breathing had steadied. Somewhere on the heath she heard an owl calling, the haunting sound echoing in the silence. Hardly breathing, soundlessly she pressed herself against the wall and waited.
Suddenly she heard the sound of horses, the thump of their hooves on the ground and the clink of their harnesses. Retreating along the wall, she stood in the shadows. Three men rode up and halted in front of the building. They slid to the ground and the man in the shadows stepped forward to greet them.
Her curiosity getting the better of her, Henrietta crept forward once more to observe them more closely, straining her eyes in the darkness as she wondered at the reason for them meeting so furtively. She could see the outline of the horses and the shape of the men. They stood close together, murmuring in consultation. Two of them broke away and walked in her direction, pausing to converse. Straining her ears, she was just able to hear what they said.
‘Good to see you, Jack,’ the man who had been waiting said.
‘Have you been waiting long, Simon?’ asked Jack.
‘About half an hour,’ Simon replied in low tones.
‘You have come from Dover?’
‘I met with the agent. He’s a reliable source—a Frenchman and a friend. He deals in commodities and is of great use to us.’
‘Just one of our brave liaisons. You’ve a long ride ahead of you before you reach Edinburgh.’
‘Aye, but a necessary one. I mean to stop at my home over the border. I have arrangements to make should things not turn out as we hope. I’ve one or two loose ends to tie up here in London, but I hope to be heading north long before dawn. It appears Prince Charles has arrived in Scotland with only a handful of men. It will be common knowledge soon. Convinced the English Jacobites will stage an uprising, he is already planning to invade England. I mean to ride north to assess the situation.’
‘I’m loyal to the cause, but planning a rising to put his father on the throne is foolish in my opinion.’
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Simon said, ‘but he had his head set on it. The proclamation states that by the ordination of Almighty God, King James, VIII of Scotland and III of England and Ireland, asserts his just rights to claim the throne of three kingdoms, and to acknowledge the support of these divine rights by the chieftains of the Highland clans and Jacobite lords—and various other such loyal subjects of His Majesty King James. We need soldiers, weapons and money, which we don’t have.’
‘Then he will fail. We need the French to succeed.’
‘If we wait for the French to help us, we’ll be waiting a long time. But then again, with the British at war with France and all the armies fighting in Europe, perhaps now is the time to act.’
Simon shook his head. ‘I have my doubts. I fear support in Scotland may be lacking. Some clan chieftains will rally to the call. Others who are loyal to the British government will not. There are many who consider it a better place since the Stuarts left. It has become a proud nation—united with England. The people have grown richer, more powerful and more respected throughout the world. They fear the return of the Stuarts will bring fresh misery and have no stomach for war. What of you, Jack? Are you afraid to continue? Does he have your support?’
‘Certainly. We’ve come too far to retreat. I will inform our men here in London of events. To bring about the change there is nothing that I would not do on behalf of Charles Stuart. If he succeeds, I will know I played my part. Few men will be able to claim as much. What do you think, Simon?’
‘I agree, but it would be better if King George could be removed by diplomatic coercion.’
‘That won’t happen. The part you play in this drama is great and heroic. You are to be just one of our liaisons in the north. We could not have chosen a man who knows that part of the world better.’
‘True, I know it well enough. But if the rebellion is to succeed, there are grave times ahead. Those who support Prince Charles will be branded as rebels and as traitors to the English Crown.’
‘It will be nothing to what our fellow Catholics have already endured. If they have been safe for a time, it is only because they—we—have learned to be silent. You, Simon, rebel in the name of the Stuarts, I in the name of the Catholic martyrs. We have suffered for over two hundred years. This will be just one more test of our resolve—I pray it will be the last.’
‘I agree, but I cannot imagine that Prince Charles’s arrival after so many years of darkness and despair for the Jacobites is about to allow the sun to break through the clouds.’
Realising her curiosity had unwittingly placed her in danger, Henrietta followed this exchange with amazed disbelief. Beyond a doubt, everything that had happened to her in the past few hours had the incoherence of a bad dream. She was shaken, for in this day of Jacobites, of plots and counterplots, imprisonment and treason, it would seem she had stumbled across a nest of Jacobite conspirators. Somewhere in the dark chambers of her mind a memory stirred—not a pleasant memory—and her father’s tortured face flickered for a moment in her mind’s eye, which she quickly shoved away. A cold shiver travelled down her spine.
As a Catholic, she had followed the Jacobite cause with reluctant interest. James Stuart’s court, the exiled king of Scotland—or the Pretender to the throne, depending on one’s loyalties—was in Rome. He had mounted an abortive attempt to regain his throne in 1715 and had failed through lack of support. Since then he had worked ceaselessly at trying to gain support from fellow monarchs, reiterating his son Charles’s legitimacy to the throne of Scotland and England.
What she had just overheard suggested that Charles Edward Stuart had come to claim his father’s throne, prepared to resort to armed rebellion to restore the Stuart monarchy. As she adjusted her position her cloak brushed against the wall, dislodging a loose stone, which fell at her feet with a soft thud. It alerted the men and they fell silent. She stood stock-still, her heart drumming in her chest, and cold sweat trickled along the side of her face and down her spine. She knew that her breathing must be deafening—she was certain that she could be seen and heard in spite of the darkness.
A long moment passed. Hearing the men exhaling ragged oaths, she also heard footsteps coming closer. She shuddered and swayed slightly to keep her balance. She was sure that they would find her. She had to get away. Cautiously she began to retreat backwards. A man stepped round the corner of the building—a formidable silhouette bent on bloody murder. He stood motionless, staring at her. The moon chose that moment to slip from behind a cloud, haloing his tall, powerfully muscled form with its brilliance. His hat was slung low over his face, shadowing his features, but she thought she saw his eyes, and ironic ones they were. His gauntlets were made of fine leather, with gold thread trimming the edges. While she wore one of her old cloaks, this man wore a cloak of fine black cloth interfaced in gold. He said not a word as their eyes clashed across the distance.
Like the prey entranced by the predator, Henrietta was momentarily transfixed. She remembered then of the harm he might do to her. He did not speak, but the second he moved towards her, she whirled around and fled in the direction of her horse. She raced with all the stealth at her command, but when her foot caught in a hole she nearly tumbled headlong. Recovering her balance, she rushed on. She could sense the man coming after her, feel him gaining on her, and then he reached for her, but in the blink of an eye, she ducked under his arm and fled.
‘Oh, no, you don’t,’ he growled. Pivoting round, he reached out and grabbed her, wrenching her arm up her back. ‘I wouldn’t struggle, if I were you, boy. Stay put,’ he coolly
