The Scot Duke (Lost Dukes of London #1)

Prologue

“Please Lord, don't let him die! This is your faithful servant Alexander, please do not let Mr. Knox die. I will forever do your bidding and go to church every Sunday if you do this for me.”

Alexander Fitzgrant sat on the hard wooden bench in the cobbled yard behind the house in which he had lived for the last year.

A tall brick wall surrounded it and beyond that rose the stonework of Glasgow’s Merchant City.

The sounds of the city had faded with nightfall from the cacophony of the second city of the Empire during the day.

The wind carried the smell of the river and the factories that rose from the buildings of the city like trees in a stone forest.

“The Lord will provide. Do not worry, boy. John Knox is a good man. An upstanding member of the Kirk,” said the tall, thin deacon emerging from the back door of the Knox house.

Alexander looked up from his prayer, tears staining his eyes.

He was looking for comfort and reassurance but found none in the white-faced, gaunt man.

He regarded the six-year-old Alexander for a moment, eyes cold and mouth a thin line.

Then he sniffed and walked across the yard to the gate in the far wall.

The deacon was known to Alexander, he had been a frequent visitor of Master Knox, who was a God-fearing member of the Kirk.

But, Alexander had never liked him, he had always seemed cruel.

Now though, as Alexander’s world seemed to be falling apart, he would desperately reach for any hope. Even the cold, cruel deacon.

“Please, sir!” Alexander called to him. “But is there any news about Master Knox?”

The man paused in the act of unlatching the gate but did not look back.

“Have faith in God, boy,” was all he said.

Rain began to fall as Alexander sat and waited for news of the man who had taken him.

Once, Alexander remembered living in a big house, a mansion.

Then he had been sent away for reasons he did not fully understand.

John Knox had greeted him when he had stepped off the carriage that had carried him north from England to Scotland.

A rotund man with thick black whiskers and an accent so broad it was as though he were speaking a different language.

He had stopped in front of the trembling young boy, looking him in the eye.

“Aye, you look a strong lad, right enough. Got some meat on them bones, so you do. Well, there’s work for you here.

Naebody lives for free in Glesga. A man works for his living and works hard.

But, put your back into it and you’ll have a roof o’er your heid and food in yer belly. Are ye ready to dae some work, lad?”

Alexander had nodded mutely, not entirely knowing what he was nodding to.

And the work had been hard, but Master Knox was fair.

Alexander lived with the servants in the Knox House and was taught his letters.

He had begun to learn the loud, brash, and smoky city in which he found himself in, too.

Learning the speech, the accent, and the slang, until he felt the place was home.

Then Master Knox had become sick. Consumption they said.

Alexander didn’t know what that was but he knew the blood that came up when Master Knox had one of his coughing fits was not a good sign.

“You still ‘ere?” said a woman, coming through the same door as the deacon.

It was Mary, the Knox’s scullery maid.

“Is Master Knox feeling better?” Alexander asked, grasping for a friendly face.

Mary looked back at the open doorway, then down at Alexander.

“Look, son,” she said in a tone that was not unkind. “He’s not long for this world. Why didn’t you go with the Deacon?”

Alexander frowned, wanting to run through the open door, up the stairs to Master Knox’s room. “Was I supposed to?”

“That was the talk I heard, yes. The Deacon was asked to take you on, let you stay at the manse in Anderston for a while. Where is he?”

“He left,” Alexander said, pointing in the direction the Deacon had gone.

Mary swore, planting her hands on her hips. Alexander thought he heard a curse on Calvinists. Then, she knelt before him, putting a hand into the pocket of her apron, and taking out a coin.

“Look. Master William is here and he’s said he doesn’t want…can’t take on a boy just now.”

“What he said was he doesn’t want some English pup from the wrong side of the sheets,” came a hard, male voice.

A tall, dark-haired young man stepped out of the house, pausing to light a small clay pipe.

“Now that’s just cruel, Tommy Piper!” Mary snapped.

Tommy shrugged. “Boy’s gotta face the truth. He’s not wanted and he’s gonna have tae fend for hisself.”

Alexander scowled at Tommy, Master Knox’s carriage driver. He had brought Alexander to Glasgow from England and had a mean streak through him a mile wide. Blue eyes watched Alexander, then he turned away dismissively.

“Take this, Alexander. Go tae the orphanage on the sou’side,” Mary said urgently. “The one across from the Green by road tae Rutherglen.”

“The big building with the railings round it?” Alexander asked in a small voice.

“Yeah, you can see it fae the Nelson monument. Go there and tell them you’re an orphan and you’ve got naewhere to stay.”

“Better tell ‘em you’re Catholic too,” Tommy cut in.

Mary shot him a look of pure venom. “Aye, tell them you’re Catholic. That’ll help. Here, this will help. I can get another one.”

Mary reached to her neck and took down a small, wooden crucifix on a leather string. She tied it around Alexander’s neck.

“They can’t blame me for converting you when the Deacon didnae want you.”

She looked into Alexander’s frightened eyes for a long moment.

He knew the building she spoke of, had seen it from the Green where he had played with his pals.

Black-frocked priests and nuns had frequently gone in and out.

The priests looked like crows to Alexander, dark and foreboding.

He took hold of the cross, a symbol Master Knox had taught him to regard as idolatrous.

Now, Alexander was wearing a cross just like the people Master Knox had scorned as Papists.

He wondered if the priests wouldn’t take him in unless he was Catholic. It didn’t seem fair somehow.

“That’s the doctor now. Looks like we’re out of a job, Mary,” Tommy said from his position across the yard, leaning against the wall, puffing on his pipe.

The physician who had been brought in to see to Master Knox came out of the door. He carried a leather bag and wore a top hat and overcoat. He looked from Mary to Tommy.

“It’s not good news I’m afraid. Your Master has passed away,” he said in a smoother accent than either Tommy or Mary possessed.

“You should say a prayer for his soul. I’m returning home and will notify the Lord Provost and make out the death certificate.

The son is already away to fetch some legal papers from his father’s offices. Bloody vulture.”

He glanced down at Alexander who looked back hopefully. The Doctor was a man of rank in the city, respected and wealthy. Surely, he would take care of Alexander. But the Doctor just looked away and followed the path the Deacon had taken through the gate.

“Go now, Alexander,” Mary said. “I’d take you in myself but my old man would throw you out. I’ve got enough wains to be looking after. Go to the priests, it’s their job to look after you.”

“But, what will I do?” Alexander said, tears blurring his vision.

Mary caught him up in a fierce embrace, hugging him tight. It brought brief solace, a small hope that he would be looked after. Then she was pushing him away, tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Go, before it gets much later.”

Even Tommy looked uncomfortable, callow youth that he was. As Alexander reached the gate, he growled.

“Hold up, boy. I’ll come with ye. Ye hardly ken the first thing about Glesga after dark. You would-nae get to the end of the road. But don’t think this means I’m takin’ you in. My heid doesn’t button up the back, mind.”

“Thank you, Thomas,” Mary called as Tommy pushed Alexander through the gate ahead of him.

Alexander knew the expression Tommy had used meant he wasn’t to be taken for a fool.

It was one of many that he had picked up in Glasgow, proud of the vocabulary he had absorbed in his year in the city.

Tommy took him through the maze of back alleys between towering, grand buildings until they reached Ingram Street.

It was wide and long, flanked by tall, imposing buildings.

At the far end was the Royal Exchange, the grandest of buildings, staring down the street at him.

He had been there many times with Master Knox, listening to the men talk about prices, goods, and trade.

It was to have been part of his apprenticeship, to learn about the business that was transacted in one of the largest cities of the Empire.

Tommy steered him away from it, walking east towards the High Street, cutting down Candleriggs to head for the river. When they reached the dark, sluggish expanse of the Clyde, he stopped, pointing to the old wooden bridge that crossed it and the looming building beyond.

“That’s it. This is as far as I go. You run across and don’t stop ‘til you’re at the door. Mary’s right, the priests will look after ye. God makes them dae it, or something. Go!”

He gave Alexander a shove and the boy took a faltering step into the dark.

There were lights burning in some of the windows of the orphanage, beacons guiding him to safety.

His feet moved faster and clattered on the wooden surface of the bridge.

At the orphanage, he would be safe. Safe from the father who had beaten him and ultimately rejected him.

Safe from the dark, odorous, and violent city into which he had been plunged.

Alexander Fitzgrant ran towards safety for all he was worth. Towards what he thought was safety. He could not have been more wrong.