by Jane Yolen
No sooner had she spoken than my head began to ache again, though it had been free of pain all along the road. I touched my forehead and sighed.
Rising from his own stool, Da placed a hand on my arm. “Are ye really all right, son? We were worried, in spite of what Lachlan said. I was ready to ride down to the Lodge to fetch ye back.” It was rare to hear him so concerned.
“I’m fine,” I assured him. “It hardly even hurts anymore.” The truth, though, was that I was suddenly exhausted, and my skull had begun throbbing like the inside of a drum. Rood’s first blow with the cudgel had been strong, but then I’d been shaken again when we’d wrestled at the Lodge. Clearly I was not as well as I thought.
Placing the wooden spoon carefully on the pot’s edge, Ishbel marched briskly toward me and grabbed me by the arms and Da sat down again at the table. “Come over here, closer to the fire, so I can have a better look at ye.” She maneuvered me roughly into position, then took hold of the bandage and pulled it up to expose the bloody weal. The wound stung so much I gave a grunt of pain.
“Bear up like a man,” Ishbel said. “I dinna have to be gentle with ye, seeing as I’m not yer ma.” She was always saying things like that. I had only recently begun to understand that these remarks were aimed at Da, not me.
“I’ve had rougher handling than this,” I said, “and this day too.” Then I ground my teeth against the pain, wondering how much I could safely tell them.
“Have ye not enough to do that ye can find time for this nonsense?” she demanded. “I might have to drag ye down to the burn and pitch ye in to wash away the blood and dirt.” Then she squinted at the injury. “That’s a bad knock,” she said at last, “but it’s been well tended.”
“It was Josie that did it,” I said, “Bonnie Josie.”
“That’s Miss Josephine to ye, lad,” said my father. “Keep a respectful tongue in yer head.”
Just then the fire popped a coal onto the hearth as if it too were scolding me.
Ishbel turned and shook a finger at Lachlan because she knew who always led me on. “Best ye don’t get into such scrapes too,” she said. “We’ve enough to cope with without making an enemy of Willie Rood.”
“He’s already every man’s enemy,” I said. “Though the laird seems to like him too well.”
My father slammed his hand down on the table, which made his cup of whisky jump. “That’s as may be, but ye need to mind yer place, lad. There’s sheep in Glendoun now, so Lachlan tells me, and we must leave them alone.”
“We were just playing a game,” I said. My voice rose in a whine. “It’s not like we were thieving. It was Rood who made a great fuss over things. And Rood who tossed out the Glendoun folk. Burning them out. Because the laird told him to.”
Da glowered at me and took another sip of his whisky.
I leaned toward him and said, “Da—they were all burned out of their cottages. There’s hardly a wall standing.”
He looked down at his whisky. “So Lachlan says. But that’s Glendoun, and this is Dunraw.”
“And will they say that of us down in the valley when we’re burned out?” I said.
“Nae one is purposing to burn us out,” Ishbel said. She took Da’s empty glass from his unresisting hand.
“What about the Lodge?” Lachlan asked, keen to change the subject. “What was it like? Did they give ye venison and cakes and—”
Ishbel cut him off with a clout across the head. “All ye think about is yer belly, Lachlan Macallan,” she said. “I’ve a perfectly fine vegetable stew coming to the boil here.”
“Aye, I’m sure it will be good,” Lachlan, answered, lowering his head. “If ye like a thin meal.”
“Is thin my fault, then? Where were the bonnie hares ye could have snared on yon hillside?” Ishbel asked. “Or a bird or two?”
“I’m not hungry,” I said, lying. “I’ve already had bannocks with fresh butter. And tea.”
“Tea is it?” said Ishbel. Hands on hips, she asked, “And what did that taste like?”
I shrugged. “Like nothing much,” I replied. “Ye make it by boiling up bits of grass in a pot of water.”
“Sounds bad for the liver!” She turned and gave the stew another stir. “The laird might have lived longer and his wife not be so peely-wally if they’d never touched the stuff.”
Da made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. I couldn’t tell if he found her amusing or annoying.
Suddenly I felt as if a great hand was pushing on the top of my head. Going over to the table, I sat down heavily on my own stool, saying, “Things are getting worse for the widow McRoy, Da. The laird tried to talk her into giving up her property. Then I caught Rood with a pry bar in Josie’s bedchamber and …”
“Enough!” said my father with a decisive chop of his hand. “That’s the laird’s family and nae business of ours. If ye’ve been eavesdropping, Roddy Macallan, ye should have the decency not to repeat what ye hear. Not even to yer own family.”
“But this is important,” I protested. “If the laird can push out his own close kin, what won’t he do to us, his clansmen? If we don’t stand up for Bonnie Josie, who will stand up for us when Rood’s men come to torch our home?”
“They’ll have to fight their own cause,” said Ishbel. “It’s not for the likes of us to stand between the laird and his family.” She turned again to stir the stew. The hearth flung out several more nuggets of fire. But the croft seemed darker with each bit of flame.
“The widow McRoy said we should be loyal to each other, as clansmen and their chiefs were in the old days,” I told her.
Da gave a snort. “Even in the old days, the chief’s business was his own,” he said. “Ye’ve nae call to speak of it or meddle in his affairs.”
“As yer father says,” Ishbel added, looking meaningfully at me over her shoulder, “what’s in the family stays in the family, and it’s nae business of an outsider. That goes for our family as well as the laird’s.” She held up the dipper. “Come now, lads, bring your bowls and eat up this stew. I’ve been long enough cooking it. It shouldna go to waste.”
Standing, we carried our wooden bowls to the stew pot, and she dished the watery stuff out for us. The smell nearly overcame me, but I managed to get back without spilling a drop. Then we all sat down at the table on our little stools and ate in silence. Even me, though moments earlier I had declared myself not hungry at all.
After supper Da had a second whisky. Lachlan and I talked quietly about the sheep, while Ishbel cleaned off the table and dipped the dishes into a bucket of water. When she was done washing, I took the water bucket outside and sloshed it over the hillside while Lachlan banked the hearth fire. Then we lay down for the night.
Da and Lachlan and I slept in the little room, Ishbel at the end of the kitchen. She had a sackcloth curtain to give herself some privacy, not being strictly a member of the family. The thin, shabby curtain was not at all like the fine carved doors at the Lodge. And as I lay restless on the bed I shared with Lachlan, I realized how uncomfortable the flattened heather mattress was.
Taking a deep breath, I let the familiar smell of the cottage wash over me: peat fire, cooked stew, unwashed bodies, and the lingering stink of all the animals we brought inside during the winter. Of course, it wasn’t just a concern for the beasts’ health that made us shelter them. Having them indoors meant more warmth for us as well. But as I lay there, I recalled the crisp smell of the bannocks and clean aroma of the tea at the Lodge.
How poor we are, I thought. Then I closed my eyes, but as I had already napped during the day, I couldn’t fall asleep.
As soon as Da started snoring, Lachlan turned over on the mattress and poked me in the ribs, whispering, “Come on then, Roddy, tell me all about it.”
“About what?”
He poked me again, harder. “Ye know fine and well what. About the widow and Bonnie Josie, about the laird and Rood.”
“Are ye sure Da is asleep?” He’d already warn
ed me once about telling tales, and I couldn’t stand a belting, not the way I was feeling.
“I’m absolutely sure. Just listen to him snore.”
Needing no more prodding, I told Lachlan all. I couldn’t see his face in the dark, but I could imagine his expressions of surprise at each stage of the tale. He even gasped when I described my fight with Rood.
“Willie Rood is likely to kill ye if ye go a third round with him,” he warned.
“I’m not afraid of him,” I said. But deep down I knew that was a lie. Only a sudden rage had driven me to attack him. Lying in the dark and thinking more clearly, I knew Rood was bigger, stronger, and infinitely more vicious than I. Lachlan was right. One good blow from his cudgel might do for me the next time. “If there is a next time.”
Lachlan stirred beside me, rose up on his elbow. “Of course there will be a next time.”
I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me do it.
“And if you are telling me true …”
I sat up indignantly. “Of course I am telling you true!”
“Then the laird is worse than even Da imagines. He’s ready to throw his own niece and sister-in-law out, so why should he not send the English sheep into our glen?”
As usual, Lachlan was right. I knew that. And I also knew that if Bonnie Josie needed my help again, I would brave any danger: Rood’s cudgel’s, the laird’s anger, or even worse. Though what could be worse, I could not imagine. Except, perhaps, in a bad night’s dream.
II. TENANTS’ ANGER
What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey, and a’ that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine;
A man’s a man for a’ that! …
—Robert Burns, “A Man’s a Man for a’ That”
7 THE ROGUE
Over the next few days life carried on as normal. I tried to forget about what had happened at the Lodge, tried to keep myself to myself so that I didn’t find trouble. But I knew trouble was coming, as certain as hail in winter. Lachlan had the right of it. The laird was sure to send his English sheep over our hill. But just when that was to happen, we didn’t know. So we tried to work as though nothing was wrong. Or as Ishbel promised, “God will provide.” Though she didn’t say if He would provide arms and ammunition or a fast escape route.
Lachlan and I were in the byre milking the cows when the first word of the new trouble came. Outside there was a gale blowing, so we didn’t hear anyone approaching because of the wuthering of the wind.
Suddenly the door blew open and in stomped Hamish Kinnell, puffing and waving his arms furiously. A lanky lad with a gap in his front teeth, Hamish made a whistling noise when he was excited. Sometimes, just for fun, Lachlan tried to goad him on just to hear that whistle.
“Have ye heard?” Hamish asked, the words singing through the gap. I was busy milking Thistle while Lachlan stroked her nose to keep her steady. We both looked over at him, waiting for his news, which was not long in coming. “Tam MacBride’s cows have been arrested!”
It wasn’t what either of us was expecting, and I almost fell off the stool laughing. I succeeded in squirting milk all over my breeks. “Cows arrested? Yer mad!”
Thistle mooed and twitched her head, as if alarmed by Hamish’s words or my wild cackling.
“Don’t be daft!” said Lachlan, gripping Thistle by a horn to steady her.
“It’s true!” Hamish insisted. “Tam’s cows strayed into the middle of the Glendoun sheep pastures. The shepherds rounded them up, and Rood’s had the animals arrested. They’re penned up in a field at the back of Kindarry House. Rood calls it the im … impound.”
“Why don’t they just give the cows back to Tam and have him promise to take better care?” I asked. “The old laird would have.”
“Because now it’s a crime to let yer cattle stray onto sheep land,” said Hamish. His whistling had stopped because he’d realized he knew something we didn’t. Grinning, he added, “That’s called trespassing. Like in the Lord’s Prayer. Tam can only get them back if he pays a five-pound fine.”
I stood up so fast with the surprise of it, the milk stool turned over. “Five pounds!”
Lachlan added, “It might as well be a hundred.”
“The laird and Rood dinna care about the money,” I said. “It’s sma’ pickings for them. They just want to make life hard for us so it will be easier to drive us away.” I grabbed up the stool and milking bucket.
“How can ye be sure?” asked Hamish, wide-eyed.
“I was just down at the Lodge last week,” I said casually, “and Bonnie Josie herself told me.” Well, it wasn’t exactly what she told me, but who was to know? I walked toward the open door, shoulders squared, certain that Hamish’s mouth would be agape. I could hear Lachlan starting to tell him the story, knowing that in my brother’s version, my role would grow and grow. Lachlan always made things bigger than they were. Not a liar, but a storyteller.
“He spoke with Bonnie Josie …?” Hamish’s whistle followed me out.
Over the next week, strange things kept happening. Many more animals from our village strayed into the pastures of the laird and his friends and were quickly impounded by the factor’s men. Cattle, goats—and even some of our own straggly sheep—all must have decided to go calling on their plump cousins like poor relations begging on the doorstep. Why they should suddenly take to wandering was a puzzle we didn’t understand at first. After all, it was a long way to go to Glendoun, and plenty of grass on our side of the mountain for their grazing.
Finally two of our own milk cows ended up in the impound. They were missing one morning when we went into the byre to milk them, and when we found Da out in the neep field, he was fuming. He led us back to the cottage and said not a word till we were inside, the door carefully shut behind us.
“And where do ye think those cows had got to?” he asked. His voice was low but angry. He didn’t wait for a reply. “To Glendoun. Frolicking amongst the laird’s new sheep!”
Lachlan and I swore to Da that it hadn’t been our fault. “We kept them far away from Glendoun,” I said as we stood before him, heads bowed. Behind us, Cousin Ishbel clanged about her pots, cleaning them vigorously, though they’d been cleaned once already.
Lachlan added, “The cows were clear on the other side of Ben Dorrach with us yesterday and then we brought them home and locked them in the byre. Just as we do every night.” He dared to look up at Da. Catching the movement from the corner of my eye, I did likewise.
Da’s face was almost crimson with anger, an awful sign. “Ye’ve been over-fond of visiting that cursed glen,” he accused. “How do I know ye didna sneak over there again with our animals trailing after ye? Cows are no much smarter than sheep and will follow the hand that feeds them anywhere.” His hand was on his belt as he spoke.
“God is our witness, Da!” Lachlan pleaded. “We’ve kept well away since that run-in with Rood. I wouldna let Roddy chance another blow. His head is soft enough as it is.” If he was hoping to make Da laugh, he was sorely mistaken.
Da glared at him for a long moment, then said, in that slow way he sometimes has before anger takes him entirely, “Would ye no?”
I waited for the trap to snap.
Then Da bent closer to where Lachlan stood. “Then how is it that one of the factor’s own men found me in the field this very morning to serve a fine on me for trespass?”
Neither Lachlan nor I said a word. Answering back would earn us each a clap on the head, and we knew it.
“What are we to do?” asked Ishbel, coming to our rescue by speaking herself. “We’ve nothing to pay with.”
“Nobody has,” I said, knowing it was safe now to say something. “And the laird knows it full well. But why is he doing this slowly, trying to bleed us of money, instead of just sending in the sheep?”
Da’s hand was raised slightly, but he didn’t strike me. Instead, jaw set grimly, he scratched his beard. “That, lad, is a good question
and one I have to consider.”
Cousin Ishbel offered, “Perhaps there are no more sheep?”
Lachlan said, “Perhaps he’s afraid of the men of this village because we are now forewarned.”
“Perhaps Bonnie Josie has served him notice …,” I added.
Da shook his head and held up his hand. “A wee lass will not stop such a man, and there are always more sheep. Lachlan is right, though. McRoy knows how the men of this village have organized before to stop a laird, and he’s hoping we will go quietly and without a fight.”
This made sense to us all, and we said so.
“The men of the village are meeting this afternoon in the kirk. The minister’s awa’ to Glasgow or he’d likely forbid it. We’ll decide there how best to go about getting our animals back.”
“Have we no enough troubles wi’out raising Minister McGillivray’s hackles?” Ishbel asked, waving a pot at him. “He’s a prickly creature at the best of times, except to the laird.”
“Och, he’s the laird’s wee lapdog,” scoffed Lachlan, repeating what he’d heard from others. “He’d rather serve McRoy than God, for the pay’s better.”
“When McGillivray’s away, God has the kirk to Himself.” Da took out a cup and poured himself a draught of water from the barrel before answering. “I don’t think He’ll scorn to open His kirk door in a good cause. Didna Christ say that the poor will inherit the earth?”
“Meek,” Cousin Ishbel said. “The meek will inherit the earth, and ye are hardly that, Murdo Macallan.”
“Can we go too?” Lachlan asked, eager as a dog after sheep.
Da’s face got grim again, but Ishbel put a hand on his arm. “This concerns us all, Murdo, and they’re at that age now when they should listen to the men at counsel.” She gazed up at him under half lids and, astonishingly, he softened.