The Little Pretender

2-1

2A church clock struck six as Iona got out of bed and pulled the curtains. The window of the hotel bedroom looked out over the grey roofs of houses hardly distinguishable from the sky.

There was something drear and sombre about the scene and Iona shivered before she turned hastily to the room and began to dress. It had been after sunset the night before when the little French shipping packet La Petite Fleur had nosed its way slowly up the Moray Firth and into the harbour of Inverness.

Iona had stood on deck since the first moment when she was told that the coast of Scotland was in sight. She had felt excited beyond expression at the thought of seeing the land, which, since her earliest memories, had been a part of her heritage. And then when she beheld the mountains rising peak upon peak against the crimson splendour of a setting sun, she had felt such a soul-stirring elation sweep over her that she could only stand trembling with the sheer intensity of her feelings, her face reflecting some of the glory which shone in the sky.

The spray of the waves breaking against the bow of the ship glistened in her hair and on her cheeks, but she felt neither the damp nor the sharpness of the wind, and was so enthralled that she was unaware that Hector MacGregor, coming in search of her, watched her for some moments before he spoke.

“Is it what you expected?” he asked at last softly.

She turned to him with an effort as if he dragged her spirit back into the confines of her body.

“Scotland at last!” she said softly. “My land, your land – and his land!”

She spoke the last two words softly and it was a physical pain to think of their Prince exiled among foreigners, eating his heart out with yearning for the mountains and the heather.

“Four years since I was here last,” Hector said gruffly, “and God knows it’s lovelier than ever.”

There was so much pain in his voice that Iona threw him a quick glance of sympathy. She knew his story only too well, how his father and his two brothers had been killed at Culloden and a price put on his own head.

After months of privation and incredible hardships he had managed to escape and join the Prince in France, but of all the exiles in the Royal entourage Hector MacGregor was the most restless, the most untiring in his plans and plotting for a triumphant return.

Lean and wiry, his big bones and sandy head making it impossible for him to disguise his nationality, Hector was only twenty-seven though he had acquired in those years experience enough to last the average man a lifetime. He had a natural severity of expression which was transformed by his smile, and which changed him from a taciturn Scot into a charming young man. A man, moreover with an irrepressible spirit and an unquenchable optimism. In a tight comer, in an odds-against fight in all times of danger, Hector was an invaluable companion and a partner without compare.

It was the Prince who had insisted that someone should escort Iona from France to Scotland. She had been willing to make the journey alone, but His Royal Highness had been adamant on the point that someone must accompany her until she was safely on the Scottish shore.

His chivalry had touched Iona, but she had lived in France long enough to know the dangers which would beset any young and pretty girl setting forth alone on a French packet which did not ordinarily carry passengers. Although she was prepared to brave whatever the dangers might be, it was with a sense of relief that she heard that Hector MacGregor had offered himself as her escort.

It was dangerous for him, she knew full well, to go to Scotland and should he be recognised, there would be only one ending for the journey – the executioner’s axe. But when she spoke to him of her fears, he laughed.

“I have taken graver risks,” he said, “and what’s more, it would be almost worth dying to see Scotland again, to smell the wind blowing across the moors and to hear people talking in a civilised tongue.”

Iona laughed.

It had not taken her long in their acquaintance for her to realise with what bitter contempt Hector, like many other of his countrymen, held the French. Nevertheless her fears for his safety increased as they grew nearer to the Scottish shore and she begged him to be careful.

“I’ll be careful enough,” he answered. “Do not trouble your pretty head about me. I have friends whom I must see and work that I must do for the Prince before I return. Nevertheless, remember that from the moment we leave this ship we know nothing of each other. Speak of me to no one or if by any unfortunate chance you learn that I am in any predicament, deny any knowledge of me. To admit an acquaintance, however slight, would be to draw suspicion on yourself and your enterprise which, as you well know, is of the greatest import.”

Iona had not needed Hector’s confirmation of what she already knew. Colonel Brett had spoken without undue emphasis of the task before her, but in the days that followed, when she had seen much of the Colonel and the gentlemen surrounding the Prince, she had begun to learn just how much value they put on the information she might obtain for them regarding the Duke of Arkrae.

Expressions of loyalty reached the Prince continually from the Clans who had supported him four years earlier in his ill-fated march South. Many any of them were ghosts of their former selves, their leaders beheaded, and those of their clansmen that lived after the terrible m******e at Culloden were hunted relentlessly and continuously by the victorious English troops.

The Duke of Cumberland had countenanced the most bestial cruelty. Wounded Highlanders had been dragged from their hiding places and tortured or clubbed to death, their crofts had been burned to the ground and their women and children left to starve. In some cases a Clan had to all intents and purposes been wiped out, in others the survivors, scattered and impoverished, lived pitiable lives under the tyranny of the English Governors who watched their every movement with suspicion.

The Clan MacCraggan, strong and wealthy, with its lands untouched and its Clansmen intimidated could, the Prince’s advisers thought, be strong enough, should they prove loyal, to carry His Royal Highness to victory.

Iona had tried to imagine what the Duke of Arkrae would be like, but failed because no one could give her any clear details of him. The men who had been exiled after the Rising in ’15 as her guardian had been, had, of course, never met him, and the younger men who had fled to France after the defeat in ’45 were equally ignorant. Hector MacGregor, whom she had questioned on the journey over, could tell her little more than she knew already.

“His Grace is of consequence,” he said, “firstly because of the strategic position of his land. Secondly, from all I hear he is the rising power in Scottish affairs. So many of our great men are lost to us – Kilmarnock and Balmerinoch executed, Keppoch and Strathallan killed in battle, Lochiel and Elcho in exile. If Arkrae is of the right way of thinking it may be the saving of Scotland.”

“And if he isn’t?”

Hector made a grimace.

“Then let us know the worst,” he said. “’Tis better than hoping against hope.”

He looked at her, shook his head, and she sensed the pity in his eyes.

“They have set you a herculean task, my girl,” he muttered. “I’m not sure that I approve, it’s too risky.”

Iona raised her head proudly and smiled at him.

“I am not afraid,” she said, then hesitated, and added honestly, “Well – not very.”

Hector MacGregor put his hand on her shoulder.

“Of course you’re afraid,” he said. “We are all afraid when we go into battle and that’s what you are about to do, and the Lord knows I hate to see women fighting.”

“But not in a battle of wits,” Iona replied.

“There’s more to it than that,” Hector retorted. “What if you are caught? If they find out who sent you on this journey, it will be prison and perhaps worse.”

“Torture?” Iona asked, her eyes wide.

“Maybe,” Hector answered. “The English would give a great deal to know where the Prince is at this moment. He is, as you know, banished from Paris since King Louis signed the Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle, but most Frenchmen have a sneaking fondness for the Stuart cause and would look the other way if they met him. But the English would make trouble if they could. They’re afraid of another rising and so long as they’re afraid, they will do everything in their power to keep a check on the Prince’s movements.”

“I am thankful I know so little,” Iona said. “His Royal Highness may have left Paris by now and be anywhere in Europe. How am I to know where he is?”

“To be a Jacobite is enough to damn you!” Hector said. “But let us look on the bright side – even if all goes well, you will have to get away before you are proved an imposter. I suppose you have made plans for returning to France?”

Iona nodded.

“Colonel Brett has given me the name and address of someone I can trust in Inverness.”

“Then let’s pray they are trustworthy and will be able to help you. Brett’s all right, but he is always full of schemes and ideas, many of which are impracticable when it comes to putting them into operation. Don’t rely on him too completely when it comes to details, Iona, check up where you can on your own. It’s your neck you’re risking, not his.”

Iona looked startled.

“But of course I trust the Colonel,” she said. “I have known him for many years and he lives only to serve the Prince.”

“Yes, Yes,” Hector said testily. “I’m not questioning his loyalty, I’m just saying that sometimes he is so carried away by his grandiose schemes that the details are often forgotten or ignored. But attention to detail is often the difference between success and failure. Take, for instance, this plot in which he has involved you. The Colonel sees a miniature, decides that you resemble the lady in question and without further inquiry packs you off as a claimant to the title and identity of a child who he has been told was drowned seventeen years ago. Has he made absolutely certain that the girl was drowned? How does he know that the miniature is a picture of the child’s mother? Suppose the Duke carried a portrait of his favourite mistress with him, where do you find yourself then?”

Hector spoke vehemently, but Iona threw back her head and laughed.

“Oh, Hector! Hector!” she said, “What a basket of bogies you are carrying! I swear that your imagination easily exceeds the Colonel’s. Why, the old woman, Jeannie MacLeod, said that the child died in her arms and they buried her at sea. She would not have lied on her deathbed. And the child had red hair! Someone said – I can’t remember who – that it is a characteristic of the MacCraggan’s, so the Colonel’s assumption that I might be accepted as the Duke’s sister is not so wild as you would pretend. After all, the drowned child would be just my age if she had lived.”

“Yes, that’s true enough,” Hector said reflectively. “And the MacCraggan’s are red-headed – but there are many redheaded folk in Scotland.”

“I won’t listen to you,” Iona declared. “You’re trying to frighten me, but what purpose will it serve? The adventure has begun and I must go through with it to the end.”

“I know that,” Hector said, “but be on your guard. Promise me?”

“I promise you,” Iona answered with all sincerity.

She did not really underestimate the dangers that would be waiting for her at Skaig.

Now in the chill of the morning Hector’s words came back to frighten her. Her hands trembled as she dressed herself and she knew it was not only with the cold. She had made inquiries the previous night and they had told her that there was a stage coach leaving at seven o’clock for Fort Augustus, which would bring her within some ten miles of Skaig Castle.

Iona put on her travelling dress of dark green silk and arranged a clean white fichu around her shoulders. She had but few clothes. Colonel Brett had given her a small sum to fit herself out for the journey, but although Iona had expended it with meticulous care, her wardrobe was limited and the trunk in which it was carried was light enough to cause comment along the porters at the hotel.