.”

Igrat gave him a dazzling smile. “That sounds just right.”

Conrad dropped his voice slightly, as always impressed by the way Igrat managed to slide into any surroundings. “You do realize the deer is probably poached?”

“Of course, but who am I to argue? Anyway, the way things are here, venison is venison.”

Conrad nodded in agreement, then switched to Koine Greek. There were many around here who could probably understand Latin but Greek was another matter. Koine, the Greek of the street and gutter would be incomprehensible. “The battle was really that bad.”

“My father on top form.” Igrat almost sounded bitter. “Blew the enemy line apart with his guns, watched their attack walk into a trap that cut them to pieces and then sent his cavalry after the survivors. Oh, and the Duke of Cumberland wants to marry me.”

“Is that why you really want me to come with you? Officiate?”

Igrat shook her head and then started eating her stew. It was very good, she decided, the meat properly soft and well-seasoned. “I’m forgetting my manners, sorry. Another bowl for my friend and some more of this bread. It’s good. No, we have had a murder. One of the women in the baggage train, the wife of a Captain of Foot was found with her throat ripped open. Naamah thinks there is something more than a normal baggage train killing here and wants your help.”

“Has somebody been accused of the killing?”

Igrat shook her head. “Not yet. But, you know what baggage trains are like. If nobody finds out who did this and why, then somebody will be accused, given a drum-head trial and executed. Justice must be seen to be done even if it has nothing to do with real justice. By the way, how come you are here? This is hardly a friendly environment for one of you.”

“It is not as bad as it was. The Occasional Conformity Bill was repealed after when King George took the throne and Whigs returned to power. Now, in England, as long as Catholics keep their heads down and don’t attract attention, the Penal Laws are unenforced. Up here in Scotland, the situation is much worse. The aftermath of the failed Jacobite rising in 1715 and now this one has further damaged the Catholic cause in Scotland and our flock here is sadly reduced. His Holiness has given us permission to forgo the wearing of priestly garb so we can tend to the spiritual needs of our people but there are few enough left for us to see. I have to report to his Holiness on the state of our Church here in Scotland and I fear it will not make happy reading. The Catholic Church being made illegal by the Calvinists had a devastating impact on The Church's fortunes, although a significant congregation does continue to adhere, especially in the more remote Gaelic-speaking areas of the Highlands and Islands. But for the rest . . .” Conrad shook his head sadly at the situation. “Now tell me, who is this victim that concerns Naamah so greatly? She is not one to concern herself with minor things.”

“She is Lady Beverly Wilberforce . . .”

Conrad held up his hand. “Wife of Captain Horace Wilberforce? This is grave news indeed.”

“She was identified by a family friend. What is the problem?”

“When the Clarendon Code and the Penal Laws were passed, Catholicism became an underground faith in private households, connected by ties of kinship. This reliance on the household meant that women often became important as the upholders and transmitters of the faith. The Wilberforce family transformed their households into centers of religious activity and offered places of safety for priests. The family has been staunch supporters of the church for over a century despite the hazards of maintaining that loyalty. My Lady, I think God has indeed guided my path here.”

[Calder]

Chapter Four
Surgeon’s Lines, Ruin of Inverness Castle, 20 April 1746

The ride back from Nairn had taken significantly longer than Igrat's journey, four days earlier. Mostly, that was due to the quality of Conrad's horse that compared very poorly with her own thoroughbred. It was inevitable since most of the good mounts in the area had already been impressed by the Hanoverian or Jacobite armies. Only the oldest and least capable, known collectively as screws, had been left and Conrad's was almost certainly the least impressive of those. Igrat had been genuinely worried that if they ran into trouble, Conrad's old and worn-out mount would stop them getting clear. Her own horse was grain-fed and, combined with her light weight, it could outrun any opposition. Conrad's was not and couldn't. It was fortunate the Hanoverian cavalry patrols were everywhere and guaranteed them a safe ride. Especially since Igrat's laissez-passe stipulated, in the Duke of Cumberland's own hand and over his signature, that hanging awaited anybody responsible for detaining or delaying her.

"What happened to the castle?" Conrad had been out of touch for a variety of reasons and hadn't realized the intensity of the campaign that had culminated at Culloden. The destruction at Inverness Castle made it clear to him what he had missed.

"The Jacobites blew it up after we maneuvered them out. It was 'slighted' in the army's language. It's of no use to the Government troops so the Duke made what's left available to the baggage train so they could take shelter there. I think Naamah will have managed to commandeer the best parts for her surgeon's lines. She usually does."

Igrat was threading her mount through the teeming collection of people that were trying to erect shelters from the wind and cold. To Conrad the scene looked like an undifferentiated mass of people. Then, as his eyes adjusted and he began to understand what he was seeing, it all started to make sense. There were the suttlers selling whatever they could, craftsmen making or repairing equipment, the camp women setting up homes for their men and the camp whores trying to find some trade. As he understood the sights and sounds of the baggage train, the intense humanity of it swept over him. For all that, it remained a strange and hostile environment. Never before had he felt so much a stranger.

Igrat felt the same way although for a different reason. To her, these were her people. She was one of them and when she had to travel covertly in the wake of an Army, she did so by hiding in the baggage train. She had no illusions about the people around them; she knew well that they would rob the unwary until they had only their skin left to stand up in. After all, she had done the same herself. Yet, for all that she saw a basic honesty in them something that she found lacking in the hypocritical and malicious courtiers who now surrounded her. As a ‘Lady of Quality’, she was also a stranger here now and deep down inside, she wished she wasn’t.

“All right, here we are.” Igrat had recognized some of the liverymen Parmenio had brought up from Avebury. They worked as general servants and as bodyguards for the family. Most of them were very, very experienced at their duties and were exceedingly well-paid. It would be quite wrong to assume that all those who had received the gift of extended life held positions of importance. Many were quite happy to be playing their familiar subordinate roles as long as their lives were comfortable and they were treated with respect. All of which was the case at Avebury. One of those men came over and held her horse’s head when she dismounted. That, as always, caused her a brief stab of pain; the last time she had seen her husband alive was the day, at Ipsus, when she had held his elephant’s head before he had climbed aboard and set off to battle.

“Thank you, Jonas. It’s good to be back.” She slid off Chianti, her bay, the rich red-gold of his coat having given him his name. He had looked after her well so she patted him on the neck just under the pale golden mane. He nickered and reached around to nuzzle her. Igrat knew him as a strong-boned horse but one with a reputation for being mean-spirited. He had never been that way with her. “Give Chianti a good rub down and a generous portion of grain please.”

“And a good, warm blanket, My Lady?” In private, it was Igrat. Here, where people could overhear, it was My Lady.
“Yes indeed. Thank you for reminding me.” Igrat hadn’t forgotten the blanket but appreciated the attention to detail. “Have we settled in well? Are your quarters comfortable?”

“We have, My Lady. Lady Naamah has secured most acceptable rooms for us all. I think the least blown up of all the buildings here."

"That's good. And the wounded?"

"Most of those whose wounds were mortal have passed on. A small number of them are left but they will soon be gone. The rest recover well and very few have seen their wounds infected." That was when Jonas dropped his voice right down. "My Lord, you are the Catholic Priest?"

Conrad would never deny his calling, even if his life depended on him doing so. Concealment was one thing, denial was quite another. "I am, yes."

"Some of the men left in the dying room are Catholic. I think they might be comforted by your attendance, if you can spare them the time."

"Go ahead, Conrad. Lady Wilberforce won’t be going anywhere. Don't make a noise about it and you could even hold a mass if you wish." Igrat smiled at him, realizing that Jonas had been quietly briefed to get him out of the way for a few minutes. "Jonas, could you take him to the dying room please?"

"Indeed, My Lady. Jamie here will take you to see Lady Naamah. Father Conrad, if you would be patient for a minute while I see Chianti receives proper care?"

Naamah's Quarters, Ruin of Inverness Castle, 20 April 1746

"'Lea! It's good to see you. You missed the battle." Igrat hugged Achillea, feeling the concrete muscles beneath her clothes. "Where were you?"

"With the rearguard, watching the back door. Giving you all a secure way out if the battle was lost. Not that Parmenio ever loses a battle."

"He's lost a few, back in the old days. Never a war though, not once." Igrat couldn't keep the pride out of her voice. "And even the battles he lost, he found a way to turn them to good account."

"That's true." Achillea looked pensive for a moment.

Her mind had gone back to February 1508 when she had also been charged with holding the back door open while some members of the family escaped from a perilous situation. Igrat and Naamah had been amongst the party only their way out was blocked by Micheletto da Corella and four of his men. Killing the four hirelings had taken Achillea only a few seconds, rapier fights were that fast, but da Corella had been a different matter. He and Achillea were evenly matched and the fight had gone on for almost thirty minutes. Acutely conscious of passing time and more enemies closing in, she had realized that the only way to finish the fight was to trap his rapier-point. The only way she could do that was to ensnare it in her own body.

So, she had deliberately fumbled a thrust and parry exchange and da Corella had taken the bait. He had run her through the stomach, just under her ribs, then stepped back to watch her fall. Only, Achillea was still alive and moving. She had run her rapier through his heart. Understanding how he had been trapped, he had had just enough time to salute her before he fell dead to the floor. Convinced she was dying as well, Achillea had followed him down into darkness. She had woken up days later in the family mansion in Florence. The rapier thrust from da Corella had been slightly deflected by the heavy muscles of her abdomen and so had missed the vital target by a hair's breadth. That had allowed Naamah to save her life.

"Anyway, we'll be going home soon. As soon as this Lady Wilberforce thing is ended. Parmenio is in the next room, speaking with Naamah about it. I'm here to make sure they're not disturbed. Are you going to disturb them?"

"Probably." Igrat thought for a second. "Perturbed might be closer."

"Oh good. I'll take you in." Achillea smiled and watched while Igrat took off her cloak and jacket, then hung them in one corner.

Once she was inside, Parmenio got to his feet, took her hands in his and touched them to his cheeks. She did the same and they exchanged smiles at the unique and very personal exchange. "Have much trouble with the weather?"

Igrat smiled again and shook her head. "We thought the storm would be over by dawn but it was three days before we could travel. What has been happening here?"

"Semiramis is still taking her cavalry north, chasing after what is left of the Jacobite army. They probably missed the worst of the storm but I don't know. I have heard the killing is pretty bad up there. If I didn’t need you here, I'd send you to find her and bring her back. What's left of this campaign is Cumberland's now and his cavalry commanders are good enough. That's not the problem though. The Lady Wilberforce killing is."

"Ah, I've got some information for you." Igrat related all the background she had gathered from Conrad. He'd taken the time while they were snowbound to make sure she understood the full situation and its implications. Unconsciously, as she had relayed the information, her voice had taken on the distinctive lilt and intonation of Conrad's delivery. In fact, she sounded so much like the priest that Parmenio had to stop himself from saying 'amen' when she finished. There was no doubt, she had delivered Conrad's comments completely and accurately and that worried Parmenio.

"If this is a religiously-inspired killing, we have a real problem." Parmenio tapped his fingers on the table. "The Hanoverian Army consists of Catholics, Protestants, Highlanders, Lowlanders and English. Along with a few Hessian mercenaries who are the most reliable troops we have. The Jacobite Army consists of Catholics, Protestants, Highlanders, Lowlanders and Irish. Along with some French regulars who are the only reliable troops they have - or had. We have most of them prisoners right now. This is a true civil war; the conflict between the House of Hanover and the House of Stuart is just an excuse for everybody to go out and pay off as many old grudges as they can and if they haven’t got any, create a few. If this turns out to be somebody killing Lady Wilberforce because she was a stalwart of the Catholic cause, then that whole pot could be turned over and the war would start again. I just butchered an entire army to try and make sure that didn’t happen. It it turns out she was the victim of a random killing, then we can hold the situation together"

"A deliberate killing by an assassin?" Igrat went straight to the most menacing possibility. The family's long residence in Italy had made them very familiar with the work of paid assassins. On the other hand, much of their prosperity had come from the fact that when deaths were necessary, they had the resources to bring them about in-house and didn't have to get outside assistance. Nevertheless, the prospect of a paid assassin being in the camp put them on their guard.

"That's what Conrad will be able to tell us." Naamah said so reluctantly. Her antipathy for Conrad was based on two people having very different and contradictory world-views. She looked on him as a hopelessly naïve romantic, he saw her as a cold, calculating and judgmental autocrat. In addition, they looked on each other as a rival in the crime solving game. Having to admit that she needed his help wounded Naamah on a very personal level. “Where is he?”

“In the dying room. He’ll be here soon.” Igrat said that with more confidence than she felt. “Will he be able to see the body?”

“He will. The bitter cold of the last three days stopped the body from rotting. Much. I put it where it will stay cold. I’d better get it ready for the mad monk.” Naamah left the room.

When she was gone, Parmenio looked at Igrat. “Have you thought about the interest of the Duke of Cumberland? He’s quite a catch. He’s already sent you some presents.”

“Expensive ones?”

“Certainly. That should warm your heart towards him.”

“It won’t change the fact that I’m barren and he’ll want children. It’s not going to work, father. I’m going to be honest and tell him children are off the table and he has to remain unhitched for both dynastic and political reasons. I’ll agree to being his mistress, either in the background or openly acknowledged, but no marriage.”

Parmenio laughed at the accuracy of his private prediction. “That will confuse him. Usually men at court are trying to persuade the court ladies to be mistresses and they want marriage.”

“Confusion does people good. Anyway, I want to size the Duke up before we go anywhere. His cousin has a bad habit of beating his women and I want to make sure it doesn’t run in the family.”

“Charles Edward Stuart? I didn’t know that.” Parmenio was impressed by how effective the intelligence circles run by court women were.

Igrat nodded. “So, I’m going to be careful.”

“Never a bad idea. William Augustus seems to be a good sort though. Keep me advised. Ah the Ma . . . Conrad’s here.”

Slighted Turret, Ruin of Inverness Castle, 20 April 1746

“Lady Beverly Wilberforce. Found just behind the Surgeon’s Lines, during the battle. The cold has kept her more or less as we found her. The body has not been washed or prepared for burial. Her husband wishes us to leave no stone unturned in finding her killer.”

Conrad looked at the body carefully, noting the ragged cut that had torn through her neck. “First, obvious question, what was a Lady of quality doing in the baggage train?”

“All the ladies were there. Helping to deal with the wounded as they came in. There’s nothing does so much good for the men’s morale as knowing that the highest-ranking lady will do whatever she can to treat the wounds of the lowest ranking soldier. This one tried to refuse help for the men, but when I pointed out the alternative was being pistoled, she started work. Reluctantly I might add.” Conrad looked at Naamah suspiciously. She hastened to provide more details. “In case you are wondering, more than a dozen people saw me working on the wounded, going outside and finding the body. Alibi as solid as they come.”

Naamah could have sworn that Conrad looked disappointed at that. Then she realized that it was not that he wished she was guilty but that he had looked forward to teasing her over the possibility. Anyway, she knew that he knew this kind of clumsy killing wasn’t Naamah’s style.

“Now, what you say is interesting. All the reports I have heard of Lady Beverly pointed to a kindly and devout lady who took the responsibilities of her rank seriously and viewed acts of charity and most pleasing to God. Which is true of course.” Conrad glanced around but the two of them were alone on the ruined wall. “I know you are not a believer, Naamah, but I think your work here, to ease the suffering of those wounded in battle must be very pleasing to the Almighty. Lady Beverly would, I am sure, seen them the same way and be driven to help in any way she could.”

“But she did not. She tried to refuse and sneered at the soldiers as being common men of inferior rank. I was theorizing that she tried to slip out when we were busy. When the Highland Charge hit home, we had a hundred and four wounded from Barrell’s Regiment alone. She could have slipped out in the chaos.”

“How many did you save?”

“All but twenty three.” The pride in Naamah’s voice was evident. “If that is the case, she was punished for her negligence by running into a thief who cut her throat and robbed her. Note that her jewels have gone.”

“I still find it very hard to believe that a Lady with such a reputation for virtuousness would behave so basely.” Conrad shook his head. “But it would not be the first time that a reputation for virtue has covered a reality of vice. Nor is it unknown for the reverse to be true and a base reputation covered a life of hidden virtue.”

Conrad reached down and picked up the dead woman’s hands. “This area has been guarded? The body never left unattended.”

“That is correct. I detached pairs of our retainers to watch here for three hour shifts, giving them a shilling per man for their trouble. The body is as we found it.”

Conrad knew the retainers from Avebury Manor were intensely loyal. Some were long-lived, others not, but all appreciated the good pay and kindly words. “So her rings, bracelets and probably her necklace were stolen. We cannot know about the last, the damage to her neck is so extensive that it has hidden all sign. But, look at her fingers and wrists; there is no bruising and the fingers are unbroken. Surely if a thief has wrenched them from her, there would be scratches and cuts? Signs of force and violence?”

“One would think so.” Naamah mentally kicked herself for not noting that incongruity. “Some of the ladies though do remove their rings when washing and bandaging wounds. We would not want to sew a sword-slash up and then find we had left a priceless ring inside.”

"I can imagine." Conrad's voice was dry. He could easily imagine a high-borne Lady demanding a wounded soldier be cut open so she could get her ring back. "Can we get the body carried downstairs so we can wash it? This case gets stranger the more I learn of it."

[Calder]

Chapter Five
Baggage Train, Ruin of Inverness Castle, 20 April 1746

“You’re a damned fool, Judith Tomkins. For robbing the poor lady in the first place and for trying to sell her jewels here in the second. Couldn’t you get it into your empty head that there’s a fat reward out for anybody who lays information against the killer of Lady Beverly and you should keep your trap shut?”

“I didn’t . .” Judith Tomkins was sparingly dressed despite the cold and that alone made her position in the camp very clear. She was one of the ‘bags’ of ‘bags and baggage’ fame only she didn’t even have the status of a soldier’s woman who had unofficially joined the baggage train to be with her husband. Judith Tomkins was one of the camp whores and thus at the bottom of the unofficial but very real female hierarchy.

In contrast, Joan Smille was close to the top of that same hierarchy. In fact, within the part of the baggage train attached to Pulteney's Regiment of Foot, she was the top. One of six wives carried on the Regimental Roll, she received pay and subsistence from the quartermaster and, along with the other five wives on the Roll, paraded with the surgeons as a nurse. That was why she had been on-scene when the body of Lady Beverly had been brought into the treatment tent. So it was inevitable that, when Judith Tomkins had tried to sell some of Lady Beverly’s jewelry to a suttler, the case had been brought straight to her for a decision on what to do. Her decision had been instant. To send for the Provost Guard.

“Of course you didn’t, Judith Tomkins. Lady Beverly’s rings and bracelets just magically appeared in your pockets, didn’t they? Or they were planted on you by somebody who wished you ill for reasons unknown?”

“I thought we stick together in the baggage train.” Tomkins sounded petulant and defiant.

“We do, Judith, but what you have done endangers everybody here. Killing an officer’s lady? The Provost Guard are already searching the baggage train for evidence. Soon, they’ll start squeezing us all. Them that are supposed to be here will be all right, but what about the rest? Honest wives expelled and left destitute, forbidden to return on pain of a flogging.”

“Respects, Mrs. Smille, but I’ve got the Guard.” Barbara Rollins was one of the eight wives who had won the lottery to join her husband’s company when the Regiment had marched north. She drew food and subsistence from the Regiment but not pay and paraded with the Pioneers. Despite her lack of experience, she had gained a reputation as a steady, level-headed woman and an excellent cook. That was why the Provost Guard had taken her appeal for help seriously. The chance of a good, well-cooked meal was always persuasive.

“There is a problem, Mrs. Smille?” The respectful reference by the senior of the two privates reflected Mrs Smille’s status and that of her husband.

“This woman was caught selling Lady Beverly’s jewelry. At least she requires examination.”

“Judith Tomkins. Not the first time you’ve been associated with things going missing. Thank you, Mrs. Smille, we’ll take her to the Provost. Come along girl, you’ve got questions to answer.”

The excitement that had surrounded the case died away and the baggage train dispersed. The more enterprising of the men started taking bets on whether Judith Tomkins would be hanged by dawn or not.

Unidentifiable Room, Ruin of Inverness Castle, 20 April 1746

Naamah had removed the clothing from the body of Lady Beverly Wilberforce and put the ruined dress to one side where Conrad could look at it. She carefully inspected the genitals, determining that no sexual assault had taken place although the woman was definitely sexually experienced. When she finished the intimate inspection, she placed a cloth, made from one of the flags that had once decorated the room, over her hips and another across her bust. Then she called Conrad in.

"She wasn't raped. Based on what I have seen, I'd say the attack was sudden, fast and violent." Naamah had shut her feelings down; she would mourn the victim later, once she had done her work.

"The Germans called that the Blitzangriff. The lightning attack. The idea is that it's over so fast that the victim never has a chance for defense. If it works, it works very well, if it fails it does so equally badly." Conrad looked carefully at the woman's face. "Do you see here, under the chin? The beginnings of a bruise?"

Naamah looked where Conrad was pointing and nodded in agreement. "The beginnings of a bruise certainly. She was dead before it could form properly. We might not have seen it had it not been for the cold."

"That's the trademark of the blitzangriff. The attacker comes from behind the victim, puts a hand under their chin to jerk their heads back and slashes a knife across their throat. Over in an instant. The only defense against it is to be constantly aware of what is happening in one's presence. I doubt if it would work against 'Lea or Igrat but against you or Lillith?" Conrad picked up the woman's hands, one by one, and inspected them carefully. "Nothing under the nails, no defensive wounds at all. She never had a chance to defend herself."

"Not even to call out?" Naamah suspected she knew the answer to that but wanted it confirmed.

"If the slash across the throat succeeds, she is dead before she can do so. If it fails, her voice box is severed and she is struck dumb." Conrad thought for a second. "I had a woman once who had been attacked like this but the slash across her throat wasn't quite deep enough to kill her. She survived, left mute, but still able to identify her attacker. Or, rather, she didn't know who her attacker was so she pointed out a man against whom she had a grudge instead. He would have been hanged had he not been proved innocent."

"How did you manage that?"

"He had claimed he was out hunting when the attack took place. It was a foolish claim to make; there was no sign of him having gone through the city gates and the guards would have remembered him. It turned out that he was committing adultery with another woman at the time and he was protecting her. She came forward and confirmed it, her story being credible because she had nothing to gain by speaking out and everything to lose. She was fortunate her husband forgave her and that her courage in coming forward to prevent injustice won her a reprieve from the Magistrate."

"The attacked woman was hanged?" Naamah's attitude made it very clear that was exactly what she would have done. She hated people who bore false witness against others with a passion that was chilling.

Conrad shook his head. "The Magistrate thought she had suffered enough so instead gave her a lesser punishment. And her priest made her pay great penance for the mortal sin of bearing false witness."

“How she did that while mute is a good question.” Naamah thought for a second, then her eyes narrowed. "There are many Hessian mercenaries around the camp and some have family. Could one of them know of this . . . lightning attack? They are Germans and they would have had the kind of blunt-sharpened knives and swords that would do damage like this."

"It is possible" Conrad conceded. "We really know very little though and the Lady Beverly's body tells us almost nothing more. She was much younger than I thought."

"Girls here marry young. If you have finished, I'll wash the body properly and call her husband over so he can have it buried."

"The children will be heart-broken at not being able to see their mother's grave. It's a long way to come up here." Conrad shook his head at the tragedy that had been brought upon the family.

"What children?" Naamah's head had snapped around at his comment.

"I have never met the Wilberforce family but I know the family priest quite well. Sir Horace and Lady Beverly had three children, two sons and a little girl. Very good children so he says, well brought-up, polite and respectful while the boys have just enough mischief in them to give them character. Father Gordon said that they were a credit to their parents."

“They may or may not be. Frankly, I have found most children do not live up to the reputation their parents try and create for them. In this case, we can be sure that they do not.”

“How can you be so sure, Naamah. Surely you have never met them?”

Namah decided she had toyed with him long enough. “No, but I don’t need to. You see, Conrad, this woman has never born children. Not one, let alone three. In fact, I very much doubt that she has ever conceived.”

“How can you be sure of that?” Conrad didn’t doubt Naamah was right but was curious to know how she had come to that conclusion.

“When a woman conceives and carries a child, her body changes and her belly grows. When the baby is born, the belly is left with stretch marks that are proof positive of pregnancy. Nothing else looks quite like them. A woman who is young and fit may get away with only very minimal marks but a second baby and then a third will make them unmistakable. They never go away, I’ve still got mine after thirty centuries. Want to see them?”

“No! I mean ahhh . . . . I’ll take . . . .”

Naamah was secretly delighted at the way she had made the usually urbane Conrad stutter. “This woman’s belly is smooth, no marks at all. She’s never had a baby.”

“But, Lady Beverly Wilberforce has three children . . . . Father Gordon is an old friend, I can’t see him lying over something like that. Not to me.” Conrad thought carefully. “There is only one possible explanation, incredible though it may seem. This woman is not Lady Beverly.”

“But her husband identified her as such, Conrad. And his ‘old family friend’, Captain Lyndon Rodney was the first to recognize her. Doesn’t that make you passing curious?”

Duke of Cumberland’s Dining Quarters, Drummond Tower, Inverness

“Your Grace, thank you for the invitation so kindly extended. This is an honor I hardly dared hope for. May I introduce my companion, Achillea.” Igrat’s curtsy was elegant and graceful despite the fashionable dress than enveloped her. The truth was, fashionable it might be but it was a monumental nuisance. Achillea didn’t manage the same level of style and refinement but she did her best. The Duke made an elegant bow to them both. He wasn’t surprised to see Achillea; no Lady invited to a private evening like this would arrive alone. The fact that she hadn’t arrived with her father, several brothers and some dangerous-looking bodyguards was encouraging. Then, he took a closer look at Achillea and realized that she had indeed arrived with a dangerous-looking bodyguard.

“It is you who honor me with your presence, Lady Isadora. There was much bravery on the battlefield of Culloden, on both sides I might say, but yours outshone all challengers. The work of a Galloper is a dangerous task and you showed them how ‘tis done.”

To Igrat’s intense surprise, the Duke of Cumberland was an excellent host, polite and considerate. Under the circumstances, the meal he had arranged was perfectly chosen and allowed his guests much variety to choose from in case their tastes were, by choice, religion or custom, limited. His conversation during the meal was generous and educated, neither speaking down to Igrat nor monopolizing the exchanges. His applause at her sallies was open while his own lacked spite or maliciousness. She noted that he never spoke ill of those who were not present to defend themselves. By the end of the meal, Igrat found herself liking him greatly. She saw him as a man, eclipsed by a greater father and elder brother who would doubtless leave him a life in their shadow where his own talents remained uncredited. As somebody who perpetually lived in the shadows herself, Igrat could appreciate the frustrations that brought to an ambitious man.

Eventually, when the last course of the meal had been consumed all the social amenities completed, the Duke got down to business. And, as Igrat was well aware, at this level in society, business it was. “Lady Isadora, as you are doubtless aware, I have asked your father for permission to make an approach to you. I do sincerely hope that you would not consider such an approach undesirable or unwelcome?”

Here we go. Igrat thought. “I am deeply honored but I must ask if the daughter of a simple country squire is a suitable match for a Prince of Royal Blood?”

“Lady Isadora, to gallop a horse into the middle of a battle with purpose of delivering a vital message to the guns is the mark of a Lady who is more than a fit match for a King or Emperor. I should ask whether a second son with no prospect of gaining the throne is fit match for such a Lady of Distinction.”

“You do me great honor, Your Grace, might I respectfully suggest that you use a nickname that all my close friends use? I am Igrat.”

“I am honored; please call me William or Will. I implore you though, please, never Billy.”

There was a surge of laughter around the table at that. When it cleared, Igrat was looking very solemn. “William, I find your approach neither undesirable or unwelcome. However, there is something you must know in the spirit of honesty and fairness. My family has a strange afflication; all the women born into our ranks are barren. There is no recorded case of a daughter in our line bearing children. This is one reason why our family has remained unimportant country gentry; we cannot make alliances with other families through our daughters. I am forced to assume that the same applies to me. William, you and your family have every right to expect your wife to bear you strong sons and fruitful daughters. I can do neither.”

The Duke of Cumberland looked at Igrat very thoughtfully. The time seemed to stretch out as he was obviously making a decision. “Brave, beautiful and honest. Any man would be honored to have you by his side. Igrat, there is something I must tell you, something that must remain the most secret of secrets. I do not wish to give offense, but might I ask your companion to step outside for a few minutes?”

Igrat nodded and Achillea carefully left the room. The Duke waited until the door had closed and the servants had left the room. “You are aware of course, that I was wounded while leading our troops at the Battle of Dettingen?”

Igrat nodded. “A musket shot to the leg I believe?”

“That is the official story. In fact, the wound was a little higher.”

Igrat looked at the Duke, noting that he was already slightly obese for a man of his years. “I understand. I am sorry, William.”

“So you also understand that the condition to which you refer is not an issue. In fact, if my Duchess did present me with an heir, I would be obliged to pistol her.” The Duke smiled to show that he was joking on that point but there was a tinge of great sadness behind the smile. “In fact, lack of issue would be a positive benefit. My mother did her duty by presenting the King with an heir and a spare. I am, of course, the spare. However, no matter how valuable a spare might be, his line represents a rival to the official lineage. We saw the final result of that on Drummossie Moor. With my family tree stunted, as it were, that occasion need not arise.”

Igrat looked at him steadily. “So, why do you seek a wife?”

“Because, Igrat, the virility of the Royal Family is a major factor in the stability of the Kingdom. The men of the family must be seen surrounded by beautiful women to give the image of strength and virility while children convey an image of stability and confidence in the future. In normal times this is not a major issue but in the present state of the country, every part of the image may be critical. Already, the lack of feminine companionship around me has been noted and unsavory rumors are being spread by my enemies. You have been very honest with me, I shall be equally honest with you. You are a very beautiful woman, your companionship would put those rumors to rest and please the people greatly.”

“There is another issue, William. Your father is King. You are his son. It may become necessary for reasons of state to have you make a political marriage. I would be in the way of such arrangements.” Igrat didn’t add, that would be a dangerous position for her. “I have a different suggestion, I will be your mistress and appear by your side when needed. You may acknowledge my status or not, your decision. But this arrangement would provide you with the companionship you need and I with the freedom I must have. If the need for a political marriage did arise, it would be quite normal for you to insist my position remained unchanged. Having both a wife and a mistress would impress people with your physique and your skills at diplomacy.”

“Just like the famous Nell Gwynne?” The Duke of Cumberland was greatly amused by the idea. “You would, of course, be sacrificing the possibility of any marriage?”

Igrat decided to be outrageous; she knew Nell Gwynne well and had taken advice from her on many matters of conduct at court, despite the fact that most of the world believed her long dead. “William, marriage was a condition invented by men to oppress women. I am happy to do without it.”

The Duke of Cumberland exploded with laughter. “That is very good, very good indeed. Why is it though, I think you believe your duty to your country and your Royal Family outweighs all else. I will advise my father that I am about to acknowledge you as my official Mistress. Officially I need his permission but he will know immediately the intention of course. You will be awarded a peerage in your own right as a mark of that acknowledgment. The precise title will be up to his Majesty of course but after reading of your conduct on the battlefield and your demonstrated loyalty to our family, I am sure he will not be ungenerous.”

[Calder]

Chapter Six
Lochardil House, Inverness, 21 April 1746

“So, will you be a Duchess or a Countess?" Nell Gwynne looked at Igrat with an eyebrow raised. "It does matter you know."

"William sent the request for the King's approval to my formal acknowledgment as his mistress this morning. The attached title is in the King's Gift so it's up to him. It'll take a couple of days to get down to London so we won't know what he decides for a week or more. William is pushing for a Duchy. "
"I'd say you'll be very lucky. The King's official mistress usually gets a Duchy. I was and that's all I got. You're more likely to be Countess of something. Probably a Scottish title. After Culloden there are quite a few of those needing filling. You do realize, you'll have to be damned careful from now on?"

Igrat nodded. Nell took note, then shook her head. "I don’t think you do. You'll be watched all the time, by everybody hoping to catch you out in the slightest slip. Your enemies will be looking for something, anything, to try and bring you down. Your friends will be looking for the same thing so they can 'persuade' you to give them preferences. No more bed-hopping Igrat, you'll have to be above suspicion."

"I don’t think I'm supposed to hear that last comment." Parmenio looked at the ceiling with long-practiced resignation.

"You should. If Igrat gets involved in a scandal, it will result in all of us getting ostracized. She will be our face at court and how she shows there is how we will be seen. Iggie, remember the Duke of Cumberland is your patron. Never, never allow any disparaging comments made against him to go unanswered. If you do, your silence will be seen as agreeing with the disparager. The wittier and more memorable your answer the better. Let's try. Lady Snorting-Mad describes the Duke of Cumberland as a butcher. How do you respond?"

"By saying My Lord the Duke believes that his duty to the King comes above all else and if that duty means becoming a common butcher, he will be the best butcher he can." Igrat thought for a second. "A bit too wordy?"

"A bit. Right idea though. You might try 'Then the King will have the best beef in England.' Iggie, you've been at court before. You know the rules in general and I'll bring you as up to date as I can. This one is a bit different in that there are more factions pulling in different directions and there's the impact of the link with Hannover. Just remember though, in the final analysis, everybody is your enemy. Every Lady with a title will see you holding a position that they think is theirs by right and want to bring you down. The fact that you, our entire family, are minor country Gentry will annoy them even more. They'll try and trap you into breaches of etiquette and do things like suppress or delay messages sent to you. The stories of you acting as a messenger at Culloden will both help and hinder you. By the time you get to Court, the rumors will have you hacking your way with sword and pistol through mobs of screaming Highlanders. By the way, any comment about your allowance yet?"

Igrat shook her head. "I haven't asked."

"Don’t let it slide. That's a bad mistake I made and I spent much time in debt as a result. Try for at least 25,000 pounds per year. Living at court is expensive and you'll need that and more." Nell paused and then added, very softly. "And, Iggie, don't forget where you came from. It's easy to do in Court with the swirl of social events and the constant plotting and counter-plotting. Remember, you and I, we both clawed our way out of the gutter on our backs. We may both be Ladies of Quality now, but we started our lives as whores. Use your position to help people like us."

Igrat well knew that when Nell had been living on Pall Mall in London, her kitchens had always been open to any commoner who needed a meal. That was a major reason why she had been so loved by the common people and that, in turn, had been a major source of political strength to her. Somehow, she knew that last piece of advice she had been given was the most important of all.

Nell stood up and headed out of the room to make sure than the family dinner was being prepared properly and that no "extra ingredients" had found their way into the food. The staff were entirely loyal and beyond reasonable suspicion but the entire long-lived community ran on the basis of 'trust but verify' based on the grim knowledge that a traitor, almost by definition was somebody who was trusted and beyond reasonable suspicion.

"That was well done, Iggie." Parmenio smiled at her fondly. He was proud of the way she had listened carefully to Nell's advice even though Igrat had 20 centuries of experience in surviving the kind of deadly, decadent courts that sometimes scared even Naamah.

"It was all good advice father. It never hurts to listen to good advice. How often have you seen disasters take place because somebody thought that a piece of critical information was too obvious to mention?"

"Quite a few. Including more than one war. We could argue that Culloden was lost because of that. I'd love to see the advice Charles Edward Stuart got from his staff. I suspect it was . . . . deficient. The nice thing about working for your Duke is that he knows what he doesn’t know and doesn’t take offense when we discuss things from first principles.

"There's another thing. Nell hasn’t got used to the fact that she isn't going to get old and die yet. She hasn't grasped what an extended life means in terms of experience. She's uncertain of her place and her role amongst us. She needs to know she's needed. Anyway, her advice at the end was really good and something I hadn't thought of."

"When Dryden called her 'pretty witty Nell', he was right. Keep listening to her Iggie."

Unidentifiable Room, Ruin of Inverness Castle, 21 April 1746

"Beggin' yer pardon, My Lady, please, we need help. 'Tis A terrible thing we face."

Conrad reflected that it was indeed true arrogant autocrats looked down their nose at everybody else. Naamah was doing it right then, staring at the camp woman who had dared intrude upon her privacy.

Conrad took pity on the girl but still put some steel into his voice. "Who might you be and why do you need help?"

"Beggin' your pardon My Lord, but my name is Henrietta Perkins. My friend Judy is in terrible bad trouble."

"What has she done?" Naamah was icy; she didn't appreciate being interrupted while she was thinking over the matter of the Lady Beverly Wilberforce who wasn't.

Henrietta looked down at the floor. "She found the body of Lady Beverly. Seeing nobody was around because of the sleet, she took her rings and bracelets. When she tried to sell them, the suttler laid an information against her and she was taken to the Provost Marshal. He's going to hang her for murder tomorrow after she's been flogged for theft."

"Flogging her for stealing the rings seems reasonable enough. Hanging her though, that's different." Naamah looked thoughtful. One of the very few things she had in common with Conrad was a dislike for seeing innocent people punished. She had no qualms about floggings and hangings (at least) as long as the prisoners were actually guilty

"Judy isn’t a bad girl, Your Ladyship. She's a bit simple, that's all. She doesn’t think. She stole all right and I suppose she deserves to be whipped for it but she didn’t kill nobody."

"Well, we can be sure she didn't murder Lady Beverly Wilberforce." Naamah smiled at that. "Conrad, you got your innocent to protect. Should we go to see the Provost Marshal?

Provost Marshal, Inverness Lines.

"May I be of assistance to you, Your Ladyship?" Major Lindsay Hughes recognized Naamah instantly as the Lady who had looked after the wounded during and after the battle. Two of his men were alive because of her and that put him in her debt. He politely handed her down from her carriage then stood by her companion when he also stepped down. As he did so, though, he gave Conrad a hard, careful look.

"You are holding a prisoner, I believe, scheduled for the noose tomorrow?"

"Judith Tomkins, My Lady. Yes. Sentenced to hang for the murder of Lady Beverly."

"Could we see her please? Instinctively Conrad had taken over the investigation. Hughes looked at Naamah and got a small nod of approval.

"Is there a problem, Sir?"

"There is one. Judith Tomkins couldn't have murdered Lady Beverly Wilberforce because the body she robbed is not that of Lady Beverly Wilberforce. We don't know who she was yet. That's why we need to speak with Tomkins."

"Oh. That is a problem." Despite all appearances and despite trying to keep order in a harsh world, Hughes was a just man. He was a good soldier in a position he was unqualified to hold, yet had done the best he could. "I'll have her fetched from the cells."

"You have cells here?" Conrad was astonished.

Hughes looked embarrassed. "Well, we have a tent with a guard. Most everything else got blown up when the castle was slighted."

"While we wait for her, do you have the jewelry she stole?"

"Certainly. I have it aside for safe keeping. I was going to return it to her husband but now, from what you say, I can’t do that. I'll have to keep it until I get come orders." He turned around, opened a chest and took out a cloth-wrapped package. Opening it on his desk revealed a group of rings and two bracelets. Behind Hughes, two soldiers brought Tomkins in.

"You must be Judith." Conrad looked at the woman, now bedraggled with a black eye, bruised lips and the remaining signs of a bleeding nose. It was fairly apparent how the Provost Guard had made her confess. He sighed slightly with relief when she nodded. One of his principles was the need to get people into the habit of answering questions right from the start. That way they found it much harder to go silent on him.

After a few more anodyne questions aimed at getting Tomkins to answer him, he launched the vital question. "Tell me what happened when you found these jewels."

Tomkins told the same story they had heard from Perkins. She had been walking through the sleet trying to find business when she had come across the woman's body in the snow. She had seen the rings and bracelets and taken them because she thought they were 'pretty'. Nobody had seen her do it because they had all been driven undercover by the sleet. It was obvious to Conrad that she had no idea of how much the jewelry was worth or of how much trouble she was in. She couldn't even see what all the fuss was about nor understand why she should not have taken the rings and bracelets. As far as she could see, the dead woman didn’t need them anymore. Even the fact that she was to be hanged at dawn hadn't registered. She didn't understand that it meant she was going to die.

Eventually, he showed her the jewelry on the cloth. "These are the rings and bracelets you took?"

She looked at them closely. "They are. Can I have them back now?"

Conrad shook his head. "I'm afraid not, they are evidence in another case. Are they all there?"

She looked again. "Yes, that's all of them."

He believed her; she was certainly unable to count but she would have a clear mental picture of what she had taken by way of compensation for innumeracy. "No wedding ring. That is profoundly important."

Naamah nodded. "No woman would come to an Army baggage train without her wedding ring. I can see an unmarried woman wearing a ring for the protection it offers, but I can never see a married woman taking hers off."

Conrad agreed, absolutely. It did not, of course, solve the problem of who the woman was. "Major, she didn’t kill the woman. On that count at least, she is innocent."

"How can you be sure?" Hughes was, secretly, relieved.

"The rings were taken from the victim some considerable time after she died. The cold caused her dead flesh to chill and contract, allowing the rings to be slipped off. Same for the bracelets. This woman doesn’t have the skill to kill the victim, or the strength and expertise come to that. She doesn’t have the cunning to wait for the body to chill. No, this was a casual theft." Conrad knew it might not be enough. Murder and theft were both punishable by hanging. Judith Tomkins could yet end up swinging by a noose. "Major, this woman is child-like in her simplicity. She has no idea she has done wrong. May I ask mercy for her?"

Hughes looked at him again. "You are a Catholic priest are you not?"

"I am, yes."
"Well, I and two or my men are Catholics. If we commute Tomkins' sentence to ten lashes, that would be dereliction of our duty. A sin for which we would have to confess. Is this not correct?"

"A grievous sin, for which you should confess and pay penance. I would be happy to take your confession of this and any other sins you have committed. And do the same for any of your men who which to do the same."

"Sergeant, take this woman away. At dawn, ten lashes at the wheel. Father, I really am very grateful for your work here tonight. You have saved me from committing a very real sin."

As the Provosts arrived to take Judith Tomkins away, she looked around with a bright smile on her face "Can I have my pretties back now?"

In the background, Naamah, who had been sitting quietly as a well-mannered Lady should, rolled her eyes. In her view, Judith Tomkins wasn't just simple, she was a half-witted imbecile who should not be allowed to breed.

Captain Horace Wilberforce's Quarters, Inverness Lines.

"Our condolences on your loss, Captain Wilberforce. We are preparing the body for you know. The Father here is available to conduct any services you wish for Lady Beverly."

Conrad picked up the cue. "I am Father Conrad Laurence of the Society of Jesus. I will officiate at your wife's funeral if you so desire. Perhaps it may ease your sorrow a little to have a Catholic funeral mass?"

"That is very kind of you, Father, but I am having the body shipped down to English soil where my wife can be laid to rest."

"Of course." Conrad glanced at Naamah to see if the significance of that exchange had sunk in. It was apparent that it had. No devout Catholic would turn down the opportunity of a proper funeral mass after decades in which such things were either illegal or socially discouraged.

"A young woman was arrested for theft in the baggage train. These were found in her possession and we are trying to identify who she stole them from. Do you recognize them?

Wilberforce shook his head. "No, I don’t. Never seen them before."

Conrad grunted thoughtfully. It was, however, Naamah who put the next question in. "Captain, you identified the body that was found?"

"My wife yes."

"Who was she." Naamah's voice was sweet, gentle and as merciless as a poisonous snake.

"What? How dare you! If you were not a Lady and a Priest, I would strike you for that cruelty."

"I really wouldn’t recommend that." Naamah was almost droll. "You and your wife have three children. The woman whose body you identified as your wife was unmarried and has never born a child although she was not a virgin. So, who was she?"

Wilberforce spluttered and raged for several seconds before he snarled out a reply. "My wife is alive. Or was, until you two fools murdered her."

[Calder]

Chapter Seven
Unidentifiable Room, Ruin of Inverness Castle, 21 April 1746

"Now, tell us just what is happening here. And do not leave anything out; there is trouble enough here to drown you without trace." Conrad's voice was cold and hard, quite different from the polite and respectful tone he usually adopted at interrogations.

"How dare you speak to me like that." Captain Horace Wilberforce was bright red with rage. "Mt family has been victimized and torn apart by tragedy. I had not expected the Spanish Inquisition."

"Nobody," Conrad said with a certain degree of relish, "expects the Spanish Inquisition. In this case, though, the situation is quite different from a hearing before the Inquisition tribunal. There is no question of guilt to be decided here. Your identification of a strange, murdered woman as your wife has made your guilt unquestionable. The issues to be decided here are guilty of what? And to what degree? Let us start with the most basic question of all. Are you Captain Horace Wilberforce?"

"I will kill you for this!" Wilberforce went from red-faced to purple, his teeth drawn back in a feral snarl and his eyes wide and staring. He lunged across the table, trying to seize Conrad by the throat. Watching from a corner, Naamah had a strange experience. She seemed to see, as if through a fog, Wilberforce's head shattering and his body slumping to the ground, struck down dead in his tracks. Then, the odd vision faded and she saw that Gusoyn had seized him and thrown him back into his chair. Not gently although Naamah reflected that if Achillea had been present she would probably have broken some of Wilberforce's more important bones in the process. Gusoyn was more discrete in his use of violence. Naamah shuddered slightly, still chilled by the vision of somebody trying to attack Conrad and being struck down before he could do so. It was almost enough to make her take Christianity seriously.

"You should thank Master Rivers for preventing you from committing a mortal sin, Captain Wilberforce. To lay violent hands on a Priest means not just your excommunication and eternal damnation but that of the next four generations of your family as well. Now, shall we start again? Are you Captain Horace Wilberforce?"

"Yes, damn you."

"We are all damned, Captain. Only God can grant us absolution. It is the great gift of our Lord Jesus Christ that forgiveness and absolution are ours for the asking. No matter how great our guilt." Conrad had an uneasy feeling he was missing something when he said that but he dismissed it.

There was a long silence. Eventually Wilberforce answered, slowly and heavily. "I am Captain Horace Wilberforce of Pulteney's Regiment of Foot. The woman you found is Joy Thackeray. Some weeks ago, just before Christmas, my wife went out riding. A few hours later, her horse returned with a message pinned to the saddle, instructing me to meet at a certain place. There I was told that if I wanted to see my wife alive again, I would have to take the woman and her friend up north as part of the Cumberland's Army. The woman would pose as my wife and her friend as an old family friend who would confirm her identity. Once they had got far enough north, they would go and my wife would be released."

Conrad and Naamah exchanged glances; the chance of Lady Beverly still being alive was minimal. They both assumed that she was buried somewhere near where she had been taken. Naamah at least doubted that she had died easily. Conrad looked at Wilberforce sympathetically. "Did they give you evidence that she was still alive even then?"

Wilberforce was obviously hard-put to keep his composure. "They showed me her glove. I am not a fool, Father, I know that there is but a slight chance that she still lives but as long as there is any hope at all, I must do as they say. Now the plan has fallen apart, I must assume she is gone."

"The person who presented himself as her friend, he was Captain Lyndon Rodney?"

"So he introduced himself. He was supposed to be in our Regiment but he was transferred to another while we were being reorganized. You must find him. At least he can tell us where to find my wife." Wilberforce couldn’t bring himself to say her body or her remains.

"He ran from camp two hours ago. Achillea is in pursuit of him now. She took Chianti. He is the fastest horse we have here." Gusoyn looked around at the group. "He must have run the moment he heard that we had brought Captain Wilberforce in. He will not get away, Captain. Achillea will ride him down and woe betide him when she does."

Kilmorack Woods, 12 miles west of Inverness.

Chianti was enjoying himself despite the fact that his rider wasn’t the human he liked. Even though he had an unfamiliar rider, he was having a good, long run and was stretching his muscles for the first time in days. He had tried, at first, to pick a suitably low branch to gallop under and sweep the human from his back but the human had made it clear if he tried it again, the word ‘stew’ would feature prominently in his future. He had been reluctantly forced to conclude that this human knew what she was doing; she had held him in fast canter that ate up ground yet conserved his energy for a future spurt. Ahead of him, he had seen another horse and rider and knew that they were the ones he was chasing.

On Chianti’s back, Achillea had seen the escapee as well and was already planning to close on them. The man known to her as Lyndon Rodney, she seriously doubted that was his real name, had exhausted his horse by galloping him in an effort to put as much distance between himself and the Army in Inverness as possible. Now, compared with the almost-fresh condition of Chianti, his horse had no energy left to run and nowhere to go even if he could. Achillea understood his problem even if she had no sympathy for him. Running from a manhunt was strategically difficult; one could ride one’s horse at maximum speed to gain distance and thus increase the chances that the pursuers would lose the trail. Alternatively, one could keep the speed down, conserve the horse’s energy for a final gallop to get clear and accept the increased odds of the pursuers being on their tail. Either was a bad situation and Achillea was well aware than in a pursuit, the odds lay with the pursuers. That’s why her favored policy was to stop on favorable ground and put up a fight. Make the pursuers bleed badly enough and they would give up.

Ahead of her, Rodney had obviously seen her closing in and she could see him trying to urge his tired horse into one last effort. It was pointless now, the Avebury grain-fed thoroughbreds were famous for their speed and Chianti was the fastest of them all. That’s why Igrat used him in her role as a courier. Achillea didn’t have Igrat’s style in the saddle, in fact she rode like a sack of turnips to quote one dispirited riding master, but she did have a firm grasp of the main essential of equestrianism. Not falling off. Now, she dug her heels in and felt Chianti explode into life. It was exhilarating, feeling the sheer strength and speed as the horse went into a full gallop. Almost immediately the distance between them and their target was visibly diminishing.

Ahead of them was a low, stone wall. Chianti didn’t hesitate. Achillea felt the enormous, piston like thrust of his back legs as they drove him in a fast, low arc over the wall and into a smooth landing on the other side. He didn’t even break pace as he went from full gallop to jump and then back to full gallop again. He did slightly regret the fact that his rider hadn’t fallen off but the thought of being the guest of honor in a stew kept his more malignant ideas under control. In any case, the last minutes of the chase were giving him an excuse to show his superiority over the army horse in front of him. His only real regret was that there were no mares around to witness him in all his galloping splendor.

Rodney was using a whip and his heels to try and force his horse into a gallop. In fairness, his horse did its best but it had already been ridden hard and the reserve of energy just wasn’t there. He broke into a shambling effort of a gallop but it barely made any difference. Chianti was closing fast with Achillea already planning on what to do next. Rodney turned in his saddle and fired off a pistol shot but Achillea had seen him turning to his right and guided Chianti into a shallow left turn that took him well away from the shot. She had no idea where it went but knew it was nowhere important.

Chianti was war-horse trained. All the Avebury stallions were. Had the pursuit continued, he would have slammed into the other horse at full gallop, probably knocking him off his feet and certainly dismounting his rider. That wasn’t necessary though, Rodney’s horse stumbled, perhaps from exhaustion, perhaps from the rough ground or even from a small hole. Whatever it was, he stumbled and sent Rodney off his back. A few seconds later Achillea and Chianti were on scene. Achillea slid from his back and felt more than a little relieved to be on her own feet again. Rodney’s horse was standing on all four legs but heaving for breath and was covered in foam. Chianti, barely panting, gave him the equine equivalent of a look of belittling contempt and glanced around for some grass that would make a nice snack. Unfortunately, it was still winter and the grass had yet to become edible.

Rodney had produced a gentleman’s small-sword and was pointing it at Achillea. She drew her own Deschaux rapier, looked at him and summed him up quickly. A thug and a bully, used to terrorizing others but no real idea of how to fight for his life. Armed for style and for show, not to kill. Position and posture, those taught to a ‘fashionable gentleman’ not a professional killer. Her Deschaux had almost nine inches more reach than the small-sword and in a rapier duel that was vital. Briefly, she remembered Michel da Corella lifting his own sword to salute her as he died. That man had style, I wish we could have been friends. This one is just another mad dog with delusions of adequacy.

Despite being outreached and outclassed, Rodney thrust at her. Achillea rotated the point of her rapier, enveloping his thrust within the spiral and then trapping his point. A flick of her wrist sent the small-sword spiraling through the air to land point-first in the ground a few yards away, scaring the living daylights out of a field-mouse that was watching the fight. With intense fascination, the mouse watched Achillea’s rapier tip slice into Rodney’s sword-arm just above the elbow, sink through the muscle until it touched the bone, then slide upwards through the upper arm muscle until it exited by the shoulder. The wound was crippling and Rodney felt the strength draining from his arm as his blood stained the ground around his feet.

Rodney knew the fight was turning into a disaster for him and the knowledge bewildered him. He was used to women who cowered before a display of force and brutality. Now, he had been disarmed with contemptuous ease and was faced with an opponent who was obviously trying to stop herself laughing at him. Nevertheless, he had a trick up his sleeve. He had a secondary weapon, a poniard dagger, in his left hand. His opponent’s other hand was empty. Also, the brief sword-fight had brought him within the point of the woman’s rapier and left her vulnerable to the dagger. His left hand lashed out, trying to sink the dagger into Achillea’s side, just below the lowest rib.

Unfortunately for Rodney, while he had decided what he wanted to do, he had neglected to consider what Achillea might be doing. Her left hand was empty for a reason. She could have had a knife in it, she carried several, but she had been asked to bring Rodney back alive. Or a reasonable approximation thereof. After she had sent Rodney’s sword spiraling away, she had continued to rotate to her right so that by the time he made his dagger thrust, she was standing at almost 90 degrees to him and the knife-blow he had planned was no longer possible. Instead, she grabbed his left arm just above the wrist and pulled, putting his knife hand safely out of her way and stretching out his arm. Then her right hand, clenched into a fist that still held her rapier, slammed down in a hammer blow.

When she had been an infant, still barely able to walk, Achillea was already being taught how to hit people so that her blows caused maximum damage. When she had grown into childhood, fights were not playing but were deadly serious. Still the lessons had continued on how she could do the most damage to her opponents in the widest possible number of ways. By the time she had walked into the arena for her first fight as an adult gladiator, there wasn’t a known weapon she could not use to lethal effect. Although the blow from her right fist was reinforced by the pommel of her rapier, that reinforcement was quite unnecessary. All it meant was that the impact shattered the two bones of Rodney’s forearm rather than just breaking them. His arm irreparably crippled, he staggered past her, blindly, his mind unable to absorb the damage he was suffering. That being the case, he barely registered the kick that crushed his left knee joint. All he knew and understood was that he was lying on the ground, effectively unable to move.

Achillea collected the length of thin rope she had hanging from Chianti’s saddle, yanked Rodney’s arms behind his back, ignoring the scream of pain as the broken bones grated against each other, and bound his wrists securely. Then she did the same with his ankles. He screamed again as the wrecked knee was jerked into place. She looked at him with utter disgust. “Death and pain are not frightening, it’s the fear of pain and death we need to fear. Which is why we praise the poet who wrote, ‘Death is not fearful, but dying like a coward is.’ So don’t.”

The next bit, she knew, would be the difficult part. Getting Rodney’s horse and walking him over wasn’t difficult. Lifting Rodney across his back was and she was panting by the time she’d got him hanging over the animal. His sword-arm was bleeding badly so she bandaged it with strips torn from his shirt. Then, the reins of his horse still in her hand, she mounted Chianti and started the long ride back to Inverness. With her prisoner not going anywhere, she decided that she could afford to take her time. There was no need to tire Chianti out more than she had to.

Unidentifiable Room, Ruin of Inverness Castle, 21 April 1746

Dusk had fallen. Achillea was warming herself in front of the hearth-fire after the long ride back from Kilmorack Woods. Chianti was in his stable, enjoying a bucket of grain mash in the gentle pride of a job well done. Naamah was looking at Lyndon Rodney with an almost complete lack of interest. She had taken one look at the wounds to his arms and legs and realized they were beyond her competence. So, she had called in a surgeon from the lines to look at them for her. He had done so and shaken his head sadly.

“Left arm and right leg are gone, My Lady. The bones are so damaged there is no way we can save them. In fact, we need to amputate quickly before corruption of the wounds sets in. The sliced muscle on his right arm will never recover. What happened to this man? The wounds look severe for firelocks. Cannon fire? It could be grape I suppose. Grapeshot would do this much damage. Is he a rebel?”

“Too many questions.” Naamah looked at him. “He is suspected of the murder of Lady Beverly Wilberforce and is to be questioned accordingly. Then he will be hanged. Thank you for your opinion. My apologies for troubling you. Gusoyn, please escort our friend here back to his quarters.”

Once the room was closed to outsiders, Conrad took a seat opposite the condemned man. “Your name is Lyndon Rodney?”

The man nodded. A three hour ride, strapped over the back of a horse with multiple shattered bones had destroyed any resistance he might have had. “I am.”

“Please tell us your real name. We’ll need it for your grave. You do want to be buried under your own name don’t you?” Conrad spoke gently and politely, drawing Rodney into the funnel of his web.

The man remained silent. Conrad sighed slightly. “We know your partner in this affair was Joy Thackeray. At least that is the name she will be buried under. We can but assume it is correct. Why do you not follow her example? It really doesn’t matter now.”

From the expression in the man’s eyes. Conrad suddenly realized that names mattered a great deal in this case. Yet, the man did answer, reluctantly for certain but he did answer. “Gerrard Thackeray. And who are you?”

“I am Father Conrad Laurence of the Society of Jesus. The Lady Joy was your wife?”

“You don’t know anything do you? She was my sister.”

“Then why, after going to all this trouble to arrange an escape for you both, using the Hanoverian Army to act as cover, did you murder your sister so brutally?”

“I didn’t. I never knew she was dead until I walked into your tent and saw her stretched out. I think that mewling, clay-brained coxcomb Wilberforce killed her. He must have finally worked out that his wife was dead and killed Joy in a fit of anger. I was going to kill him in revenge but with the battle and the advance on Inverness, there was no chance before you arrested him. Then, I heard you were coming for me so I ran. Only you sent that monster after me.”

‘Lynden Rodney’ had moved suddenly in the wave of anger and bitterness that swept over him and the movement made surges of agony pass through his mangled limbs. He gasped and trembled, then fixed a terrible glare on Achillea. “You festering yald, you never gave me a chance.”
“I gave you every chance you deserved. You chose to ignore them.” Achillea shook her head. “Have you noticed how every cowardly footpad claims that the person who brought them down never gave them a chance?”

Conrad guessed she was right; it was an accusation he had heard all too often. “And yet the strange thing is that those to whom life never gave a chance almost always struggle on and do their best with what little they have. This man, Gerrard Thackeray, was born with every advantage and yet has lost everything.”

“It is not the man who has too little that is poor, but the one who hankers after more.” Achillea seemed remarkably unfazed by the insult Thackeray had thrown at her. She also remembered one of her Dottore’s lessons If you hear that someone is speaking ill of you, instead of trying to defend yourself you should say: "He obviously does not know me very well, since there are so many other faults he could have mentioned.”

“Seneca?” Conrad asked. Achillea nodded.

“I take it from your comments that the real Lady Beverly Wilberforce is dead?” Conrad could almost feel that he didn’t want to know the answer.

“Of course she is.” Now that he had been exposed, Thackeray seemed to be proud of his crimes. “You should have heard her beg when she realized what was in store for her. She tried to show us a locket with pictures of her children in it so we’d let her live. She was even praying while I strangled her.”

“What I don’t understand,” Conrad was genuinely bewildered, and that helped to mask his revulsion. “Is why you had such an elaborate escape plan? Why kill an innocent woman in order to hide in the Army?”

It was Thackeray’s turn to be bewildered. “After what happened on the first day of December, what choice did we have? The whole country was looking for us.”

[Calder]

Chapter Eight
Parade Ground, Provost Marshal, Inverness Lines. April 22nd 1746

The troops of Blakeney's Regiment of Foot were drawn up in a loose square that had one side left open. That side was replaced by a large but wilted tree with a horse waiting patiently beside it. The purpose of the parade was made chillingly clear by the noose hanging over a branch of the tree and running to the pommel on the horse's saddle. In the background, the Dead March was being played and it echoed across the silent courtyard. The Regiment was hanging Gerrard Thackeray today. In the background, Conrad and Naamah watched the grim ceremony starting. Their emotions were entirely different; Naamah was filled with self-righteous satisfaction at the sight of justice being done, Conrad with black despair at the knowledge that a soul was about to be irretrievably lost.

The drums grew louder as the cart bearing Thackeray was drawn slowly across the parade ground towards the waiting regiment. Under normal circumstances, the condemned man would have had to walk to his execution but with one leg shattered as if by a cannonball hit and both his arms equally disabled, that was not possible. Despite the cold, Thackeray was wearing only his shirt and a pair of civilian trousers hastily commandeered from a suttler. That brought a slight but unmistakable air of relief from the assembled soldiers. Every man present felt personally affronted that Thackeray had been one of their officers, even by false claim, and to see him hanged in his red coat would have made the insult unbearable.

The cart passed the hanging tree, proceeded down one limb of the parade square, slowly so each man in the parade could have a good look at the prisoner. The cart reached the end of the ranks, turned to move across the base of the square and then proceeded up the other limb towards the hanging tree. It had just reached the tree when there was a surge of activity across the paraded Regiment.

"Royal Salute! His Grace, the Duke of Cumberland on Parade!"

Thackeray was forgotten when the Regiment came to attention and its colors dipped in salute to the commander of the Army and his companion. It took the soldiers a minute or so to recognize that companion. Previously they had only seen Igrat in breeches and cloak carrying messages on the battlefield. Now, she was wearing a very fashionable lady's riding dress, a wide-brimmed plumed hat and was mounted sidesaddle. In fact, it was Chianti that the men first recognized and by association realized his rider was Igrat. A barrage of coughing spread down the ranks. Igrat took off her hat with a sweeping gesture to acknowledge the compliment and bowed in her saddle. Igrat was perfectly comfortable riding sidesaddle unlike Naamah and Lillith. Around her, coughing was now interspaced with cheers from the Files-on-Parade who believed their Color-Serjeant wasn't looking. In the very near future, those men would discover that their Color Serjeant was always looking.

The Duke rode around the square, inspecting the paraded Regiment and giving each man the impression that, just for a moment, the Duke had looked at him personally. Igrat was keeping Chinati closely in hand; the stallion reckoned himself greatly superior to the Army horse the Duke was riding and kept trying to move ahead of him. That was not permissible and Igrat made that quite clear. Meanwhile, the Duke had reached where Major Francis Leighton, the field commander of the Regiment, was standing. Close to him, Igrat could see that he had been weeping quietly at the humiliation that had fallen on him and his men. She reached over, touched Cumberland on the sleeve and whispered something to him. The gesture and the whisper announced as clearly as any formal announcement that she was now his official, acknowledged mistress. There was a surge of approval from the ranks. They had all seen her doing her duty by carrying messages on the battlefield and thus saw her as being one of them.

"Fine body of men you have here, Major. Stout-hearted soldiers all. They do you honor, Sir." Cumberland looked around again and noted the men straightening on hearing the praise. In the background, almost unnoticed, Thackeray had been sat up in the cart and the noose was around his neck. As soon as the Duke had finished speaking, the prisoner would be hanged.

"All but one, Your Grace, All but one." Leighton shook his head sadly. "To murder the lady of a fellow officer, we are disgraced, Sire."

"Thackeray is not one of your number. He is an imposter and so no blame can fall upon the Regiment for his misdeeds. In fact, I transferred him to this Regiment myself, not knowing of his falsity. If blame must fall, it should rest with me and none other." Igrat leaned forward and whispered again. Cumberland grinned and nodded.

"It is kind of you to say so, Your Grace. May we proceed with the execution?"

"You do Thackeray too much honor by giving the order yourself, Leighton. Is there a private here who has particularly distinguished himself? In such company he would needs be gallant indeed to stand out."

"Private Tanner, Your Grace. Fought well at Culloden against the Irish Picquets. Killed one of their number and took another prisoner."

"Then Private Tanner should have the honor of giving the order." That pleased Leighton and the rest of his Regiment greatly. Having the order to hang Thackeray given by a private, it was established that the condemned was the lowest of all those present.

And so it was that Leighton smiled for the first time since he had heard the news of Thackeray's guilt. "Private Tanner, Ten paces forwards, at the Ordinary Pace, March. Give the order for the execution to proceed."

The Color Serjeant whispered the correct words to Tanner as he doubled out to the middle of the square. His voice was firm and proud as he gave the order that would restore the honor of the Regiment. "Gerrard Thackeray, found guilty by court-martial of the murder of Lady Beverly Wilberforce and sentenced to be hanged. Hangman, proceed with the sentence."

The hangman smacked the waiting horse with a sudden severe blow to his rump. The outraged horse, who had been waiting patiently while the humans went through their foolish rituals, saw himself as affronted and took off for his stable. In doing so, the noose tied around Thackeray's neck jerked him out of his chair on the cart and left him struggling in mid-air. The driver of the cart whipped up his horse and drove away, leaving Thackeray no hope of escape. His arms had not been bound and, while one arm was crippled and immobile, the much-weakened knife-slashed limb was free and flailing, trying to reach the noose that was slowly strangling him. His legs, also unrestrained, kicked and jerked, the good leg striking the bad and making him scream with agony as the shattered knee was forced into bone-grating movement. At this point, by tradition, a man's friends were allowed to break ranks and pull on his legs to hasten his death. Not one man moved.

Eventually, the body was still. The Duke edged his horse over to where Tanner was standing and looked down on him. "An extra duty well-performed Private. Here's a golden guinea for you. Leighton, this soldier seems to have the virtues of a Chosen Man?"

"He does indeed, Your Grace. I name him so."

Promoted and enriched, Chosen Man Tanner returned to his position to admiring looks from his fellows. Leighton saw his Regiment standing tall again. "Three Cheers for the Duke of Cumberland!"

The cheers echoed across the ground. The Duke acknowledged them and then spoke clearly, his voice carrying across the square. "Good men, fellow-soldiers, may I ask you for three cheers for my Lady Isadora."

The cheers thundered across the square, almost reaching the level given to the Duke. Igrat took her hat off and again waved it in acknowledgement of the salute. Quite apart from anything else, her position at Cumberland's side was now solidly established and she had the common soldiers of at least one Regiment firmly on her side. Unnoticed behind her, Thackeray's body was cut down, his throat cut to make sure he was fully and properly dead, and he was dragged away.
"He will be denied Christian burial of course." Across the parade ground, Conrad seemed truly heartbroken. "And that display of Igrat's was uncalled for."

Naamah looked at him coldly. "Men like Thackeray have, as their last desire, to be the center of attention once more, even if it is at their execution. Igrat took that away from him. In years to come, the men here today, these men, will remember being inspected by their commander, the praise he gave them and their first sight of his new mistress. They will remember how one of their own was honored. But they will not remember who Thackeray was or even that he was there. He will be forgotten and nameless. Conrad, you only know Igrat slightly so I will give you this warning. Never underestimate her. She sees into people's souls as deeply as you do and probably understands them better. Last night, Thackeray refused to disclose where the body of Lady Wilberforce was buried. A mean, spiteful act that brought him no benefit, but only served to torment her innocent husband and bring anguish to her even more innocent children. Igrat punished him for that spite by taking away the one thing he had left to care about. I applaud her for doing so.”

Lochardil House, Inverness, 22 April 1746

“We didn’t hang an innocent man, Conrad. Gerrard Thackeray was charged with the murder of Lady Beverly Wilberforce, given a fair trial in front of a Court-Martial headed by the Provost as laid down in King’s Regulations, convicted on the basis of his own confession, freely given and sentenced to death. He was hanged for the murder of Lady Beverly Wilberforce and there is no doubt of his guilt. Of course, everybody assumed the body we found behind the Surgeons Lines at Drummossie Moor was that Lady. Only we know she was Joy Thackeray. We can’t help it if other people jump to false conclusions.”

“I know that. I do not spend a moment grieving for Gerrard Thackeray. A guilty man who receives a due and just punishment is not my concern. What worries me is who really did murder Joy Thackeray. If we do not find out the answer to that, I fear Judith Tomkins will continue to be the subject of unwarranted accusations.”

“I think that most unlikely, Father Conrad.” Gusoyn spoke quietly and carefully. “Everybody save a select few believe that the victim was Lady Beverly Wilberforce and Gerrard Thackeray has been hanged for that. She will not be accused again although I suspect she will eventually fall foul of the law.”

“Gusoyn is right.” Namaah pursed her lips. “We do have two mysteries to solve. Who killed Joy Thackeray and what happened on the first of December that caused them to construct such an elaborate escape plan. Gerrard Thackeray all but confirmed that a major hue-and-cry was in progress for himself and his sister. I cannot recollect any such alarums. I know we are remote in our little corner of the countryside but we are not that remote.”

“And if there was such a hue-and-cry, Sir George Huxtable would have told us. He is Sheriff of Avebury now, and he knows to work closely with the Lord of the Manor. There was nothing mentioned to you was there Sir Stewart?” Naamah smirked slightly at using the formal address.

Parmenio shook his head. He had been sitting quietly in one corner, thinking over the next steps in the campaign. None of them would be pleasant. “Never a word. And, you said, correctly, that Sir George would have told me. It was then a hard time of course, with the Young Pretender’s Army encamped at Derby. We were all expecting him to move south again and a tough battle it would have been, Sir George Murray is a worthy opponent. We are fortunate that he and Charles Edward had such a falling out. They abandoned their position at Derby in December 8th and started the retreat to Scotland. I have never understood why.”

"How long were they at Derby for?" Conrad was nervous about asking military questions, aware that almost everybody present, including the women, had much more experience in such things than he did.

"They arrived on December 4th and started their retreat on the 8th. Five days." Parmenio happened to know from an intelligencer in Charles Edward Stuart's court that the Jacobite Army command had spent most of that time talking. What they had said was not recorded though. Nevertheless, he wasn't going to reveal the presence of an intelligencer to a Catholic priest though.

"Perhaps they were waiting for something?" Conrad was still tentative.

"It's three days ride for a messenger from London to Derby; four days in winter." Parmenio reflected that communications in Seleucia had been a lot faster than they were in England two thousand years later. "Igrat could probably manage it in two and three."

"Not riding sidesaddle." Naamah sounded catty. If she was mounted sidesaddle, it took all her skill to avoid falling off.

"I wouldn’t wager anything valuable on that. Talking about wagers, has she collected her winnings from Sir John Cope yet?" Parmenio guessed she might have problems there. A brief investigation had showed a loss of that kind would leave Sir John destitute. He was a damned fool for betting money he could not afford to lose.

"No, he makes excuses and avoids her. Already, it is being suggested that failing to pay a debt of honor is not the act of a gentleman. Even a show of reluctance is a mark to his discredit." Gusoyn spoke politely and formally as usual but the condemnation in his voice was there for anybody with the wit to hear it.

"More fool him." Parmenio thought again. "So, something happened on the first of December that made the Jacobite Army turn north? An event of such importance, I cannot imagine. Not without us knowing of it."

There was a long silence as the problem was digested. Eventually, Parmenio resumed. "Assuming that whatever was supposed to happen on December 1st and the retreat of the Jacobite Army from Derby are linked, then there is another possibility. Whatever was supposed to happen on the first, did not and it was the failure of that enterprise that led to the retreat from Derby. That was what all the discussion was about; they were waiting for news from London and as each day passed, the discussion swung from what they would do when the news came to what they would do if it did not."

"That would mean that whatever didn’t happen was very important." Naamah was no military commander but she had been a queen. She understood the relative importance of events and anything that held an Army in place for five days, by definition was important.

"Assuming of course that the retreat of the Jacobites and what did or did not happen in London are linked. Coincidence does not imply connection." Parmenio repeated his earlier caution.

"Nor does correlation imply causation." Conrad was relieved to find a point where his knowledge was relevant. "Why do you stipulate London? There is fighting at Carlisle."

"Because Naamah is right. If there is a link between the two, then to make an army retreat the way the Jacobites did would require something of great import. It would have to be something in the capital or posing a direct, tangible threat to it. Alarums in the provinces wouldn't do it."

"There are reported to have been great disturbances across London when the Jacobite Army arrived in Derby." Conrad was being very careful. Secretly, his sympathies lay with the Jacobites but he was certain that should be kept strictly to himself. Even here. Even with these people. "London was in such an uproar as cannot be expressed, and is scarce to be imagined. It is said that the Duke of Newcastle remained inaccessible in his own house weighing up in his mind the part it would be the most prudent for him to take, and even uncertain whether he should not instantly declare himself for Charles Edward. King George was ordering a royal yacht in the Thames loaded with his goods, ready to flee,

Parmenio snorted. "That's Jacobite propaganda. Newcastle was with me while we planned the engagement of the Jacobite Army at Derby. He signed the letter I wrote to the Lord Mayor telling him of the King's desire for the internal security of London and encouraged him to support those who volunteered to give armed support to the King. There were more such volunteers than there were arms to give them. The King was at Finchley, reviewing newly mustered troops. There was no run on the Bank of England, the way there was after Prestonpans. All things considered, London was in good order and would have stayed that way as long as the King was on the throne."

"You need to be careful Conrad." Namaah had an annoying self-righteous tone in her voice. "It's safe to say things like that here, with us, but the penal laws against Catholics are being enforced and Jesuits and other priests are not allowed within 10 miles of London. There's a reward of £100 for those who discover and inform on a priest within that distance. Sir Stewart, what would be an event of enough consequence to bring about that retreat?"

Parmenio thought about that. "The obvious one is a French invasion. There is intelligence that confirms one is on the cards if conditions were right. Another would be a rising of the English Jacobites in support of Prince Charles. When I was in conference with the Duke of Newcastle, the possibility of a French invasion was much on my mind. That would have been an interesting situation with a French Army to the South and the Jacobite Army to the north. We would have to have done a King Harold. Advanced North, defeated the Jacobites, then done a forced march south to do the French."

"Didn’t King Harold lose the second one?" Naamah asked sweetly.

"He did, but he's not me. I'd have won both battles. That's why we were recruiting militia in London though. The defenses of London with enough troops would have pinned the French while I got down south to deal with them."

"You sound confident." Conrad was still rankled at having been rebuked by Naamah.

"It’s a situation I've been in before, Conrad. It's not actually as dangerous as it looks. The trick is to make sure both battles use assets the other did not. We would have broken the Jacobites at Derby with guns and cavalry, then fought the French in a defensive battle with our infantry. In such battles, even a tired army can give a good account of itself. And, of course, we had Sir John Wade with nine thousand men closing in on their flank and the militia mobilizing all around them. We'd have won both battles. I would wager Lord Murray knows that and his was a voice for retreat. " Parmenio thought for a moment. "The real danger would be a simultaneous rising of the Jacobites and a French invasion. The problem the Jacobites have is as long as King George is on the throne, the rising won’t happen. He's popular enough and that makes the country as a whole antagonistic to the Jacobites. People prefer stability to confusion and, for all his faults, King George represents stability. In fact, a Jacobite rising would not take place without a French invasion and a French invasion would not be launched without an English Jacobite rising. I'll wager that was what Charles was waiting for at Derby. One or the other."

"So what happened to stop either?" Naamah was thinking aloud. "What happened on December 1st that made it clear neither would happen?"

[Calder]

Chapter Nine
Duke of Cumberland’s Dining Quarters, Drummond Tower, Inverness

“Your Grace, may I take the liberty of asking a question of great sensitivity.”

“Preferment for a deserving member of your family? I owe you far more than that, Sir Stewart.” The Duke was neither offended or angered by the request he believed was coming. It was, after all, Sir Stewart Parmenio’s duty to look after his family and seek advantage for them just as the Duke did for his family. And Sir Stewart’s family has been of great service, generous to me and kind to those in need as appropriate to their station. The House of Hanover does owe them preferment and they deserve it more than most who apply.

“Your Grace, it is information I need. I am wrestling with a strategical mystery and there is a piece missing in the puzzle. The Jacobite Army was waiting at Derby for something to happen before they advanced further. If that thing happened, they would have advanced on London. Straight into the trap we had planned at Diseworth and thus meeting with destruction I agree, but they would still have advanced. That thing did not happen and they retreated. Now, I am convinced that there are two candidates that I know of for that thing. One is a French invasion, the other is an English Jacobite rising. These two things are locked together and one cannot happen without the other. There is a third event, a key that unlocks them. Whatever that third event was, it was supposed to happen on December First. Obviously, it did not. The question I must ask before we can plan further is whether you have knowledge of an event that could have been such a key?”

“I see.” The Duke of Cumberland got to his feet and paced around, obviously mulling a situation over. Eventually, he came to his decision. “Sir Stewart, with your daughter’s courage and her tenderness to me, I feel that even though the bonds of marriage do not formally exist between us, our families are as closely related as if they did. Therefore, I will tell you something that is a great family and national secret. This is known only to a tiny few and must not spread. Do you, and you Isadora, agree to be bound by that secrecy?”

“We do.” The Duke was amused to note that Igrat spoke for both herself and her father. Parmenio nodded in agreement.

“Very well. On the night of December First, there was an attempt to assassinate my father, King George II. The assassins, believed to have been in the pay of an external agency, had set up a wicked and cowardly ambush. They were a couple, a man and a woman. The attempt took place during a reception held at Kensington Palace. It was a minor affair, of no great importance save that a young lady expressed interest in the works of art that decorate the Kings Gallery. There is a remarkable portrait of King Charles I in there, on horseback. When I and my brothers were children we used to play there and joke that the portrait was very life-like but too tall.”

“By about how much was he too tall, William?” Igrat fed him the line with a completely straight face.

“By about a head, Igrat.” Cumberland and his guests laughed at that. Then the Duke shook his head. “My apologies, Sir Stewart. Igrat and I are at the point where we tell each other stories of our childhood. I wish mine had been as happy as hers.”

Parmenio couldn’t help thinking that if he knew the true story of Igrat’s childhood, he’d probably have run screaming out of the room. “We are fortunate, Your Grace, Avebury is a happy place.”

“Perhaps I could visit one day?”

“We would be honored by your presence, Your Grace. I promised you our next foal, perhaps that would be a good opportunity?”

“Capital idea, Sir. Now, my father took the young lady in question to the gallery and started to walk her around the works of art. A great honor for her of course. She repaid the kindness by leading him to where her partner was in wait. He jumped from hiding and attacked my father with a sword while the woman held on to my father’s sword arm so that he could not defend himself. Fortunately, his shout of alarm was heard by his Guard and even more fortunately, they were close at hand. They burst into the King’s Gallery and engaged the assailant. My father threw off the lady and drew his own sword and would have run her through but the assassins fled and disappeared into the darkness. They disappeared and were not seen again. Rather than start a major hue and cry, we decided to keep news of the attempt secret. It was our belief that if word got out, it may start a riot against the Catholics and Jacobites that would be detrimental to the good order of the Kingdom. So, we contented ourselves with making quiet inquiries and thus maintaining public order.”

Parmenio nodded. “With respect, Your Grace, I now believe that the two were seen again. The body of the woman was found in your surgeon’s lines and we hanged her confederate yesterday. She was believed to be Lady Beverly Wilberforce; we now know that the real Lady Beverly was abducted and murdered by the assassins. They believed that there was a hue-and-cry for them so they needed somewhere safe to hide. They forced, by threats to his remaining family, Sir Horace to give them refuge. He thought his wife was being held hostage as well although in his heart he knew she was already dead. Their real names, at least as known to us, were Gerrard and Joy Thackeray. I must confess that I now regret we hanged Gerrard Thackeray so quickly. There were questions which he could have answered.

“I think though that we have solved the strategical mystery of which I spoke, Your Grace. Charles Edward Stuart and his army were waiting in Derby for news of the successful assassination of His Majesty. News of failure would have had all the consequences Your Grace described and the course of action taken was very wise. A successful assassination would have caused even greater unrest, complete disruption and paralysis at the highest levels of government and, almost certainly an English Jacobite uprising. Into that chaos, a French invasion would have been entirely possible and would have presented us with a difficult strategic problem. We had already dealt with the Jacobite Army moving south; they would have died in battle at Diseworth. An English Jacobite rising would make little difference to that, it would be controlled by the militia until the defeat of Charles Edward Stuart and his ignominious flight caused it to dissipate of its own accord.

“Moving south from Derby combined with a French invasion would have been a more complex issue and required successive battles but we would have coped. Such an invasion coupled with a Jacobite rising would have been a perilous situation and required much care in handling although I believe we would have been victorious in the end. A French invasion, an English Jacobite rising amid the inevitable chaos from an assassination at the highest level of state would be the Devil’s Trifecta. A very hard problem indeed.”

“More so than you think, Sir Stewart. The heir apparent, my elder brother Frederick, is a strong supporter of the opposition in Parliament and, on accession to the throne, would remove all of the present administration and replace them with creatures of his own. That includes the Army command of course. So, the Army would have been leaderless when the crisis broke.”

Parmenio thought about that. He decided there was a way out of that particular situation but it would probably not be tactful to mention it. “A great concern indeed, Your Grace. This is what Charles was waiting for, news that the assassination had succeeded and that the train of events was in play. When there was no word of success and its consequences, it was apparent the plot had failed, there would be no uprising and no invasion. So, he had to retreat North. Now, all is in place.”

“A cunning and evil plot, Sir Stewart. We are fortunate to have been spared its machinations.”

“Too complex, Your Grace. Combinations like this, depending on the coordination of widely-separated events, always go wrong. Something, somewhere always breaks the chain. Plans are best kept simple. The Jacobite’s Highland Charge is a good example. It worked at Prestonpans and Falkirk Muir because it is simple. We defeated it equally simply, by blasting it with grapeshot until it was in a musketry crossfire.”

“There is something else as well. Sir Stewart, there is an unspoken, tacit agreement between the Royal Families of Europe. They do not go around assassinating each other. If our theory on this is correct and the French are behind this assassination, then that agreement is broken and there will be all the hells to pay. Europe would become like the Italian Cinquecento where all is decided by the assassin’s rapier and the poisoner’s foul brews.”

That’s a bit of an over-simplification and I’m glad Nammie wasn’t here for the last bit. thought Parmenio. The Cinquecento was no era of saints, certainly, but nor was it one of devils. It was a very human, strenuous age; an age of contradictions that was both red with blood and pale with passion, an age of steel and velvet, of the dazzling blaze of enlightenment and impenetrable blackness of fanaticism; an age of swift movement, pitiless violence and high endeavor, of sharp antitheses and amazing contrasts. I quite liked it. It was a good time to be a competent strategist. “It would be best, Your Grace, for that to be avoided. Might I respectfully suggest we explore further into this? I very much doubt that we have reached the bottom of this affair yet. Now we have two additional questions who killed the assassin Joy Thackeray and why? We must also speculate that when Gerrard Thackeray tried to escape, he was not fleeing us but the killers of his sister.”

Kingston’s Light Horse, Little Scatwell, April 28th, 1746

“They almost made it, Colonel.” Major Brookhouse looked over at the farm with the barn on its outskirts. “A few more miles and they would have been into the Highlands.”

“That wouldn’t have saved them.” Semiramis eased her position on her saddle. She’d kept her regiment moving steadily forward ever since Culloden, pursuing the fleeing remnants of the Jacobite Army without mercy. The two dragoon regiments were doing much the same thing with equal ruthlessness. She had enjoyed herself, nothing amused her more than the sight of her enemies fleeing before her, but now her men were desperately tired and badly needed to rest and regroup. That, though, was less important than maintaining the pressure on the defeated army. She agreed with Parmenio’s maxim Victories are not won on the battlefield but with the pursuit afterwards. “Most of the men are not highlanders and if they ask for aid, the peasants up here will close the door in their face. If they are highlanders but from the wrong clan, they are quite likely to be killed. Even if they are highlanders and from the right clan, the Duke will be bringing the army up here soon enough. This is the last civil war that will be fought here on British soil. The Duke will make sure of that.”

“Mah laird, mah laird..” A figure was running towards her, waving his arms with great agitation. The sight gave a lot of quiet amusement to the troopers of Kingston’s Light Horse who were well aware that Semiramis was not a Lord. In fact there had been a lot of confusion about how to address her since My Lord and Sir were equally inappropriate. Being commanded by a woman had been a subject of embarrassment at first but after being salted at Culloden and seasoned in the pursuit, that opinion had changed. Now, Kingston’s Light Horse knew that they might be only militia cavalry but they could take any regular cavalry regiment apart at the seams.

“What say you?” Semiramis was curt.

“Mah laird. . . .” The man, now obviously the local presbyter, stopped for a second aware that something didn’t quite add up, but plowed on. “Thaur ur fugiti'es takin' refuge in 'at barn fur sure but thaur ur also mony woonded. Mony ur in a pitiful state an' they greit fur aid. Ah beg ye tae tak' mercy oan them.”

Semiramis looked at him dispassionately. “You are aware that Charles Edward Stuart, the night before Culloden, gave orders to his men that no Hanoverian troops should be given quarter? He set the rules, do you suggest that we should change them?”

“Sic' orders ur a sin mah laird, but these men did nae gie them. They ur puir, simple folk fa ur haur only coz their laird ordered it sae.”

“And my lord ordered me to play the hand that Charles Edward Stuart dealt us.” Semiramis looked at the stone-built barn. It was designed and constructed to allow people to fight off raiders and bringing it down would cost her regiment a lot of lives. “Very well. We will try.”

She looked around for the most expendable man in the Regiment. “Private Milligen. Fix your bayonet, pin a white cloth on it, and advance upon the barn. Tell those within that if they surrender peacefully, we will take the unwounded prisoner, and then convey them to Inverness. The wounded will remain here, be treated according to their needs and conveyed to Inverness when ready to travel. If they fail to agree to these terms, we will bring up the six pounders.”

She watched Milligan obey orders, make his white flag of truce and ride forward. When he was twenty paces from the barn, he stopped and shouted, “My Colonel wishes to offer terms.”

The reply was simple, immediate and exactly what Semiramis had expected. There was a good dozen or more musket shots from inside the barn that sent both Milligen and his horse tumbling to the ground. To Semiramis’s relief the horse staggered to his feet and galloped back to the Regiment, hurt but alive. Milligan lay still upon the ground.

The presbyter looked in horror at the scene and ran out towards the barn, waving his arms. "Gonnae-no, gonnae-no ye fools. Th' barn is foo ay dreach stra’. it will burn loch tinder if th' sparks frae yer firelocks sit it afir’.”

He was roughly level with Milligan’s lifeless body when another tattoo of musket shots sent him tumbling to the ground. Semiramis looked at the scene and shook her head. “Well, my brave lads, I believe they have just declined to discuss terms. They really shouldn’t have shot the priest as well though. That is tempting fate. All right, I wish we really had some six pounders but we’ll have to do this the hard way.”

“Colonel, look! Fire!”

What Semiramis saw then was almost enough to make her regard Christianity with something approaching seriousness. The presbyter had warned the men that firing their firelocks inside a barn filled with dry straw was risking fire from the showers of sparks. They had shot him and that was exactly what had happened. The sparks from the locks on their muskets had ignited the straw and the flames were spreading rapidly. Already she could see columns of black smoke emerging out of the window and through cracks in the roof. That also told her the really disastrous news from the point of view of the men in the barn. The men had been firing through the windows, although those were little more than firing ports. That was where the firelocks had showered their sparks and that so that was where the fires had started. They were also close to the doors and the spread of the blaze had quickly cut the men off from their only way out. Just to add an extra dimension of horror, she guessed that the wounded had been lying on the straw and were now being burned alive. If she’d been in that barn she would have shot herself by now. There were some bangs from inside the blazing barn. Were they the sound of men taking the sensible way out, muskets cooking off in the fire or just old, dry timbers exploding in the intense heat.

“Nobody getting out of there. They shouldn’t have shot the priest all right. And they brought that on themselves by doing so.” The Major didn’t seem to have much pity in him but then he was a lowlander. He’d seen burning barns with people locked inside before, the work of Highland reivers. To him, the blaze was simple justice.

“Notice the priest didn’t cry out that they were sinners for killing a man who’d been sent under flag of truce. He warned them they could start a fire.”

“Aye, Colonel, you are right there. Perhaps that is why God turned his face from him.”

Semiramis shrugged and stretched. “Probably. Nothing we can do here. Those men locked the door from the inside and they can’t get it open. Their problem. We have miles to ride before we can rest tonight.”

“There is Loch Meig not far ahead. The ground is good and defensible and we have a ready supply of water for the horses and ourselves.”

“Speaking of the horses, is Milligan’s mount serviceable?”

“It is, Colonel. T’was just grazed by a ball and badly frightened. A few days light service and he’ll be fine.”

“Very good. Oh, Major, I’m told the cattle around here are suspected of Jacobite sympathies. We should round up a few and interrogate them accordingly. Execution for those who refuse to swear allegiance to good King George. I feel like eating a good thick steak tonight.”

“I’ll pass the word, Colonel.” Kingston’s Light Horse had several very skilled butchers in its ranks so Semiramis was confident she would get a well-cut and succulent steak. Her regiment was already getting the idea about this kind of pursuit mission. It was a combination of boredom and short, violent action but at least one ate well, off captured rebel livestock of course.

Behind the Regiment, as it rode out, the fire in the barn was already subsiding. As Semiramis had expected, nobody inside had survived.

[Calder]

Chapter Ten
Ballroom, Lady Drummuir’s House, Inverness, April 30, 1746.

The chorus struck up a new tune, unknown as yet in these parts and one which both singers and musicians had hurriedly learned in the hours since the King’s Courier had brought the sheets up. The poor man had been hard put to decide which was the most important; the music for the orchestra and chorus or the confidential dispatches for the Duke of Cumberland. He had settled on the latter since the chorus could only rebuke him while the Duke could have him shot.

The female choir started the chorale.

See, the conqu'ring hero comes!
Sound the trumpets! Beat the drums!
Sports prepare! The laurel bring!
Songs of triumph to him sing!

As their voices faded away on the last words, the male choir took over and at that point, the Duke of Cumberland entered with Igrat on his arm.

See, the conqu'ring hero comes!
Sound the trumpets! Beat the drums!
Sports prepare! The laurel bring!
Songs of triumph to him sing!
See, the conqu'ring hero comes!
Sound the trumpets! Beat the drums!

Igrat couldn’t help thinking that, had the people here known who Parmenio really was, the subject of the oratorio would have been a little tactless but they didn’t so it wasn’t. Around her, the occupants of the ballroom had stopped what they were doing and were applauding the guest of honor and his lady. Most people had guessed what was coming although nobody other than the Duke knew the precise details. He hadn't known himself until he had read the dispatch from King George II.

The couple took their place at the end of the ballroom and turned to face the guests. As guest of honor, it was his duty to make a short speech welcoming the other guests and passing on the news of importance that had led to the announcement of the ball. Another of the dispatches he had received meant that he could characterize this as being a victory ball.

"Lords, ladies and gentlemen. Pray silence for the Duke of Cumberland." The Master of Ceremonies banged his staff on the floor, leading to an almost eerie silence. "My Lord Duke."

"Good people, I am greatly honored to have been invited to this Victory Ball tonight and I will try and be brief so as not to keep you all from the dances." Cumberland watched the audience glancing at each other when the implications of the words 'Victory Ball' sank in. "Today, I received a dispatch from Sir John Wade at Ruthven in Badenoch. The Lowland Regiments forming part of the rebel army led by Charles Edward Stuart have retreated to Ruthven Barracks, there joined by joined by Barisdale's Macdonalds and a small battalion of MacGregors totaling in all some three thousand men. This force has been invested by our troops and has surrendered unconditionally after being told by the Pretender to "shift for themselves."

The searing contempt in Cumberland's voice for a commander who had so spinelessly abandoned his troops was evident. "This was the last organized body of troops forming part of the rebellious Army and with its dissolution we can fairly claim this campaign to have been won."

The Duke waited while the cheers died away. When they had, he resumed, his voice carrying round the ballroom with strength and certainty. "We now face the second phase of this campaign, the pacification of the Highlands. For too long have our fellows, subjects of good King George, been oppressed by Highland reivers. At the root of this blight upon the entire region is the Highland clan system that allows a single man to raise an army at his whim and deploy it with no regard for the welfare of his people. This system must end and I am advised by His Majesty that legislation will be introduced to bring about this most desirable of results."

The cheers were less certain than they had been before although the Lowlanders were wildly enthusiastic in their response. Again, Cumberland waited until the sound had died down. "Therefore, the Army will be moving out of Inverness shortly and will be advancing into the Highlands. All officers will, after their attendance and obligations here are completed, report to their regiments to prepare for this campaign.

"I am pleased to announce that, effective as of the first of May, the Regiment known as Kingston's Light Horse will be transferred from the Militia to the Regular Army and renamed as the Duke of Cumberland's Regiment of Light Dragoons being 15th in precedence of the cavalry regiments. All but eight men have volunteered to transfer with the Regiment from the Militia to the regular Army. This honor reflects their sterling performance in the battle at Culloden and their vigorous pursuit of the defeated enemy.

"Finally, it is with the greatest of pleasure that I have received instructions from His Majesty to raise my staunch friend and companion, Lady Isadora Shaftner, to the peerage of the United Kingdom. Henceforth, as of today, she will be entitled as the Countess of Strathearn and will enjoy all the rights, privileges and entitlements of that rank. Her formal investiture will be performed in London by the hand of His Majesty himself."

That announcement caused a profound silence as the implications of the ennoblement sank in. 'Earl Strathearn' was a secondary title held by the Duke of Cumberland but it was the most senior of those secondary titles. His wife, would of course, have been the Duchess of Cumberland. By giving Igrat the title Countess of Strathearn, King George had made it clear that Igrat had the social status of the Duke's wife in all but name. The more perceptive noted a subtle political move with the insertion of the word 'of' into the title. The Scottish form would have been Countess Strathearn; Countess of Strathearn was an English formulation. It was an explicit declaration that Scottish titles of enoblement were obsolete and could be replaced at will. Of such small details were policy announcements made.

"Your father has been exceedingly generous." Igrat remarked quietly as the applause resounded around the room. She also noted that the Baroness de Ros was glaring at her with undiluted hatred. The Baroness had claimed for herself the honor of being the most beautiful woman at court although it was generally agreed that her chin was weak, her eyes too close together and her expression constantly that of somebody who had drunk excessive amounts of vinegar. She had also assumed that the role of Royal Mistress was hers for the asking and had just seen it snatched away from her. Igrat reminded herself to be careful around her but was comforted by the fact she had Naamah, Nell and Achillea watching her back.

"The relations between fathers of the House of Hannover and their sons have never been easy. My grandfather got on much better with me than my father did and Frederick's son has much warmer relations with his grandfather than his father. His generosity to you is, I think an offer of reconciliation between us and I will treat it as so. By the way, the income from your new estate is twenty five thousand pounds per year to which His Majesty is adding a further ten thousand pounds per year from the private purse in recognition of your services to the Crown."

"William, please convey my gratitude to His Majesty for his generosity and tell him that his kind words mean more to me than anything else."

"I wouldn't say that if I were you, he might take the money back. He is . . . careful with his funds. Also, Sir John Cope saw me today and gave me the money he owes you on your wager. I hold it in trust of course and will pass it to you later this evening. The scoundrel said it would demean a gentleman to pay a wager of such size to a lady which I think was a feeble excuse to avoid apologizing for his rudeness to you. He knows his foolishness has ruined his family and he has had to mortgage their estate to pay the sum. So in view of his comment I am minded to help him. I intend to appoint him the King's tax collector for Caithness and Sutherland. Now, let us dance, then we must make our circuit of the ball."

The first item on the program was a Bourrée, a dance designed for a single couple while the other attendees watched. The Duke of Cumberland and Countess of Strathearn took the floor in fine style, bring on them great applause from their audience. The orchestra immediately shifted to a gavotte whereupon the rest of the dancers took the floor and the ball proper commenced. Or so the society page of the London Gazette described it.

Thirty minutes into the ball, the Duke and Igrat were making their way around the guests when Igrat found herself facing the Baroness de Ros. Her first words revealed her true feelings even more openly than the glare in her eyes. "My dear, what a delightfully rustic dress."

There was a gasp of embarrassment from the surrounding women. None of them liked Igrat; she was an interloper and her beauty was such that every one of them was seized with a passionate desire to keep her away from their husbands. Yet, every one of them knew that this was Igrat's night and it was churlish and sour-minded to spoil it for her with insults. It was Lady Diana, Countess of St Albans who responded sweetly. "Why, you are mistaken, Baroness. The Countess's dress is the very epitome of the latest style in London. Perhaps if you were more welcome at court, your own taste might not be quite so out of touch."

"Perhaps if our men did not spend so much time in their coffee clubs, they might have more time for Society." The Baroness de Ros sounded sour, spiteful and frustrated. "Countess, what is your opinion on clubs for women?"

There was a pause when people waited to see Igrat's response. The question was a trap. If Igrat said she opposed them, that could be twisted into a condemnation of all the coffee clubs that were currently the height of fashion. But 'clubs for women' was a euphemism for a brothel and if Igrat said she approved of them, that could be used to bring condemnation down on her. Igrat gave a show of thinking carefully for a bare moment. "Clubs for women? Only as a last resort when nothing else will keep them quiet."

Again, there was a brief pause while Igrat's words sunk in. Then, there was an explosion of laughter at the neat avoidance of the trap and the carefully-barbed rebuke for the Baroness de Ros. The Baroness proceeded to make matters worse for herself with an angry "well, really!"

Several of the men who had drifted into earshot gave respectful bows to Igrat. One woman dabbed her eyes gently and then addressed Igrat. "Countess, my daughter is to be presented at court in two weeks. What advice would you give her?"

It was a friendly question, appropriate for a mother to ask of a woman who had obviously made a success of her own presence. Igrat treated it as such. "My Lady, the one thing every women must learn in order to be adored by all around her is when to keep quiet. Too many marriages start with soft words and kind deeds and end with strangulation and arsenic because one will not allow the other to have the last word."

There was much nodding of agreement around her from both men and women. The Baroness de Ros gave another, this time incoherent, snarl and flounced off. Most of the rest of the circle looked at Igrat's sleepy, heavy-lidded eyes and decided that they were not just exotically erotic, they were also the eyes of somebody it was better not to cross. The Duchess of St Albans gave Igrat a wink. "Nell sends her regards," she whispered. The St Albans family had many secrets but the most closely guarded of all was their knowledge of the long-lived and that the famous Nell Gwynne was one of them.

A couple of minutes later, Igrat joined her father and his current partner, Nell. She couldn't help reflecting that he looked dashing in his dress uniform. Nell smiled at her. "Well done, ducks. I asked Diana keep an eye on you but you hardly needed it. How much did you get?"

Igrat didn’t reply but held up three fingers then five. Nell's eyes opened wide. "God's Fish, ducks! You must be good under the covers."

Cavalry Lines, Inverness, May 1, 1746

“Up and ready boys, we’re going out again. Only this time we’re going into the Highlands and teach them to dread our new red coats.” Semiramis smiled as she heard the cheers spreading down the line. “Serjeants, get the Regiments ready to move out. We’ll need to move fast.”

Semiramis walked away leaving her Serjeants to get the Regiment moving. “Excuse me . . . . Colonel.”

An officer was standing politely in front of her. “I am Colonel George Augustus Eliott. I have been ordered to take command of this Regiment.”

Semiramis sighed to herself. I knew it was too good to last. “Your orders Colonel Eliot?”

He smiled apologetically and handed over a piece of paper. She unfolded it and read carefully. As she did so, her eyebrows rose until they seemed to almost meet her hairline. “Have you read these, Colonel.”

“I have indeed. Colonel, I am recently promoted from Major and the Duke has instructed me to stay with you, watch you and to learn from you. The Duke has also added that I am a figurehead and I am, to use his own words, to stay the hell out of your way. If, however, I might be of any assistance, in any capacity, it would be my honor to do so.”

The two looked at each other then burst out laughing. Semiramis shook her head, then thought carefully. “All right, stay close within the headquarters. We’re going to go deep into hostile territory and that’s light cavalry’s job but if we get into trouble, we are on our own. If you wander off, you’ll probably never be seen again.”

“Colonel Semiramis, I have to ask. This whole situation is much irregular. Who are you?”

“You’ve heard the line, ‘The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold?’”

“I have. An old poem is it not?”

“A lament from the people of Israel, bemoaning their lost glories. It dates back two thousand years or more. I’m the Assyrian. Or so the Highlanders will think.”

Once more, Colonel Eliot burst out laughing. Achillea is right., Semiramis thought, just tell people the truth and nobody ever believes you.

“Colonel, from what I have heard, Sennacharib himself hold no candle to you as a leader of cavalry. It will be an honor to ride with you. May I call you . . . .” Eliot stopped realizing he only knew one name for his Colonel.

“Semiramis is the only name I have. However, Shammu is a name used by my friends. You may use that. Not in front of the men of course.”

“Thank you. And I am George.”

Semiramis gave a curt nod. “Now, the first thing we have to do is to inspect the pack-mules and ensure they are properly loaded. They will be, because the serjeants know their trade, but we must inspect them anyway. A badly-stowed load can cripple a mule and leave us no choice but to shoot it. If that is the case there must be no doubt as to who is to blame. Us. How many pistols do you carry?”

“Two, Shammu.”

“I carry ten when in battle. There is no time to reload in a fight. Get a bandoleer made up. Every time you shoot, toss the empty into a saddlebag and reload them after the fight is over. One other thing. Ask a Serjeant to point out a good tailor to you and give him a shilling to make sure your uniform fits properly. Colonel Kingston recruited this regiment when the tailors were refusing their labor and many of them joined our ranks. So we have no excuse for uniforms that do not fit well and the smarter the officers are, the more confidence the men have in them and the better they will fight."

Eliot took note of the comment and realized its truth. He resolved to keep a journal in which he would list all such valuable advice. Semiramis looked at him and guessed what he was thinking. "Whenever we have a chance we will sit and talk. I will not be here forever, and one day soon you will command this Regiment in reality as well as in name. These are good men, staunch and true. The eight who left had to do so, they had civic and personal responsibilities that prevented them from staying. We also have as many trades as any similar group of men in civilian life. I have mentioned tailors, we also have butchers, carpenters, leatherworkers, everything we need to be a self-sufficient force. Even our cooks are a cut above the average. When I have to leave, and I will have to soon for as you say, my position here is highly irregular, I want to see them in the best of hands. I have high hopes of you in that regard."

Eliot nodded and was suddenly very sure that he wanted to live up to Semiramis's expectations of him. Around them, the Duke of Cumberland's Regiment of Light Dragoons was boiling into life as the Regiment got ready to move out.

Editorial Note. The lineage of Kingston's Light Horse continues into the present day although political correctness has tended to downplay the relationship in recent years. The Duke of Cumberland's Regiment of Light Dragoons became the 15th Light Dragoons, then the 15th Hussars then the 15th King's Royal Hussars. It was amalgamated with the 19th to form the 15th/19th Royal Hussars and then with the 13th/18th Kings Royal Hussars to form The Light Dragoons. This regiment is currently stationed in Newcastle, having served in Iraq, Bosnia and Afghanistan, and is now equipped with Jackal armored wheeled vehicles.

[Calder]

Chapter Eleven
Lochardil House, Inverness, 2 May 1746

"Well, our numbers are much depleted." Gusoyn looked around. "Iggie, sorry, the Countess of Strathearn, is with the Duke. Parmenio is advising him on the campaign of Pacification and Nell is with him. Semiramis is with her Regiment. That just leaves the four of us and the mystery of who killed Joy Thackeray."

Naamah thought about that. "I don't think it was the assassination attempt. Unless they were foolish enough to threaten the people who hired them with exposure unless they got their money of course. They wouldn't have been paid if their target was still alive. By the way, Gusoyn, the form of address is Lady Isadora, Countess of Strathearn. Been quite some time since we had an aristocrat in the family. Nell never actually had a title although her children do."

"Are we really concerned with this?" Conrad looked and sounded unconvinced. "After all, nobody else has been accused of the crime and Joy Thackeray was hardly an innocent person herself. Should we not let sleeping dogs lie?"

"We do not know that the dogs are sleeping yet, Conrad." Gusoyn spoke quietly but with tangible authority. Everybody knew that Parmenio almost always asked him to take charge while he was away. Gusoyn was always the one he turned to in circumstances that demanded tact and discretion. "Whoever killed the Thackeray woman did so for a reason, probably because she and her brother got in the way of whatever the plans were. We did them a favor by hanging Gerrard Thackeray but that is a detail and anyway we cannot unhang him."

"Iggie said she'd raised the dead but I don’t know what she meant by that." Naamah shrugged the comment off; Igrat occasionally said strange things that obviously meant something to her but nobody else, except possibly her father, could follow. "You're right though, Gerrard Thackeray is dead and we can't do anything about it. Conrad, the fact is whoever killed the Thackeray woman did so ruthlessly and for what must have been fairly trivial reasons. That means they'll do the same to anybody else who gets in their way. Those victims are more than likely to be real innocents who are just in the wrong place at the wrong time. We have to get the killers before that happens."

Conrad took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He had dedicated his life to saving the innocent and vindicating the wrongly accused but the question of how an innocent person was defined tormented him. Is not an innocent victim of a crime just as innocent as somebody who had been wrongly accused of that crime? "Perhaps if we study the motives for the killing, then we can decide what we do about it?"

"That's what we were doing Conrad, before you sent us off on a wild goose chase." Naamah was sharp. The truth was, she wanted the murder solved and the killer caught because it had happened under her nose and that offended her sense of justice. She watched coldly while Conrad looked down at his feet. She had caught the flare of resentment in his eyes despite his efforts to hide it. “Now, let’s continue. I can think of several reasons why Joy Thackeray was killed. First one is, to sever the link between her and the people who hired her and her brother. If he was her brother by the way. Secondly, to silence her because she threatened to lay information on who hired her if they didn’t get the money they were promised but had forfeited by failing. Thirdly, while escaping, they stumbled across something they weren’t supposed to know. Fourthly, they were involved in another criminal act and she was killed when they ceased to be of use.”

"The first of those seems to be very plausible." Achillea was commenting for the first time. She had seen the tension between Conrad and Naamah and wanted to damp it down. "The Duke said that there was an unspoken agreement between the royal families in Europe not to go around assassinating each other. The plan to put Charles Edward Stuart on the throne depended on just such an assassination. If it got out that the French royal family had instigated that attack, that agreement would be dead."

"Along with a lot of royal family members." Naamah grimaced at the thought. "We've seen where that leads before. Authority and administration breaks down, there is no way of keeping order and everything fragments. Either somebody takes over and restores order with an iron fist or there is total anarchy. Look what happened here after Charles One got his head chopped off. The echoes are still ringing in the establishment here."

"So, we are agreed that the first of the possibilities is a strong contender and that the most likely culprits are connected with the French court?" Gusoyn looked around and noted the nods. "Is not the second possibility much the same as that?"

"It is. The implication here is that whoever did the killing has already left. There is no reason for them to stay here once we'd hanged Gerrard Thackeray. To do so would only increase the chance of the killer or killers getting caught." Naamah really didn’t like that possibility. She wanted the killers where she could catch and punish them.

"There is a common implication behind the third and fourth possibilities." Conrad was being very cautious. The memory of what had happened to Moll Davis after she had tried to displace Nell was still legendary and he had never looked at teacakes quite the same way afterwards. "No matter whether they found out about what was going on or were part of it, something must be going on. And that implies it still is."

"That means that at any time, anybody could stumble across it and die for doing so. There are your innocents who need protecting Conrad." Gusoyn made the point gently although it was directed as much at Naamah as Conrad.

A respectful knock on the door prevented the discussion from going any further. One of the liverymen entered, escorting a middle-aged woman. Conrad recognized her immediately. "Mrs. Smille, has something happened in the baggage train?"

"Lord love you, Sir. Something terrible. That girl, Judith Tomkins. She's been murdered. Cut up something horrible."

Lochluichart, Scottish Highlands

"Well, they've lost their livestock." Semiramis looked at the smallholding dispassionately. The people there had had their chance and they'd forfeited it. "And their lives of course."

"Of course, taking them might be a little problematic." Eliot looked at the combined barn and farmhouse. "That building was designed to protect the family against raiders. Of whom we are some of course. Two floors, the lower one for the livestock, the upper one for the family to live in. All built of stone with a stone floor inside, both levels. Stone roof as well. There's almost nothing to burn there. Windows, such as they are, are closer to being loopholes than anything else. We already know they have full-length firelocks in there. Our pistols and sabers aren't really much use against them. Even if we got close, that door is stout and doubtless well-barred. We could hammer on it until we died of old age."

"I doubt if it would be old age we died of. So, what do you recommend, George?"

Eliot thought for a moment, more to give the impression that he was giving the situation careful thought. In fact, he had already run through the permutations in his mind. "We'll lose a lot of men if we charge the place and success is not certain. The textbook solution is to wait until the infantry come up with their battalion guns. A pair of three-pounders would knock that place around well enough. We would pound them until either they surrender of the building falls down around their ears. Only, we don’t have time for that. Our job is to open the way for the infantry, not let them clear the way for us. Also, we don’t want the locals to get the idea that they can resist us effectively."

"No, we don’t. In the end that could cost us more men than storming the place. And dusk is coming." Semiramis prodded Eliot gently. She was beginning to have respect for the man who would eventually take her Regiment.

"That does open an opportunity for us. When the light starts to go we can get closer. That suggests we might use a petard."

"If we had some we could."

"Shummu, I brought the makings of petards along with us. Pots large enough to contain ten pounds of gunpowder and fuses. We have enough to make quite a few such charges in the supply train. Two dozen at least. I got pots that nest inside each other you see. It'll only take a few minutes to make up a petard. Then, we'll have to put it in place, light the fuse and retire to a safe distance. I'll take care of that, I am an engineer by training."

"What, George, was an engineer doing in the Horse Guards? Sounds a bit like trade to me." Semiramis was grinning broadly. Ever since she had first seen gunpowder, she'd liked explosions.

"To deal with situations like this of course." Eliot grinned back at her. "Of course, the other officers all think we lower the tone of the battle and hope that we blow ourselves up but we try and disappoint them."

"Go, make your fiendish devices you . . . you tradesman you." Semiramis had already noted how Eliot had assumed that he would make the extremely dangerous run in to place the petard rather than send another man to take the risk in his behalf.

Ten minutes later he was back with two assembled Petards. By then the dusk was falling in earnest and there was a narrow window when there was enough light to make the attack ut not so much as to expose Eliot as he made his run. Semiramis had already spread her men out to fire on the building although their pistols would hardly be effective at the range in question. That wasn't the point though; the whole idea was to create as much distraction as possible.

"Get your men ready, we need a sustained fire aimed at those loopholes in the upper floor. Issue the orders. Open fire on my shot." Semramis drew one of her pistols, checked the priming and took careful aim. Once she was convinced the orders had been issued, she squeezed off her own shot. The rest of her unit took up the barrage and a hail of pistol shot was aimed at the building. Very little of it would hit; the range was too long for pistols, but it was an impressive diversion.

"Take that for Falkirk Muir." One of the rankers had shouted that out, inspired by the barrage of Jacobite pistol fire that had delivered a crushing volley leaving 'eighty dragoons dead upon the spot.' Hugging his pot, now stuffed tight with gunpowder, Eliot ran out along a hedge and into a half-filled ditch that gave him cover as he approached the farmhouse. The last few yards, though, were in the open and even with the light going, Semiramis could see the spurts of mud coming up from the soil around his feet. Then, he was in the dead zone, too close to the building for the firelocks to bear. One of the men inside tossed out a lighted cartridge but, not being contained by the firelock barrel, it just burned with a fizz and flash. Semiramis saw the flare of the match, the lighted fuse burning and Eliot haring away to take cover from the blast.

When it came, it took out the door and at least half of one wall. Both floors were opened and exposed with the rubble forming an impromptu staircase. Semiramis's men stormed forward, taking advantage of the defenders being stunned by the blast and losing only two as a result. They clambered up the pile to force their way into the upper floor, In the brief fight that followed, at last their pistols and sabers had the advantage.

"There were eight of them, Colonel." One of the serjeants was reporting in. "Three are dead, two men and a woman. The rest, over there. Two of the men got wounds, must have been at Culloden."

Semiramis sighed. "How did the woman die?"

"Came at us with a knie, Colonel."

"Very well. Hang them all."

"Ye cannae dae 'at, thaur ur kimmers, ye cannae hang kimmers." One of the wounded men shouted the almost-unintelligible words out.

Angered, Semiramis rode over. "You were at Culloden? If you'd come out when we rode up, we'd have hanged you but the rest of them would have lived. You, and they, all fought. So you all hang. Blame your own cowardice."

The ropes were already over the tree branches. Semiramis heard the weeping of the two surviving women as they were hoisted on to horseback and the nooses put into place. Then, the crying was cut off sharply. She guessed that her men had pulled hard on their legs so their necks would break swiftly. The three men were hanged just as quickly and efficiently.

"Bad business." Eliot spoke quietly.

"Civil wars always are." Semiramis's voice was neutral. This was something she'd seen and done many times before. These people are lucky this isn’t my first army. In Assyria, we'd have burned them at the stake. "Better not to have civil wars, George, they always end up like this, no matter who wins and who loses."

"Ye shouldn'a hae run in like tha', Colonel. Should ha sent one of us instay." There was admiration in the eyes of the cavalryman who had called out. Semiramis saw that Eliot was already winning over the Regiment.

"Couldn’t do that, private. My father always insisted we take a short walk at dusk. Said it was good for the digestion." Eliopt listened appreciatively to the roar of laughter that went up. At least it drowned out the sounds of the three hanging men as they died. Or is it my imagination that I can still hear the noise they made?

"Right, we're done here. Too late to move on; we'll make camp." Semiramis looked around. "Beef for dinner again. Anybody wants a chicken, you'll have to catch them yourselves."
Provost Marshal, Inverness Lines.

"This is awful, horrible." Major Lindsay Hughes had seen many grim sights in his career as a soldier but the body of Judith Tomkins was as bad as any of them. Even grapeshot rarely did that kind of damage.

"How did you find her, Major?" Conrad asked the question gently, knowing the man was in shock and wouldn’t sleep well for a long time.

"Some of the women were out collecting wood and they found her." Hughes choked slightly as his emptions got the better of him and he took a moment to steady himself. Naamah produced her brandy flask and poured him a generous capful. "Thank you, ma'am. My apologies. It was a deserted house, mostly ruined. She was inside, naked, crucified against a burned wall."

"Could I see the body?" Naamah was in full professional mode, her own emotions turned off.

"We brought it in, covered decently. But ma'am, I am not exaggerating. The sight was too much for some of my boys. For a lady . . . ."

"This lady, Major, works in the casualty tent when a battle takes place. I have seen what grapeshot does, I know the bone-saw, the sounds it makes and the piles of limbs it produces. We were lucky we were mostly spared that at Culloden."

The body was as pitiful as Naamah had expected. She looked it over carefully, starting with the face, contorted with mortal terror and noting the red veins in her eyes. She also saw the cuts on her face and over the rest of her body. Gently, she opened the victim's mouth and removed a wad of cloth.

"Major, tell your men most of these wounds were inflicted after she died, see how they haven't bled? They gagged her and she choked on it. That might help them a little."

Achillea was looking at the wounds. "Nammie, these knife cuts weren't intended to kill. And these circular burns, they heated coins in the fire and then held them against her skin."

Naamah nodded. "I know. They raped her as well."

"Who would do such a thing ma'am?" Hughes had quietly gone outside, vomited, and then returned. "She was simple, an idiot. It would have been more merciful if I'd hanged her."

He turned to Conrad, angry accusation in his voice. "Why didn’t you let me hang her? I'd have saved her from this at least."

Conrad had no answer. Instead, he just hung his head.

"Whoever did this wanted to know something but Judith didn’t have the mind to understand that. She didn’t know why this was happening to her. She couldn’t end it by telling them because she didn't know what they wanted." Naamah shook her head.

"What could a camp whore have known that was worth all this? Gusoyn was sickened as well. Only Achillea was apparently unaffected by the sight and that was because she was using all her stoic training to stay that way.

"It must be the same thing that Joy Thackeray was killed over." Conrad sounded immeasurably saddened; Hughes' anguished words still ringing in his ears. "We should look at the jewelry Judith stole."

[Calder]

Chapter Twelve
Conrad’s Room, Ruin of Inverness Castle, 3 May 1746

When Parmenio’s family had moved out of the castle, Conrad had inherited the rooms they had occupied. As Igrat had once described them, they were the least blown-up parts of the accommodation in the slighted castle. They might be leaking and drafty but he preferred them to the town house the family had sequestered. The previous owners may have been outspoken Jacobites and had fled with Charles Edward Stuart, but simply walking in and taking their house and possessions seemed a little high-handed. Conrad had no doubt that Lillith was on her way up to inventory the household property and work out how to sell it for the greatest profit.

That being the case, Conrad was pleased to find that he still had the furnishings that had been in the rooms. It was true that they were somewhat the worse for wear but he had been afraid that Lillith would have sold them as well. He was sitting at the table, trying to make sense out of everything that had happened. Hughes’ last words to him were still ringing in his ears as he did so.

There was a knock on the door. When Conrad opened it, Major Hughes was standing outside, hat in hand. “I came to apologize, Father. I should never have said what I said. You did a good and fine thing, saving us from hanging the Tomkins girl and I threw it in your face. It wasn’t your fault what happened afterwards.”

Conrad lifted his fingers up, made the sign of the cross and smiled gently. “Ego te absolve. Major, we were all in shock at that sight and what you said was right in a way. Perhaps we can sit down together in fellowship over a glass of port? Do you have time to discuss this case?”

"I have indeed, sir. I was hoping that I would be able to make amends by doing so."

Conrad explained briefly the situation as it had developed since Hughes had last been involved. "So, you see, of the four possibilities we were dealing with, but two remain. The brutal killing of Tomkins means that the people who killed Joy Thackeray are still here in the baggage train."

"Father, are you sure of that? It assumes that the killings of Tomkins and Thackeray are indeed linked. I agree that it is probable they are but we should not close our mind to the possibility they are not."

"A very good point but I think the way Tomkins was killed points to it being something more than a simple killing. Had we just found her strangled or with her throat cut, then we would have a reasonable probability that she had been caught stealing from somebody or had tried to take another woman's working space. Or perhaps taken a good, paying customer from one."

"Or had run into a maniac." Hughes sipped his port. It was far too sweet for his taste but the war with France had cut off supplies of his favorite brandy. "There are some very bad people in the baggage train. Perhaps one of them accosted Tomkins and she was too simple-minded to spot the danger signs. She had little experience in the life she was leading. Or possibly, she tried to steal from a customer and was caught. He 'punished' her and it went out of control."

"Have there been other cases of women found so brutally ill-used?" Conrad also preferred brandy to port but wars were wars.

"Not that I have heard of. But, I have little experience in this position. I have only held this post since Falkirk Muir when my Dragoon regiment was sorely handled. I lost almost a third of its strength, some 80 men, and the regiment was stripped of most of its men to bring the other two up to strength. What was left became the Provost Guard. I think, though, that if there had been other cases of this kind, there would have been camp talk about them. I am sure of it."

"I am also. Sadly, it is my experience that there are maniacs around who get pleasure from this kind of barbarity." Dear Lord help me, I have seen all too many of them and there were some who claimed to be doing Your work. "One thing they all have in common is that they never stopped at one victim. They would continue killing, each atrocity more frequent and worse than the last, until they were caught and executed. If we had one such monster here, there would be a record of other such crimes. That there are not suggests we do not have such a person. For which we should thank God."

Hughes nodded vigorously in agreement. "Father, such people as you describe. Are they possessed by the Devil?"

Conrad thought about that. "Some say that the Devil is a physical force of evil that can find its way into a person and possess them. If so, I would say that such people are indeed possessed. This case, though, is in isolation and for that reason I would reject that explanation. With that eliminated and the assumption that it is too complex and involved for a casual killing, I would say that we are dealing with some sort of very unusual and special event here. That does imply a connection with the other special events that have taken place. It is not certain they are connected, I agree, but it is the simplest explanation."

"Placed in such a context, I concede the point Father. The simplest explanation is always likely to be closets to the truth. Is it also fair to say that the simplest link between Tomkins and Thackeray is the stolen jewelry?"

"I cannot see another at this point." Conrad thought about that. "It is indeed the only connection I can see. That, of course, raises the question of what is it about the jewelry that has such critical importance? It cannot be its intrinsic value for I do not remember it as being exceptional."

Hughes gave an almost feral look of satisfaction as he produced a package. "Well, let us look closely at it. Since Joy Thackeray was not who we thought she was, there were no obvious claimants to her property so I lodged it with the Quartermaster who placed it, under his seal, in his strongbox. I have that package here, still under his seal. We should both watch carefully while I cut that seal."

Hughes produced a pocket knife and carefully removed the seal before opening the packet. The small handful of jewelry that had cost Judith Tomkins her life spilled out on the table. In the dim light, it looked almost pitiful. Conrad, though, was looking at the knife Hughes was holding. "Something occurs to me. The knife wound on Thackeray's throat was large and ragged. It cut through almost to the spine and macerated the tissue between her chin and her collar."

"A blunt-sharpened knife or bayonet, yes. Almost every soldier has one and quite a few civilians as well."

"But the knife wounds on Tomkins were small, not that deep but clean-edged. Made, I would say by a small, sharp knife. A different weapon. Does that help us at all?"

"Not really, I would say all the men and most of the women carry a pocket-knife that is as sharp as they can afford. That Tomkins' killers used a different knife though, I suggest, shows the difference in purpose very clearly."

Conrad picked up the first ring from the meager package of jewelry. "I can't see anything unusual in this, can you? There is no inscription on the ring, inside or out and it is a plain, gold band with no decoration. I do not think that the gold is of high purity which seems to fit its previous owner's character."

Hughes took the ring and studied it with equal care. "It looks like a wedding ring but not one that would be bought for a lady of quality. If, however, somebody wanted to but a ring so she could pose as a wife, I suspect that they would buy something like this. After all, why waste money on a ring that would be thrown away if the occasion demanded it?"

"A fair assessment, Major."

"Please, father, my name is Lindsay. My friends call me Lenny. I hope you will do the same?"

"Only if you call me Conrad and join me in another glass. I must apologize for the port but good brandy is hard to come by right now."

"Unless one knows a good smuggler of course." Hughes shook his head. "The common fishing folk are doing very well out of the French refusal to sell us brandy. I suspect a shortage of fresh fish while the fishermen are all involved in more profitable trades might be an unforeseen outcome of the war."

"On the Channel coast and in the south west most certainly. In Devon and Cornwall, smuggling is a time-honored profession." Conrad picked up another ring, this one made of silver with an extreme elliptical head of blue enamel. A silver inlay depicted a vase with flowers. "This one is more promising. There is no engraved message on it but the decoration itself could be the message. See, there are twelve stones surrounding the enamel panel. That might indicate the 12th month for example, or the 12th day of the month. Or '12' could be a code for a location. Say the 12th on a list of towns. There are seven flowers in the vase. That may have meaning as well. Perhaps the seventh month so that this ring could contain the date 12th day of July. The advantage of this cipher is that it cannot be decoded except by those who have the key to the cipher."

"That means that anything could be a coded message." Hughes sounded highly disappointed. "So how do we know if there is something on these?"

"You have put your finger on the key to the whole problem. How do we determine if there is a cipher used at all? With a coded message we are at least certain that we are dealing with a message. With a ciphered message we do not even have that luxury."

"Then, it is hopeless." Hughes sounded very despondent.

"Not at all. What we have to do is to look for things that are out of place. Remember, the object is driven by the demands of the cipher. So, for example, if a ring has nine small stones, a jeweler will place them symmetrically. Probably one at the top of the head, with four on each side. If the ring has one at the head, five on one side and three on the other then we have cause to be suspicious. For that reason, this ring interests me. All of the other jewelry here is gold. Cheap adulterated gold certainly but gold. This ring is silver. It is new and bright, the others are old and worn."

"You seem very familiar with the subject of codes and ciphers, Conrad." Despite his efforts, Hughes had difficulty keeping the suspicion out of his voice.

"I am a member of the Society of Jesus. We have been using codes and ciphers ever since the Society was founded. Does this concern you?"

Hughes shook his head. "Not at all. There are those who use the present situation for their own ends but this is not a religious war. Here, it is a deposed royal house trying to regain its throne; in Europe it is all connected with who rules what. The great merit of the House of Hannover is that it will not raise the specter of religion against those who obey the laws and do not draw attention to themselves."

Conrad wasn't so certain of that; he had seen at first hand the impact that the series of anti-Catholic laws had had on followers of the faith. Indeed, reporting on just that was one of the reasons why he was in Great Britain. It had been necessary to see exactly how the Church could go about affecting a reconciliation with the secular powers in London. In his opinion, the insane Jacobite rising had seriously damaged any such prospects. He was also aware that Hughes spoke sincerely and wasn't aware of how onerous the laws were on those affected by them.

"Unless we can find the key to the cipher, we are unlikely to be able to work out what the significance of the jewelry is or the messages they may hold. One thing still puzzles me though, where is her necklace? Every woman I have seen here wears some form of necklace even if it only an old ribbon tied around her neck. It seems most unusual that Joy Thackeray didn’t have one."

Hughes though about that. "Let us suppose that the message, whatever it was, was written on that necklace. A very common necklace is a ribbon with a pendant hanging from it. That would offer much scope for a ciphered message. Perhaps she delivered it to its recipient and, her work done, she was killed to silence her? But then, why was Tomkins killed?"

"I think I may have an answer to that. Let us suppose that your theory of the crime is correct. One of the things about using ciphers is that those receiving the ciphered message have to know which cipher book to use to decode the message. There will probably be several for different purposes. Now, the instruction may be built into the original method but a more secure method is to use a second ciphered message that identifies the correct book. So, assuming we are correct, Thackeray delivered the necklace to the specified person and was murdered for her trouble. Then, the killers realized that there was another message, I suspect this ring, that told them which cipher book to use. They went back to Thackeray's body only to find that it had already been robbed and the vital ring was gone. After a while, they heard that it was Tomkins who had robbed the body and they assumed she still had that vital ring. So they abducted her and tried to extract the ring from her. Only she didn’t have it and was probably too simple to explain why."

"Why don’t they just try each book in turn?"

"That's where the code comes in. Let's go back to this ring. Lenny. We have twelve small stones around the outside. That could mean the twelfth book of a series or, combined with the seven flowers, the seventh book on the twelfth shelf of a library. Or any other permutation we can think of. We can't know but the people who wanted this ring do know."

"Suppose somebody moves the book?"

"How many people actually read the books in their library? But, you make an important caveat there, Lenny. We now have a theory of the crime. We must always test that theory against the facts as we discover them and if the theory does not match the facts, then it must be discarded. All too many investigators form a theory then test the facts against the theory and if they do not fit, discard the facts. That is how injustice happens."

"I wonder why the Thackerays came with the baggage train to Inverness?" To Hughes this was the crux of the problem. Unaware of the assassination attempt, he was at a loss to explain the situation. So, he came up with the most likely explanation he could find. "The only thing I can think of is that the baggage train is where a large quantity of goods is being moved around. Therefore, if something heavy and bulky was being transported, would not the baggage train be a good place for it. After all, they would be moving it with what amounted to a military escort. We were speaking of smuggling a few minutes ago. Could smuggling valuables be at the root of this?"

"It is possible, very possible. Perhaps the ciphered message was telling those receiving the good where, in the baggage train, it was concealed. Or, perhaps where they had to take it. Now they either can’t find it or don’t know where it needs to go. Both the Thackerays are dead and we have the key to the instructions."

"They have a problem." Hughes seemed almost amused by their predicament.

"It might be more than that." Conrad had been given a flash of insight. "The Thackerays had to come from somewhere, the Channel is the obvious way for them to come. On one of the smuggling boats. It is rumored that Louis XV and his Spanish allies are supporting Charles Edward Stuart with a subsidy equivalent to 125,000 sovereigns per month. In gold coin."

Hughes eyes opened wide as he realized the sheer scale of what Conrad was suggesting. "My God, I'm sorry Conrad, but that money could still be in the baggage train. The Thackerays were escorting the money to Charles Edward. Either they were killed after handing it over for the next stage of the journey or somebody knew it was coming and wanted to steal it."

"Or the French were aware than their invasion plan had been foiled by . . . by Culloden . . . . . and wanted their money back."

"If they didn’t get the information on where the money is hidden, then they must be still here, looking for it. If they don't know where to take it, they probably left the baggage train and are striking north to link up with Charles Edward Stuart."

"The first thing we must do is thoroughly search the baggage train. I mean, very thoroughly." Conrad thought that over carefully. "We need your men for that. We need to take every bag, every cart, every chest, apart. Do you know what 125,000 gold sovereigns looks like?"

"Only in my wildest and most fevered dreams." Hughes sighed sadly.

"Mine too." Conrad shook his head. "And, if we don’t find it, we let everybody know we have the key to the cipher and let them come to us."

"That could be very dangerous." Hughes didn’t sound that apprehensive. Conrad thought he was still smarting from the defeat of his Dragoons at Falkirk Muir.

"I think I can get some very capable help." Conrad wondered where Achillea was and how quickly she could get down to aid him.

[Calder]

Chapter Thirteen
Baggage Train, Ruin of Inverness Castle, 3 May 1746

“You know, one of the most important lessons an officer is taught is how to do mathematics.” Hughes was looking around while the Dragoons of the Provost Guard were methodically searching the baggage train. “Mathematics, precise, accurate mathematics, is the foundation of everything we do.”

“I hadn’t thought of soldiering that way.” Conrad hadn’t and the insight surprised him.

“Let me give you an example. Let us suppose that we have formed up in three-deep line about 150 yards out and begin to advance on the enemy at the Ordinary Pace of 75 steps per minute. We train the troops to walk an exactly even pace 24 inches long so our lines advance at 50 yards per minute. At 50 yards the line moves at the quick step of 90 per minute and then, right at the end we go the double step of 180 per minute. So, it takes our men two minutes to advance on the enemy and engage him with the bayonet. We know that any likely opponent could put out between 1 and 2 rounds per minute, so the line could expect to receive around three volleys with one being at middling musket-shot. As the line approached within 10 yards of the enemy we will halt, deliver a volley, form sixes for the charge and go in.

“You see, Conrad, everything is mathematics. We’re trained so we can just look at a situation and know, without having to work it out, just how long everything will take. We know that an establishment battalion with 10 companies of 34 files in three ranks at the Wheeling Time of 108 paces per minute will take 3 minutes and 9 seconds to swing through 90 degrees. That doesn't include the time to halt, dress the line straight first, then dress the line straight again after the wheel was completed. I would say four minutes total. You remember at Culloden when Price and Colville's Regiments advanced and wheeled to pour fire into the rebel flank? That was timed to perfection, to the very second. That was the moment when that mercenary the Duke brought in to fight the battle earned every penny of his pay. He spotted exactly the right time, not when it happened but four minutes before it presented itself so the troops were in position and waiting.”

“I was not at Culloden, Lenny, but I heard of that maneuver. The slaughter was terrible they say, the Highlanders trapped in a three-cornered sack, receiving musket fire from three directions while the mortars lobbed their rounds into the middle. I know Sir Stewart Parmenio, the man to whom you refer, well. I have heard he has an unfailing touch on the battlefield for knowing exactly the right moment to do something. I think you have just told me much of from whence it comes.”

"I am sorry, I didn’t know Sir Stewart was a friend of yours. I trust you are not offended by my description of him?"

"No, no. It's not quite accurate, Sir Stewart commands other people's armies for pay, yes, but the money is not why he does so. Sometimes I think he does so because it is the only thing in the world he knows how to do superbly well." Sorry, Parmenio, I know you command other people's armies to stop yourself getting bored but that explanation will not do here.

"He certainly did that at Culloden. I wish we had had him with us at Fontenoy. We almost made it. Our column broke through the French center and was close to overrunning the whole French position. Only when Saxe concentrated all available infantry, cavalry, and artillery were we forced to yield. We retreated in good order, conducting a fighting withdrawal but if only the Duke had moved up artillery to support us and cavalry to exploit our gains, we would have won the day. By the time he saw the need, the moment had passed. Hey, you men there. Treat those with whom we deal with respect."

Conrad looked at the men Hughes had addressed. Three men in the back of a wagon had been 'searching' it by throwing baskets of freshly-washed clothes into the mud that surrounded them. A small group of women were watching with expressions that included, but were not limited to, anger, resentment, resignation and misery. A day's work had been ruined and the pay attached to it lost. He was tempted to say something but Hughes obviously had the matter in hand.

"Serjeant." Hughes' voice was firm. He said nothing else but the implied message, 'deal with this' was loud and clear.

The serjeant nodded and his voice boomed over the lines. "You disgusting little men. These women are the wives of fellow-soldiers. Collect all the washing you have just ruined and take it to the tubs to be redone. You will do the wash for them. Ladies, please supervise them and instruct them in the work required for the proper washing of clothing. You two Chosen Men, Craig and Lyle, go with the ladies and see that their instructions are properly obeyed."

Hughes nodded with satisfaction and pretended not to be aware of what was happening next. "Sorry about that, Conrad. Sometimes the men get carried away. As I was saying, mathematics. Last night, I was thinking about the sums you mentioned and it seemed to me that 125,000 sovereigns in gold coin must way a great deal. In fact, I worked it out as almost a ton. It's a bit much for a cart but any of these larger wagons could carry something like that. Up to six tons each they can hold."

"That's not something easy to hide.' Conrad stopped as a roar of laughter came from the washing tubs. Some of the other soldiers and most of the baggage train people had gathered around to watch the three miscreants redoing the company wash. He heard somebody shouting 'hey, you missed a bit' and a renewed roar of laughter. "If we can't find anything here, they must have already left."

Achanalt, Scottish Highlands

Eliot had already concluded that Semiramis knew the business of leading a cavalry regiment in hostile terrain peculiarly well for a Lady of Quality. She had an advance party out in front, flank guards posted and a trailing party following the main body of the regiment. The detachments were far enough out to provide warning of hostile moves, close enough in to fall back on the main body if trouble started to materialize. Eliot had a feeling that if it was possible for Semiramis to put a detachment over their heads, she would have done that as well.

"I don't like the look of the clouds, Shummu." The sky was a dull, leaden gray with a strange rippling effect running across the cloudbanks. There was a cold wind blowing, one that he suspected would turn to rain soon enough. Around them, the highlands were closing in and the tops of the taller mountains were shrouded with a soggy-looking mist.

"Rain's coming. It'll be a continuous fine rain at first that will get us good and wet. By dusk, it'll be a heavy downpour. We want to settle down and make camp before that. We'll also need to make sure our powder stays dry."

The Regiment had its normal allowance of just over a thousand pounds of powder distributed across its pack-horses despite being 25 percent understrength. The powder was carefully stored under oiled cloths for just this eventuality. Eliot turned his horse and road back to the pack-train in order to make sure that those oilcloths were properly secured. They were; the men in this regiment might have come from the Militia but they knew their business. Even Eliot's treasured petard pots were safely stored.

By the time he had rejoined Semiramis, riders from the advance guard had come in. The last few hamlets the Regiment had ridden through were notable largely for being deserted. It appeared that one group of the residents had been sighted a mile or two ahead, obviously making their way to what they fondly imagined would be the safety of the mountains. It was one of the things that the Regiment was supposed to put a stop to. It was only a very short step from people sheltering in the hills to people waging guerilla war from the hills. Semiramis had it on very good authority that if that happened, the consequences for the Highlands would be appalling. They were going to be bad enough as it was.

“The damned fools. If only they had stayed put, they would have suffered no worse than any other civilians caught in a war. The Jacobites have much to answer for. They spread the word that we would slaughter everybody in sight”

“We don’t need the whole regiment for this.” Semiramis had quickly surveyed the situation. “George, take a company and deal with them. If they don’t resist we’ll herd them back to the nearest village. If they do resist . . . Well, you said it yourself. The Jacobites have much to answer for. I’ll hold the rest of the Regiment here, ready to back you up if you need it.”

“You expect an ambush Shummu?” Eliot looked across the bleak moor. There was no sign of any more people, refugees or otherwise, in the vicinity. Ahead of the cavalry, the group of refugees had started a stumbling run for . . . somewhere.

Semiramis shook her head. “Not that I can see. Then, all good ambushes are sprung when there was no conceivable sign of their presence. So, if everything goes to the hells, fall back on us and we’ll handle it together.”

She watched Eliot gallop over to A Company and speak quickly to the officer commanding. A ripple spread through the squadron . . . company she reminded herself, Dragoons use infantry nomenclature for their units. . . . and it started to organize itself into serried ranks for the charge that would ride down the refugees in front of them. She actually found herself hoping that the fleeing Highlanders would have the sense not to resist. Eliot’s company was already beginning to move forward, the men holding their ranks well, their horses in hand and the lines steady. That was the key to success with cavalry, holding the ranks in hand so the unit struck as a solid mailed fist. All too often the ranks went out of control and arrived at the enemy line piecemeal. Such charges were almost always failures and usually never made contact with the line. That was why Semiramis was riding an Army horse, not one of the Avebury thoroughbreds.

Them Semiramis cursed to herself. A half-dozen men, no more than that, had left the group of civilians and formed a thin line between the fugitives and the advancing cavalry. The fugitives were still running in the rear, trying to get away from the advancing Dragoons. She supposed the men thought they were buying time for them but she knew their sacrifice was useless. Less than 150 yards away from them, the cavalry had already broken into a trot, their lines still steady. Small clouds of smoke rose from the six lone figures standing in front of them; they were worse than foolishly brave. They had just revealed themselves to be armed men, either fugitives from Culloden or men who had been on their way to the field and turned back when news of the catastrophe that had enveloped the Jacobite Army had spread. Semiramis counted four firelock shots, the fine drizzle had obviously damped the powder of two more. Nothing was going right for the fugitives today.

As if the shots were a signal, Eliot’s company broke into a canter then, fifty yards from the line of men, a full-blooded gallop. A few of the men facing them had drawn pistols but the sight of the galloping Dragoons was too much and they threw them away. All six ran for their lives but it was too late. It had been too late ever since the charge had started. The Dragoons hit them in a solid, well-ordered mass and rode them down. When the company had passed, all she could see of them was the white of the shirts they had worn under their tartans. The ones who had not been killed by the sabers would have been trampled to death by the horses.

Semiramis could hear the screams of panic as the cavalry caught up with the fugitives and crashed into the rear of the terrified mass. It was too far away for her to see who was dying and how, but she had seen such scenes often enough to visualize what was happening. Overrunning a chaotic group like the fugitives made it impossible to tell who was who. Who was resisting and who was not. Who were men, who were women and who were children. The Dragoons who had remembered the lessons Achillea had patiently taught them would be using the points of their sabers to run their victims through as they fled. Those would be the lucky ones, dead before they hit the ground. Others, the less well-trained, would be slashing with those swords, hacking the victims up but leaving them slowly bleeding to death on the sodden ground. By the time the Dragoons had reined their horses in, all of the fugitives were on the ground, dead or dying.

“Company commanders. The Regiment will advance in line, forming threes… Flank and rear detachments out. Advance at the walk. MARCH.” Semiramis was well aware that her orders weren’t quite Hanoverian Army standard and was firmly convinced that one of Eliot’s duties was to bring her Regiment into the approved way of doing things.

As she had suspected, all of the six men whose fire had opened the action were dead. All had been brought down by sabre thrusts in their backs as they ran. One of her men dismounted and picked up a discarded firelock and pistol. “Colonel, they are ours. These men must have picked them up after Prestonpans or Falkirk Muir.”

“So, that was why they fought. Not caring that by doing so they brought destruction on everybody else.” Semiramis actually suspected that the men had been making a gallant last stand in hope of saving at least some of the fugitives. Once again, she damned the Jacobite agents who were spreading tales of murder and rapine across the Highlands. They were making a bad situation far worse and for no reason that she could see.

The scene where the Cragoons had ridden down the fugitives was as bad as she had imagined. They were mostly women and children with a few men of military age scattered amongst them. It confirmed her impression that the men who had stayed back were the brave ones, foolish perhaps but brave. The others, by not standing with them had doomed both the rearguard and the fugitives to death. Semiramis looked down at a body on the ground, a young girl in a shawl and a thin dress. The sword thrust had taken her in the back and she had died instantly. Not far away was a small group, a woman with a baby and a much older woman. All were dead and from the position of the bodies Semiramis guessed that the older woman had, at the last moment, tried to shield the other two with her own body. Her daughter and grandchild perhaps? Why didn’t these people stay where they were?

The sound of a pistol shot broke her mood. One of the casualties on the ground had been slashed so badly by saber cuts that it was impossible to say whether the victim was man or woman. One of the Dragoons had shot the mortally wounded person, an act of mercy on a scene that had little in the way of other such acts.

“Beggin’ your pardon ma’am, but this ain’t right. I don’t like this, I don’t like it at all. Fightin’ on the field is one thing but riding down women and children like this. It just ain’t right. Look at ther' faces ma’am, these people were starving. They haven’t eaten for days.” One of the Serjeants was speaking to her, too shocked by what he was seeing to remember that his words could get him flogged or hanged,

[i[The Assyrian came down like a wolf upon the fold.[/i] The ancient Hebrew lament ran through Semiramis’s mind as she looked at the scene. She had seen far worse in the aftermath of a battle and some of the things she had done after battles she had fought and won made this look positively innocent. She could understand the distress the man was feeling and one part of her sympathized with him. Another, the Army professional, knew that the alternatives were uniformly worse.

“No, it isn’t right, Serjeant, although I would be careful who I said that to if I were you. Perhaps if people understood that this is what civil wars mean, they would be less willing to start them. If this one had gone the other way, it would be our people here on the moor and Jacobite cavalry standing over them. Colonel Eliot? There you are. A sad business indeed, but well executed. Ask your men to clear the battlefield. Those six men who stood before you? See that they are buried properly. They may have been foolish but they were brave men.”

Baggage Train, Ruin of Inverness Castle, 3 May 1746

"Well, there certainly isn’t a ton of gold hidden away in the baggage train." Hughes was exhausted after the hard day's work that had seen the entire baggage train thoroughly searched. Quite a few illicit things including several stills had been found but, on Hughes' orders, had been discretely ignored. It had been explained that they were looking for evidence that would lead to the arrest of the person who had murdered Judith Tomkins. Conrad had remarked that people who did such vile things had almost certainly done them before and would certainly do them again. With sadness, he had known that he was speaking the exact, literal truth. If the killer, or more likely the killers, were still with the baggage train, every woman in it was in danger and they all knew it. It was another reason why they had to get this situation solved.

"We have identified six wagons that have left the baggage train." Conrad had also got a list of those who had left the baggage train since the murder. "A total of eighteen people. Two of the wagons are the property of suttlers whose place of business is in Inverness. They joined us in Aberdeen and have returned to their homes here. I took the liberty of interviewing them and they struck me as honest merchants."

"As honest as suttlers in a military baggage train might be." Hughes shook his head sadly. "The baggage train is not for those who are faint of heart."

"Indeed so; one of the two wagons was operated by a man and his wife. They were formidable but honest. The other was the business of a man and his two sons. They also were formidable and I would not care to cross them. However, none of them struck me as the sort of person who could have done this. Something else, they were buying goods from local suppliers, restocking for the army's move to Fort Augustus. They told me that would be the primary base for the pacification campaign against the Highlands."

"They know more than we do then. I have heard nothing of such a move." Hughes thought carefully. "Although, it would make much sense. The line of the Great Glen is eminently defensible and once garrisoned would cut the rebellious Highlands off from the more loyal areas to the south."

"We have four wagons to find then. They can hardly be moving far or fast though."

"They don't have to. We are the front line here. The Great Glen I mentioned? It runs from here to Fort William. If the wagon or wagons we seek have headed north, they are already in friendly ground."

[Calder]

Chapter Fourteen
Duke of Cumberland’s Drawing Room, Drummond Tower, Inverness

“We will be moving our Headquarters to Fort Augustus on the 14th. The military roads built by General Wade will be of great assistance in this matter.” The Duke of Cumberland looked around at his advisors and at one man in particular.

“They will indeed.” Sir Stewart Parmenio carefully studied the maps, measuring time and distance as they dictated troop movements. “They are a most valuable asset. Perhaps we should consider extending the network?”

“I have appointed a most vigorous and diligent officer to do just that. Major William Caulfeild is greatly in favor of a radical expansion of General Wade’s network. Perhaps, Sir Stewart, you would sit with him and advise on how the new roads should best be placed?”

“Very good, Your Grace. As a first step, we will need to push a road north to the fortress at Bernera. It is 35 miles from Fort Augustus to Bernera and that road will drive a stake through the heart of the Highlands. We can spread north and east from there.”

“Cavalry patrols?”
Parmenio thought about that. “It is customary to use cavalry for pacification work because of their mobility but I don’t think that applies here; patrolling the Highlands needs infantry if the patrols are to move more freely. Also, our current regiment-sized operations are too large. Once the Light Dragoons have reached Bernera, I would recommend that we should shift to using smaller, company- or platoon-sized infantry patrols. They’ll be strong enough to defeat any armed groups they run into but we can deploy many more of them. The great art here is to be in as many places as possible so that the outlaws can’t retreat from contact with one patrol without running head-on into another. Also, we need to start controlling food so that people who have retreated into the mountains will have to surrender or starve. Removing livestock will be a good way of doing that. Cattle are walking rations. Crops are not so much of a problem. We can leave those.”

Cumberland though carefully. “That’s a hard policy, Sir Stewart but I see no alternative. Operating in smaller forces will have another advantage; it will give our junior officers a body of experience in practical military operations matched by few other armies. We will be losing our regulars soon; the regiments must return to the Continent. These duties must fall upon the Lowland militia regiments. I do not think that they will prove unenthusiastic. There has also been a decision taken in London that we must enforce. It has been decided that the entire Highland clan leadership must be removed. They must be executed or exiled; for more so than any factor it was the powers of the Clan Chieftains and their place as 'fathers', the leaders, of their people that have led the clansmen to their deaths. If we remove them and leave the clans without anyone to direct them, then the heart of rebellion will be removed forever.”

“Your Grace.” Parmenio hesitated and then decided to continue. The long-term objective of all this is to put an end to these ruinous civil wars. The people of this country deserve better, “What you propose will indeed put an end to this rebellion but I fear that a leaderless people without any direction or purpose will fall victim to the first smooth-tongued trickster who can put on an act that will give them hope of a place in the world.”

“Then what would you suggest, Sir Stewart? Your advice has never failed us yet.”

Parmenio thought about one option that had served him well in Seleucia. Well, you probably won’t like this at first, but it worked for me in the past. “There is no doubt about the bravery or fidelity of the individual clansman. The tragedy is that it should be so misplaced. As you have so clearly stated, the clan system as it is now constituted, has long outlived its use. It belongs to an era when a lord’s power was measured by the number of armed men he could put in the field and by the loyalty he commanded from them. Now, power is measured by financial resources and the power of his estates to generate them. The Lairds do not understand that change or its implications.

“Did you hear about the fate of MacBean’s Tavern in Cromarty just a few miles from here? They sold a sort of pie, a cake of fried beef with cheese and onions, dressed with gravy and served wrapped in bread. They were very well-liked and the business prospered. So much so, the local clan chief of the MacDonalds took offense that a successful business was not owned by him. So, he had his tacksman and his tenants burn the tavern to the ground, having first locked the owner and his family inside. It never occurred to the clan chief that a successful business, no matter who it belonged to, was generating prosperity for the whole area and that brought with it both power and loyalty.

“The clan system must go. Instead, we should provide an outlet for those sterling qualities that direct them to a better end. What we should do is, in addition to dealing with the leadership in the way London suggests, we should forbid the wearing of clan tartans, prohibit the carrying of traditional weapons and even proscribe the singing of traditional songs and the use of Gaelic. Then, after a few years to settle the Highlands down, we form regiments based on the old clans but, of course firmly under our control. We have a good foundation to build on; at Culloden, Your Grace, more Highlanders fought for you than against you. The young men will join the regiments, which will have trustworthy officers of course, so that they can wear their traditional tartans, sing their traditional songs and bear arms again. Once in service, loyalty to the regiment will replace loyalty to the now-dead clans and obedience to their Colonel will replace fealty to a clan leader. We will have additional fine and brave units for service in the colonies and in Europe when the need arises.”

“The problem I see there is that when these men return and leave the army, they will be trained soldiers. Will we not be creating an even more formidable foe?”

“Your Grace, after serving in the Colonies for many years, or being thrown against the French cannon, how many of those young men will return? Very few, I would wager.”

Cumberland laughed. “The sad fate of those who wager against the Manor of Avebury is well known, Sir Stewart. I will take your proposal to my father myself.”

“Thank you, Your Grace. May I take the liberty of suggesting something else. My people have been looking around since we came up here and we have come to an alarming conclusion. The Highlands are already overpopulated and it gets worse by the year. We spoke to one prisoner, a sub-tenant of a sub-tenant, whose ‘family farm’ was a half-share in a potato patch, thirty feet by thirty feet. He and his family live on the verge of starvation yet for that, he had to risk his life on the battlefield whenever his Laird commanded. There is the specter of famine hanging over the Highlands and it is but a few years away. A decade, perhaps two at the most. All it needs is a crop blight or any number of natural disasters and we will see a high percentage of the population in the grip of famine. Before that happens, we must persuade people to leave the Highlands, to bring population and resources into balance. These people are living in the past, worse, they are living in a past that never really existed except in romantic imagination. They need a hard dose of reality.

“There is another specter hanging over them. One of my people has completed a financial study of the Clan leadership. They are all technically bankrupt; their clan lands are heavily mortgaged and the rents they bring in do not even begin to cover the payments on the mortgage. You see, most of those rents are paid by the tacksman bringing armed men to the field whenever the Laird calls. Not in cash. The banks, plus the other mortgage holders, are not interested in fielding private armies. They want coin. My guess would be that strip away the fine-flown verbiage and the Clan Lairds who declared for the Jacobites did so in hope of having their mortgages annulled.”

“Do you have evidence of that? It would be a powerful argument to the King and Parliament.”

Parmenio produced a long list, in Lillith’s carefully-crafted hand. “Your Grace, one of my people prepared this. It is a list of the Clan Lairds and the amounts they owe in mortgages on their lands. The most indebted are at the top.”

“So I see. I wish my soldiers could form line as neatly as the person who drew this up. One could almost draw a line to show where the Jacobite support ends . . . . Oh, I see you have. Then the Clan Lairds are doomed?”

“They are. The Jacobite rising was their last hope. With that gone, they will lose their lands no matter what we do. The new owners will want to run the land at its most profitable and that means eliminating smallholder subsistence farming in favor of . .”

“Enclosure.” Cumberland said the dreaded word heavily.

“Enclosure. That will drive most of the smallholders off the land with nowhere else for them to go. It is coming, Your Grace, and when it does the result will be a tragedy unless we move now to minimize it. When we enclosed and consolidated the old open field system, we had all the tenants involved in the process from the start. The better-off tenants and the more enterprising members of the Avebury community encouraged and participated actively in enclosure process, seeking to end the perpetual poverty of subsistence farming. Some, left landless, preferred that state and hired out their labor to the new farms. Our horse-breeding enterprise took in others. So, we can mitigate the process by finding alternatives to the existing way of life. Fishing and kelping are ones we thought of; I am sure there are others.”

Parmenio paused for a second while the Duke thought about that. I’ll try not to mention there was a major family dispute over enclosure. Oh, we all knew it had to be done only Lillith, Naamah and Semiramis wanted to lay down the law and give the tenants an ‘our way or the highway’ choice. Igrat, ‘Lea and Nell wouldn’t hear of that and wanted the tenants involved in the decisions. I went fishing until it was all sorted out. The conciliators won and time proved them right.

Cumberland could see the complexity of the problem and the mass of intertwining issues that were represented by the Highlands. He hadn’t realized the problems were so disastrous or near at hand. “And so it is apparent that we stand at a most critical time when a catastrophe hangs over us. Perhaps I could sound your mind on another issue. What should we do with Charles Edward Stuart?”

“Well, if we catch him, we’ll have to hang him. So, I suggest we don’t do that. I believe we have placed a reward of thirty thousand sovereigns on his head?”

“We have. Three times his monthly subsidy from the Kings of France and Spain. They paid him 125,000 Louis d’Or livres per month. That works out as ten thousand sovereigns. But, you say we should not hang him?”

“No, Your Grace, I believe we should try not to catch him. At the moment, he is running for his life through the heather like a hunted hare. Eventually, he will flee the country, leaving those who followed him behind. It is much easier, Your Grace, to defeat a live coward than a dead martyr.” Parmenio paused, wondering if Achillea had heard about the reward. If she has, then she is already saddling up a horse, ready to go and collect. “Leave him alone and his taste for the bottle will destroy him more effectively than we ever could.”

House of Andrew Fraser, Suttler, North Kessock.

“You are Andrew Fraser, until recently a suttler on the baggage train of the Duke of Cumberland’s Army?” Conrad was his mild and polite self, something that made people very reluctant not to answer his questions.

“I was, aye. And I am still Andrew Fraser.” The man’s eyes twinkled as he spoke.

“May I ask why you left the baggage train, Mr. Fraser?”

“Tis simple, lad. I had sold all my stock and shown a good profit so I came home here to rest and spend time with my family. Wit’ the army moving to Fort Augustus, I will be gone for a long time again. So, our wagon is stored out back while we take our ease for a few weeks.”

“Are you not afraid of being here?” Conrad asked curiously. “After Culloden, there might be those who would wish to take revenge on those who were with the Hanoverians.”

“Our Laird here is Simon Fraser, Master of Lovat. He is staunchly for King George and the area follows his lead. His battalion led the way into Inverness, the day of Culloden. If the MacDonalds come down from the north there may be some concern but they were badly handled at Culloden and now lick their wounds.”

“You know there will still be an Army garrison here, and the Navy will be using the Moray Firth as an operating base for many months to come. I believe that a reliable factor here would be well-placed to make a good living organizing supplies for the garrison.” Hughes gave the information freely; there was nothing secret about it and he had his own schemes in mind.

“Now that I did not know.” Fraser sounded very thoughtful. That struck Conrad as odd since in his (admittedly limited) experience of Army camps, the suttlers and the camp whores knew of army movements before the generals did.

“Perhaps you could help us.” Conrad tried to get the path of the interview back on the course he planned. “I am told there were a total of six wagons that left the baggage train. With yours, we have found three of them. Do you know anything of the other three?”

“Not of all three, no. But there was only one that is not still here. The other two are doing as I do, making ease with their families before going to Fort Augustus. There was but one more that headed north. To Akraig I think. One of the men got drunk one night and said something about Loch Akraig. Said he wanted to find a ship there that would take him back to Alsace. Strange thing for a suttler to say, that is why I remember it.”

“Alsace. That is French isn’t it?” Hughes knew the low countries well as did any regular British Army officer. The rest of Europe he was not so sure about.

“A part of France, yes, but looks to neighboring German-speaking lands in economic and cultural matters. The German language remains in use in local administration, in schools, and at the Lutheran University of Strasbourg, which continues to draw students from other German-speaking lands. There has been a stream of immigrants from Switzerland, Austria, Lorraine, Savoy and other lands for many years now and it has transformed the area into a patchwork. Protestantism and Catholicism fight hand-to-hand there, competing for influence.” Conrad was careful not to reveal he had been there just prior to coming to England.

“Sounds like the sort of place an assassin-for-hire might come from.” Hughes remarked. That made Conrad think of the way Joy Thackeray had been killed; a German-born assassin for hire might well have come from Alsace. Which, in turn, may well mean he was also employed by the French. It looks as if silencing the Thackerays may have been at the root of all this.

“The wagon that headed north, was there anything strange about it?” Conrad asked the question more to get the interview back the way he wanted it than anything else. I wish people would not interfere when I am questioning somebody.

“There was, yes. All the Suttlers remarked on it. There were four men in that team. Usually there are two, or three at the most. Four divides the profits up too finely unless they are all family and these most certainly were not. And when they broke camp, they still had goods left for sale. Seven chests there were and heavy also. Their wagon was not lightly loaded when they left.”

Hughes and Conrad both nodded. This had confirmed the theory they had been working on. “You have been most kind, Master Fraser. In return, I am minded to aid you. As Provost-Major I am allowed to hand out references of good character to those people who have proved their loyalty to King George. I will sign one here and present it to you before we leave. Show it to the commander of the new garrison here, and he will be sure that profitable business comes your way.”

“That is most kind, Major. I should say one other thing to you. There are faint whispers in the baggage train, nothing substantial just grass rippling in the wind, that there is a Jacobite plan to assassinate the Duke of Cumberland, It is said that there are those in his court who are not what they appear.”

Hughes nodded. “I thank you sir. Your loyalty will not go unrewarded.”

As they left Conrad, who was painfully aware that Fraser’s last remark about people not being what they seemed could well apply to the Avebury party, shook his head. “I wonder if Fraser is as loyal to the Hanoverian cause as he appears?”

“He isn’t.” Hughes sounded quite convinced of the matter. “His clan Laird has changed sides three times since this rising started and is known to be loyal only unto himself. Like master, like man. That reference of good character is genuine enough and will stand him in good stead. But, it is also a warning to have the man watched carefully.”

Duke of Cumberland’s Dining Room, Drummond Tower, Inverness

As usual, Cumberland was an excellent host, steering the conversation delicately without dominating it. He was particularly interested in how the Manor of Avebury had enclosed its lands without the discontent and suffering that similar activities had caused elsewhere and his patient questioning was adding to his store of knowledge on that area. They had just reached their brandy, Inverness being a port had meant French brandy was not in short supply, when there was a knock on the door. “Your Grace; Major Hughes of the Provost Guard and Conrad Anderson, a priest, are here to see you. They say it is a matter of great urgency.”

“Oh confound it. Cannot a man have a quiet dinner with his Lady and her father without being disturbed. Send them in.”

Despite his outburst, Cumberland remained the genial host and listened patiently to Conrad and Hughes as they explained their theory about the French treasure being taken north to Loch Akraig. When the explanation was complete, he had to admit that it made much sense. He excused the two and thought for a second.

“I have a Light Dragoon regiment on its way to Bernera. I will have to send a message diverting them to Akraig. With luck, we can intercept that treasure and help pay for this wretched uprising. I just hope there is time. It is 55 miles from here to Bernera; a cavalry messenger with escort will take two days through that terrain. The Light Dragoons are at Strath Duilleach, some ten miles short of Bernera. Their orders are to move out at dawn the day after tomorrow. If the courier does not get there by then it could take days to find them.”

Igrat glanced at her father and got a slight nod. “William, if I take Chianti I can get there in six hours. Leave at dawn tomorrow and the word will be in the Colonel’s hands by dusk.”

“Send a woman, alone, through countryside still occupied by rebels? Igrat, I cannot ask that of you. If I was to allow it, I would insist you take an escort of Dragoons at least.”

Igrat gave him a meaningful smile and got up from the table. Watching her Parmenio realized she would make the ride now regardless of whether she had a message to carry or not. She spoke quietly to one of the Duke’s aides, asking for Chianti to be made ready for a dawn departure. Parmenio took the opportunity to speak to the Duke. “Your Grace, Igrat is a free spirit, she has always done what she wishes and carrying messages through hostile terrain is the one thing she does better than anybody else. She has made the offer to you of her own free will. Honoring it and letting her perform this service for you will bind her to you as closely as anything could. All I ask is that you keep this side of her role in life a complete secret. Her anonymity as a messenger is her best protection.”

The Duke nodded. When Igrat came back to the table, he asked one simple question. “Are you sure you will not require an escort?”

Igrat thought carefully. “William, if one would be value I would accept the offer gladly. In this case, an escort will just slow me down and attract unwanted attention. Give me all the dispatches you wish me to take and I will leave at dawn. I will ask you for one of those ‘hanging awaits’ laissez-passe documents though. Father, any words for Semiramis I will take also.”

[Calder]

Chapter Fifteen
Duke of Cumberland’s Stables, Drummond Tower, Inverness. 7 am.

Chianti looked around for somebody whose foot could be accidentally stepped on and, to his great regret found none. The stable staff around him were all Avebury men and knew his funny little ways. As a result, they kept their feet out of his reach. On the other hand, some Army horses were also out, being readied for morning rides and he took the opportunity to flare his nostrils and arch his neck in their general direction. By the time he had finished asserting his superiority over them, Igrat had arrived and was getting ready to mount up. She was in the silk-lined heavy leather breeches she wore for long rides, a white shirt under an equally heavy leather jerkin and a double-thickness gray woolen cloak. Her riding boots reached far up her thighs but still showed the hilts of the knives she carried there. Finally, her hair was piled under a broad-brimmed hat. For all that, she still weighed less than a male rider and that was something Chianti really appreciated. So, he stood still while she swung up into the saddle.

“I’ve got the dispatch case and the private messages, Father. Don’t worry, William, this is what I do. I’ll be back in two or three days.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to take ‘Lea with you?” Parmenio asked the question more out of formality than anything else.

Igrat shook her head. “She’s needed here more. Look after yourselves.”

Behind her, Major Hughes spoke quietly with Cumberland. "Your Grace, a private word?"

Igrat guessed what that was about. Then, she dug her heels in and Chianti broke into a trot as they left the stables. The early morning mist quickly swallowed them up but the sound of Chianti’s hooves still echoed off the stone buildings. Then, they too were gone.

Igrat held Chianti at a steady working trot. The route she had planned covered nearly sixty miles, a good day’s ride and he had little doubt she would be stiff and sore at the end of it. That didn’t matter though, what did matter was to keep Chianti fresh with his speed and power held in reserve in case she had to make a run for it. Most horses were blown after a two or three mile gallop at full speed but Chianti would manage five before having to stop afore he foundered. His working trot would cover the ground at eight miles an hour which was enough for the backbone of today’s ride. Igrat intended to put him into a standard canter for thirty minutes every second hour. That would increase her average speed to ten miles an hour and provide a useful margin against unexpected eventualities without tiring him unnecessarily.

The truth was, there was no need to push him any harder this close to Inverness and she wanted him to be properly warmed up before they did anything strenuous. There were Hanoverian troops everywhere, the infantry regiments fanning out along the line from Inverness to Fort Augustus. It was all part of the rebasing that was driven by the Pacification campaign. After quarter of an hour she passed through Craig Dunain. That was where woods started to close in and her options as to route started to narrow. There was a broad strip of cleared ground through the woods, dead straight and heading north west. She had seen the track on a map of the area when studying the night before and wondered whether it really existed. She had taken the chance and was now reaping the benefits as it took her steadily north-west towards her second waypoint, the town of Drumchardine.

One thing did worry her; the trees were closing in on her track, increasing the danger of an ambush, either by retreating Jacobites or local highwaymen taking advantage of the chaos caused by Culloden and its aftermath. Deciding that discretion was the better part of valor, she heeled Chianti, asking him to break into a working canter. She saw his head turn slightly as he looked at her and she could read his mind. Really? Seriously? Already? Oh, all right then, just for you. Then, Chianti broke into his loping stride and started to eat the distance ahead of him up.

They came out of the first patch of woods and started to cross a field system. It’s already been enclosed. The changes Father foresees are already starting. Poor William is going to get the blame for a lot of things that are nothing to do with him. I must tell Father about this. Ahead of them was the boundary hedge, new and neat. Obviously this field was enclosed quite recently She was about to turn and find a gap but, without instructions, Chianti accelerated into a full gallop, cleared the hedge with a single flowing jump and returned to his working trot the other side. Ahead of them, the track was still clearly marked, still dead straight and now ran through open country.
Around her, the early morning mist had faded and the sun was beginning to warm the air at last. The rain and snowstorms of the last few weeks seemed to fade away as the day settled in to fine spring morning. Igrat glanced at the sun estimating she had been on the road for over an hour already. Ahead of her, she could see another band of woods, again with the strange straight path through it. Did the Romans ever get up here to build roads? The strip of trees was narrow and when they came out the other side, Igrat could see the spire of Drumchardine Church ahead of her, a bit to her left but nothing a small change of direction couldn’t cure.

Drumchardine was ten miles from Inverness and the church bells were sounding seven as Igrat emerged from the countryside and turned on to the road that due west. We’d still be back at Craig Dunain if I’d brought those Dragoons with me. We’re making good time you and I. People were coming out of their houses to go to church and Chianti couldn’t resist the temptation. He broke into an extended canter, clearing the village in fine style basking in the admiring glances of men who knew good horseflesh when they saw it. Igrat actually regretted that slightly; it would have been better to remain inconspicuous but a single unidentified person heading for the Highlands would be taken as a Jacobite, either a refugee seeking shelter or a spy returning with information on the Hanoverian movements. That was another advantage of being on her own.

It was five miles to her next waypoint, the village of Kiltarlity. The road she was following turned south and would eventually lead to Drumnadrochnit, well out of her way and on the wrong side of bad terrain. However, just short of Kiltarlity would be a dirt-track that would take her north-west again. She kept a sharp watch for the turning but for all her care nearly missed it. It was buried in a patch of trees and the combination of overgrowth and the shadows of the still-low sun left it in the shadows. It had taken a hard right turn to get her and Chianti on to the path and she had heard his sarcastic snort of derision very clearly.

Kiltarlity was a small but neat and picturesque village, the houses well-kept and the road swept. Igrat liked it and hoped that its inhabitants would have the common sense not to make trouble for themselves. She noted the signpost in the middle of the village, marking Inverness as being twelve miles away. Once again, she noted time and distance on her mental map and concluded that, despite the sign, she was running just a little ahead of her schedule. There was another fork as she left the houses, the right-hand fork leading her almost due north. Again, the track that she wanted was hard to see but when she spotted it, she saw it was relatively wide and straight, leading her to her next waypoint, the village of Crerag.

The problem was, although the village was clearly marked on the map and Igrat was sure she was on the right path, there was nothing to be found. There was no sign of habitation, not even long-deserted ruins, and while the road might have started wide, it was deteriorating quickly as the countryside closed in around her. Soon, the track had barely become wide enough for horse and rider and she was having to crouch down to avoid the branches that hung low over the path. That slowed their movement to a walk and Igrat was acutely aware that this was the sort of area where a rider could be pulled from her horse before she even knew an attack was taking place. To make matters worse, stone walls on each side of the path appeared, ancient and in poor repair but still there.

So it was that, with a sigh of relief, she and Chianti broke out of the woods and found themselves in relatively clear ground again. The woods were still there as were the tumbledown walls, but the path was wider and the fields clearer although they were now divided into strips according to ancient tradition. They came to a 90 degree turn in the path that led to a cluster of small stone-built houses. There was a church there also. Igrat read the sign outside it; St Mary’s Escadale. She recognized the name of the village as the next step on her route. Obviously Crerag had either ceased to exist a long time before or had been a figment of the map-makers imagination. The problem was that St Mary’s was obviously a Catholic church and up here, Catholic meant Jacobite.

Ahead of them was another of the peculiar long, straight open strips of ground that led directly towards the small town of Struy that would be Igrat’s first major stop. She asked Chianti for a fast canter and, after a moment’s consideration, he broke into the required gait. Slowly, he started to regain the time they had lost while struggling through the woods and, despite the exertion he was actually enjoying the freedom. Igrat was looking around, noting something that had been growing on her ever since they had left Drumchardine. The countryside was deserted; there was nobody to be seen anywhere. It was, she decided, both eerie and worrying.

By the time the wide track ended, they were within a mile of Struy and approaching river bridge, an old stone structure flanked by a tall wall on each side. There were four guards on her side of the bridge, their red coats clearly visible. They watched carefully as she cantered past and moved so that the way behind her was blocked. If the Guard weren’t satisfied with her credentials she had no way out.

Sure enough, as soon as she crossed the bridge, there were more guards and they had every intention of stopping her. She reined Chianti in and looked down at the infantrymen. “Captain of the Guard, please?”

“Aye Miss. He’ll be here right soon. Fine horse you have there, Your Ladyship.” The private gave her a friendly grin that didn’t deceive Igrat for one moment. If the Captain of the Guard gave the order, he would shoot her with equal friendliness.

“What are you doing here and where are you going?” The man who spoke to her was a type that Igrat recognized instantly. One of the Army’s hard men. Grim, unyielding soldiers who were ready to do the unpleasant work without questioning their orders.

“I am a courier serving the Duke of Cumberland. I have a laissez-passe from his own hand. And who do I have the honor of addressing?”

“Captain Caroline Frederick Scott, General John Guise's 6th Regiment of Foot.” Scott read the laissez-passe carefully. “One thing about Sweet William, when he gives an order, everybody knows exactly what he means. All right, how can we help you?”

“Some water for my horse, and hay if you have any here. Not too much, I don’t want him bloating or colicky. And some advice. Captain Scott? Are you the officer who won renown in the defense of Fort William?”

Scott snorted. “My men were there and they fought well, that I will allow. What advice do you need?”

“I am honored to meet you, Sir. I have to ride west, to deliver urgent messages to the Light Dragoons at Carnach and there are two possible routes open. I had thought of going south of Carn Gorm, through Carnoch and Ballmore to Cannich then up to Muchrachd but I have noticed the countryside is empty and that concerns me. Also, it is the long way around and I am behind schedule. Instead, I thought I would change plans and ride around the north of Carn Gorm. What would you recommend Captain?

“Do not go north. There are no tracks up there to follow and it is easy to get lost. After a while the hills look all the same and one gets turned around in the head. Also, there is little shelter up there and what there is has been taken by the rebels. Go south, there is a good road, all the way to Cannich. The people down there are good lowlanders, not these barbarous highlanders, and we have the area well-patrolled. It is six and a half miles to Cannich and with that throughbred of yours, you should make it in an hour or less. There is another company of my Regiment there, they will see you safely on your way. The other side of Cannich, on the way to Muchrachd, the tracks are there but the country is wild and much-emptied. Take my advice, if you are going this way, save your horse on the ride to Cannich, push him hard on the way to Muchrachd and then do what you must to get the rest of the way. The road from Muchradt takes you along the north side of Loch Mullardoch. The highland rebels are still there, we have made sweeps of that area but still the rebels hold out. If you see them, run, as fast as that horse will carry you. You have pistols and a compass?”

Igrat held up four fingers and then danced a very serviceable engineers compass on her hand. “Given to me by a nice Officer of Engineers.”

“Not what I would give a Lady whose favors I desired.” Scott didn’t seem to smile; he had inherited the dour countenance of his Covenanter parentage, but Igrat sensed that he was laughing at the idea of an engineer solemnly giving a lady a compass. “The road ends at the western edge of Loch Mullardoch. That last part is three miles and is the only part where you will be outside our patrols. Of course, if the Light Dragoons are as good as they say, they’ll have their own patrols out.”

Igrat glanced at the sun. She had been riding for two and a half hours, counting the brief rest here. It would be another two and a half at least to the end of Loch Mullardoch. That would leave an hour for the last cross-country leg. She nodded with satisfaction. “Captain Scott, you have been kindness itself. Thank you for your advice. I will follow the route you suggest. One last thing. Has a wagon come though recently? It may have had four men aboard and been otherwise heavily loaded.”

Scott shook his head. "We have not seen a wagon since we took station here. In fact, I do not think we have seen four men together unless they were fleeing north."

She swung herself back into the saddle and pointed Chianti’s nose south. “Thank you, that is most valuable information. If you see such a wagon, it might do you and your men well to search it thoroughly and detain the men on it. Good day Captain, and I hope one day to repay your thoughtfulness to me.”

Captain Scott had certainly been right about the patrols. It took her an hour to cover the eleven miles to the eastern tip of Loch Mullardoch and there was probably no more than five minutes when she was out of sight of the Hanoverian patrols. As he had also told her, the area she rode through was occupied by Lowlanders. What he hadn’t said was that was because the Highlanders living in the area had been burned out. Their crofts were torched ruins, the livestock driven off and the pitiful crops destroyed. Outside many of the pillaged buildings were the remains of the occupants, mostly hanged although some had been bayoneted or bludgeoned as they had tried to leave their burning homes. She could envisage what had happened. They’d been told to leave. Those that had obeyed those commands had been left with nothing. Those that hadn’t heeded the warning had been found to have Jacobite sympathies and been slaughtered.

It wasn’t the first time Igrat had seen such sights, she knew it wouldn’t be the last and she knew that the Lowlanders were repaying three centuries of looting, rape and pillaging. It didn’t make her feel any better and the smell of the burned homes and their dead occupants seemed to hang over the valley. She had noted that some of the small-holdings were being reoccupied and the buildings repaired but it became apparent something else was happening. The people moving in were Lowlanders, taking the property for their own. The original Highlander population had been dispossessed and left destitute. What was happening was a major shift in population that highlighted how overpopulated the area was in proportion to the resources in commanded.

She had hoped that the second half of the ride, from Cannich to Muchrachd would be better but it wasn’t. It was deserted countryside true enough but it was there that the dispossessed Highlanders had fled. The Army patrols had found them and then harried them, driving them across the heather-covered moors until they were cornered and wiped out. She couldn’t help asking herself if that was what Semiramis and her cavalry had been doing.

It wasn’t until she was starting her ride down the north shore of Loch Mullardoch that she was clear of the devastation. Only, then she realized that she had simply exchanged one kind of desolation for another. Previously it had been the scenes of pillage and the forcible eviction, at best, of the unwelcome. Here, on the north side of the Loch, the occupants had seen what was happening to the south and knew that it would surely happen to them as well. So, they had left, retreating north, away from the revenge-filled Lowlanders and the grim determination of the Hanoverian Army to make sure that a Jacobite rising would never occur again. And the grim determination of my father to try and avoid the biblical famine that will engulf this area if the clan Lairds are allowed to continue their misrule. They had hoped if they ran far enough and stayed away long enough, the storm would pass them by. Ingrat knew very well that it would not. The House of Hanover was playing for keeps this time.

It was the deserted wilderness that began to take hold of her. Earlier she had noticed the absence of people in Jacobite areas and been disturbed by it but the emptiness here was something quite else. There was a bleakness, a knowledge that the elimination of the population here represented an irreversible change in the balance of power that added an air of pathos to the silence. It was almost as if the land itself was stricken with grief at the knowledge the only people who cared about it had left. Suddenly, Igrat was convinced that the land here was going to die, that somehow, somewhen soon, it would be drowned and forgotten.

She had just reached Loch Lungard when she realized that she was being stalked. Without appearing to do so, she looked around carefully, noting the way the birds reacted and how the grass moved. She also noted the wind direction and guessed that the stalkers would be downwind of her. That suited her fine; it meant that galloping away from them would also take her closer to her destination. She dug her heels into Chianti and set him off at full gallop along the shores of the Loch, heading west. Chianti, well aware of the likely fate of a well-fleshed horse in an area where people were starving, set to work with a will. This time, he didn’t regret the absence of mares to appreciate the fine figure of a horse that he cut.

In fact, the stalkers had been more clever than Igrat had realized. Although the main group, of six men as it happened, were indeed behind her, a small ambush party of two were in her path westwards. As she approached, they jumped up, waving their arms and shouting. Igrat saw them instantly of course and was fully aware of their plan to startle Chianti into rearing up and throwing her. It would have worked only Chianti had been trained as a war-horse and took such distractions in his stride. Left to his own devices, he would have galloped them down then kicked, trampled and crushed them under his hooves. Instead, Igrat steered him away from them, drew one of her pistols and fired a shot. It went wide of course; the pistols were hardly accurate weapons and when fired from the back of a galloping horse their chance of hitting anybody was minute. Igrat’s shot and the two that she fired after it all missed but they made the men dive for cover. By the time they got to their feet, Igrat and Chianti were far off and clearing the scene as fast as Chianti’s legs would carry them.

“Thigibh air ais thu damned gealtaire a bh.”

Igrat heard the words shouted after her and laughed. She didn’t understand them of course but the fact that she had heard them meant she was alive.

Regimental Lines, Duke of Cumberland’s Light Dragoons. Carnach

“Rider coming in.” The Piquet shouted out the phrase and moved to block the rider. Semiramis took one look at horse and rider and burst out laughing. “Let the courier in.”

Igrat rode up, Chianti not forgetting to cast a supercilious glance at the Army horses, and halted. One of the soldiers took Chianti’s head and got his foot trodden on for his pains. Igrat slipped off his back and thanked the private who was trying not to hop up and down holding his bruised toes. “Thank you Private. Can you get him a blanket, a bucket of water and some fodder please. Colonel Eliot? I have dispatches from the Duke of Cumberland.”

Semiramis stretched her hand out but Igrat shook her head. “Sorry, Shummu, I am instructed to place these in the hands of Colonel Eliot himself. I do have words for you though.”

[Calder]

Chapter Sixteen
Duke of Cumberland’s Private Office, Drummond Tower, Inverness. 7:30 am

"There is a problem in the Provost Guard, Major Hughes?" The Duke of Cumberland couldn't help but glance into the early morning mist, hoping to see a glance of Igrat as she made her way westwards. It was futile, of course; she was well on her way and would be outside Inverness by now. Suddenly, Cumberland realized that she had adroitly dodged any suggestion of revealing the route she would be following.

"Not with the Guard itself, no Your Grace. But, in our investigations Father Conrad and I have made a worrying discovery. We were questioning a Suttler and he remarked that there was a rumor of an assassination attempt to be made upon Your Grace's person. I thought at the time it seemed unlikely but considered it worth following up. The Suttler in question did remark that the assassins already had a position in court here, adding that they were not who they appeared to be."

Cumberland looked at Hughes suspiciously. "And why, pray, did you not reveal this at our meeting last night?"

"With Your Grace's permission, I wished to speak of this in private because of the suggestion that the assassins were not who they appeared to be. It put me in mind of Sir Stewart Parmenio and his family and I wished to know more about them. They are . . . unusual people, Your Grace." Hughes was very well aware he was treading on hazardously thin ice. "They are extremely competent, it as if every one of them, even the lowest stable-hand, has more experience in their trades than their years could possibly allow. I would look at them with great suspicion only . . . "
"Yes, Major?" Cumberland's voice was silky-smooth and it made Hughes feel the ice cracking under his feet.

"Your Grace, I would suspect them but even the most superficial inquiries showed that they have served the cause of your house too well for that. Sir Stewart had Culloden planned to perfection and the battle ripped the chart out of the Jacobite cause. It has sent Charles Edward Stuart fleeing into the heather his spirits broken and his nerve gone. In that battle, most of our wounded survived, something beyond all my years of experience with the Army. I can only attribute that to Lady Naamah treating them with remarkable skill and to great effect. For that alone, we owe the family much but there is still something surpassingly strange about them. One of their women commands a regiment of our cavalry with great skill, another thinks nothing of galloping into a battle to deliver a vital message. I somehow doubt they are of English blood but for all that, I believe their loyalty to be undeniable.”

“The family was Italian. They came here from Florence just after the Restoration.” Cumberland had been fed the story by Igrat. “But they have been here for three generations now. After the turmoil of Italy, they value the peace and tranquility of our country and wish only to help us preserve it. I, too, have made inquiries about them for the War Office Intelligence Department does not have a monopoly of caution. They live quietly in the countryside, keeping themselves to themselves although they have always an open hand when it comes to aiding a neighbor in distress. As you say they are competent people; the Manor of Avebury is well-run and respected by its neighbors. When they enclosed their fields a few years ago, they are one of the few manors that did so without discontent. Nearly all those who lost their land were well-satisfied with the arrangements made for them. The handful that were not would have been dissatisfied no matter what was done for them. I would remind you that if we equate competence with potential treason, then this country faces disaster. And, the Countess of Strathearn is very dear to me. I value her counsel greatly.”

Hughes blinked at the very explicit warning he had just been given. The cracking ice under his feet had just taken a sudden lurch downwards and he felt himself slipping towards an icy fate. “Your Grace, I have dismissed any thought of disloyalty from them on grounds the same as yours. Except that it was the Countess’s courage in bearing messages on the field of Culloden that impressed me the most. My point is that we cannot use the appearance of some strangeness as a guide to the possible assassins. We must look beyond that. Especially at any members of court who have Jacobite sympathies.”

“I would take care there also, Major Hughes. On that logic, your association with a Catholic priest might well argue suspicion against you. I do not like the prejudice against Catholics in this country. I understand it, but I do not like it. It is by men’s deeds that we must judge them. Investigate this threat further and keep me advised.”

“Very well, Your Grace, and I apologize if my words gave any offense.”

“You may rest assured none was taken. Now, I have work to complete on our move to Fort Augustus.”

Regimental Lines, Duke of Cumberland’s Light Dragoons. Carnach

“Roasted chicken?” Igrat had a drumstick in her hands and was ripping the meat off with her teeth. The day’s ride had left her very hungry; one of the secrets of how she carried messages far and fast was that she never stopped moving unless she absolutely had to. Eating and sleeping were optional luxuries until she had reached her destination.

“We had mutton stew last night.” Colonel Eliot remembered the stew fondly; it was the sort of hearty meal he preferred. “With fresh-baked bread. I do not think that even the guards eat this well on campaign.”

“Any damned fool can be uncomfortable.” Semiramis had the other chicken leg in one hand and a chunk of crusty bread in the other. “One of the advantages of a Militia regiment is that we have many skills to draw upon. Good cooks and bakers are but one.”

“As you have said before Shammu. Lady Isadora, you say you left Inverness with our dispatches this morning? You have made excellent time. I believe an Army courier would still be back on the road still.”

“A good horse and careful planning saves much time, Colonel Eliot. I was fortunate to meet an officer who knows this area well and he gave me the most sound of advice on routes. Captain Scott of Guise’s Regiment of Foot.”

“The hero of Fort William? Yes, a very capable man. I know the family. Captain Scott is a skilled engineering officer and a good leader of men. His son William would like to follow his father but the family lacks money to buy him a commission. This is a great sadness to the Captain for he believes the lad has the makings of a good soldier.”

“All right. Now to business.” Semiramis had been passed the dispatches by Colonel Eliot and had read them carefully. What she couldn’t quite work out was the background. She had been away from Inverness while most of the developments had taken place.

“Major Hughes has investigated the killing of Joy Thackeray carefully and it has led him into strange waters.” Igrat tossed her chicken bone to one side and picked up a wing. She was particularly fond of chicken wings roasted until the skin was crunchy. “It appears she and her partner Gerrard Thackeray, who claimed to be her brother, were fleeing political complication in London and were assigned to the task of enabling a very valuable consignment to Scotland. A chest containing 125,000 Louis d’Or livres worth some 10,000 sovereigns. They achieved this by kidnapping the wife of Captain Wilberforce to compel him to allow them passage with his Regiment with Joy Thackeray posing as his wife. The wife, the real Lady Beverly Wilberforce, was already dead of course although he would not admit that possibility.”

“The French subsidy to Charles Edward Stuart?” Eliot put the pieces together quickly.

“We believe so, yes. We think that Joy Thackeray handed the destination for the consignment to the people who were to take it to its destination by means of a cipher contained within her necklace. Only, then the recipients killed her to silence her and would have done the same to her brother had not he run for it and Achillea caught him. Unfortunately, we hanged him before we realized what he knew. We weren’t the only ones who made that mistake of course. It turned out there was a key to the cipher in another piece of Joy Thackeray’s jewelry and when her killers went back for it, a camp woman had already stolen it. She had been caught by the Provost Guard who took the jewels and placed them in safe keeping. The killers kidnapped the woman and tortured her to try and make her give them the jewels but she didn’t have them and died before she could tell them that. So, the people now with the treasure are heading blind into the Highlands. They only know that they must deliver it somewhere near Loch Akraig.” Igrat started nibbling the skin off the mid-section of the wing.
“And that is why, George, we must take a company of the Regiment down to Loch Akraig and start patrolling the area. I’ve been looking at the maps for a good place to base ourselves. Any ideas?” Semiramis spread out the rolled-out maps of the area.

“We’re 15 miles short of Bernera. The fortress there is in good condition although nobody uses it right now. The Jacobites have more sense than to tie down what few men they have left holding places like that.” Eliot put his finger on the map. “Loch Akraig is here. Twenty two or twenty three miles south of us?”

“About that. We can head up this stream here, across the Dorusduain Moor and that will bring us out here at Lienassie. From there, there’s a road heading south of south east that brings us out at Loch Quoich. There’s a saddle in the mountains to the east that takes us right through to Loch Arkraig. There’s a small village at the mouth of the saddle, Glendessarie. We can make our base there.”

“Be careful.” Igrat was speaking from bitter experience. “A lot of these places and roads don’t exist and the ones that do are nothing like the information on your map. Your small village may be nothing more than a single farmhouse. If it is there at all. By the way, I was told you were at Strath Duilleach, not here. I was lucky to find you. What happened?"

"The site we were ordered to occupy was unsuitable so we moved to the nearest location." Eliot dismissed the matter quickly enough although he was aware of the problems the move might have caused. Nevertheless there was a hint of apology in his voice. “We weren't expecting a courier."

"No problem." Igrat had noted the defensiveness in Eliot's voice and decided to let him off the hook. "I'm used to my recipients not being where they were expected to be. Army units in terrain like this especially so. These Highlands are rough. Not just the ground although that's bad enough. The area I came though on the way here has been burned out and the existing population is being driven out."

“And don’t we know it.” Semiramis was also speaking from bitter experience. “Half our work here is trying to round up the refugees. We've found some who haven't eaten for a week and the situation is getting worse daily. We’ll only be ten miles north of Fort William. Couldn’t they send a force up from there?”

“They could . . “ Eliot was hesitant, “but they are short of infantry and detaching a unit of the size needed would leave the fortress under-manned. Moving us down there makes sense but it won’t be easy. We will need to move early tomorrow. You will be riding with us, My Lady?”

“I will. Then, when you are in place, I will return to Fort Augustus by way of Fort William. If you have messages for me to take to the Duke, just pass them to me. There is one other thing. We gained much information from a Suttler we interviewed. He said there were seven chests in the wagon we seek. Not one.”

Eliot thought about that. “Given the circumstances, the subsidy for seven months? That would be a prize worth taking.”

"Seventy thousand sovereigns." Semiramis rolled the words around in her mouth. "And the loss would break Charles for once and for all. We can't leave this area open. George, you take a company of the Regiment and base yourself at Glendessarie. Start patrolling vigorously. I'll move the remaining companies to the west of Strath Duilleach to keep pressure on the Highlanders and then come down to join you as soon as we are relieved.”

Eliot smiled at the orders. They showed Semiramis was confident enough of his ability to give him a detached command from 'her' regiment and was also giving him first crack at the treasure shipment. That was a gesture of great generosity on her part.

Lochardil House, Inverness

"There is something that confuses me." Achillea looked around at the group clustered around the fire. "I fought Gerrard Thackeray and there was nothing about him that suggested a hired assassin. His sword was a gentleman’s weapon, a small-sword. He handled it just like a man who had been trained to put on a show. I know people who have been trained to kill, I am one, remember? He wasn’t.”

“You think he didn’t kill the real Lady Wilberforce?” Conrad sounded a little surprised. He had no doubts about the matter.

“Oh, that I have no doubts about. I’m sure he raped and strangled her just as he said. He was a bullying, posturing ruffian with pretensions of being dangerous. He was of course, but only to the weak and the helpless. When faced with a fight, even to avenge his sister, he ran instead. He seemed hardly for the sort of man who would take on the desperately dangerous mission of assassinating a King.” Achillea shook her head. It upset her to think that the blade of her beloved Deschaux rapier had been stained with such unworthy blood.

“He had his sister try and hold the King’s sword-arm. To strike down a man who is held like that is hardly the act of a man of courage.” Gusoyn had nothing but contempt for such a person and, from a man known for his tolerance and courtesy, that had more impact that Achillea’s professional condemnation. “I agree with Achillea. He is not the sort of man who would make his living by the sword. A stab in the back or a shot from a crowd would be more his style."

Conrad was sitting quietly, putting the pieces together. "Perhaps we have two threads here. We know that the King of France is subsidizing Charles and was sending gold to him. It was smuggled over the Channel and landed somewhere on the South Coast. Thackeray and his sister were to convey the monies to Charles, probably at Derby. It would be a natural meeting point for them, poised to attack London. With all that gold, Charles could buy the support needed. So they're heading North. At the same time, there is the assassination attempt in London. That has to be a different team, probably much more than two people. Probably mercenaries hired from Alsace. They would have the ruthlessness needed for that attempt. But why, then, would they try and meet up with the Thackeray's and their consignment? It is nothing to do with them. In fact, by trying to do so, they would lead pursuers to it. They are on the run from a murderous pursuit, they would want out as quickly as possible, probably by a waiting boat in London.

"Only, the assassination failed, there was no hue and cry and realizing that the plan had misfired, Charles headed north again. So, why did the assassins try and find the gold? I can only think of one reason. The Thackerays weren't conveying the gold north, they were stealing it. That's why they forced the Wilberforces to give them cover; they weren't concealing a delivery but their flight. Our group of assassins followed them, got wind somehow of where they were and followed them here. They found and killed Joy Thackeray and would have done the same to her brother. Now they have recovered the gold and are taking it north again. The only question left is why?"

"Charles can’t use it. He is running for his life. That weight of gold would slow him down so much that his survival would be highly questionable. The King of France knows that the plot has failed and that British Regiments are already returning to the Low Countries. If I were in his position, I would want my gold back." Gusoyn looked around defensively. "Well, I would. That is a lot of gold and this war is bleeding everybody white. I happen to know the French are debasing their currency already."

"So, the assassins made their escape and found their way to their boat back to France. Only to find that Charles is retreating North and that the Thackerays have stolen the gold and are running with it. They are given new orders, are told to find them, kill them and bring the gold back to France. A ship is waiting to pick them up, probably somewhere off the coast by Loch Akraig."

"Or they thought that the Thackerays had a really good idea and our assassins have decided that they'd do the same." Achillea looked around. "Why wouldn’t they? They didn't get paid for a very dangerous mission because King George is still alive. They must resent that so they decided to take the money themselves. Be honest, we would do the same."

Conrad sighed. Achillea's brutal realism was a little much for him sometimes. He was about to say something when she continued. "Conrad, good fortune is what happens when preparation meets opportunity. That's Seneca. And he also said that every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end."

"That doesn't fit the later events though. We believe that some of the jewelry taken by the Tomkins woman was the key to where they had to make their rendezvous. If the assassins have stolen the gold, why do they need that? In fact, if the rendezvous was to be at Derby, why would there be another?"

"Back up plans." Achillea was emphatic. "The French aren’t stupid, they just seem that way sometimes. The rendezvous in Scotland was the back-up plan if everything went wrong. Finding out where they rendezvous was could have been the original scheme and now that's gone wrong as well, the possibility of stealing the gold has dawned on the assassins. The obvious answer to that is that they are not going to Loch Akraig after all. They are probably still right here."

[Calder]

Chapter Seventeen
Cavalry Patrol, Duke of Cumberland's Light Dragoons, Gairlochy

"They have to stick to the roads. They cannot move a loaded wagon anywhere else." Major Brookhouse was studying a map but, as Igrat had predicted, it was almost unusable. The 'road' they had followed so far had been barely more than a single-file footpath with the center a mix of stone and muddy water. It was, might be, just possibly wide enough for a small cart but that was all. “What does that tell us, Mr. Flynn?”

Ensign Jeremy Flynn looked up and down the path and shook his head. He considered himself enormously privileged to have been attached to this patrol rather than left behind with the other half-company. It made him feel like a real soldier instead of a boy pretending to be one. That was more a sign of his own youthful insecurity than anything else. He had been on the field at Culloden and taken part in the pursuit thereafter. The truth was that he was already seen as being sound and reliable with a hint of much promise. "Well, Sir, if there is a heavily-loaded wagon coming this way, they'll have come down the Great Glen. That is where the good roads are and then they must have turned north here. They'd have to choose one of three or four tracks north and once they are committed to one, they can't change. Not through these woods and over the highland.

"Very good, Jeremy. Now, the question is, have they come along here?" Brookhouse was pleased with the answer he had received. The ensign had picked up his line of thought and added to it well. Now let's see if he can continue to develop it.

"No, Sir. They have not. See the ground is soft and still wet. More than just rain I think, the ground seems poorly drained. Yet,, there are no wheel-tracks and the stone is too narrow for a wagon. I would say that it has been two or three weeks since any kind of wheels passed this way."

"Longer than that I would think. I think we can neglect the further exploration of this pathway. What do you suggest?"

"There is another track, a mile to the west of us, Sir. We should cross over to it and see if we can find sign of a wagon there."

"It is closer to two miles and a steep climb. Do you really think it is worth tiring our horses out to cross the ridge?" Brookhouse looked severely at the young Ensign.

Flynn took a deep breath. I think it is the best way, therefore I must stand by my opinion. "I do, Sir. The alternative is to ride back and take the track from where it leaves the main path. That will be a seven or eight-mile ride and will delay us by hours. We are also under orders to search high ground for fugitives and bring them in. We can combine the two tasks if we cross here."

"Indeed we can. I agree. Give the orders Mr. Flynn."

Flynn flushed slightly with pride at the privilege and turned to the serjeant. “Serjeant. Half-Company will form column from line by subdivisions. To the left, wheel… Detach flank guards and point section. Quick march!”

Sergeant Mitchell hid his smile at the Ensign’s earnestness and repeated the orders, quietly correcting the mistakes as he did so. Still, he thought, the lad means well and he’s getting the idea.

There was a burned-out stone cottage by the side of the track. The cavalry troopers half-expected to see bodies in or around it but there were none. That didn’t mean there hadn’t been some that had been carried off by wild animals or cleared by the infantry patrols that were already starting to scour the area. However, Brookhouse believed that the occupants had retreated to the hills, ‘going to the heather’ the Highlanders called it, and the empty house had been burned to prevent it being used as a refuge by fleeing Jacobites. A few men inside one of these stoutly-built stone cottages could give a good account of themselves. Privately, Brookhouse was surprised and relieved that more hadn’t chosen to do so.

The cottage had served a useful function though; it and the vegetable plots around it provided a clear path through the thin band of woods that lined the path. Brookhouse noticed something else, no crops had been planted in those plots yet. In fact, it looked as if nothing had been done there since winter. That made him think of one of the messages that the dispatch rider had brought in and had been circulated around all the officers of the Light Dragoons. It had been a warning to all that there was a dire fear of famine across the whole Highland region and that bringing in the population to where it could be fed was necessary if that was to be averted. It confirmed what Brookhouse had already feared; by seducing the clan leaderships into calling away their young men to fight in the Jacobite Army, Charles Edward Stuart had doomed his own people to starvation. Those left behind had survived the winter by eating their seedstock; their young men had died at Culloden.

“There’s a river ahead, Sir.” Flynn had broken into his reverie by passing back word from the scouts ahead of the main column. The sound of fast-flowing water was muted by the trees but now Brookhouse was aware of it, the noise seemed to dominate everything. He wondered why he hadn’t heard it before.

The river itself wasn’t that wide but it was fast-flowing. By the ruined cottage it had widened sharply and ran through a shallow stone-filled pond before narrowing again and resuming its fast, noisy flow. It was a natural ford with a relatively gentle bank on to the other side, a feature that probably explained why the cottage had been built here. Brookhouse wondered if the cottage owners had charged for the use of the ford on their property. That thought made him wonder if that was how his own family name had become adopted.

The water itself was icy-cold, almost certainly run-off from the winter snow melting. It made the horses impatient to get out of the ford and they had to be held strictly in hand. Several of the pack-horses at the rear of the column saw the problem and tried to refuse to enter but finally agreed (with much sulking) after some judicious encouragement. The more spirited tried to get a little revenge in by 'accidentally' kicking water over their handlers. All in all, crossing the river, even a small mountain brook, was a cold and wet experience for everybody.

The bank on the other side turned out to be a much more interesting feature than it had seemed. What had appeared to be a gentle bank in the ground was actually one side of a fold with a stream running through it. From the other bank, it had been virtually invisible and, even next to it, the course of the stream was hard enough to follow. “Well, Mr. Flynn. Where do we go now?”

Flynn thought for a second. “Well, Sir, if I was hiding round here, I’d want to be near a source of fresh water. The river is too obvious and too close to the path. I think we should follow this stream, see where it comes out. Send the leading detachment up to make sure it isn’t a dead end first, and if it leads into the mountains, we can follow them.”

“Good, as far as it goes. We don’t want to get too separated from our lead though. They can go two hundred paces ahead and see how the land lies. Then, we’ll follow them and once we’ve rejoined, we’ll send another scout party ahead.”

“Permission to join the lead, Sir?” Flynn’s keenness caused smiles all round and Serjeant Mitchell made a mental note to remind him of the old Army principle of never volunteering for anything.

“Granted. Take your time and keep your eyes open. We’ll follow you in twenty minutes. Stop in twenty minutes time and wait for us.”

Initially, the banks of the fold were low enough so that once Flynn was mounted, he could see over them and watch a fair stretch of the river below. The stream in the fold was very narrow, quite deep, and could barely allow the mounted dragoons to follow the streambed. The banks quickly grew higher and the fold in the ground wider, as if the cavalrymen were slowly advancing up a funnel from the narrow end. Looking behind him, the resemblance to a funnel was even more marked while the slow but constant bend quickly hid the rest of the patrol. Flynn was struck by how quickly they had become invisible from the opposite bank.

“Was like this when Johnny Cope came this way.” One of the dragoons seemed reminiscent of the days less than a year before when the Highland Army had rallied to the Jacobite cause. “We never saw nothing but for sure they was always watching us.”

“Johnny Cope never had no luck.” Another Dragoon was looking around carefully. They might be chattering but they were also keeping out a strict watch. Semiramis had trained them well. “You heard one of them Court ladies cleaned him out? Put her money on us to win the next battle in less than two hours.”

“That wasn’t no court lady, Fred. She's one of us. That was the one who galloped to the guns at Culloden. And brought us his dispatches here. Real looker she is. Done well for herself too. She’s Sweet William’s bit now and a Countess to boot. Sir, this would be a good place to wait I reckon?”

Flynn looked around. The slow increase in width of the fold in the ground had continued but the stream made a sharp turn at this point, leaving a steep-sided bulb-shaped hole in what was now very obviously the mountainside. Ahead of them, the next stretch of streambed seemed to almost double back on the lower section but was separated from it by a wall of hard granite. He guessed that the snow melt-water trickling down from above had worn away the soft rock and left the hard. As the groove formed, water preferentially flowed down it and widened the stream until the fold in the mountainside was formed. Another thing he noted was that the angle at which the next leg climbed up was a lot steeper than the lower part.

“You’d better walk the horses up the next bit, Mr. Flynn. Steep slope, lots of rocks, all smooth and wet. We don’t want any of the horses breaking their legs.” Brookhouse and the rest of the patrol had arrived and he looked around at the nest in the mountainside created by the river. “Good choice for a resting point. I’ll bet that this stream gets a lot worse once the snow pack really starts to melt. You can see the high-water marks on the rocks.”

Flynn carefully inspected the rocks, noting that the marks of water flow and the highest point reached by the water was indeed clearly visible. Suddenly he realized that it was the sort of thing he ought to check before making camp of an evening. He got his journal out of the saddlebags and made a note of the lesson and a quick sketch of the marks on the rock. He’d do a better one that evening when there was more time.

Behind him, Brookhouse gave a contented smile. He still kept his journal up-to-date with any interesting lessons he had learned recorded in it and knew that both the Colonels in the Regiment did the same. A wise officer never stopped learning. This odd hidden valley in the side of the mountain that offered a concealed way up was already featured in his. He had resolved to write a tactical note that evening on the nature of the stream and the opportunities it offered for both attack and defense. If he was happy with it, he would send it to the Duke of Cumberland who, if he thought it worthy, would circulate it to the other officers.

Flynn finished his rough sketch and started to put the journal back in its wrappings. Then, a thought occurred to him. "Sir, this is a good place for a quick stop, being sheltered and all, but it’s a death-trap for a camp isn't it? Not just the danger of a flash flood, but we could be ambushed from above and be trapped down here."

"Well said, Jeremy, and yes, we could. So we need to get out of here. Serjeant Mitchell, detail three men to accompany Mr. Flynn upstream. When you're ready, Mr. Flynn."

Flynn had been in the army long enough to know that meant 'now, if not sooner'. He took the bridle of his horse and started to lead him upstream. His first impression had been right, the slope here was much steeper, the water was running faster and the stones were worn to an almost glass-like smoothness. He started picking his way carefully, making sure his footing was firm before putting his weight on the spot. Even so, he could still feel his feet sliding and the stones moving. His horse was distinctly nervous and was being even more careful. It was with great relief on both parts that the streambed eventually widened to the point where there was a grassy bank on each side that provided firmer footing. To his surprise, Flynn realized that they had climbed high enough to make the air seem chilled.

His face must have showed his surprise because one of the troopers with him spoke up. "Beggin' your pardon, Sir, permission to speak?"

Flynn nodded and the trooper continued. "I'd say we're a good five hundred feet up here and going higher. There could be a valley up in this here mountain and nobody would see it from the ground. Lot of men could be hidden up here, Sir."

The warning was respectfully phrased but Flynn knew what the man was saying. We can bite off more than we can chew here and we won’t know it until it's too late. There's another one of those bends ahead and we have no idea what is around it. Time to call another halt.

In fact, the long climb was nearly at its end. After another leg upwards, the streambed opened out into something much wider. It was a small but proper valley, surrounded on three sides by cliffs twenty or thirty feet high with a waterfall at the far end. It was apparent that the volume of water coming in over the fall was significantly greater than that leaving by the stream and so it surprised nobody that the entire bed of the valley was a saturated swamp. Flynn guessed that as the snow higher up melted, the volume of water coming over the waterfall increased turning the valley into a morass. Eventually, the water tipped over into the stream and caused a flash flood that ran all the way down to the river now far below them.

In its way the footing was as treacherous as the climb up the streambed had been only this time it was deep mud that was the problem. In winter, it had almost certainly been ice and that would have turned the whole marsh into an ice-pan but now, it was just bitterly cold water. The cavalry patrol picked their way through it, noticing the way the greenery was already sprouting. They saw something else, a group of people on the ground around the waterfall.

They were all dead. All of them. Three men, with targe, dagger and broadsword. They were on their sides, their legs drawn up and their faces contorted in a hideous rictus. There were also two young women, probably the men's wives, one of whom had a baby. The women had died the same way but it was apparent the baby had simply starved once its mother had died. All the bodies were emaciated from prolonged malnutrition. An older woman was close to the remains of a fire and a cauldron. That had the decaying remains of some sort of stew in it.

"Look at this, Sir." One of the troopers called Brookhouse over. A young girl was also on the ground, her legs drawn up and her face contorted. That wasn't what the trooper was pointing out though. The girl was wearing only a ragged shawl and a thin night-dress. Even her feet were bare. Given the cold this high up, it was obvious she had been dying of exposure long before the final disaster had struck. "Poor lass. She didn’t have a chance dressed like that."

"What the devil happened here?" Flynn was staring at the dead baby on the ground beside its mother. Scavengers had already found the bodies and started their work on them and the baby had been an early victim.

"We were talking about traps, Sir?" Serjeant Mitchell looked down at the bodies. "Well, this place is one. There's nothing to eat here, no game of any size. Probably a few rabbits at most. This place is all right to hide for a night or two but once the supplies they brought with them ran out, they had to scavenge for food. If we look around a bit I think we'll find what killed them. Ah, yes. Here we are."

Mitchell picked up a plant, one with a healthy-looking green top and a small but bulging root. "Now who thinks this is a parsnip?"

A couple of the troopers put up their hands. "Well, it isn't. I had me once a market stall in Carlisle before I joined the colors. Buy vegetables from the farmers and sell them, did quite good before I had a want for adventure. Now and then somebody would bring these in thinking they were parsnips. Well, they aren't. They are water dropwort and they're as dangerous as all hell. Animals can eat the green foliage at the top all right but we can't and the root is deadly to everything. People think it's a parsnip, take the roots and cook them only the poison don’t get killed that way. Those that eat it, after an hour or so, they get convulsions and die like this. One small root will kill a cow, that’s how poisonous these are. These grow all over marshy places like this. There's others as well; those purple things over there? Them's wolfsbane. Powerful poison they are. Only need to touch them and you're gone. Bad place this is."

Brookhouse looked around. What had seemed like a useful hiding place in the hills suddenly had a menacing air to it. "Mr. Flynn? You've been scouting. Is there a way out of here or do we have to go back down?"

Flynn tore his eyes off the dead woman and her baby. "Sir, over there, by the downhill side. We can get the horses up there and out of this valley. From there, we'll be on the mountainside itself and we can skirt around the snowline."
"Very well, lead the way."

"Shouldn’t we bury these people, Sir?"

Brookhouse resolved to have a quiet word with Flynn about questioning orders in front of the men. Not too severe a word though; he's put on a good show so far today and the sight here is enough to shock anybody.

"No, Mr. Flynn. We should not. It would take too long and we want to get out of this marsh before it makes us sick. Now. Take the scouting party and lead us out of here." The firmness in his voice was palpable and the surrounding troopers carefully hid smiles at the sound of an officer getting a strip torn off him.

Two hours later, a relieved cavalry patrol came off the mountainside and on to the main Achnacarry Road. It was a real road, or as much as any road up in the Highlands passed for being real. It was wide, had been leveled and, much more importantly, showed the recently-made tracks of a large, heavily-laden wagon.

[Calder]

Chapter Eighteen
Garrison Command Offices, Fort Augustus.

"Have you read the tactical note by Major Brookhouse, Sir Stewart?"

"I have indeed, I found it very astute. I liked the way he gave credit to his Ensign as well."

"Ensign Flynn? Yes, I have met the lad when he brought the dispatches in. Gave him an encouraging word."

Parmenio reflected that the Duke of Cumberland's bluff good humor with the men was a major reason for his popularity as a commander. That and his ability to keep them well-fed of course. There had been a few brawls already between the common soldiers and local Tories who had cast aspersions on the Duke. "Major Brookhouse appears to be a good teacher as well as a capable officer."

"Indeed, this came out in his note. I am minded to distribute it to the other regimental officers. There are valuable lessons there. Not least how well the local population knows the Highlands and the many hiding places it offers. Our patrols are reporting many such small groups that have taken to the Heather."

"And are woefully unprepared for a prolonged stay in those hiding places. They have become accustomed to a situation where raiders come in the night and are gone by dawn. If they are not in a position to mount a proper defense, they place most emphasis on fleeing quickly. That precludes taking provisions and proper clothing." Parmenio stopped himself from smiling at that. Every member of his household, including the servants, kept a fully-packed emergency bag containing supplies and other necessities close at hand in case of an emergency evacuation. It had been a long time since they had used that simple precaution but they all remembered times when it had saved their lives.

"So all our patrols are reporting. Every one of them reports the fugitives to be in dire circumstances. The pity of it is that even in their desperate condition, the men, and sometimes the women, still try to fight. The orders to our patrols are to kill those that do. After the way the Highlanders slaughtered our wounded and butchered those trying to surrender at Prestonpans and Falkirk Muir, our soldiers have no trouble killing the men who fight but they recoil from doing so to starving women and children. Against their orders, they break off their patrol to bring them in. I cannot blame them for doing so."

"It is the raiding culture again. If the fugitives fail to escape or are found in their hiding place, they will be robbed of everything including the clothes they stand up in, the men will be killed, the women raped and killed as well and the children carried off or left to starve. There is a purpose to why the houses here are built the way they are; nobody builds a home that looks like a fortress without good reason. So, if strangers arrive, the men are ready to put up a desperate fight. And that means our men will kill them."
"People speak of 'lifting' cattle in a raid as if it is some light-hearted prank without understanding what the word means. We need to civilize the Highlands as well as pacify them." The truth was the Duke of Cumberland deeply disliked the Highlanders and didn’t care who knew it. "Some of the patrol reports delicately hint that I ought to accompany them so I can see for myself what is really happening on our patrols. I cannot help but think there may be some value in that suggestion."

"I wouldn’t do that, Your Grace. You have good officers out there who know what to report. A general's place is where he can control the battle, not on the front line fighting it. We pay privates to do that."

Cumberland burst out laughing. "Says the man who got a horse shot out from under him at Dettingen?"

"That, Your Grace, was an error of judgement."

"On the part of the horse, most certainly." Parmenio joined Cumberland in laughing at the memory, not least because he'd been riding an Army horse that day, not one of the Avebury thoroughbreds. He and the Duke had become good friends during the North Britain campaign and they enjoyed each other's company.

"I must admit that when you told us of the disaster that would follow this campaign, I thought you exaggerated but your words are coming true. The Highlands cannot support the population they presently hold and the difference has, to date, been made up by raiding their neighbors. Now we have the area under occupation and are scouring out the fugitives, the raiding option has been excised. I have been advised by my father that the Heritable Jurisdictions (Scotland) Act to be passed by Parliament within six months will remove the feudal authority the Clan Chieftains have heretofore enjoyed. Scottish heritable sheriffdoms will revert to the Crown, and other heritable jurisdictions, including regalities, will come under the power of the courts. By stripping the Clan Lairds of their power in this manner, the constant state of civil war in the Highlands will be ended."

"That will be a good start." Parmenio sipped at the glass of smuggled French brandy the Duke had handed to him. "Ahh, good brandy. The lack of this is one of the worse penalties of the war. Thank you, Your Grace."

"I wouldn’t be so certain of the penalty, Sir Stewart. If it wasn't for the war, we wouldn't be able to take French prizes. Two of our sloops took a French frigate a few days ago and our Captains agreed upon giving me the French commander's private brandy store in honor of our victory here. The frigate was running guns to the Jacobite Army. Do you know the cheeky bounders were giving them our own three pounders they captured at Fontenoy? I wish you had been there, Sir Stewart; we came so close to breaking through. Had we but had your sense of timing aiding us then . . But, that is past. What do we do today?"

"Enclose the land." Parmenio was prompt. "When we enclosed Avebury, the productivity of our land went up most greatly and from being self-sufficient we have become suppliers of a great quantity of food and prospered accordingly. If we do the same up here, the gains will not nearly be so great for the land is not of good enough quality but the benefit will make a disastrous situation controllable. We need to move a substantial part of the population though. Either abroad or to areas that can support them."

"The Duke of Sutherland has some interesting thoughts along those lines." Cumberland sipped his own brandy appreciatively. "I suppose I will have to grant preferences to the families of those Captains now. We have enough army vacancies in my gift though. Anyway, the Duke. He and his family have proposed to take up your idea of creating new fishing and kelping industries and plan to invest in the construction of coastal villages where the occupants can learn the trades of inshore fishing and harvesting kelp. They will persuade the Highlanders in their Dukedom to move to those villages, at once introducing them to more profitable trade and reducing the strain upon the harvest from the Highland farms."

"An excellent idea, Your Grace, if I may say so. One for which I have no doubt they will be roundly condemned by the Tories. If they feel the need for extra investment, I am sure Avebury will be prepared to join in the venture." I have just had the quarterly financial report from Lillith. We're doing well all things considered, especially with Igrat's winnings and my salary here, and some new investments might be a good idea.

"When we discuss the idea further, I will mention that to him. On another matter, you plan to go to Fort William soon?"

"For a few days, yes. I need to look at the defenses there and think about the isles and what to do about them. If you need me, send Igrat. She can get there in two hours."

Cumberland shook his head with some amusement. "I don’t know what is more impressive, her ability to carry dispatches or the formidable quality of her lady-in-waiting. We were out riding yesterday and a three-pounder had gone off the road with a wheel stuck in the ditch. The crew was struggling to get it out and, of course, I dismounted to aid them. I was quite surprised when 'Lea jumped off her horse and put her shoulder to the wheel alongside us while Igrat held our horses. Together, we got the gun out and back on the road. We got three cheers from the crew and they got a silver half-crown each from me."

Parmenio actually knew of the incident from Achillea who had added that given the huge skirts of the latest lady's fashions she could probably carry a three pounder concealed. He also knew that Igrat was making sure Achillea stayed close to the Duke in case the assassination threat became real. With Naamah, Conrad and Gusoyn working in Inverness to find out more about the alleged plot, he was reasonably confident the Duke was in good hands. That didn’t mean he or any member of his team was about to take the threat lightly.

French Frigate Mars, Current Sailing As Royal Charles, Off Skye.

"We have the dispatches, Capitaine." Lieutenant Girout de Saint-Pierre was stating the obvious but could hardly be blamed for doing so. The last half hour had been spent bringing the courier over from the dispatch vessel in heavy seas that threatened to throw the Mars . . . Captain François Maurice stopped himself and carefully repeated the ship's new name Royal Charles . . . . against the small, lightly-built dispatch vessel. Those ships were built for speed and structural strength was not one of their virtues. But, after much struggling, the messages had been brought on board and the courier returned to his ship. His first lieutenant was entitled to be proud of a difficult piece of ship-handling.

"Bring the case to my cabin, Girout. And tell the men that was a job well done." Captain Maurice led the way below and opened the locked and weighted leather dispatch pouch while his first lieutenant poured out some brandy for him. There was a profound silence while Maurice carefully read the documents inside. De Saint-Pierre could tell from the atmosphere that the news they contained was not good. Then, nothing good has ever been granted to those who serve the Stuart dynasty. I wonder why my Captain continues to do so when the Young Pretender is nothing more than a drunken, sadistic brute.

Sitting at his desk, Maurice knew exactly what his First Lieutenant was thinking. And I know he is right. The Young Pretender is not somebody to whom any honorable man would willingly give allegiance. Even Loki tells me that I am a fool for standing with him. Yet the ties of blood are such that I have no choice. My brother Rupert and I fought hard for the Stuarts in the Civil War and he and my mother counted themselves blessed that they lived long enough to see them restored. They were doubly blessed in that they both died before the family was deposed again. Only I, by a strange quirk of fate, have lived long enough to see the Stuarts rise, fall, rise again and fall again. It seemed that they had a final chance to rise once more and I felt honor-bound to support that one last chance. Now, it has all come crashing down. Again. Is this not a sign that it is time to make my peace with the Hanoverians? They are my kin too and I have given more than one lifetime of allegiance to their rivals. Enough is enough. Perhaps, when the chance comes, I should try and make my way to London and reconcile with them?

"Help yourself to brandy, Girout. And don’t be meager with your measure. The Jacobite cause we support is defeated. There was a great battle at a place called Culloden and the Jacobite Army was destroyed with more than half its number left dead upon the field. The British Army under the Duke of Cumberland is advancing into the Highlands and will pacify them with fire and sword. Charles Edward Stuart is a fugitive with a price on his head and search parties following his every step. The British are moving to destroy the clans and with them gone, the last bastion of Jacobite support fades."

"Do we have orders, Capitaine? We have cargo destined for the Jacobite Army."

Cargo meaning treasure. Maurice thought. Almost a million Louis d'Or livres, more than seventy thousand sovereigns. Also a battery of six nine-pounder guns. Yet now, gold means more than guns. With this gold the Young Pretender might hire more men, keep the field longer. That's all Louis XV wants, a distraction for the British Regiments that will keep them out of Flanders. He cares nothing for the Jacobites or for the people of Scotland and yet I cannot blame him for that. His responsibility is to France. Who is mine to, now?

"We have but they are vague. Due to the remoteness of our location and the fluidity of the situation, I am to act on my own initiative. I may continue with the delivery as scheduled if I believe by doing so the Jacobite rising will continue with any hope of success. If not, I may return with the gold, artillery and other supplies to France or I may try and rescue the Young Pretender. My orders do not say so, but it is apparent I should consider first the interests of France in making that decision. What are your thoughts, Girout."

"I would not waste a single gold coin or endanger the life of a single French sailor on behalf of Charles Edward Stuart. I am sorry, Capitaine, I know that you are a supporter of the Jacobite cause, but they are ill-served by that man. I would counsel us to return to France."

"The question I must answer now is whether the gold and guns we carry will do more for the service of France in the hands of the French Army or in inciting a possible guerilla war in Scotland? Our purpose has always been to draw the British regiments away from Flanders. The gold we carry sounds impressive but in the wider picture it is little enough. If the guns and the gold keep a few more Regiments away a few more months, will not that serve our masters best?"

"Was Culloden really that bad, Capitaine? The Duke of Cumberland is known as a competent soldier but not an inspired one. Perhaps the reports exaggerate the defeat?"

"The reports are apparently well-established. It seems that even a blind pig may find a truffle now and then. Although there are suggestions that Cumberland employed another officer to take the field command on his behalf. If that is so, it might explain much. We have no great urgency to make decisions now. I will sleep on this and decide in the morning."

On the road from Fort Augustus to Inverness, by Whitefield, South of Loch Ness

Igrat casually looked behind her. She could see nothing but she knew they were there. Now, are you fellow-travelers, normal footpads and highwaymen or something more sinister? Time to filter the threat out. She dug in her heels and asked Chianti for a fast canter. Bored with his trot through the uninspiring landscape of the Great Glen, he responded keenly and doubled up his pace. Igrat huddled down slightly to maintain her seat and then concentrated on sensing what was going on around her.

It quickly became apparent that the people following her had picked up their pace to match hers. That eliminated any likelihood that their purposes were innocent. They were interested in either her, the valuables she might be carrying or the messages she was delivering. She didn’t intend to let them have any of the three. She pictured the map, inadequate though it was, in her mind and saw there was a long, straight stretch of road ahead of her. This was unusual, it was flat, well-surfaced and free of potholes that might trip Chianti. Igrat quietly blessed General Wade who had been responsible for the spreading network of military roads.

"Lord, grant that Marshal Wade,
May by thy mighty aid, victory bring.
May he sedition hush, and like a torrent rush,
Rebellious Scots to crush,
God save the King."

She sang the words of the new popular song that had recently become all the rage to herself as she enjoyed the sensation of Chianti's hooves pounding on the road. The long straight stretch was ahead and, sure enough, she was being followed by two men who had picked up speed to try and close in on her. Now, the basic rule is always to evade trouble, not to confront it. Only this time, when I evade these three, there isn’t anywhere else to go and they’ll be waiting for me somewhere else. They’ll have learned and I’ll get shot down from ambush. So, we have to end this now. Or a reasonable approximation of now.

Igrat dug her heels in again and asked Chianti for a full gallop. There was no hesitation this time, no playing at reluctance to convince the humans that he was merely humoring their curious and unnecessary demands. Chianti knew very well that Igrat never asked him for a gallop unless it was a major emergency. So, he broke straight into his fastest pace, visibly leaving the horses behind in his dust. Igrat felt the hammer-like thrust of his back legs as he settled into the full-stride gallop, eating up the distance on the straight stretch of road. Two miles ahead of them was a small patch of wood that marked a point where the road made a sharp, 90 degree turn. That was where Igrat intended to end this interference in her business. On the other hand, remember the tactic they used when I was delivering messages to Semiramis. They had a chase group intending to herd me into a kill group. These people aren’t that imaginative so if they have a wrinkle in mind, that’s it. And that copse is the only place they can pull it.

Chianti was already beginning to pant when he swerved around the corner into the copse. As Igrat had expected there were two men on horseback waiting for her there. Chianti took one look at their mounts, decided that he needed to show them what a real horse could do and headed straight at them. That had two effects; the first being that both the hostile mounts were intimidated by his display and backed away from him. It also brought Igrat into point-blank range before their riders could react properly. She used the first of her pistols to shoot one of the riders in the body. Chianti had already attacked the other rider, kicking and biting at his mount. The horse was terrified by the show of highly-skilled aggression and reared in a desperate attempt to get away, in the process, throwing his rider. Igrat looked down and used her second pistol to shoot him as well. There’s no time to play around right now.

“Well done. Steady now.” Igrat slapped his neck with one hand, getting a whinny in exchange. Chianti liked being appreciated. She was already drawing her third pistol with her other hand. By the time it was out, the two chase riders were coming around the bend. It was obvious they had expected to see either Igrat held by the ambush group or being chased by them with her horse winded and theirs fresh. Instead, both men were down and their horses had run off, trying to get away from the bay stallion that had hammered them with such contempt.

Chianti was almost motionless and gave Igrat an easy shot at one of the two chase riders. He slumped as the musket ball hit him and then rolled inelegantly from the saddle. He was still alive but Igrat new very well that he wouldn’t be doing much for the time being. She had already drawn her remaining pistol with her left hand while controlling Chianti with her knees. Now, she flipped the pistol to her right hand and fired another shot. The last rider was dangerously close and already swinging his sabre back for a swing at her head. The range was less than a couple of feet when her last pistol shot took him in the center of his chest. He joined his companions on the ground.

Igrat slipped from the saddle and checked all four men. All were dead. The third man had actually survived the pistol shot but at some point Chianti had carefully put a hoof on his chest and pushed down with his entire weight. The result had left no doubt that he was very, very dead which is a pity because I have questions to ask. Igrat then went to the saddle bags and got out a couple of winter-stored apples. They had been very expensive and apples would remain so until the new crop came in. But, Chianti had deserved them and his whinny of gratitude as he tucked into the treats was quite genuine. “All right, boy. We’re done here. We’ll take it easy for a few miles and then it’s back to the trot.”

When Chianti had finished his apples, she swung back into the saddle and looked down at the four bodies. She felt peculiarly excited by the incident but it puzzled her. She very rarely had this trouble on what was basically a routine delivery. Aloud, she asked herself, “Just what the devil is going on here?”

[Calder]

Chapter Nineteen
Lochardil House, Inverness

“So, what happened then, Lady Isadora?” Provost-Major Hughes was fascinated by the story. He glanced at Igrat, then at Naamah, getting the distinct impression from their apparent lack of concern that this wasn’t the first time something like this had happened.

“Nothing much. I came straight here. When I’m acting as an official government courier, I’m supposed to advise the authorities when I kill somebody in self-defense so I’m doing that now. If you send a patrol back along the military road to Fort Augustus, you may still find the bodies. On the other hand they might have been dragged off by predators – four or two-legged variety. If you can identify them, that would be a great help. One of them will be a bit hard, Chianti stepped on him and he’s a little spread out as it were.”

“That horse has a strange personality.” Gusoyn shook his head.

“I’m supposed to remind you that you should have brought the bodies back in. Over a horse would be quite adequate.” Hughes felt he had to give the ‘advice’ in order to stay within the confines of his duty.

“Chianti ran two of the horses off, one of them kicked and bitten until it was badly hurt. That left the other two but I don’t have the strength to get a man’s body over the back of one.” Igrat smiled apologetically. “I leave that sort of thing to ‘Lea.”

"So do most of us." Gusoyn made the remark innocently but it caused a chuckle to go around the room.

"Where is Achillea, My Lady?" Hughes asked the question, slightly surprised that she wasn’t with Igrat.

"She's staying close to the Duke in case the assassination attempt becomes real. Now, let's get down to business. I have brought over copies of the reports form the Duke of Cumberland's Light Dragoons. The regiment has split into two groups, covering the approaches to Loch Akraig and the areas to the North. Patrols have picked up traces of a heavily-laden wagon moving in that direction which confirms some of the story we have received here."

"That is good." Conrad spoke up from his corner by the fire. "It has worries me greatly that we have so little evidence to support our assumptions. That is the way miscarriages of justice invariably start."

"We have little choice at this point, Conrad." Naamah sounded waspish. "We have to make the pie out of the ingredients at hand. As we gather evidence, then we can check those ingredients that are appropriate and discard those that are not. What else can we do?"

"I agree. Reluctantly, but I agree. We must beware though that we do not start fitting facts to meet our story rather than adjust our story to accommodate the facts. What concerns me is the attempt to intercept Lady Isadora. How does this fit the situation?" Conrad looked around. "Is this part of the same story or do we have another?"

"The way the situation worked out, there are only two plausible situations. One is that they were footpads who wanted whatever valuables I might be carrying or they were agents who wanted the dispatches I carried."

"They may just have wanted you, Lady Isadora." Gusoyn, as usual, was meticulous to stick to the standards of courtesy and formality that Igrat's newly-acquired rank demanded.

Igrat grinned, not least at the title she now bore. "I thought of that. This was a lot of effort just to get a roll on the grass although I own that many of the people around here lack the refinement of speech needed to politely ask a lady to oblige them. Anyway, how did they know I am a woman? I ride astride like a man, I was dressed in breeches and cloak like a man, my hair was piled up under a tricorn hat with the rim folded down the way the soldiers wear them on campaign. Anybody more than an arms-length from me would think I was a man."
"You do yourself an injustice, My Lady." Hughes felt obliged by gallantry to object.

Igrat gave him a beaming smile. She loved being flattered. "I hope not. The truth is that I tried to look as much like a routine traveler as possible. And, for a person alone, that means looking like a man. It is just possible that I was recognized but it is not the most likely circumstance. No, robbery for valuables or intercepting the dispatches are the two likely causes for this attack. Yet, this was a well-organized ambush. A chase party intended to wear my horse out and make me neglect my surroundings by running, an ambush party ready to stop me or shoot me down. That sounds to me more than a casual robbery. It was set up to catch me and that implies they wanted the dispatches I carry."

"It implies two other things." Conrad didn’t like the way this was going. "One is that people knew you were carrying the dispatches and the other is that you would be on the road at that time and place."

"Anybody in the Light Dragoons knows what I do although, being stuck out in the hills I doubt they could distribute the knowledge. " Igrat was thoughtful since the same point had occurred to her. "They saw me come in with the dispatches the day I delivered them from here. Come to think there was an attempt to intercept me then as well. Again, quite well planned and I suspect they might have known I was coming. If that's true, it means people knew I carry dispatches before I got to the Light Dragoons."

"Who does that include?" Conrad didn’t think the two attacks were related but he didn’t want to eliminate anything just yet.

"His Grace, of course, and, I suppose anybody who was watching me leave. Somebody at court certainly." Igrat paused at that. "This might have been aimed at me after all. My arrival at court and my position with the Duke caused a lot of jealousy and somebody might have gone over the line. They saw me carry messages when I left before, then realized I was doing so again and took their chance. I'd have been found alongside the road with my throat cut and it would be assumed I was another victim of lawlessness here."

And Parmenio would probably have exterminated everybody north of the Great Glen in revenge. Naamah thought quietly to herself. "Is Court that bad?"

Igrat thought carefully. She knew very well that, while most men loved her, or at least wanted to bed her which in her eyes amounted to the same thing, most women hated her on sight. "I hadn't thought so. Mostly, it's just women being catty to each other and trading veiled insults. Sometimes not so veiled. But, I hadn’t thought murder was an option although that was probably foolish of me. Thinking about the first attack though, even if somebody had seen me leaving, recognized me and worked out what I was up to, they would have been unable to get word ahead of me in time to set up an attack. I was moving fast and taking the fastest route. No, I think this attack was the first of its kind."

"Who was your primary rival for the position of Cumberland's mistress?" Naamah was also a veteran of multiple deadly, decadent courts although in her case, those who went beyond the limits of acceptably courteous insults found themselves suffering from a mysterious, unidentifiable but prolonged and debilitating illness.

Igrat thought carefully. "Well, every unattached woman in court of course and several that are attached. I'd say the lead candidate though is Baroness de Ros. She fancied herself as the inevitable occupant for the position and was much put out when the Duke appointed me."
"I wonder if the Baron de Ros agreed with the ambitions of his wife?" Gusoyn was trying to stop himself smiling from the reflection that while he found the Baroness de Ros unlikeable to the point of being repulsive, he was rather taken by the Baron. Of course, the difference in our status will prevent that going anywhere, which, given my doubts about the family, is probably a good thing.

"I'm more curious as to whom the Baroness, and the Baron, de Ros really are." Conrad was looking distinctly confused but with a strange, contrasting light in his eyes that suggested that, even in his confusion, he had found a key to the mystery.

"Come on Conrad, you can't leave it there." Naamah sounded irritated which wasn't uncommon when she was dealing with Conrad.

"When George Villiers, 2nd Duke of Buckingham and the 19th Baron de Ros died in 1687, the succession was much disputed with multiple claimants of equal weight. Under such circumstances, the Barony is deemed to have fallen into abeyance, a state of expectancy in respect of property, titles or office, when the right to them is not vested in any one person, but awaits the appearance or determination of the true owner." The Society of Jesus had often had a key role in bringing an estate out of abeyance and Conrad had undertaken quite a few investigations with the aim of resolving such issues. He had learned much from such investigations, not the least being the lengths people would go to to gain a title that brought them few, if any, benefits. "The Baron de Ros title has not been called out of abeyance and therefore the rights, privileges, income and benefits of the state remain unclaimable. At this point, Lady Isadora, you have a much higher position than they do, since your title is confirmed and acknowledged, even though the de Ros title is the premier Barony in England."

Igrat couldn’t help thinking that she was getting to like being a Countess. That was when she realized what Nell had meant about not forgetting where she had come from. “So the woman claiming to be the Baroness de Ros is an imposter?”

Conrad shook his head. “Not quite, no. An imposter is somebody who claims an identity that is not their own with the implication that they are doing so for dishonest gain. In a state of abeyance, though, the candidates have a good case that they are who they claim to be even though His Majesty has not yet made a decision on who the rightful claimant is. So, the Baroness de Ros, and the Baron may very well believe they are who they claim to be and therefore are simply asserting their case, which they have every right to do. As long as they do not attempt to derive income or capital from the properties in abeyance, they are simply being unusually assertive.”

“You said His Majesty is the one who makes the final decision on, what did you call it? Calling out of abeyance?”

Conrad smiled at Gusoyn. “Yes, that’s right. The King or his representative.”

“Who, up here, is His Grace the Duke of Cumberland. The King’s favorite son and the hero of the hour. Who is also a rather nice man by the way.” Igrat looked around. “Well, he is.”

“You said the Baroness was determined to be the Duke’s official mistress?” Conrad’s mind was clicking over the factors involved and arranging them into patterns. One seemed far more likely than the rest. “With that status, she would be in an excellent position to persuade the Duke to call the Barony with the wealth and status it commands out of abeyance and award it to her and her husband.”
“Plenty of husbands have sold the services of their wives for less.” Igrat sounded bitter which was most unlike her. “And more than a few have helped hold her down while the deal was consummated.”

Conrad wished that he could believe she wasn’t quite right on both counts. Unfortunately for his peace of mind, he knew she was. “That Barony, which incorporates an Earldom by the way, is worth a mountain of sovereigns. More than enough motive for murder.”

“So you think the Baroness saw me leaving and decided to take her chance at getting rid of me permanently?” Igrat was relaxing. It was a situation she could cope with.

“No. After you took the position she needed to acquire the Barony, I think she started to have you followed, hoping to find scandal that would cost you your rank and possibly your life. That was when she found out about your message-carrying duties and realized that it offered a perfect opportunity to have you killed.”

“Oh dear.” To Conrad’s surprise, Igrat sounded vaguely disappointed. It was as if she would have preferred something more glamorous and earth-shaking than just a jealous woman with eyes on a fortune.

“Have you noticed anybody following you Igrat? Or felt watched?” Naamah sounded concerned which was perfectly accurate. In fact, she was already trying to decide what interesting cocktail of lethal plant extracts she would serve to the alleged Baroness de Ros.

“Yes.” Igrat was very hesitant. “But you know Court. This isn’t the Royal Court down in London but it’s the next best thing up here. And everybody watches everybody and spies are everywhere. It’s hard to tell the real threats from normal court life.”

Namah grimaced. “She’s right. We’ll just have to watch what is going on. Now, back to the gold shipment.”

“You’re beginning to sound like Lillith.” Igrat seemed remarkably unperturbed by the prospect of a homicidal rival dogging her footsteps.

"Well, she's happy enough by all accounts. She almost passed out with delight when the money you took from Sir John arrived. Anyway, that wagon doesn’t seem to be moving very fast."

"That's not surprising. The whole area is saturated with patrols these days." Major Hughes felt relieved to have something to offer the meeting. "Mostly infantry now, securing the roads and fanning out into the glens. If they tried to move a wagon like that in daylight, they'll be stopped for a certainty. And searched carefully. Our patrols bed down at dusk though so the waggoneers will have to move after dark."

"I've been along those roads." Igrat remarked. "They're rough and hazardous for travel at night. A bad move and the wagon would roll down a hillside."

"Exactly." Major Hughes agreed. "That means they will have to be very careful, using masked lanterns to check the paths and being very careful to avoid where the patrols have camped. Those patrols may not be moving at night but they will investigate strange lights on the moors. I would say that wagon is doing quarter-pace. Say six or eight miles per night at a very generous most. Probably closer to half that."

"So they should only be approaching Loch Akraig now." Gusoyn didn't take much time to do the calculation. "If that is where they are going. We really do not have much to go on there. You say that the tracks head in that direction and we have the report of somebody admitting they were going to that region while in their cups. That is convincing, perhaps, but not definitive."

"We're forgetting something." Conrad held up a hand in a way that made everybody think he was about to bestow a blessing upon them. "We got involved in this because Joy Thackeray was killed and Judith Tomkins was accused of her murder. We absolved her of that but then she was murdered in a particularly brutal manner. The only link was the jewelry she stole from Joy Thackeray and our presumption was that the orders for where to take the gold were enciphered within that jewelry. They have the necklace that said Loch Akraig but the rest was elsewhere and without the cipher book we can’t decode it. But suppose the additional message is exactly where? Say, five stones for five miles and an engraving to say west? The waggoneers are heading to the general area in the hope that their exact destination will sort itself out once they get to the approximate area. Lady Isadora, do you have a map of that area?"

Igrat nodded and went over to where her saddlebags were hanging. She drew out a rolled map and laid it out on the table. "My usual warning, these maps are terrible."

"My Lady, your comments on that matter have already been heard. I am informed that they were instrumental in surveyors are coming to the area soon to start the process of preparing reliable maps. A most competent officer, Lieutenant-Colonel David Watson has been charged with the compilation of a military survey of the Highlands at a scale of 1 inch to 1000 yards. He will be working under the command of the Duke of Cumberland and be assisted by William Roy, Paul Sandby and John Manson. I know all these officers and they are men of great skill and integrity. I do not think their work will be popular though; precise mapping and delineation of lands will remove most of the Lairds excuse for continuous raiding."

Gusoyn was looking at the map Igrat had unrolled. "The wagon traces have been found along here? Along the north shore of Loch Akraig? This would be a dangerous road to follow, My Lady. But, when we come to the west end of the Loch, there is a valley that heads northwest with what is claimed to be a good road through it. If I had to drive a heavily-loaded wagon, it would be through there. That leads to this inlet here, Loch Nevis according to the inscription. It leads directly to the sea. If I was interested in taking gold back to France, this is where I would go to meet the ship charged with that task."

"There is one problem." Igrat looked at the map and could see what Gusoyn was driving at. "Colonel Eliot and a detachment of the Light Dragoons are based in that very valley. They are looking specifically for that wagon and they believe it is carrying enough gold to make them rich men."

"The waggoneers must be hidden away somewhere close-by waiting for the cavalry to move on." Conrad looked at the map as well and shook his head. "I have no interest in gold shipments."

"Think of the number of people who have been murdered already over this gold." Hughes looked at him, slightly shocked. "Lady Wilberforce? Judith Tomkins? Were they not innocent victims of these killers? If we can prevent them killing just one more person, is that not doing God's work?"

[Calder]

Chapter Twenty
Army Headquarters, Fort Augustus

“We have received the following report from intelligencers in the Highlands. On 8 May, at Murlaggan in Lochaber, the Camerons, MacDonalds, MacLeods, MacKinnons and the Appin Stewarts reached the following resolution. We, subscribers, heads of clans, commanders and leaders, do hereby unanimously agree, and solemnly promise forthwith, with the utmost expedition, to raise in arms for the interest of His Royal Highness Charles Prince of Wales, and in defense of our country, all the able-bodied men that all and every one of us can command, or raise, within our respective interests or properties. They have also agreed with the Frasers, MacGregors, Menzies and Glenlyons that the latter clans were to assemble at Rannoch. They were all to raise their men and organize them into regiments and corps, and to enforce strict discipline by hanging deserters.” The Duke of Cumberland looked up from the dispatches with extreme anger. “Do these damned fools learn nothing? We reduce their army to ruin and they still wish to continue the war?”

Sir Stewart Parmenio ran through the permutations in his mind. “Your Grace, what we have to determine is how effective a prolonged struggle in the Highlands is likely to be? We know from our own survey that the Jacobite army has lost everything bar the clothes it stands up in and the arms it can carry. They have neither food nor the gold necessary to purchase supplies even if there were good to buy. Even less so do they have money to pay the troops and without that vital requirement, it seems very unlikely that an army can be kept together. Even if the French aid they have been promised is to penetrate the Naval blockade along the coast, which is a very unlikely circumstance, it would take some weeks or months to arrive and be distributed to where it is needed. Your Grace, in truth, the military prospects for another campaign by regular troops seem bleak, at best.”

“Colonel Ferguson believes that the danger not insignificant, he speaks of the Rebels having gathered to the number of 4,000. He states that his patrols found 150 weapons and gold at MacNeil’s house on the island of Barra and that based on information found there, they found 800 muskets and sixteen barrels of powder in a cave on the western coast. He also reports that, at the same time on the Island of Raasay, a naval landing party seized no less than 1,000 muskets, thirty barrels of powder, twenty barrels of shot and forty barrels of French brandy. Eight cannon were found in Loch Shiel, with nineteen barrels of powder and thirty-two chests of arms buried nearby.”

Parmenio looked up sharply. "Cannon, Your Grace? What sort of cannon?"

Cumberland consulted the dispatch carefully. "They are one and a half-pounder galloper guns, six in number and apparently those captured at Prestonpans. There were also two three-pounders on the bed of farm carts with the shafts also acting as the trail. The guns have been taken to Fort William, in fact they must have arrived just after you left to return here. I have ordered the brandy to be distributed to our infantry regiments so that they may drink Colonel Ferguson's health."

Parmenio closed his eyes and thought carefully. "I think I see their stratagem. Once convinced that the assassination had failed and the French were not invading, the Jacobite Army retreated the way it did in the belief that our troops could not even enter the Highlands let alone operate there. Their stratagem after Derby was for the Jacobite Army to retreat to the Highlands north of the Great Glen and use that area as a sanctuary where we could not follow them. That would also give them a secure area into which the French could run money and supplies. Then, the Jacobite Army would sally out, carry out limited offensives before retreating back into that sanctuary. They would keep that up until the British people became fatigued of constant war and the demands for troops in Flanders forced the government to admit defeat."

Cumberland thought about that. "It is not a bad plan although it depends much on the presumption that we cannot pacify the Highlands. Our patrols are already increasing their presence across the whole region. Their perception of our needs is quite accurate. There is already discontent with some of my officers who wish to get back to proper campaigning in Flanders."

Privately, Parmenio thought that said officers were ill-advised since he was reasonably well convinced that the French were going to win that one, in Flanders at least, unless they blundered during the peace negotiations. "It is a plan that depends very much upon you doing what they want you to do, Your Grace, most notably sitting here along the Great Glen and doing little. The whole thing, of course, fell to pieces the moment you sent British troops into the Highlands and demonstrated that we could strike hard at any sign of resistance up there. If I might be so bold, Your Grace, this plan plays to your greatest strengths, organizational ability and your popularity with the men as their leader and it exploits their greatest weaknesses, ineffectual and divided leadership, almost non-existent supplies and rapidly-shrinking support. I believe large numbers of people are coming in now to turn in their weapons and swear allegiance to his Majesty?"

"That is the case, yes. In some areas, particularly around Inverness, a large majority of the population are doing so. Even in the most dedicated of rebel areas, more than half the population has declared itself to be loyalists. Of course, a wise man always backs the strongest horse which is why our displays of strength and power must continue. It is also necessary for us to revise the law here in North Britain to remove the anomalies that allow the current state of disorder and near-anarchy. Bringing the legal system into compliance with modern standards is as important as improving the security of the realm and stamping out the last remnants of Jacobism."

Parmenio noted how 'North Britain' had replaced Scotland. I wonder how long that will last. And I wonder if the Duke will ever get credit for understanding that the rule of law and an effective legal system needed to be established up here. We can hang the rebels and burn their property all we want but until the power of the Clan Lairds is broken, we will never have peace. Fortunately that's in hand. These Hanoverians are a lot more astute than they let on. "I think there is little stamping left to do, Your Grace. In honesty, I think there was precious little to start with. It is opposition to the Act of Union that drove the uprising, not a desire to see Charles Edward Stuart on the joint throne they oppose."

"You may be right, Sir Stewart. There have been some minor confrontations between rebels and our troops but the former have been most reluctant to become engaged and fled as soon as our people showed their willingness to engage in battle. I am minded to believe that they expect a clan battle where much is decided by pushing and shoving and a deadly battle is a last resort. Our immediate willingness to use grapeshot and the bayonet is bewildering to them. Be that as it may, how go our other two concerns? The missing gold and the conspiracy against my life?"

"The wagon carrying the French gold, Your Grace, is moving slowly at night and those driving it take great pains to avoid notice. The Regiment of Light Dragoons has tracked it to a remote area, some ten miles in diameter north of Loch Akraig. The regiment is moving its base of operations to Inverie where Colonel Semiramis can coordinate with three Royal Navy sloops patrolling up there. Colonel Eliot's detachment remains to the south, guarding access to the area from the Great Glen. We believe at least one and possibly two French frigates are also in the area and may make coastfall. Whether they are delivering or evacuating is something we will have to find out.

"As to the threat against Your Grace, we have that in hand. Achillea is staying by your side and Igrat will be joining you as soon as she's cleaned up from the ride down from Inverness. Those two should be able to take care of any physical threat against you."

"I'm not sure that I like that. What man hides behind a woman?"

"When Achillea is the woman in question, a very sensible one. Your Grace, her presence near you means that anybody who comes at you with sword or pistol will be dead before they get within striking range. We're also having your food tasted by an expert and your supplies are checked regularly. We're covering everything we can think of." And we have two millennia of experience in ducking assassination attempts. Kopshape-su-Amunet was the last one of us to fall victim to such plots. If only he had listened to advice . . .

"I am grateful for your efforts, Sir Stewart. Your friendship towards our house and to me personally will not be forgotten. Do you have any insights as to who the assassin might be?"

"Our investigations have caused some suspicions to fall on the Baron and Baroness de Ros. Only because the title is in abeyance and their use of it might seem impertinent. Other than that we have none."

Cumberland shrugged. "I knew of the abeyance issue. The Baroness, in one of her repeated efforts to insinuate herself into my household, made so bold as to suggest the price of her charms was our family lifting the abeyance and recognizing her husband's claim to the title. Personally I find nothing more distasteful than a woman claiming her price before delivering the goods."
Parmenio nodded in agreement, a gesture that made Cumberland laugh. "Lady Isadora, of course, was far too well brought-up to make such a faux-pas. Still, in the absence of a suspect, I suppose that leaves nothing to do but wait. Between ourselves, I will be leaving for London in July. Lord Albemarle will be assuming command up here. I'd like to hand a finished job of pacification over to him."

Parmenio thought about that. "I think we can do that, yes."

French Frigate Mars, Current Sailing As Royal Charles, Off Skye.

"Capitaine, have we orders?" Lieutenant Girout de Saint-Pierre had seen the package arrive from the fishing smack that had ventured out from shore far further than was prudent given the weather. It was a reasonable assumption that her presence meant that something had changed.

"I wouldn’t call them orders, my friend. Perhaps more along the lines of a request for assistance that verges on a desperate plea for help. Some of the dignitaries who landed with Charles would rather not stay around to enjoy the Duke of Cumberland's hospitality. I think particularly of Sir John MacDonald and Sir John William O'Sullivan."

"The reports from Flanders suggested that the Duke of Cumberland is a decent and humane man bearing in mind the demands of our profession. Prisoners from our Army who have been released on exchange speak of generous treatment and good care."

"Remember, Girout, that they were fellow-soldiers. They might be on the opposing side but they were serving their king loyally and well. I would say the Duke saw it as his honorable duty to treat them well. These Highlanders are rebels and traitors and I believe the Duke sees them as dishonorable criminals, not fit to receive the treatment deserved by fellow-soldiers. I have heard that, at Culloden, many of the Highlanders were wearing red coats taken from the British dead."

de Saint-Pierre sucked his teeth. There was no greater sin against soldierly honor than to wear the enemy uniform on a battlefield. "Then they would indeed do well to leave quickly."

"The message we have had from them is that we should put in to Doune Bay two nights from now. They say they have the gold King Louis sent for the support of the rebellion and will return it to us when we arrive."

"In other words, they will pay us for their passage to safety with our own gold." de Saint-Pierre shuddered expressively. "If we are going inshore, we will need to watch for those British sloops. Their Captains handle them with skill and aggression."

"We have Subtile joining us soon. She will stand offshore and cover us while we are in the bay. A new ship, with twenty eight-pounders, she is well-equipped for that." Maurice sighed slightly. "I meant, of course, the Royal Stuart. Not that it will make much difference; if we fight, we will have to hoist our French colors anyway. I will not fight under false colors."

"There are still only two-masted sloops in the area?"

"We know of two, Hound and Hornet, ten six-pounders each. Together they are a match for us, but even if both of them are here, they cannot try conclusions withSubtile and her eight pounders."

I hope somebody tells the Royal Navy captains that. They have a habit, particularly the small ship commanders, of hurling themselves at an enemy. Instead of speaking the words, de Saint-Pierre went to the map case and took the charts of the Sound of Sleat from their leather roll. "The water shoals fast, Capitaine. By the entrance to the bay, we have less than a fathom. Even a mile from shore we have less than three. We will have to take the boats if we wish to get closer. Does the note say how many men we can expect.

"Only two gentlemen we know of, and possibly some others. Sir John MacDonald and Sir John William O'Sullivan. They are both officers of Irish regiments serving King Louis so they have a right to claim passage. Girout, make sure the longboats are ready and pick our strongest men to man the oars. We want to get in and out as fast as possible.

Headquarters, Duke of Cumberland's Light Dragoons, Inverie

"Welcome to the cavalry, gentlemen. I am Colonel Semiramis." Semiramis looked at her guests with unalloyed pleasure. They, on the other hand, were looking at her with the general expression usually adopted by comprehensively stunned trout. The sloop captains had certainly welcomed the unusual aspects of blockading the North British coast while the rebellion was suppressed but they hadn't expected to be greeted by a woman in the uniform of a cavalry colonel. Royal Navy captains, even if they were only captains by courtesy and were rated simply as 'master and commander', were rarely slow on the uptake and they guessed that this was something that was never going to find its way into the history books.

"Captain Swafford of the Hound, I believe? Would you do me the honor of sitting upon my right, Sir?" Semiramis had checked carefully on the seniority of the officers with the First Officer of each of the sloops so that the correct seating would be achieved. "And, Captain Belushi of the Hornet, would you be so kind as to take my left?"

"It is our very great pleasure . . . . " Swafford hesitated; the rules of etiquette didn't even begin to cover how to address female cavalry colonels.

"Gentleman, we all serve our King, first, foremost and above all else. Perhaps we should, in honor of our shared allegiance forgo the formality of rank?"

Swafford looked at her, taking in the olive skin, mass of tightly-curled hair that was her own, not a wig, the beaked nose and bright eyes but also the ruthless set to her mouth. He had served in the Mediterranean and saw in her the blood of the Barbary Corsairs. That was when he realized then that she was one of the mercenaries that the Duke of Cumberland had brought in to help suppress the rebellion. He bowed to her, again being surprised to receive a bow in return, and took his seat. Belushi took the seat opposite him. That just left Captain Murray of the Hazzard, the youngest and most junior of the sloop commanders. In fact, he had only taken over his ship the week before, after she had been captured by the Jacobites at Montrose, sold by them to the French and then recaptured by the Royal Navy. Now, she was HMS Hazzard again although she had French six pounder guns on her gun deck instead of the English six pounders arming the other two sloops. "Captain Murray, please sit opposite me and tell me of your new ship."

The orderlies brought in the first course, placing the bowl of soup before Semiramis. "Gentlemen, we have, due to your efficiency, a brandied mushroom broth."

She took the ladle and served out a portion of soup for each of her guests while the orderlies placed baskets of fresh-baked bread and the rest of the first course on the table. Semiramis checked in quickly, a white chicken fricasee, cauliflower pudding, an assortment of meat pastries, a freshly roasted ham and a baron of beef flanked by carrots and potted potatoes. Being satisfied, she gave the orderlies a quick nod of approval before charging her guest's glasses and raising her own in a toast. "My friends, I give you, the Royal Navy and the Sovereignty of the Seas!"

"And the Mastery of the Oceans." The traditional reply from Swafford rang around the room.

Belushi took up his responsibility of proposing the guest's toast to their host. "Friends, I give you, the Light Dragoons. Leading the Charge!"

"And First into Inverness!" Semiramis replied before sitting down and joining her guests in the feast. Once the soup had been drunk and the orderlies had removed the bowls, she took a specially-sharpened saber to carve the ham and beef. The fact that she did so displaying great familiarity with a sword caused her guests to exchange knowing glances. Whatever they might have thought on entering the room, they knew now that this strange Colonel was no figurehead.

The second course, served by the orderlies, featured brandied winter apples, a fresh syllabub with white wafers, a bowl of potted cheese and beetroot pancakes, all washed down with copious drafts of wine. Finally, the diners beginning to feel their uniforms tightening ominously, completed their meal with a dessert of Queen’s cakes and Bishops’ fingers, nuts, chocolate puffs and candied orange peel.

Finally, over an excellent brandy (supplied by the enterprise of HMS Hornet for which Captain Belushi was granted a standing ovation), the meeting got down to business. "My friends, we have every reason to believe that there is a cargo of significant value in this area which the French will try and collect. To be precise, seventy thousand sovereigns of gold paid as subsidy to Charles Edward Stuart and now to be reclaimed from him. We have traced that shipment this far and it is apparent from the map that it can go no further. The question is, from where shall the French reclaim it.

Captain Swafford produced his map case and, as soon as the table was cleared, spread it out. "Assuming that the collection is to be made from this coast and not from one of the offshore islands, there are only a limited number of beaches that would permit a ship capable of returning to France to come in closely enough. We have frigates at Mallaig and they will not wish to make affray with those. Nor, I suspect will they wish to go north into Loch Hourn for there they can be easily trapped with no way to get into the open sea. That leaves the coast along here, Knoydart. You know this area well, Belushi?"

"I do." Captain Belushi had been in the area the longest and had taken his Hornet in close to shore often. The little sloops had proved themselves invaluable in that role. "This is a rough coast and there are few suitable beaches for a landing. There is one to the south here, at Doune Bay, another about two miles north at Airor and a third four miles north of that at Inverguseran. Airor is a good beach but the shoals approaching it are very bad and complicated by an island offshore. Inverguseran is an estuary although the river leading into it is little more than a stream. It is mud and marsh inshore and shoals offshore. Also, the shoals shift unpredictably. If I were the Frenchie, I would come ashore at Doune Bay. It is a good beach and the shoals are the least hazardous.”

“Murray, your thoughts?” Swafford wanted to draw the new arrival to his little squadron out and their well-brandied state made that easy.

“It is a good position, very good. Even if we have picked the wrong bay, we are between the French ships and the sea and we can always call on the frigates at Mallaig for support.”

“We can sweep inland.” Semiramis was looking at the map. “We can follow that wagon and if the beach is indeed at Doune, then we can signal from the shore. A lantern will do that task well, there is little other light around here.”

“Your cavalry charge from the shore side on to the beach, we intercept and dispose of the French ships. If you need artillery we can provide it. A warship is the equivalent of several batteries.”

“My friends, I think we have a plan. A final toast. To the confoundment of the enemy!”