There are the small Irish pipes, used indoors for making music, and the Great Northern pipes, used outdoors for reveille, and for calling of clans to order, and the spurring of men to battle. It was the Northern pipes that MacIan played, walking to and fro with his eyes shut tight.
Rising from my seat as he finished one evening, I waited while he pressed the last of the air from his bag with a dying wail, and fell in alongside him as he came in through Stirling’s gate with a nod to the guard.
“Good e’en to ye, Mistress,” he said. His voice was soft, and his eyes, now open, softer still with the unbroken spell of his playing still on him.
“Good evening to you, MacIan,” I said. “I wondered, MacIan, why do you play with your eyes tight shut?”
He smiled and scratched his head, but answered readily enough.
“I suppose it is because my grandsire taught me, Mistress, and he was blind. I see him always when I play, pacing the shore with his beard flying in the wind and his blind eyes closed against the sting of the sand, hearing the sound of the pipes come down to him off the rocks of the cliffside and knowing from that where he was in his walk.”
“So you see him, and you play, too, to the cliffs and the sea? From where do you come, MacIan?” I asked. His speech was low and sibilant, even more than that of most Highlanders.
“It is from the Shetlands, Mistress,” he replied, making the last word almost “Zetlands.” “A long way from here.” He smiled again, and bowed to me as we came to the guest quarters, where I would turn. “But then, I am thinking that you have come farther still, Mistress.”
“That’s’true,” I said. “Good night, MacIan.”
* * *
Later that week, I wondered whether his skill at playing unseeing would help him, here in the dark. A large body of men moving makes a good bit of noise, no matter how quietly they go, but I thought any echoes they created would be drowned in the howl of the rising wind. The night was moonless, but the sky was light with clouds, and an icy sleet was falling, stinging my cheeks.
The men of the Highland army covered the ground in small groups of ten or twenty, moving in uneven bumps and patches, as though the earth thrust up small hillocks here and there, or as though the groves of larch and alder were walking through the dark. My news had not come unsupported; Ewan Cameron’s spies had reported Hawley’s moves as well, and the Scottish army was now on its way to meet him, somewhere south of Stirling Castle.
Jamie had given up urging me to go back. I had promised to stay out of the way, but if there was a battle to be fought, then the army’s physicians must be at hand afterward. I could tell when his attention shifted to his men, and the prospects ahead, by the sudden cock of his head. On Donas, he sat high enough to be visible as a shadow, even in the dark, and when he threw up an arm, two smaller shadows detached themselves from the moving mass and came up beside his stirrup. There was a moment’s whispered conversation; then he straightened in his saddle and turned to me.
“The scouts say we’ve been seen; English guards have gone flying for Callendar House, to warn General Hawley. We shallna wait longer; I’m taking my men and circling beyond Dougal’s troops to the far side of Falkirk Hill. We’ll come down from behind as the MacKenzies come in from the west. There’s a wee kirk up the hill to your left, maybe a quarter-mile. That’s your place, Sassenach. Ride there now, and stay.” He groped for my arm in the darkness, found it, and squeezed.
“I shall come for ye when I can, or send Murtagh if I can’t. If things should go wrong, go into the kirk and claim sanctuary there. It’s the best I can think of.”
“Don’t worry about me,” I said. My lips were cold, and I hoped my voice didn’t sound as shaky as I felt. I bit back the “Be careful” that would have been my next words, and contented myself with touching him quickly, the cold surface of his cheek hard as metal under my hand, and the brush of a lock of hair, cold and smooth as a deer’s pelt.
I reined to the left, picking my way slowly as the oncoming men flowed around me. The gelding was excited by the stir; he tossed his head, snorting, and fidgeted under me. I pulled him up sharply, as Jamie had taught me, and kept a close rein as the ground sloped suddenly up beneath the horse’s hooves. I glanced back once, but Jamie had disappeared into the night, and I needed all my attention to find the church in the dark.
It was a tiny building, stone with a thatched roof, crouched in a small depression of the hill, like a cowering animal. I felt a strong feeling of kinship with it. The English watchfires were visible from here, glimmering through the sleet, and I could hear shouting in the distance—Scots or English, I couldn’t tell.
Then the pipes began, a thin, eerie scream in the storm. There were discordant shrieks, rising unearthly from several different places on the hill. Having seen it before at close hand, I could imagine the pipers blowing up their bags, chests inflating with quick gasps and blue lips clamped tight on the chanters’ stems, cold-stiff fingers fumbling to guide the blowing into coherence.
I could almost feel the stubborn resistance of the leathern bag, kept warm and flexible under a plaid, but reluctant to be coaxed into fullness, then suddenly springing to life, part of the piper’s body, like a third lung, breathing for him when the wind stole his breath, as though the shouting of the clansmen near him filled it.
The shouting was louder, now, and reached me in waves as the wind turned, carrying eddying blasts of sleet. There was no porch to give shelter, or any trees on the hillside to break the wind. My horse turned and put his head down, facing into the wind, and his mane whipped hard against my face, rough with ice.
The church offered sanctuary from the elements, as well as from the English. I pushed the door open and, tugging on the bridle, led the horse inside after me.
It was dark inside, with the single oiled-skin window no more than a dim patch in the blackness over the altar. It seemed warm, by contrast with the weather outside, but the smell of stale sweat made it suffocating. There were no seats for the horse to knock over; nothing save a small shrine set into one wall, and the altar itself. Oppressed by the strong smell of people, the horse stood still, snorting and blowing, but not fidgeting overmuch. Keeping a wary eye on him, I went back to the door and thrust my head out.
No one could tell what was happening on Falkirk Hill. The sparks of gunfire twinkled randomly in the dark. I could hear, faint and intermittent, the ring of metal and the thump of an occasional explosion. Now and then came the scream of a wounded man, high as a bagpipe’s screech, different from the Gaelic cries of the warriors. And then the wind would turn, and I would hear nothing, or would imagine I heard voices that were nothing but the shrieking wind.
I had not seen the fight at Prestonpans; subconsciously accustomed to the ponderous movements of huge armies bound to tanks and mortars, I had not realized just how quickly things could happen in a small pitched battle of hand-to-hand fighting and small, light arms.
The first warning I had was a shout from near at hand. “Tulacb Ard!” Deafened by wind, I hadn’t heard them as they came up the hill. “Tulacb Ard!” It was the battle cry of clan MacKenzie; some of Dougal’s troops, forced backward in the direction of my sanctuary. I ducked back inside, but kept the door ajar, so that I could peer out.
They were coming up the hill, a small group of men in flight. Highlanders, both from the sound and the sight of them, plaids and beards and hair flying around them, so they looked like black clouds against the grassy slope, scudding uphill before the wind.
I jumped back into the church as the first of them burst through the door. Dark as it was, I couldn’t see his face, but I recognized his voice when he crashed headfirst into my horse.
“Jesus!”
“Willie!” I shouted. “Willie Coulter!”
“Sweet bleeding Jesus! Who’s that!”
I hadn’t time to answer before the door crashed against the wall, and two more black forms shot into the tiny church. Incensed by this noisy intrusion, my horse reared a
nd whinnied, pawing the air. This gave rise to cries of alarm from the intruders, who clearly had thought the building unoccupied, and were disconcerted to find otherwise.
The entrance of several more men only increased the confusion, and I gave up any idea of trying to subdue the horse. Forced to the rear of the church, I squeezed myself into the small space between altar and wall and waited for things to sort themselves out.
They began to show signs of doing so when one of the confused voices in the darkness rose above the others.
“Be QUIET!” it shouted, in a tone that brooked no opposition. Everyone but the horse obeyed, and as the racket died down, even the horse subsided, backing into a corner and making snorting noises, mixed with querulous squeals of disgust.
“It is MacKenzie of Leoch,” said the imperious voice. “Who else bides here?”
“It is Geordie, Dougal, and my brother with me,” said a voice nearby, in tones of profound relief. “We’ve brought Rupert with us, too; he’s wounded. Christ, I thought it was the de’il himself in here!”
“Gordon McLeod of Ardsmuir,” said another voice I didn’t recognize.
“And Ewan Cameron of Kinnoch,” said another. “Whose is the horse?”
“Mine,” I said, sidling cautiously out from behind the altar. The sound of my voice caused another outbreak, but Dougal put a stop to it once more, raising his own voice above the racket.
“QUIET, damn the lot of ye! Is that you, Claire Fraser?”
“Well, it isn’t the Queen,” I said testily. “Willie Coulter’s in here, too, or he was a minute ago. Hasn’t anyone got a flint box?”
“No light!” said Dougal. “Little chance that the English will overlook this place if they follow us, but little sense in drawing their attention to it if they don’t.”
“All right,” I said, biting my lip. “Rupert, can you talk? Say something so I can tell where you are.” I didn’t know how much I could do for him in the dark; as it was, I couldn’t even reach my medicine box. Still, I couldn’t leave him to bleed to death on the floor.
There was a nasty-sounding cough from the side of the church opposite me, and a hoarse voice said, “Here, lass,” and coughed again.
I felt my way across the floor, cursing under my breath. I could tell merely from the bubbling sound of that cough that it was bad; the sort of bad that my medicine box wasn’t likely to help. I crouched and duck-walked the last few feet, waving my arms in a wide swathe to feel what might be in my way.
One hand struck a warm body, and a big hand fastened on to me. It had to be Rupert; I could hear him breathing, a stertorous sound with a faint gurgle behind it.
“I’m here,” I said, patting him blindly in what I hoped was a reassuring spot. I supposed it was, because he gave a sort of gasping chuckle and arched his hips, pressing my hand down hard against him.
“Do that again, lass, and I’ll forget all about the musket ball,” he said. I grabbed my hand back.
“Perhaps a bit later,” I said dryly. I moved my hand upward, skimming over his body in search of his head. The thick bristle of beard told me I’d reached my goal, and I felt carefully under the dense growth for the pulse in his throat. Fast and light, but still fairly regular. His forehead was slick with sweat, though his skin felt clammy to the touch. The tip of his nose was cold when I brushed it, chilled from the air outside.
“Pity I’m no a dog,” he said, a thread of laughter coming between the gasps for air. “Cold nose…would be a good sign.”
“Be a better sign if you’d quit talking,” I said. “Where did the ball take you? No, don’t tell me, take my hand and put it on the wound…and if you put it anywhere else, Rupert MacKenzie, you can die here like a dog, and good riddance to you.”
I could feel the wide chest vibrate with suppressed laughter under my hand. He drew my hand slowly under his plaid, and I pushed back the obstructing fabric with my other hand.
“All right, I’ve got it,” I whispered. I could feel the small tear in his shirt, damp with blood around the edges, and I put both hands to it and ripped it open. I brushed my fingers very lightly down his side, feeling the ripple of gooseflesh under them, and then the small hole of the entrance wound. It seemed a remarkably small hole, compared to the bulk of Rupert, who was a burly man.
“Did it come out anywhere?” I whispered. The inside of the church was quiet, except for the horse, who was moving restlessly in his own corner. With the door closed, the sounds of battle outside were still audible, but diffuse; it was impossible to tell how close they were.
“No,” he said, and coughed again. I could feel his hand move toward his mouth, and I followed it with a fold of his plaid. My eyes were as accustomed to the darkness as they were likely to get, but he was still no more than a hunched black shape on the floor before me. For some things, though, touch was enough. There was little bleeding at the site of the wound, but the cloth I held to his mouth flooded my hand with sudden damp warmth.
The ball had taken him through one lung at least, possibly both, and his chest was filling with blood. He could last a few hours in this condition, perhaps a day if one lung remained functional. If the pericardium had been nicked, he would go faster. But only surgery would save him, and that of a kind I couldn’t do.
I could feel a warm presence behind me, and heard normal breathing as someone groped toward me. I reached back and felt my hand gripped tight. Dougal MacKenzie.
He made his way up beside me, and laid a hand on Rupert’s supine body.
“How is it, man?” he asked softly. “Can ye walk?” My other hand still on Rupert, I could feel his head shake in answer to Dougal’s question. The men in the church behind us had begun to talk among themselves in whispers.
Dougal’s hand pressed down on my shoulder.
“What d’ye need to help him? Your wee box? Is it on the horse?” He had risen before I could tell him that there was nothing in the box to help Rupert.
A sudden loud crack from the altar stopped the whispers, and there was a quick movement all around, as men snatched up the weapons they had laid down. Another crack, and a ripping noise, and the oiled-skin covering of the window gave way to a rush of cold, clean air and a few swirling snowflakes.
“Sassenach! Claire! Are ye there?” The low voice from the window brought me to my feet in momentary forgetfulness of Rupert.
“Jamie!” All around me was a collective exhalation, and the clank of falling swords and targes. The new faint light from outdoors was blotted out for a moment by the bulk of Jamie’s head and shoulders. He dropped down lightly from the altar, silhouetted against the open window.
“Who’s here?” he said softly, looking around. “Dougal, is that you?”
“Aye, it’s me, lad. Your wife and a few more. Did ye see the sassenach bastards anywhere near outside?”
Jamie uttered a short laugh.
“Why d’ye think I came in through the window? There’s maybe twenty of them at the foot of the hill.”
Dougal made a displeased noise deep in his throat. “The bastards that cut us off from the main troop, I’ll be bound.”
“Just so. Ho, mo cridh! Ciamar a tha thu?” Recognizing a familiar voice in the midst of madness, my horse had thrust its nose up with a loud whinny of greeting.
“Hush, ye wee fool!” Dougal said to it violently. “D’ye want the English to hear?”
“I dinna suppose the English would hang him,” Jamie observed mildly. “As for them telling you’re here, they won’t need ears, if they’ve eyes in their heads; the slope’s half mud outside, and the prints of all your feet show clear.”
“Mmphm.” Dougal cast an eye toward the window, but Jamie was already shaking his head.
“No good, Dougal. The main body’s to the south, and Lord George Murray’s gone to meet them, but there’s the few English from the party we met still left on this side. A group of them chased me over the hill; I dodged to the side and crawled up to the church on my belly through the grass, but I’ll
guess they’re still combing the hillside above.” He reached out a hand in my direction, and I took it. It was cold and damp from crawling through grass, but I was glad just to touch him, to have him there.
“Crawled in, eh? And how were ye planning to get out again?” Dougal asked.
I could feel Jamie shrug. He tilted his head in the direction of my horse. “I’d thought I might burst out and ride them down; they’ll not know about the horse. That would cause enough kerfuffle maybe for Claire to slip free.”
Dougal snorted. “Aye, and they’d pick ye off your horse like a ripe apple.”
“It hardly matters,” Jamie said dryly. “I canna see the lot of ye to be slipping out quietly with no one noticing, no matter how much fuss I made over it.”
As though in confirmation of this, Rupert gave a loud groan by the wall. Dougal and I dropped onto our knees beside him at once, followed more slowly by Jamie.
Dragonfly in Amber Page 94