The Chevalier (9 page)

“I do hope you decide to stay with us! It would be wonderful to have you for a sister always.”

“We will be like sisters regardless,” Madeline promised.

And all winter, that was exactly how it was, with Madeline teaching Elizabeth French and proper English and all about world history while Elizabeth taught her how to fish for salmon and trout through the ice of the river and how to bake barley scones. Madeline had never been allowed in a kitchen before and was delighted to learn the rudiments of cooking and baking. It seemed Cousin Anne was not above personally supervising her kitchen.

On Sundays, all except Maman who was too weak, went to the Catholic kirk to pray. Cousin Anne explained that in the Lowlands, everyone had been converted into the Presbyterian or Episcopal Church.

“But we’re a stubborn lot here and we’ve kept the true faith, even while preserving many of the old ways of the Celts. They’d change us if they could, but we’ll fight them all the way. Did you know that when the Romans came, they never could conquer us?”

Madeline shook her head, watching the proud look on Anne’s face.

“Aye, ‘tis the truth! They conquered the world but the Highlanders were too brave and fierce for the Romans. If only God may give us strength to fight off the English the same way!”

On her knees, Madeline prayed devoutly for Bonnie Prince Charlie and the Highlanders to be victorious, and then she prayed just as fervently for her mother to get well again. She could only hope that her faith was strong enough.

♥ ♥ ♥

In the middle of April, Cousin Anne had a terrible nightmare and woke screaming. Madeline and Elizabeth, who shared a bedroom, rose as one and went running to her. Anne’s eyes were open in terror and she was crying hysterically.

“What is it?” Madeline exclaimed, for she had never in her life seen anyone so terrified.

“It’s gone bad for them. I saw it in a dream of prophecy. The Highlands are doomed!” Anne began to cry inconsolably and pushed Elizabeth away as she tried to offer comfort.

“Dinna fash yourself, Mither,” Elizabeth said, pressing her cheek against that of Anne.

“I grieve not for myself alone but for all of us. Go back to bed, both of ye. There’s nothing can be done.”

Elizabeth was weeping also as they went back to her room and Madeline suggested that they stay up for a time and talk. “Your mother might be wrong,” she offered.

Elizabeth shook her fiery hair fiercely. “No, she’s never wrong about such things. She’s got the sight, you know. She sees things others cannot.”

From that day there was a sadness in the house. Even May Day was not a happy celebration as it ordinarily would have been. But Elizabeth took her to see the traditional lighting of the Beltane fires upon the heights and weaved them both garlands of flowers to wear on their heads. In the gloaming, hands joined and raised, they danced around the fire with other barefoot women and children, their bodies wound in their plaids.

Madeline felt the magic of it as she participated in rites and customs as primeval as the mountains and glens themselves. People spoke incantations in Gaelic that she barely understood, yet she was charmed by the magic and the brooding beauty and felt herself coming truly alive. Later, Madeline walked away from the others, hugging her body tightly.

“Don’t be going too far,” Elizabeth exclaimed, “or the fairies that lurk in the heart of the thorn trees of the dene will surely steal ye away.”

Madeline laughed, her voice like a trilling flute. “I feel much too brave to let a mere fairy take hold of me. This has been so much fun. I wish it could go on forever.”

But the next day, everything changed. It was Anne who heard the pounding drums and skirling pipes first and cried out. Elizabeth became wildly excited.

“They’re home at last! Isn’t it wonderful?”

Anne’s face was mournful. “Nay, don’t you hear what’s being played, my wee lass?”

Madeline heard it clearly – a dirge for the dead. The sound was unmistakable.

Everyone in the glen was running down toward the returning Highland warriors as their pipes and drums reverberated through the valley.

Madeline’s eyes were mainly for her cousin Andrew. But when she saw him, saw the pallor on his face and the way that he was being held up by two enormous men, she knew that he was gravely wounded. Anne and Elizabeth saw it too and went running toward him.

“And how is the Chief of the MacCarnan?” his mother said, her voice shrill with concern.

“I’ve seen a better day or two,” he said with a weak smile on his lips that did not travel as far as his eyes.

“Bring him to the house,” Anne ordered in a strong voice, “and any others that are wounded as well.”

Madeline saw there that was a great deal of blood on his kilt and also on the hose patterned in the MacCarnan tartan.

“Mither,” he said, reaching out to Anne, “we’ve got a special guest.” He turned to the huge dark-haired man supporting his right side. “Angus, tell the Prince’s aide that we’ll be going to the house for now.”

Madeline’s eyes opened wide in excitement. Could it be? But of course it must! Cousin Andrew had brought Bonnie Prince Charlie to his Highland home. Madeline had no idea why they were being so honored but she had never been more delighted about anything in her entire seventeen years of life.

Madeline was surprised that the Prince was not riding his horse but was instead on foot, as were all the Highlanders. He was not as tall as her cousin, standing at about five feet eleven inches, nor was he as broad; instead he was a slender figure who carried himself in a regal manner. When he smiled, there was a boyish charm about him, Madeline thought. He was dressed in a Highland plaid waistcoat and breeches and wore a St Andrew’s cross at his buttonhole. He looked to the MacCarnan who nodded toward the house. She noticed that there were two men attending the Prince and that they did not speak in English but in another language entirely. It took her a moment or two to realize that the language all three spoke so fluently was Italian.

Anne put her hand on her son’s arm. “You’re looking ill,” she said in a quiet, concerned voice. “You must go within and lie down.”

“Nay,” he responded sharply. “These are my people. I must not show weakness before them, no matter the reason. I have the power of life and death over them and I have exercised it in full, but in return they depend on me to keep faith with them, otherwise I must lose their loyalty and affection. You, the wife of a chief, know that far better than I. We must not show panic or fear in the face of our defeat.”

Anne lowered her eyes and removed her hand from her son’s muscular arm.

“Tell me all, laddie.”

“We lost in battle to the English at Culloden Moor in April.” His voice was hoarse with pain as he spoke loud and clear. “We’ll not be giving up our personal or tribal pride to the enemy, but the English are sending men after us to put us in chains – and worse. We won’t be giving up, you understand, but we’ll be hiding from them. When they come, no man, woman or child will be safe. The bloody butcher, the Duke of Cumberland, gave no quarter on the field of battle and we’re told he intends to destroy the power of the clans and send his men sweeping through the Highlands to loot, pillage, rape and burn. So I want my people to go into hiding for the time being. Take what you have of value and scatter out to the caves of the mountains until it’s safe to return. Our army is disbanding for we’ve taken too many casualties to continue the fight.”

Madeline saw the unnatural pallor of his face and the blood seeping through the bandages at his side. He stopped speaking then and allowed his men to help him to the manor house.

Once inside, it was Anne’s orders that took precedence. Andrew was lain down on a bed in what was obviously his own room. Anne immediately examined the wound then sent for the old hag who it seemed was especially good at concocting herbal potions.

“The elder
cailleach
is a witch, some say, but she has the healing power,” Elizabeth whispered to her.

Andrew saw Madeline then and his face lit up in a smile in spite of the obvious pain that he was suffering.

“My beautiful cousin, you’re here and you’re well. So you’ve come to marry me after all. But I don’t know that I’ll have anything to offer you now, for I’m a wanted man and the English will be demanding my head.” His forest green eyes darkened sadly.

“Just get well and strong again, and we’ll worry about everything else later. In France, people never worry about the future, only the present moment exists.”

“Most practical and resourceful are the French.”

“Indeed so.”

He reached his hand out for her and she placed her small fingers into his reassuringly.

The old woman came then and administered to her cousin while his mother asked him questions about the fateful battle at Culloden.

“The Duke of Cumberland is like his father the German king,” Andrew observed with bitterness. “He found our weakness and used it against us. He gave us no quarter, Mother, refused to even let us go back for our dead and wounded. Cousin Geordie was bayoneted before my very eyes as he lay on the ground with a ball in his chest. The English didn’t fight like men but used cannon on us mostly. The cowards laughed as we charged at them, hiding behind their bloody big guns! They knew themselves to be no match for our claymores. Bastards, the lot of them!”

At that moment, Andrew was gripped by a spasm of agonizing pain.

“Lay still!” the old woman told him. “Ye be openin’ your wounds again otherwise.”

“I’ll just say that I never hated the English more than I do now. The many wounded lying on the field were bayoneted, shot or clubbed to death by the dragoons, and we could do nothing to stop it! Do you ken it! And even after, they pursued us, went on a killing rampage, men, women, children, soldiers and civilians alike; they cared no’ who they slaughtered. Mother, I charge you with a solemn responsibility. We’ve got to see the Prince on his way. There will be others to help us. But we must get him across the river where other clansmen will be waiting to guide him on to safety. I charge him to you, for I cannot do it myself. The English are after us and if they catch the Prince, he’ll most certainly hang.”

Andrew lost consciousness at that moment and his mother gently touched his disheveled hair, matted with sweat and dirt.

“Rest well and grow strong again for you are the last of my sons, the last hope of the MacCarnan.” With that, she turned her misted eyes toward Madeline and Elizabeth.

“Will he be all right?” Madeline asked fearfully.

The toothless hag replied to her question. “Aye, he must sleep for a long time. That’s the best cure. He’s suffered much and is worn out. I’ve given him a potion to that purpose.”

That evening over supper, Madeline spoke with the Prince and his two aides in Italian. As it turned out, she was the only one who could actually communicate with them. The Prince had picked up a few words of Gaelic, but not enough for real conversation. During the evening, he smoked a pipe and drank a great deal of wine. Indeed, he seemed far less interested in his dinner than in consuming spirits. But then, Madeline thought, who could blame him? He had to be terribly despondent. In spite of that, he was charming and polite and not at all haughty the way she heard him rumored to be. He kissed her hand, bowed to her, and told her what a lovely vision she was. She was captivated by the chivalrous manner of the White Chevalier.

The best thing about the evening was that Maman got to meet the Prince, and when Maman went to sleep that night, she looked remarkably happy and at peace.

The two men with the Prince, Madeline learned, were Irish but as they served the Stuarts in Italy where James Stuart held his court in exile, Italian was their language of communication. She soon realized that these men were completely devoted to the handsome, young Prince.

Madeline looked to Cousin Anne for a suggestion as to how they could safely move the Prince across the river to the aid and protection of the next clan.

“How shall we get Prince Charles away?” Madeline asked.

“
Mo Dhia
!” Anne exclaimed. “Perhaps we might disguise him somehow. That would be a possible course of action.”

“Of course,” Madeline agreed with some excitement. “The English will be looking for men. They would not look so carefully at a woman. What if we dress the Prince as a maid? I could cross the river with him garbed in a gown. Then if we were unfortunate enough to meet soldiers, they would be fooled.”

Elizabeth clapped her hands together. “Mother, I think Madeline’s plan might just work. I could dress as a lad and row the boat across.”

“Are you strong enough?” Madeline asked in surprise.

“I can do anything the lads can. But we’ll have those two fellows with him take a turn or two at the oars. They look quite strong, don’t you think?”

Anne agreed with the suggestion and so Madeline turned the plan over to the Prince and his advisors. At first, they seemed quite shocked, but then the Chevalier smiled and nodded his assent.

Their only difficulty was in providing Prince Charles Edward with a maid’s costume large enough to fit him for Marie, like herself, was quite petite. But for once, Jenny MacDonald saved the day. She was an unusually tall girl and provided them with a plain linen garment that Marie was able to alter.

On the following morning, just after dawn, the little group borrowed a small boat and set up river north; the ultimate destination of the Prince was to be the Isle of Skye where he and his devoted friends hoped to find a French ship to carry him back to the continent.

At first things went well enough. It seemed as if there were not another person in the world around and that the Highlands in their remoteness could not be penetrated by anyone bent on destruction. But as they reached the shore of their destination, there was suddenly a rustling among the trees and who should appear but a detachment of scarlet-coated soldiers, muskets pointed at them. Madeline’s heart beat madly in her breast, knowing she must be the one to speak, and whatever she said must ultimately mean the difference between life and death for all of them.