November 1745. After victory at the Battle of Gladsmuir, Charles Edward Stuart rules Scotland as prince regent. Across the border, in England, the regiments of King George are massing, intent on dislodging the prince from his throne in Edinburgh. The newly formed army of Scottish Jacobites take the initiative in the war. They invade England. To disguise their lack of numbers and ensure surprise, the princes army marches through the border hills in three fast-moving columns. Lord Kilmarnocks regiment of horse grenadiers are ordered to carry out the cavalry duties that the gentlemen regiments will not undertake. They find themselves escorting the baggage and artillery train through hostile country. If they cannot rendezvous with the Jacobite army as planned, the prince will have no capacity to fight the coming campaign. Lord Kilmarnock has only a hundred and fifty horsemen for the task at hand. It is not enough. What ignoble wickedness is this? Patrick pointed the muzzle of his piece towards the sack of caltrops by the ford. It is the wickedness of war. It is the madness of folly! Patrick thrust his smoking carbine into its holster. He drew out his rapier and held the blade low. A soldier should fight with honor. Fight with honor! Is that why your gallant prince declines battle and flees into the mountains? Veres Ulster accent was heavy with contempt. The two men faced each other, a pistol shot apart. The grey gelding flared its nostrils and stamped its foot on the road. Patrick placed his hand on the animals neck to calm its keenness. Aye, we are retreating, true enough. But before we depart, I will see that the crows gorge themselves on your flesh! Test your mettle if you have the courage. The Irishman brandished his musket in the air causing sunlight to glint off the steel of the bayonet. But before you face my fury, prepare yourself first to face the wrath of God. There is surely enough room in hell for the both of us!

February 1746. The rebel army of Prince Charles Edward Stuart has retreated to the north-east of Scotland. Here they are surrounded by three enemy armies loyal to King George. Lacking money, equipment and food, only a decisive victory on the battlefield can turn the tide of the war. Lord Kilmarnock's Horse Grenadiers have earned a reputation for loyalty, sculduggery and fortitude. Now Prince Charles rewards the regiment by promoting them to become his elite guards. It is a dangerous honour. As the war reaches its climax the Grenadiers must fight their deadliest battle yet. If the regiment does not stand fast, the Jacobite army will be destroyed and the rebellion will be over. You behave as a filching freebooter, Captain Lindesay one caught in the very act of brigancy. 'Brigancy!' Your Highness, the Irish nobleman turned to address the Prince. We cannot have our officers behave in such a fashion and in your royal regiment of guards to boot! Such unworthy behaviour will be the ruin of our reputation. And I must counsel that you dismiss Mr Lindesay from his post. Before the Prince could answer, Patrick stepped closer to the Quartermaster-General, toe-to-toe and eye-to-eye. His face was feral. Patrick curled his lip, bared his teeth, fingered his pistol. The conceited inanity of the fellow was insufferable. For a moment the Irishman was sure the Captain of the Grenadiers was about to offer a challenge and propose a duel. Then, to the astonishment of all the bystanders, Patrick smiled. Just the smallest upturn of the lips, but a veritable and carefree smile none-the-less. And OSullivan frowned, unsure why the Grenadiers anger had turned cold. And Patricks smile broadened, for the canniest of ploys had just come to him

August 1745. Charles Edward Stuart makes an audacious bid to win the throne of Scotland that is rightfully his. Thousands of noble Highland clansmen rally to his standard. A small number of Lowlanders loyal to the House of Stuart also risk everything and enlist in the rebel Jacobite army. Many of these volunteers serve in three grandly named cavalry regiments: the Scotch Hussars, the Princes Lifeguards, and Lord Kilmarnocks Horse Grenadiers. Lacking experienced officers, the Prince grants an impoverished farmer a commission. This is the story of Patrick Lindesay of Wormiston: Keeper of the Royal Wardrobe for Bonnie Prince Charlie and Captain of the Jacobite Horse Grenadiers perhaps the smallest and most peculiar regiment in British history. .. In the grandeur of the long gallery, Lord Kilmarnock glared with misgiving at the man in front of him. Kilmarnock hid his surprise and his disappointment. He had not expected his new captain to be so coarse. Confounded, he scrutinised Patricks dog-eared coat, his calloused hands and his cragged face. The handles of two pistols protruded from beneath the half-open greatcoat. He looked more like a villainous rogue than an officer. Patrick glowered back, holding the Earls gaze and taking the measure of the man. Lord Kilmarnock wore a sky-blue coat richly embroidered in silver frippery. The splendid coat reached down almost to touch his matching court shoes. The Earl wore a powdered periwig that framed his high forehead, his fleshy cheeks and his slender nose. Patrick had never met a man who looked less like a soldier. He was suddenly very aware of his own home-sewn waistcoat and threadbare shirt. Patrick drew the ragged greatcoat across his chest, fumbling for the buttons. Pray Sir, there has been a mistake. Your son should be captain of your new regiment . . . not me.