Anne jumped off, keeping a tight grip of the rein. Landing ankle deep in the water, she pulled the horse forward by its head. It wouldn’t budge. She stared ahead, looking for deep water, a drop the animal could sense but she could not see. Nothing, just pebbles, water rippling over, becoming murky. She looked up at the opposite bank. Shafts of warm April sun probed down through overhanging trees to where sleet still crusted white in the clumps of grass, lapped by the river, staining red. She looked down to Pibroch’s white legs. Red crept up from the horse’s fetlocks. Glancing at her wet white skirts, trailing in the water, she saw the stain creep up, red on to white, white into red. She, and her mount, stood in a river of blood.
A gasp shuddered through MacGillivray’s chest. The green blades in front of his eyes, smudged crimson, were thick as a forest. He could see Anne on the ridge, on her white horse, snow falling round her shoulders, that smile men would die to be the cause of on her lips. He hoped she would be proud, not sad. The cold chill passed. There was no ridge, or snow, just white light, the sharp sound of battle.
‘Eyes front, soldier,’ a voice said. ‘Ignore ’em, they’re no harm to us now.’
He was dying. No more hurt could come. Peace flooded his bones. The old myths were right. Death was the last love a man lay down with. A well of it rose up to receive him, filling all the emptiness that life had hollowed out, bringing him in.
Emptiness filled Anne’s ears, the roar of nothing. She tore her gaze away from the bloody water to Pibroch’s wild eyes. The reins, twisted round her hands, burned as the horse pulled against her. The racket of cannon and guns had ceased. A strange mockery of silence fell, filled more fully by shrieks and calls from way beyond the far bank, up on the moorland. She raised her eyes to the sound. A pall of yellow smoke drifted above the riverbank trees.
Up on the moor, Cumberland had ordered fire to cease. His men had done a fine job. Following Highland form, he’d put his Flanders veterans to the fore, men who would not shirk, turn, run or break rank. His front lines stared through the rising yellow clouds of smoke, clouds eerily lit more yellow by the sunlight behind the impenetrable smoke. The field before them moved, writhed, groaned, shrieked and whimpered, bodies piled on bodies. Hardened soldiers, never had they seen such a field of slaughter. The Highlanders had kept charging, wave on ferocious wave of them, even when knee-deep in their wounded, over piles four bodies high, before being shot down. Few had reached their lines, even fewer had breached them. They had held their ground.
Cumberland rode forward, the Earl of Louden beside him. Trotting his horse past the rubble of the walls he’d ordered taken down to attack the Atholl flanks, Hawley came to join them. Among a group of fallen Highlanders behind the lines, a bulky older warrior retched bile and blood.
‘Dispatch that man,’ Cumberland ordered Lord Louden.
The Scot glanced sideways at his commander. ‘You can have my commission, sir,’ he said, ‘but not my honour.’
Hawley pulled his pistol, aimed, fired. The Highlander’s body jerked, lay still.
‘Clear the mess up, Hawley,’ Cumberland said. ‘Dispatch the wounded. Round up any living officers who can walk. Give no quarter to the rest.’
THIRTY-FIVE
Anne turned from staring at the pall of smoke, incongruous now against clear blue sky, back to Pibroch, gripped the bridle with both hands and pulled. She had to get there, had to get this stubborn beast across the river.
‘Come on, Pibroch. Siuthad!’
Behind her, feet slithered down the riverbank, splashed through the water. A hand grabbed her shoulder. She spun round. It was old Meg, pitchfork in her other hand, face alarmed with fear.
‘Run.’ She tugged Anne’s arm. ‘They’re killing everybody.’
The bank was now alive with folk, women and children, running for their lives. Upstream, warriors crashed through the trees, Highlanders fleeing the battlefield.
‘Come away,’ Meg urged, pulling Anne towards the other side.
Pibroch strained to turn, hooves stamping backwards towards the far bank. Anne held tight to the halter.
‘I have to go on!’ She struggled against the older woman’s iron grip.
‘There’s nothing you can do,’ Meg argued, tugging her wrist.
‘That one’s alive!’ From high above, the thin voice sounded. Hooves stamped on sodden grass. The lifeless weight on Donald Fraser’s chest crushed down on him. His eyes flickered open. Another man’s arm half-covered his face. In the space where sky was, an English general, a shadow on a black horse, leant forward, pointed. A body in dark tartan stepped into the space, a face loomed. It was Shameless, peering down. Recognition lit his eyes, a brief smile. Then the McIntosh lad raised his musket, drew it back, plunged down with his bayonet, into the dead weight that lay across Fraser’s chest.
‘Dead now, sir,’ Shameless called over his shoulder.
∗
Pibroch was out of the water, backwards, feet gaining purchase on the grass. Tugged along by horse and Meg, Anne was pulled clear of the Nairn. They were surrounded by fleeing women. Those who passed close by urged Anne to run, hide, get away. A woman splashed out of the river, half-dragging a boy about seven or eight. They stumbled and fell. The mother grabbed the child by his plaid, hauled him up, tried to lift and carry him. The weight of water in the sodden woollen cloth slowed her down. Anne got up into the saddle, bent down to the frightened woman and pulled the child up in front of her.
‘Get up behind,’ she told the mother. She rode them on a mile or so, dropped them at a cottage and went back to pick up another woman trailing a youngster. Sometimes, it was the child who hauled the parent, fearful of staying, afraid to go on alone. Latterly, it was an older woman, her ankle turned and swollen, limping along as the others vanished over the hills. Each time, they were further from the river. On her last journey back, the distant bank swarmed with government troops. Meg had vanished. The women and children had all disappeared. No warriors were visible on the surrounding hills.
In the cottage on the edge of Drumossie, with a clean towel spread between her hands, MacBean’s wife drew a second loaf out of her oven and set it to cool on the table, next to the first. Bread kept her busy. The noise of battle had ended half an hour ago. Someone was coming now. The cottage door burst open, letting in the cold air. James Ray stalked in with two redcoats who searched quickly round the one room.
‘There’s no one here,’ the old woman said.
Ray raised his sword, drew it across at shoulder height. Blood spurted on the cooling bread. The old woman slumped into the hearth.
‘No one now,’ Ray said, and stalked out.
As the redcoats splashed through the river, Anne swung her tired horse back round towards Moy. It was warm now, the sun startling in a blue and white spring sky. The bright flash of tartan under a nearby tree caught her eye. She rode over. It was Lachlan, wounded, his young face cut, a gash on his thigh bleeding badly; he had struggled this far before he collapsed. She jumped down beside him.
‘Can you stand?’
The boy shook his head.
‘No, go on. I’ll do fine here awhile.’ He grimaced. ‘Nine lives, I have.’ It was a saying of those belonging to the clan of the cat.
‘They’re hunting people down,’ Anne said. The soldiers had fanned out but were closing and would find him easily, as she had. ‘Come on, I’ll get you home.’ She hauled the lad to his feet, his arm round her neck, his injured leg dragging, got him up and on to Pibroch’s back. A shot from behind threw him forward over the horse’s neck.
Anne spun round. The redcoat who’d fired was several hundred yards away, well ahead of the rest, running towards them. She grabbed her pistol from the saddle bow, turned and fired. The man’s face exploded with the shot. Anne hoisted herself behind Lachlan, gripped the boy’s plaid to stop him sliding to the ground and kicked the horse away. Tired though he was, Pibroch leapt forward and cantered half a mile before slowing to a trot. There was no life in her passen
ger but Anne could not let the body slip to the ground. She held on grimly until she reached the forge, called Màiri out and delivered the dead son into his mother’s distraught arms.
As he crawled over moorland grass, head split and bleeding, Robert Nairn heard heavy breath beside him. He looked towards the sound. No one was there. The breathing ceased. He lurched on. His right arm, almost severed, dragged behind. The breathing rasped again. It was his own, gasping roughly in his chest. His head bumped against stone. Painfully slow, he turned over, rolled his back against the shelter of the dyke. His head lolled, eyes closed.
∗
Heavy-hearted and weary, Anne walked the tired horse on to Moy, letting it take itself into the stable. She’d strip and rub it down later. The loaded wagon was at the door. Nothing had changed since she left.
Inside, Elizabeth and Jessie both jumped, startled when Anne came in, relief lighting their faces as they rushed to her side.
‘Are you hurt?’ Her sister stared at the blood staining her clothes.
Anne shook her head. ‘We’re defeated,’ she said.
‘Will, did you see Will?’ Jessie asked.
Again, Anne shook her head. ‘I didn’t reach the field,’ she explained. ‘Lachlan’s dead. I brought him home. He’s the only one I know about.’ She turned to Elizabeth. ‘You should be away to Invercauld.’
‘I couldn’t go, not till I knew. We can go together now.’
‘I have to stay.’ Anne started to peel off her bloodied dress. ‘Our men need to know where to find me, when things settle. I won’t have them think I ran away.’ Tears came then, hard, sore.
Elizabeth took her in her arms, held her tight. ‘Don’t cry, please don’t cry.’ She rubbed Anne’s back, rocked her. ‘How will we cope if you cry?’
A row of drummers marched before Cumberland into Inverness. He rode beside Cope, red uniforms pristine, brass buttons shining. The regiment that marched with him cheered, encouraging the few folk on the streets to do the same.
‘All we have to do now, Johnny,’ he said, ‘is allow no respite. We’ll clear the rats out while they’re on the run, every single one of them.’
Lord Boyd rode up from scouting ahead. ‘The best lodging is the house their Pretender occupied,’ he said.
‘If it suited my cousin, it will suit me well,’ Cumberland nodded.
When they reached the house, the Dowager Lady McIntosh stood outside waiting to welcome him into her home. He drew her a look of contempt. Highland men were uncouth, savage and not to be trusted. Their women were worse.
‘Throw that woman in jail,’ he said.
Washed, dressed in her clean riding habit, the only clothes not packed, Anne stood by the fire, a tankard of ale in her hands. Her belongings were back inside, piled upstairs, the man and boy sent home. Hope was not gone. Hundreds of warriors ran off that field. Others would have fled in different directions. The Prince had sought engagement far too soon. Half their army was still on its way. They would regroup. One battle was lost, not the war.
‘George will gather them together,’ she said. Her cousin would not easily give up.
‘If he survives,’ Elizabeth answered. ‘And they won’t gather here. We should’ve gone home. What are you waiting for?’
Anne watched her sister pace about. She should know why. ‘MacGillivray,’ she said. It wasn’t hope or expectation; simply the truth. She should have been with him. She wasn’t. Now she would wait. It was a necessary vigil, like a penance. He would come to her, or word of him would. She could not go till then.
Elizabeth stopped pacing, reached into her pocket, withdrew a sheet of paper and held it out.
‘His note,’ she said, shame colouring her face.
Cottars ran from their homes. Soldiers on horseback fired into them. Those on foot chased after, cutting them down. Old Meg’s cott burst into flame. The torch-bearers moved to the next. Cath, her baby clutched desperately to her breast, ran from Ewan’s cott. Inside, old Tom lay on his bracken pallet, coughing. Ewan’s two young daughters cowered behind. The cott door was yanked shut. Outside, a soldier thrust a spar of wood through the handle, across the frame. Another put a burning torch to the turf roof. Cath scrambled up the slope, grabbing at heather to pull against. Two redcoats ran behind. The nearest raised his musket, crashed the butt down on the back of her head. Stunned, she dropped. He yanked the screaming baby from her, tossed it to his companion, turned her over, ripped her skirts up, spread her legs. The second soldier rammed his musket into the rocks, bayonet pointing skywards, raised the struggling, howling baby above his head and brought its body down, sharp. The crying squealed to a thin stop.
Jessie ran in from the kitchens. Elizabeth stopped pacing. Anne looked up from the note.
‘Isd! Do you hear guns?’ Jessie asked.
All three of them listened. Faintly, there was the crack and echo of sporadic fire.
‘It’ll be groups of soldiers fighting some of our own,’ Anne reassured them. ‘We’d do the same, trying to take as many prisoners as possible.’
Frightened, Elizabeth turned on her. ‘Why are you involved in this?’ she wailed.
‘I was feeding thin soup to people who need meat. Poverty is all we can expect in this Union. They only use us!’
‘And killing us is better?’
‘Elizabeth –’ Anne caught hold of her sister’s hand, wanting her to understand ‘– the English make slaves of their women. They have no rights, no power, no names. Their bodies, children and homes are owned by the men. If we don’t win, we’ll become like them.’
‘That’s nonsense,’ Elizabeth retorted. ‘No man could stop me being who I am, or from doing what I want.’
The front door was flung open. They all turned towards it. Anne pushed MacGillivray’s note down the front of her dress. Donald Fraser, bloody and torn, carrying a crumpled plaid, stumbled in.
‘Fetch water and towels, Jessie.’ Anne went to help the blacksmith.
‘There’s no time,’ Fraser said, as she and Elizabeth got him to a chair. ‘They’re on the estate.’
‘Dè?’ Elizabeth asked. ‘Who?’
‘The Sasannaich.’
‘We heard the guns,’ Anne said. ‘Have you been home?’
‘No, they’re hunting us, killing the wounded. Shameless got me away.’ He stopped to cough up a little blood. ‘I came to warn you, they’re coming here.’ He broke off, coughing again.
Jessie hurried back, a bowl of water splashing in her arm. Fraser shook his head, pushing away the help.
‘I can’t stay. If they find me, you’d all be shot.’
‘Did you see Will?’ Jessie asked.
Fraser got unsteadily to his feet, held out the ragged, stained plaid over his arm.
‘His belt was cut. It fell.’ He shook his head. ‘He ran up front, with me. Killed five or six of them before…’ his voice broke. ‘Him that couldn’t fight.’ He slumped as Anne caught hold of him.
‘He can’t go back outside,’ Elizabeth said. ‘They’ll catch him.’
Chained in the cellar, Aeneas strained to hear. There had been gunfire on Moy land, near the northwest cotts, he was sure. The key was put in the lock. He stood, chains rattling, to watch the stair. The lock turned, the door opened, lamplight lit the steps. Two pairs of feet came down, others behind.
‘Anne!’ The relief he felt changed quickly to concern as he saw the wounded blacksmith being helped down. ‘Donald!’
Elizabeth, with lamp and basin, followed at their backs.
‘We have to hide him here,’ Anne said. ‘Careful,’ to Fraser as they reached the bottom step. She guided him to Aeneas’s bunk.
‘I can help,’ Aeneas insisted, gripping her arm, ‘if you get these chains off.’
‘There’s no time.’ Anne reached round and took the towels and bowl of water from Elizabeth. ‘Here.’ She thrust them in his arms, then followed Elizabeth, hurrying back up the stairs. Half-way up, she stopped, turned round. ‘Whatever you hear, keep qu
iet, or they’ll find him.’ The cellar door shut, the key turned in the lock again.
Jessie had not moved from the spot where they’d left her. She stood, holding Will’s tattered plaid over her swollen belly, sobbing. The sound of horses’ hooves could be heard outside. Anne slid the key back into Jessie’s pocket.
‘Don’t let on you have that,’ she said. ‘Not to anyone.’
The front door pushed open. James Ray stalked in, two redcoats beside him, half a dozen armed Black Watch behind. He looked Anne up and down, smiled.
‘Colonel Anne,’ he said, clicking his heels.
‘Do you not have manners to knock, Lieutenant?’ Anne asked.
‘Arrest her,’ Ray said, casually nodding his head towards her.
Two Black Watch soldiers rushed forwards to either side of her, the others swarmed the house, searching. Anne glared round at them.
‘Will you have your men treat my home with respect?’ she said to Ray.
One of his redcoat guards stepped forward and thumped his musket butt into her chest. Anne winced. The Black Watch lad on her right side raised his gun, pointed it at the redcoat.
‘Don’t touch that lady again,’ he said, threateningly.
Anne looked at him properly. She knew that voice, that face.
‘Shameless!’
‘We won this time,’ he grinned. ‘I can come home again.’
‘Yes, you can.’ There was no point explaining he should not have left.
‘And that will do for the pleasantries,’ Ray snapped. ‘Attention!’
Both Shameless and her other guard jumped to it. A shadow moved at the door, a thin man in black, followed by two more redcoats, stepped through the doorway. It was General Hawley, sword swinging casually in his hand.
‘Well, well,’ he sneered. ‘The viper’s nest.’
‘My apologies, General,’ Anne said. ‘I should have asked you to dinner.’
‘We’re far from Falkirk now –’ Hawley pushed his face close to hers ‘– and from Miss Forbes.’ His thin smile returned, more alarming than his ire.
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