On one such foray in late summer, not far from Glen Dochart, he, Alasdair Roy, Seumas, James, and Coll waylaid some soldiers transporting guns and swords near Callander. Word was, the English were on their way to Ft. William with dispatches as well as arms. Though the weaponry was the excuse for the robbery, the dispatches were as important to Rob.
There were six men on horseback, five uniformed and one civilian, and two garrons loaded with crates. The trail was narrow, with a steep, loamy slope to one side and a river to the other. Alasdair stepped onto the trail from behind a tree and stopped the procession by brandishing his guns, and the others surrounded the horses with their swords. The soldier leading the pack horses reached for his musket, and Seumas threw his dirk hard, striking him through the back. He struggled for a moment, eyes wide and hands grappling for the weapon, until his eyes glazed over. He slumped, and was silent. Moments later, blood began to drip from the hem of his red coat onto his saddle. While the Redcoat was dying, Seumas went to retrieve his knife, and wiped the blood off on the soldier’s breeches. The horsemen shifted nervously, everyone knowing the raiders hadn’t enough swords nor guns to keep all the English under control.
“Your guns. I want all the pistols handed to the young gentleman, over there.” Alasdair barked the order, and Coll MacGregor went to collect the various pistols and muskets handed to him. He stuck the pistols in his belt and the muskets he laid on the ground, except for one he held on the men as he backed away.
Alasdair then ordered the remaining men to dismount and move away from the horses. He gestured to James, who mounted and took charge of the pack animals.
The civilian bolted, and Alasdair shot but missed. “Mac a’Chlaidheimh!” he shouted. Dylan, the closest, was already off after him. The fleeing man ducked into the woods at the side of the trail where it crossed a shallow stream. Dylan plunged after him, and scabbarded his sword to draw Brigid from his legging. The woods were thick and allowed no room for swords. He ran after the filthy Whig, eager to teach him whose territory this was. Over the past year he’d become familiar with most of the land between Glen Dochart and Stirling, and this area had been scoped out well in preparation for the robbery. He knew he was chasing his quarry into a trap. The stream they followed upward widened to a pool at the bottom of a tall waterfall. On three sides were granite cliffs, and the fourth side was blocked by Dylan and Brigid. The fleeing man skidded to a stop amid ferns and tall, gnarled pines realizing that the trail had ended. He turned, turned again, and finally confronted Dylan with a face slack with fear.
“Don’t kill me! Please!” His tall, lanky body cringed in abject terror of Dylan’s dirk. His white, powdered wig sat askew, the queue visible over his left shoulder.
“Give me a reason why I shouldn’t.” Dylan held his dirk ready to do just that.
“I’m a Jacobite! I’m a supporter of King James VIII! Long live King James!”
Dylan’s eyes narrowed. “Easy enough to say.”
There was a pause in which the man seemed to consider his next words, then he said as if confessing, “I’m a friend of Iain Mór of Ciorram!” Dylan’s interest perked. He lowered his dirk and the man went on, encouraged, “Iain Mór is a Jacobite! I provide intelligence for him and his fellows!” He pulled himself up as if posing for a portrait, and straightened his wig. In the haughty, almost condescending tone of the upwardly mobile, he said “In fact, I’m married to his daughter!”
Cold sweat broke out. In a voice that suggested murderous intentions, Dylan said, “Your name?” But he already knew the answer.
CHAPTER 21
“Connor Alexander Ramsay, of Edinburgh.”
Dylan gripped Brigid in his fist. It was all he could do not to kill Ramsay on the spot. Through gritted teeth he said, “What in hell are you doing here?”
Ramsay blinked at the vehement reaction. But he seemed to gather his life was no longer in danger and relaxed into a loose-limbed stance of insouciance. He said, “I told you, I carry intelligence. I was accompanying the guard for safe passage to Ft. William, supposedly to meet with a Major Bedford. . . .”
Dylan’s head buzzed and he shook it, puzzled. “Bedford’s not dead?”
“Nae.” Ramsay seemed surprised anyone would think he was. Once he was certain Dylan had decided not to kill him, he began picking at his clothes to straighten them. His breeches were doe skin and he wore a brocade waistcoat under a coat of green velvet. His wig was tied back in a queue, with a matching green ribbon, in the military manner. Ruffles erupted at neck and both wrists of his shirt.
Dylan shook off the bad news to concentrate on the immediate matter. “You’re no friend of Iain Mór. I think you lie.” He knew it wasn’t a lie, but didn’t want Ramsay to know how he knew it. “However, I think I’ll let you live. Put your hands against that tree, over there, and spread your feet.” Ramsay did as he was told, gingerly as if reluctant to be handled by a ruffian. Dylan held the point of his dirk to the side of Ramsay’s neck as he frisked him. There was a package hidden in the lining of his coat, and Dylan slit the lining open to get at it. They were the dispatches all right, folded into a leather wallet. Dylan opened the wallet and found the letters were in code, looking like random characters on the paper. Ramsay hurried to explain. “I have nae intention of leaving those with Bedford. After our meeting I am to slip away to Glenfinnan. A courier is to meet me there, to take these on to Ciorram.”
Dylan knew Ramsay was suspect, or Rob would never have needed to send his men after the letters. He grunted and stuffed the letters inside his sark. He tied Ramsay’s hands with a lace handkerchief he found in the pocket of the brocade waistcoat. Then he lifted Ramsay’s purse, shook it for jingle and weight, and from experience valued the contents at about three or four pounds. He hauled Ramsay off the tree by his collar and gave him a shove in the direction from which they had come. He would see to it the letters made it to Ciorram, whether Ramsay had intended it or not.
They arrived at the trail, where the raiders had mounted the English horses and were holding the disarmed soldiers at gunpoint as they awaited Dylan’s return. There was a murmur of approval when they saw he had captured the civilian. Dylan turned custody of Ramsay over to Seumas, then approached Alasdair for a conference. The leader leaned down from his mount to listen. Dylan was careful to stand with his back to the soldiers.
In quick, hushed Gaelic, Dylan said, “We have reason to keep him. Hold him for ransom.”
Alasdair’s bushy eyebrows went up. “Aye?”
Dylan nodded and reached inside his sark to show just the corner of the letters. “He carried the dispatches bound for the garrison. If the English know about them, and think the letters are undiscovered, they’ll pay more for him. Their eagerness to buy back the courier might give an indication of how trustworthy he is.”
The big, red-haired Scot grinned. “I like the way ye think, lad.” In English he shouted to the uniformed captives, one of whom carried their dead compatriot over his shoulder, “All right, Sassunaich, I’ve a message for you to take to your superiors. They can have their Whig merchant at the cost of a hundred pounds sterling, brought to this spot in a week’s time. Start walking to the garrison. Any one of you tries to follow, he’ll have his head blown off and his balls fed to my pigs, and not necessarily in that order.” The soldiers stood, not sure they should leave their civilian charge. Alasdair shouted, “Quit yer gawping ye gowps, and get the hell out of here before I shoot the lot of you just to have your ugly faces out of my sight!”
That moved them. They began to shuffle along the trail, reluctantly, looking back at Ramsay. Dylan and Ramsay each mounted a horse, and with Alasdair’s pistol trained at the soldiers the band of brigands took off in the opposite direction as fast as the pack garrons would let them, bringing the spare horses along.
Coll MacGregor was sent home to Glen Dochart with the booty. Once Coll was gone, Alasdair fell back on the trail to where Dylan followed Ramsay’s horse and gestured for him to fall back even m
ore. Out of earshot, he said, “There is a letter in the packet I want sent to Mar.”
Dylan knew he was hanging himself, but said, “They all need to go to Ciorram.”
There was a pause, then Alasdair said, “What did Ramsay tell you? I am the only one here who was told of Ramsay’s special relationship with the Jacobites.”
Dylan chewed on the inside corner of his mouth for a moment, sifting through the things Ramsay had said that Dylan wanted widely known. He replied, “He admitted he was a spy in hopes of release. But I figure he’s not a well-trusted one, or Rob wouldn’t have sent us after the dispatches. It was pretty easy to figure out.”
Alasdair chuckled. “I hope the other men dinnae find it so easy. Though I dinnae expect they will.”
The letters were ordered sent to Ciorram via one of Rob’s men. The rest of the brigands went to an abandoned house near Lochearnhead, at the foot of the pass into Glen Dochart, arriving about nightfall. The horses were hobbled outside to graze. Dylan was given charge of the prisoner, and had him bring inside an armload of peat cannibalized from the crumbling wall on the byre side of the house. Seumas lit the fire under the smoke hole, then set to making a supper for the men, of bannocks baked on a flat rock.
A stray chicken from inside the byre flew up to roost on the boards separating it from the rest of the house, clucking and peering at the intruders. Seumas shushed the other men as he eased into position below the bird with his back to the wall, looking up. Like a snake he struck, and grabbed the chicken by the neck, then hauled it down and shook it hard, snapping its neck. It barely had time to get out one indignant cluck before it went silent and limp. He took it outside to pluck and clean it. Everyone was in a good mood now. Fresh chicken for supper.
They each picked out a spot on the floor, and Dylan sat Ramsay on the floor against the byre wall, his hands tied behind his knees. Though Ramsay insisted loudly he was a Jacobite, the men were not allowed to believe it was true and so Dylan kept him restrained and periodically told him to shut up. Seumas spitted the chicken carcass over the fire. There was little talk while they anticipated the meal, the scent of roasting meat filling the room. When it was ready they all shared it. Dylan stuffed a large chunk of meat into Ramsay’s mouth and let him cope with chewing and swallowing his ration.
But when it came to feeding him a bannock, Dylan wasn’t quite angry enough to watch him choke on a whole share. But neither did he feel like feeding pieces to him like a servant. He stood with it in his hand, debating.
Ramsay said, “Perhaps you could see your way to letting my hands loose so I can at least feed myself?”
Dylan looked over at Alasdair, who shrugged and nodded. So Dylan reached under Ramsay’s knees and loosened the handkerchief. Then he handed the bannock over and went to sit against the peat wall.
In keeping with the habit of most of the men there, supper was followed by drinking and talking. The whiskey was passed to Ramsay as well, and the mood lightened for all of them. Tonight Seumas talked of wanting to marry a girl he’d met in Glen Dochart. His praise of her beauty and sweetness brought hoots from his comrades, but he laughed and declared them all jealous. Dylan’s heart was heavy as he thought of how he’d dreamed of marrying Cait, and realized with a flush of jealousy that Ramsay was the only married man in the room.
He turned to Ramsay and said, “You’re married. Tell the lad what it’s like.”
A sour look crossed Ramsay’s heavy-lidded face, and Dylan wanted to punch him out. Ramsay said to Seumas, “Don’t do it.”
Dylan’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t like being married, then?”
Ramsay shrugged. “I suppose a wife has her uses. Especially if her father is wealthy and if she’s pretty enough not to embarrass one in public.” Chuckling rippled through the firelit room.
Dylan’s cheeks burned, but he took a deep, silent breath so as to not give away his keen interest in Ramsay’s wife. “Surely there’s more to marriage than that. Even if you have your differences, there must be a solace in good company.”
“I’ve nae need of her company.”
Alasdair said, “Och! Rubbish! Every woman has a certain charm, if you know what I mean.”
The others laughed, but Dylan stared at Ramsay for his reaction. It was little more than a smirk. Ramsay looked as if he’d smelled something bad. “Ever since the child, the allure has . . . dwindled.”
That brought a roar of laughter from the Highlanders, and the redness of Ramsay’s face revealed he’d not intended the pun.
Dylan, not laughing in the least, said, “You have children, then?”
There was a long pause, then Ramsay said, “Aye. One boy. But having married a faithless woman somewhat takes the joy from fatherhood.” His voice was filled with pain, and Dylan had a twinge of guilt that the man had been duped by Iain into marrying Cait when she was already pregnant. That much, at least, had not been Ramsay’s fault.
But then the Whig said, “I won’t disown the little bastard, but I have disinherited him and will make him wish I had put him out. And his whore mother, as well. If ever she’s too marked to appear in public, then that’s nae matter. I never lack for feminine company and can do without hers if need be.” The pain was gone from Ramsay’s voice and replaced by the arrogance of vengeance. He was making Cait pay for her father’s treachery.
Dylan screwed his eyes shut and his hand reached for his legging, to curl around Brigid’s hilt. He was about to attack Ramsay when Sinann’s voice came to him. He opened his eyes.
“Nae, laddie,” she said. She crouched by his knee and put a hand over his hand that rested on the dirk.
The others went on talking to Ramsay as Dylan said, well under his breath, “Are you going to stop me by breaking my other leg?” He stared at the floor so nobody would see the murder in his eyes.
“Nae. I’m going to stop you by reminding you that your lovely lady needs this man, at least until you can take her away. You heard what he said. He’s disinherited the boy and his mother. He’s made an early will and most likely declared the bairn illegitimate. Kill him, and you will ruin the two people who matter most to you in the world. Wait until you are free to marry her.” She shrugged. “Then kill him.”
“I’ll never be free to marry her. Even if I don’t die at Sheriffmuir, I’m not likely to survive the persecutions after.” He rubbed his thumb hard against Brigid’s hilt.
Sinann squeezed his hand. “You cannae know that.”
He finally looked at her. “I can’t change history.”
Her voice took on an amused tone, as if he’d just said something unutterably stupid. “I daresay you never read in a history book that Dylan Robert Matheson, also known as Dilean Mac a’Chlaidheimh, was killed at that battle or shortly thereafter.” Dylan shrugged. She had a point.
She continued, “Let it be. For now.” He let go of his dirk and relaxed against the peat wall behind him to sulk. But there was more: “Not only can you not kill him, but you have to make certain nobody else here does.”
He shot her an evil glare, but said nothing.
The talk continued well into the night. When the Highlanders began to curl up on the dirt floor under their plaids, Dylan tied Ramsay’s hands behind his knees again with the handkerchief. A bit more tightly than necessary, perhaps, but not tight enough to give him gangrene. Not before morning, anyway. He pulled his plaid around himself and lay down to sleep.
Sometime during the night he was awakened by the sound of wood against wood, and came fully conscious in an instant. Seumas raised a shout, and Alasdair went flying to the gap Ramsay had pulled in the byre wall. Dylan found Ramsay’s handkerchief on the floor and picked it up. Rather than wait his turn to go through the hole, he drew his sword and ran out the front, then around to the back where the horses were.
Ramsay had slipped the hobble on one of them, and was mounting. Alasdair had his pistol primed, and was taking aim. Sinann’s voice came from nowhere. “He must live! Dylan, you must protect him!”
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Dylan ran at Alasdair and struck the gun to spoil his aim just as he shot. The ball went wide and the report spurred Ramsay’s horse into flight. Seumas freed another horse and mounted to pursue. Alasdair turned on Dylan.
“What in bloody hell did you do?” He slipped the gun into his belt and pulled his sword. Dylan fell back to defend with his. Alasdair continued to shout, red-eyed with fury, “Tell me, young idiot, just what that was about! Are ye in league? Have ye turned Whig on us, lad? Or are ye simply daft? Gone soft in the head, have ye?” He circled, and Dylan wished he’d let Alasdair kill Ramsay. “Have ye an answer, lad, or are you going to die without speaking for yourself?”
“I don’t know why I did it.”
Alasdair’s sword struck out, and Dylan parried. One clang, and they circled some more. “Not good enough, lad.” The next attack almost landed, but Dylan parried and backed farther.
“I don’t want to fight you.” He didn’t want to hurt Alasdair, who was a fine shot but a mediocre swordsman.
“Then you should have let me shoot.” Another attack, and Dylan parried. “Why didn’t you? Have we a spy in our midst?”
Aw, jeez. This he didn’t need. He finally sighed and said, “I couldn’t let you shoot him. We didn’t bring him here to kill him.”
“Neither did we bring him here to go running back without us getting our money. Why is it so desperately important to you that he live?”
There was a long pause while Dylan debated telling the truth. Alasdair made another series of attacks, backing Dylan against the house, until he could go no farther and they locked swords. Dylan decided he was keeping a secret that was not important enough to die for, and said, “That boy he was talking about last night . . . his wife’s baby . . . that’s my son!”
Alasdair’s jaw dropped. He shoved off from Dylan’s sword and stood down. “Ye jest, lad!” Dylan shook his head and leaned against the sagging wall, feeling like a spent balloon. Alasdair made a disgusted noise. “Och! He’s the prick married your Cait?” Dylan nodded. The wheels turned behind Alasdair’s eyes, and Dylan could see him come to the same conclusion Sinann had. “Aye, I see why you couldnae kill him. Ye have my sympathy. And Cait, as well, having to live with that spineless pig.” He turned back to the direction Ramsay had taken and said, “Let’s hope Seumas catches him. If not, we’d best hie out of here in a hurry.”
Son of the Sword Page 31