By this time Dylan had no thought of the Queen, James, or anyone else in power or pretending to it. His only thought was, one way or another, he had to make the pain stop.
The fire was brought around to where he could see it and the tool in it. It was a pair of tongs, the business end only an inch across, but heated in coals that glowed red. His pulse thudded in his ears, and he began to moan. “No. No more.” The pain bent his mind back on itself until he thought he would scream and never stop. His chest heaved for air. He could smell the coals and hot iron. He knew it would shortly be his flesh smoking and stinking. “No,” he moaned. “No . . .”
“You’re ready to tell us, then?” Almost absently, Bedford strolled over, reached out for the crucifix, and yanked the cord from his neck. He gave it an appraising once-over, muttered, “Damned papist,” then tucked it into a pocket.
Dylan bit his lips together and screwed his eyes shut. He hoped they’d weakened him enough for him to pass out quickly. He felt like he was floating, and there was a buzzing in his head. If only he could leave his body and never come back. If only . . .
“No? All right then. Don’t say you weren’t warned.”
Tears squeezed from Dylan’s eyes, and he voiced gasps, on the verge of screaming. When he opened them, the soldier stood before him with the soot-covered pair of tongs in his gloved hand. In that instant Dylan decided it was time to die, and more quickly than these two would have it.
He pulled his weight onto the chains, and struck out with a snap kick to the soldier’s gut. The Redcoat doubled over and dropped the tongs. Bedford laughed. “Oh, he’ll regret that, won’t he?” As the soldier bent to retrieve his tool, Dylan chambered again, cocking his leg in readiness for another kick, hip to front as if protecting his genitals, his weight still on the chains. The muscles of his torso stretched, pulling against his arms secured behind his head. He trembled with the pain, but held his position. As the dragoon straightened, Bedford’s voice was still amused as he said to his soldier, “Watch out. . . .” But when the soldier looked up, Dylan struck with a side thrust that drove the English nose into the English brain and sent him into the far wall where he slid down it, dead, his mouth and chin covered with shiny, red blood.
“Good God!” Bedford sounded very surprised and deeply offended. Dylan heard the rattle of a sword being drawn. Here it came. He would be dead in about a minute.
A scream like a tin whistle made him look up. “Tink!” There she was, hovering over him. Faster than Dylan could think, she waved her hand and his shackles flew open. He fell to the floor, and Bedford’s attack missed. Dylan rolled, kicked out at the overbalanced Major, and tangled his feet so he tripped.
Hope of escape threw a rush of strength into him. He scrambled to his feet for his own sword, which lay on the table, and removed the scabbard from it. Armed now, he turned to face his adversary just as the Sassunach regained his feet. In these close quarters there was little room to maneuver, hopping and limping on one leg. Bedford kept the pillar between them, probably expecting Dylan to make a dive for the door, at which point Bedford could then chase him outside and raise the alarm. Dylan was smarter than that, and knew he would have to silence the Major before touching the door.
He made quick forays to the other side of the pillar, but, aside from a little sword clanging, accomplished nothing. He didn’t want Bedford circling to the door side any more than Bedford wanted to be on the same side of the pillar as Dylan.
Sinann hovered. “Kill him! Kill the bastard!”
Dylan never took his eyes off Bedford, but said, “I hope you’re talking to me, Tink.”
Bedford gave a small, puzzled frown.
“Kill that English bastard!”
Dylan’s teeth clenched. “I’m trying!”
When it became apparent Dylan wasn’t going to bolt, Bedford came from behind the pillar to attack. Dylan parried and staggered, much weaker than his opponent. But he had one advantage: he wasn’t afraid of being hurt. He was already in excruciating pain and knew if he didn’t nail this guy he would die. Bedford, on the other hand, was still hoping Dylan would make for the door. Dylan attacked instead.
Caught by surprise, Bedford tried to retreat but wasn’t fast enough. Swords clanged, and on riposte Dylan captured the English sword and threw it aside to attack again. Dylan’s sword caught Bedford in the chest. The Redcoat let out a cry, then went down, coughing. He lay there, struggling to breathe.
Dylan didn’t hesitate, but turned to the table and pulled on the shirt that lay there. He collected his kilt from the floor and rolled Brigid and his sporran into it, threw the baldric over his shoulder and scabbarded his sword. Then he lifted the key ring from the jailer’s belt. “Let’s go,” he said to the faerie, then immediately turned back. “Wait a minute.”
“Och, let’s go!”
“Wait.” Dylan went to the table. “Where did he put it?”
“Put what?” Sinann’s voice was panicky. Bedford still writhed on the floor, gurgling and coughing blood.
“The cross.” Dylan went to the dying Englishman and patted his coat, then reached inside for his crucifix. “Damned thief.”
Bedford passed out. Though he was still breathing, it wouldn’t be long now.
“Let us go! ” Sinann nearly shrieked.
He stuffed the crucifix into his bundle, then he opened the door, and found the corridor empty. It was lit with candles in sconces, and Dylan slipped down toward the outer door, where he stopped. He leaned on the wall, gasping, and indicated the door. “See if the coast is clear.”
“If the which is what?”
“Look to see if anyone’s out there.”
“Oh, aye.” She raised her hand to snap her fingers, then stopped and said, “Were you a smuggler in America?”
“Just go!” His strength was fading fast as the adrenaline from the fight left his system.
She blinked out, then blinked right back. “The coast is clear.” He unlocked the door then hauled it open, pulled it shut behind him, and crept up the stone steps. This end of the building formed a “V” with the building next to it, with a narrow opening to the parade ground and a wide exposure to the fort wall. It was morning and the fort was alive with soldiers about their business. “Okay, Tink, how am I supposed to get out of here?”
She flapped her hands. “Fly, ye sumph!” She waved a hand, and his feet lifted off the ground. This time he was too weak to keep his balance, and he curled into a ball, hugging his knees as he rolled and wobbled into the air and over the wall. His heart leapt as he spotted a sentry at the point of the battlement to the south, not ten yards away. But the soldier’s attention was on the loch. Sinann let him down at the base of the wall, and he rolled under a gorse bush. There he rested for a moment, hidden by the thick, yellow blossoms and thorny branches that snagged his shirt and put thin scratches in his skin. But being stuck by the gorse was better than the alternative, and was nothing compared to the screaming pain in his back.
When he opened his eyes and saw Sinann peering under the bush at him, he said through gritted teeth but in the softest whisper he could manage, “Where the hell were you?”
“You told me to watch Cait. You went to Killilan.”
“I was with her. She came to me that night. Where were you?” Guilt crossed over Sinann’s eyes. Dylan said, “Tinkerbell . . .”
“Well, you couldnae expect me to not go looking for you. When that Sassunach bastard came to the castle, and I kent you were in trouble, I went after you.”
“And left Cait.”
There was a long silence and her eyes flickered, then she said, “Aye.”
Dylan said, “But you didn’t find me.”
“You had disappeared thoroughly. I looked everywhere.”
“Except the broch. Which was where Cait headed first thing. You would have found me if you’d stuck with her.”
There was a very long silence, then he whispered, “How did you finally find me?”
“You know
, that tapestry in Iain Mór’s place of business comes in handy on occasion when I need to spy while physically elsewhere. Late in my search for you, there was a conversation in that room.”
“You listened in and they were talking about me?”
“Aye.”
Her lack of elaboration on the subject made him suspicious. “What was said?” For a moment he thought she wouldn’t answer, so he pressed, “Was Iain part of the frame-up?”
She frowned. “Frame-up? ”
“Um . . . did he help get me arrested?”
She shook her head. “But I cannae say he’s overly unhappy about it. Coll is dead because he drew on Robin Innis, but Artair willnae be wasted in that way. Iain Mór is satisfied his plans for his daughter have worked out, Artair is the heir presumptive, and you have been forgotten by Himself, though not by the rest of the clan.”
That was puzzling. “What does that mean?”
She sighed. “It means that, aside from the Laird and his brother, you are well mourned by your kin. Malcolm Taggart was right in thinking you could fill the lairdship. Every soul in Glen Ciorram was in tears and wailing of a broken heart at your arrest.”
“Really?”
“Aye. But never mind that. You’ve rested entirely too long. Get moving! The guard has moved to the other end of his post.” She gestured for him to get up.
He wanted to pursue the subject of broken hearts in Ciorram, but realized she was right and there would be opportunity later to question her. He tried to get up, but found it too painful. “Let me just lie here for a while.”
“Nae! They’ll find Bedford and his cohort, and, as the English tend to frown on people murdering their soldiers, they’ll be after you any minute now! Get up! Get up, I say!” She grabbed his shirt and pulled on it. He groaned and swatted at her, but she dodged and pulled again until he was out from under the gorse. He wished he would faint from the shrieking pain of his back, but had no luck.
“At least make the pain go away. Wave your hand and make it stop hurting.”
She sighed. “Would you have it so you never felt anything at all for as long as you lived?”
“Yes. Please. Just make it stop.”
“Nae. I willnae do it. The hurting will go away soon enough.”
Dylan groaned.
“You see that water down there?” Dylan nodded. “You must go into it, for the fort is surrounded on three sides by water. As it’s a sea loch, it’ll hurt a bit. . . .” Dylan threw her a look which she ignored. “But have nae worry about keeping afloat.” Sinann resumed pulling, and finally he was on his feet, staggering and limping toward the water.
She was right, the water hurt a bit. He gasped at the fresh pain. Sinann said, “Leave only your mouth above water. I’ll take you to the other side.” Dylan rolled onto his back and felt a pressure at the back of his head. He was able to go limp, clutching his belongings to his belly, and slowly he moved toward the shore on a promontory to the north. As he crossed the inlet to the north of the fort, he saw a boat unloading supplies at the quay outside the sally port. English soldiers hurried back and forth, directing workmen in breeches and coats with their crates, barrels, and animal cages. Dylan squeezed his eyes shut and tried hard to not look like a face floating on the water.
When his head bumped shore, he rolled onto his knees again and Sinann urged, “Now, hurry! Into the shrubs!”
He climbed to his feet and obeyed, no longer willing to argue. In the safety of some reeds and deep heather, he crept slowly on his belly until he found a game trail, which he crawled along, following wherever it might lead. It led to the other side of the promontory where an estuary dumped a river into the loch. He then stood and followed that river inland for fresh water. The salt on his back and the thirst of his body drove him on, though he was dizzy with shock. The sun sank behind him, and in the distance he heard a hue of whistles and shouts. His absence had been discovered.
“Keep going,” said Sinann. “It’ll be a while before they entertain the idea you could be outside the walls.”
The alarm spurred him on, up the glen that wound between towering brown hills that bore a veneer of green spring growth. When the water of the river stopped surging to shore and began to run downhill, Dylan waded into it.
“Careful!” Sinann shouted, and he was buoyed again. But the fresh water was a relief on his back and he drank all he could hold. By the time his thirst was satisfied, he was ready to sink below the surface and stay there.
“Get up!”
“Nuh uh.”
“I said, get up! You’ve come all this way, and now the Sassunaich are going to pick you out of the river like a piece of flotsam. You’ve come too far, lad, to give up now!”
He sighed, gathered his strength, and hauled himself onto the bank where he resumed his trek away from the fort.
Eventually he was well into the glen, but Sinann still egged him forward. He groaned and sank to his knees on the sod near the river. “Fly me.”
“If I could lift you more than a few feet, I’d have you back in Ciorram before sundown. But I cannae, any more than I could carry you on foot. So get moving.”
But Dylan was exhausted. There was not a square inch on his body that didn’t scream agony, and he’d not slept in two days, nor eaten in three. He moaned and shook his head.
“Make it as far as those woods over there. Get into cover, at least.”
He looked. There was a cluster of trees ahead. He summoned his strength, and with trembling muscles hauled himself mostly to his feet. With a staggering gait, clutching his wad of clothing and weapons, he made his way toward the protection of the woods. Each step was agony. When he made the tree line, he collapsed among the bracken and toadstools, and passed out.
There were voices. Dylan hoped they were angels. He wanted to be dead. He didn’t want to return to the world of pain he knew awaited him. But the voices were Scottish and spoke Gaelic. He took heart that at least they weren’t English, but also knew there were a few Scots who wanted him dead. One of the voices said, “Is he from the garrison, do you think?”
“I pray to God they didn’t do this to him at the Banavie tavern. Wake him up and see who he is.”
Before anyone might touch him, Dylan opened his eyes and groaned. Two men stood over him—he could tell by the number of feet in front of his face. The first voice said, “Aye, you’re alive, then.”
He groaned again, hoping they would take that as a yes.
“Who might you be, lad?”
It took a moment to find his voice, then he rolled just enough to peer up at them. He could focus with only one eye. “If I answer wrong, will you just leave me, or run me through?”
“Depends, I expect, on how wrong the answer is.” Both men were red-haired, but it was the younger one who asked the questions. Two pistols were thrust into the man’s belt. The older one was shorter than the younger, but was built solid and had the air of someone born to take charge.
Dylan took a deep breath and said, “My name is Dylan Robert Matheson, cousin to Iain Mór nan Tigh a’ Mhadaidh Bhàin in Glen Ciorram.”
“And, Dylan Robert Matheson, is that some strange, northern accent you’re speaking with? Or would it be a bit more southern?” The question was pointed. The interrogator was expressing a suspicion Dylan might be English pretending to be Scottish.
“I was born in America.” He left it at that. They could run him through if they wanted; he didn’t care. He collapsed back onto his face again.
But they didn’t run him through. Instead they reached down to help him up. He still clutched his wad of belongings, and one of the men relieved him of it before they lifted his arms around their necks and carried him through the woods to a nearby clearing.
A fire burned cheerily, fed on small, dry sticks, and threw a thin line of smoke into the tree branches overhead. A game bird was spitted over it, and the smell of cooking food cut through the pain so his mouth watered to the point he couldn’t help drooling. The men let him d
own onto the sod near the fire, then stood to either side. He ran the back of his hand over his mouth, and his lower lip cracked. Face-down on the ground, he couldn’t see the men’s faces as they went about their business. The older one finally spoke again. “Dylan Matheson, cousin to Iain Mór of Ciorram, I’m eager to hear how a man in your condition escaped from the garrison and made it so far up Glen Nevis.”
Dylan sighed. “I flew.” He looked around for Sinann, but didn’t see her. “I was rescued by the wee folk, who have no liking for the English.”
The men both laughed, and the older one sent the younger to fetch a skin of water. Then he knelt behind Dylan and tried to peel the bloody shirt away from his back. It felt like he was ripping skin off, and Dylan bit his lip hard to not make a sound. “Och,” said the older Scot. “It’s a thorough job they did.” He tugged gently at the cloth, but it wouldn’t come.
Dylan muttered into the sod, “I’m at a disadvantage here, Mister . . .”
“Oh, aye,” said the older man. “I apologize. My friend here is Alasdair Roy, and my name is Rob Roy.”
CHAPTER 18
Dylan lifted his face from the ground and turned, startled, to stare at the man. His elbows were trembling under his weight. He whispered, almost to himself, “MacGregor . . .”
The man grunted and said, revealing no emotion, “You’ve heard of me, then.”
“I’ve heard of you.” Dylan still stared. Anybody the least familiar with Scottish history would know the name of Rob Roy MacGregor. “What are you doing so close to Ft. William?”
MacGregor grunted. “Minding my own business, lad.”
“Oh. Aye. I apologize.” Dylan’s gaze went back to the ground, but he stole another glance at MacGregor. The man didn’t look the least bit like the guy who had played him in the movie. But Dylan shook that off as an idiotic thought. He was in the presence of one of Scotland’s greatest heroes—perhaps the most revered Gael since Cuchulain himself—a Jacobite leader whose resistance activities had given him the reputation of a real-life Robin Hood.
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