He pulled off his shirt and washed it with the remaining hot water in the pot, wrung it out, and hung it to dry from the edge of the overhead bunk. It was irretrievably bloodstained, and he detested the ruffles, but it would have to do until he could have a new one made.
The next morning Dylan awoke stiff and sore, as he had every day since his arrest. Three days of walking after his illness had done him little more good than to let him know he wasn’t likely to die. His feet were sore and his left calf didn’t want to flex. He sat at the edge of his bunk and tried to point his toe, but could get it only halfway there. If he was ever going to be worth anything to anyone again, he needed to loosen up those muscles. It was time to resume his workouts.
At least, he needed to work out some of the worst kinks. One thing about Glen Dochart was that it had more level ground than any glen Dylan had yet seen in Scotland. In the flat area between the barracks and the house, he began at dawn with his sword at his side, stretching, moving, concentrating. The scabbed-over skin of his back was tight, and each movement of his arms pulled at it. He moved slowly, lest any of the wounds reopen. Carefully, he retraced the patterns he’d known so well for so long. He began the painful process of reclaiming the body—and the soul as well—they’d tried to take from him at Ft. William.
He heard a muttering nearby, familiar to him now as the sound of eighteenth-century Scottish people witnessing for the first time an Asian form of fight training. He ignored it, but saw Murchadh circle behind him and knew the challenge was coming. Still concentrating on his form, he hoped his leg was up to what would come next.
Sure enough, the big Scot grabbed him from behind, in a bear hug. Dylan flipped him with very little effort, though his back protested the abuse. The Scot landed on his back, looking up at Dylan with a dazed expression. “How did you do that?”
“Magic.” He took a relaxed stance, left foot forward, with his weight on his bent right leg, arms hanging loose at his sides. He was ready for Murchadh to get up and come at him again. “Didn’t Rob tell you I was saved from the English by the wee folk?” He heard Sinann giggle, but couldn’t see her and couldn’t spare the time to look around.
Murchadh stood and pulled a knife. Dylan sighed. He’d had quite enough blood lately to last him awhile. He refrained from drawing Brigid, figuring he could take the guy without any trouble. He dropped to a horse stance and began a move called circling fists, leaning from one side to the other, then back. Like the mulinette with a sword, it was to confuse and misdirect.
Murchadh circled, and Dylan turned with him, until the big Scot made a lunge. Dylan sidestepped, grabbed the extended knife hand with both of his, pulled, and twisted, which brought Murchadh off-balance and to his knees. The knife dropped to the sod, and Dylan shoved his opponent onto his back with his foot to pin him and keep the arm extended. His left leg ached with his weight, but Murchadh was defeated without blood.
“Let me up.”
Dylan turned the man’s thumb back some more, to let him know he was serious. The thumb was strong and he had to pull hard. Murchadh should have been groaning, but he made no sound and his mouth only trembled. Dylan said, “Back away. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Aye. You’ll have nae trouble from me. I swear it.”
Dylan let him up, and their employer’s voice rose from the gathered onlookers. “Might we see what the lad can do with a sword?” He stepped out, a big smile on his face.
“If it pleases you.” Dylan drew his sword.
“Try Seumas, then. He’s our best.”
Seumas stepped into the clear. A sword was tossed to him, and he immediately went en garde and circled with a big grin on his face. Dylan saw that Seumas’s sword was an old claybeg that had once been an even older claymore cut down to become a shorter, one-handed weapon. Due to the outsized tang—the part of the blade inside the hilt—it would be clumsier and less well balanced than Dylan’s broadsword. But it was still small enough to be fast and heavy enough to do a great deal of damage if Seumas had a hit. Dylan wasn’t sure what the rules of engagement were here, and so had no intention of letting that blade anywhere near him for a touch.
He stood in a hanging guard, left foot leading, weight on his right foot and his sword held over his head with the tip dropped. His idea was to invite attack and see how his opponent moved, thought, and felt. Seumas attacked fast and Dylan found himself parrying frantically, retreating, until he sidestepped like a matador and, overbalanced, Seumas went blundering past. Dylan couldn’t resist smacking him on the ass with the flat of his blade on his way. Then he faced on again to take the next assault. Seumas laughed at his own expense, then set his teeth to attack.
Dylan’s arm began to tire; this was happening too soon after his illness. Breathing came hard. He knew he had to win quickly or risk injury. He began a series of forays that were high, leaving his lower right quadrant vulnerable. Seumas took the bait right away, and attacked low. Dylan, ready for it, parried and captured Seumas’s blade against the ground, then stomped on it to disarm. The claybeg whapped against the grass, Dylan grabbed Seumas by the shirt front, and held the broadsword blade to his throat.
“Yield! I yield!” Seumas still grinned, though he sounded like he thought Dylan would cut him. Dylan wondered how much danger he’d really been in and how much damage Seumas would have done if he could. He let go and picked up the claybeg to restore it to his opponent.
There was applause from the onlookers, and Rob shouted, “Seo Dilean Mac a’Chlaidheimh! ” Here is Dylan, Son of the Sword!
Dylan laughed, and figured there were worse things he could be called. Some of the onlookers repeated the name, “Mac a’Chlaidheimh,” and seemed to think it fitting. Seumas gave him a huge smile and a hearty slap on the back. Dylan’s face went gray with pain, but he gritted his teeth in a smile just the same.
As the crowd dispersed, Rob and Alasdair stood in conference. Then Alasdair yelled for Dylan, Seumas, and Murchadh, who presented themselves. “Come, we’ve business to attend to. Get rations from Mary, collect your gear, and meet behind the house.” It sounded like they were going on a trip.
CHAPTER 19
Dylan realized it would be a long trip when he acquired and hefted his ration bag of oatmeal.
The men went to the barracks for their gear, and Dylan mourned the loss of the coat he’d left at the Tigh. He hoped he could get a new one before winter. The ration sack of oatmeal went into his sporran, his baldric over his shoulder, and he was ready. Alasdair and Rob awaited them behind the house, then the five of them struck out over the hills to the south.
There was no word as to where they were headed, and no indication of what their business was. Dylan didn’t ask. He walked along in silence with the others. At night they slept in a heat-conserving huddle, wrapped in their plaids. In the mornings they ate globs of cold oatmeal from their hands. Once Alasdair shot a grouse, which they shared. The terrain here was more wooded than up north, and gradually the trail became less steep. On the third day they crested a hill and through the trees Dylan saw an immense stretch of low hills. The mountains had given way to the Lowlands. It had been a long time since he’d seen a horizon this wide. They descended.
The men still avoided worn tracks and roads, and wended their way across farms and between the hills. On the fifth day out they approached a farm, with the stealth of a hunter stalking his prey. Ahead was a herd of shaggy, black cattle. Rob counted them and relayed the information to Alasdair. Then they faded back and circled to another herd, which was also counted.
Dylan began to wonder why Rob needed four extra men on this job. Surely one or two could have counted cattle as well as five. And two would have traveled less conspicuously. But on the sixth day his unasked question was answered. They approached a small cottage, this time not with stealth. The five of them walked to the door where they were greeted by a barking dog and a middle-aged woman.
When she saw Rob her hard, lined face lit up in tearful joy. She welcomed him
with a hug, and invited them all to hurry inside. The men ducked through the door to stand just inside while Rob moved away into the room by the hearth to speak to the woman. The conversation was low and brief. The woman carried on, trying not to cry but failing to keep the tears from her face and her voice. Then Rob reached into his sporran and produced a leather drawstring pouch. From it he counted silver coins into the woman’s hand. She fell silent, her other hand over her mouth. Tears pooled on it. Rob closed the money into her fist, kissed her cheek, and turned to leave.
Just as they were all about to duck out the door, Rob turned back to the woman and said, “Be certain you get a receipt for the full rent. Dinnae let them leave here without giving you a receipt.” She nodded, and they left.
The five of them went about half a mile down the track from the cottage, and there Rob called a halt. He gestured to an oak tree with branches that spread over the trail, and Alasdair set to climbing it. Once settled in a solid crotch, the man reached for the flintlock pistols in his belt to begin priming them. The other four retreated to a position on the other side of the track, in a fern thicket shaded by oak and pine. There they sat on the side of a slope and waited.
It was a long wait. Nobody spoke. Dylan’s left leg began to ache, but he closed his eyes and concentrated on more pleasant things. Cait. He wondered what she was doing at that very moment. In Edinburgh, by now, and married to that . . .
He shook his head to clear the anger that rose. This was not the time to be distracted. It wasn’t clear to him yet what was afoot here, but it figured that Rob had brought his two best swordsmen and his most skilled marksman on this cattle-counting foray for a reason.
Two or three hours after they hid—Dylan estimated by the progress of the sun—there was the sound of horses approaching, headed toward the cottage. The men waited, and let them pass. Once the horses had gone on their way, the four came out of the thicket. In a low voice Rob consulted Alasdair in the tree.
“How many?”
“Two. Armed with swords only. Perhaps dirks, as well.” Probably dirks, as well, was Dylan’s opinion. But no guns was a good thing.
Rob said, “Seumas Glas, Murchadh, behind this tree. Mac a’Chlaidheimh, come with me.” Dylan had a moment’s pause at his new name, then followed orders. They hid themselves behind a tree about fifteen yards down the trail. There they waited again, but for a much shorter time.
The horses returned from the cottage at the same casual pace as on their approach. The men were deep in discussion, in English, about where the woman could have gotten the money for her rent on the very day that had been set for her eviction. It was plain they were scandalized and disappointed, and thus were not paying attention to their surroundings.
They were even more scandalized and disappointed when Rob stepped out from behind the far tree, pistol drawn, followed by Dylan who drew his sword. The mounted men pulled up short. Alasdair dropped from the tree behind, and shouted a warning to the riders. They turned, saw Alasdair’s two pistols as well as Seumas and Murchadh with their swords, and cursed. Dylan took his cues from the other swordsmen, who approached the riders with their weapons extended. For either horseman to have dismounted in any direction would have put him on the point of a broadsword. “MacGregor—”
Rob said, “Hand it over.”
The man Rob spoke to was heavy-set to the point of pudginess, and wore a fanciful outfit of plum damask and velvet, plus a hat adorned with feathers that swished with every move. Living in the Highlands since his arrival had kept Dylan insulated from English fashion of the day. Though he’d seen such costumes in movies, he was quite stunned to see men wearing them in public and in seriousness. He shook his head and realized there were still many things about this century that struck him as utterly ridiculous. “Hand what?” said the Lowlander.
“Never mind the pretending. I know you’ve got it, so hand it over. Move smartly, and I’ll let ye live. Not that ye dinnae deserve to die in any case.”
The pudgy man sighed, then reached into his coat pocket for his purse.
“The rent money, you dunderhead. And the purse, if you please.”
The other man was small and quiet, but watchful. Dylan kept an eye on him and watched his hands. The horses, shining specimens of a wealthy stable, high-strung purebreds, champed on polished bits and fidgeted.
Again the pudgy man cursed, and reached into a saddlebag for the silver. He threw both bags to Rob, who then pointed his pistol at the smaller man.
“And yourself?”
Palms raised indicated a lack of purse, but Dylan stepped closer and poked his sword under the edge of the man’s waistcoat. The little one glanced at him and uttered a single word in such a vile tone, Dylan figured he was as well off not knowing what it meant. The other purse was handed over to Rob.
Rob hefted it in his hand and grinned. “I thank ye. Dinnae try to follow us, or your heads’ll be blown off by my marksman friend here,” he gestured to Alasdair, “and sent back to Montrose in a sack. Good day, Gentlemen.” With that, he motioned for his men to follow him. They all scabbarded their swords to bolt into the woods.
It was not a stroll they took, getting away from Montrose’s rent collectors. Making their way through the thickest parts of the forest and up steep slopes in order to elude pursuit on horseback, they ran when they could and crashed through foliage when they couldn’t. Rob pushed them on, and when Dylan thought his leg would fold he pushed them farther.
Finally they were allowed to rest in a clearing well north of the cottage. Dylan leaned on his knees to gulp breath, and listened to the others’ laughter and elated chatter of the rent they’d snatched from Montrose. The pain in his leg crept to his thigh, and he ran his fingers into his legging to massage his calf. Alasdair saw and said, “Are ye hurt, lad?”
Lips pressed together, Dylan shook his head. He looked around at the group and said, “Are you sure we shouldn’t put a few more miles between ourselves and those men?”
The others laughed, and there was no more talk about Dylan’s leg, which was fine with him.
What they’d just done began to sink in, and a genuine smile crept to his face. This was better than playing Robin Hood as a kid. Better than sparring without protection. This was having the freedom to put one’s very life on the edge and win. He’d almost died at the hands of the Redcoats, and now, with his twentieth-century American sense of safety obliterated, he was exhilarated by the contest. He nearly laughed at the thought that Major Bedford might have created the Crown’s worst enemy.
The following morning they struck out for Glen Dochart.
The day after their return was spent in prosaic pursuits. Dylan and the others were occupied with repairs on equipment and weapons, repairs on their clothing, cooking meals, and other things their wives might have done if they’d had any present. Dylan, Seumas, and Murchadh told and retold the story of the robbery, to the delighted audience of Cailean and Alasdair Og, who envied them the exploit.
Rob and Alasdair Roy were occupied throughout the day with the meeting that was now in full swing in the stone house. Quite a number of men had gathered there, and the men outside once or twice heard angry shouting. Dylan went to the well again for a conference with Sinann, who took her sweet time appearing. He was about to give up and go back to the barracks when she finally blinked into view.
“What’s going on in there, Tink?”
“It’s a row, and if it gets any worse they’re like to kill each other.”
“I can hear that much from the bunkhouse. Why are all those men here?”
“It’s a meeting of the leaders of Clan Gregor. Archibald of Kilmanan, their chieftain, has died, and left no clear heir. Succession would dictate the chiefship go to Iain Og of Glencairnig, but it’s the Queen’s pension they’re after. Her Majesty being in the habit of paying Jacobite chieftains to keep them quiet, they want the next chieftain to be . . . eligible. Iain Og cannot come out as a supporter of James; it would hurt his business concerns. B
ut the pension is three hundred and sixty English pounds a year and the clan is not wealthy. They’re electing a new chieftain who will bring the money to the MacGregors.”
“Is Rob in the running?”
She gave him a withering look that condemned his stupidity. “Dinnae be daft. He’s an outlaw. Not that he wouldnae be the best choice, from what I’ve seen in that house today. The clan would do well to have a man such as Himself leading them.”
“So who do you think will get it?”
She shrugged. “I dinnae know that I care.”
Dylan grunted, took his drink, and went back into the barracks.
The next day Sinann reported that Alasdair of Balhaldie had been elected chieftain, and that he would split the Queen’s pension between the other claimants. For the next month it seemed the MacGregor clan would go on as it always had and that Rob’s men putting their thorn in the side of Montrose would proceed, business as usual.
Dylan learned the ins and outs of Rob’s protection racket, in which money was required of landowners who did not wish to have their cattle taken. It was called “blackmail,” but without the evil connotation the word would have three hundred years hence. “Mail” meant rent, and, unlike the rackets run by gangsters, those who took money for the protection of cattle also guaranteed the safety of kine from other reivers. If a farmer under Rob’s protection lost cattle to someone else, Rob and his men went after them and either recovered the spréidhe or made good on the loss. Twice that summer Dylan went with his employer to hunt down cattle stolen from clients, and every head was recovered and returned to its owner.
There was another foray south. This time the men of Rob’s immediate complement met with those from other parts of Campbell territory, and a raid was made on one of Montrose’s properties near Stirling. Dylan estimated a hundred or so head of cattle were taken, and driven into the Highlands to be scattered and hidden.
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