The woman nodded. The McIntosh was the elected head of Clan Chattan, the clan of the cat, a federation to which all those present belonged. Farquharson’s death would be dishonoured by his absence. But she and Aeneas were of similar age and maybe there were other benefits in his presence, so she hid her disappointment at his news.
‘We’re honoured to be in his thoughts,’ she said. ‘Will you take his place with the other Chattan chiefs?’
Aeneas was the nephew of a chief, not one of them. He’d come to pay his respects to a deserving warrior because he chose to, not simply to bring the McIntosh’s regards, and would have waited with the other kin outside. But he acquiesced, accepting the honour, and slid the now wriggling Anne from his shoulders to set her on the ground. Lady Farquharson fixed the grubby bloodstained girl with a look of disdain.
‘Your father’s waiting,’ she said, then turned and, taking the child clinging to her skirts with her, vanished into the house. Anne glared at MacGillivray, furious, fingers clenched at her sides.
‘You didn’t come back for me!’
‘We couldn’t find you.’
Anne leapt at him, punching, and the ferocity of her attack bowled them both over into the rose bush.
‘We looked everywhere,’ he protested, struggling to grab her flailing fists.
Anne was lifted into the air, a white rose tangled in her tumbling hair. Aeneas had her by the back of her dress.
‘Is this what you do when your chief is dying?’ he thundered.
‘Na can sin, he is not,’ Anne shouted back at him. ‘He’s sick, that’s all!’
‘So you hunt without his permission, drag MacGillivray with you, then get yourself hurt so those who bring respect to a brave man must turn away to save a silly girl?’ Aeneas had not let go his hold of her, though even in his rage he was mindful of his shins. ‘But you will behave now, before you go in, or I will give you the spanking you have earned right here!’
Anne was at her own door surrounded by her own tribe. He wouldn’t dare. With all the icy sarcasm of superiority, she spat her answer at him.
‘You certainly will not, sir. For you are not my father or a chief !’
Without a word, and in one easy move, Aeneas dropped to one knee, pulled her over the other and administered a resounding smack on her backside, quite hard enough to thoroughly dent her pride. When he stood her back on her feet, she hesitated, glaring at him. When none of the watchers spoke or moved to defend her, she tossed her head and hobbled off on her swollen ankle into the house.
Aeneas studied MacGillivray. The young chief stared, resolutely, at the ground. A scratch on his cheek from a rose thorn oozed tiny beads of blood.
‘Maybe I should take over your training,’ Aeneas suggested. The hint of teasing in his voice went unnoticed. The youth’s head came up, eager.
‘Would you?’
‘I’ll speak to McIntosh when we return,’ Aeneas answered. His uncle was MacGillivray’s guardian. He would approve.
‘I would have waited for you,’ the lad blurted out, ‘but no one knew where you’d gone. I came yesterday –’ now his pride was returning ‘– to represent my people.’
‘As you should,’ Aeneas agreed.
Inside Invercauld, the crowded main room glowed with candles. A peat fire smouldered in the hearth. All the Clan Chattan chiefs, male and female, were gathered round with their husbands or wives, standing or sitting, waiting. James Farquharson, a youth of sixteen, sobbed quietly next to the low bed on which his father lay. Lady Farquharson, her young daughter, Elizabeth, still holding on to her skirts, turned from beside the bed as Anne entered.
‘Look at the state of you,’ she hissed.
Unheeding, Anne brushed past to the bedside. As she looked down at her father, her rebellious demeanour changed and, for the first time that evening, became that of a frightened little girl.
‘Daddy?’
The Farquharson’s eyes flickered open. His head turned towards her and he half-rose, gripping her shoulders.
‘I got a deer for you,’ Anne said. ‘A deer! Now you can eat well and get better.’
Just inside the doorway, Aeneas McIntosh stood beside the MacGillivray. He’d assumed the girl hunted for pleasure, indifferent to her father’s impending death.
‘No food,’ Farquharson said. He was fading, and it seemed everyone but his elder daughter could see the shadow of death on him.
‘Then I’ll have someone mix the blood with ale. That’ll strengthen you.’ She turned to her half-sister, still hiding behind her mother. ‘Elizabeth –’ she began.
‘No.’ Her father tightened his grip on her shoulders. ‘No, Anne. It’s you and James will need to be strong now. My time is finished.’
‘Chan eil! Chan eil idir! I won’t let you go.’ Her voice broke, but she raised it, anguished, and glared at those standing around the bed, tears glittering in her eyes. ‘Why do you all stand there? Do something!’ No one moved or spoke, though there was some uncomfortable shuffling. Her stepmother put a hand on her shoulder. It might have been compassion, but Anne shook it away. ‘A m I the only one?’
‘Isd, a ghràidh,’ her father said. ‘Hush, lass.’ But a faint smile lit his gaunt face. ‘Your brother will be chief now, if the clan wishes it, but you, you’ll always be my warrior.’ With a trembling hand, he reached up and pulled the white rose from her hair. ‘My Jacobite. When the Prince is man enough, he’ll come,’ his voice faded, ‘in his father’s place.’
The prince he spoke of was a boy of seventeen, living in exile. His grandfather had ruled the three independent nations of Scotland, England and Ireland but was deposed in 1689. When Scotland united with England in 1707, the Prince’s father became the linchpin of revolt against that Union. Eight years later, Farquharson joined the rebellion of 1715, hoping to crown James Stuart as King of Scots and restore Scottish independence. The rising failed. King James returned to France. Now the cause invested hope of leadership in his young son.
‘We’ll fight,’ his daughter promised. ‘We’ll fight for the Prince. You know we will.’
The Farquharson’s breath shuddered in his chest.
‘Fight,’ he fell back on to the pillow, ‘for your freedom.’
‘We will. I promise.’ Anne raised her head, grasping for the comfort of familiar words, and though she was half-blinded by tears, her voice rang strong. ‘For prosperity, and no Union!’
And while her father could no longer hear the affirmation, people would remember that he died with the white rose symbol of their struggle in his hand as every person in the room repeated it.
‘Prosperity and no Union!’
TWO
Sunrise over the snow-covered peaks brought the first day of spring to the mountains. The light rippled like liquid down the rock gorges where the great waterfalls began to drip and thaw. On the lower green slopes near Braemar, black cattle grazed and a cluster of sheep scattered from a boy herding a few goats. Turf cotts crowded the overpopulated landscape. Reek from burning peat spiralled up through the central smoke holes in their roofs. In the yard at Invercauld, a cockerel crowed among the foraging hens, announcing the dawn, asserting his masculinity.
It was seven years since the old chief’s death but little, and much, had changed. The wolves were gone, hunted to extinction to preserve deer and protect the hill sheep. Cleared woodland had released more land for crops and homes, the wood providing a stable and paddock for the house. The crowing cockerel was interrupted by the clatter of hooves as a horse trotted across the yard. The rider was taller and had lost that lean and gangly look of youth, but the long red-gold hair was still unmistakable.
‘Anne!’ he called as soon as he was within earshot of the house. ‘Anne!’
A young woman turned from searching for eggs among the frosted tufts of grass that edged the coop. Slim as a reed inside the heavy tartan plaid around her shoulders, she had an easy, fluid grace. The tumbling wild hair was tamed, its rich chestnut brown sleek against her c
lear skin, loosely tied into a long plait down her back. She held two eggs in her hand and, seeing the rider was MacGillivray, a glorious smile spread across her face.
‘Alexander!’ She waved, and he rode over. ‘I didn’t think the pass was clear of snow yet.’
‘I came the long way round.’ He dismounted, wrapped his arms round her and kissed her, she mindful of the eggs. They’d become lovers, at least now and then, last spring. Among the clans, urges were satisfied as they arose. Casual couplings in the heather were common. Women often took a man to bed just for the winter.
Anne could have married, but no one else appealed to her. MacGillivray was in no position to. Marriage came late to Highland chiefs whose clans must provide for them and their children. His sporran pressed into Anne’s belly. Either he was aroused or it was full of oats. She pushed him back, giggling.
‘Will you stop? Sguir dheth! It’s freezing and I have my hands full already.’
‘Ach,’ he groaned. ‘It’s been a long winter.’
‘So that’s all you’re after,’ she grinned, ‘a bed-warmer.’
‘No. Well, yes, that too. But I was sent. I’ve to bring you all to Moy.’
‘Then McIntosh is dead.’ She was immediately sombre. ‘I thought I heard the lament, during the night, but so faint and far away I was sure I dreamt it.’
‘Shaw’s piper was sick and didn’t pick it up. But he’s fine now so you’ll hear tonight. And wait till you hear this.’ Now he was more excited. ‘They have chosen their new chief, his nephew, Aeneas.’
‘Aeneas McIntosh?’ Anne’s mouth fell open in disbelief. ‘Are they mad?’
‘But he’s a great warrior.’
‘Great at smacking children!’
‘That was years ago.’ MacGillivray laughed. ‘Remind me never to cross you. Your memory is as long as waiting.’
‘And yours is as short as butter-bread. No wonder he hasn’t married, with you running after him like a catamite since the night my father died.’
‘He’s my cousin.’ He flushed at the accusation. ‘And he tutors me. Besides, he couldn’t marry till the chief’s heir was decided.’
‘Well, he can now. I hope you’ll both be very happy.’ She headed for the house, furious. MacGillivray was easily impressed. No doubt Aeneas beat him to the sword!
‘Anne,’ he called. ‘You have to go.’
She turned back to face him.
‘The McIntosh was not here when my father died.’ Though she spoke defiantly, it covered a deep hurt. MacGillivray crossed the few steps to her, softened by her vulnerability, wanting to make things right.
‘It’s not just for the burial,’ he reminded her, gently. She held his gaze for a moment, tender for that moment, then the spell broke.
‘I know!’ she snapped. ‘Clan Chattan will also choose a new chief. So, will you lead the federation, Alexander? I think not. Maybe my brother, or MacBean, Macpherson, Davidson, Shaw, MacQueen? No! It will be none of them. McIntosh will! Well, hear me now. That man will never be my chief! I won’t vote. And I won’t go!’ She grabbed his hand. ‘Here, you’ll want breakfast.’ She thrust the two eggs she held into his palm and marched off towards the woods. MacGillivray grimaced at the smashed eggs dripping thick white and yolk through his fingers.
‘You forgot McThomas!’ he shouted after her.
Anne strode out of the trees across the open grassland towards the burn. She meant to follow its course up to the great falls, to the deep brackish pool where the fine mist from cascading water drifted against her face. But there would be little spray today from frozen falls, and that was where she first made love with MacGillivray, last year, on the morning after her nineteenth birthday, the day after the last wolf died.
A rainstorm on the night of her birthday had ended before dawn. Up at the falls, in spring sunshine, the damp grass had still steamed of it. Rainbows hung in the mist above the white froth of water. She waded into the pool, dress hauled up around her naked buttocks, after a slow salmon. It circled, lazy, brushing her calf. She slid her hand into the water, stroked its long, heavy body, gently, gently. There was a rustle on the bank, a footfall on the pebbles. She knew who it was, without turning. The way he’d looked at her down at the house, the way he’d be watching her now. Without turning, she knew. Her fingers stopped stroking the fish. The caress lost, it slid around her thigh and away. She turned to go to him, knowing what she’d see in his eyes and what she’d do about it.
So she wasn’t going to the falls. Not in her present mood. Instead she turned downstream, towards the strident bleating of the lambing pens. Her cousin leant indolently against a post, watching. Most warriors were tall. Francis Farquharson of Monaltrie was taller than most, his silver-blond hair startling in the crisp light. Baron Bàn folk called him, for that hair. Ten years older than her brother, he had administered Invercauld and mentored James since their father died.
‘Just late enough to be no help,’ he said, glancing over his shoulder as she approached. He and her brother had worked the night through. ‘The shepherds were back at first light.’
‘I can lamb a ewe,’ she snorted. ‘Small hands, see.’ She held them out. His were huge, useless for a difficult birth.
He laughed, amused by her indignation.
‘Except you might want for practice again. We’d be as well rid of sheep, bar what we can eat. There’ll be few sheared now the English have shut off our markets.’
Behind him, a suckling ewe trailed afterbirth from its stained rear. Beyond the pregnant and nursing beasts, her brother struggled to pull out a stuck lamb. The stink of birth and the stench of death mingled in the cold air. Shearing was a couple of months off. When the clan’s need of wool was met, spare fleeces were normally baled then sent to Moy. From there, the collected Clan Chattan wool was transported on to Aberdeen for export to the Low Countries. It was vital trade which funded imports and financed cultural travel to strengthen bonds with France, Spain and Italy, countries that were Scotland’s friends but England’s enemies. This year, spare fleeces would stay on the sheep. Britain’s parliament had banned Scottish wool exports to protect the English textile trade.
‘So what high dudgeon brings you down here?’ Francis asked. ‘Is it my aunt, again?’
‘McIntosh is dead. Alexander brought word.’
Francis nodded. A light breeze ruffled the blond hair round his shoulders. His blue eyes gazed steadily at her.
‘Then it’s MacGillivray who annoys you.’
‘He is too patient,’ she burst out.
‘It will be years, Anne. He has no suit to press.’
‘It’s not that.’ She grabbed his hand, pressed it against her breast, above her heart. ‘When I want to marry I will know it here.’ Still gripping his hand, she thrust it down into the folds of her skirts, between her thighs. ‘And not just here.’
Her passion roused him to more amusement.
‘Maybe it’s here you should know it,’ he said, tapping the forefinger of his other hand on the side of her head. ‘Then you might have considered Louden.’
She slapped away his hand from between her thighs.
‘As if I’d wed a government lackey!’
‘Not even an earl?’ Francis queried.
‘Nor a baron either,’ Anne retorted.
He had asked her on that birthday, the day the last wolf died, but only to mock her stepmother. Anne had gone to the window, put her face to the damp glass, listened to the drumming rain. It battered against the panes, stoated up from the cobbled yard outside.
‘They say he’ll come this year,’ she said.
‘Or next,’ Lady Farquharson snorted behind her. ‘It’s a union of your own you should be thinking of. No good ever came of politics, not that I’ve noticed.’
The rain scythed down in the darkness, silver blades slicing through the yellow pool of light from the window. It was their custom for women to marry young. Children arrived without proper provision if they didn’t. Men married late, free
to start their own family only when younger siblings were grown.
‘Nineteen,’ Lady Farquharson grumbled. ‘It’s time you were out of the house.’ Her suggestions of suitable husbands for her stepdaughter were less than generous: an ancient widower, a twice-divorced brute, and the earl, Lord Louden. At forty, Louden was a suitable age, but he was also a staunch supporter of the Union.
‘Countess would suit you better, Aunt,’ Francis suggested, straight-faced. ‘He’d be wasted on Anne.’ He took hold of Anne’s hands then. ‘I should propose to you myself,’ he said, ‘for your birthday.’
‘And for my birthday,’ Anne retorted, ‘I would turn you down.’ He was only tormenting Lady Farquharson, making a better suggestion than hers. At thirty-four, her cousin was still not ready for marriage.
The lamb James worked to save slithered, lifeless, out of its mother. Tethering the ewe to a nursing post, the shepherd went to pick the best of the orphans. On his knees, her brother already had his dirk out, skinning the steaming corpse. Its skin would be tied on a motherless beast to induce the childless ewe to suckle it. Its carcass would add to the sweet-smelling heap of bloated dead. Francis leant his weight on the post and considered her.
‘Maybe it’s time I explained about men and women,’ he teased.
Anne snorted. Highland children witnessed copulation often, animal and human. As farming folk, they learned about mating early. And there was nothing she hadn’t heard from her stepmother about making a good match.
‘What do you know about women?’ she challenged.
‘Walk about a bit,’ he suggested.
Tossing her head, Anne strutted back and forth in front of him, typically arrogant.
‘Enough,’ Francis sighed. ‘I know enough.’
James came over then, bloodstained, tired but glad to have saved the ewe. He was slender and lithe, very like Anne with his brown hair, full mouth and wide eyes, but her opposite in temperament.
‘Just in time,’ Anne said. ‘Francis is about to tell me how to breed.’
White Rose Rebel Page 2