Midnight Honor

the leather pouch.
    “No,” he repeated on a quiet sigh. “But I will fight for what Scotland means to you.”
    It took a further heartbeat for the words to sink in, but when they did, both Gillies and Jamie gave off a hoot of joy. They roared and stomped their feet, they leaped in circles and clapped hands to each other's shoulders, dancing an impromptu reel to imaginary pipes. The two clansmen half dozing in the corner were drawn into the ruckus, as was Donuil MacKintosh, yet while the shouting and cheering swirled around them, Anne and MacGillivray were still staring at one another across the width of the table, the air seeming to hum between them.
    “'Tis the same thing, is it not?” she asked with a small frown.
    He shook his head. “No' the now. But mayhap by the time we reach a battlefield, it will be.”

Chapter Ten
    Falkirk, January 1746
    O n December 20, Charles Edward Stuart crossed the River Esk and led his army back into Scotland. Men of every rank fell on their knees after they forded the icy waters, giving thanks to their God, their king, and their prince for bringing them safely home.
    With the English no more than a day's march behind them, the prince divided his ragtag troops into two divisions. He led one across the high, mountainous route to Glasgow, while his commanding general, Lord George Murray, led the second and was forced to take the longer, slower route by way of the low roads, for they also hauled munition wagons and what few cannon they had not spiked and left on the other side of the river.
    Fully half the Stuart army was barefoot, their clothes reduced to rags, their bellies sunk against their spines. Still, they were the stuff of legends. Five thousand poorly provisioned, ill-equipped Highlanders had outwitted and outmaneuvered the combined forces of Generals Wade, Ligonier, and Cumberland.
    Conservative estimates put the government forces at close to thirty thousand, converging from three different directionsand heading north into Scotland to avenge the insult to their king and country. Some days the plumes of smoke from the advance campfires of Wade's army could be seen by the retreating vanguard of the prince's troops.
    Two things slowed the progress of the Elector's troops, then halted it altogether. A hellish storm struck just after the Jacobites crossed the river, pelting the English with snow and sleet, raising the level of the already turbulent waters higher than even the most foolhardy commander would dare attempt to ford. Secondly, the Duke of Cumberland received an urgent dispatch from London, warning him of a massive fleet of French ships bound for the northeast coast. Cumberland removed himself from the chase at once and ordered Ligonier to the old fortress city of York, knowing all too well that if the French were ever allowed to gain a toehold on English soil, it could extend the war by months.
    The “urgent message” had in fact come from the pen of a gray-haired old fox who had drifted off to sleep twice while composing it, and the only French ship that landed did so well north of where Cumberland anxiously watched the coastline. While the battered old frigate did carry troops, they amounted to fewer than three hundred who served in the personal guard of Lord John Drummond. Of more pressing value to the Jacobites gathering at Aberdeen were the guns and ammunition in her holds, along with the four chests of gold Drummond had managed, at long last, to prise from the French king's coffers.
    Jamie Farquharson arrived in Aberdeen while the ship was still offloading its cargo. Upon reading the documents he carried and realizing the significance of the Dutch treaty, Lord Drummond immediately removed his blockade runner's garb and declared himself the official representative of King Louis in Scotland. As such, he sent formal notice to the commander of the six thousand Dutch veterans serving under the Duke of Cumberland, advising him to return home at once lest he violate the terms of the new treaty.
    Cumberland was understandably furious as he watched nearly three quarters of his veteran troops march out of camp. Moreover, at the end of a futile three-week vigil, with nary a French sail in sight, he was forced to acknowledge that he hadbeen duped. This time, when the enraged duke turned his eyes and army north to Scotland, he did so with a vow to carry his royal cousin's head to London and leave it spiked on the gates of his father's palace until the flesh rotted and