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Overview
In the page-turning popular genre trail-blazed by Antonia Fraser and Phillippa Gregory, The Pretender's Lady, Alan Gold's meticulously researched novel, opens history's pages on a peerless woman who helped change the course of history and whose legend lives on in Scotland today—Flora MacDonald.
She was the most famous Scotswoman of her day, having single-handedly saved Bonnie Prince Charlie. This is her fictionalized life story—her relations with the Prince, her flight to America, Ben Franklin's influence, and her return to Britain to lobby for peace.
But what's hidden from history, and revealed now for the first time in Gold's dazzling fiction, is the result of Flora and Charlie's love: a beautiful and talented boy raised on an American farm. Only she knows his true heritage and his claim to the world's greatest throne. And only the genius of Ben Franklin understands how to use this naive boy to influence their young country.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781510732827 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Skyhorse |
| Publication date: | 03/20/2018 |
| Edition description: | Reprint |
| Pages: | 376 |
| Sales rank: | 812,818 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.00(w) x 8.80(h) x 1.20(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
THE ISLAND OF ERISKAY IN THE OUTER HEBRIDES OF SCOTLAND
JULY 1745 – EIGHT YEARS LATER
It was all his. By birth. All of it. The Prince of Scotland braced his body against the ebb and flow of the waves as the small rowboat plied a path between the underwater banks of kelp and seaweed. He stared closely at the shoreline of the island, momentarily visible now that the early morning mists were rising to reveal silver-gray rocks, scrub grasses, and desolate hills. The morning winds were not yet sharp enough to sweep the mist with its heavy stench of salt and the reek of rotting sea grasses. He shivered in the chill of the morning air, then glanced into the water and shuddered again at the sight of a glistening field of kelp, a meadow of drowned corpses, dead fingers commanding the tide to wave him on, then back ... forward then retreat ...
As the land drew into sharper focus, huge white-gray boulders of granite formed an impenetrable barrier along the hilltops. Again, he shuddered. His father would have quipped that somebody had just walked upon his grave. The stench of seaborn rot, the drowned kelp, and thoughts of the peril he was in made the young man shudder once more, suddenly overwhelmed by feelings that had been growing in him throughout the journey from France — that his mission was doomed from the beginning, and a rational person would return to the sunny uplands of Umbria and Tuscany and the naked breasts of wholesome girls and the warmth of the Roman air. Here, in Scotland, that same deity who'd encouraged him in his mission had changed his tune. Charlie was suddenly beleaguered by the feeling that the deity was telling him not to land.
Born in the frenetic mania of Rome and an intimate of the cities of Italy and France, any cosmopolitan man would have been disheartened by the look of desolation before him. This was no Tuscan countryside with its hillsides corrugated by precise rows of fertile vineyards, nor was it the sunny uplands of the Loire with its rich and fruitful soils and grandiose castles, its gentle valleys, and charming towns. This was a land devoid of people and animals, a rock abandoned by God and all his angels.
But the Prince of Scotland was no ordinary man, and despite the cold and the disconsolate nature before him, he forced his mood to change so that his companions would perceive nothing of his concerns. A leader's insecurity spread like a contagion and he knew he must avoid any semblance of doubt at all costs. As his boat drew closer and closer to the shore and his first footfall on his realm, he smiled and nodded to those who looked up at him.
The rowboat's keel ploughed the field of water grasses, and he listened to the voice of his new land. The only sound that could be heard was the screaming of gulls and the sea's gentle susurration as its foam grasped at the sand in defiance of the receding water. Pitching forward when the boat dug a furrow into the beach, the Prince of Scotland saved his dignity and himself by grasping onto the outstretched arms of his courtier, Achille della Valle. The prince crossed himself, bowed his head in hope of the Lord's blessing, and jumped into the water, walking the few steps up the beach to stand on a tussock of grassy land.
Charles Edward Louis John Casimir Sylvester Maria had been rudely dubbed Bonnie Prince Charlie when introduced to the Scottish guide who boarded his ship in France, the Doutelle, in order to guide it safely through the narrows and shallows of the Outer Hebrides Islands. Now he stood for the first time in his life on the land that he should, by rights, have inherited at birth. The fetid sea behind him, Charles breathed deeply of the warming air and smelt the freshness of the earth. From the stability of the land, even the spume of the waves and the smell of the salt air were now pleasing. He said another prayer to the Almighty who had allowed him to meet this day.
He stood silent, looking up at the hills that rose above the coastline, and heard his small party unloading the boat and carrying its contents up the shore.
"Gentlemen," he shouted above the shrieks of the seabirds, "there's much time for work, but little enough time to thank the Lord God for delivering safely a Stuart back to his rightful kingdom. Come and pray with me awhile and sing an orison to the Maker of all Things. Raise you voices, gentlemen, and join me in singing Benedictus qui venit in nomine Domini ..."
The eleven men who had accompanied the prince fell to their knees, and the royal priest and chaplain began the chant.
Not two minutes into the song, the party was interrupted by a crude shout from the nearby hillcrest overlooking the beach. In surprise, they raised their bowed heads and saw a huge bearded middle-aged man of fierce mien, wearing the Macdonald tartan, standing with legs spread apart, hands on his hips, looking at them in bemusement.
"And what in the name of God in his heavens do ye think you're doing here on my land? Are ye smugglers? Shipwrecks? What? Speak before I come down there and separate every man jack of you from your manhood ..."
In a pre-arranged subterfuge, Achille della Valle shouted back in broken English, "Sir, we are Irishmen accompanying our priest to bring enlightenment in the name of the Lord to your Island's people."
The Macdonald stood immobile looking down at them from his vantage point on the crest but began shaking his head in disbelief. Then he burst out laughing. "Away and boil your head, you mutton mouthed arse fiend. You're no more Irish than I'm a Chinaman. You'll be Charlie, the young chevalier, here from France. You're the boy who calls himself heir to our throne."
Prince Charles, stunned at the man's audacity, mortified that he'd been so easily discovered, got off his knees and stood tall and proud before the man. "And whom do I have the honor of addressing?" he shouted.
"Alexander Macdonald of Boisdale speaks with you. And where is your army? You were supposed to be bringing ten thousand Frenchies. When will they be landing? I see none of their ships?" The Macdonald took gigantic strides down the dune until he arrived at the beach and stood proud before the landed party.
Charles was about to address the Scotsman when he heard a murmur of discontent from his crew who raised themselves from the sand at the Macdonald's approach. "The army that the king of France promised me has, unfortunately, failed to be raised. There is no army following. The king is afraid of setting his troops upon the sea with the potential of storms and bad weather."
Again, the enormous Scotsman burst into laughter. "You're talking shite, boy! The French haven't sailed with you because they're terrified of the British Army. And you, my bonnie young Italian, would best serve yourself and us if you were to get back onto your tatty wee boat and return to your hame the way you came. Without an army, you'll never get the Scots lairds to agree to rise up against King George. Nobody's going to risk their bollocks for a naïve boy who arrives in a row boat with barely enough soldiers to scratch his arse."
"Sir," said Charles. "I am come home. I shall not be leaving."
The Scotsman looked at the prince, then at the group and sniffed contemptuously. For weeks, it had been rumoured that the invasion was coming. Now that it had arrived, it was even more farcical than any Scotsman would believe.
"No, laddie," he said, "This isn't your home. You were born in Rome, so put away these ideas of ruling Scotland and return to a sunny land where the ladies are welcoming and the wine flows freely. For years, you've been spreading the word about coming here to rule Scotland and England, but that's all it's ever been, boy; just pish from a soft cock and wind from a bellows. By heavens, but you're an arrogant fellow. You arrive and expect us to follow you when we've all heard of your reputation for drinking and womanizing. You're no king, Charlie, and we Scots need none of your sort on our land. Go home, boy, and play at being a prince."
The crew behind him began to rise angrily and Prince Charles heard the sound of swords being withdrawn from scabbards. "Master Macdonald," he said, knowing that he had much to accomplish in these next few words, "this is my home. It was stolen from my grandfather James II and from his son, my beloved father James III. I am here to reclaim this land in the name of the Stuarts in order to place my father as rightful heir onto the throne of both Scotland and of England. If you will join me in throwing off the yoke of oppression and ridding England and Scotland of these damnable Hanoverians who have usurped the throne and the royal succession ordained by God Himself, then we shall succeed faster. But if you refuse to join me then I shall still succeed, but the task will be harder, the journey to London longer, and you will lose out on the spoils of the victor."
The Scotsman looked at the young man long and hard, his face wearing an inscrutable mask, his thoughts indefinable behind his thick glistening beard. The wind suddenly arose and the Scotsman's kilt fluttered against his muscular legs. But it was the corners of his eyes that crinkled fractionally that told Charles that the Scotsman was more bluster than fearsome and his aggression had been nothing more than testing Charles' resolve. Suddenly the Macdonald's mouth beamed a welcoming smile.
"You've got balls, laddie. That I'll say for you. You've come here without the king of France's men yet you're still puffed up like a cock partridge; I have to own that it takes guts to land on these shores and think of raising an army. You may be a bully-rook, but you've a pretty turn of phrase, and I've no doubt but that you'll turn the heads of some lassies as you roam the Highlands. But it'll be a damnable hard job winning over the Lairds of Scotland with words alone. We've no great love for the fat sausage eaters down in London, and God only knows we want rid of them, but its guns and cannon and an army we need to fight them, not your playmates yonder," he said gesturing to the prince's crew.
"But these are strange times, and who knows, Charlie, maybe you can turn the lairds' heads as easily as you seduce the Italian lassies, so you may have a chance. But I'll not join you, Charlie, though no doubt there'll be some who'll happily seize the opportunity. And I'll not stop you getting to the mainland, though God knows if it becomes known that I've assisted you, Chubby George will come looking for my bollocks."
The prince knew that it was as much as he could expect, and in gratitude, he shook the Scotsman's hand. "Thank you, Alexander Macdonald. I'm sorry you won't be joining me, for I'd like to have one such as you by my side when I take to the field against King George. But knowing you won't oppose me is a benefit that I won't reject. Now, my Lord of the Islands, perhaps you could see me to a house where we can rest and eat and prepare for our journey further on to my realm."
Again, the Macdonald burst out laughing. "Your realm! Only by the good grace of the Almighty, all the lairds of Scotland, and your ability to defeat King George II, will this ever become your realm. You've an uphill struggle, laddie, and you're beef witted if you think you'll open up anybody's ears without ten thousand Frenchies behind you."
Then he pointed to the prince's Italian and French supporters who stood and listened in amazement at the way in which the ruffian spoke to their prince.
"And especially when half your crew are dressed like flax wenches going to a fling. Still, it's your problem, just as long as you don't make it mine."
He shrugged his shoulders, laughed, turned, and led the way up the beach to where the small island village was situated.
MR. CASAUBON'S COFFEE HOUSE EDINBURGH, SCOTLAND
A MONTH AFTER THE BONNIE PRINCE'S LANDING, 1745
Despite the condensation that obscured much of her view through the small window panel, she knew him from the pamphlet she had picked up inside the apothecary's shop just the other day. The caricature on the pamphlet showed him as fat and pampered, with what appeared to be a ruddy face and wearing a wig askew as though he were a pisspot incapable of walking a straight line from drinking a glass too much of malmsey. Yet from the words he'd written, she knew him to be the very cleverest of men, and although he dealt in moral philosophy, whatever that was, he would have a better understanding than anybody within her society of how she should greet the news. She had read and re-read the pamphlet he had written, and on the third or fourth time, she finally understood what point he was striving to make.
She had been directed by the apothecary to where he and his friends normally met in the mid-morning, but now that she stood outside the very windows of the very coffee caravan in which he sat drinking with his friends, her courage failed her. How could she just walk up to one of the most brilliant men in Scotland and simply introduce herself?
It was all so easy when she was a young girl, growing up on her island in the Hebrides, running around naked in the cool summer air with her friends, boys and girls, and feeling as if nothing in the world could stand in her way. In those days, she could go up to anybody, speak to anyone, dare to do whatever she wanted. Her mother Anne had said that she was a wild free spirit, and could never be tamed. But in her fifteenth year, she'd changed and become introvert, preferring to be alone with her dreams, isolated in her thoughts. And she seemed to be continually angry; angry with the way Scotland was controlled by the English, angry with the failure of the Scots to rise up and free themselves of the yolk of English suzerainty, and angry with the men and women of Scotland who just accepted their lot without rising up to fight for their rights.
In the years since, while she'd been in the employ of the wife of the laird of the Macdonalds as friend and companion, she'd grown and had come out of her shell, but still burning in her, now more like embers rather than flames, was her desire to see Scotland free. One day, she thought, one day ...
Some of her mid-teenage shyness was still with her and she was diffident about approaching such elevated gentlemen. She knew that ladies in polite society, especially ladies in England, were very reticent and their manners were precise and they showed themselves as coy. Yet she was not just Scottish, but from the Islands, and women from the Western lands were known to be forward and to speak their minds with an honesty that was generally not present in the high society of Edinburgh and Glasgow and the other towns and cities of Scotland. For Edinburgh was a University town, and contained some very clever people.
Although a Gaelic speaker, she was well educated and spoke passable English and French and Latin and could easily read the newspapers and journals, and she sang beautifully and played the harp and the spinet. But she was bedevilled because of her station in life. She was little more than a companion to Lady Margaret Macdonald, wife of Sir Alexander Macdonald who was one of the most important men of her clan, though in her dreams, she saw herself as both a lady in society and a woman who discoursed on weighty matters with men.
Yet without more of an education, how could she approach a man of his brilliance and ask him the question that was on the lips of all Scotsmen from the Highlands, and to which she could not find an answer within herself? But now that she was here, soon having to return to Skye, this was her only opportunity to hear the opinion of a truly clever man, so approach him she must. She knew in her heart that she couldn't return to the Islands without an answer, though as matters stood today, she didn't know whether to side with Sir Alexander, who was against the Young Prince Charles Edward, or to support Lady Margaret, who was a Jacobite and favoured the replacement of the Hanover interlopers in London with the Catholic Stuarts.
She saw through the misty window that he was seated with two other gentlemen, all drinking coffee; on tiny plates beside the cups were little cakes that the gentlemen picked up and relished with each mouthful of the coffee. They were in earnest discussion, embroiled in some matter of impregnable discourse. Her heart thumping, she pushed open the door and heard the bell tinkle. Some looked around at the newcomer but not the three men seated at the far side of the room, for they were too engrossed in their discussion to concern themselves with who came into and who left the establishment.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Pretender's Lady"
by .
Copyright © 2015 Alan Gold.
Excerpted by permission of Skyhorse Publishing.
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