by Jane Yolen
“What’s left is barely warm now, ma’am,” the maid replied.
“Make nae matter of that. I’m sure this young man is too well-mannered to pass comment on it. And the warmth will do him good. Fetch him a cup.”
The maid disappeared into a shadowy corner and came back with a silver cup, which she dipped into the glass bowl, then brought to me.
I had never drunk from anything so fine, and handled it gingerly, as if my touch might tarnish the metal. The punch tasted like fruit—apples and pears—with more than a hint of brandy. The fire it stirred in my breast gave me the courage to address the lady.
“This is the bonniest cave I’ve ever been in,” I told her. “My father’s house isna half so grand.”
“We were warned the redcoats meant to burn us out, and so took what we could before they came,” she said. “They might make fugitives of us, Duncan of Glenroy, but they’ll no turn us into animals.”
I thought her the most splendid woman I’d ever met.
“I’ve told ye these furnishings would sit better at Inch House,” said Angus Ban, pointing to the table and chairs. “Everything’s ready there for ye to move in.” He turned to me. “Young Duncan here would tell ye so himself.”
“I … I …” I could tell her nothing.
“And leave ye to live in bare lodgings, Angus?” she joked. “Without my civilizing influence, ye and yer friends would be little better than foxes hiding in the hillside.”
“Och, but ye shouldna be living as less than a lady. Father would hate this.” He gestured to the one wall without a tapestry on it. The bare stone looked grim and damp.
“There will be nae rest for us at Inch House or any place else as long as the prince is still loose in the hills,” she answered him, her cheeks flushing as she spoke. “The English would be at the door of Inch House every hour of the day, searching, questioning, looking for any excuse to haul us off as traitors to King George. As if we know where the bonnie prince stays.”
“Then he’s no in France yet?” Granda and Da and every visiting tinker had told us so. But to hear it from Angus Ban’s lips made it real.
“Nay, no in France yet,” Angus Ban said. “He’s still leading them a merry dance all around the islands and up and down the glens.” He grinned. “They dinna need us to tell them that.”
His two younger brothers had left off playing with the hoop and ball, edging closer to the conversation. The older of them piped up, “The prince dressed himself as a lassie.”
“Aye, called himself Betty Burke,” put in the other.
I turned to Angus Ban. “Why did he do that?”
Angus Ban laughed. “Let the lads tell you about it. It’s their favorite tale.”
The lads were quick to comply. “Our kinswoman Flora MacDonald was with him,” said the first.
His brother added, “He escaped from the English wearing a disguise. They rowed off to the island of Skye, in skirts and all.”
Both lads danced about their mother, swinging their arms like ladies swishing their skirts.
“Off with ye, lads, and back to yer games,” the widow told them. “We’re talking serious business here.”
“Is it true?” I asked her as the lads scampered away.
“True enough,” she said, holding out her hand for the silver cup, which I gave to her.
“Young Duncan’s brought a gift for ye,” said Angus Ban. “A very special gift.”
The widow gave me a curious stare. “A gift? He’s a very noble young knight indeed.” She handed the cup and baby to her maid.
“I hope it brings more joy to ye than sorrow, ma’am.”
“Well said,” Angus Ban put in.
I brought out the brooch and handed it to her, peeling away the wrappings as I did so. A tear bloomed in her eye and she took the brooch in cupped hands, as if it were a fragile bird’s egg.
“I remember how proud Alexander was when he came home with this pinned to his plaid. ‘A gift from Prince Charlie himself,’ he said, ‘brought all the way from France.’ See, it has a lock of the prince’s own hair.” She touched a finger below her eyes and flicked away the tear.
“I was so set on saving his weapons,” said Angus Ban, “I never minded his treasure.”
Lady Keppoch pressed the brooch to her breast, then set it on her lap. “I’m no a warrior to wear so fine a crest as this.”
“Yer as brave as any warrior I know,” said Angus Ban.
I wished I’d been quick enough to say such a thing.
For a moment we were all quiet, thinking about the brooch and—I expect—about the Keppoch as well.
A shadow passed across the chamber entrance and Iain entered. “There’s a visitor to see ye,” he said, ushering another man in behind him. “He says his business is urgent.”
The newcomer was a broad-shouldered Highlander with a grim face, curling black beard, and sharp grey eyes. He, too, was still wearing a kilt, but like Angus Ban and Iain, his was dyed brown.
“McNab!” Angus Ban exclaimed when the man stepped into the light. Then quickly he explained to the widow, “It’s McNab of Innisewan.” He turned back to the man. “McNab, ye rogue, what’s flushed ye out of yer bothy?”
“Nothing less than the safety of the prince!” McNab replied.
Clutching the brooch, the widow stood up. “Ye have news?”
McNab nodded. “I have news, ma’am. He’s been hiding out east of here, near Ben Alder, under the protection of Cluny McPherson. But now a French ship has finally beaten the English blockade, so he’s off to the coast to board it.”
“And then to France?” the widow asked.
“God willing.” McNab’s face was dour. “Where the redcoats dinna dare go.”
“At last!” she cried.
Angus Ban clapped his hands together, a sound which echoed around us. “But that’s good, man, that’s good.”
“Nay.” McNab’s dour face got grimmer. “For the redcoats have got wind of it and they’re closing fast. The prince needs men around him, brave men, loyal men, to protect him.”
“Men who know their way through the heather?” Angus Ban asked.
“Aye.”
“Men who know this countryside will be more valuable to him than swords,” said Lady Keppoch. “Ye’ll go to him, Angus?”
“As fast and straight as the crow flies,” Angus Ban answered.
“And what about ye, Duncan MacDonald of Glenroy?” She turned to me. “How well do ye know this country?”
“As well as I know the fingers of my own hand,” I told her, which was a terrible exaggeration. Mostly I knew my own glen.
“Ye’ll go, too, then. And take this with ye.” She wrapped the brooch up in its cloth and handed it back to me.
I would have done anything for her. Even go to the prince, once more into the teeth of danger.
Angus Ban put out a hand to stop her. “It’s yer brooch by right,” he protested, “and ye may have need of such treasures yet.”
“Our prince has greater need than any of us,” she replied. “Let him take it as a charm, if he will. Or sell it for food. Or use it as a bribe. It will prove its worth yet.” She pressed the brooch into my palm. “Will ye take it to him, young Duncan, and my prayers with it?”
“Aye, ma’am, I’ll go,” I said. “And carry yer treasure as ye wish.”
“Then we’ll both go to join Prince Charlie’s last army,” said Angus Ban, offering me his hand. We shook firmly and then he turned to give orders to his men about keeping watch here while he was gone.
I stuffed the brooch back into my shirt, remembering what Mairi’s ghost had said: It’s a blessing ye carry with ye, Duncan.
I hoped for all our sakes it was.
35 THE BOTHY
The three of us traveled east, then north into the hills and forests, letting McNab lead the way. He knew the swiftest route to the prince’s hideout, knew where the streams could be most easily crossed and where narrow gaps gave passage between the frownin
g crags. We ducked under curving bushes and low-hanging trees on paths that ran like tunnels through the foliage. The tracks would have been impossible for the redcoats to spot, but the local clansmen knew such hidden paths well, using them for passing messages among themselves as well as smuggling weapons and money for the prince’s cause.
I kept up. I had to—or else I would have become totally lost. And no one would have had the time to seek me out.
We spent the rest of that day traveling, and, after a half-night’s rest, were off again and never on any recognizable road. I should have been exhausted, but our spirits were so high, it was hard to feel tired. I said so to Angus Ban in a low whisper.
He whispered back, “Harder, I think, to walk along a broad road all day, especially with redcoats to either side.” He was silent for a moment, then added, “It was by using tracks like these that the prince evaded Cumberland’s searchers, all the way from Moidart on the western coast to Badenoch on the far side of Loch Ness.” His hand described a large arc.
“And now back again,” McNab added quietly.
I sighed. “That’s a long way.”
Iain whispered, “Long and hard and dangerous.”
“But he never went alone,” McNab said. “We wouldna let him.”
As the second day started to darken toward dusk, we crossed yet another small stream. Wading through it, I began to think about the prince. What courage it must have taken, going from Culloden to the coast and back twice more, with the redcoats fast behind him. And the anger I had held since that awful battle began to turn to admiration again. Yes, I still wanted him gone to France, but for his own sake now, as well as ours.
“He’s been rumored dead more than once,” said Angus Ban, when we reached the other side of the stream. “But a rumor’s nae fact.” He laughed, which lent his homely face a kind of beauty.
“And nobody’s betrayed him.” I had to marvel at that. “Not for all the gold offered by King George.”
Iain’s face turned hard. He spat. “That for German Georgie!”
“What do ye know of the gold?” Angus Ban asked me.
“Thirty thousand pounds, it’s said. I can hardly imagine such a sum.”
He clapped me on the back. “It would make ye the equal to any laird.”
I gave him a startled look. “But a laird is born to his title.”
Shaking his head, Angus Ban retorted, “There speaks a true retainer. Laddie, lairds can be broken and built up again. A man with money can make his way anywhere in the world. That’s what makes this so miraculous—that nae Highlander has given even a hint of the prince’s whereabouts. Nae money, nae torture, nae exile has made the Scots talk.”
“Hush,” McNab said. “No more speaking here, either. We’re coming to a tricky part now. Even trickier in this fading light.”
We dropped to our bellies and began crawling through the heather. It wasn’t easy, for the stuff was dense and tangled.
I kept wanting to sneeze and had to hold my nose for fear of giving us away. And all the while, my heart was beating as loudly as it had at Culloden. I thought about Ma and Da waiting at home, thinking I’d be back this evening, or the next. I thought about the bonnie prince somewhere ahead of us, waiting to be guided to the coast.
Is he worth it?
He better be!
McNab raised his hand and we paused, side by side, to stare through the gathering dusk at a rough-built, square bothy lying on a low rise some twenty yards ahead of us. Sheltered among the holly trees and high rocks, its stones caked with moss, the bothy was smaller than my cottage. From a hole in its turf roof a faint streamer of smoke trickled out, disappearing when it reached the tops of the rocks. There was no light at the window, no sound from inside, no guards at the door. Except for the chimney smoke, the place seemed utterly deserted.
“There it is,” said McNab, starting to rise.
Angus Ban took McNab by the shoulder and pushed him back down, till we were hidden in the bracken. Slipping out his pistol and cocking it gently to make as little sound as possible, he whispered, “Are ye sure, McNab? It could be a trap. The place is too quiet by half, and who’s the daftie who set that fire?”
“I’m as sure as ye are of yer own name,” McNab whispered back. “John McPherson himself told me to come here. The prince is waiting for us.”
Angus Ban rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Duncan, lad, go up and take a wee peek in the window.”
“Me?” My voice choked the word.
“Yer harmless looking,” said Iain. “Tell them ‘gulls’ eggs and terns’ eggs’ if they ask.”
Angus Ban stifled a laugh.
“Suppose whoever’s up there doesn’t think me that harmless, say?”
“Then run like the devil and we’ll give ye cover,” said McNab, grinning.
“Or see ye avenged,” Angus Ban added mischievously. He waved the pistol by way of reassurance, but it gave me little comfort.
I stood and started toward the bothy, keeping low and fixing my eyes on the door. It seemed a long way down and too open by far. I didn’t betray those behind me by so much as a glance back. A hoodie crow flew off to my left, which made me flinch, but otherwise I kept on until I was close enough to be spotted by anyone inside.
Realizing then that I was coming upon them like a bandit or an enemy, I straightened up and held my arms out from my sides to show that my hands were empty and I had no weapons concealed about me. Except Da’s knife, I thought, which was stuck in my hose and hidden under the awful trousers. Well, at least they’re good for something.
I stood stock-still, awaiting some reaction from inside the little shelter. My heartbeats measured out the time as I waited for the crack of a pistol. I took one step more toward the bothy, then another, until I was no more than an arm’s length from the door.
Surely, the prince has long since moved on, I thought. Or, more likely, McNab has been misled.
I took another step closer.
But what of the chimney smoke? my more cautious nature warned.
The last remnants of an old fire, I told myself. See how thin it is.
I turned toward a low window and at that moment the door was flung open. Out jumped a red-bearded figure in Highland garb. He wore a dirty sark with a plaid wrapped round it, a black kilt, and worn boots held together with string. A plain blue bonnet sat on his head, like a bird perched on a tree limb. On his belt hung a sword in its sheath and a pistol was stuck down in the belt. Thin and young as Angus Ban, his eyes burned as if he were possessed.
I stared for a second, then stumbled backward, tripping over a mossy rock. “Yer … Yer Highness,” I stuttered in Gaelic as I fell.
The prince let out a rich laugh as two men with muskets emerged from the holly bushes at the rear of the bothy and two others came out the door.
“I told you not to worry. Here’s your redcoat scout, gentlemen,” the prince told them in his halting English. “It turns out he’s a fine Highland lad.”
Brushing off my clothes, I got slowly to my feet and then looked down to hide my embarrassment. Prince Charlie didn’t seem at all like the grand figure I’d seen at Glenfinnan and Culloden. Still, he was a prince. I stood and touched my forehead. “Yer Highness,” I said again, this time in English.
A tall, handsome man with sharp cheekbones and gentle eyes limped to the prince’s side. I recognized him at once. It was Lochiel, who’d stood between the prince and me that night at Glenfinnan.
“There’s nae shame in being cautious, Yer Highness,” he said.
The guards suddenly raised their muskets and squinted down the barrels. They’d spotted Angus Ban and McNab climbing toward us.
“Easy, lads,” said Lochiel in Gaelic, placing a finger on one of the guns and pushing it down. “Even in this light I recognize the old Keppoch’s son.”
Angus Ban hailed Lochiel, then he and Iain and McNab fell on one knee before the prince.
“Up, my friends, rise up,” the prince told them. “If there
are spies hiding on the hilltops, you’ll be telling them exactly who it is stands before you.”
I took a deep breath. At least I hadn’t been the one to make that mistake.
We were ushered into the bothy, where, by listening to the conversation and asking a few whispered questions of Angus Ban, I soon learned who the prince’s other companions were.
The stocky man who stayed close to Lochiel was his brother, Archie. A doctor, his services had been sorely needed when Lochiel had been carried off the field of Culloden, shot through both ankles.
Then there was Cluny McPherson, hawk-nosed and fierce, of whom I’d already heard tell. Also his brother Donald, Aeneas MacDonald of Lochgarry, and Allan Cameron, a young officer of Lochiel’s clan.
There was scarcely room for us all in the bothy. It was lucky, I thought, that Cluny’s four retainers were outside on guard duty, or we’d hardly be able to breathe.
At one end of the room a brace of pheasant had been spitted over the fire, the reason for the smoke. The smell was so delicious, my belly began to growl.
When he saw me eyeing the birds hungrily, Cluny told me proudly, “Prince Charles snared them himself.” He sounded as if he were bragging about his son rather than his prince.
“I’ve always been a keen huntsman,” said Prince Charlie, “but never before have I had to hunt to keep from starving.”
“Starving?” Lochiel said. “Why, just three days ago, my lord, I served ye a feast in another hut. Ye said, as I recall, ‘Now I live like a prince.’”
Prince Charlie smiled. “A feast, yes—with mutton and an anker of whiskey, butter and cheese. Such cheese. And ham. And minced collops, too.”
There was a wave of good-natured laughter at this description, and a jar of whiskey was passed round the company. I couldn’t tell if there had really been such a feast or not.
“Take a care, lads,” Lochgarry added, “and dinna drink yerselves silly. The prince is a fine tippler. Why, as he tells it, he drank cold brandy out of seashells at Corradale and sent the others to bed, standing alone at the end of the night.”