The Rogues (11 page)

“Especially,” she said, waving her hand at all of us, “as the good people of your clan have done you the great kindness of bringing the lost sheep here to you.”

“You'll not spite me with a lie,” called down the laird.

This time Josie's horse stood its ground and the sheep stopped moving about as well.

“It's no lie if enough people swear it's true.” Josie turned again on the horse's back and looked at us. At me.

“That's right,” I called out. “I'll swear to it. Why, the sheep were all over our fields, rooting up the potatoes and chewing the barley. Is that no right, Da?”

Da hesitated. He never liked to tell a lie. He thought it against God's express word. “I suppose it might be said,” he murmured, just loud enough to be heard.

“It's a scandal!” old Fergus cried out. “Those beasts running wild all over. If the shepherds canna control them, the woolly invaders should be driven off.”

“Aye, there's nae place for them in our gardens,” Colin added.

More voices rose, a hubbub of agreement. The sheep answered back. For a moment it looked as if chaos would overcome us.

Then Josie raised her hand for silence. It was as if she'd cut off the noise with a knife. Only the horse made a sound, a soft blubbing with its lips. And a couple of lambs bleated plaintively.

“I'm sure nobody here wants to drag this business before a magistrate,” she said. “Isn't that right, Uncle?”

“This is an outrage!” the laird fumed. “You've stirred up twice the trouble there was before you came, young lady.”

“Not at all,” Josie answered him mildly. “I've come to bring harmony. After all, Uncle, what do you want but to see these sheep safely grazing while you collect your profit from their owners? And what do these good people here want other than to work their land in peace?”

He growled so loudly at that, we could all hear him. Then he shouted down, “It's not their land; it's
mine
.”

“Common law says that when they have given service to their laird when asked, it is their land as long as they farm it, Uncle.” Behind her, we all stirred but kept silent. Even the sheep.

“And what is your point?”

She smiled sweetly up at him. “Oh, Uncle, I am so glad you asked. My point is simple. Take the sheep and give these people back their cattle. Then no one is the loser.”

The laird's eyes flitted from Josie to the clansmen to the sheep and back to Josie again. Clearly, he was weighing up where his advantage lay, whether he should hold a strong line against us and possibly start a riot that could ruin his house and grounds. Or he could give way now and bide his time. He probably guessed we had enough of the spirit of our forefathers that we could easily turn this into a fight. Indeed, I could hear the murmurs urging such a thing all around me. Colin was once again saying something about a good day for a battle, and even Da was agreeing. There was no doubt that the numbers were on our side. The murmurs grew louder till I was sure they could be heard up at the laird's window. The skin on the hindquarters of Josie's horse seemed to ripple as if the horse knew what might happen too.

At last an oily smile spread across the laird's pasty face. “There's no call for all this rancor,” he said. “At root we've all the same interests at heart, whatever harsh words might have been spoken.”

“So,” said Josie, “do you agree, Uncle, to a fair exchange to end this trouble?”

“I've never sought trouble,” he answered smoothly. “All I want is to ensure the future of the estate.”

“Then release these people's livestock,” said Josie, “and let's all part as friends.”

“Friends,” he echoed with a thin, humorless smile. A smile that I distrusted. “Yes, a man can never have too many friends. Especially at home. Mister Rood, release those beasts.”

Willie Rood's face looked like a pigskin pumped full of blood and ready to burst. It was easy to guess his thoughts. He wanted to lash out and hurt somebody, but his cowardly nature held him back, as well as the laird's orders. So he ground his teeth as fiercely as if chewing on a bone. Then he walked over the road to the enclosure where our animals were penned and opened the gate.

Our cow Nettle was the first out, followed by a motley assortment of skinny cattle, straggly Highland sheep, and bony goats, none of them as well fed or cared for as the black-faced sheep we'd brought back to the laird. We walked over to meet them, grinning broadly, as if greeting long lost relations.

“Keep those animals clear of the garden!” Rood bellowed.

For a moment I didn't know if he meant us or the livestock. Then I saw one of the Cheviots butt open the gate of the laird's rose arbor. A servant hurried to shoo it away and it backed off, bleating indignantly.

“See that these sheep are returned to Glendoun,” the laird commanded his men. Then he turned a thin smile down on Josie. “I guarantee you they will not stray again.”

His word held more than a hint of menace, and it was as if a cloud passed over Josie's face. But she quickly shook it off and beamed back at the laird. If I was to guess, I think she was delighted to have beaten her uncle. But I also think she wanted to encourage us Highland folk, who had also caught the threatening edge of his words. Then she hauled on her horse's mane to make it back up.

“Come, lads!” Da called over the sound of the animals. “Let's take our beasts home.”

Lachlan and I went to either side of Nettle, a hand each on her flanks. I gave her an encouraging pat and Lachlan clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth to get her moving. Nothing could spoil the triumph of the moment. Not Rood's stormy face nor the laird's bitter commands.

As we herded our animals down the road, Tam broke into “The Hielandmen Cam Doon the Hill,” and we joined him in uproarious chorus. The sun was already lying easily on the top of the mountains, streaking the sky with oranges and reds. Laughter filled the air, of men content with themselves and what they had achieved.

“Aye, we showed him,” Lachlan said to me. “Him and his dirty man, Rood.”

“Aye, we did,” I said, laughing. I turned to look back at the rooftop of Kindarry House slipping out of sight. I was not such a child to think there would be no consequences of the day. But it was a win for now, no doubt.

Da called to the others as we drove our animals along. “Well done, lads. He knows now we mean business.” His voice sounded light and happy.

Still, I guessed the insult would rankle in the laird's dark heart. Sooner or later he would strike back. Rood too would not soon forgive our mockery. But would it be at Josie they would hurl their anger or at us clansfolk? I could not take the measure of it, so I put it out of mind as we walked the way home.

11 FEAST

That night, in a meadow on the south side of the village, we celebrated as our clansmen did after a battle, whether in victory or merely survival. It being late spring, the nights were long and grey-white instead of black. Cushie doos called from the low branches, a soft cooing. A small wind, soft and warm, promised that summer would come soon.

Da, along with some of the other men, had slaughtered a cow that was mostly past milking age, and it was roasting merrily over a bonfire. The meat was passed around with slices of crusty bread to dab in the gravy, and every villager got a share. Lachlan and I ate up hungrily. I decided battle is hard work, even if it is only a battle of words. Besides, it had been some time since I had had beef, and the gravy dripped down my chin. I wiped it off with a finger and sucked that finger dry.

Angus McDonnell played his fiddle, and his son was on the small pipes. And if they were not entirely in tune, we were used to them. They made such a racket, the night birds were silent.

“Going up against the laird was worth it for this,” Lachlan said, grinning and wiping the grease from his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he gestured to the feast, which took in the music and everything else.

“When did we last eat this well?” I asked through a mouthful of bread.

Lachlan shrugged. Running a crust of the bread around the edge of his wooden bowl, he soaked up the last few drops of gravy. “Maybe we'll do it more often from now on.” He popped the bread into his mouth. Lachlan is not a quiet eater. But then, neither am I. “As long as the laird leaves us in peace,” he added.

Yet I could not believe that would happen. The laird and Rood were a pair that would pick a scab until it bled.

All around us everyone else seemed just as cheery. And loud. Who could blame them? The meat was rich, the ale was flowing freely. And after years of scraping a bare living off borrowed land, as well as dodging trouble from the laird and the magistrates, we'd finally grabbed hold of our own fates. I think it was that as much as the ale that made everyone so merry.

I watched as the singing and dancing progressed. Even Da and Ishbel had joined in the reels, careless as bairns. Ishbel had a look on her face I rarely had seen. She was smiling dreamily and dancing like a lassie with the wind at her heels. Not me. I have two left feet and always make a fool of myself at dances, so I rarely kick up my heels.

Just then Angus and his wife began a jig so wild, they ended up bashing their heads together and falling to the ground on their backsides. The whole village started laughing, a great rumbling sound that echoed off the hills. First Angus and then his wife joined in the laugh, even as they rubbed their aching skulls.

At that, Ishbel turned aside, the smiling look gone. She came over to where I was standing. Glancing at the platters of meat, she began to tut over the waste. “All this food could have lasted a week or more, given a bit of care.” She said it loudly, not worrying about who might hear her.

“Leave off yer thrift for a night, woman,” Da said, though he was grinning. “Drink some ale and we'll join another reel.” He'd clearly already had far too much ale himself. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, then offered Ishbel his own cup, but she was done with the feast and the dance and pushed the cup away.

“When ye wake up in the morning, Murdo, it will still be the same world ye're living in,” she said. “Nothing has been changed by this wee battle with the laird. Better no to face dawn with a pounding head.”

Startled, I looked over at Ishbel. In the firelight her face was drawn but handsome except for her mouth, which was always turned down, as if she constantly ate something bitter. But it suddenly came to me, like a holy vision: I agreed with her.
Ishbel was right
. We'd won a battle, but not the war. For folk like us life would always be a struggle, and at every turn defeat might be waiting for us. Defeat, eviction, or burned from our houses. The end of all our hopes.

I turned to tell Lachlan about my insight, but he was already away, off to steal a dance from Agnes Kinnell. I saw him chasing after her as she ran off giggling behind the cottages.

It was then I noticed the Rogue, Dunbar, lurking beyond the firelight. Half a dozen whisky kegs were slung over his shoulder, and he was turning a tidy profit from the men's thirst. Yet he looked neither shamed by his work nor proud of it. Just a man doing a job, cool enough at his shadow work, as whisky and coins kept changing hands.

It occurred to me that it was not Lachlan I should be telling my vision to, but him. Of all the men in the glen right now, he was the one who would understand what I meant. Still, though my head and heart were ready, my feet seemed unable to move. It was as if I'd been bound fast to the ground. Not witchcraft, but a sudden shyness, a fear of seeming silly or stupid or, at fifteen, way too young.

The music of the fiddle and pipes was loud all around me, but I seemed in the still center of it. And then Dunbar looked up and over, catching sight of me just standing there, staring at him. He nodded. Like a spell breaking, that nod gave me the nerve to go over and speak to him.

By the time I reached him, he was hunched over, lighting his pipe by the side of a gorse bush. The first puff of smoke caught me right in the face, making me cough, which brought a smile to his lean, weathered face.

“Ye're Murdo Macallan's boy, aren't ye?” he asked, rising up to his full height.

I nodded, still too choked to answer.

“I hear ye were the first to speak up after I left. There's some here that are calling ye ‘the Wee Rogue.'”

“I hadna heard that,” I managed to whisper.

“Seeing ye here, quiet as a rabbit, it's hard to believe.”

I flushed at that and stammered out, “It's—it's good there's something to celebrate at last. A battle won.” I was about to go on about the war, but he interrupted me, his face darkening.

“Aye, it's good to celebrate while ye can. But dinna think yon pasty laird will sit still for yer celebrations.”

I nodded, for it was what I had already begun to think.

“Nae, in a battle it's only the last charge that counts. This is just the first skirmish.”

“Aye, but I'm ready to face the next one.”

His face took on an amused look, a different kind of smile lurking about his thin mouth. “Are ye, now.”

“Ye'll stand with us, Dunbar, won't ye?” My voice cracked on the last two words.

“Me?” He shook his head vigorously. “I stand with nae man.”

“But ye're one of us,” I protested.

“I've done my share of fighting, laddie—for King George and the Duke of Wellington. My family is dead. I'm no in the market for another.”

I stared at him, suddenly furious and stunned that I had so misjudged him, having all but given him my hand in friendship. The words tumbled out before I could call them back. “Yer a mean-hearted man, Alan Dunbar,” I said, “to turn yer back on yer own kind.”

He smiled slowly and blew some more smoke my way, but the wind had shifted entirely and the white smoke covered his own face, like a highwayman's mask.