Clandara (37 page)

She looked at him then, and he was silenced by the hatred he saw on her face.

“There is no child,” she said. “And never will be one. I tried to pay my debt to you for Robert, but there's no coin in the world which will suffice. I cannot give you back your son or myself my brother. And I have lost the man I loved for ever. My grief must be enough for you, Father. It's all I have to give you now.” And she turned her back on him and went out of the room. The next moment the Earl came to the open door and shouted for his steward.

“Donal', where are those men my daughter brought into the house?”

“Below, my lord, having their wounds dressed by the women. Her ladyship said—”

“Pay no mind to what she said,” the Earl snapped. “Have the dead man buried at once and see that the grave is well hidden. And turn the Chisholms out by nightfall! I want no trace of them here and if anyone speaks of their presence at Clandara I'll have their throats cut! Is that understood?”

The steward bowed. “It shall be done, my lord.”

“And tomorrow you're to ride into Inverness and see if you can find out what has become of Mr. Ogilvie. From now on the castle gates are closed to all Rebels, whatever their clan. And send word out that any tacksman or humbly of mine who shelters them shall suffer death!”

In her rooms above, the Countess waited impatiently, walking up and down, stopping to listen by the door. Lately she had spent more and more of the long hours in bed, sewing and talking to herself; now she was dressed, her greying hair hidden under a linen cap, and her hands pulled at her skirts and twisted in and out of each other as she waited. At last the door opened and she sprang forward eagerly.

“Jean! Who are they, what news?”

“The Prince has been lost,” the girl said, and her voice faltered. “His army fled the field. Ach, I've just been down talking to the bearded one she brought back with her … the other's out of his wits. He lies there trembling and mouthing.”

Jean suddenly put her two strong hands to her face and began to cry. It was the first time Margaret Clandara had seen her weep for years. She came and shook her, her pale face thin and sharp, her eyes glittering.

“Stop that!” she commanded. “Stop that at once, you idiot girl! I want to know who they are and where they're going. What else did the man tell you? … Come on, speak up!”

“They fought at Drummossie Moor,” Jean mumbled. “At the end of it the place was four deep in Highland dead and wounded. And afterwards the English gave no quarter. They're Chisholms, milady. And
he
is turning them out! They're being sent away tonight, without even a horse to carry them …”

“He would,” the Countess said. “And better they go than stay here to be handed to the English. They're our blood cousins, do you realize that? Stop crying,” she said angrily. “Don't you realize what this means? Did you ask them about our kin at Dundrenan? Did they see them, did they fight nearby? Oh, you stupid ox, must I box your ears for you to make you answer me?”

“They were in the same line,” Jean said; she wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands like a child. “The one below said they made the charge together. Our people fell like leaves.”

“But some escaped,” the Countess urged her. “Some
must
have escaped!”

“I asked him that,” the girl said. “It was difficult, milady, I didn't like to harry them with questions. They're so distressed and the poor silent one, he is lying there shivering from head to foot!”

“What did he say?” the Countess said. She was calmer now and her voice wheedled. “Come now, Jean, think of my anxiety … Did he see any of my cousins leave the field alive?”

“The Chief, he thinks,” Jean answered, “but he could not be sure.”

Margaret smiled and taking the girl by the arm she brought her to the fire, and gently put her in a chair.

“Calm yourself now,” she said. “You're a good girl, Jean. I didn't mean to be impatient with you. It's an ill wind, my child, that blows nobody any good. Sit quietly now and listen well. You say they go tonight?”

“As soon as it is dark,” Jean muttered. “Even the Fraser servants were ashamed to hear it. They had their father with them but he died as they tried to lift him on to old Angus's horse. He's been buried out on the Moor where none will find his grave.”

“You must go down again,” the Countess said. “You must go down and promise to steal a mount for them, and in exchange they'll do a favour for me. They will do it, won't they, if you get a horse for them?”

“What do you want?” the girl asked her. The Countess gave a little laugh.

“I want them to find Sir Alexander or any of his sons and give them a note which I shall write. It shouldn't be difficult; the Chisholms' glen is not more than a few miles from Dundrenan. It won't be much to ask in exchange for a mount on which to get there, will it?”

“No,” Jean said. “No, if I can do that for them they'll be grateful. I trust the bearded one. He'll keep his word. But how am I to get a horse for them?”

The Countess tapped her cheek. “You're a good girl, but you're not as clever as you might be … She will get one for them if you go and plead with her. She brought them here, didn't she? Her soft heart must be bleeding for the poor Rebels, her own Ogilvie among them! She'll get the horse, and they'll do me the favour. Get up now, child, and see if you can find her. Don't wipe your cheeks – a few tears will look all the better. I'm going to write my little note.”

Embarrassed by having sat down in the presence of her mistress, Jean got up and curtsied. She wasn't really thinking of the note or of whatever plan was forming in the Countess's mind. The words of the hunted man were ringing through her aching head, and the fate of her own humble kin was still unknown. Macdonalds had charged along that shattered line, broken by withering fire from the English guns, falling as they ran, while those behind leapt over them and raced towards the waiting enemy.

“The Prince is a fugitive too,” she said. “God knows what will become of him …”

“God knows,” the Countess said patiently. “But he'll find friends to aid him. Don't fret for the Prince, Jean; he'll get away to France. Go on now. Find Lady Katharine as I told you.”

8

From the redstone house in Inverness belonging to the Dowager Lady Mackintosh the Duke of Cumberland issued orders for the apprehension of all Rebels who had fled the field and for the disposal of all who were still lying wounded out on the Moor. The Duke was in a good humour, but his general mood was severe. Inverness and the surrounding country reminded him constantly of the untidy state into which Scotland and its people had fallen, and he directed the operations for restoring it to order with the zeal of a butcher in a slaughterhouse. For two days and nights the Highland wounded lay on Drummossie Moor, stripped of their clothing by the beggars who crept down upon them searching for loot, their own womenfolk and kin kept back by the bayonets of the English sentries who mounted guard upon the place, and their cries for help made people living on their farms in the vicinity cover their ears and draw the blankets over their heads at night.

There were many who found some of these pitiable creatures crawling at their doors, begging for water and food, and those who took them in were soon to learn the meaning of the victor's wrath. Later detachments of the English army marched out to the Moor and began searching the farms and bothies around it. Every man found breathing among the heaps of dead upon the field was shot or bayoneted and the houses which had sheltered any able to escape were burned to the ground with the fugitives and those who had befriended them bolted inside.

From their hiding place three miles distant, all that was left of the Macdonalds of Dundrenan watched the spirals of smoke rising into the pale spring sky. Sir Alexander had gathered his people together in a wood near Castle Hill; there they had taken an accounting, tended the wounded and buried some who had since died. There were little more than fifty left, and James had sent for every man among them to come before the Chief and say if he had seen Hugh Macdonald after that first wild charge. And that was how they heard of the wounds which felled him long before he reached the English infantry. One clansman had seen him fall, and another, running for his life, had seen him carried from the field by men of another branch of the Clan Macdonald. This man stood before his chief and told what he had seen.

“How grievous were his hurts?” Sir Alexander demanded. The man glanced down and muttered, unwilling to look into the fierce face. It was not always wise to bring bad news to the Macdonalds of Dundrenan.

“Answer,” James said. “How grievous? Could he have lived?”

“His legs were smashed,” the answer came, “and there was blood all over him. I think he would soon be dead, lord.”

“Who took him?” James asked again.

“Men of Clanranald, I think,” the man answered. “In the confusion I could not be sure. But I saw the Lord Hugh's face as they carried him and I knew him. I am not mistaken about that.”

“No,” Sir Alexander said slowly. “You are not mistaken. What is your name?”

“Ian, son of Dugan.” The clansman glanced up at him quickly.

“So, Ian Macdonald, you saw your chief's son being taken off in need of help and you ran on and left him to the charity of the Clanranalds?”

The man turned very pale; he stared into the faces of his chief and his two sons and saw that sentence was pronounced upon him. He fell on his knees.

“Lord, there was nothing I could do … he was past help and all about me were flying from the English grapeshot!”

“Do you not know,” Sir Alexander demanded, “that your duty is to the Chief and his blood first and to yourself the last of all? You've broken the clan law, Ian, son of Dugan. To him who leaves my son to die and saves himself, life shall not be granted.” The old man's yellow eyes blazed at him. He turned to the men standing around him and pointed to the wretched clansman.

“Take him and hang him!”

As the man was seized and dragged off, Sir Alexander covered his face and his people crept away, leaving the Chief alone to grieve.

“He's dead,” James said at last. “At least we know he's not lying out there suffering. Don't grieve for him, Father. Hugh never feared death.”

“Aye.” Sir Alexander raised his head. “Hugh was afraid of nothing. No son of mine would be taken prisoner, Hugh least of all.”

“They're not taking prisoners,” James said. He stared out across the ground at the edge of the wood and pointed to the fingers of smoke. “Those are crofts being burned … Father, you'll have to rouse yourself. Hugh may be dead, but so are three-quarters of our people with him. Where do we go now? Search parties will be coming this way soon – are we to wait here and fight? …”

David, sullen sombre David, came over to where his father sat, his head sunk between his shoulders, and kneeling down he put his arm around him.

“Father's done with fighting,” he said slowly. “Stay behind with some men if you wish, James, but I'm taking him home to Dundrenan.”

“You come with us, James,” the old man said. “I've no mind to lose another son or one more man for a cause that is lost. We'll gather our people and go home.”

“Dundrenan can be defended,” James said. “It's not the first time we've faced a siege. Let them come to Dundrenan for us – by God, they'll find a welcome waiting for them when they do!”

“I told you,” Sir Alexander said. “I've done with fighting! When we are home we'll set about making what peace we can. Come now, David, give me your arm to lean on. James, send the word out that all must prepare themselves to leave the wood as soon as it's dark. We'll be better keeping to the open country and leaving the roads alone. That's the way the English will be marching.”

As night came, the little company of men began their silent journey out of the sheltering wood, led by their chief on the horse taken from the dead English dragoon, with James riding the second mount beside him and David walking at his father's bridle. During the night they stopped at a small burn and drank, and ate the few fish they caught in it raw, for they dared not risk a fire. By dawn they were well to the west of Inverness, turning towards Dundrenan, and James disposed his people in a pease field where they were ordered to lie silent and out of sight on pain of being left behind. Hunger tormented them, and many were so weakened by superficial wounds and lack of food that they dropped down and waited mutely for death to overtake them. Only the fierce will of their chief's eldest son, and their terror of his anger, made the rest of the Macdonalds struggle onward. James was everywhere among them, cursing and exhorting, often driving his men to obedience with blows. They hated him and they muttered, but his orders were obeyed. And that was how he brought the little company within sight of their home at Dundrenan, and it was in the early dawn, as they prepared to march the last mile, that the two men of Clan Chisholm found them with their cousin Margaret's message and the news that a detachment of English cavalry had ridden over from Inverness the previous day and were in occupation of Dundrenan House.

The elder Chisholm took a sealed paper from his ragged plaid and handed it to the Chief of the Macdonalds.

“We've searched far for ye, lord,” he said. “Night and day we've watched and waited for ye so that our promise might be kept to the lady of your name who saved our lives.”

“What lady?” James demanded. “Where have you come from, and why is there no word or sign from him?” He pointed to the younger man who stood silent, his eyes passing vacantly from one to the other.

“He has not spoken since the battle,” the Chisholm answered. “We brought our father away from the Moor and that was when the daughter of Fraser of Clandara found us and brought us to her house for shelter. My brother here has lost his mind. I have to keep him with me.”