The Firebird

‘Have I not?’ The crinkles formed around his eyes again. ‘Well, neither are ye motherless. In fact,’ he said as he leant forwards, giving his attention to the chess pieces, ‘it seems to me that ye have quite the opposite affliction. Ye’ve two mothers I can name, and both of them do hold ye dear, and if there is another lass in all the world can make that claim, I’ve yet to hear it.’

Anna eyed him doubtfully. ‘Two mothers?’

‘Aye. The mother who has raised ye as her own, and dried your tears when ye had need of it, and loved ye all your life. That’s one. And then there is the mother who gave birth to ye, and loved ye even more, if it were possible, so much so that she would not see ye come to harm, and left ye here at Slains to keep ye safe.’

She did not understand, and plainly told him so.

His eyes were patient. ‘No, I’d not expect ye to. Now,’ he said, returning to the board between them, ‘which of these two kings will ye lay claim to?’

Anna chewed her lip and looked from one king to the other.

The white king had the broader smile, but still she felt compelled to choose the black-haired king she’d rescued from beneath the chair.

Still thinking, she began, ‘Fit wye—?’

‘Say “Why”.’

‘Why did my mother leave me here at Slains?’ she asked him. ‘Did she die?’

‘No, she did not die. Why did ye choose the black king, and deny the other?’

‘He’s a proper king,’ was her excuse. ‘The real King has black hair.’

His mouth curved. ‘And who is the real King?’

‘Why, the king over the water.’ It surprised her that a man of his great age could be so ignorant. ‘There’s a prince in London claims he is a king, but he is not, he’s but a prince, and comes from Hanover and cannot speak in either Scots or English. And,’ she said, ‘he is a thief, besides.’

‘A thief?’

She gave a solemn nod. ‘He stole the crown he wears. The Earl of Erroll said so.’

‘’Tis a wicked thing to steal,’ the man agreed. ‘But to be fair, I would not think the Prince of Hanover a wicked man, so much as a misguided one.’ He set the white king squarely in the centre of his space, behind his line of white-painted defenders. ‘’Tis a fact he is no king and wears a crown that is not his, but he was not the first to wear it, nor the one to steal it from the rightful King, James Stewart. That deed was done when James was but a babe,’ the man revealed, ‘and ’twas his sisters stole the crown away, to pass it from their own hands to a foreign prince.’

‘His sisters?’ Anna’s eyes grew round. ‘Fit wye … why would they do that?’

‘Some will tell ye it was purely for religion, for the sisters, they were Protestant, and James was raised a Catholic, and the English and our Scottish Presbyterians can never abide a Catholic on the throne. But ’tis nearer to the truth,’ he said, ‘to tell ye it was done for the same reason most men steal, and women too: for riches, and for power.’

‘But it wisnae right for them to take the crown,’ said Anna, ‘and ’tis wrong the Prince of Hanover should keep it.’

‘Ye’ve the heart of a true Jacobite.’ The man was smiling.

‘What’s that?’

He said, ‘A Jacobite is one who would defend King James, our King over the water, as ye say, and fight to bring him safely home again.’

She gave a nod. ‘The Earl of Erroll’s one, then.’

‘Aye, he is. And so am I.’

She liked the fact that he conversed with her as though she were his equal and had wit enough to understand, and so she felt secure in asking, ‘Why are ye called Jacobites? The King is James, not Jacob.’

‘In the Latin, James is written as Jacobus, lass. Have ye not learnt the Latin, yet?’ He clucked his tongue. ‘And ye the daughter of one of the noblest families of Scotland.’

He was teasing her now, she thought, mocking the fact she’d been raised in a fisherman’s cottage, mocking the fact that her father … no, not her true father, she stopped to remind herself. And that meant it was just possible that he was telling the truth. She asked, ‘Am I?’

He nodded, his steady hands turning the chessboard round carefully so the black pieces were nearest to Anna. ‘Your father’s own grandfather was a great soldier – the Black Pate, they called him, for his hair was black as the King’s, and he rode with the greatest of heroes of Scotland, the Earl of Montrose. He was brave, the Black Pate. He’d a fire in his eye and a fire in his heart and there’s no man could equal his skill with the sword, and the people who saw him ride past kept the memory for ever.’

‘Did you see him ride past?’

‘Aye, I did, many times,’ he admitted, ‘for he was my father. And your father’s father did marry my sister, which makes me your uncle.’

She gave a slight frown, knowing no other way to accept this strange news of the loss of one family and gain of another within the same morning.

‘Your father,’ he informed her, ‘came from Perthshire, and his father was the Laird of Abercairney.’

She looked down again along the row of silent waiting pawns and something stirred again, but dimly, in her memory. ‘Was my father a soldier?’

‘He was. A colonel in the service of the French King and King James, upon the Continent. A Jacobite, as you are.’ His gaze softened as he said, ‘Ye have the look of him.’