John, unaware of Gillies's fate, went to the aid of the three wounded Athollmen, dispatching the first of the king's Royal Foot before the Sassenach was even aware there was a rampant lion behind him. A second and third redcoat were sent writhing on the ground with hideous wounds, while a fourth actually dared to turn and raise his bayonet. One swipe from MacGillivray's broadsword broke the musket in half and left the soldier gaping down at the bloody stump where his arm used to be. The injured Highlanders fell on another man and, because they were without weapons, wrested his own musket from him and clubbed him unconscious with the stock.
The last of the royalists, a lieutenant, flashed his saber in MacGillivray's direction and actually managed to cut the sleeve of his shirt off at the shoulder. John looked at the tear, cursed at the officer, then drove five feet of honed steel through his chest and punched it out the back of his spine.
“MacGillivray!”
He spun around in a half crouch and saw the blood-spattered face of Hugh MacDugal looming out of the mist. They had a long history of bad blood between them, and John knew by the snarl on the ugly face that it had worsened over the past twenty-four hours.
“Yer bluidy kinsmen killed ma brither Lomach last night. Slit 'is throat they did, an' left him in the bog. I found him this mornin', drowned in his own bluid.”
“Must have been a sweet change,” John said, “from the shite you breathe all day with yer nose stuck up Thomas Lobster's arse.”
“Aye, an' you would know all about arses, would ye not? I hear tell The MacKintosh's wife bends over f'ae ye on a regular basis. Mayhap I'll try her a time or two maself after I'm done wi' you an' her rebel husband. Oh, aye, I know all about that one, too, an' I'll be the first tae raise a cheer when they string him on the gibbet.”
John wiped at a persistent trickle of blood over his eye. Coming up behind MacDugal were ten or twelve more infantrymen, and when they saw the golden-haired Highlander standing firm on the road, they started to spread out into a half-circle.
“Hold!” MacDugal roared. “This bastard is mine! I've waited too long f'ae this no' tae have the pleasure o' tearin' his heart out wi' ma own hands.”
He raised his broadsword and charged forward with an unholy scream of fury. John waited for the ugly Highlander to come to him; when MacDugal was half a dozen paces away, he gripped the hilt of his clai' mór in both clenched fists and swung it hard enough for the exposed muscles in his arm to bulge like polished granite. He caught the tracker low, hacking through a knee, slicing upward to sever through the artery and lodge the edge of his blade deep in the opposite thigh bone.
MacDugal was still screaming when he went down in a fount of blood, taking MacGillivray's blade with him. The circle of soldiers melted back in awe for a moment, staring in horror at the limbless and bleeding tracker, then, as one, looked up at The MacGillivray.
“If ye're going to kill a man,” he said quietly, “just kill him. Dinna boast about it beforehand.”
One of the soldiers swore and raised his weapon. John's hand moved to his waist and in the blink of an eye, the man went down clutching at the hilt of the dirk protruding from the split in his forehead. Another saw a flash of steel coming toward him a half-second before the blade struck his shoulder with enough momentum to send him back off his feet.
Having determined MacGillivray was now weaponless, the eight survivors spread out to close the circle and, confident of a kill, started to edge forward. John stood completely still, his black eyes defying each of them in turn, and when the first man lunged forward with his bayonet, MacGillivray bent over and snatched up a broken wagon axle that was lying at his feet. The swing caught the Sassenach full in the face, splitting it like a bladder. A second scything sweep tore the throat out of a second man and knocked a third senseless. He pressed forward, roaring his rage, downing seven of the eight foot soldiers before the last one was able to fit his trembling fingers around his musket and pull the trigger.
The shot caught MacGillivray high in the chest and spun him around. By then, another pack of soldiers had seen the encounter and rushed to give aid; several of them raised their bayonets and stabbed the unmoving Highlander repeatedly before running off in search of more challenging prey.
What they saw instead was a huge gray gelding bearing down on them. The screaming red-haired woman on its back raised two flintlocks and fired, blasting one man off his feet, sending another scrambling over a low stone wall. The wall proved to be the lip of a deep well, and while his scream was reverberating off the stones, The Bruce's hooves trampled another of his companions. Anne's sword made short work of the last.
She had witnessed the horror of the charge, the futility of the attack, the slaughter during the retreat, and at one point had been nearly swept away by the horsemen forcing the prince off the field and leading him to safety. Charles Stuart had indeed been weeping, but not out of pride this time. He had been weeping with shame and fear, screaming at the Highlanders to keep heart, that they would rally to fight another day.
The road had begun to clog with Jacobites retreating toward Inverness, but Anne had turned The Bruce toward the moor and fought her way to the verge, where she saw what was happening to the Camerons and the valiant men of Clan Chattan. She saw Gillies MacBean, bloodied head to toe but still fighting like a dervish. There was no sign of her cousins, but she saw MacGillivray … and she saw what lay beyond him: a field of horror littered with the bravest hearts of Scotland.
By the time she recovered her shock enough to spur The Bruce forward again, both Gillies and John were down, the brutality of MacBean's wounds leaving no doubt that he was dead.
She thought MacGillivray was dead also, but when she slid out of the saddle and slumped onto her knees beside him, she saw a faint movement in his throat. When she touched his face, his eyes fluttered open and she cried out, rolling him gently onto his side, taking his golden head onto her knees.
“John! John, can you hear me?”
His eyes stayed open, but they could not seem to focus. There was blood everywhere, in his hair, spattered on his cheeks and lips. She wiped what she could with the corner of her plaid, and for the smallest instant he was able to look up and meet her gaze.
“John—?”
A sigh brought the copper-colored lashes down and the effort it had cost him to see her one last time was expended. His head lolled gently to the side. He was gone.
Anne clutched the folds of his doublet and hugged him close to her body, too stunned, too shocked, too numbed by the horror to even be aware of the danger coming up behind her.
The English soldiers were crossing the moor in pursuit of the straggling Highlanders, but victory was theirs and they were not in any great hurry. They moved across the field in packs, like ravening dogs, searching the fallen bodies for gold or valuables, killing and mutilating anyone they found wounded or helpless. Some were red to the tops of their thighs from moving through the dead; others looked like butchers as they hacked and slashed.
Anne looked wildly around for help, but the road was clear save for a few limping stragglers. She tried to haul MacGillivray's body up by the shoulders, but she knew she would never be able to lift him onto The Bruce alone. The thought of just leaving him there, however, was never a consideration.
She heard a shout and saw two of the king's soldiers running toward her. Snarling, scrambling to her feet, she snatched up her sword and braced herself to avenge her brave MacGillivray's death.
She was nearly blinded by the heat of her tears, but she saw enough to know both men were wearing scarlet-and-white tunics over the cursed dark plaid of the King's Royal Scots. One was an officer, and this was where she focused her rage first. She clutched her sword with both fists in the same manner as MacGillivray, and with the clan cry on her lips, she lunged forward. At the last possible moment she thought there was something vaguely familiar about the ashen face and dark chestnut hair, but it was too late to stop the momentum of her sword and she felt it punch through t
he hated scarlet wool and slice into flesh and bone.
Instinct more than anything else made Angus stagger back when he saw the blade coming. He threw up his hand and managed to deflect the blade from piercing his heart. Even so, he felt the raw edge of steel scrape between his ribs, and it was all he could do to shout at MacCardle to lower his musket and hold his fire!
“Anne!” He gritted his teeth and braced himself as she withdrew the sword and set herself to thrust again. “Anne, it's me! It's Angus!”
He brought his saber up this time to block the second strike, but already he could see some of the confusion in her eyes clearing. On the third parry he was able to drive the point of her sword into the ground, after which she stopped cold and stared at him, her eyes as wide and haunted as those of a wounded, cornered animal.
“Anne … it's me, love. It's Angus.”
Her gaze slid to MacCardle and, seeing only the loathsome scarlet-and-white uniform, her lips drew back in another cry.
“Ewen, get behind me!”
“Aye, sar. That I'll gladly do.”
The subaltern stepped quickly out of Anne's line of vision, forcing her to focus all her attention on Angus.
“Annie,” he said as gently but as urgently as possible. “Annie, listen to me, darling. We have to get you out of here. You have to leave here and you have to leave now. Let me help you up on The Bruce.”
“I'm not leaving John behind,” she rasped.
“What? John? Where—” Angus looked at the bodies scattered around the shallow scoop of frozen ground, shocked by the welter of gore. He saw one big body sprawled on its side, a hand still clutched around the broken axle of a wagon, and he almost did not recognize the tangled, bloodied ruin that was John MacGillivray.
“Oh, good God,” he whispered. “Good sweet God.”
“God was not on this field today,” Anne declared savagely. “Look around you. Is this the work of a compassionate, loving Creator?”
A commotion near the moor road drew Angus's attention. He heard two gunshots and saw a woman with long blond hair running away from a band of pursuing dragoons. One of the dragoons was Hamilton Garner, and he used the heel of his boot to knock the woman to the ground.
“Anne, we have no more time. We have to get you out of here.”
She bared her teeth and raised her sword again. “I am not leaving this field without John MacGillivray.”
Angus cursed, but he nodded. “Hold The Bruce steady, then. Ewen—”
MacCardle stepped warily forward, one eye on Anne, the other on the big gelding as he and Angus heaved the body up between them, then draped it over the seat of the saddle. They were starting to attract attention and some of the soldiers were shouting at them to hold up, but Angus ignored them. He grasped Anne around the waist and hoisted her up behind MacGillivray, and handed her the reins.
“Get out of here. Get back to Moy Hall—and for pity's sake, stay there until I come for you. Now, get going. Go!”
He slapped the gelding's rump with the flat of his sword and stood his ground until he was sure Anne had cleared the field and was on the moor road. Only then did he let his legs give way. Only then did the agony send him slumping down onto his knees.
“Cap'n?”
MacCardle dropped down beside him, noticing for the first time the huge wet bloodstain that ran from just under Angus's armpit to the lower hem of his kilt.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Anne knew she would not make it as far as Moy Hall with John MacGillivray's body draped over the saddle. Dunmaglass was closer, but there were open fields to cross. Twice since leaving the moor, she had been forced off the road and into the trees as groups of howling dragoons rode past, chasing after the fleeing Highlanders. Bodies lay on both sides of the road, some having lain down to die there of injuries gained on the battlefield, some freshly slain by the dragoons. At one bend in the road, Lord George had positioned men to discourage a blood-crazed company of Kingston Horse from following too closely. Once Anne passed through, they closed ranks behind her and a few minutes later, she heard gunfire and screams when the government troops were ambushed.
After that, the Elector's troops were more cautious, for the Camerons and Athollmen were still a threat as a fighting force. But the progress of the dragoons was persistent and lethal. Even hapless civilians who had ventured onto the high ground to watch the battle were summarily cut down and hacked to death along with the fleeing Jacobites.
Only a handful of the prince's cavalry were still on horses. Either the animals had been shot out from under their riders, or their riders had been shot out of the saddles and the beasts left behind, trembling on the field of carnage. The Bruce's forelegs and withers were streaked with the blood dripping down from the saddle; he and Anne made a gory sight crossing over the bridge into Inverness, but at that point she truly did not care. She stared back at the faces that peered out from behind parted curtains as she passed. She ignored the only other horse and rider she saw—a well-dressed gentleman apparently going about his business as if half of hell were not erupting five miles down the road. He, in turn, veered to the opposite side of the road and gaped at her aghast. Her arms and the front of her tunic were soaked with John's blood from holding him on the battlefield. She expected her face was streaked as red as her hair—a suspicion that bore fruit when the front doors of Drummuir House opened and the dowager covered her mouth in horror as Anne drew close.
“God an' all the saints above, it is you,” she cried.
Anne dragged the cuff of a torn sleeve over her cheek but she only smeared the stains more. “I didn't know where else to take him where he would be safe.”
If not for the leonine mane of tarnished gold hair, it was not likely the dowager would have known whose body was draped across the saddle. She crossed herself, her expression a mixture of pain and sadness, and touched the hem of Anne's coat.
“Are you all right, child?”
Anne was not even sure, but she nodded dumbly. “I didn't know where else to take him. The soldiers—” She turned her head slightly as if she could see through the hills and trees to the battlefield. “They were doing such terrible things to the bodies …”
The dowager clouted one of the servants on the ear. “Dinna just stand there, ye clarty fools! Help get that brave man down.” She waved two of the house servants over. “Be gentle with him! Take him inside where we can clean him proper. Annie, child, come out o' the saddle.”
“I have to go to Moy Hall,” she said, her voice a ragged whisper. “Angus told me to go there.”
The dowager clasped a hand to her throat. “He's alive, then? My Angus is alive? Ye saw him?”
Anne frowned. She was fairly certain it had been Angus she had seen at the last, but there were too many images crowding into her mind. Too much blood. Too much pain. Not ten minutes ago she'd seen a child no more than four years old lying by the road, him and his mother both bayonetted.
“I have to go to Moy Hall,” she repeated. “Angus told me to go there.”
Lady Drummuir felt a chill as she looked up at her daughter-in-law. Her eyes were huge, the blue completely swallowed by the black centers. She was trembling as if in the grip of a terrible fever, her cheeks so pale the spatters of blood looked like splashes of crimson paint.
“Aye,” the dowager said gently. “An' ye will go back to Moy, just as soon as ye're able, but for the now, come down off that great beast an' let me help ye. Ye'll take some hot broth an' a bath, an' when ye're a fit sight for yer men to see, then aye, ye can go to Moy Hall. Please come down, Anne.”
Anne's eyes filled with tears again as she watched the servants carry MacGillivray's body into the house. She felt Lady Drummuir's hand on her wrist, and she looked down through another blinding rush of tears and nodded. She was colder than she had ever been in her life, shaking so hard she could not dismount on her own but had to wait for the servants to lift her down out of the saddle. The dowager did not even give her the option of walking. S
he ordered the stoutest of the men to carry her into the house and up the stairs, where she threatened to bring down the wrath of all the MacKintosh ancestors if a tub was not filled with steaming water upon the instant.
Once upstairs, Anne sat numb and unresponsive at the edge of the bed while a maid stripped her of her bloodied clothing. She stared at some cuts on her hands, but could not remember how she came by them. One whole side of a hip was marked with purple-and-black splotches, but there, too, she could not recall being bruised.
The maid helped her up and guided her into the huge copper tub that had been hauled in front of the fire. The shock of the hot water startled Anne into looking around and slowly coming to realize she was safe. At least she was away from the death and the blood, and she was not alone any longer.
The steam and the heat and the smell of soap being rubbed into her hair restored her a little more, and by the time she had been rinsed and left to soak, she was able to hold a cup of hot broth to her lips without dribbling half of it down her chin.
Lady Drummuir left for brief moments at a time, but always came back to sit by the hearth. It was obvious she was aching with questions, but she did not ask anything of Anne other than to inquire if she wanted more broth.
After three bolstering cups Anne felt well enough—and warm enough—to climb out of the tub and sit by the fire. Wrapped in a thick woolen dressing gown, she sat dutifully still while the maid brushed her hair dry and twined it into a thick braid.
“Thank you,” she said. She glanced up from the hot flames and looked at the dowager. “I don't know what happened back there. I don't even remember how I got here.”
“Ye were in shock, lass. I'm no' surprised. There have been men coming to the door, bringing the news before they flee.”
Anne just looked at her, and waited.
“The soldiers are on their way to Inverness. They're no more than a mile down the road.”
“I have to get to Moy Hall,” Anne said, setting her cup aside. “The men will need help. Have you had any news of the prince?”
Midnight Honor Page 37