Hughie said, “In front of his daughter?”
“And they call Highlanders barbaric,” said Duncan.
Charlie cocked an eyebrow. “Daughter? What does she look like?”
Alex pulled off his bonnet and swatted Charlie with it.
“They were led by Hackston of Rathillet and Balfour of Kinloch. The others were poor men—probably weavers. At least one of them is from Ayrshire, so we’ve been sent here to find him and anyone with him.”
“He’s in Ireland by now, I’ll wager,” said Duncan.
“Aye, I’ll wager you’re right,” Callum said.
“But Callum—I mean, Ensign MacDonell—” said Duncan, with a hint of sarcasm.
Callum cast a wry look sideways. They’d all been boyhood friends, but he outranked them now. While his friends did not mind, it made Callum a bit uncomfortable. Knowing this, they took turns raising the point now and then for their own entertainment.
Hughie grinned as he watched Duncan, whose only sign of amusement was a slight curve at the corner of his mouth. A gentle breeze brushed blonde strands back from Hughie’s brow, exposing the fresh face and bright eyes of one who still found excitement in battles. At seventeen, Hughie was sure he had lingered too long at home, and was excited to be on this adventure. “Callum, what are we to do here if the weavers we seek are in Ireland?”
“Our orders are to quash any Covenanter activity that we find.”
“And I’m sure there’s a brilliant plan to accomplish that,” Duncan said dryly. He was a practical man, which some mistook for pessimism. But in matters of battle he was most often right.
“Aye,” Alex laughed as he brandished his sword. It caught the light as he sliced the air deftly toward imagined Covenanters. “We’ll accomplish the task with the well-applied tip of my sword here, here, and… here—Sorry, ma’am. I was aiming for your daughter. You, uh, might want to tuck those back into place.”
When the snickering subsided, Callum explained, “The curates have a list of everyone in the parish. We’re to investigate those who fail to attend Sunday services.”
Duncan lifted dark, knowing eyes to meet Callum’s. “Investigate. In English, does that mean to beat or hang them?” he said dryly.
“We will not harm anyone without good reason. We’re not like that, and you ken it,” said Callum sternly.
“We may not have a choice,” Duncan said.
With a spark in his eye, Charlie said, “Aye, we do. We’ll just ask them politely to trot their wee arses into the English kirk. I’m sure that will work nicely.”
“I say we use the same manners they used on our parents when they were wee children. Thousands marched into our homes with their civilized manners and burned our chapels and families. But we are the barbarians,” said Duncan.
Hughie said, “Now we’re marching onto their land and forcing them to go to a different church. How is our cause any better?”
“You ask too many questions,” said Charlie.
“No,” said Callum, “It’s a fair question. The difference between the Presbyterians and us is that we fight for our clan. If our clan takes on the king’s cause, then that cause is ours. We honor our clan, for without our clan and our honor, we are nothing. It’s simple and true.”
Alex said, “We can keep our minds simple enough—some of us more easily than others,” he said with a sideways glance toward Charlie, “but dinnae expect welcoming hugs when we get there.”
With a sharp look, Callum said, “That’s why we will not let down our guard, ken?”
The men all gave a nod.
Callum went on, “I ken you’ve all heard of what goes on—robbing, reiving, and the like. That will not happen with us, or you’ll answer to me. And that goes for the women. Treat them like our own.”
“That’s been my plan all along, to treat them like me ain!” said Charlie. He hastened to hold his arms up in defense toward Callum. “I was joking!”
Callum laughed. “I meant, you sorry swine, to treat them like we would treat our own women—such as our mothers and sisters, Charlie.”
*
They made camp on a hill overlooking the farms of Dunross. While they worked, Callum said, “We’ll bide here for a while.”
“And do what?” Alex asked.
“Watch and wait.”
Alex, looking unusually serious, said, “Can you not tell us more about the man we are looking for—perhaps what he looks like?”
“Aye.” Callum looked at him frankly. “We got a detailed description from the Archbishop’s daughter and servants: average height, average build—wearing bonnets or hats.” Callum rolled his eyes.
“Well that narrows it down to half the stinkin’ men in Scotland,” said Charlie.
“Aye, but I do have a name,” Callum added.
“A name? Well, you might have mentioned that sooner,” said Alex.
“James McEwan,” Callum said with a sly glint in his eye.
“See that farm down there? That’s where he lives, and that’s where we will quarter ourselves when the time’s right.”
*
Archie Ferguson was a tacksman, with one of the larger farms in the area. Because of this, his farm was often used to host Covenanter meetings. But today it was quiet, except for the usual workings of the farm. People were once again going about their everyday work, but now Jamie and Ellen were gone. Four weeks had passed, and the weeping was over—except for occasional moments when, in an instant, tears would well up unexpectedly. But the grief was still fresh.
Janet Ferguson greeted Marion and her mother and accepted the basket of shortbread Margaret offered. They sat outside weaving straw baskets and talking, sometimes as though nothing had happened. It bothered Marion to feel this way, but it was the way to go on, she supposed, else her grieving mind would unravel. And there was something comforting about hearing the two older women talking about other things—normal things—that concerned other people in the kirk.
“They’ll be crying the banns for Thomas Blackwell and Agnes Bell.”
“No! Agnes?”
“Aye.”
“With Thomas—the minister’s son?”
“Well! I dinnae ken they were even courting.”
The two women were so engrossed in the news that they barely noticed Marion get up and leave. She made it past the corner before she vomited. Wiping her mouth, she leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes, catching her breath, her palm on her abdomen. As she salvaged her composure, she sensed something and glanced up to discover the dairymaid, healer and midwife, Grizzal MacRorie, standing not far away, staring at her.
Since childhood, Grizzal had frightened Marion, with her brusque and often hurtful ways. “Some people just dinnae like children,” her mother had told her. But Marion thought this woman simply did not like people, for as Marion grew up, Grizzal continued to express her annoyance whenever it suited her and regardless of its effect. But today it was Marion who had little patience. She met Grizzal’s eyes squarely and said, “Have you no work to do?”
The woman stared straight back at her and, with a knowing look, said, “Aye.” But she made no move to leave.
“Then why dinnae you go do it?”
“Och, I was just thinkin’ o’ sumpin’ me mither used to say.”
Not wishing to seem rude, but in no mood to hear more, Marion gave a polite nod and walked back toward the house.
Behind her, still within earshot, she heard Grizzal say, “What’s done in the corner will come to the hearth.”
Marion needed no help feeling queasy, but she willed herself to get past the door, around the corner, and far enough past the buildings and workers to somewhere private where she would not be further observed. Her head spun for a moment. She clung to a tree.
No, I will not boak here.
She walked past the byre through the field densely dotted with yellow buttercups in bloom at her feet. She came to an oak, where she leaned on the far side of it, wiping her tears. Then on she walked into the shade of the woods, where no one would hear her weep. Tears freely flowed as she found herself by the cool water. She pulled the fillet from her hair and dipped it into the water, then pressed it to her red eyelids and cheeks as she continued along the worn path. The path was well traveled, but not at this time of the day, when the farmhands were working. No one would trouble her now. She followed the path to a high cliff from which water poured as if from a spout between two steep walls of rock. Marion stopped to be sick again, then finished her climb to the top of the falls, where she stood and watched water pound the rocks far below.
She leaned against a large tree and cried out, knowing that the roar of the waterfall would drown out the sound. No, it could not be, and yet she had wondered, but tamped down the thought and the fear that now roiled inside her. It could not be true, but when Grizzal as much as said it, she knew that it must be. She was with child—an unmarried sinner. Before long, it would show and bring shame on her parents, who had endured so much heartache already. The kirk folk would judge her, and her parents as well. She wept until she could cry no more. She gazed at the water approaching the falls, and a strange calm came over her. The water was smooth, almost as if it were still, and it soothed her. She stepped closer to watch it. The power of it mesmerized her. Closer yet she stepped, wondering at the way the clear water seemed to slow just before it sprayed over the ledge in a seemingly solid white mass. Her handkerchief slipped loose from her hand. Caught by the breeze, it billowed and seemed for an instant suspended in air before resting on the surface until the water swallowed it.
She had not planned or imagined this, yet she was here. It made sense to accept the immediate pain in exchange for the rest, which would last beyond her life and cling to the wee one. The wee bastard. When would that label lose its grip on her child? She could not bear to imagine their two lives, the unending judgment and pain—and the loneliness. Who would have her now? Worse yet, anyone who would have her would do so without love. Someone would have need of a wife to do farm chores, and her parents would marry her off. She had ached from loneliness before, but there had always been hope of it ending. Now there would be no end. She would live life alone, never having known love.
She peered down at the rocks below. In mere moments she could join Jamie and Ellen. She reached out her hand and let the mist from the waterfall settle on her smooth skin and calm her. She seemed apart from herself. The cool moisture dulled her pain. She stood there for a very long while. Her toes crept closer. One step, then another. Now was the best time to do it. No one would ever know why. They would think it was an accident. Her parents would not be shamed. If she waited, her family would suffer more, and that kind of suffering would be worse to bear. This would spare them. Yes, she was a coward, for she would also be spared. The torment of keeping the secret until the inevitable public disgrace was too much to fathom. She leaned forward and took one last step.
An arm clamped about her waist and pulled her back from the cliff to a patch of ground under an oak, the branches of which stretched to the ground forming a canopy over them. Callum held her there, with his arms wrapped around her waist from behind, solid arms and soft words.
She screamed and struggled against him, legs flailing, heels kicking his shins.
“Easy, lass. Shh. I’ll not harm you, but I’ll not let you harm yourself, either.” He held her and said soothing words in his deep voice until she stopped struggling.
“There now,” he spoke calmly. “We’re going to step away from the cliff, ken?” He cautiously loosened his hold, but she pulled away toward the cliff.
“No.” He spoke firmly, but quietly. “Sorry, lass, but you’re not going that way.” He heaved her up into his arms and carried her safely away, and then set her down. Her cheeks were flushed, and her nostrils flared. She made a few attempts to get free, but soon gave up and sat still where he had placed her. He took a seat between her and the waterfall, gripping her wrist, just in case.
With a steady gaze, he looked into her frantic eyes. “Now, let’s just sit down and rest for a bit.”
Contempt mixed with panic as she looked at his hand on her wrist. “I’ll have naught to do with you, soldier.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
As moments passed, she no longer struggled, but instead settled into a despondent slump. “Why will you not leave me alone?”
“I was not in the mood to watch you die.”
“You dinnae have to watch. You could have just gone away.”
He gave her a rueful half grin. “No, I could not do that either.”
“Why not?” She glanced at his uniform coat and plaid of a Highland dragoon with mixed fear and contempt. “You kill people all the time. Why do you care?”
“Because—you were not meant to die like that. Your life is worth more.”
Her eyes darkened. “Do you think me a fool? I ken what you’re after.” She scrambled backward and turned, trying to get up and run.
“No, lass.” He clamped a firm hand on her ankle, which may as well have been a leg iron for all she could move.
Given no choice, she turned toward him and sat, but her eyes flashed like a threatened creature facing its hunter. Her pulse throbbed in her neck as she took in gasps of air.
Taking no small offense, his tone bit through the words. “Listen, lassie. When I take a woman, it is not by force.” His eyes narrowed as he continued. “I just saved your life, you ungrateful beastie. I dinnae need a grand thank-you, but I could do with a wee bit less kicking and clawing.”
To his astonishment she seemed almost to smile, assuaged by his words.
He returned his own perplexed smile. At this point, he became acutely aware of his hand on her ankle. Slowly, he lifted his hand, but flexed in readiness should she run. With an admonishing look from beneath his dark lashes, he said, “No more jumping off cliffs, now?”
While she shook her head, large tears filled and then dropped from her eyes. He withdrew his hand at once.
“I ken you meant well over there,” she said in a quiet voice. Her eyes settled upon the waterfall, and a tear slipped from her lashes. She turned away as tears fell faster than she could wipe them away. “I’ll be fine now. Please leave me alone.”