Sound of the Heart

by Genevieve Graham

  “Right,” Richard said as she shoved the others aside and set the new blades on the table. He squinted at Dougal, looking wary. “These are . . .” He coughed. “These are—”

  “They’re stolen from dead Scottish rebels,” the girl declared, then ducked as her husband swung toward her with an open palm. Still bent low, she fixed Dougal with a black stare, daring him to touch the metal.

  He forced his eyes away from hers and leaned over the table, examining the old blades before him. They were indeed swords and dirks like the ones he knew so well. He tried to picture each one hanging from the hip of a Highlander. Two long, thick swords with intricately worked basket hilts lay beside two shorter, more tarnished weapons with unprotected hilts. Where were their masters now? Two lethal broadswords protruded from either side of the pile. Not lethal enough, he thought grimly, though from the amount of dried blood that still painted the blades black, he thought they’d done their share. He shifted his attention to the dirks. Most of them were over a foot long, with handles worn to the shape of their owners’ hands.

  Something warm rose from the depths of Dougal’s chest. His hand reached without hesitation toward a thick, brown-handled dirk. Its handle was slender but well worn, its blade still sharp. In the moment that his fingers touched the hilt, his vision went black, and his head filled with the roaring of blood. Very clearly, as if he stood right beside him, he heard Andrew’s voice yelling, “Ciaran!”

  He could see the dirk in his youngest brother’s hand, see his grimy fingers clenched around the handle. In Dougal’s memories, long before the war, Ciaran laughed. He looked over his shoulder as he raced Dougal through the woods, this same dirk in his belt, laughing as if he hadn’t a care in the world. At that time, Dougal supposed, he hadn’t. The memory was as real in his mind as was the dirk he now gripped in his hand.

  “Ciaran,” he whispered, closing his fingers around the hilt. He drew it toward himself and held the blade flat against his chest. I’m so sorry, little brother.

  When he opened his eyes again, Richard and his wife were staring at him. He nodded. “This one,” he said.

  The man tried for a ridiculous price on Ciaran’s blade, but Dougal shook his head.

  “This is my brother’s dirk,” he said calmly. “I’ll take it from ye with my thanks. I’ll buy a second, though.”

  “Take that? As in . . . not pay for it? I don’t think so, sir!” cried Richard.

  Dougal’s sneer was cold, unforgiving, his voice like ice. “I’ll take it or the authorities will hear o’ these blades. An’ the tartan as well.”

  He heard the resultant panic in Richard’s mind and leaned over to choose a second dirk. He would give it to Aidan. Or maybe he would give Ciaran’s dirk to Aidan. He would decide later. Richard complained, but in the end he gave in. From beside him, the girl watched Dougal intently. Before he could leave, she reached swiftly under the table and brought out two leather belts. Her husband glared murderously at her, but she stared warily back, watching him as she handed Dougal the belts.

  “We don’t give to no charity,” the man growled.

  “The blades belong to this man,” she answered, her Scots brogue thick. From the North, Dougal thought. What had brought the poor lass this far? “An’ he canna carry them wi’out a belt.”

  With a brief nod, Dougal fastened both belts around his waist. He slid Ciaran’s dirk into one holster and the other into the second belt.

  “I thank ye, my lady,” he said quietly. He glowered at the salesman and Richard’s thoughts quietened. “Hear me, sir. I shall come back tomorrow an’ the day after that, lookin’ for this woman. Understand this. She shall come to nae harm for doin’ me this service.”

  The man’s nostrils flared, but he nodded once in understanding.

  CHAPTER 12

  Claiming Proof

  Dougal didn’t remember walking back to the inn. None of the noise, the sights, the activity woke any interest in his mind. He had no idea if it still rained and didn’t care if it did. He was entirely focused on the thick blade of metal, heavy in his belt, heavier in his heart.

  Ciaran. Ciaran was dead. He carried proof.

  Somehow Dougal found the alley that led to the inn. Rusted hinges squealed as he shoved the door open and strode into the main tavern. He let the door slam behind him and sat at a table against the wall, saying nothing, just breathing and staring at the tabletop, swallowing back emotion.

  He was vaguely aware of the tavern’s keeper polishing the bar at the other side of the room. It was midmorning and the room was mostly empty of patrons. Dougal glanced up and nodded at the man, who poured and brought him a mug of ale. He put a coin in the man’s hand, then sipped on the drink. It tasted less like ale than dirty water. But it was wet.

  The dirk made a hollow shushing sound as he pulled it from his belt and laid it on the table before him. The tarnished silver called, and he followed, losing himself to the past. The morning of the battle came back, kept coming back, no matter how hard he tried to hold it away. How Ciaran’s bright blue eyes, so like his own, had looked at him that miserable morning. How his little brother had quietly admitted, “I’m no’ ready to die, Dougal.”

  How had he answered? He couldn’t recall. Something intended to play down his brother’s fears, he supposed. Like he had always done. Always the protector. Always the big brother. What had it been? Something like, “We’ll none of us die today.” Which had been a ridiculous thing to say.

  Was it a lie when false reassurances were given? Was it a lie for Ciaran to accept his reply, even though they had all known with certainty that some would die that day? And if so, was it his lie or Ciaran’s? The thought that the final words he’d ever uttered to his youngest brother might have been a lie twisted like an eel through his chest.

  Lifting the mug to his lips, Dougal was startled to find it empty already. He looked back toward the tavern owner, but his gaze caught on the small form of Aidan two tables away, sitting alone, holding his own drink. Aidan’s wide blue eyes watched Dougal, but he said nothing. It was as if he understood Dougal didn’t want company. He stayed where he was, offering support and friendship, but only if it were desired. Dougal tilted his head with invitation and slid the dirk back into his belt. Aidan shoved back his stool, picked up his own mug, and joined Dougal at his table. The barkeep brought another drink for Dougal, and none of the men spoke.

  The door swung open and the frenzied noises of London crushed the quiet. Dougal, jolted back to the moment, unbuckled one of the belts he wore and handed it across the table to Aidan. It was the second belt, since Dougal had decided to keep Ciaran’s blade for himself. It seemed right. A penance of sorts perhaps, a reminder certainly.

  “Might be a bit big for ye, but there’s a dirk in the side there—oh, watch that. Aye. Got that for ye this mornin’.”

  Aidan nodded thanks and buckled the belt around his hips, then slid his new dirk from its sheath. He thumbed the edge critically, then examined the hilt, taking care to avoid Dougal’s eyes. Eventually he slid it back into his belt and cupped his hands around his mug. He stared into it, saying nothing, letting Dougal have his quiet.

  For some reason, Aidan’s presence calmed Dougal, took the pressure off his heart. After a moment he sat up straighter and pulled Ciaran’s dirk back out of its sheath. He laid it on the table between them, and both men stared at it. Aidan looked up, questioning.

  Dougal frowned. “My brother, Ciaran. That’s his dirk.”

  “Ciaran?” Aidan asked, his eyes widening. “That’s yer youngest brother, aye? Is he here, then? I thought ye said he—”

  Dougal shook his head. “Nay. No’ here. No’ anywheres. I bought this dirk from a man who’d stolen it from the dead at Culloden.”

  Aidan’s jaw dropped. “Stolen from—” His words dwindled and his face lost all colour.

  Dougal nodded when Aidan silently asked permission to touch the knife. The smooth handle settled into Aidan’s palm, and he slid a curious thumb
over the blade. Dougal watched the boy’s hands, remembering other fingers that had gripped that hilt. Longer fingers with a darker hue to their skin. Narrow, like Aidan’s, but thicker and stronger. Unlike Dougal and Andrew, Ciaran hadn’t been built like a warrior, but he had been bigger than Aidan. Aidan’s hands were small. Delicate even. Like a woman’s, though he would never say such a thing to the boy.

  “My brother was only a year older than ye are,” Dougal said softly.

  Aidan’s eyes met his, then flicked away. “I’m sorry, Dougal.”

  Dougal took the dirk back and held it in his own hand. Ciaran! he heard in his head. Andrew’s voice again, yelling with desperation. Ciaran!

  It wasn’t as if it were a shock. Dougal had assumed they were all dead. He knew about his father, of course. Now he knew about Ciaran. What of Andrew? Would he ever know?

  “What else did ye see out there? On the street, I mean,” Aidan asked, glancing toward the door, which was just slamming shut again.

  Dougal clicked his tongue and shook his head with irritation. “It’s a horrible place, this. Loud and filthy, full o’ criminals an’ whores. I’ve no wish to stay any longer.”

  “No, nor do I. But . . . what did ye see?”

  Dougal recognised a hint of eagerness in the boy’s tone. So he was curious, he thought. Not surprising. “Did ye want to go out?” he asked, hiding a smile. “Take a wee keek? Go on then.”

  Aidan shook his head. “No’ on my own, thanks. I was only wonderin’ is all.”

  With an internal sigh, Dougal realised he should have woken Aidan before going out earlier. Now he’d have to go again. Sure, the lad said it was of no consequence, but what young man wouldn’t be interested in the excitement of London? Dougal scraped his chair back and rose to his feet.

  “Let’s go.”

  “Oh, there’s no need. I—”

  “Come on then,” Dougal said, and turned toward the door. He heard Aidan follow, and pulled open the side door into the alleyway. “I must warn ye, it’s a wee bit dark at first. This leads to the street. Stay close. There are, well, dinna step in the centre bit, aye?”

  The rain had, thank the blessed Christ, stopped. Remnants still dripped from the tattered roofs, but the sky had lightened and a suggestion of warmth filtered into the air. Dougal stepped into the putrid alley and heard Aidan grunt with disgust as he avoided something. When they eventually emerged into the main thoroughfare, Dougal noticed more hawkers setting up with the brief hope of sunshine. They slammed tables together and organised their wares for any interested browsers. A woman hung ribbons from a pole, another set out bread. A boy tugged a wagon behind him, jugs clanging together as he walked.

  “What’s that?” Dougal asked.

  The boy looked at him as if he were an idiot. “’At’s milk, is what it is.”

  “Fresh?”

  “Sure,” the boy answered quickly. “Milked ’em this morning.”

  “Really? Where’s yer farm? Yer kine?”

  “Near enough,” the boy said.

  Dougal picked up a jug, popped the cork, and sniffed. Sour as his old grandmother, as they say.

  “Pah!” he exclaimed. “Foul-mouthed brat. That’s a week old, that is.”

  “Then don’t buy any,” the boy said with a belligerent snarl, and walked away, tugging his wagon behind him.

  Aidan giggled.

  “Funny?”

  “Sure,” Aidan said. “The lad should learn his business better. He should sell it as sour milk an’ he’d do jus’ fine.”

  Dougal grinned. “Come an’ see all this. These folks will sell anythin’.”

  He led Aidan through the growing number of stalls and paused at the puppet show. Aidan was captivated by the spectacle, laughing and clapping when one of the silly things did something.

  “Oh, that’s brilliant!” he exclaimed at one point, treating Dougal to one of his rare, sunshine smiles.

  “It is?” Dougal asked, scratching his head. “I didna hear—”

  “Oh, ye see, it’s all a joke, aye? They look as if they’re discussing the weather, but it’s no’ just that. See there, that’s a duke, an’ the other’s a crofter, an’ they’re discussing taxes, but the duke’s no smarter than the shoon on his feet. An’ the crofter, well, he’s gettin’ the silly man to agree to his terms though he has no idea—”

  Dougal glanced at the stage, then back at Aidan, surprised. He knew the lad was intelligent, but hadn’t had occasion to see this side of him. He watched the show while Aidan laughed and pointed out things the puppets had done or said, and Dougal found himself appreciating the spectacle. After a while they moved on, and Aidan headed toward a stall offering books. He picked up a large brown book, covered in worn calfskin, and slid his fingers over the soft cover. Then he opened the book and smiled wistfully.

  “I wonder what the story is,” he mused.

  “Ye dinna read?” Dougal asked. He checked the front cover. “Well, that’s as well, for that one’s a dull story.”

  “An’ how is it ye ken that?” Aidan demanded, looking shocked. “Ye can read it?”

  “Aye, I can.”

  Dougal flipped through three or four books, eventually coming upon one he remembered from years before.

  “Ye’ll like this. I’ll read it to ye.” He handed a book to Aidan, who clutched the treasure against his chest. “Robinson Crusoe. Have ye heard of it?”

  Aidan shook his head. His eyes were wide. “What is it about?”

  Dougal pulled out the small purse of coins he had slid into his shirt that morning and peered inside. Not much left. Should he spend it on a book, or could he remember the story well enough without it? Aidan held the book in both hands, caressing the cover with dirty thumbs, as if it were a religious object.

  “How much?”

  “Tenpence, sir,” the woman behind the table said.

  “I’ve six,” Dougal countered.

  She squinted at him, looking dubious. “’At’s not ten, is it?”

  “No, but it’s more than what ye have so far.”

  She glared at him, calculating. The streets weren’t yet crowded after the downpour, though more people would come. Dougal was right, though. She hadn’t made a lot of sales so far that day.

  “Eight,” she said.

  “I said I have six.”

  She huffed through a flattened nose. “Fine then. ’And it over.”

  Dougal dug into the purse and fished around for sixpence, no more. In fact, he had little more than that anyway. He handed the money to her and nodded at Aidan.

  “It’s yours now.”

  “Thank ye,” Aidan said, looking confused. “But I canna read.”

  “I said as I’d read it to ye, did I no’? Anyhow, ye need no’ thank me. It was yer own money we jus’ spent.”

  “Still,” Aidan said. He looked up at him and smiled. “It feels like a gift. I havena been given a gift in a very long time. Thank ye.”

  Something so little, Dougal thought. Yet it meant so much. The boy carried, at least for now, an expression of happiness that had been absent for too long. Seeing him like this lifted a weight from Dougal’s own spirit, urged a smile to his lips. The sun peeked through the clouds in that moment and Dougal seized it as a sign of hope and freedom. A sign that their new life began today. He dropped his hand to Ciaran’s dirk at his belt and squeezed the handle.

  “Ye’re welcome, my friend,” he said. “We’ll read it as we head home, aye?”

  “Home? We’re goin’ to Scotland?” Aidan asked, his expression hopeful.

  “Aye. That’d be best. We canna live here, among these sassenachs, can we? An’ we’re still too close to the fort for my likin’.”

  Aidan glanced at the people jostling around them, bumping into each other without offering apologies, slapping their children and each other. “Aye,” he agreed. “We’ll to the Highlands.”

  Despite this declaration, they decided to spend the rest of the day and that evening in London. Aidan
repeated the previous night’s performance, providing the coins they’d need to hold them through their voyage. It would take months to get home, but this small amount would at least give them a start. After collecting Aidan’s pay, Dougal claimed the same table they’d taken the night before, leaned back against the cool stone wall, and listened to the boy sing.

  It would be too bad when the boy’s voice finally changed. It was lovely to hear it as it was. But it would happen soon. Dougal never outwardly questioned the fact that Aidan was taking a long time to grow into a man. Not even a hint of a beard had sprouted on his fine-boned jaw. But he’d known a few boys like that, boys who didn’t mature until eighteen or so. No need to rush anything.

  Aidan sang for two hours, delighting the patrons, filling Dougal’s little purse and their bellies. When at last he climbed down from the stool for the final time, he looked tired, but pleased.

  “Will ye read to me tonight, Dougal?” he asked.

  Dougal wasn’t surprised. Aidan had clung to the book all day and laid it carefully on the table while he was singing. But it was too late to read. Dougal hated to disappoint the boy, but he didn’t have a choice.

  “We havena any light in our room, lad. Only the wee candle and it’s nearly done,” Dougal reminded him. “I’ll read on the road, aye?”

  The boy looked crestfallen, but nodded, and they went to bed.

  Dougal let himself sleep a little longer the next morning. Well, not really sleep. He couldn’t do that. Never had, really. But he lay on his back, hands linked behind his head like a pillow, and stared at the ceiling. He needed to put together some kind of plan. Where should they go? How would they live? It would have to be on their own—he didn’t want anyone turning them in to the English. He didn’t think Aidan would mind it being just the two of them. He seemed to enjoy the quiet. It would be as if they were brothers. Both of them needed that.