‘Will they be in London now?’ Will asked when she finished, his eyes shining, one side of his face red with the heat.
‘They should be.’ Anne nodded. ‘Maybe the Prince sits on the throne tonight.’ That news would travel fast, but, even with fresh riders and mounts relaying it, would still take a few days to arrive.
‘Tell us again about putting MacGillivray in a dress,’ Jessie giggled.
The Dowager chased them off to their beds. It was late enough for those with daylight rises. But, instead of laying a wet peat on to damp down the fire for the night, she stirred it up, added a log and poured more ale for herself and Anne.
‘There is a bit of the story you missed,’ she said, ‘on the battlefield, you and Aeneas.’
‘How do you know?’ Anne was puzzled, then it dawned. ‘Did he tell you?’
‘He did.’ The Dowager nodded. ‘But I want to hear it from you.’
So Anne told her what had happened, about MacGillivray’s danger, the redcoat with the axe, the pistol shot, and her frozen, unable to speak, at the shock of seeing Aeneas, so close, close enough to leap off her horse and embrace, except for the way he looked at her, close enough to speak, until he walked away without a word.
‘Why did you leave that part out?’
‘I didn’t want them to know –’ her eyes filled with tears ‘– that their chief thinks so little of me, to save MacGillivray but treat his wife with such contempt.’
‘Oh, Anne,
a ghràidh
–’ the Dowager got out of her chair and down on her knees in front of Anne’s seat ‘– you’ve been so strong.
Don’t cry. Here.’ She handed her the handkerchief tucked in her waist. ‘Dry your eyes.’
‘I can’t bear it that he hates me so much.’
‘That’s because you love him.’
‘No.’ Anne blew her nose. ‘I don’t know that I do.’
‘Why else would you care what he thinks?’
‘I don’t know what he thinks. He won’t talk to me.’
The Dowager took and held both her hands, looking earnestly into her eyes.
‘He thinks you came on to the battlefield to shoot him.’
‘What?’
‘Because you thought he would kill MacGillivray.’
‘No!’
‘Your pistol pointed at him.’
‘Because the redcoat fell before I could fire. I didn’t see Aeneas till then.’ It had only been seconds. She replayed it in her head. The smoke, seeing him there. Her finger on the trigger. The look on his face. The look on his face.
Birdsong, a tangle of sound. Chirps, cheeps, the low burbles, a caw. Anne woke, disorientated, in the wood-panelled room. Bright winter sunlight crept in through the shutters. She stretched, arching back against the bulk behind her. Aeneas? Then she hadn’t only imagined him coming home in the night. She spun round but, no, it was only the pillow, dragged under the cover during sleep to fill the empty space. Memory fed her another sound, the clash of steel. She got up then. It had all happened. She wasn’t there but here, and alone.
Downstairs, Jessie had fires blazing and served hot porridge in the dining room.
‘I’ve a pair of kippers or some salt herring, if you want,’ she said when Anne came in. ‘There’s not much brought in by the clan, with so many being away and just the Dowager here.’
The Dowager was already seated, salting her breakfast, the table strewn with her papers. The
Caledonian Mercury
was standard fare and she filled the gaps left by its three weekly editions with the
Edinburgh Courant
. Now that war justified the expense, the
Spectator
and
London Evening Post
had joined them, more pertinent now despite the delay of their journey. She liked to read while eating.
‘The English papers seem amazed our army behaves on the way south,’ she said.
‘Porridge is fine,’ Anne told Jessie. ‘The fish will keep.’ She sat down at the table. ‘What does “behave” mean?’
‘I think they expected rape and pillage,’ the Dowager considered, ‘with us being barbarians.’ But she could not keep a straight face. They both laughed.
‘We pay for everything,’ Anne said. ‘It’s friends we seek, not enemies.’
The Dowager indicated the steaming kettle on the hearth.
‘We thought you might like some of your tea.’
Anne shook her head. ‘I’ll stick with ale, at least until the tea service arrives.’
‘The Edinburgh kirk will love you for it,’ the Dowager said, dryly.
‘I doubt I’ll ever redeem myself,’ Anne said, ‘after rescuing Shameless from that sour minister’s notion of justice.’
While they ate, the Dowager gave her the estate news. The Shaws had lost one son, the body brought home by his older brother, stitched into his Black Watch plaid by some kind Lowlander. The journey took him two weeks, what with dragging the pallet he’d made from branches to carry the corpse. There were several dead, or believed dead, a few that Anne knew from Moy.
‘And Màiri had the word from Aeneas, her Lachlan fell.’
‘The blacksmith’s son? But he’s with us,’ Anne said. ‘His father got him off the field. It was only flesh that was cut, and he is so proud of the scar. All the way down his back, it goes. But he’s alive, and doing well.’
‘By all that’s wonderful.’ The Dowager beamed. ‘Will can run over to Màiri’s when he gets back from Inverness. I sent him to light the fires for me, take the chill off. It won’t do, a house being empty in winter.’
Anne had more good news. Most of the young M
c
Intosh captives from the Black Watch, missing after Prestonpans, had joined the Jacobite army, fifty of them. She couldn’t remember all their names but had kept count. The Dowager knew of some who’d written from Edinburgh, but not that many. Anne frowned. The rest should have written home before crossing the border. She’d insisted on it.
‘Did Shameless get himself safe home?’ she asked.
He and Howling Robbie both, Robbie without a parole as well as short of an arm, the right one, and him right-handed, or was. The parole stipulated the holder would not fight the Jacobites again, on pain of death. Robert Nairn had meant to issue Robbie’s at the hospital in Edinburgh but that was forgotten in the kerfuffle with the incensed minister at the Mercat Cross. Without one to show
the terms of his release, Robbie might be considered a deserter. So Shameless had crossed out his own name on the one he had, inserted Robbie’s instead and went off back to the fort again.
‘He can’t do that,’ Anne objected. ‘We’ll have him on our records.’
‘If he’s ever taken, we’ll plead for him,’ the Dowager said. ‘He surely can’t die of stupidity.’
The rest of the news was of ordinary things. Meg’s cow looked fit to survive the winter now she wasn’t around to drain its blood. Old Tom was much the same, despite, or because of, the regular broth. Cath’s baby was crawling.
‘Did she stay with Ewan?’
‘Ewan went with you,’ the Dowager said.
‘Yes, but I sent him home, at the border, with the mail.’
‘
Och
, well, there’s your answer,’ the Dowager said. ‘He’ll be delivering every bit and piece himself. Do you know Cath’s baby is his?’
Anne nodded, distracted. She was trying to count the days, how many? Too many, she was sure.
‘So did Seonag,’ the Dowager rambled on. ‘Loved the baby, of course. The living are to be treasured. But she dusted Ewan down. Funny creatures, us women. We expect men not to mind sharing us, but if they do it, that’s a different story. But, then, I suppose we’re made for it and no man ever was. It’s all they can do to keep one woman satisfied, if that.’
‘That’s too long,’ Anne interrupted. ‘Ewan, he should’ve been home. That’s far too long.’
The door from the kitchens flung open. Will rushed in, Jessie close behind him.
‘They’re coming back,’ he yelled. ‘Our army, they’re coming back!’
‘Dè bha siud?’
The Dowager spun round to him.
‘What!’ Anne was on her feet. ‘From London?’
‘They didn’t go to London. They stopped at… at –’ he couldn’t recall ‘– some place near it. Lord George told the Prince they were coming home.’
Anne and the Dowager stared at one another, as if the answers to all the questions that raced through their minds could be found in each other’s eyes.
‘George will have his reasons,’ the Dowager got out.
‘That’s not all –’ Will was fair to bursting with it ‘– the government army is leaving Ruthven barracks! Going to Edinburgh, everybody says.’
‘Going to head them off,’ Anne conjectured. ‘Going to engage us.’
‘I would think,’ the Dowager agreed. ‘Oh dear, this is not good. There will be General Wade’s army behind them now. Then they’ll march into this one.’
Anne grabbed hold of Will.
‘Would you ride round Moy? Tell the guards we’re moving and I need every other warrior who’ll come out. We’ll gather at Invercauld.’
‘I will.’ The lad nodded frantically. ‘Soon as you let go my plaid.’
She did, and he rushed out, the door clattering behind him.
‘
Ach
–’ Anne remembered. Too late. ‘There’s Dunmaglas.’
‘I’ll do that,’ Jessie volunteered. ‘And I’ll send some runners from the first place I pass to the other clans.’
‘Good girl, good thinking.’
And Jessie, too, was gone. Anne ran into the kitchen and came back with the
arasaid
Jessie had taken from her the previous night, throwing it round her shoulders and belting it at the waist.
‘You’ll be off back to Braemar, then?’ the Dowager guessed.
‘No, my brother’s clan is already gathering. He’ll know our plans have changed. I came to see Aeneas and there’s more reason now than I thought, so I’m not leaving till I do. I’m going to Inverness.’
‘But they’re looking for you. You’ll be recognized. See.’ She lifted a London broadsheet from the table to show her.
‘Not from that, I won’t.’ Anne stared at the caricatured sketch. Surely it was a joke? She glanced at a second drawing beside it. ‘Jenny Cameron? They have her like a man.’
The Dowager would not be put off. ‘Folk round here can put the right face to your name. It’s dangerous.’
Anne flipped the loose fold of tartan that hung down her back up over her head. The hood effectively hid her face.
‘Most women will be hooded against the cold now,’ she said, ‘and I look like a cottar in this.’
‘But how will you get in the fort?’
‘I’ll worry about that when I get there.’
Then she, too, was gone.
‘Jessie!’ the Dowager called then, tutting at herself, went back to the dining room and poured herself another tankard of ale. ‘Well, dear house,’ she said, raising her drink in a toast, ‘seems you’re stuck with me again.
Slàinte!
’ She drank it down.
On the edge of Inverness, Anne stabled Pibroch with a woman she could trust, getting the horse into her kitchen so the neighbours wouldn’t talk. She left her sword and dirk, feeling naked without them, but wearing weapons was as good as declaring who she was.
‘Be careful,’ the woman said, as she made to leave on foot. ‘They’re hanging spies in the square. Struan Davidson it was, the other day.’
‘The signwriter?’ Davidson had collected funds for Jacobite troops. One of the dispatches sent with Ewan had been for him.
Anne pushed a pistol deep into the folds of her
arasaid
, in case. That alone would get her arrested, if it was seen, but at least she would not go without a fight. When she reached the square, there was a buzz around the gallows on the far side. It was market day, the square crowded with stalls, and folk were there to buy, see the troops off or watch another hanging. The crowds made good cover. Behind the gibbet, redcoat troops assembled, leaving the fort to join those at Ruthven further down the road. The gates were open, Lord Louden’s pennant flying from the mast. The Black Watch was still there, though perhaps not for long.
Anne kept her head down and worked her way around, perusing the stalls like any other cottar wife. At one of them, she bought a
flask of ale. That would do. She’d hurry to the gates, pretend she was a trader sent with a gift for Aeneas, no, for Louden, to wish him victory. That would get her in. Other women came and went, wives, sweethearts, those on business. In all the clatter of bodies, droning pipes, soldiers rushing about, those lining up, she’d never be noticed.
She turned to cross the thronging square, walking purposefully as suited being on an errand. High up on the gallows platform, some poor half-dead soul was lifted up by the armpits, head drooping on to his chest, towards the noose. Anne turned her gaze resolutely towards the fort, and froze. On the cobbles, at the foot of the gibbet, a captain in Black Watch uniform walked forward and stopped, looking up at the prisoner above. It was Aeneas.
Aeneas glanced up at the bruised and bloodied face of the man with the noose around his neck. Now he stared. Beside him, James Ray also stopped walking, and waited, his wife trailing behind. He looked idly around the square. Behind the breathless, waiting crowd, a hooded cottar woman, strangely familiar, stood transfixed, staring back, apparently at him rather than the hanging. Behind him, the trap of the gibbet clattered open. The condemned man dropped, the noose jerked tight around his neck, throttling, strangling. His legs kicked wildly. Aeneas saw who it was and grabbed Ray.
‘Weight that man down!’ he ordered, forcibly, pointing.
Ray leapt forwards, wrapped his arms round the dying man’s thrashing limbs, and jumped, bending his legs so he dropped with all his body weight jerking the struggling man downwards. The man’s neck broke, his legs twitched, the kicking ceased.
Anne automatically looked where Aeneas pointed. Her whole body chilled. She stared up at the hanged man, the hood of tartan falling back off her face. The man who swung on the gibbet was Ewan. Hardly able to comprehend, she gazed at the stocky warrior’s bruised, dead face. Aeneas had hanged Ewan. She had sent the cottar home, to start a new life. She had sent him with a letter for
Aeneas, a letter asking that they talk, and this was her husband’s answer. To Ewan, of all people, he would do this?
A skinny general dressed in black leapt in front of Aeneas, prancing like a demented stick-insect. Anne could hear his high, thin voice screaming.