Lady Of The Glen Part 6

Guilt was merciless. Without me, he wouldna be dead.

She flogged herself with it. Perhaps that was how her breeks had come to be torn. Without me, he wouldna be dead.

She heard a sound, and stopped short. MacDonalds . . . Were they coming back? Did they mean to kill her, also? Cat hugged herself, shivering in the darkness.

Without me, he wouldna be dead. Without MacDonalds, also. But it was her dirk, the dirk her father had set aside because of all the nicks. She had lifted that dirk as she intended to lift a cow, and it had killed Robbie.

Without me . . . Cat heard the rattle of stones. A m.u.f.fled, wuffling sound. Even as she prepared to flee, a s.h.a.ggy calf wandered out of the darkness and stopped, blinking great eyes at her.

"-only a cow-" Cat clutched her plaid-swathed chest, breathing rapidly. She convulsed as fright bled away, replaced with a bone-deep trembling in the aftermath of panic.

A cow. A calf. A Campbell calf, or a MacDonald. She believed it more likely it belonged in Glen Lyon, as the MacDonalds had come raiding before she could.

Cat laughed a little, then bit it back before the noise escaped her control and she keened like an old woman. "-brawlie calf," she crooned, marking its plumpness. "A braw, sonsie calf-" It was significantly less painful to think of living calves in place of dead brothers.

She put her hand on its damp, flared muzzle. Its breath was warm, sweetly redolent of summer gra.s.s. She bent, blew her own breath into its nostrils. It whuffled back.

A little Campbell calf.

The thought was abrupt. Robbie would want me to bring him home-Robbie would.

For Robbie.

Robbie's calf.

Behind her, away against the scree, the untended fire beside her brother's body died to ash and embers. It had been a small, unprepossessing fire, meant for men bent on cattle-lifting; was now lackl.u.s.ter tribute to Glenlyon's slain son, the impetuous young Campbell heir who one day would have been laird. The embers, Cat knew, would burn out before dawn. But by daylight she would be back, and the firelight wouldn't matter.

Robbie's calf whuffled again.

If she unwrapped her belt, she would lose her trews entirely. So Cat unpinned and shrugged out of her plaid, then twisted it into a rope. With it knotted around the calf's neck, she turned toward Glen Lyon. We'll go home, brawlie lad.

She thought briefly of Mairi Campbell, now bereft of her Robbie. And if there were a bairn, it would never know its father. Only its begetting, its heritage, and the name of a man long dead.

In Edinburgh, with the rain rattling gla.s.s, the Earl of Breadalbane looked upon Glenlyon. Nostrils flared slightly: Distaste. Distrust. But the earl had learned never to discard a single potential ally, despite apparent ineptness, lest he relinquish an advantage. And there will be one-there will be a task for him. I will use him well, one day. "Robin." He waited until Glenlyon's attention came back from its wandering. "You are not a political man."

Glenlyon shifted irritably. "What do I care for such things? Kings do as they will. Parliament does as it will. Politics have naught to do with the Highlands."

Breadalbane demurred politely. "It is no man's failure that he not be acquainted with the perambulations of the Privy Council and such men as Tories and Whigs-G.o.d knows there is intrigue aplenty both foul and formidable." He tapped a fingertip against the paper. "But there is the matter of the king."

Annoyed, Glenlyon frowned.

"There is opposition to James."

Glenlyon stirred. "Argyll's dead."

And replaced by his son, the tenth Earl of Argyll . . . Inwardly Breadalbane grimaced. Glenlyon was blind, unremittingly blind. "Other opposition. James is Catholic. He holds the throne though Catholics are barred from such things; Parliament, for now, looks the other way. But he is unpopular with those men who prefer to retain what power they carved out of the Commonwealth."

Glenlyon frowned incomprehension.

In brief digression, the earl wondered if it was a natural inclination for his kinsman to be ignorant of such matters, or if perhaps the whisky had rotted his brain. Patiently, he said, "James was permitted to inherit the throne despite his faith because his brother, Charles, sired no children on his barren queen . . . and after the turbulence of Cromwell's interregnum, no man desired political upheaval. Thus Protestant England inherited Catholic James and his equally Catholic wife . . . but there are those who now desire the sister in place of the brother. Mary."

He waited for comment. Glenlyon offered none. It has rotted his brain! With precise diction, he clarified further. "Mary is Protestant. Her brother defies the Church of England . . . but Mary is of the proper faith, and she had the foresight and good sense to marry a Protestant, albeit a Calvinist: the Dutchman, William of Orange." He waited again. "Do you understand?"

"What has this to do with Scotland?" Glenlyon asked peevishly.

It took immense patience not to shout. "All things have to do with Scotland. Mary is a Stuart, aye? Her husband is not. He is a Dutchman. His interests are different, his priorities otherwise."

"Good Christ-d'ye think this matters to me?" Glenlyon was clearly out of his depth, and frustrated by ignorance. "James. Mary. What is the difference?"

"The difference is power, Robin. Until Argyll's downfall, Clan Campbell was the most powerful in all Scotland. Our position is precarious, now . . . there are MacDonalds to contend with."

He paused. He wondered briefly if his ignorant, bankrupt cousin comprehended any measure of what the Earl of Breadalbane hinted. One man might call it treason.

I call it survival. "Folly, aye?" Breadalbane sipped whisky; smiled across the liquor at his befuddled kinsman as he spoke of treason. "To put all our faith in a king who may be removed within a year?"

Glenlyon was silent. Rain rattled the latch on mullioned windows. Outside, the glow from lamps in Holyrood were wan blots against the darkness. The earl did not know if Glenlyon contemplated the magnitude of what he suggested, or cared little enough about any of the repercussions that would alter the shape of his country. But then Highlanders, for the most part, cared more for cattle than politics.

Breadalbane took up the folded paper and replaced it in the leather casket. He closed the lid, fastened the hasp, then looked once more at his kinsman. Commitment was his to make, his sacrifice. Or Glenlyon would commit nothing to Breadalbane when the earl most needed it. "I supported Charles during and after the Restoration," he said. "I supported James against Argyll's folly by keeping half of Clan Campbell home from the most recent hostilities. But I am convinced the days of our present monarch are numbered, Robin-and I am not a man who desires to see his clan fall on hardship because of policies determined by the Sa.s.senachs in London."

Two spots of color burned high in Glenlyon's face. "You willna support James now?"

"True power lies in supporting the man most likely to keep the throne. James will lose it, I think . . . and a woman shall inherit it from him. But William of Orange is no fool; he will make his own decisions. England will answer first, and Scotland shall follow." Breadalbane's gaze was unwavering. "I prefer to lead."

Glenlyon sat very still. Then he stirred, like a dog newly roused, and pulled himself upright. He looked at the casket on Breadalbane's desk. "Comhairl'taigh."

"Indeed." The earl spread his right hand over the domed lid. "If I am to succeed in maintaining Clan Campbell's preeminence, I will require the support of Breadalbane and Glenorchy, which are mine-and Glenlyon, which is yours." He paused. "For the time being."

Robert Campbell's lips pulled back from his teeth. "You've no respect for me!"

"You were a soldier, once; I do not forget it." Breadalbane smiled unctuously. "There is worth in you yet, Robin. One day, I shall require it-and you-in some other enterprise."

Glenlyon's waxen face congealed into something akin to a painted mask come to life. His voice, newly strengthened, boomed out harshly. "Until then?"

Breadalbane spread his hands. "Until then, go home to Glen Lyon. Keep your cattle close. Let no MacDonald set foot on Campbell land, lest there be tragedy of it." He rose, pushing back his chair. "Will you drink whisky with me, Robin? To the destruction of MacDonalds?"

Glenlyon, exalted by renewal, laughed too loudly as he lunged from the chair. "Christ, John, I thought you meant to put me out wi'out it!"

Breadalbane recoiled. "What kind of a Scot-a Highlander!- would I be if I denied a man hospitality?" He briefly touched his cousin's shoulder, then moved to the sideboard. He poured two gla.s.ses full, put one into trembling hands, and waited.

Glenlyon offered a too-hasty toast-"Chruachan!"-and gulped down the whisky.

Breadalbane, with less need, swallowed only a small amount. "And to the monarchy!"

Startled, Glenlyon lowered his gla.s.s. A sheen of liquor stood on his lip. "To-James?"

Breadalbane merely smiled and offered no answer.

To James. To Mary. To William. He would serve the strongest of them, in the name of his clan, his G.o.d, and himself.

Dair MacDonald, feasted within the walls of Castle Stalker, warded against the rain that now shrouded the loch, was not blind to Jean Stewart when she came into the hall. He, as the other Glencoe-men, marked her at once; no man could not. No man could not look at her and not want her. And he was no Papist priest or saint, sworn away from women.

Robbie Stewart, slouched in his chair, arched sandy brows. His was a mobile face with features made for movement, and he used it well. Just now he smiled benignly, blue eyes preternaturally bright.

His sister moved to stand just off Dair's right shoulder. He smelled her perfume as, with elegant aplomb, she bent over his arm and reached for his horn cup, taking it from him so she might refill it with the whisky in her flagon. She performed properly as chatelaine, mindful of her duties; but no man there was unaware of other such duties as they would take up willingly, did she give them leave.

With murmured thanks, Dair accepted the filled cup. He did not look at her. He looked instead at her brother, who grinned broadly and buried his face in his own horn cup as if he had nothing else on his mind save the taste of the liquor.

After brief hesitation, Jean moved away. He felt her go, intensely aware of her obvious interest as well as her allure. He ignored her no more than any other man, MacDonald or Stewart, because no man could. And she knew it. And he knew she knew it. It was withal a cunning game, if left unspoken, yet played nonetheless.

Robbie set down his cup. Like a cat he stretched, then leaned forward in studied nonchalance. Lamplight glistened in wiry hair, deepening it to purest gold. "Och, aye," he said quietly, "I see it. I ken it. And I willna interfere-she'll do as she chooses, my Jean . . . but a wise man kens I am a protective brother." He pushed his cup over to smack against Dair's in unstudied toast. "You will do as you choose, aye?-but a wise man kens I will kill the man who hurts her."

The rain infuriated Cat. But it also reinforced her determination; to give up the calf after bringing him so far, after falling so many times into burns both wide and narrow and the sticky edges of bog, was to admit defeat, and that she would not do.

Dampness was no burden; she was soaked already. And when the rain at last beat through thick hair to the pale scalp beneath, she turned her face to the heavens and laughed out loud. "Are you kin to MacDonalds, come up against me to steal my cow? Well, you willna. He's mine, the brawlie lad-he'll be home to Glen Lyon with me!"

Thunder answered lightning. The calf at the end of her twisted plaid skittered sideways.

Cat nearly lost her grip. "No, no-dinna fash yourself. Brawlie lad, sonsie lad-" She took a firmer grip on the sodden wool. "You're a Campbell cow, now; likely before, as well. Come along wi' me, then, brawlie lad, and forget the poor gra.s.s in Glencoe. We've better to offer in Glen Lyon!"

A burn cut through the track. Water ran hard in it, swollen by new rain; Cat slipped in, climbed out, and realized she had lost a battered brogue. Likely the shoe was gone before she got out; the water ran that fast.

She turned her face to the sky again. "A poor blow, that! Here-have the other one!" She stripped off the remaining brogue and tossed it into darkness. "I'm a Campbell; d'ye hear? Naught so pawkie as that can defeat a Campbell!"

The calf protested again, twisting his head against her makeshift rope. Cat inspected and repositioned the plaid, testing its strength. It was good wool, or had been, once, loomed in Glen Lyon. "Naught so puny as a tug or two will tear it . . ." She scratched the calfs k.n.o.bby poll, grooming wet hair with a deft twisting of big-knuckled fingers. "There now, you'll see all is well-"

The skies lit up around them, illuminating the wasteland of Rannoch Moor with its treacherous bogs; blighted, twisted trees; the frenzied vegetation. In lightning's wake thunder crashed so loudly Cat thought her skull might split.

She cupped one hand over an ear. Can thunder break my lug-holes?

It broke the calf's courage. Panicked, it tore free of her grip and shed the tattered plaid.

Blinking rapidly in the aftermath of blinding glare, Cat saw the flick of the calf's tail as the s.h.a.ggy beast scrabbled clumsily away from her, heading back into renewed darkness.

She lurched after it. "Wait. . . wait-"She stumbled three steps, still clutching her plaid, still meaning to catch the calf "-you canna go! Wait-" to put the twisted wool around him again, to lead him once more out of Rannoch Moor to the gentler lands of Glen Lyon . . . where he can spend his days with good Campbell cattle- All at once she began to cry in great heaving gulps. She did not shout again for the calf to wait; did not offend the skies again with a Campbell challenge for fear the storm would consume her "-MacDonald clouds-"and take again, this night, the life of a Glen Lyon Campbell.

Cat collapsed onto b.u.t.tocks naked of breeks, clad only in threadbare smallclothes, and dug brogueless heels into mud. She sc.r.a.ped fingers into her hair until the nails abraded scalp. The tattered, ruined plaid echoed her dishevelment as it dangled from rigid fists. "Ochone," she wailed, in traditional Gaelic lament. "Ochone, ochone-"

Robbie was dead. Robbie was dead.

And I have lost the calf- The brawlie, sonsie calf.

Robbie was dead.

-oh G.o.d, oh G.o.d- What would her father say- -what will he SAY?- -to know the dirk he had cast off that she had later lifted was the means to his heir's death?

"O-O-"She buried her face in sodden wool and began to rock in the rain.-o-chone-Back and forth, back and forth, while the thunder crashed around her.

Ochone. Ochone.

Robbie. Dead.

She flinched away from it. Far easier to greet for the calf. In that, there was no guilt.

Thunder was m.u.f.fled by the stone walls, forming only a dull, rumbling mutter inside Castle Stalker, like a hound displeased by his master. Jean Stewart stood near the doorway leading into the hall, counting up the men; counting on one man. Twin-born, Appin-born, bred of reckless Stewarts, Jean claimed her own tenfold measure of intransigence and volatile Highland pride. She was, as was her brother, overblessed of ambition, ruthless in implementation.

Alasdair Og MacDonald. Not blind to her-no man was blind to her-but seemingly indifferent, circ.u.mspect, careful. Or warned away by Robbie . . . Which irritated her intensely. Here was a man she wanted, who did not, apparently, want her badly enough to risk her brother; Jean took it as a personal affront as well as valid challenge. She would win his regard. She would win his worship. She would win his body, his soul.

She would take him prisoner as she had so many men, and turn him out of his dungeon on the day she wearied of him.

Thunder rumbled again. Jean Stewart smiled. He will do, aye?

For now. For the night, the day, the week. Until the next man with naught beneath his kilt but the all too transient bounty bestowed by G.o.d.

There is no shooting here, no shouts of fear and fury, no triumphant war cries. What has been done is done, and no one remains behind.

She runs until she trips over an obstacle just before the door. Pain steals her breath; until she finds it again she lies where she has fallen, unmindful of her sprawl.

It isn't until her senses, less startled than her thoughts, identify the obstacle as a body does she makes any attempt to get up and then it is in a lurching scramble that flings her back from the corpse.

Her fall has disturbed the snow. She sees the trews around his ankles, the bloodied nightshirt, the hair dyed crimson. Nothing remains of his face save the dull white splinter of jawbone.

Part II.

1689.

One.

At the edge of the gloaming, as the day faded to night, Dair saw the fire blossom. It was but a spark at first, a distant blot of flame dipping up and down the hilltops, but he knew what it was without seeing its shape. The wind had carried rumors, and a name as well: James Graham, Viscount Dundee.

His view was of water, and hills beyond, framed by a narrow window. He watched the fire blossom, then bloom, spilling over the hilltops. Up and down, up and down, across the weft of burn-broken braes, and at last to the lower slopes spilling down to the water's edge. It was an eloquent dance, an ancient dance, the dance of a thousand men; of thousands and thousands before them, Norse and Pict and Scot, sleeping now in barrows still swelling under turf.

Dair shut his eyes. Behind his lids he could see the flame yet; see in its pa.s.sage a tangled skein of smoke fading into darkness. He could hear the pipes, the pibroch; the keening of fresh-honed blades, the battle cry of the men, his men, Glencoe-men: MacDonalds. The distant fire kindled in his blood until he burned alive with it; until his genitals tightened and the fine hairs stood up on his flesh.

He opened his eyes. The fire still burned, still smoked, still came on. Not a loosed fire, but a carried one, a purposeful flame; its message, though lacking in detail, was well known to every man of Appin, of Glencoe, of Argyllshire and Breadalbane. To every man Highland-born.

Dundee wants us.

Dair did not hear her, but he knew the instant she entered the chamber. He had memorized her scent, her step, the fit of her neck to shoulders, the slant of hip curving into waist, the husky catch in her voice. He knew all parts of her, all manner of her habits.

She came to stand behind him, but did not put her hands on his flesh. " 'Tis come, aye?"