Chapter Twenty-Two
Richard Montagu looked out across the many faces filling Edinburgh Castle’s cavernous Great Hall. He recognized a few of the faces, like James Robertson and Amish Ogilvy. It was Robertson who’d helped him acquire the names of the Jacobite leaders on his invitation—the ones who had been arriving since noon. For the most part, his guests were behaving civilly. That, of course, could be attributed to the fact that there were so few Highland chiefs in attendance. You just couldn’t trust a Scot, especially the high mountain clans who all sided with the Pretender.
He’d invited some, but he didn’t like the sight of them draped in their warrior plaids and long, unkempt hair. Highlanders were unpredictable and dangerous. He was glad there were so few in the growing crowd. They didn’t all have to be in attendance for word to reach them of agreements made between their countrymen and the new captain general of the queen’s army.
Many wouldn’t trust him. They would wonder why he would agree to look in the other direction when the Jacobites struck, even threatening the queen’s seat. Some of the more devoted kind would hate him for selling her sovereignty for a price. But he didn’t care. If he could benefit from whoever sat on the throne, why shouldn’t he?
“My lord”—one of his servants approached—“the sun has been down for an hour. ’Tis time to make yer nightly introduction.”
Montagu rolled his eyes. Did the idiot think he’d forgotten what to do an hour after the sun went down? Must he put up with these unfortunate people much longer? He missed England. “I’m ready. Begin.”
He stepped back as the servant, Roddie or Robbie or Roger, or whatever the hell the servant was called, moved forward and cleared his throat.
“My lords, may I have yer consideration while I introduce yer honored host.” Roddie glanced toward him and Montagu nodded his approval, as he had given the previous two nights.
He listened to the introduction, deciding that in the future a bit of a pause needed to be set before his name was finally spoken.
He waited until all his guests were seated around the grand table and then he stepped forward.
“We are making history at this moment, my friends. It is only fitting that decisions that will shape the kingdom be made here, where your Parliament once sat.”
“What decisions are those?” someone asked.
Montagu hated being interrupted. He turned to cast his smile on the arrogant bastard who had spoken, seated at the table. “I’m coming to that, good sir.”
“Come to it quickly,” the man warned boldly. “This whole thing stinks of a trap.” He turned to the others for their agreement. They gave it.
Jacobite vermin, Montagu thought. None of them could be trusted. “This is no trap,” he assured his guests with a sneer beneath his mustache. “If I wanted—”
“Ye could have gathered us all here to kill us,” the man went on.
Two of the other guests laughed as if it were the most preposterous thing they’d ever heard.
Montagu’s smile remained intact, his dark eyes fastened on the man who had spoken. “I believe I will gain more with you as my allies. How can you pledge your donations if you’re all dead? I’m no fool. I will tell you of my plans shortly. Perhaps you’ll grant me your name in the meantime?” So I can send my army to annihilate, at least, you and your entire family.
“William Buchanan, clan chief of the Buchanans of Aberfeldy.”
“Buchanan.” Montagu locked his eyes on the young loudmouth. “As the queen’s right, I will have her ear. I would be willing to plant seeds in favor of her granting you ownership of Ravenglade Castle in Perth.”
He tilted his mouth higher until his teeth flashed. That’s correct, he wasn’t some lackwit but equal in tactical cleverness to the previous captain general. He hadn’t planned this takeover in a week, or even a month. For more than a year he looked into every chief and leader he’d invited and made himself familiar with their circumstances. He knew their strengths and their weaknesses.
The bold rogue’s gaze slipped for an instant to a man sitting to his left. Montagu watched to see what passed between them. Nothing did. The other, older man didn’t flick an eyelash.
Who was he? Montagu wondered, then decided he must be a bodyguard to one of his guests. He looked to have been in a good battle or two. It wasn’t anything in his appearance that warned Montagu to be wary of him, for he was dressed like the rest of them. But the merciless depths of his gold-green eyes convinced Montagu this opponent would be a fierce one. And to back away.
Montagu shone his wide, more amiable smile on them all. “Gentlemen, my men don’t want to die any more than yours do. Let’s conduct affairs more civilly.”
“How?” another man called out from his place at the table.
“I’ll let you attack twice a year, anywhere you please. Do anything in your James Stuart’s name. After that, I’ll dispatch my army.”
“And what d’ye want in return?” someone else called out.
Montagu spread his eyes over his guests as he took his seat at the head of the table. “I want your allegiance that you will stand behind me should I fight against an enemy. When that time arrives I pay my army well. But until then, I’ll need your generous purses to help me build an army.”
“Ye speak more of a personal battle,” Buchanan’s companion with the wolf-colored eyes speculated from his seat.
Montagu picked up his dinner knife and twirled the hilt in his fingers. Yes, the shorn-headed rogue was correct, he would need them for a more personal battle. “What makes you suggest such a thing, Mr.…?”
“Campbell,” the man said. His eyes were like arrows forged in gold, piercing deep. “Colin Campbell of Breadalbane. I am also kin to a Highland clan or two. I have the ears of all of them and could promise ye their allegiance.”
The Campbells? Oh, to have the Campbells behind him! What did he care who was a Jacobite and who was not? This Colin Campbell seemed earnest enough.
“Let us strike a bargain here and now,” Montagu offered. “I will allow—”
“Fer guaranteeing so much favor toward ye…” Colin Campbell continued as if Richard hadn’t spoken, “I think ye should throw something a bit more valuable into the pot.”
“Such as?” Montagu knew he should have stayed away. Campbell was no child. If the Scot made demands and he refused them, there would be fighting. Montagu hated him but he was born of royal blood. He didn’t let lesser men get the best of him. Marlow had tried. How he had tried. The thought of finally killing him bought a smile to Montagu’s face. He wished he could have seen Marlow’s body. But who would have shown it to him? The men he sent were dead. Captain Andrews was the only one who’d survived and that whimpering worthless scum couldn’t tell him a damn thing.
He made a mental note to have Andrews killed tomorrow.
“We want information from ye about the queen; where she is and when. Things of that nature.”
“You want me to spy for you so you can kill the queen?”
“Ye speak of killing her, not I. Ye wish us to make room for ye to claim the title of king. That’s what ye desire, is it not?”
Montagu chuckled into his gloved hand. “You’re a very amusing man, Campbell.”
“So are ye, my lord, if ye believe we would trust ye. Ye want to claim the title of king, and with the queen out of the way, yer only other enemy is James Stuart. We will be trapped by our own vow to fight on yer side and against our true king, thereby committing treason.”
Montagu narrowed his eyes on him. Had he underestimated the Scots? Were they all this clever, or was Colin Campbell an exception? He sighed a little with relief, deciding that the latter was true. Still, one clever man was one too many. These men were loyal mongrels. If they believed he was the enemy of their precious Pretender, they would not only refuse his offer but they’d likely kill him.
He was going to have to win them, convince them that he sought military power, not the throne. The stars help him, Montagu thought, closing his eyes. It was exhausting work, but he had set things in motion and he would follow through. He would gain their trust by whatever means necessary. And he would begin right where he was looking.
“My good Mr. Campbell, I empathize with your concerns, but let us not make any rash decisions. Enjoy my hospitality. Rest and eat. You’ll see that I’ve spared no expense for my finest guests.” He had to stop himself from grinning at the ridiculous things flowing off his tongue. He was good at deception.
He lifted his cup to his guests. “Drink of my finest wine and let’s discuss minor details later.”
Yes—he nodded slightly to himself—all it took was drink to bring these heretics to heel. He would keep their cups full, their plates piled high, and their laps warmed by buxom young wenches.
His gaze returned to Colin Campbell throughout the night. He was too clever to be a simple ruffian. When asked earlier, he claimed to travel with the Buchanans, but why didn’t Montagu know of him? After two hours, Campbell had barely touched his first cup of wine and he refused every wench who offered him something more than food or drink.
“I’m wed,” he told his host when Montagu watched him refuse another.
“How would she ever find out?” Montagu asked him.
“She would find out when I returned to her leaden with guilt and heavy-heartedness, no longer worthy of her love.”
Montagu barely kept himself from laughing. Was this what they taught young lads in the hills and glens of Scotland? Why, it was positively nauseating. There was nothing a man could ever do to be deemed worthy of a woman’s love. They were all bitches.
“I admire such steadfast loyalty in marriage,” he admitted to his guest. “I tried it for three years and failed. I had to send her back to her father. The shame it brought me left me a bit bitter.”
“How tragic fer ye,” Campbell said, but there wasn’t even a hint of pity in his voice.
Montagu smiled. “I’m fully recovered.”
“Tell me.” Campbell’s gaze locked on him. “Did ye admire the previous captain general’s loyalty to yer queen? He was known fer his dedication to keeping her enemies, the Jacobites, from becoming a serious threat.”
“General Marlow was unbendable. Loyalty is a trait I respect from anyone, but when it makes you sacrifice the good of all for the good of one—even if she’s the queen—if you are willing to let your own loyal men continue to die for a tyrannical ruler, then perhaps it’s time to be taken down.”
“So ’twas ye who had him killed?”
“With him out of the way, she’s easier to get to,” Montagu answered instead. “If your people desire to kill her, I’ve done you a favor.”
Campbell smiled at him for the first time that night and raised his cup to him. “We shall see.”