‘Oh, do get to the point,’ said the king, while devoting all his attention to the frieze dangling above him.
The count was too old to bridle at such casual insults from his monarch. He continued with his customary, dogged patience, leading Frederick down the path he’d mapped for him.
‘As your majesty appreciates, we do not wish to upset our Russian neighbours these days any more than we have to,’ he said. ‘So it may come to pass that, if indeed she is escaping from the Russians, they might wish us to send her back …’
‘Well, why don’t you just get on and …’ said the king, interrupting, as the count interrupted him in turn.
‘ … therefore I counsel it would be wise that we speak to her first. To ask her, why? Why she has felt it necessary to flee?’
Oh, but did Count Horn want to know the answer to that question. Gräfin Dorothea’s reputation long preceded her; the secrets she held, the information she always had to trade and all the back doors to knock on. A treasure trove had washed up on his shore, and he would be loath to give it back before he had properly inspected it.
‘If we know that,’ he continued, ‘we will be better able to judge whether it is wiser to give her succour, or send her packing. Before news of her arrival here reaches General Lacy’s ears, and thence the tsarina’s.’
‘You wish me to order her brought to Stockholm?’ said the king. ‘You could have done that yourself, count. You have the stamp.’
The count ignored the remark. He did indeed have the stamp – a custom-made seal used to legally approve all royal documents that in normal times would require a royal signature. But such was Frederick’s indifference when it came to the administration of his much-diminished kingdom, he rarely could be bothered signing anything. So using the stamp was considered by all parties to be an acceptable compromise.
‘There is another aspect to this matter, your majesty, that I fear would require your specific attention,’ said the count, following his gaze up the palace wall.
A sigh escaped the king. ‘How much of my attention?’
‘There is a senior Polish officer accompanying the gräfin,’ said the count. ‘A Scotsman, who had been at the court of the James, the pretender to the British throne, but latterly has been in the service of Stanislas. An arrangement promoted by James Stuart’s wife, as I understand it, who as you know is a Sobieski.’
‘Ah, the noble John, hero of the siege of Vienna and slayer of the Turk, how they do trade on that glorious reputation,’ said the king, distractedly.
‘This officer, James Lindsay his name is, is the third son of minor Scots aristocracy and might be of some use to us, your majesty.’
‘Use, count?’
‘His nationality, your majesty, is the same as Graham’s, the Russian admiral. Then there is General Lacy, the Russians’ Irishman. All three are Wild Geese. All three speak the same language. And all three have already met, face to face, during the siege. Or so I am informed. Now, this Colonel Lindsay is a soldier of fortune whose contract with Stanislas has obviously lapsed. If we were to offer him employment, he might be of considerable assistance to us in the future.’
‘Assistance? What possible assistance could a renegado Jacobite possibly be to me here in Sweden?’ snapped the king. He was getting bored with this conversation.
‘Clandestine assistance, your majesty,’ said the count, his patience not flinching for a moment. ‘I speak of course, in terms of a possible back conduit to the Russians, should ever such a diplomatic channel be needed. Consider it, your majesty. With all three of them speaking English, the chances of misunderstandings appreciably diminishes. And we both know how easily misunderstandings arise with the Russians, your majesty.’
‘If I say yes to what you want, will you leave me alone, Count Horn?’
‘A written royal commission in your horse guards, your majesty. I should like my secretary to have it with him when he goes to detain the gräfin. It will be offered to him couched in terms he might find difficult to refuse, and then we shall see what he says.’
‘Very well. Have it drawn up, count, and bring it to me for my scrawl.’
Historical Note
By My Sword Alone is a work of historical fiction set in the first half of the eighteenth century – with the emphasis on fiction. If you are a student of the period and try to use it as a crib, you will fail. So be warned.
While much of the backdrop to the book is factually accurate, when it comes to timelines and certain events, I have driven a coach and horses through the whole shebang – just as I have taken terrible liberties with the characters of many of the real life protagonists I have lifted to populate my story.
Needless to say, there was no James Lindsay, or any Earl of Branter with an estate called Kirkspindie in Breadalbane. There was, however, a Marquess of Tullibardine and a Lord George Murray amongst others, all loyal to a very real pretender, also known as the king over the water, namely James Francis Edward Stuart, or as he would claim, King James III.
Just as there was a General Joseph Wightman in King George’s army. And they all fought at the Battle of Glenshiel in 1719, which unfolded largely in the way described.
Also, the various acts of retribution visited by King George on those loyal to the Stuart pretender are all equally true.
As is the character of David
