He felt guilty at revealing such intelligence, but Lady Catherine’s allegiance to Hanoverian rule was well known

Glens of Stone, Day Four

Robert’s thoughts were interrupted by the old crone. “What are you smiling at, pray?” Hastily he composed himself. “Just random thoughts, ma’am,” he said gravely. “Huh. Old and infirm I may be, Captain, but I can read the look in a man’s eyes. Lady Catherine may be widowed and attractive but she’s not for the likes of you.”

The old woman belched. “Get that stupid lassie Forbes tae fill my tankard.”

Robert caught the eye of the maid, Jean Forbes. At his signal she poured out more ale, then curtsied before moving away. “Great gormless lump,” McLaurin groused. “I don’t know why her ladyship keeps her.”

Robert found it difficult to hide his disgust at the old lady’s demeanour. Yet there was something that made him wary. He thought back to his first meeting with the old harridan. The castle governor, General Guest, had instigated a series of dinner parties to which he’d invited the cream of Edinburgh society.

“It’s an exercise in nurturing good relations between us and the citizens, Marshall,” he’d explained. “We’ll wine and dine them and even give them a tour of the precincts.”

Surprise

“Is that wise, sir? Some of the guests will have Jacobite sympathies and might well relay details of our strength to rebel forces.”

“Man, the coarsest street urchin out there knows the garrison’s below strength,” the general had replied wearily. “However, the castle’s virtually impregnable: no rebel army will breach its walls, I assure you.”

To Robert’s surprise the dinners had proved popular, and if he’d had doubts as to the politics of some of those invited, he’d also had the opportunity to meet some of Edinburgh’s most eligible ladies.

Lady Catherine Gray had attended the last of the scheduled dinners and Robert had been entranced by her charms. But it was her companion, the aged Miss McLaurin, who had intrigued him.

“Captain Marshall, isn’t it? Robert Marshall?” she’d asked bluntly. “Indeed, ma’am,” he’d replied. He’d wondered how she knew his first name; the general hadn’t given it during the introductions.

“How are you enjoying Edinburgh, Captain? It’ll be a change from Carlisle.” How the devil had she known he’d been based there? McLaurin had cocked her head to the side, a smile creasing her face.

“You’re wondering how an old woman like me knows so much about you, isn’t that so? I make it my business tae know things.” She looked at him with hooded eyes.

“I’ll be having a word with her ladyship. She has regular social gatherings to which folk of note are invited. Your name, and the general’s, will be added to her guest list. I trust you’ll attend.”

She had been true to her word: the invitations had arrived every few weeks thereafter. He had attended each, his duties permitting. It was good to escape from the grim environs of the castle. Now, in Lady Gray’s drawing-room, he appraised the old woman.

“You look in good health, ma’am.” His words were greeted with cackling laughter. “Good health? My bones ache, my eyes fail me, my hair is falling out and I have but two teeth in my mouth!”

Excuse

Robert looked around the room, wishing for an excuse to leave the wretched woman. “You were looking worried earlier.” McLaurin stared intently at him. “As if you’d had bad news.”

He was tempted to ignore her but forced himself to be polite. “You and her ladyship are very observant. You’re right, of course. It was bad news of sorts.”

“You’re not leaving the area?” “No, no. Political matters.” The anxiety left McLaurin’s eyes.

“Dashed Jacobites again, I suppose. I remember the little rising of ’19,” she muttered, “and the great one of ’15. What a waste of good lives, and for what? Who wants popery and a Stuart on the throne again?”

“Quite a few, I’m afraid, ma’am,” Robert replied. “Reports indicate that a Jacobite army is being raised in France, composed of many of your countrymen. An invasion could take place within the year.” He felt guilty at revealing such military intelligence, but Lady Catherine’s allegiance to Hanoverian rule was well known throughout the city. Her late father had been a staunch supporter of King George.

McLaurin drained her tankard. “Fools.” Then she spoke abruptly. “The hour is late, Captain, ’tis time I retired.” She reached out a hand which he took to assist her to her feet. The maidservant, Jean, materialised at their side and gently led the old woman from the room.

Around midnight Jean Forbes left the house and made her way stealthily along the narrow streets. Arriving at her destination, she knocked quietly on the oak door and handed a sealed letter to the man who answered it. Neither spoke and Jean, her errand done, retraced her steps.

The man gently broke the seal and scanned the letter’s contents, whistling tunelessly under his breath. When he’d finished reading he tore the paper into minute shreds, which he then cast into the dying embers of the fire.

Ewan Ogilvie stood on the northern slopes of Edinburgh’s great hill, Arthur’s Seat. The crenelated silhouette of the city at dusk lay before him. Below him lay parkland, thick with shrubs and trees which played host to the numerous deer, boar and footpads seeking refuge and prey in its dense cover.

Ewan was happy and proud at that moment. Happy, as he had all but accomplished the tasks set him by those who sought his services. Before long he would be free to return to France and his beloved Jacobite regiment, the Scots Royal, in which he held the rank of major.

Proud, because he’d established a name for himself and a reputation far beyond the dreams of his boyhood.

Orphaned

Born 30 years previously in a two-roomed cottage in Forfarshire, he’d been quickly orphaned when his father was killed at Sheriffmuir fighting on the Jacobite side during the 1715 rising and his mother died of a broken heart weeks later.

Raised by an uncle, a widower and staunch Jacobite, he had been taken to France at the age of seven where he and his uncle had joined other Scots exiles in the suburbs of Paris.

Strongly built with piercing brown eyes, Ewan had set out to earn respect using the talents he’d been given, namely an excellent memory for faces and facts, linguistic ability – he could converse easily in Gaelic, Scots, French and German – and impressive skill with firearms, swords, knives and in hand-tohand fighting.

In his late teens he had volunteered as a Jacobite spy and after a period of training had been sent on various missions to Britain, where he had established a network of espionage cells throughout the country. He had become a master of disguise, which enabled him to move in all levels of society with little fear of discovery.

More tomorrow.

Glens of Stone was previously a serial in The People’s Friend. There’s more great fiction in The People’s Friend every week, £1.30 from newsagents and supermarkets.

Artwork: Mandy Dixon