He had expected it. He had known from the moment he decided to risk the hasty delivery of his bonnet what the result would be. So he did not immediately rise again but sat up slowly, blinking away the shards of blackness floating in his vision.
Dair discovered his nose was bleeding sluggishly. He spat out blood as well as a piece of tooth and chanced a glance at his father.
The imperious gesture from outstretched hand brooked no hesitation. Dair got to his feet.
“Are you contrite?” MacIain asked.
A wise man might say aye. But Dair was not so much unwise as he was honest. “I am not.”
“Fool,” MacIain declared and knocked him down again.
Dair might have preferred the punishment in private, but its cause was not a private matter. He had defied his father before all of the others, and thus they were entitled to witness the beating so they might understand even a laird’s son was subject to punishment when he transgressed MacIain’s wishes.
There was no shame in it, no humiliation. Dair might have wished it otherwise, but accepted the consequences. It was a duty to accept without question the discipline of his laird, as any other MacDonald would accept whatever the laird decreed.
He also might have wished MacIain’s fists were smaller.
Dair rolled painfully onto a hip and shoulder and spat again. Whisky would clean the cuts. Time would heal them. For the moment, he had to suffer whatever his father meted out.
“Up,” MacIain said.
Dair hesitated a moment, then got to his feet again. He was aware of all the eyes, but no man made a sound save beyond the clink of metal and tumbled stone as he shifted against the wind.
Beneath thick brows, MacIain’s eyes glittered. “Were you a lad, I’d skelp you,” he said. “I’d raise such weals on your arse you’d not sit for half a month. But you’re a man grown, aye?—and you make your own decisions. Even when ye ken what the result will be.”
Dair held his silence; it was expected of him. But he was supremely aware of everyone who watched, including his mother. They had come home to Glencoe from Breadalbane’s Achallader folly, and the public punishment of Alasdair Og was the first order of business.
Cat herself was not the primary reason for punishment, nor was her identity. That he had left his father’s tail to return, however briefly, to Breadalbane’s encampment was tantamount to treason, and worth a skelping. But his behavior, if not the beating, would cause talk regardless, and word would go around that the laird’s youngest son had eyes for a Campbell lass.
To Glencoe lasses, it was insult. In that lay more punishment, that he dared to waste himself on a Campbell when there were MacDonald women.
Dair grimaced. And meanwhile a Stewart in my bed . . . He had looked for Jean as the first blow fell. Surely she would be there. Unless she had slipped away as soon as the beating began, desiring an explanation of his own mouth instead from those of others.
He would sooner take the beating than explain the truth to Jean. And that, Dair knew, was the true punishment.
“Faugh!” MacIain, in deep disgust, turned on his heel. It was the signal; those who had gathered began to disperse, men meeting wives, lads meeting lasses, children reunited with the clansmen all come home. Even John deserted him, catching Young Sandy into his arms as he walked back with black-haired Eiblin toward the house he had built.
It left Dair, and his mother. Who waited until all were gone, then came to him in silence with linen for his face.
When he was clean, when he could manage the smile against the pain in his head, he offered it to her freely: twisted wry a little, acknowledging his folly.
“Here,” she said. “There is more, aye?” And took the soiled linen, gently blotting away the last of the blood. She eyed him critically, “ ’Tis stopping on its own. Will you come in, then?”
He looked beyond her to the house in which his parents lived; in which he and John had lived until building their own dwellings down the glen a way. “I’ll go to Jean,” he said. “I owe her an explanation.”
His mother’s callused hand brushed the hair back from his face. “Jean is gone, Alasdair.”
The words were wholly foreign. “Gone?” Dair echoed.
Lady Glencoe’s eyes—his own her legacy—were kind. “Come into the house with me, and I’ll tell you why.”
It gave Cat immense pleasure to explain to the earl what had become of his heir. She was not at first certain he understood a word, so concerned was he with other matters, and so she repeated the heart of the issue: Duncan Campbell was gone, and with him Marjorie.
She did not tell Breadalbane immediately upon the departure of the lovers, choosing instead to hoard the knowledge so Duncan would have opportunity to get as far from his father as possible before pursuit was levied, and when she did at last tell Breadalbane she did so collectedly, admitting no knowledge of the moment of elopement.
“And so I am shamed,” she said dutifully, standing beside the fire the earl’s gillie tended. What Sandy thought she did not know, but a flicker in blue eyes betrayed his private amusement.
The earl finished his task, folding and sealing several sheets of parchment, then putting them away into a leather wallet. It was the treaty, she knew, signed by the others earlier in the wake of MacDonald departure. Cat wondered how much of the general acquiescence came from a desire to poke a stick at MacIain, who inspired tremendous loyalty and equally marked dislike.
“Shamed,” Breadalbane murmured. “But not particularly despondent, if one marks your tone.” His gray eyes were opaque as he looked up at her at last. “If anything, somewhat cheerful for a woman so insulted.”
Cat smiled serenely. Let him make what he will of it.
“Aye, well . . . he will come back sooner rather than later, when his silver runs out.” He rose and tugged his English suit into order. “We’ll have you wed yet. In the meantime—”
“In the meantime, let me go home,” she said. “Let me tend my broken heart among people who care for me.”
“And do you think I, his father and your kinsman, do not care?”
“Oh, aye,” she answered promptly. “For the things—and people—you need.”
The ice of his eyes thawed. There was, for the first time, a hint of humor in the shape of the earl’s mouth. “You would be wasted on Duncan.”
That, she knew. “Then I may go home?”
“For now,” he agreed. “I must go first to London, then to the king in Flanders. But you need not despair; you will be a countess yet.”
Cat laughed. “Do you think it will be so simple a thing to bring him back? He is your son; he may have grown a spine at last.”
“ ’Tis possible,” he acceded. “And it maybe that John becomes earl in his brother’s place. That would not displease me.”
She had known that. Everyone knew that, even Duncan. Especially Duncan.
“But you would still be a countess,” Breadalbane said.
It made no sense. “John is wed already.”
The humor, now, was more marked. “But I am not dead yet.”
“No, but—” And then she knew. She understood at once. “I will not!”
For the first time in her life she saw the earl smile. “I am desolate,” he said dryly, “to know I am held in such low repute. You must be the only lass in all of Scotland who would spurn my wealth.”
“You,” she said in shock and equal parts horror. It was all she could manage.
“I’ve buried three wives,” he said. “I wouldna mind another.”
“To bury?”
Indeed, the ice of his eyes had thawed. “Wasted on Duncan . . . but a worthy match for me, aye?—and one your father would welcome.”
What did one say to a man so powerful, the man who ruled the Highlands? One who understood so well the working of a mind, and certainly her father’s.
“It would be worth it,” Breadalbane said, “to see MacDonald’s face.”
Illumination. “That is why,”
she blurted.
He took the cup of whisky extended by his gillie. “Among other things.”
John Hill set down the quill and capped the inkhorn. His hand shook as he did so; his health yet again deteriorated. He took off the spectacles, set them aside, and rubbed at hollowed sockets to ease the tension away. So much responsibility—
The knock at the door was diffident, as if the aide suspected the governor might be asleep. But Hill had not blown out a lamp before midnight for too many evenings, and raised his voice in permission to enter.
The aide came into the light, features severe. “That Scot,” he said. “I’ve told him to wait until morning, sir. He has the effrontery to decline.”
‘That Scot’ could apply to anyone. “Which Scot?” Hill asked mildly.
“The boy. The Cameron boy. He says he bears a message, sir. Shall I tell him again to wait?”
Hill tensed. “Have him in at once.”
“Sir.” The aide saluted crisply and shut the door. A moment later he returned, gesturing the “Cameron boy” to present himself to the governor.
It was as Hill suspected: Ewan Cameron’s lad, bonnet doffed and rusty hair mussed. His jaw, as before, was stubbled. Hill rose. “Come in.” He gestured for the aide to leave them alone.
The boy was hollow-cheeked and gaunt. Either he grew too fast for the food he ate, or there was not enough. “I am come with a message,” he said huskily. “The laird has said you’re a fair man withal, despite your Sassenach ways.”
It was an admission Hill found gratifying as well as surprising. “I believe we are all the same in the Lord’s eyes,” he said. “Sassenach and Highlander; God makes no judgment of names or birth.”
“You’ve guns on the walls,” the boy said bluntly. “And boats off the Isles.”
“And soldiers in the heather, and a patrol boat on Loch Linnhe,” Hill elaborated. He put out a hand to steady himself against his writing desk.
The boy saw it. “I’ll sit,” he said, as if understanding that Hill offered unprecedented respect by not seating himself in his presence. “This bench will do, aye?” And hooked it over from the wall with a bare foot, though he did not sit at once.
The governor seated himself. This was nothing like the meeting they had shared but three weeks before. “How may I help you?”
“I’ve a message from Lochiel, though not of his making.” The young man reached into his scrip and pulled forth a crumpled paper. “ ’Twas sent to him, aye?—from Charles Edwards. Dundee’s chaplain.”
Viscount Dundee was dead two years, killed at Killiecrankie even as victory was assured. That his chaplain saw fit now to write Lochiel was indeed news, and possibly distressing in view of the fact Lochiel sent word of it to William’s governor.
Hill accepted the letter as the Highlander sat down upon the bench. He did not read it immediately. “Do you know what it concerns?”
The grin was quick and fleeting, but wholly disarming. “I’m the laird’s son, aye?—he does tell me what he’s about.”
Lochiel’s son. There was more to the message, then, than simple courtesy. “Will you tell me?” Hill invited. It was a mark of confidence to trust the Cameron’s word, rather than reading in his presence.
It satisfied. Ewan Cameron’s boy smiled again, but it faded away too quickly into an unwonted severity at odds with his features. “Edwards says the promises made at Achallader mean naught. That Breadalbane intends to ruin the clans, and the lies of indemnity are part of it.”
Hill drew in a shallow breath; it hurt too much to breathe deeply. “It is not indemnity,” he said. “It is a truce only, an agreement lasting until October.” Two months left. Only two months.
The boy agreed. “I ken that. ’Tis part of the plan, aye?”
“Then Lochiel is certain the earl plots deceit?”
“Breadalbane serves himself, no’ the Highlands. The letter says the Pope has given King James silver; we would do better, my father says, to trust the word of Dundee’s man than the word of Breadalbane.”
It struck Hill as ironic that the Highlanders would disparage Catholics while accepting that their Stuart king was one, as well as Papist coin. But they were nothing if not realistic. It was, after all, an identical attitude that had shaped Breadalbane.
Hill looked at the crumpled letter in his hands. Idly he smoothed it, grooming the creases away. “Why does he send word to me?”
“Because you have guns on the walls and boats off the Isles,” came the prompt and obvious answer. “And soldiers in the heather, and a patrol boat on Loch Linnhe.”
He smiled at the boy; bald honesty. This lad and his father were not of Breadalbane’s house. “Tell Lochiel I am grateful.”
The laird’s son rose. “He said you’re a fair man, aye?—and deserving to ken the truth of what is said of Achallader.” He nodded at the letter. “He’s sent it to all, ye ken. Edwards. To all the chiefs and lairds.”
Stunned, Hill pushed to his feet. “This has been sent? To everyone?”
Lochiel’s son nodded, perplexed by the reaction.
Hill’s breath ran fast. “May God in Heaven have mercy on us all . . .” His lips were dry; he had not drunk usquabae. “Tell your father—tell him I am grateful. And tell him also that if he has word with others, it might behoove the clans to put no trust in this letter.”
Deep-set eyes narrowed. “He was Dundee’s man. His chaplain.”
It was warning, and Hill accepted it as such. “I understand,” he said. “But if there is to be a truce, no matter the duration, there must first be trust. Whatever you think of the earl, he must be given a chance.”
He had lost the boy’s respect. That was blatantly clear in the arrogant posture.
“Wait—” Hill took a step toward the young Cameron; he did not know why it was so important the boy understand, but it was. “You must see it . . . you must understand—”
“I’ve brought it,” the boy said, and turned to the door. “You must do as ye will.”
Indictment in the words. Hill tried once more. “I have no power,” he said, “but in the orders of my king. And he is not yours.”
“I ken that,” the Cameron declared.
Hill put a trembling hand on the boy’s arm. It was stiff beneath his touch, rigid as wood. A Sassenach touched a Highlander. “If any chief acts on this letter, the treaty is nullified. And the orders I am given may not be kindly ones.” He gripped the arm more tightly. “You serve your father,” he said, “and I serve my king. It is duty. It is honor. No matter what I may prefer. ”
Four
Breadalbane likened it to a meeting of royalty, save neither of them were kings. They were merely men, and Scots, but the power of a realm was theirs. It was he who fashioned the future, he and the Master of Stair; between them they would determine who died, and who survived.
The preliminaries were over. King William had been apprised of Breadalbane’s Achallader Treaty, though details were not mentioned; William, despite his ancestry, was no true Scot and understood little of them. He need be told nothing but what their efforts wrought, he and Stair, so the Dutchman could yea or nay them. Could extend his royal blessing.
Flanders, the earl felt, was no more congenial than the Highlands, with autumn approaching. But the room was warmer, as was Stair’s welcome.
Sir James Dalrymple, Master of Stair, was now Secretary of Scotland and sole possessor of the position. Stair was much in favor with the king, and Breadalbane, who disliked the Lowland Scot for his pretentious manner of speaking as well as other faults, nonetheless admired him for securing a place so close to the king. While he himself labored in Scotland, Stair walked the halls of Parliament and of Kensington Palace. Just now he was in Approbaix, accompanying the king.
They sat near a mullioned window, full in the light of a fading sunset. Each held a fine Venetian glass filled with brandywine. Stair was a short man but fleshy, with small dark eyes. The preposterous wig he wore was not in proportion to his size, and ga
ve him, Breadalbane felt, the look of an imbecile. Until one heard his words.
“We will have to give them something,” Stair said quietly, swirling brandywine in his glass. “I know enough of Highlanders to be certain they will demand payment for anything approaching peace.”
Breadalbane, himself Highland-born, forbore to answer.
“If we are to expect them to come forward of their own volition and accept King William as sovereign in place of James, we must promise them something.” Stair looked at his visitor. “You are a Highlander. What is your suggestion of a thing they will value, and count it worth the doing?”
The earl sipped meticulously, then carried the glass away. Less robust than whisky, the liquor nontheless warmed him. “Silver,” he said succinctly, and added other conditions as Stair gestured impatience. “Time for consideration, for travel in poor weather. And indemnities.”
“Against what?”
“Past crimes,” he answered easily. “The clans are riddled with thieves and murderers, and as many of them are chiefs as they are loyal tacksmen. ’Tis the lairds and chiefs we must appeal to; the others will follow them.”
“Very well. Money. Time. Indemnities.” Stair looked out the window. The setting sun painted his sallow face gilt and gold. “Twelve thousand pounds sterling to the landowners, thus lifting from the chiefs their need to support such men. A pardon of such things as we warrant are crimes, so no man may be hanged in his effort to sign the Oath of Allegiance. And a Proclamation of Indemnity, pardoning even the worst of the offenders, under the Great Seal of the King.”
Breadalbane smiled appreciation.
“Post it at the Mercat Cross of Edinburgh, and copies in such other burghs as will be appropriate.” The Secretary of Scotland tapped an idle fingernail against Venetian glass. “They shall have through the end of the year to make good their faith. They are to understand that if they fail to come forth and sign the Oath of Allegiance by the first of the new year, the pardon shall expire, and any man withholding himself shall be punished to the utmost extremity of the law.” He looked blandly at the earl. “Will this be sufficient?”
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