They were a motley crew, but none the less dangerous for that, I reflected, making my way through a knot of men gathered round an itinerant knifegrinder, who was sharpening dirks, razors, and scythes with perfect indifference. An English soldier facing them might be risking tetanus rather than instant death, but the results were likely to be the same.

While Lord Lewis Gordon, the Duke of Gordon’s younger brother, had come to do homage to Charles in Holyrood, holding out the glittering prospect of raising the whole of clan Gordon, it was a long way from hand-kissing to the actual provisioning of men.

And the Scottish Lowlands, while perfectly willing to cheer loudly at news of Charles’s victory, were singularly unwilling to send men to support him; nearly the whole of the Stuart army was composed of Highlanders, and likely to remain so. The Lowlands hadn’t been a total washout, though; Lord George Murray had told me that levies of food, goods, and money on the southern burghs had resulted in a very useful sum being contributed to the army’s treasury, which might tide them over for a time.

“We’ve gotten fifty-five hundred pounds from Glasgow, alone. Though it’s but a pittance, compared to the promised moneys from France and Spain,” His Lordship had confided to Jamie. “But I’m not inclined to turn up my nose at it, particularly as His Highness has had nothing from France but soothing words, and no gold.”

Jamie, who knew just how unlikely the French gold was to materialize, had merely nodded.

“Have ye found out anything more today, mo duinne?” he asked me as I came in. He had a half-written dispatch in front of him, and stuck his quill into the inkpot to wet it again. I pulled the damp hood off my hair with a crackle of static electricity, nodding.

“There’s a rumor that General Hawley is forming cavalry units in the south. He has orders for the formation of eight regiments.”

Jamie grunted. Given the Highlanders’ aversion to cavalry, this wasn’t good news. Absentmindedly, he rubbed his back, where the hoofprint-shaped bruise from Prestonpans had all but faded.

“I’ll put it down for Colonel Cameron, then,” he said. “How good a rumor do ye think it is, Sassenach?” Almost automatically, he glanced over his shoulder, to be sure we were alone. He called me “Sassenach” now only in privacy, using the formality of “Claire” in public.

“You can take it to the bank,” I said. “I mean, it’s good.”

It wasn’t a rumor at all; it was the latest bit of intelligence from Jack Randall, the latest installment payment on the debt he insisted on assuming for my care of his brother.

Jamie knew, of course, that I visited Alex Randall, as well as the sick of the Jacobite army. What he didn’t know, and what I could never tell him, was that once a week – sometimes more often – I would meet Jack Randall, to hear what news seeped into Edinburgh Castle from the South.

Sometimes he came to Alex’s room when I was there; other times, I would be coming home in the winter twilight, watching my footing on the slippery cobbles of the Royal Mile, when suddenly a stick-straight form in brown homespun would beckon from the mouth of a close, or a quiet voice come out of the mist behind my shoulder. It was unnerving; like being haunted by Frank’s ghost.

It would have been simpler in many ways for him to leave a letter for me at Alex’s lodging, but he would have nothing put in writing, and I could see his point. If such a letter was ever found, even unsigned, it could implicate not only him but Alex as well. As it was, Edinburgh teemed with strangers; volunteers to King James’s standard, curious visitors from south and north, foreign envoys from France and Spain, spies and informers in plenty. The only people not abroad on the streets were the officers and men of the English garrison, who remained mewed up in the Castle. So long as no one heard him speak to me, no one would recognize him for what he was, nor think anything odd of our encounters, even were we seen – and we seldom were, such were his precautions.

For my part, I was just as pleased; I would have had to destroy anything put in writing. While I doubted that Jamie would recognize Randall’s hand, I couldn’t explain a regular source of information without outright lying. Far better to make it appear that the information he gave me was merely part of the gleanings of my daily rounds.

The drawback, of course, was that by treating Randall’s contributions in the same light as the other rumors I collected, they might be discounted or ignored. Still, while I believed that Jack Randall was supplying information in good faith – assuming one could entertain such a concept in conjunction with the man – it didn’t necessarily follow that it was always correct. As well to have it regarded skeptically.

I relayed the news of Hawley’s new regiments with the usual faint twinge of guilt at my quasi deception. However, I had concluded that while honesty between husband and wife was essential, there was such a thing as carrying it too bloody far. And I saw no reason why the supplying of useful information to the Jacobites should cause Jamie further pain.

“The Duke of Cumberland is still waiting for his troops to return from Flanders,” I added. “And the siege of Stirling Castle is getting nowhere.”

Jamie grunted, scribbling busily. “That much I knew; Lord George had a dispatch from Francis Townsend two days ago; he holds the town, but the ditches His Highness insisted on are wasting men and time. There’s no need for them; they’d do better just to batter the Castle from a distance with cannon fire, and then storm it.”

“So why are they digging ditches?”

Jamie waved a hand distractedly, still concentrating on his writing. His ears were pink with frustration.

“Because the Italian army dug ditches when they took Verano Castle, which is the only siege His Highness has seen, so plainly that’s how it must be done, aye?”

“Och, aye,” I said.

It worked; he looked up at me and laughed, his eyes slanting half-shut with it.

“That’s a verra fair try, Sassenach,” he said. “What else can ye say?”

“Settle for the Lord’s Prayer in Gaelic, would you?” I asked.

“No,” he said, scattering sand across his dispatch. He got up, kissed me briefly, and reached for his coat. “But I’ll settle for some supper. Come along, Sassenach. We’ll find a nice, cozy tavern and I’ll teach you a lot of things ye mustn’t say in public. They’re all fresh in my mind.”

Stirling Castle fell at last. The cost had been high, the likelihood of holding it low, and the benefit in keeping it dubious. Still, the effect on Charles was euphoric – and disastrous.

“I have succeeded at last in convincing Murray – such a stubborn fool as he is!” Charles interjected, frowning. Then he remembered his victory, and beamed around the room once more. “I have prevailed, I say, though. We march into England on this day a week, to reclaim all of my Father’s lands!”

The Scottish chieftains gathered in the morning drawing room glanced at each other, and there was considerable coughing and shifting of weight. The overall mood didn’t seem to be one of wild enthusiasm at the news.

“Er, Your Highness,” Lord Kilmarnock began, carefully. “Would it not be wiser to consider…?”

They tried. They all tried. Scotland, they pointed out, already belonged to Charles, lock, stock, and barrel. Men were still pouring in from the north, while from the south there seemed little promise of support. And the Scottish lords were all too aware that the Highlanders, while fierce fighters and loyal followers, were also farmers. Fields needed to be tilled for the spring planting; cattle needed to be provisioned for overwintering. Many of the men would resist going deeply into the South in the winter months.