He shook his head again. “Thank you, no.” Not having seen a napkin since leaving the Tigh, he wiped mutton grease from his lower lip with the back of his hand, and wished this woman would go away. While his mind knew he would never go with her, his body had other ideas and he was more glad by the minute for the folds in his kilt.
One of the men said, “He’s waiting for the next meeting of the Beggar’s Benison.” Laughter rolled among the men, and Dylan bit his lip. He knew little about the Beggar’s Benison, beyond that it was an elite sex club in Edinburgh.
Another drover made a comment about “solitary vice,” and Dylan felt his ears warm. Not that every man here didn’t deal with frustration in private once in a while, but nobody wanted to admit it, not even twentieth-century, enlightened Dylan. That much about human nature would never change.
“Nae, it’s one of these he’s wanting.” Seumas threw something floppy, which landed on Dylan’s face with a cold splat. Dylan pulled it off and found it was a condom made of a sheep’s intestine. “I used it but once,” Seumas promised.
Dylan flung the thing back, and wiped his face with his sleeve. “No, thank you. I must decline. But I appreciate the thoughtful gesture.” There was more chortling from the men, and Dylan found it harder to ignore.
The girl whimpered with disappointment, then smiled at him, revealing she had all her front teeth. Dylan had come to appreciate good teeth these days, since so few people here were able to keep theirs much past adolescence. His body responded, and he found himself smiling at her. She giggled and put a hand on his leg. He groaned and tried to forget it had been six months since he’d last been with a woman, and seven months before that waiting for Cait.
Then the whore reached under his kilt and squealed at what she found. He tried to scoot away, but was already against the stone wall behind him. Her eyes went wide and her mouth made a perfectly round O. “Aye, yer a handful, I’ll say!” That tore it. Dylan was angry now, and no longer the least interested in this woman on any level.
Sinann squealed with laughter invisibly nearby.
He kept his voice even, but not without a struggle. “Let go.” But she only squeezed harder and found with her thumb the spot that made all his joints go wobbly. He groaned.
It was time to end this. He yanked up his kilt and sark, disengaged her hand and, squeezing it hard enough to make her cringe, said, “What part of no did you not understand?” He tossed her hand away from him. Gales of laughter rolled from the men, and Dylan let his clothing back down. The girl climbed to her feet and fled, carrying on in a loud voice about lunatic Highlanders.
Seumas called after her, “Dinnae let it trouble ye, girl, the lad’s in love, is all. He’ll be over it before long.” Then he winked at Dylan, who curled his lip then closed his eyes to wait for the ache to go away.
The following night, the last of the tryst, Rob gathered the men and a keg of whiskey, and led them to the center of town where a large stone cross stood. They made a ragged circle around it, the bung was removed from the keg, and wooden cups filled. The mood was one of celebration. A number of torches lit the square and threw tall shadows against the surrounding buildings. As a church bell tolled midnight, Rob started off with, “To the health of His Majesty, King James VIII.” By that, he committed a treasonous act punishable by hanging. They all drank.
Another man raised his quaiche and shouted, “Confusion to Montrose!” The gathering cheered and drank to that as well. The toasts went on, and a piper started up. “To Iain Glas of Breadalbane!” shouted another MacGregor drover. The cheering and laughter rose, becoming louder with each toast. Dylan shouted, “Damnation to every Englishman north of the Borderland!” This was greeted with enthusiasm, and the men drank deeply. They could all be hung for this, and Dylan knew if they were caught the hangings would be carried out without delay. But he also knew there were worse things than execution. Besides, this wasn’t the first hanging offense he’d committed that year. They’d have to catch him before they could kill him.
The party grew as drovers from other clans joined in and crowded the square. Shouts came from surrounding homes to shut the bloody hell up, but they went ignored as the whiskey flowed, toasts became more outrageous, and the men more cheerful.
“May Argyll be caught buggering George, and hung for treason!”
“To Argyll’s nose hair, may it grow strong and healthy!”
“To the boil on Montrose’s arse, may it grow strong and healthy!”
“May George fall down his garderobe and drown!” Laughter rolled until the men wiped tears from their eyes.
The sound of military drums quelled the hilarity some, for they heralded the approach of English troops. A thrill shot through Dylan, and he wondered if there would be a fight. He was ready for one, and fingered the pommel of his sword. But Rob seized the silence and raised his cup one more time. “To the health of those honest and brave felons what cut out the gadger’s ear!” With a roar of approval, the men drank, then fled, scattering in all directions.
Dylan took off down a lane, but before disappearing into the darkened town he looked back to glimpse the red coats of the English army. Hatred, stitched into his bones by pain and bigotry, galvanized him as he made his escape.
CHAPTER 20
Snows came in November, and the raids stopped after one last creach on Menteith. Very little moved this time of year, so paid activity was at a minimum for Dylan and his four bunkmates. They stayed in the barracks and were fed well by their employer, but cash flow stopped. Dylan had a few shillings in his purse in addition to his share from the cattle sale. He hung on to his money.
Murchadh and Cailean, who had wives in the Trossachs, went to spend the winter at home, leaving Dylan, Alasdair Og, and Seumas Glas as the barracks’ only occupants. The three drifted to the stone house of an evening, for the tradition of céilidh was as strong here as anywhere in the Highlands and everyone within walking distance came for talk.
With nothing much to do but talk, every bit of news concerning the Crown and the rise of Jacobite sentiment was hashed and rehashed often. New information was welcomed with excitement, and everyone who approached the house in Glen Dochart was questioned thoroughly for any tidbit. The tidbits were many. Foreclosure was the new Whig pastime. Public expression of support for James was now too common for the treason laws to be enforced. All of Scotland awaited the rise of new Jacobite leaders.
Winter passed, and unrest grew.
Toward the end of February, Dylan was sitting on his bunk one night, cleaning and sharpening his sword. Not that it particularly needed either, but there was nothing else to do. Voices arrived outside the barracks door. He looked up to see the door open to a blast of snow and wind, and Alasdair Roy let in a young man, whose face gave Dylan a strange feeling of time displacement.
“Mac a’Chlaidheimh, see the lad gets a blanket and something to eat.” Alasdair left before hearing a reply.
“Aye,” said Dylan, who now stared. He’d seen that face before. The newcomer nodded a greeting and found a bunk empty of blankets to set his gear on. Then Dylan recognized who it was, set his sword down, and stood. “Robin.”
Robin Innis looked, peered across the dim room for a long moment. When he finally recognized the beardless Dylan his eyes went wide and he gave a shout of joy. He hurried to shake his hand, then grabbed him in a huge bear hug. “A Dhilein! You’re alive! Thank the Lord! They said you had died of sickness from the ball in your leg before reaching the garrison!”
Dylan laughed. “No, I didn’t die. The Sassunaich only made me wish for it. What are you doing here?”
Robin glanced around the barracks, “Taking shelter in my travels, carrying messages for Iain Mór.”
Dylan sat on his bunk and gestured for Robin to pull up a stool. “Tell me, what’s the news at Tigh a’ Mhadaidh Bhàin?”
Robin took a stool from the table to straddle it, and filled him in on the deaths in Glen Ciorram over the past year, among them Marsaili. In a
way Dylan was sorry to hear this, but in another way he was relieved. She’d suffered a long time. Her surviving children were now orphans. The teenage daughter now worked in the castle kitchen, replacing a girl who had married in August. The boy was apprenticed to Tormod to learn smithing. Two new babies had been born in Ciorram, one of which survived, and the harvest this year had been a good one.
The political news was that, though Iain Mór’s Sutherland cousins were Loyalists, everyone expected him to side with the Jacobites if war should come. Especially since some of his own land had been taken for imaginary debts. “Also,” Robin paused and his voice went low, “I come from Edinburgh with important news for Iain Mór.” His tone gave Dylan to believe the news would interest him.
Cait. It was about Cait. Had her husband died? Was she in danger? “What is it?” Dylan’s heart leapt in his chest.
Robin hesitated, then said slowly, “The Laird is a grandfather. A wee bairn was born to his daughter, about a month ago.”
Dylan’s heart seemed to stop, and for a moment he couldn’t speak. Then he took a deep breath and managed, “A month ago?”
“The twentieth of January. A big, healthy boy. She’s named him Ciaran.”
There was a long silence while Dylan let this sink in. January 20 put the baby’s conception at the beginning of May. Beltane. Cait hadn’t married Ramsay until mid-June, nor even gone to Edinburgh until the end of May. A barely eight-month birth would not only not have produced a big, healthy baby, but in these days of medical ignorance the child most likely would not have lived at all. Ciaran was Dylan’s son, beyond doubt. Furthermore, everyone must know it, including Ramsay.
He had to clear his throat to find his voice, then said, “Is she well?”
Robin nodded. “As well as can be expected. She survived her confinement with nae illness, and Ramsay hasnae denounced her publicly. But he doesnae treat her well. Nor does he treat the bairn like a son. He feeds them and shelters them, but his anger is great and his cruelty stops only at the taking of their lives. It’s hardly a happy life she has.”
A welter of emotions rose in Dylan, and he stood as if to do something. But there was nothing for him to accomplish, so he only fidgeted and paced. A son. He was a father. His beloved Cait was trapped in a home where she and her baby were not welcome. Murderous rage pushed everything else aside, and his one desire was to kill Ramsay.
Robin continued, “He ridicules her in public, and carries on in adultery in their home. And he beats her.”
“She should divorce him.”
Robin fell silent for a moment, then said, his voice thick with anger, “Shame on you, Dylan, for saying such a thing. Even were the Pope to allow it, which His Holiness most certainly would not, her father would decry it regardless and banish her as a whore. He could never accept his daughter as divorced.”
“Ramsay is an adulterer.”
Robin’s voice went low again. “You know the way of the world, Dylan. Surely I don’t have to tell you. . . .” Then he peered at Dylan as if seeing him clearly for the first time. With sudden insight, Robin said, “Stay away from them, Dylan. Ye cannae help.”
Dylan turned his anger on Robin and leaned over the table. “He should die. He took them from me. That baby is mine. He’s . . .” His voice failed and he straightened. The enormity of the child’s existence swept over him like a tidal wave. And the loss came hard on it. Tears rose, but he fought them back. “I’m going to Edinburgh.”
Robin stood and grabbed Dylan’s sleeve. “No. You cannae. You willnae help anything. All you will do is make things worse for them both. So far Ramsay hasnae declared the baby a bastard, but if you go there he will. He’ll have nae choice.”
Dylan pulled free and drew on his coat, scabbarded his sword, and threw the baldric over his shoulder. “Good. Then I’ll take her back to her father.”
“You cannae do that to her. You’re not that cruel.”
Dylan paused and looked at Robin. “What do you mean?”
“She would be shamed her entire life, were you to do that. And impoverished as well. Surely you know she couldnae live in her father’s household with a bastard baby. He’d turn her out. And the child as well.”
“He wouldn’t. Una wouldn’t let him.”
Robin nodded. “He would for a certainty, and his wife would have nae say. How could he lead his people if he let his daughter bear a bastard without shame? How could he hold himself up to them as a man of honor and morality?”
Dylan shook his head, thinking the world had tilted again and he’d slipped sideways into another dimension where it could be honorable to disown family. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“This is crazy.” Dylan made for the door.
“Dylan!” Robin followed him. “Dinnae be daft! It’s night, it’s winter, and you’ve nae provisions! Come back.”
But Dylan didn’t want to stay. He didn’t want to hear any more about false honor, bastard babies, or Cait being hurt. He was going to Edinburgh. He walked into the night, where a buffeting wind tried to knock him sideways.
Sinann popped into sight, hovering just before his face flying backward as he trudged through the snow in a vague southerly direction. “Go back.”
“Get lost, Tink.”
Robin caught up to him. “Dylan, be reasonable.”
“Listen to your friend, Dylan. He’s right when he says you would ruin her by going there and claiming the child.”
He glared at her. “You knew, didn’t you?”
Robin said, “Knew what?”
Sinann said, “I kent naught. How could I have?”
Dylan made a disgusted noise and kept walking. The snow crunched under his feet.
Sinann landed in front of him in an attempt to make him stop, but he neither stopped nor strayed from his course. He forced her to take wing again or be trampled. “You’ll die, Dylan! Even if you don’t die on the way, they’ll kill you when you get there! Then she’ll be in greater danger than before, with the bastardy declared by Ramsay!”
“Dylan!” yelled Robin as he fell behind, unwilling to follow in the snowy night.
“Dylan!” yelled Sinann as she hovered before his face. He waved her off like a huge fly, and walked on.
There was a noise, like the breaking of a dead tree limb, and pain shot through his left leg. He let out an inarticulate shout, and collapsed in the snow. “Damn you!” He scooted along in the snow, trying to get away from the pain in his leg. “Damn you! ” Red Fury and white agony filled him.
“I had to do it, lad,” she said.
“Get away from me. Just get away from me!”
Robin hesitated as he was about to help Dylan to his feet. Seumas, Rob, James, Coll, and Alasdair Roy came from the stone house to see what was the matter. Robin knelt beside Dylan. “What happened?”
Dylan fell back in the snow and let out a bellow of pain and frustration that echoed from the surrounding snow-covered slopes.
The other men helped him back to the barracks, and onto his bunk. Lacking a blacksmith to set the bone, which Dylan considered a blessing, they splinted his shin tight. Sinann told him she’d given him a clean break, and Dylan didn’t bother to thank her for the favor. Alasdair gave him enough whiskey to dull the pain, then the men left him to mutter in his sleep about the fucking Sidhe and what they could do with their damned faeries and oh, please, God help them, God help them, God help them. . . .
For the rest of the winter he recovered from his broken leg and from the shock of the news. Slowly he came to understand why it was so important he not claim the baby. As an outlaw wanted for treason, murder, and robbery, he could never give Cait and her child any amount of security. Their lives would be almost as endangered as his if he tried to keep them with him. He also knew that after the battle at Sheriffmuir they would be safest with someone politically close to the Crown and the Privy Council as Ramsay was. As bad a husband as Ramsay might be, he was still Cait’s best bet for making it through the
coming persecutions without starving. Misery was just slightly better than death, but it was still better.
In mid-April he began to walk without a crutch as the snows receded. While working out one morning, sparring with Seumas Glas, Seumas assured him that once James took his rightful place as king, they would all be pardoned and Dylan could claim his son.
Before he could stop himself, Dylan laughed and stood down as panic tried to take him. He turned in place and gazed for a moment at the surrounding mountains to compose himself. Seumas gave him a funny look, but Dylan couldn’t tell him what he knew.
Seumas guessed what Dylan was thinking, though. “You believe we will fail?”
Dylan plundered his memory for what he knew that he could tell. “Jacobite leadership is weak. There are no generals who can lead.”
“There is the Duke of Berwick, King James’s half brother.”
Dylan shook his head. “He’s a Marshal of France, and France has signed a treaty with the Crown, promising they won’t give us aid. Berwick won’t do it. Many Western Highland clans have sided with George. . . .”
Seumas’s jaw dropped. “No! They can’t have!”
Oops, had that happened yet? Dylan only knew it was sometime this year. He quickly backpedaled. “If they haven’t yet, they will. I’m sure of it. Campbell of Argyll, especially, you know it. And that leaves nobody with the battle skills for leading the uprising.”
“I hope you’re wrong.”
Dylan only wished he could be, for it would be that very weakness of experienced battle leadership that would lose them Sheriffmuir.
The leg healed well, leaving Dylan with only a slight dull ache during wet weather. Which, in this part of the world, was pretty much all the time. But he could use the leg, with only a slight limp. Sinann pointed out she might have broken the good one but chose the one that had been shot. He only looked sideways at her.
Cattle raids began as soon as the snows left, and Dylan joined them in late May. Robbing Montrose’s rent collectors became more common, as well, and other political targets lost their purses along the way. Dylan became quite adept at the routine he called “Stand and Deliver.”
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