Lady Of The Glen Part 52

The boy stood very straight, poised to depart as a fox to bolt. "As soon as may be. There are women and bairns with him. He is MacIain now, aye?-he must tend his folk."

Hill looked again at the young Highlander, who was a man in a lad's body, summarily robbed of his childhood by such doings as Breadalbane's, and those political creatures who believed themselves superior to Scots in general, and to Highlanders specifically.

"Have you anyone left?" he asked. "A father . . . your mother? Brothers and sisters?"

"Naught," the boy answered steadily; his grief was long spent. There was no more a.s.suagement in it. "But now I may go home. 'Twill no' be so bad in Glencoe again."

Clearly he wanted to be gone. The governor thanked him, dismissed him, then collapsed into his chair. "Home," he said aloud, and knew that except for the army and such solace as lived in the Lord, John Hill had no home.

Dair worked himself up over the lip of the last cave. He ached with exertion but gave in to none of it; the leg was whole again, if the muscles as yet still weak, and he had walked, limped, and crutched all the way from Glencoe to the kinder lands of Appin, searching for his brother and the remainder of his clan.

Ash. Charred wood. Sc.r.a.pings in the dirt. A scattered pile of bones he took for a coney's. Even a burial cairn not far from the cave. But no MacDonalds. All of them had gone.

Despair encroached. To come so far, so urgently, needing to find his people, longing to see his brother, only to know himself in hermitage again.

The splints he had cast off halfway from Glencoe, relied upon at first because of the leg's fragility in intemperate footing. But despite the pain in wasted muscle, despite the protests of new-knitted bone, he refused to give in to weakness. He limped, aye, but was whole, and had walked every step.

-oh, good Christ-He leaned on the crutch, overtaken by desolation. Had John feared him dead, or merely delayed? Had John trusted to Murdo to see his brother to safety? Or did John himself lie beneath the cairn of stones?

And Young Sandy now MacIain.

-gone- Overcome, Dair shut his eyes. He had, as he healed, managed to catch small vermin to put food in his belly, to drink from running burns, but not eat so much that a man survived unscathed. Murdo was gone; had been gone for weeks. He suspected Murdo was dead. But whatever the truth of it he was made to fend for himself, or die alone in the cave below the Pap of Glencoe as his mother, too, had died, wrapped in a borrowed s.h.i.+rt and bloodied tartan plaid.

Outside, a stone was displaced. Thinking of his brother, thinking of his people-such as still remained-Dair swung around, wavered, cursed his awkwardness; it was the crutch that saved him from toppling headlong to the ground.

A man came out of the sunlight. Dair nearly gaped. His voice, so long unused save for occasional discussions with his troublesome leg, croaked in a dry throat. "Robbie-?"

Indeed, Robbie Stewart. "Jean is dead," he said only, and a dirk glinted in his fist.

In summer, heather blazed. Cat, unfettered by brothers, rode alone away from Chesthill, skirting the bogs of Rannoch Moor as she followed the common track cut originally by deer, if later by thieving MacDonalds intent on Campbell cows.

Una no longer mattered, nor did disparagement from men such as Jamie and Dougal; Colin said nothing of it. And so she wore trews and a man's s.h.i.+rt, bound about by doubled leather with a dirk thrust through it. No plaid; the day was fine. No confining bonnet either; red hair flagged free in the wind.

Cat nodded grimly. This track, this moor, this hillock with its lone and twisted sceptre atop a stony crown, from where she had cut down the rope that nearly took Dair's life.

She reined in her garron and sat silent a long moment. The tree bore no fruit, neither hemp-hung nor human; the hill bore no Campbells save the memory of footprints now blown away. Her only witness was the garron she rode, and the lone eagle soaring above.

She climbed down then and turned to the panniers fastened to the saddle. She retrieved a small wooden box and a rusted spade, then climbed the nondescript hill to the crown and the sceptre. She dug a hole, gathered stones. Then set the box in the hollow, covered it with soil, and lastly built a cairn.

It was neither kirk nor kirkyard, nor consecrated ground save what lay beneath the sky. But it would do for the bairn that died the week she came home with whisky in her belly as well as Dair's child.

So long she had waited. Una had been shocked and dismayed by Cat's wishes, but she had given in at last. In the light of a quarter moon she and Cat had dug a temporary grave near the house for the poor wee bairn, locked away in a wooden box, and dug it up again now that summer had come, now that Cat was able to say a proper farewell.

Kneeling, she placed the last of the stones atop the crude cairn. She had nothing of its father. Nothing of its clan. Nothing that had not burned on the night Glenlyon betrayed them.

Ochone.

Cat looked up at the eagle.

So many MacDonalds dead.

-ochone- -ochone- And now MacIain's grandchild.

"Ochone, "Cat murmured.

Empty. Empty. Empty.

Overhead, the eagle shrieked.

Robbie's face was haunted, the flesh fined down so that his eyes were set in deep hollows and glittered with enmity. Sharp lines incised the shape of his mouth, had set in the flesh of his brow. Bonnetless sandy hair tangled on his neck. He wore kilt, plaid, s.h.i.+rt, but no shoes upon his feet.

Beyond him, down the slope, his garron nickered. Behind him the sky was a blazing, brilliant blue.

"Dead," Dair echoed hoa.r.s.ely. Not Jean. No. -not Jean also- On the stag-horn hilt, Robbie's fist tightened so that his knuckles shone white. "She meant to slip a bairn. She didna wish to bear it. The old bizzem gave her herbs . . ." Tears shone briefly, as briefly evaporated. "She died of it."

So many MacDonalds dead.

So many MacDonalds: father, mother, kinfolk.

A Campbell la.s.s.

"-and now a Stewart," Dair blurted. "Och, Christ-" He wavered against his crutch, propping himself upright with effort. He was weary, so weary and hungry, and empty of the strength required to grieve . . . and she deserving of it-As much as anyone.

Stewart stared at him mutely, blue eyes black in the pallor of the cave.

Dair drew in a rasping breath. "I didna ken-I didna ken, I swear . . . och, Robbie-"

Briefly, Stewart bared his teeth. " 'Twasn't yours," he said flatly. "D'ye take credit for another man's labor?"

Shocked into stillness, Dair stared at him mutely.

" 'Twasn't yours," Stewart repeated. "But she went wi' the b.a.s.t.a.r.d because you deserted her."

"-my fault-?" He could not s.h.i.+rk more grief. He owed Robbie that much. And Jean. -och, Jean-"My fault. Aye."

Abruptly Stewart's rage deflated. His face knotted. "Oh Christ-" Robbie hurled down the dirk. "-Christ, I canna do it . . ." He swung then, plaid billowing, and stalked to the lip of the cave, where he stood with hands on hips and stared out into the daylight. His spine was inflexible, like a flintlock's ramrod. "She was all I had, was Jean. And twin-born!"

Dair said nothing.

"All," Robbie repeated, voice m.u.f.fled. "My father naught but an invalid, laird in name-and Jean, only Jean . . ." When he swung back his face was wet. "I ken what she was. Me, in female flesh; aye, well, so she was. I let her be, because I kent what it was to be so." He scowled fiercely, painfully. "You are a man others love. I am one they fear."

Dair offered nothing. It was Robbie's confession.

"I swore to kill you, MacDonald. As she breathed her last." Stewart's smile was a rictus. "But how d'ye kill a dead man? Holy Jesus, I didna ken 'twas you till I saw your eyes . . . have you looked at yourself, all bearded and befilthed?"

Dair stared fixedly at the spurned dirk, unable to look away. "I havena," he said absently. "I have no mirror, aye?-and the burnwater I drink." Now at last he could look again at Robbie. He swallowed tightly. His body, having done all it could, wanted to give out. "Have you a wee bit of food?"

Stewart opened his mouth. Shut it.

Chastened, Dair gestured awkwardly. "I shouldna ask it, aye? Not of you. Not after-Jean."

"My garron," Stewart said harshly. "Would you have me butcher him for you?"

A weak laugh gusted out. "Och, no, Robbie-"

"Christ-I should . . . "Stewart examined him intently. The skull beneath thin flesh was more p.r.o.nounced than ever. Softly he said, "I canna do it, Jean. He has suffered enough for Glencoe."

Dair blinked dazedly, clinging to his crutch.

Stewart's enmity abruptly spilled away, replaced by weariness and resignation. "John said you would come. He and the others went on. He asked me to come daily to see if you were here, so I might tell you what has become of them, and what will become of you." Blue eyes did not waver. "The king has pardoned MacDonalds. You may go home again. "

"-home?" It was incomprehensible. Dair clutched at the crutch to keep from falling. "To Glencoe-?"

"Home," Robbie repeated. "John and the others have gone on to Fort William so he may wish well of Governor Hill. He has given his oath to Ardkinglas in Inveraray."

Dair's lips were cold and stiff. "My father gave his oath to Ardkinglas at Inveraray. They killed him anyway."

"Not now. No more. They'll no' do such again." Robbie's thin smile was fixed. "They have learned their lesson of it."

"They have learned their lesson!" Fury dulled and diminished by deprivation abruptly kindled and took fire. Dair, balancing precariously upon two trembling legs, flung the crutch against the cave wall. "What lesson have they learned save how to butcher a clan under a sacred trust? What lesson have they learned save how to kill a laird, how to kill his wife, how to hack to pieces the women and the bairns?"

Transfixed, Stewart gaped at him.

Dair sucked in a noisy breath. "What have they learned, Robbie, that absolves them of such things? That starving men canna fight? That people with no homes live as animals? That a woman stripped of clothing will freeze to death in a blizzard? That a woman is shot down even though she be a Campbell?" His throat was sc.r.a.ped raw. He did not care if it bled. "What lesson have they learned from which they take the right to pardon innocent people?"

Tears painted Robbie's face. He flung back his head and howled like a Gael of old, his grief and anger so loud it rang in the cave and echoed, hands knotted into fists thrust into the air.

And then he stopped the noise as abruptly as he began it and stared fiercely at Dair, new tears glittering in his eyes. "I meant to kill you. For Jean. I meant not to tell you. For me. So I kent you would suffer." He had bitten his lip. Blood welled in the wound. "But you have suffered enough."

Dair gazed at him blankly, exhausted by his outburst.

Bitterly, Stewart spat blood and saliva. "She isna dead, MacDonald. Glenlyon's daughter lives."

Now at last he fell. He permitted himself to fall.

"-Christ-"Robbie caught him, eased him to the floor. His arm was strong across Dair's shoulders, propping up his head. "Aye, well . . ." Comprehension and acknowledgment warred with loyalty to his sister. "I might wish such love for myself, one day, though it seems unlikely; I am what I have always been. But I'll no' deny it to you, even for Jean's sake." He pressed Dair's shoulder briefly. "Wait you," he said gruffly, "I'll fetch the garron here."

In great heaving gulps Dair began to breathe, to laugh, to cry. Weakness no longer mattered. Even hunger he could bear.

Glenlyon's daughter lived.

Lured by summer sunlight, Cat sat collapsed upon the wide wooden bench set against her father's house and gazed out across the dooryard. In deference to the day she had cast off shoes, rolled up trews and cuffs, and folded her legs crosswise upon the bench, slumped against the wall in a posture favored in childhood but rarely indulged when Una was present to see it.

Just now it did not matter; she was grown withal-and Una was after all too busy baking bread.

The view of the dooryard and what lay beyond-winding track, familiar hill, scant stands of fir and pine-was wholly unchanged, as was grief, the abiding loneliness. For a moment, a moment only, in the sun, she had found surcease; now it bounded back and snared her, squeezing her heart again.

-so many rumors. . . so much gossip traded freely, gleefully, embellished by avid mouths telling tales of the ma.s.sacre and of MacDonalds escaping, including MacIain's sons.

But no one knew the truth, and no one knew to tell her: she was Glenlyon's daughter.

She would, she thought, go up herself to Fort William and confront the governor, who ought to know what had become of the MacDonalds.

But what if he tells me Dair is dead?

Cat shut her eyes, conjuring the memory of Dair leaving her to go to Inverrigan's in the midst of the blizzard, because he was not easy in his mind regarding the soldiers' presence. A brief kiss, a murmured promise he would be back . . . and no more did she see him again.

If he tells me Dair is dead- The m.u.f.fled snort of a garron roused her, distracting her from pain. She opened her eyes, blinked away tears, and saw the rider approaching.

She unfolded her legs and sat up straight; visitors were uncommon, and she had been bred up on Highland hospitality. It was her father who had forgotten.

From distance she marked him: an old man, thin of frame, gaunt of features, entirely white of hair. Unhindered by bonnet, tousled by wind, it flowed back from his face like spring snowmelt, though someone had crudely cut it across the back of his neck.

He turned into the dooryard. At the well he halted the horse, which stretched its neck and pulled rein in pursuit of water. The rider climbed down slowly, carefully, as an old man does; loosed the rein, drew up the bucket, let the garron drink.

At last he turned to her, paused, then began to walk across the dooryard.

Barefoot, he limped.

Thin, gaunt, white-haired. But Cat knew the eyes. Cat knew the smile.

-bonnie, bonnie prince- In one taut thrust she was up from the bench.

-Dair-oh Dair- Barefoot, she ran.

"-Dair-oh, Dair-"

Thin, gaunt, white-haired. Less than he had been. More than she expected.

"-alive-"she blurted.

"Och, aye, forbye . . ." He caught her. He held her. He crushed her against him.

No words, there were no words; no words existed in her world, in his, only the language of their feelings, and that too great, too intensely full for anything beyond the sound of their ragged breathing, the desperate clinging of their bodies.

Comprehension. Acknowledgment. Reaffirmation.

-alive- Alive.

He went down, was down, and so was she, with him, down in the dirt, the turf; and he laughed even as she cried, and cried as she laughed, sharing without words what lived in their hearts and bodies, all the pent, unspent emotions. All the knowledge, all the memories, the bleak weeks of falsehoods told to them as truths: that he was dead, that she was.

Not dead. Neither.

They were tangled like puppies, limbs seeking purchase against earth, against flesh. Nearby, the garron whickered, made uneasy by their ungainly sprawl.

They tended it, that sprawl. Sat up again, but let go of no comfortable portion, nor of any part they might reach, so long as it be flesh, alive, and whole.

He was not so old after all, only aged beyond what he had been. But there was time, so much time before them to finish what they had begun, all unaware, on a dew-damp day before her father's house.