by Jenn Lees
“Siobhan will be pleased to hear it. We’ll get back to you once we’re home and have reported to the Government.”
“Ye must stay until your new wife is feeling better,” Mrs Donaldson said. “At least till she’s had some breakfast.”
Rory thanked Mrs Donaldson, sculled his coffee, shoved the last morsel of bannock into his mouth, and rose from the table. At the far end of the breakfast hall, Xian and Micah stepped away from their own table and walked out of the hall. Rory left and ran up the stairs two at a time, then pushed open the door to their room. Siobhan was dressed and packing her saddle bags, her hair neatly in a French roll.
“Ready when you are.” Siobhan’s face glowed her healthy natural colour and her eyes sparkled.
“Ahh...ye are okay, then?” Rory’s hand rested on the doorknob. “The Donaldsons insist we dinnae leave until you have eaten.” He chewed his lip. “Ye up to that?”
“Yes, I think I am now. It’s truly passed whatever it was. And a good night’s sleep on a comfy mattress has helped immensely.”
Rory grabbed the packed bags and walked down the stairs with Siobhan.
“I’ll not be long.” Siobhan headed for the breakfast hall as Rory turned to the back door that led to the stables where Micah and Xian readied the horses.
“One for the road, young Campbell?” Mr Donaldson followed Rory, a hipflask in his hand. “Ye must understand, my wife and I have worked hard to have this life.” He stepped beside Rory as they headed for the stables. “It could have been a disaster. We may have been overwhelmed at first by the troubles, but we hung in there and have a good life, as ye can well see. Almost normal.”
Rory took the still proffered flask and had a sip. Warmth slid down his throat and heated his middle, mirroring the respect he had for this man, his wife, and their Community.
“Aye, I ken what you’re saying. My parents sacrificed all to forge the Community where I live and many come for safety and normality in this”— he sighed—“corrupted world.” He took another pull of uisge beatha. “I ken where your wife’s coming from, honestly, I do. You dinnae need to explain or apologise.”
“My woman’s a hard one, but once you’ve won her over, she’s on your side for life.”
THEY RODE HARD FOR the next two days, and by the middle of the third day the heaviness of fatigue dragged on Siobhan’s limbs. Rory pushed the horses, alternating a fast walk with a trot throughout the days of light rain interspersed with watery sunshine. Densely forested mountains blanketed in misty rain lay either side, increasing in height and severity as the days wore on. By late afternoon, Siobhan’s lower back twinged, followed by a dull ache that didn’t go away.
Rory ordered a halt.
“Come over here, lass. You look miserable.”
Siobhan leaned forward and lifted her leg over the saddle and behind. Her inner thigh muscles spasmed and her leg stuck on the horse’s rump. Rory jumped off Boy, his feet landing lightly and his face holding an ill-concealed grin.
“Don’t you laugh at me, Rory Campbell. You were born in a saddle. I was not.”
He stepped around behind her and his hands came to her waist, surrounding her in his strong grip.
“Just ease yoursel’ off slowly. I’ve got you.”
She landed on the ground and staggered, her legs and feet—no—the whole lower half of her body, were not obeying her. Rory walked her to Boy. The tall stallion nickered at her approach and she patted his long black forehead and muzzle while the feeling returned to her legs. Then Rory helped her into the saddle and mounted behind her. Xian took her horse’s reins and led it with the packhorse.
Wet mist dampened Siobhan’s cheeks and trickled down her face. A heaviness collected inside her, and emotions weighted on her as her mind scrambled for a justifiable reason to be so churned up.
Must be PMT. Although she was usually unaffected by it, unlike the other women she’d lived with in the Bunker. Then her shoulders trembled, and she couldn’t stop it. She ached, and she was all mixed up inside, and she wanted to be home, now, with Rory, in a place that was theirs.
Xian glanced at her and then nudged the horses ahead to walk with Micah and his men. The thumb of Rory’s left hand rubbed the reins.
“Are you no’ happy, Siobhan? I’m sorry I laughed at you.”
The clip-clop of Boy’s tread filled the air for a short distance.
“You mad at me?” he asked. “You want to go home?”
“Yes,” she said through a tight throat.
“I’ll turn around now, then.”
“Turn around, why?” She sniffed tears away.
“The Bunker—”
“Is not my home. You know that.”
“Why are you so upset? The ride too much for you? I dinnae have a vehicle. Och well, I do but nae fuel—”
“Rory, I’m fine. I’m just a little emotional. I’m sorry.” She sniffed again.
His arm came around her waist, slipping into her coat and holding her tight to him. “Well then, we’ll be home soon. Hang in there.” His large hand under her coat heated most of her waist.
“You think I’m a wimp.”
“What?”
“You think I’m weak. A soft, pampered...” Warm, wet tears blended with the cool mist coating her cheeks.
He held her tighter. “Ssh,” he said into her ear. “That’s the last thing I think you are.” He snorted. “You can whip those soldiers in the Bunker into line. You can stand up to Bethany-stuck-up-I’m-the-Queen-of-the-Castle-Watts.” He shook his head. “Weak is something you are not.”
They rode on in silence, except for the birds chirping in the thick forest beside the road to Inverness.
“I love you, Siobhan. You’re strong and brave. You’re stepping out into the unknown and I’m amazed that you are but, boy, I’m thankful too. In all honesty, you’re married to a man you barely ken. You’re going to live with a Community of people who you also dinnae ken. You’re leaving all the comforts of the world you grew up in and you’re having a camping trip to get to your new life. A camping trip in the wilds of the A9.”
They both laughed then. She leaned into him; the body heat rising from his open collar warmed her neck and her heart warmed with her love for him.
“We don’t know each other in-depth, but we know enough to start, yes?” She rested her hand on his tucked into her coat.
“Aye.”
“I knew from the journey to Loch Ewe, and then dealing with the nuclear problem on that submarine, that you are the man I want to be with. No matter how much time together that may be.”
His chest rose behind her as he took a breath to speak. “We have nae had a chance to talk fully about your journey to the future. How did you manage to avoid yourself?”
Siobhan sat straighter. “Ahh, I—me—in the future, was busy.”
“All day? What with?”
“Our children.”
“Och—”
Yelling came from the forest to their left and bandits emerged from the tree line. Ahead, Micah and his men spun back with Xian to join her and Rory, making a tight group to ward off the approaching, and possibly unfriendly, bandits.
“Och, no!” Rory shouted over Siobhan’s head at Micah. “I thought you’d warned these bandits off, McNair!”
Micah’s face was a storm. He pulled his handgun out, raised it in the air and fired a shot. The man leading the charge of the bandits turned to the sound and pulled on his reins and ordered his people to cease. They stopped yelling, except for one woman whose focus was on Rory. She maintained her charge, her massive shoulders moving forward with the motion of the horse, her stocky thighs urging it on.
Rory slipped his arm out from Siobhan’s coat and jolted her forward, pressing her face into Boy’s rough mane. Rory’s large hand, firm in the centre of her back, held her down.
“Deet!” the head bandit yelled. “Deet!” he screamed as the cropped-haired woman continued to charge at Rory. In the corner of Siobhan’s vision, Rory hel
d his handgun and aimed at the woman rushing toward them.
“Stop, ye stupid woman, afore ye get killed!” The leader galloped his horse to join her. “Stop!” he yelled, almost at her horse’s rear.
This caught her attention, and she slid her gaze away from Rory and behind to her leader who shook his head, then she left off her charge, easing her horse away from Siobhan and Rory. Boy pranced and skittered, hooves clattering on the road. Rory pulled him up, preventing his flight. Siobhan lifted her head as Deet rode past; she glared at Rory with pure hate emanating from her deep brown eyes. Siobhan shivered.
“Jock! The deal was you leave us alone. Okay?” Micah shouted at their leader who’d stopped his horse near Rory and Siobhan.
“Aye, I ken. Did nae see it was you first off, aye?” Jock glowered at Deet.
“Get lost,” Micah yelled. “Take ya savage woman with ye, yeah?”
“Aye, okay.” Jock’s reply was sullen. The woman had returned and pulled her horse up close to him. “Deet’s still sore from where ya friend stabbed her. Where’re ye headed?” He pointed to the direction they would go. “Back the ways? North?”
Rory breathed hard behind Siobhan as Micah turned to face him. There was a silent question between them. Rory would want to know if they could trust them, and Micah seemed to know this particular group of bandits. Micah’s nod was barely visible.
“Aye,” Micah said.
Jock looked Siobhan up and down, like a man used to making an assessment of a person from the briefest of encounters. So did the woman named Deet whose lip curled in a snarl.
“Ye best no’ take the rest of the A9 to Inverness, aye? Bad yun’s ahead. Ye’d better aim for campin’ on Culloden tha night. Safer that way, ken.”
“Aye, thank ye for the advice,” Micah rummaged in his saddlebags, lifted out some tinned foods, and handed them to Jock.
“We’re being followed.” Rory nudged Boy closer to Jock’s horse. “Maybe you can distract them for us.”
Siobhan swiveled in the saddle to look Rory in the eye. “Followed? By whom?”
“Your friends from the Bunker,” he growled.
“How do you know?” Siobhan’s shoulders bristled. “It could be anybody.”
Rory dipped into his pocket, pulled out a small object and held it up between his thumb and forefinger. It was a round disc with electronic circuitry and wires. The disc had been battered, and the wires hung loosely from it.
“Where did you get that?” Cold clamped the back of her neck. It was a technology she was sure that bandits, and even some communities, wouldn’t possess.
“I stood on it. It was lying on the floor of our room at Tummel House.” He clasped his fist around the tiny device. “And I’m sure they would nae have anything like this.”
“It may have fallen out of my bag when I dug deep for my evening gown.” Siobhan’s face tightened as she screwed it in disbelief. “That’s a listening device, if I’m not mistaken.” A sinking feeling accompanied the revelation. “We’re being spied on?”
“They need to stay close to hear anything. Been doing that since leavin’ the Bunker. Dinnae look so bothered, Siobhan. If they planned to harm us, they would’ve by now.”
“Don’t they trust us—me?”
“Och, Siobhan, it’s me they dinnae like. And that Bethany Watts is nosey.”
“It’s not Bethany.” Her words came out through a quiet growl. “I’d bet all I own on Antony being behind this. He’s been whispering into Bethany’s ear.”
A line furrowed vertically above Rory’s nose. “I thought he was locked away.”
“He is. Bethany visits often. He seems to have an influence on her.”
Rory’s jaw muscles tightened, then he crushed the electronic circuitry in his hand.
“Hold them up as much as ye can, if you would nae mind,” Rory said to the bandits.
Deet’s mouth broadened in a grin.
“We need them alive to question,” Rory directed this statement at Deet.
Deet shrugged and turned her horse toward the forest and the group melted back into the tree cover.
Chapter 23
Culloden Moor
Mists gathered as the day drew on. They reached Culloden Moor at sunset, having diverted from the remains of the A9 and journeyed overland toward the moor. Siobhan remained sitting in front of Rory in the saddle. His torso and arms had been tense all the journey, and his hands unusually tight on the reins as he watched for any other travellers or bandits who’d be a threat to them.
They slowed their horses to a walk to pass through the dense forest, their breath fogging their faces as they emerged from the wall of trees to a broad mist-shrouded moor. The cold clamped around Siobhan and she shivered, the only sense of warmth coming through her jacket where she contacted with Rory.
“Dinnae be afraid, Siobhan,” Rory said. “The ghosts of those who died here have sensed the love and respect of those who pilgrimage to this place, and they’re settled in their rest now.”
Vapour swirled in a slight breeze, as if the very ghosts Rory spoke of were waving to her. The place was silent apart from their horses’ tread.
“There’s a crofter’s cottage, of a sorts, to our left,” Micah pointed his chin in that direction. “A bothy now. We still have travellers’ rights and it might be available.”
They arrived at a small stone dwelling with a thatched roof. Light shone through the windows and the murmurings of conversation reached them.
“I’ll go speak to them.” Micah kicked his horse on, and his crew followed. Rory pulled Boy’s reins to his left while Micah rode ahead.
A man emerged from the bothy and chatted to Micah, frowning at first in the lamplight that spilled out from the doorway. Siobhan and Rory approached on Boy and the scent of cooking wafted toward her. Siobhan’s stomach churned, and she swallowed, fighting down the bile.
Micah returned. “They say the place is full, but they’re happy if we set up outside next to the hut for shelter.” He shrugged. “It will provide some protection from the cold.”
The scent of cooking meat blew into Siobhan’s nostrils. Her stomach lifted and she put her hand to her mouth.
“Xian, you okay setting up?” Rory asked. “I think I need to show Siobhan around a bit.”
Rory jumped down and eased her off Boy. Siobhan went to the packhorse and got another coat from her kit. Micah spoke to Rory in low tones, then Rory stepped over to her.
“You’ve probably never been to Culloden, have you?” Rory’s tone was tight. “Let’s stretch our legs.”
They strode in silence, the churn in Siobhan’s stomach easing as they left the cooking odours behind them. Her legs were tight at first, but the further they walked, the more they eased. She wasn’t a horsewoman, but she really had to get used to all of this. Rory held her upper arm and walked stiffly beside her, his mouth was a thin line and he looked straight ahead.
They wandered the still, flat grassland mixed with low growing heather, the mist parting and swirling around them. A strong outdoor scent surrounded her, with the smell of the woods near the moor’s edge and, closer, damp heather and grass. Nocturnal insects chirped their mournful night song as Rory led her by granite rocks spaced randomly apart. The moorland evoked a reverence; it was a sacred place. Rory got out his wind-up torch and pointed with its light.
“Grave markers,” Rory said.
Siobhan tucked a stray hair behind her ear. Her teachers in the Bunker had taught this era of Scottish history. It was a massacre, and if she recalled correctly, the gravestones marked clans. Too many had died to leave individual memorials. The Duke of Cumberland had led the British forces and those Scots on the side of King George II against Bonnie Prince Charlie and the Scots who supported his claim to the crown. From the Duke of Cumberland’s exploits on this very moor, this son of a king had earned the nickname he deserved—the Butcher.
They reached a large round cairn, the height of two men at least. Rory shone his torchlight on it.
Inscribed on the large flat stone at its base were the words:
The battle of Culloden was fought on this moor 16th April 1746.
Simply written, but the end of an era, as the Highland clearances followed. Siobhan stopped walking, taking a deep breath to wave away the nausea that had surged within her. The history of this eerie moor reminded her of the battle occurring when she’d left future-Rory. It would be history repeating itself. Rory had seemed sure the Scottish Government would destroy the Invercharing Community and everyone in it—himself, their children, Murray and all whom she would hold dear. And if Antony had his way, the Government would treat all other Communities in the same manner.
“What’s wrong, Siobhan? Have you got something to tell me?” Rory retained a firm grip on her arm and now steered her to face him as they stood by the tall, round cairn. The dim moonlight filtered through the mist, illuminating Rory’s face. His brow creased in the middle and his jaw was tight.
“In the future, Rory, there’s a civil war. You command an Alliance of Communities, bandits, and...others. It’s not good.”
“What?” Rory forced out the word then loosened his grip on her arm. “How?”
“I didn’t get the whole story, but Lloyd is not good news.” She placed her hand on his arm and stared into his eyes. “Don’t get involved with him,” she said firmly. “He’ll hold you...us, over a barrel when the famine hits. And Antony becomes Prime Minister.”
“No!” Rory shouted into the night. “Are you sure?”
“It’s what you and Murray told me.”
Rory let go of her, and, rubbing his mouth and chin, he turned his back to her. He placed his hands on the cairn and leaned into it. His shoulders rose and fell, and he seemed deep in thought for a few moments. The silence of this sacred place of historic memorial pressed upon Siobhan. She closed her eyes, willing the future to never hold a place of remembrance with their names engraved on a cairn.
Rory spun back to face her.
“That’s not what I meant about something to tell me.” His mouth was a thin line in the moonlight. “Do you truly want me for your husband?”