“I may nae be here,” his father said. “I’m planning to ride out tomorrow to gather our far-flung relatives and bring them back here.”
He was not particularly surprised to hear of his father’s plans, although this was the first he’d heard of it. Speaking of foxes, his father was clever at evading danger. Niall turned to Simon.
“Will ye be leading the Frasers, then?”
“Simon will follow with a secondary regiment,” his uncle said. “I’ll lead the first group since most of those will be men that came with me.”
So their own men would be behind the Inverallochy Frasers, not in the lead. Charlotte hadn’t mentioned that, but it might not have been a fact that was ever written about. Although it would matter little once the actual battle engaged, he would let her think it offered a little protection. She had been as taut as a harp string the past few days, trying to think of ways to avert disaster.
“Do ye ken what Prince Charlie’s actual plan is?”
His uncle nodded. “The prince plans to assemble our forces on the moor early on April 15 and await Cumberland to arrive.”
“The 15th? Are ye sure?”
“Aye.” His uncle gave him a puzzled look. “Why?”
“Ah…well, ’tis only two days away.”
“We’re as ready as we will ever be.”
Niall didn’t answer, but simply nodded. If the prince had chosen the fifteenth and not the sixteenth, as Charlotte said was the date given in the history books, maybe Fate was intervening and the battle would take a different direction.
He would pray.
Chapter Twenty-One
Charlotte watched from the battlements as Niall and Simon rode off with their uncle Charles to join the rest of the prince’s army, which had amassed just outside of Inverness. From her perch above them, she could see the white silk scarf she’d given Niall as a token—maybe it was the romance novelist in her, but if her “knight” were riding into battle, she wanted to have him wear his lady’s token—and, she secretly hoped, it would protect him since she’d said prayers over it. It fluttered now in the breeze.
Even though she knew that today, according to the history books, was not going to determine Scotland’s fate—that would be tomorrow, April 16th—she was sorely tempted to follow them anyway. Beside her, Greer looked as worried as she felt.
“Ye are sure of the dates?” she asked.
“As sure as I can be.” She said a silent, short prayer that the writers hadn’t gotten it wrong. Which, she supposed, was somewhat ironic since she was still holding out hope that the actual battlecouldbe prevented and historywouldbe changed.
“Tell me again what’s supposed to happen today.”
Charlotte knew that Greer was seeking reassurance that her brothers and uncle would be safe, at least for today. Her friend wasn’t questioning the facts, which was another irony in itself. Once Greer had been taken into their confidence, she had seemed relieved that there was a—somewhat—logical explanation to Charlotte’s presence, even if the possibility of time-travel was still mystifying.
“According to the books, Prince Charlie is going to march to Culloden, line up his troops on Drummossie Moor, and wait for Cumberland to come.”
“I suppose it makes sense to be prepared and ready.” Greer gave her a doubtful look. “But ye said the duke won’t be coming, aye?”
Charlotte nodded. “Today is the duke’s birthday and he’s supposedly celebrating at Nairn.”
“Celebrating.” Greer uttered a curse in Gaelic. “The duke is nae concerned about an upcoming battle in which men are going to be killed.”
Charlotte closed her eyes. She hadn’t told Greer that it would be a massacre and just how many Scots would die. Nor that the Duke of Cumberland would acquire the moniker of The Butcher because he’d give no quarter. That was something that didn’t need to be said, especially if a miracle occurred and it didn’t happen. She opened her eyes and sighed.
“Niall knows and he told his uncle. Maybe when they meet the prince, they can convince him to wait a day.”
“This close to the final clash, I doona think Prince Charlie will be deterred.” Greer shook her head. “He has never been known for his patience.”
Nor for listening to wise council, Charlotte thought, but didn’t voice that either. She didn’t want to jinx the possibility of maybe—just maybe—the prince would take advice for once. History was more like a flowing river then a ridge of rocks. It would only take one small event—just like Ray Bradbury’s butterfly story—to alter the course of history. It could be done. It could.
Still, she wasn’t surprised when, as the sun was setting, a messenger arrived from Niall. Cumberland hadn’t shown and Prince Charlie had ordered the army to march to Nairn and surprise Cumberland with a dawn raid on his camp.
Her heart sank to the bottom of her stomach. That part of history was accurate too. Only the army wouldn’t make it by dawn and would have to retreat before the English saw them coming. Charlotte crumbled the note. It seemed that the battle at Culloden was going to take place after all.
