Charles knelt down on the stone floor by his child. He saw the fair curly hair clinging in tendrils around a rosy face which was squared at the jaws, a little like Meg’s. Nothing else resembled Meg. The dimple in the baby chin would someday be a cleft like his own. And the outspread fingers as they lay on the ragged quilt were long, delicately modeled. Charles gazed at her, feeling all the instinctive poignancy, the yearning love he had felt on the morning of her birth. Jenny stirred and, opening her dark gray eyes, looked up, and smiled. “Gentle-man,” she announced contentedly in a clear little voice. “Bonny gentle-man.”
“I’m your father, Jenny,” said Charles, his voice quivering.
The child smiled again, misted with sleep, then the round eyes grew puzzled. “Faither?” she said tentatively. “I ha’ no faither. Less ye mean gran’faither?”
“ ‘Tis what he means,” said Meg sharply. “Shut your een, bairnie, an’ back to sleep wi’ ye! Ye’re dreaming! For God’s love,” added Meg in a whisper to Charles, “come awa’ now, she mustna tell she saw ye here, or I darena think -- ”
The child shut her eyes obediently. Charles leaned over and gave her a kiss on the forehead. Then he got up. “Meg, I’ve got to talk with you.” They walked to the fire in the big room.
“What about?” snapped Meg, her face hardening. “We’ve naught to say to each other. Ye’ve seen the bairn. Gan back to your ranting Papist rebels!”
“Damn it, Meg!” cried Charles furiously. He paused to master himself, and marshal his arguments. “Listen,” he said on a softer tone. “You love the child, I know that. Will you not believe I love her too?”
“I see no reason fur it.” The brown eyes stared at him like a wary animal’s, watchful, uncertain.
“Do you think it right to keep her here far ever, buried like -- like a pearl in a raven’s nest! Do you think it right for a Radcliffe to go barefoot, sleep on straw, and be reared with rough men who think of nothing but their cattle and sheep and their fanatical creed?”
Meg stared at him, her lips grew thin. “Jenny’s a Snawdon. She’s mine. Ye’ll niver-r get her awa’ fra me!”
“Not now,” said Charles. “I can’t do anything for her, right now, and she’s over young. But when King James is on the throne, and the country’s settled down, then, Meg, don’t you see what I can do for Jenny? She must go to London, be educated, learn her true place as a gentlewoman and a Radcliffe. You couldn’t be so selfish as to keep her mewed up forever in this crumbling hovel in the wilderness!”
“Ha!” cried Meg. “So ye’d turn her into a Papist, as Faither iver said!”
“No,” said Charles, after a moment. “I’d not force her. When she is grown she may decide these matters for herself. I’d place her in a Protestant home, if you like. There are many ladies who’d take her, and rear her gently.” Betty, he thought to his own amazement. Would Betty Lee take her?
“Aye,” Meg said with a harsh laugh, watching him. “For love o’ you, na doubt, many ladies might do much.” Charles stared at her. He had by now had many experiences with jealous women, but so different was Meg from any of them, and so long ago were both his brief infatuation for her and then his pity on the night of their marriage that he could not think of her in this light.
“Is it that you might want to go with Jenny to London?” he said slowly, thinking of all the complications and embarrassments this could mean.
“Nay,” she cried. “Ye’ll niver make a lady o’ me. I tould ye that afore. And the Faws said -- that night at Newcastle--” For the first time she faltered. The hard look left her eyes and she turned away. She had been about to throw in his face what the Faw woman had said to him. “The royal blood in thy veins is accursed, true love can not flow in it, no sweetheart need hope for true love from thee.” But now came memory of the other things the Faw woman had said. That the white rose would wither and turn black, that there was a bloody axe in Charles’s fate. She had forgotten this part during the long years of willful bitterness. Was it possible that those dire words could still move her heart to fear for him whose handsome face was turned towards her with coldness and yet a pleading which had nothing to do with her -- only with Jenny?
Charles did not remember what the Faws had said in Newcastle, and had no curiosity as to why Meg had stopped speaking, but he saw the change in her expression, and he hastened to press his advantage. “Even Rob Wilson, Meg, seems to think as I do about the child, that she should have the life I can give her--”
“Oh, Robbie’s a restless young fule,” she said. “Ambitious. He wants to rise i’ the world, be a great man, but doesna knaw how.” She dismissed Rob and, suddenly turning, cried, “Why’ve ye not had our marriage cut off? There mun be ways, when for ye ‘tis no marriage.”
Charles was silent. He and James had discussed annulment, but it was a difficult process, there had been nobody Charles wanted to marry, and moreover it might make Jenny’s status equivocal.
“It seems that you want the child all to yourself!” he said, scowling. “But you’ll not have her, Meg. When the Rising is finished, I’ll claim my legal rights by force, since you won’t give them.”
“So ‘tis threats now!” she cried. Then she heard a sound and started. “Hark!”
They both listened to Rob’s muffled voice from below. “ ‘Ware! Snawdons!” And they heard the distant bleating of sheep. “They’re coming back,” Meg gasped. “Run or they’ll shoot ye.”
“I wonder that you mind!” said Charles with a curt laugh. He snatched the lantern from the table. “Farewell, my good wife!” He saw her face crumple and become more as it had once been. He leaned over and gave her a violent, angry kiss on the mouth. “That’s for my Jenny,” he said. “Take care of her or you’ll rue it.”
He sprang through the door and down the stone steps. Rob held the horse in readiness. Charles leapt into the saddle and was galloping along the cart track as the figures of the three Snowdons loomed against the hillside far up the burn.
Charles returned safely to Rothbury. Nobody had noticed his absence. He climbed into bed with the Swinburne youths, but it was a time before he slept. He did not think of Meg, except to curse her unreasoning stubbornness. He thought of the little face on the straw pallet, of the trustful look in the gray eyes which had gazed for a moment into his. His arms hungered to cradle the child, to hold her close with a tenderness and sweetness he had felt for no woman.
Two weeks later Charles and the Northumbrian Jacobite army returned to Rothbury, having marched over most of Northumberland, and proclaimed their King in various towns. They had seen no fighting at all, barring a skirmish or two with some frightened farmers who soon took to their heels. But there should have been fighting at Newcastle. Charles was disgusted, though he did not dare say so even to James. Tom Forster had been so confident of taking Newcastle that he had not bothered to plan a campaign at all. He had counted on welcome from the Tories there, he had counted on earlier word given him by Sir Walter Blackett that there would be no resistance. He had counted on most of the powerful keelmen joining the Jacobites. He had been wrong on all counts. His spies were so inefficient -- or untrustworthy -- that he had received no information of the real conditions in Newcastle. Johnson, the Whig mayor, and the formidable William Cotesworth had vastly out-maneuvered the Jacobites. The Whigs had had time -- while Forster
marched from place to place waving banners -- to organize the militia, and to muster trainbands and summon help from Yorkshire.
When the Jacobites’ vanguard finally reached Newcastle, they found the great gates closed, barricaded, cemented with limestone. And the ancient city walls were themselves impregnable except to cannon, which the rebels did not then have. Worse than that, while Forster’s troops milled helplessly on the road, he received word from a secret sympathizer that His Majesty, King George, had already dispatched General Carpenter from London with a large force for the reduction of the Jacobites. To Charles’s fury, Forster immediately retreated twenty miles to Hexham,
without a blow being struck against Newcastle.
Colonel Oxburgh had also advised caution. He thought it best to get more news from Scotland, to send messages safely to Lancashire. Oxburgh was a cautious man. As for James, he had been able to profit from the three days spent so near Dilston. He had seen Ann again, and his son, though their reunion lasted only an hour. The Government at Newcastle, suspecting that he would return to Dilston, had sent more bailiffs and messengers to catch him, and James had been obliged to escape through the tunnel as he had before. Then Forster received an express summoning them all back to Rothbury to meet the Scottish lowland lords.
And here they were in Rothbury again, Charles thought, and nothing much gained but saddle galls, and the proclaiming of their King in a few market towns -- where the Jacobite standard was hastily pulled down as soon as the troops marched on.
Charles had thought longingly of Jenny when he found himself back in Rothbury, but there was no opportunity for stealing across the Coquet this time, even had such an endeavor not been obviously rash and useless. Charles, as co-officer of his brother’s troop, was required at the war council in the Three Half Moons.
The little inn was so jammed with lords and officers that most of them would have to sleep on the floor that night. And the modest assembly room in which they were holding their conference was so crowded that Charles, the young Wogan brothers, and Thomas Errington stood along the wall. Charles, indeed, as the tallest, was particularly cramped and kept his head bowed to avoid the blackened ceiling beams. He surveyed his seniors with an eager though somewhat disillusioned interest, especially the newly arrived Scottish lords, two of whom he had already met years ago at Widdring-ton. George Seton, the Earl of Winton, and William Gordon, Viscount Kenmure. The latter was a plump elderly man with a pleasant, rosy face under his white cockaded bonnet. He had the dignity Tom Forster lacked, but there was no sign here, either, of the fierce determination and leadership Charles had hoped to see in the Scottish general of their forces. Yet Kenmure had been commissioned by the Earl of Mar, who was currently engaged in Scotland’s far north, and -- one hoped -- successfully routing the Duke of Argyle’s Whig army.
The two generals, Kenmure and Forster, sat side by side at the head of an ale-stained table. James sat on Forster’s right; Lord Widdrington scowling beside him. Lord Widdrington and his brothers had joined the Rising at Warkworth, and since that day Widdrington had not ceased complaining of his gout or his stomach, for which he was at the moment gloomily drinking mutton broth. Ranged on the other side by Kenmure sat the Scots: the Earls of Winton, of Nithsdale, and of Carnwath. Nithsdale was a skinny dark man of forty, a hairy man with stubbly chin and bushy black eyebrows. A humorless man, yet perhaps more passionately dedicated to the Cause than any of the Scots, for he was a Roman Catholic, and had known King James at St. Germain. He did not look like an earl to Charles, who was used to his brother’s fastidious and polished dignity. In fact none of the Scottish lords looked like aristocrats. They wore no wigs, their plaids and bonnets were dirty, their hair was unkempt and doubtless lousy; with uncouth slobbering noises they drank the raw whisky, which was all the inn could provide.
Carnwath was small, as small as James, but clumsily made; he had carroty hair and freckles, and a high voice which belied the virility that had made him marry four wives. He was Kenmure’s brother-in-law, and agreed to everything the older man said with a rather facile alacrity. “Aye, m’lord, as ye say, m’lord, verra true.”
Kenmure was not saying much, Charles soon discovered. Nobody knew whether the King was ready to sail from France yet; nor had they recent news from Mar’s army at Perth, but it was assumed that he was preparing to do battle with the Duke of Argyle. In the meantime, it would be wise to march across the border to Kelso. There they would join the Highlanders whom Brigadier General Mackintosh had been able to round up.
“I’ve no use for Highlanders,” said Forster, suddenly coming out of an abstraction. “Cannibals, I hear they are. Bloodthirsty cannibals. And what d’ye want to go to Scotland for, Kenmure? ‘Tis in England we belong -- marching south to victory. Marching to London.”
Lord Kenmure, who was beginning to be dismayed by this co-general of his, started to explain courteously that they would gather many more recruits in Scotland, that Mackintosh’s battalion was to meet them there, that the Earl of Mar, who was their commander-in-chief, had advised this course, when Lord Winton cut in with his peculiarly ironic voice, addressing Forster, “If ye don’t like Scotland, sir -- what about capturing Newcastle this time? It does seem a pity to’ve left it unscathed.”
Tom flushed, staring at Winton’s alert, otterlike face. “I have told ye all,” he said resentfully, “why we were disappointed at Newcastle. ‘Tis a small matter. In Lancashire there’s twenty thousand who’ll rise to join us.”
“Indeed,” said Winton. “Brave news. But I agree wi’ Kenmure, ‘tis better to be sure o’ Scotland before we head south. I’ve noticed,” he cocked his head and grinned impishly, “in my blacksmithing days abroad, that not only ‘tis better to strike while the iron’s hot, which it is in Scotland, but that ‘tis better to finish shoeing one nag afore ye start on the next one!”
“Pish!” said Tom, burying his head in his mug. He didn’t like the Scots, no true Northumbrians did, and he didn’t wish to go to Scotland. He shook his head stubbornly, and said “Pish” again.
James, next to him, felt the sinking of the heart which had often bedeviled him during these weeks of marching. He resolutely ignored the feeling. “We can hardly divide our scanty force, Tom,” he whispered in Forster’s ear, “and Kenmure has instructions from Mar.”
As Forster did not answer, James smiled at the company, and said, “I take it we’re agreed? We start for Kelso tomorrow?”
“Aye,” cried all the Scots firmly. Lord Widdrington said nothing. His belly rumbled and he belched feebly.
“I propose an English toast,” said James, trying to lighten the atmosphere at the council table. “One you Scottish gentlemen may not have heard, though we’ve used it much and publicly this last year.” He raised his mug of small beer--he hated whisky -- arose, and said,
“God bless the king, I mean the faith’s defender
God bless -- no harm in blessing--the Pretender
But who Pretender is, or who is king --
God bless us all -- that’s quite another thing.”
“Very neat,” observed the Earl of Winton as they clinked mugs and drank.
“Soon by God’s mercy,” said Nithsdale earnestly, “there’ll be no need for double meanings. When the Stuart’s back again. A day sae joyful for us, I tremble to think of it!”
“Aye,” said Tom Forster rousing himself and brightening. A peerage for me, he thought. “Lord Bamburgh” would sound well. It was humiliating to sit at a conference like this and be the only commoner. A peerage and a place at Court presented by his grateful king.
“Shing!” He thumped his fist on the table. “Everybody shing!”
“When October ale’s a-pouring
And lashes -- lasses -- go a-whoring
Then each man s’all merry merry be
Then we’ll all so merry merry be . ..”
The lords were used to drunkenness and bawdy songs, but nobody was in the mood for joining in except Carnwath. James and Lord Kenmure exchanged a look of worried perplexity. The older man rose and, murmuring something about wanting his bed, walked heavily out of the room. The others got up too. Lord Winton shrugged his narrow shoulders and remarked affably, “I take it this exhilarating conference is over? I’m going to see what my men’re doing. Never trust a Scot in England, or a Sassanach in Scotland is another bit o’ advice I picked up on m’lowly travels.”
Charles followed the Earl downstairs and paused at the taproom door, wondering if it would be possible after all to get a glimpse of Jenny. But there was a freezing drizzle outside, the Snowdon men would certainly be home, and it would hardly be to Jenny’s advantage if
they shot her father. Damn the Snowdons, he thought, and slumping dejectedly on a stool decided to have a drink. Charles watched the barmaid idly for a while, a stout red-cheeked lass with big round breasts straining at her laced bodice. She might make good bed-sport, he thought, with the first flickering of desire he had felt since they were in Morpeth, where he had found an accommodating Jacobite lady to pass the night with. But his taste had never really run to barmaids, and he decided to leave this one alone. Let Peregrine Widdrington have her, Charles thought, eying that young man’s amorous overtures indulgently.
Suddenly Charles’s absent glance was caught by a new figure standing uncertainly near the door of the murky, swarming taproom. A lad it was, with a mass of rain-soaked black hair and a leather jacket. He peered this way and that into the careless faces of the carousing officers. Charles got up and pushed his way through to the door. “Rob Wilson!” he said. “What’re you doing here?
There’s naught wrong with Jenny?” he added, a sudden tightness in his throat.
Rob shook his head. “The bairn’s weel. ‘Twas Meg sent me.”
“Meg!” repeated Charles astounded. “Sent you to me?”
“Aye, wi’ a message.”
Charles frowned at the noisy taproom. He saw Ned Swinburne weaving towards him obviously wishful to join him. “Come upstairs,” he said to Rob. “I can’t hear in this din.”
They went up to the Assembly Room. The lords had disappeared, but several men lay wrapped in cloaks snoring on the floor. Charles and Rob picked their way over the men and stood by the dying fire. “Now what is it?” said Charles fingering his pistol and wondering if this might be some scurvy Snowdon trick. Had they sent Rob as a spy? Yet what was there to spy on! The whole of Coquetdale knew that six hundred Jacobites were camped at Rothbury tonight.