The Blood of Roses (59 page)

Huddled behind the rocks, Deirdre and Catherine watched in shock as swords bit into flesh and hacked at bone and sinew. Men were flung to the ground in a tangle of bloodied arms and legs, pistols were drawn and fired point blank into faces, chests, bellies, and thighs, some crippling the enemy, some crippling the Highlanders.

Damien lunged into the fighting, his saber dancing and flashing in the dull gray light. More shots were being fired from beyond the trees and he felt something hot and slick tear into his shoulder, but he kept charging, kept slashing at the encroaching wave of scarlet tunics. A searing bite of steel ripped through his thigh and he whirled to meet the threat, but MacSorley was there, his huge broadsword flashing down and across, slicing through tunic and belts, bone and muscle, all but severing the man clean through at the waist.

Damien grinned his thanks and shook off the annoying sting of his wounds as more soldiers poured out of the woods. The Camerons willingly braced themselves for the onslaught, screaming their age-old battle cry as steel clanged resoundingly against steel. Damien ran forward with the others, blinded by the smoke and confusion, but eagerly throwing himself to the aid of a clansman who had drawn the attention of three soldiers. Before he could effect a rescue, a musketball plowed through the Highlander’s chest, jerking him backward off his feet, freeing all three of his attackers to hunt fresh game.

Turning on Damien, they drove him back across the road toward the steep drop into the loch. He felt a juddering blow to his lower body and knew he had been hit again. A bayonet was thrust at him from nowhere, and he felt the blade punch into his ribs. Two more slashes opened his cheek to the bone; his saber was torn from his fingers and sent twisting away in a graceful, silver spiral. One of the soldiers crowded in for the kill, and, cursing his persistence, Damien reached for the pistol he wore tucked into his waist.

Deirdre, risking a peek above the jagged edge of the cairn, screamed as a militiaman grabbed a fistful of hair and cloak and dragged her out into the open. He drew back his sword, his ugly face splitting into a grin, and was about to strike when Catherine launched herself at his back with a scream of fury. Her weight was sufficient to throw the aim of his arm off before he could complete the fatal stroke, and in a rage, he spun around, his elbow catching Catherine squarely in the belly, sending her sprawling painfully onto the wet ground. With Deirdre flailing and kicking at the end of one long arm, he raised his sword again, taking aim on the tumbled spill of bright yellow hair at his feet.

Damien saw the sword beginning its slash downward and had just enough time to correct his aim, jerk back on the trigger, and see his shot tear away half the soldier’s face.

Struan MacSorley was by Catherine’s side in the next instant, kicking the twitching redcoat irreverently to one side as he dropped to his knee beside her, his hands as gentle as if he were handling a newborn babe.

“Are ye hurt, ma lady? Did the bastard hurt ye?”

Catherine clung to his arm, her eyes wide, her lungs gasping for breath as she sought to control the blazing shafts of pain in her abdomen.

“I … I am fine. Where is Deirdre?”

“Here. She’s right here,” MacSorley reached over, hauling the badly shaken Irish girl into the protective circle of his arm. “Are ye hurt, lass?”

“N-no. Just frightened.”

“Aye, well, we’re all that, are we na?” His grin belied the comment, and in the next breath, he was all business again, shouting for a head count among his men. The soldiers were fleeing back to the woods, but there was no way of knowing if they were in full retreat or simply regrouping to launch another attack. Of his own men, almost half were dead or wounded.

“Christ, but we’ve got tae get ye out O’ here, lassies,” MacSorley said, all too aware of their vulnerable position. Most of the horses had scattered in the eruption of noise and confusion; a few had remained, trembling and walleyed on the road, their fine senses rebelling against the scent of blood and death.

“I’ll set the men after catchin’ one or three O’ the beasties,” he declared, starting to push himself upright. Catherine’s sharp cry stopped him. Her horrified stare sent his hand to his sword and his gaze to the nearby slope.

“Damien!” she cried, pushing out of Struan’s restraining grasp. “Oh, God … Damien!”

She ran to the small hillock of green and slate where Damien lay, his clothes torn and bloodied, his hand clawing into the grass. His face was turned to the side, his mouth gaped open, and a long, glistening thread of pink-tinged spittle hung from his lip.

“Damien?” she whispered.

The soft blue eyes were wide and staring, but at the sound of her voice they flinched ever so slightly and rolled toward her.

“Oh, thank God.” She sobbed. “Thank God! Just lie still, Damien. Lie perfectly still and we’ll help you.”

The pale blue eyes flickered again. They managed to find hers, to hold steady for as long as it took the blood-smeared lips to form the faintest shadow of a smile. A sigh—the deepest, saddest sound Catherine had ever heard—rattled from the bleeding chest, taking with it the last glimmer of light from the glazing blue eyes.

“Oh, no,” she cried softly. “No, Damien. No!”

MacSorley thrust his hand beneath the collar of Damien’s shirt, searching for signs of a pulse. The hand came away slowly and he shook his head in answer to Catherine’s silent plea.

Her whole body tightened, and it took every last vestige of her strength to hold herself together. She was aware of the ground swaying unsteadily beneath her and the choked cry that brought Deirdre’s hands shooting out to catch her as she pitched forward.

Deirdre’s cry to MacSorley went unanswered, however. He was staring back over his shoulder at the low green verge of trees where an unbroken line of thirty, forty uniformed soldiers were crouching and taking aim at the battered circle of Highlanders.

“Dae ye believe it?” Archibald Cameron grumbled, spitting noisily into a clump of nearby gorse. “Callin’ off a battle on account O’ it’s the bluidy bastard’s birthday.”

Alex and Aluinn exchanged a private glance, both of them grateful for small mercies, regardless of the source. They had been on their way back from seeing Catherine and Deirdre out of Inverness, when a local farmer had inquired why they were not on Drummossie Moor with the rest of the prince’s army.

Lashing their horses almost to the point of ruin, they had arrived at Culloden House—the prince’s headquarters and now the main encampment for his army—shortly after eleven in the morning, only to have the report confirmed: The prince had indeed ordered his army to gather on the barren sweep of plain near Culloden. He had assumed command of the army and, under no circumstances, would he appear hesitant about meeting his enemy in combat.

Fully prepared to engage Cumberland’s troops, Charles Stuart had led his army onto the moor just after nine O’clock in the morning, their swords sharpened and gleaming, their kilts throwing splashes of vibrant color against the sullen gray sky. To their right lay a panorama of sprawling green glen, and behind it, the hills of Cawdor, bare and treeless, splotched with wide patches of brown heather. To their left was the Firth and beyond it, the peninsula of the Black Isle. Dotted in between were the ships of the Royal Navy standing silent guard over the exit to the open sea lanes. Crouched on the western horizon were the mountains that formed the Great Glen, their walls and peaks etched with late snow, their valleys and gorges black with mystery and superstition.

As Alexander and MacKail galloped up the slope that flanked the position of the Jacobite army, it became obvious they were not the only ones who had failed to be informed of the impending battle. The opposite slopes of Drummossie were bare. Cumberland’s army had not yet arrived to take up their positions.

Donald Cameron, on one of the few occasions in recent memory, had been barely able to retain the calm demeanor that had earned him the respectful title of Gentle Lochiel. His men were exhausted after hurrying away from one bitter disappointment only to stand in the dismal rain and cold to face another. Making matters worse, the prince rode up and down the field, presenting a dazzling and heroic figure in his royal scarlet-and-blue tunic. Carrying a jeweled broadsword in one hand, and a leather
targe
studded with silver in the other, he had kept hurling insults at the invisible army lined up across the wide moor.

“Has naebody pointed out tae his Highness there’s naebody wantin’ tae play at war today?” Donald scowled irreverently.

“Ach, he’s havin’ a rare time, leave him tae it,” Archibald replied, blithely avoiding the cold glare his comment earned.

But it had been true, as far as it went. The men were cheering and roaring ferociously each time their prince pranced by. Even Count Fanducci, in command of his puny battery of ten mismatched cannon, doffed his plumed tricorn and added his own colorful Italian praises to the bonnie young prince who sought to lead them into history.

By noon, however, the men were hoarse, their nerves stretched and ragged, and their energy waning under lowering temperatures and a steady, chilling drizzle. By three, it became apparent to even the most diehard individuals that Cumberland’s army had no intention of answering their challenge this day. Adding insult to injury, in honor of the occasion of his birthday on this fifteenth day of April, the duke had generously ordered extra rations of meat, cheese, and rum for his men and relaxed his standing orders banning the presence of women in the camp. While the Highlanders were contemplating the mist and mud on the sodden field at Drummossie, the Duke of Cumberland was contemplating a very delightful set of bosoms seated beside him in the banquet hall of Balblair House in Nairn.

Hearing of the birthday celebrations, the clan chiefs ordered their men to stand down. Many of them, after waiting in the cold rain for more than nine hours, were too disgusted and too hungry to linger and wait for further orders. They spread out and foraged for what meat and bread they could find in local farms and villages, then sought the closest warm stack of hay on which to sleep.

Most of the soldiers returned to Culloden House, awaiting a formal dismissal from the hastily called war council. They were hungry and weary, as well, however, and began drifting away when it became obvious the meeting would be long and heated.

“Hopefully the cooler heads will prevail for once,” Aluinn said, scratching his back against the rough stone facing of the stable wall. “If Lord George can just hold his temper and refrain from calling O’Sullivan an idiot—”

“O’Sullivan
is
an idiot,” Alex countered, going over Shadow’s coat for the third time with a handful of crushed hay. In his own silent way, he had apologized profusely for the way he had abused the stallion’s loyalty and stamina earlier in the day. He had fed the proud beast his ration of oatcakes Aluinn had managed to scrounge in lieu of their own lunch or dinner, and had rewarded the enterprising Laughlan MacKintosh with a gold sovereign for stealing two apples from a farmer’s cold cellar. Hardly king’s fare, but the stallion seemed humbly grateful. He had almost refused the oatcakes, as if sensing he was taking his master’s food.

Being only human, Alex was as cold and hungry as the rest of the men who were dragging themselves away from Culloden House to find food and a warm bed. More than food, he found himself craving one of his small black cigars, but a diligent search of his saddlebags produced nothing more than a fingerful of shredded tobacco.

Adding to his discomforts, he had a nagging ache in his temples and a vague sense of disquiet about something he could not quite put his finger to.

“How far do you suppose they’ve gone?” Aluinn asked absently, kicking at a tuft of grass.

Alex shrugged and resumed currying Shadow. “If Struan has kept to the schedule, they should be near Urquhart Castle by now, if not there already and bedded in for the night.”

Aluinn studied the hard features of his companion through the late-afternoon shadows. “Deirdre and Damien will both see she doesn’t try to do too much, in spite of Struan’s belligerence.”

Alex’s faint excuse for a smile was the only reply, and Aluinn sighed inwardly, wondering how he could possibly comfort Alex while his own emotions were in such turmoil. He was tired of playing the wandering nomad, weary of jousting at windmills. He wanted more evenings like the one he had spent last night with Deirdre—making love before a roaring fire, making plans for their future together. He wanted a home and children. He wanted peace and the grace and wisdom that came with old age. He wanted to reach back to his roots. A farm, perhaps. Something he could take pride in and call his own.

“Alex.” He laughed softly. “I believe I may just have arrived at a portentous moment in my wastrel life.”

“You don’t appear to be the only one,” Alex mused, his nod indicating the sudden flux of activity spilling from the front and rear doors of Culloden House.

Aluinn’s smile was still intact as he turned and saw Lochiel rushing toward them.

“Lord George has finally convinced the prince we mustna stand an’ wait f’ae Cumberland tae attack, but take the offensive an’ surprise his camp under cover O’ darkness.”

Alex straightened to attention. “Tonight?”

“Aye, brither,” Donald said excitedly. “They’ll be drunk wi’ celebratin’ an’ their heids’ll be wide as barn doors. We caught them at Preston an’ we caught them at Falkirk. By Christ if we can catch them nappin’ now, it’ll be the end O’ it once an’ f’ae all.”

“But the clans have dispersed,” Aluinn pointed out cautiously. “We’ll never be able to call them all together again by tonight. Furthermore, it’s a ten-mile march over fields and marshes. Some of the men haven’t eaten since dawn—”

“Aye, aye. I ken what ye’re sayin’, MacKail, but the truth O’ it is, we either march tonight or we freeze our cockles on that bluidy moor in the mornin’ again. It was all Lord George could do tae win this much O’ a concession from the prince. We canna throw it away because a few bellies might be grumblin’ an’ a few tempers might be sour from lack O’ sleep. Besides, that bluidy Irishman stuck his nose in the air an’ as much as said as how we Highlanders are only good until a crisis comes upon us, then we duck our heids an’ plead f’ae retreat.”