Page 24 of The Scot Who Loved Me (A Scots Through Time #3)

Chapter

Seventeen

C louds scudded across the sky, brushing the tops of Glenfinnan’s craggy peaks.

The men trudged forward in uneven lines, their boots squelching in the muck.

William’s calves burned with each step, but the ache seemed distant compared to the electric anticipation humming through the ranks.

Around him, clansmen marched in clusters of plaid and leather, their faces weathered and grim beneath blue bonnets.

The muffled thump of drums and the plaintive wail of bagpipes floated through the misty air, mingling with the earthy scents of bracken, sweat, and gunpowder oil.

The journey to Glenfinnan had been swift after they’d received word that the prince had been rowed the length of Loch Shiel to reach the meeting place.

William had heard that the ladies of Dalilea had sewn the Standard themselves, a large banner of red silk with a white square in the middle, and the thought of it unfurling in the Highland breeze quickened his pulse.

“They say the prince will be there,” Callum murmured, falling into step beside William, their loaned horses given to men of more important rank. His dark curls were plastered to his forehead by the drizzle. “And Cameron of Lochiel has finally pledged his support.”

William nodded, scanning the column of men.

The sight stirred pride in his chest. MacDonalds, Camerons, MacGregors, and more, their tartans a patchwork of defiance against English rule.

Yet anxiety gnawed at him too. Their force remained too small, and the cracks between clans ran deep as the lochs.

As they crested another rise, Harper fell into step beside him. “These valleys,” she gestured to the glen ahead. “Were carved by glaciers a very long time ago. The rock beneath us has seen more history than all of humanity.”

William studied her face, animated despite her exhaustion. “You see the land differently than we do. For us, it’s shelter, pasture, boundaries. For you...”

“It’s a story,” she finished, a rare smile lighting her features. “Every stone, every ridge tells me how it formed, what came before.” Her fingers brushed a granite outcropping as they passed. “Some of these rocks are over three billion years old.”

Angus, overhearing, crossed himself. “Three billion? That canna be right. The world’s not but six thousand years old, according to the Kirk.”

Harper’s expression flickered. “That’s... one way of looking at it.”

When they arrived at Glenfinnan around midday, William was surprised to find only a small gathering of about two hundred men with the prince.

Charles Edward Stuart stood among them, his expression a mixture of determination and poorly concealed anxiety.

Despite his fine clothes and regal bearing, he seemed vulnerable in that moment, waiting for the promised support that had not yet materialized.

“Something’s wrong,” Callum muttered. “Where are the rest of the clans?”

As the hours crept toward three o’clock, the prince’s small band grew restless. William could see the doubt flickering across faces, the whispered concerns. Had the Rising failed before it even began?

Then came the sound of bagpipes echoing from behind the high hills, growing louder with each passing moment. A ripple of excitement swept through the gathering.

“Look there!” Angus pointed to the ridge.

The first line of clansmen appeared over the hill, marching down toward Glenfinnan under Cameron of Lochiel’s command, six hundred strong at least. Shortly after came MacDonald of Keppoch with another three hundred and fifty men, followed by one hundred and fifty more Clanranald supporters led by MacDonald of Morar.

William’s pulse quickened. This was it, the moment when whispers would become war.

Two men carried forward a bundle of crimson silk, handing it to the Marquis of Tullibardine, who had sailed with Charles from France, though he’d mostly stayed in his cabin, so William had only spoken a few words to the man.

Though old and visibly frail, the Marquis stood tall as he unfurled the Standard with the help of two others.

The large banner, nearly twice the size of ordinary colors, caught the wind and billowed out, its red silk vivid against the green hills, the white square in its center a stark declaration.

The Marquis’s voice carried across the glen as he read aloud the proclamation from 1743 declaring Charles’s father, James VIII, as rightful King of England, Scotland and Ireland.

Next came a commission naming Charles as prince regent.

Finally, the prince himself stepped forward to speak, his manifesto clear and passionate as he asserted his father’s right to the throne.

A roar erupted across the glen, shaking the very ground beneath their feet. Bonnets sailed through the air like dark birds against the sky.

“For King James!” someone shouted from the crowd.

Steel flashed in the afternoon light as hundreds of swords were drawn and raised in salute, the sunlight dancing off their blades. Men jostled and pushed, straining to move closer to the royal figure at the center of it all.

The prince stepped forward, his red coat vibrant against the muted colors of the Highland landscape. He raised his hand, and a hush fell over the assembly.

“My countrymen,” he called out, his voice carrying clear across the glen, strong and unwavering. “Today we stand for justice! Today we reclaim what is rightfully ours!”

“Aye!” came the thunderous response from hundreds of throats.

“I proclaim my father, James Stuart, the true and rightful King James VIII of Scotland and III of England!” The Prince’s eyes blazed with fervor. “Will you stand with me to see him restored to his throne?”

“To the death!” cried a burly Highlander near the front, thrusting his claymore skyward.

The crowd roared their approval, a sound that echoed off the surrounding hills like the voice of Scotland itself awakening.

William found himself swept up in the moment, drawing his own blade and joining the cheer that echoed from the mountains. The sound vibrated in his chest, stirring ancient loyalties. Yet beneath the exhilaration lurked dread. How many of these proud men would lie cold before the year’s end?

“God save King James,” Angus bellowed beside him, clapping William on the shoulder.

“And damn the German usurper,” came the traditional response from a dozen throats.

The ceremony continued with speeches and oaths of fealty from clan chiefs.

Not all pledged with equal fervor. Some held back, their caution evident in measured words and guarded expressions.

The prince accepted each pledge graciously, though William noted the tightness around his mouth when support came with conditions.

By late afternoon, the formal gathering had dissolved into a sprawling camp.

Fires dotted the glen as the army settled in for the night.

The smell of cooking porridge and roasting meat filled the air, along with snatches of song and bursts of laughter.

For tonight, at least, hope burned brighter than fear.

William made his rounds, checking on men, exchanging words with other clan officers.

The MacGregor contingent was small but fierce, men who had nothing left to lose, many with prices on their heads like his own.

Even now, William carried papers identifying him as William Campbell when traveling.

The irony wasn’t lost on him, an outlaw leading outlaws in service to a would-be king.

But these men looked to him not because of birthright or title, but because he’d proven himself with rifle, blade, and wits when English patrols had cornered them in the high passes last winter.

“Ye canna use that on a wound! It’ll poison the blood!” A grizzled clansman backed away from Harper, who held a cloth soaked in a clear liquid.

“It will clean the cut and prevent festering,” she insisted, her voice steady despite the ring of suspicious faces surrounding her. “I’ve done this before.”

“Witchcraft,” someone muttered. “Unnatural methods.”

The wounded man sat on a log, clutching his bleeding arm, uncertain which fear should win, the strange treatment or the angry crowd.

William pushed through the gathered men. “What happens here?”

Relief flooded Harper’s face. “William. Tell them it’s just alcohol. Spirits to clean the wound.”

The wounded man, a Cameron by his tartan, looked up hopefully. “The woman says she can help, but Duncan thinks she’ll poison me with her foreign ways.”

“I’ve seen her heal before,” William stated firmly, meeting the eyes of the suspicious clansmen. “She comes from Boston, in the Colonies. ’Tis their way to clean a wound, they say a blessing over it, then pour the whisky over the wound.”

“Waste of whisky, if ye ask me,” someone grumbled from the back of the crowd, making others laugh.

The tension broke. The crowd thinned, though suspicious glances still came their way.

Harper knelt beside the wounded man and set to work, making sure to bow her head.

William watched as she cleaned the jagged cut, applied a poultice of herbs, and bound it neatly with clean cloth.

Her hands were steady, her focus absolute.

He remembered those same hands tracing the lines of his maps, curled around a cup by the fire, tentatively touching his face in the darkness.

“There,” she said finally, securing the bandage. “Keep it clean and come find me tomorrow so I can check it.”

The Cameron nodded, flexing his arm gingerly. “My thanks, mistress. It hurts less already.”

As the man left, Harper gathered her supplies, shoulders slumping slightly with exhaustion. “That’s the third one today. Word’s getting around.”

“You’ve a healer’s touch as well as a love for rocks and maps,” William said softly, helping her collect her scattered herbs. “But you must be careful. Some fear what they don’t understand.” He took the small bundle from her. “Come, you need rest and food.”

He led her away from the busy center of camp toward a small fire where Angus and Callum sat sharing a flask.

Though the evening remained mild, the gentle breeze carried a hint of coolness that made the fire’s glow inviting.

Harper settled onto a log, relaxing her shoulders as the day’s tension began to ebb.

Firelight played across her features, illuminating the gold flecks in her hazel eyes and highlighting the auburn strands in her brown hair.

“The healer-witch returns,” Angus said with a wink, passing her the flask. “Heard you’ve been causing a stramash among the Camerons.”

Harper took a swig, wincing at the strength of the whisky. “Apparently.” She waggled her fingers at him. “Better watch out or I’ll turn you into a frog.”

Angus coughed, spitting out the whisky, before laughing. “Good one, lass.” After a another swig, he launched into a story about a MacDonald who’d gotten so drunk celebrating that he’d fallen into the loch.

Later, as the camp settled into sleep, William found her sitting alone by the dying fire, staring into the embers. The surrounding camp had quieted, with only the occasional cough or murmur breaking the night’s silence. Overhead, stars pierced the sky, cold and distant.

“You should rest,” he said, settling beside her. “The road to Edinburgh is long.”

A chill wind swept through the camp, stirring the ashes. The Royal Standard, visible even in the darkness, snapped sharply against its pole, a sound like fate sealing itself.