‘Lack of food fevers her disabled mind, sire.’

  ‘Oh, come, come,’ shouted Ned. Smoke rioted out of the forced doorway to the blackhouse, and the young man waved his arms before his face then cautiously ducked into the woman’s quarters.

  ‘It knows how to set a peat fire, sure,’ O’Sullivan said, nodding.

  ‘We could make use of fire for an hour.’

  ‘It is all with such hazard, sire,’ O’Sullivan replied. ‘One of us must keep watch if so, then swiftly onward. Never tarry, never tarry, we need to make for the boat.’

  The Prince turned to him. ‘What if troopers and an English officer come and learn she harboured us? Would they sack her?’

  The crash of an overturned pot came from within the blackhouse.

  ‘I fear they would think the work already done, sire.’

  ‘Would they make sore sport of a crone like this, Captain O’Sullivan? Those men?’

  Ned walked backwards out from the fuming doorway, as if conjured onto a magician’s stage, followed by a vertical body of signal smoke which peeled from him upward and evaporated. He wiped his eyes, lifted the door closed again.

  ‘What, no plump goose hung and plucked?’ the Father asked.

  ‘Troopers will make sport of anything, sire,’ O’Sullivan said.

  The Prince chortled. ‘No, no. It is unthinkable; we cannot fight such an enemy as would consider it.’ He stared at the crouched woman, her breathing so distressed.

  O’Sullivan said, ‘They would tumble her shoulders into an open barrel on its side, sire, so as not to see the grannie face, toss buckets of water on the rump end to freshen and pintelise her regularly, making use of both vents there – it’s the way of war for scummish troops.’

  ‘O’Sullivan!’ the Prince protested, then laughed. ‘We would as well take our waving doozies onto a formed and smoking dung heap, poke a hole and have pleasure with that.’

  ‘That’s the English for you, Highness.’

  The Prince frowned. ‘Attention, ne parle pas comme ça devant le garçon.’ He nodded at Ned, then looked all around, growing restless already.

  ‘Nothing,’ Ned reported. ‘Though the darkness is so thick you need to live a week there to permit vision. When I say nothing, nothing is meant, save the fire, used seashells, damp peat clods. And a pot.’

  Father Allan shrugged. ‘Donald has a big pot he brought from Morar in the boat, wise man.’

  ‘Aye, I bailed sea water long enough with the damn thing, and there’s been nought to place in it since. Maybe the redcoats have already been here? Ask her.’ Ned slapped at the cobwebbed arms of his overcoat.

  ‘Tell me more of the mermaids of the sea,’ the Prince suddenly demanded, a straight prurience in his voice, turning on the woman. ‘Were they handsome in form, and clothed or unclothed?’

  ‘Sire, little time to talk of spooks with a witch.’

  ‘Spooks, sir? Come. What is she to ourselves but a spook? This world has made her so – an imp who lives the nights here for year on year. Imagine, sir. Imagine, we all of us would move among ghosts tethered to this place for long.’

  The other men listened obediently then allotted it a place in their considerations of life and this man.

  The Prince kneeled fully with a meditative thumb under his chin. ‘Madam, let it be known we did you no harm and, moreover, I promise you this. It is fact that soon I will return with a full French army to join with the still-hardy ranks of my army here, and I shall carry gold enough for all; I will find you and ensure you live with the comfort that should be afforded a Christian in your native place. Remember me this. Mark this place. Tell her, Father, tell her true.’ He flicked his hand at her, but he simultaneously rose, turned his back on them all and strode ahead towards the coastline.

  The Father coughed and stepped in closer to the crone then declaimed words the Prince would never know.

  These men, death’s border guards, vain popinjays with their occasional bright colours, prancing around her, now proceeded north towards the shore, and the old woman watched them recede from her domain and precincts. Her tunnelled eye sockets followed in the familiar hold of a cat or a seabird, while she caressed the coin in her gnomish claws, staring out from where she would do most of her knowing of this world until, soon, her quitting of it. An end without conclusion or human witness, where something called nature, or God, tried to reckon the justice of it all.

  Later that night, after their tense crossing to the shoal waters of the next island, Ned had him alone and said, ‘Captain O’Sullivan, sir. His Royal Highness told me today of your brave deed on the field with the single dragoon.’

  ‘What deed is this?’

  ‘I am unknown of where it was committed. By the place called Carlisle, did he say? When on foot you poked the fine dragoon’s leg with your sword end. He rode off nursing the blow as you all mocked him.’

  O‘Sullivan frowned, looked over towards the Prince, who was waving his arms, dancing and jesting with the others, and lowered his voice. ‘His Highness is mistaken, Ned. That was Fitzwilliam’s move. Tops Fitzwilliam, from Gallowmore. Not I. Strange he should attribute it to me.’

  ‘Oh. Excuse me.’

  ‘He has endless wars in his head, boy. Don’t trouble him with your need for a fount of tales. We are in a fine enough tale today for all your children to be told – if you live to have children and tell it. I have a French commission, lad – you not – so don’t end on a tight rope in London, if they bother to carry you so far.’

  Chapter 3

  Clanranald ducked as he entered the ruin. John O’Sullivan was holding aside a rough jute curtain that shiny globules of tossed-up muck clung to, like the shells of black beetles. The Prince, stood already, smiled. Clanranald had a memorable way of moving daintily, as if dancing – as if life was a game. He came across the rough earthen floor of the hut in just such a manner, bowed, swept aside his right arm, a flourish of the bright red bonnet hanging there, and said, ‘My Royal Highness . . . My Royal Highness, Most High Royal Highness . . .’ He clicked his face into a new mode. ‘Bewail. This situation defending Inverness. A hard coming for you, sire. I come with Neil MacEachain, a schoolmaster and my children’s tutor. Trusty. A French-speaking boy for you, trained with priests in Douai.’

  The Prince nodded, kissed in greeting, clutching Clanranald’s upper arms with his own two hands, and told the chief – in English – how gladdened he was by his presence, and then asked cautiously after his son.

  Clanranald soon went on: ‘I infer you might consider your presence here a disbenefit. But, sire, everything I can do. Everything.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Heartening, but sit, sir, sit, and we shall talk. There is mutton – cold. I am afraid we killed a scrawny cow and remain unsure who we pay.’

  ‘You need provide me with nothing but your safe presence, sire. I offer you fresh biscuit from my kitchens.’ He fired out his right arm again, and in it, wrapped in thin cloth, were forms of biscuit.

  ‘Biscuit?’

  ‘Aye. Biscuit, sire. Good butter biscuit.’

  ‘Well, I take it with thanks. Our places today shall be on the cold ground; you can see furnitures are not of privy to this place.’ He looked up at the sky. ‘Nor a roof. We are not at the Holy Rood House, nor Bannockburn House no more. Sadly. And there is a roof on St James’s Palace, where we should be sat at this moment.’

  ‘Ah, come, sire. The way of these islands is to find yourself in conference on the good earth, among noble men who keep your cause – and none that it matters, as God’s will alone sent you to us.’

  They both sat with crossed legs on the ground, Clanranald upon his folded plaid, his fists clenched.

  ‘Aye, sir, all sorts of fates powered me here.’

  ‘I believe it, Your Majesty. Men come and men go, and they pass beneath, but you and your father carry a higher mission, sire; it’s God’s work about us here and we know it.’

  ‘Well, I have never been so supported in my cause by such as you and your men. Your three regiments.’

  Clanranald now looked around at the low stall. ‘Were you to remain here, I would have all my best stuffed chairs taken from my house at Nunton this very eve and oared across directly to you in boats, for your better comfort.’

  ‘Truly, sir, no need. We are off soon, and the rains would spoil such items.’

  ‘I would accompany the chairs, gladly – and the oarsmen at task would endure a comfortable crossing, sat there on my soft chairs, in a strange formality for their heavy work.’

  The Prince laughed, a little unsure if he was meant to, and looked at his knees. ‘My arse has known worse. In the hills there, we were in the open roughlands after we supped with your Lord Lovat and abandoned our horses. We were billeted in more depleted circumstances. On snowy march in England, your men slept in open air, a hardship of the noble endeavour, but I am sorrowed I cannot offer you more.’

  ‘Your Majesty, it is I who bear the sorrow, for the news that’s been brought and still comes at this meddlesome predicament. But we can make providence work here for us.’

  ‘We must. Well, all has gone to pot since Inverness, but I must cross to France to continue the enterprise, secure an army; soon, sir, I shall return the favour to this enemy. It only furthers my stance against Lord Murray and his collaborators that we never should have departed from out of England – we marched into Edinburgh, and I hold my ground that with one big battle we should have marched all into London town and lifted the crown from the ground where it would be resting, thrown aside in alarm.’

  Clanranald bowed his head in answer to all this fine conjecture. ‘Aye, Highness. To France for now it is, and this great price on your head confounds the hearts of rascally men. You must impress thought on trusting those around you. I turn all my powers to Your Majesty’s predicaments, sire, for here, boats are power, and you will have learned the hostile Navy seeking you is to St Kilda. Sent and sailed.’

  ‘St Kilda?’

  ‘A distant isle.’

  ‘And I am its king-to-be also? It is mine?’

  ‘Of course, sire. Days’ sailing and more for them to put ashore, where mad rumour was stoked that Your Royal Highness was in refuge; so the Navy ships is gone – a challenge for them to find St Kilda, conjoined with the sport of landing there when they anchor. It’s a blasted place – an opportune moment to be seized. Sire, I want to present you with a masque and ball of my own invention.’

  ‘A masque and ball, sir?’

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty. Little moves here without my feathers ruffling, and I hear of a two-master brig on Lewis Isle for use. Should we take on Captain O’Sullivan to join the mischief, if it is your will, or we can talk alone?’

  ‘Ah surely, Captain O’Sullivan. O’Sullivan?’

  The Irishman ducked in immediately.

  ‘Come and take a little council with us both, captain, for Clanranald wants to talk of masque and ball.’

  ‘Oh? Speak more, sir, please.’ O’Sullivan chuckled but elected to remain standing; then, feeling disrespectful, he slowly reclined on his haunches with his back against the rough wall. The Prince watched him, perhaps even a little envious of O’Sullivan’s more comfortable-looking position.

  ‘Captain. As His Royal Highness comprehends, at your disposal is a tutored crew of sailing men – there is a two-master you could obtain at price to take you directly to France with your capable boatmen, who I charged the idea with. The urge is on while the Navy dally over to the St Kildas. The Isle of Lewis is your place. Just to the north. Have your boatman MacLeod go to Stornoway – but take care. A beggar in Edinburgh can be a preening lord on this isle and be off to the enemy to undo you. My suggestion is a masque and tale you all join to, in fine performance. Say, sir, with your wisdom you chose a name, any name, and say you are all out of another place, the Orknies, with your ship faltered and in for repair on Tiree or Colonsay Isle. Because you have a differ in ages, use this by saying that you, captain, are in fact the blood father of His Royal Highness; and say you, Your Royal Highness, take a common name, any name, and adhere to this, and you can be the captain’s son by name.’

  The Prince spoke. ‘Ah, a name to be bandied about like upon a theatre stage, but what name? What is to your fancy, Captain O’Sullivan, to be my new father?’

  ‘I have always been a Sullivan and now I could make myself a Mac?’

  Clanranald shook his head. ‘No, no, captain. I would caution against the Highland names. You could trade for a steady Lowland title, Scottish, but denoting nothing in terms of what a name tells of us.’

  O’Sullivan sounded as if in offence. ‘But, sire, your name is everything and enriches us – a blessed thing.’

  ‘It will be of less use if they snatch us through it. In this life, sometimes the tree is invisibled with the sun’s rays placed behind. I can eclipse my royal and true name if all of us escape those marauders.’

  ‘Mr Berrycloth!’ O’Sullivan suddenly shouted out. ‘I once met a Mr Berrycloth.’

  ‘A fine name.’ The Prince laughed. ‘Mr Clodfankle?’ he suggested. ‘I heard the name in a theatre. Though I never met such a man.’

  Clanranald laughed. ‘Plainer fare is needed, I believe.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Robertson is a solid Scots name which should throw no shadows. And what of this: Captain O’Sullivan claims as Mr Robertson; and you, sire, take a demotion in this world as his son, Mr John Robertson the Younger. Your destination will be the Isle of Lewis, saying the boat you sail now was from my brother, MacDonald of Boisdale. I suggest you make aim for the two-master and enable an agreement – but, Your Highness, captain, it is among the higher urgencies that no one has understanding of who is among your party, or alarms will be up. Set the riddle that you wish the brig immediately, but also set the fib that you want to return to your home, the far Orknies . . .’

  ‘I have seen them mapped. Are they my lands too? Am I king-to-be of them also?’

  ‘Well, of course, sire. These are all your islands around you, as sure as we sit on your ground now.’

  ‘Good. Good. Continue.’

  ‘Tell them of how you wish to gather a grand cargo of dry meal in the Orknies, so even in your inconveniences you are canny traders still, ready to turn coin, and this will justify your intent. For you will be required to pay real gold to obtain the brig. And, better, the busy tongues of the island will ignore the matter of your identities and sense gold to be made for themselves on your return. Thus, instead of making meditation on you, they will be off to anticipate these dry goods you return with. Meanwhile, under the dark of the first night of fair weather, ye shall be off under sail – not north, but south, for France.’

  O’Sullivan and the Prince glanced at each other. The latter spoke. ‘It’s a sound reckoning, to my mind.’

  O’Sullivan nodded slowly. ‘We are to be Robertsons, it seems, sire.’

  ‘Aye. But, MacLeod, who will make the purchase of the brig must be cautious.’

  ‘Take sustenance, captain, from this.’ The Prince was already chewing, and he held out yellow biscuit towards O’Sullivan, who rose, crossed and took the dainty. Both men devoured all the biscuit quickly, their mouths moving in silence and with no thought of sharing it with their faithful boatmen outside, any of whom could betray them in a moment for thirty thousand English pounds – an unthinkable jackpot.

  Later, when Clanranald had returned to his chairs on the other side of the island, O’Sullivan took the Prince aside and cautiously told him, ‘This matter of new names, sire . . . I think Saint Clair – or, as they have it more, Sinclair – better than Robertson.’

  ‘Sinclair, you say. But why, sir?’

  ‘I trust Clanranald, of course I trust him, but what weighing of quality is there where a false name is a false name? Just conjecture: if someone is told in advancement somehow to watch for Robertsons who come not as what they are . . .?’

  ‘You distrust Clanranald?’

  ‘I distrust near all but you, sire. It is my duty to distrust. Forget Robertson. Let me be Old Sinclair, and you the younger, John Sinclair, and we will make a nice family scene. I have charged the men thus, and Father Macdonald will be a Mr Graham, a Highlander but not a man of the cloth.’

  The Prince nodded. ‘Let us make the voyage tonight.’

  Chapter 4

  In the mind of the Prince, all voyages were slowly to become as one tortuous voyage in his cankerous reckonings. The plan of the two-master for France, like all their plans, unravelled in days – the vessel was refused to MacLeod on suspicion. Again, the Prince and his wandering banditti were cast on to the open country of the isles, like foxes.

  Through the month of May he rested for three weeks in the backlands of South Uist. No longer pale, but tanned in the face, bearded, and smoked as a kipper, in fair weathers he sat out of doors (though his cottage had no door) on a square heap of peat turfs cut by the men, formed into a mocking throne with armrests. Seated like some elfin lord of the forest, he smoked rough tobacco from a broken pipe, the stem repaired to inhale through using the hollowed wing quill of a shot seabird. He was prince of these sublime wastes, shores, bogs and lochans alone – of six dirty shirts and his cottage, which he literally called a ‘palace’. And a prince with no more than this to deliver unto his father. The escaper’s progress was halted.

  Given time for reflection, and gallons of brandy, skittering in and out of depression and elation, he found in his memories the terror of one boat crossing becoming enmeshed with another, and then of more to come. They accumulated so. In a manner, his existence was to be defined by frantic voyages to and fro, hither and thither, and there were to be instances, years and decades hence, in palaces and by fountains, as silver goblets before him fell from the tables onto marble floors, when all of these night crossings and desperate daylight oarings, in their tellings and retellings, recountings and narrations, would become comingled, like sea water in oatmeal, charged with whisky. Lying in soft feathered beds of real palaces – in the Place des Vosges in Paris, or the Palazzo Muti in Rome – he will sometimes awaken with that queasy, gelatinous swell slowly slapping just beneath his back, only to realise he is not supine in a small wooden boat on Scottish waters, but is in fact safe, with the impress of perfumed female company adjacent.

 

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