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“I ken, but…”
“She married a Presbyterian—Morgan Pendray, a Welsh officer in Cromwell’s army.”
Ambrose recognized it was pointless to try to interrupt his uncle as he continued. “My adopted father, Munro Pendray, now Earl of Glenheath after his sire’s passing, married the illegitimate daughter of a man who signed the death warrant of Charles I.”
Ambrose didn’t need to be reminded of all these historical events. In an effort to hurry the conversation along, he chimed in. “Next, ye’re going to recount how my own parents acted as spies for the Crown during Argyll’s Rising.
“It would be tempting to assume my family would support the Jacobites’ campaign to put James II’s son on the throne. However, over the years, they’ve come to see that William and Mary, and later Anne Stuart, were more acceptable monarchs as far as the Protestant majority in the Lowlands was concerned.”
“I am not a Jacobite,” Giles argued strenuously. “I have no wish to see a Catholic restored to the throne. You know I hail originally from Birmingham, a decidedly Puritan town. Prince James Francis Edward has spent his life in France and cannot even speak English.”
“Like our current Hanoverian king,” Ambrose retorted, unable to resist the jibe.
Giles chuckled. “Touché.”
Ambrose felt it necessary to fill the awkward silence. “So how did ye end up going to Perth?”
“A colleague, who, by the way, is a staunch government supporter, told me he’d heard scores of Jacobite wounded had been sent there. As far as he was concerned, they could all rot in hell. He maintains it was a rout for the government troops.”
Ambrose shook his head. “I’ve heard the opposite. ’Twas a victory for the Jacobites.”
“The wounded rebels I’ve treated say the same thing. Which side won or lost is immaterial. Your parents named you after a famous battlefield surgeon. Men who are suffering need you. I don’t know who else to ask.”
The last words were uttered with a downcast expression Ambrose had never seen on his uncle’s face. He might have known Giles would mention Ambrose Paré in order to convince him. Without the methods spearheaded by the French barber-surgeon, Ambrose’s father might have died after being shot in the leg during Argyll’s Rising, and never sired a son.
“I’m sure there are Jacobite sympathizers among my classmates,” Ambrose countered, though he admitted inwardly he was in Giles’ debt for saving his father’s leg, and his life, so many years ago. He’d always admired the man he called uncle, though they weren’t blood relatives. Giles had never married, having dedicated his whole life to helping the afflicted. The way things were going—or weren’t going—with Ambrose’s love life, he might also end up a lifelong bachelor.
Giles rejected the notion of a spirit of rebellion among Ambrose’s classmates. “I don’t know your fellow students. You I know, and trust.”
Ambrose was tempted to mention he didn’t want to miss Christmas at home, but then he’d sound like a whining bairn. “I suppose ye’ve arranged for the ferry across the Forth?”
Giles slapped him on the back. “I knew I could count on you.”
“Aye,” Ambrose replied, “that’s me. Dependable to a fault.”
Doubts
Clutching a kerchief liberally sprinkled with lavender perfume to her nose, Eala Calhoun knelt before the massive altar that dominated the ancient chapel in the grounds of Scone Palace, trying not to inhale the cloying incense billowing from the censor.
Scores of wounded men lay hidden in the nearby crofts of Jacobite sympathizers, her betrothed among them. Yet, only two other women knelt in prayer beside her, a sign perhaps of their desperation. They were older than her nineteen years, weeping wives tearfully begging the Lord God to spare their stricken husbands. She supposed there were families all over the Highlands praying for the safe return of their menfolk from the bloody battlefield at Sheriffmuir.
She was trying desperately to concentrate on praying for the recovery of her betrothed, but the incense, the musty odor, the overwhelming grandeur of the elaborately carved frescoes behind the altar, the squeal of the censor as the priest swung it back and forth, back and forth: all served to distract her.
Guilt pressed on her temples. She’d pleaded with her fiancé not to join the rebel cause, but he’d gone off with the Earl of Mar in spite of her entreaties, probably to spite the father he despised. Knowing Evan Bruce’s recklessness, it was possible he’d put himself in harm’s way deliberately and been shot in the arm as a result. Served him right.
Instantly remorseful, she made the sign of the Savior across her body. “God forgive my unchristian thoughts.”
The life-sized, white marble knight carved into the altarpiece sneered back.You don’t love him anyway.
She squeezed her eyes tight shut and took a deep breath. “I’ll learn to love him. Few husbands and wives love each other. He’s a noble Highlander and we…”
She sneezed into the kerchief when incense stole up her nose.
And sneezed again…and again.
The soon-to-be-widowed women glared. The ancient priest lifted his gaze to the heavens. Gasping for breath, eyes watering, Eala fled the chapel.
* * *
