* * *
It was a clear, icy day in mid-December when we left Beauly to join Charles Stuart and the Highland army. Against all advice, Charles had pressed on into England, defying weather and common sense, as well as his generals. But at last, in Derby, the generals had prevailed, the Highland chiefs refusing to go farther, and the Highland army was returning northward. An urgent letter from Charles to Jamie had urged us to head south “without delay,” to rendezvous with His Highness upon his return to Edinburgh. Young Simon, looking every inch the clan chieftain in his crimson tartan, rode at the head of a column of men. Those men with mounts followed him, while the larger number on foot walked behind.
Being mounted, we rode with Simon at the head of the column, until such time as we would reach Comar. There we would part company, Simon and the Fraser troops to go to Edinburgh, Jamie ostensibly escorting me to Lallybroch before returning to Edinburgh himself. He had, of course, no intention of so returning, but that was none of Simon’s business.
At midmorning, I emerged from a small wooded clump by the side of the track, to find Jamie waiting impatiently. Hot ale had been served to the departing men, to hearten them for the journey. And while I had myself found that hot ale made a surprisingly good breakfast, I had also found it had a marked effect on the kidneys.
Jamie snorted. “Women,” he said. “How can ye all take such the devil of a time to do such a simple thing as piss? Ye make as much fuss over it as my grandsire.”
“Well, you can come along next time and watch,” I suggested acerbically. “Perhaps you’ll have some helpful suggestions.”
He merely snorted again, and turned back to watch the column of men filing past, but he was smiling nonetheless. The clear, bright day raised everyone’s spirits, but Jamie was in a particularly good mood this morning. And no wonder; we were going home. I knew he didn’t deceive himself that all would be well; this war would have its price. But if we had failed to stop Charles, it might still be that we could save the small corner of Scotland that lay closest to us—Lallybroch. That much might be still within our power.
I glanced at the trailing column of clansmen.
“Two hundred men make a fair show.”
“A hundred and seventy,” Jamie corrected absently, reaching for his horse’s reins.
“Are you sure?” I asked curiously. “Lord Lovat said he was sending two hundred. I heard him dictating the letter saying so.”
“Well, he didn’t.” Jamie swung into the saddle, then stood up in his stirrups, pointing down the slope ahead, to the distant spot where the Fraser banner with its stag’s-head crest fluttered at the head of the column.
“I counted them while I waited for you,” he explained. “Thirty cavalry up there wi’ Simon, then fifty wi’ broadswords and targes—those will be the men from the local Watch—and then the cottars, wi’ everything from scythes to hammers at their belts, and there’s ninety of those.”
“I suppose your grandfather’s betting on Prince Charles not counting them personally,” I observed cynically. “Trying to get credit for more than he’s sent.”
“Aye, but the names will be entered on the army rolls when they reach Edinburgh,” Jamie said, frowning. “I’d best see.”
I followed more sedately. I judged my mount to be approximately twenty years old, and capable of no more than a staid amble. Jamie’s mount was a trifle friskier, though still no match for Donas. The huge stallion had been left in Edinburgh, as Prince Charles wished to ride him on public occasions. Jamie had acceded to this request, as he harbored suspicions that Old Simon might well be capable of appropriating the big horse, should Donas come within reach of his rapacious grasp.
Judging from the tableau unfolding before me, Jamie’s estimate of his grandfather’s character had not been in error. Jamie had first ridden up alongside Young Simon’s clerk, and what looked from my vantage point like a heated argument ended when Jamie leaned from his saddle, grabbed the clerk’s reins, and dragged the indignant man’s horse out of line, onto the verge of the muddy track.
The two men dismounted and stood face-to-face, obviously going at it hammer and tongs. Young Simon, seeing the altercation, reined aside himself, motioning the rest of the column to proceed. A good deal of to and fro then ensued; we were close enough to see Simon’s face, flushed red with annoyance, the worried grimace on the clerk’s countenance, and a series of rather violent gestures on Jamie’s part.
I watched this pantomime in fascination, as the clerk, with a shrug of resignation, unfastened his saddlebag, scrabbled in the depths, and came up with several sheets of parchment. Jamie snatched these and skimmed rapidly through them, forefinger tracing the lines of writing. He seized one sheet, letting the rest drop to the ground, and shook it in Simon Fraser’s face. The Young Fox looked taken aback. He took the sheet, peered at it, then looked up in bewilderment. Jamie grabbed back the sheet, and with a sudden effort, ripped the tough parchment down, then across, and stuffed the pieces into his sporran.
I had halted my pony, who took advantage of the recess to nose about among the meager shreds of plant life still to be found. The back of Young Simon’s neck was bright red as he turned back to his horse, and I decided to keep out of the way. Jamie, remounted, came trotting back along the verge to join me, red hair flying like a banner in the wind, eyes gleaming with anger over tight-set lips.
“The filthy auld arse-wipe,” he said without ceremony.
“What’s he done?” I inquired.
“Listed the names of my men on his own rolls,” Jamie said. “Claimed them as part of his Fraser regiment. Mozie auld pout-worm!” He glanced back up the track with longing. “Pity we’ve come such a way; it’s too far to go back and proddle the auld mumper.”
I resisted the temptation to egg Jamie on to call his grandfather more names, and asked instead, “Why would he do that? Just to make it look as though he were making more of a contribution to the Stuarts?”
Jamie nodded, the tide of fury receding slightly from his cheeks.
“Aye, that. Make himself look better, at no cost. But not only that. The wretched auld nettercap wants my land back—he has, ever since he was forced to give it up when my parents wed. Now he thinks if it all comes right and he’s made Duke of Inverness, he can claim Lallybroch has been his all along, and me just his tenant—the proof being that he’s raised men from the estate to answer the Stuarts’ call to the clans.”
“Could he actually get away with something like that?” I asked doubtfully.
Jamie drew in a deep breath and released it, the cloud of vapor rising like dragon smoke from his nostrils. He smiled grimly and patted the sporran at his waist.
“Not now he can’t,” he said.