* * *
The trip through the park was dark and frightening. The trees were tall and widely spaced here, but there were saplings left to grow between them that changed abruptly into the menacing shapes of gamekeepers in the uncertain light. The clouds were gathering thicker, at least, and the full moon made fewer appearances, which was something to be grateful for. As we reached the far side of the park, it began to rain.
Three men had been left with the horses. Mary was already mounted before one of Jamie’s men. Plainly embarrassed by the necessity of riding astride, she kept tucking the folds of her nightrobe under her thighs, in a vain attempt to hide the fact that she had legs.
More experienced, but still cursing the heavy folds of my skirt, I plucked them up and set a foot in Jamie’s offered hand, swinging aboard with a practiced thump. The horse snorted at the impact and set his ears back.
“Sorry, cully,” I said without sympathy. “If you think that’s bad, just wait ’til he gets back on.”
Glancing around for the “he” in question, I found him under one of the trees, hand on the shoulder of a strange boy of about fourteen.
“Who’s that?” I asked, leaning over to attract the attention of Geordie Paul Fraser, who was busy tightening his girth next to me.
“Eh? Oh, him.” He glanced at the boy, then back at his reluctant girth, frowning. “His name’s Ewan Gibson. Hugh Munro’s eldest stepson. He was wi’ his da, seemingly, when the Duke’s keepers came on ’em. The lad got awa’, and we found him near the edge o’ the moor. He brought us here.” With a final unnecessary tug, he glared at the girth as though daring it to say something, then looked up at me.
“D’ye ken where the lad’s da is?” he asked abruptly.
I nodded, and the answer must have been plain in my face, for he turned to look at the boy. Jamie was holding the boy, hugged hard against his chest, and patting his back. As we watched, he held the boy away from him, both hands on his shoulders, and said something, looking down intently into his face. I couldn’t hear what it was, but after a moment, the boy straightened himself and nodded. Jamie nodded as well, and with a final clap on the shoulder, turned the lad toward one of the horses, where George McClure was already reaching down a hand to him. Jamie strode toward us, head down, and the end of his plaid fluttering free behind him, despite the cold wind and the spattering rain.
Geordie spat on the ground. “Poor bugger,” he said, without specifying whom he meant, and swung into his own saddle.
Near the southeast corner of the park we halted, the horses stamping and twitching, while two of the men disappeared back into the trees. It cannot have been more than twenty minutes, but it seemed twice as long before they came back.
The men rode double now, and the second horse bore a long, hunched shape bound across its saddle, wrapped in a Fraser plaid. The horses didn’t like it; mine jerked its head, nostrils flaring, as the horse bearing Hugh’s corpse came alongside. Jamie yanked the rein and said something angrily in Gaelic, though, and the beast desisted.
I could feel Jamie rise in the stirrups behind me, looking backward as though counting the remaining members of his band. Then his arm came around my waist, and we set off, on our way north.