PROLOGUE
April 30th 1747
Prince Charles Edward Stuart had been sitting in the dining room of his brother’s house for over an hour, and he was starting to become annoyed. The table was sumptuously laid for two, the damask tablecloth spotless, the light from the many expensive beeswax candles reflecting off the silver cutlery and crystal glassware. A cheery fire burned in the hearth. The room contained everything necessary for a perfect royal supper. Except for one of the royals.
Really, it was just too inconsiderate of Henry to keep him waiting like this. If he had known he was going to be delayed, he could have sent a message advising his brother as to why.
The fact that he had not sent a message stopped Charles from growing too angry at this point. Clearly something unexpected had happened to delay him. Perhaps his horse had cast a shoe, or his carriage lost a wheel – there could be any number of explanations for his tardiness.
Charles had quizzed the servants, who told him that that their orders had been to make everything ready for supper at eight. Prince Henry had gone out a few hours previously, but had been expected back in time for supper, which was ready. Perhaps His Highness would like to eat now? Certainly the master would not object if he did, as the food was in danger of spoiling otherwise.
Charles declined, and said that he would wait in the library for his brother’s return, which must certainly be soon. Accordingly a fire was laid, candles lit and a decanter of wine brought, and Charles made himself at home.
Although it was spring the evenings were still chilly, and he was grateful for the warmth of the fire. He stood and perused the bookshelves for a few minutes, looking for a volume that would divert him from his mingled irritation and worry as to the whereabouts of his younger brother; but Henry’s tastes were very different to his. Charles perused the titles: La Beaute de Carmel; Synesii Cyrenaei Episcopi Epistolae; Commentaria in Sex Posteriores Prophetas Minores.
Having no desire to read a dull religious tome or a ponderous volume in Latin or Greek, he threw himself into a chair by the fire and started to make inroads into the wine.
Henry’s taste in books reflected everything that was lacking in him. If, instead of learning the history of prophets no one had ever heard of and the excruciatingly boring lives of Carmelite monks, Henry had spent his time studying military history and tactics and in improving his lacklustre personality, he would perhaps have been useful for once in his life, and would have kept the pressure on the French court while he, Charles, was winning victory after victory as he drew ever closer to London.
If he had, their father would probably now be sitting on the throne in St James’s instead of languishing in Rome, and would have better things to do with his time than to spend it penning long-winded letters admonishing his eldest son to tread more carefully with King Louis, not to do anything contrary to court rules, and above all always to be diplomatic.
Diplomatic! Charles uttered an expletive that no doubt would have turned his pious, sensitive brother Henry white with shock. He had spent three years tiptoeing round the wily French king, flattering him, toadying to him, although it had galled him to do so. And where had it got him? Nowhere! For that matter, where had thirty years of his father’s diplomacy got the Stuart cause? Nowhere!
And yet he, Charles, recognising that the Stuarts would all die of old age if they waited for Louis to help them, had taken action; and that action had almost succeeded in wresting the crown from that German upstart George.
If instead of kneeling in damp musty churches praying for victory morning, noon and night, Henry had persuaded Richelieu to launch the French fleet he had been preparing in December of ‘45, Lord George Murray and the rest of the council could not have insisted they turn back at Derby, and he would be in London now, the Prince of Wales, heir to the throne of Great Britain and darling of his people, instead of in a poky house in Paris waiting for his useless brother.
As for his loyal followers, the clansmen…oh God, no. He could not think of what they were enduring now, or he would go mad. He drained his glass and refilled it, staring gloomily into the flames.
Henry had wanted to go to Spain to try and gain support for an invasion of England, but Charles could not have allowed that. True, his own mission, conducted in the greatest secrecy in February, had not gone according to plan, but even so he had made a good impression, he knew that. Lochiel, knowing nothing of Charles’ true intentions, thinking he was only going as far as Avignon and that only to spite Louis, had begged him not to anger the French king, and instead to accept Louis’ offer of a small expedition to Scotland.
That was understandable; Lochiel was desperate to return to his beleaguered Camerons and take revenge on Cumberland. He, along with most of the other Scottish Jacobites, thought that if Charles could take the Scottish throne for his father, they could break the hated Union and have two separate kingdoms, as they had before Queen Elizabeth had died childless in 1603.
Charles knew he could not go back to Scotland. He told everyone, including himself, that George and his vicious son would never accept the Stuarts ruling in Scotland alone; the only way forward was to topple George from his throne and drive the Hanoverians out of Britain altogether, as they had driven his grandfather out nearly sixty years ago. There was truth in that, but there was also…no. He could not think of that now.
He pulled his gaze away from the fire and looked at the clock. Ten. Two hours overdue. Surely even if Henry’s carriage had lost a wheel he could have sent a servant back at the gallop to advise the household? A growing anger mingled with his worry. Even so, Charles decided to wait a little longer. Perhaps even now Henry was waiting for the wheel to be replaced, the horse to be shod.
The mission to Spain. Yes, that had not gone as well as he had hoped. The king and queen of Spain had wished him well, had uttered a lot of fatuous compliments and assurances of friendship, and then had effectively told him to leave. Nevertheless, although he had not received the regiments and military assistance to invade England that he had hoped for, the Spanish chief minister Carjaval had at least agreed to send arms and three shiploads of much-needed food to the starving Highlanders. That had not been done yet, but Charles consoled himself with the fact that he had still achieved more than his pathetic brother would have done.
Why James kept singing Henry’s praises whilst criticising him, Charles had no idea. From the moment he could understand language, his father had drummed into him that he was the hope for the Stuart cause: the restoration of the Stuarts to the throne of Great Britain rested on his shoulders.
When he was five his father had commissioned a full-length portrait of him to be painted, with his hand pointing to a plume of Prince of Wales feathers. A naturally active child, Charles had hated having to stand still for hours. He could still remember the uncomfortable scratchy court costume, the continuous requests for him to stay still. It had been hell, but even at that age he had understood the significance of the plume of feathers he was pointing at, and of the painting, which had been engraved so it could be distributed to his followers; he was the hope of the House of Stuart, it was his destiny and his alone to put his father back in his rightful place.
He owed it not only to his father, but to all his loyal followers, especially the Highlanders, who over the last fifty years had risen time and time again in support of the Stuarts, first for his grandfather, then his father, and, almost two years ago now, for him, the Prince Regent. It was a sign of their steadfastness and their desperation to see the Hanoverians overthrown, that even after thirty years of Hanoverian rule thousands of them had still been willing to risk everything to help him restore the rightful monarch to the throne, one who truly cared about his people and would rule wisely and well, instead of disappearing to Hanover every five minutes and bleeding Britain dry to safeguard his petty German electorate as the current usurper was doing.
Charles had spent his whole life to date training for, and striving to achieve that. No one could accuse him of complacency, or of doing anything other than his utmost to fulfil that destiny. In spite of the lack of gratitude from his father, and the lack of assistance from his brother, he would continue to fight with every means at his disposal to achieve the restoration of his family. What else was there for him to do? He knew nothing else.
For a moment, just one fleeting moment, a vision of a dark and hopeless future opened in front of him. He closed his eyes tightly, then the rage and despair rose in him and he gave a strangled cry, before throwing his glass to the back of the fire.
The sound of it shattering into a million tiny crystal fragments brought a servant, unbidden.
“Your Highness.” He bowed deeply. “Can I be of any assistance?”
Charles looked at the clock. Nearly midnight. Had he really been sitting here for over two hours, brooding and staring into nothingness? He yawned, suddenly utterly weary.
“Is there any news of my brother?” he asked the hovering footman.
“No, Your Highness, not yet. Would you care for more wine?”
Charles looked at the empty bottle with some surprise. He didn’t remember drinking all that. For a moment he was tempted to call for brandy, drink himself into blissful oblivion at his brother’s expense.
“No, thank you,” he said, forcing a smile. “I will go home.”
“I will arrange for a carriage, Your Highness,” the footman offered.
“God, no.” Charles laughed. It was ridiculous getting in a carriage to travel to his house, which was next door to his brother’s. To hell with protocol. “I will walk,” he announced. “The fresh air will revive me. Please notify me the moment you hear from my brother.”
The footman agreed and bowed again, before showing the young prince out.
Once outside, Charles stretched his arms, then set off for home at a brisk walk. As he had hoped, the fresh air and activity did help him to ward off the cloud of despair that had threatened to overwhelm him in Henry’s tedious library.
It was not over yet. He still had an ace up his sleeve. He would marry. He had hoped to marry a daughter of King Louis, but he realised that if he pushed for that the wily old bastard would probably prevaricate until all his daughters were past childbearing age. And even if he were to achieve a marriage with France, there was no guarantee that Louis would finance an invasion of England even then.
No, perhaps it would be better to look further afield for a suitable bride. Russia, maybe. He could offer for the hand of the Czarina Elizabeth. She was much older than he was, but still of childbearing age, and was no doubt desperate to marry someone who could give her an heir. He could certainly do that! In lieu of a dowry, he would ask for twenty thousand Russian troops, and would use them to invade England and send the Hanoverians packing back to Germany where they belonged.
The crisp night air had done its job now, and he was fully awake. He would sit down this very night and pen a letter to his father outlining his idea. Surely James would find no obstacles to put forward to this? It was an excellent plan! Then he could finally free himself from the grand procrastinator Louis, and at the same time free his beloved, loyal Highlanders from the terrible fate they were now enduring for his sake.
He would make it right. He had to make it right. It was not only his destiny, but his duty to do so.