The Gathering Storm (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 3) (16 page)

The old lady was sitting in a chair by the fire, her face wreathed in smiles.

“He’s right,” she said now, briskly wringing out a cloth in a bowl of water and passing it to him. He thanked her and began to wash between his toes. “Ye’ve got off lightly. They often use manure, and the more it reeks, the better,” she said.

“Even if they had used manure, there was still no reason to hare off like that,” said Beth. “And you could have warned me that I was in danger too.”

“Aye, you’re right, I’m sorry. But I kent as they wouldna do anything bad to you. Whereas I thought Duncan might take the opportunity to get his revenge for what I did to him on his wedding eve.”

“Duncan?” said Beth, surprised.

“I was a lot younger then, ye understand, and more like Angus, a wee bit stupid at times. I’d only been the chieftain for a few months, and hadna grown into the responsibility of it. I wouldna do such a thing now.”

“What did ye do?” the old lady asked.

Alex stopped scrubbing and looked up, the wicked gleam in his eye saying clearly that whether he would do whatever it was now or not, he certainly didn’t regret having done it then.

“We tarred and feathered him,” he said.

Beth’s mouth fell open, whilst her grandmother hooted with laughter.

“Oh, the poor bairn!” she cried. “Ye used proper tar, then?”

“Aye,” Alex said. “And feathers from the hens we kept at the time. I canna even say it was a spur of the moment thing. I’d been saving the feathers for weeks. Of course we only did his legs and arms, ye ken. We didna tar his…er…other bits. Even so, Mairi, his wife that was, was awfu’ angry.”

“Well, I’m no’ surprised!” said Ealasaid.

Alex laughed.

“It took him ages to scrape and scrub it all off, and his arms and legs were brown for days. I had tae keep away from Mairi for weeks after that. I couldna even claim it was someone else’s doing. It’s no’ easy, being the chieftain at times,” he said ruefully. “Ye have tae take the blame for everything.”

“I didn’t know Duncan had been married,” said Beth.

“Ah. I wasna sure if he’d tellt ye or no’. He doesna talk about it overmuch. It was all over a long time ago. He was only nineteen when he married.”

“What happened?” asked Beth. “Didn’t they get along together?” She couldn’t imagine anyone not getting along with Duncan. He was so easy to be with.

“Christ, no! It wasna that. They loved each other like…well…like you and I do. No, she died.”

Beth was so surprised at finding out that Duncan had been married, she didn’t notice the finality of tone that said Alex didn’t want to pursue the subject further.

“Oh, that’s terrible,” she said. “How did she die?”

Childbirth was the most likely cause, she thought.

“Er…it was an accident, in a manner of speaking,” he said.

She heard the reluctance in his voice now, and saw his uneasy glance at her grandmother.

“I think it’s best we dinna talk of it now,” he said.

“I ken what happened, laddie, if that’s what you’re worried about,” the old lady said. “I didna get back from the colonies till it was all over, but Glencoe holds no grudges now. He thought ye dealt with it well, ye being so young an’ all.”

“That’s good to hear,
sheanmhair,
” he said, “but it isna polite tae speak of a blood feud between your clan and that of the one you’re hosting.”

“It’s your wife’s clan too,” pointed out the old lady, smiling at his addressing her as grandmother. He was a courteous man. “She has a right to know of it, unless ye’re thinking your brother would have an objection.”

Beth’s eyes were burning with curiosity, but she wouldn’t push Alex into pursuing the subject unless he wanted to.

Alex sighed, and abandoned his ablutions.

“No,” he said. “Duncan wouldna object, although he wouldna volunteer the information himself. He thinks very highly of Beth.”

“Well, then. I’ll no’ be offended. And it’ll no’ be brought up outside these walls,” Ealasaid said.

“Verra well, then. D’ye want to hear it?” he said to Beth.

“Not if you don’t want to tell me, no,” she replied, giving him the chance to back out.

He stood and went to the shelf in the corner, taking down a bottle of wine and three glasses. He shared them out, then sat down and stared into the fire for a short time.

“I suppose your grandmother’s right, Beth,” he said finally. “You should know, and it’ll give ye some idea of how things are up here when it isna all milk and honey, as it is now.

“Well then, as I said, Duncan was nineteen when he married Mairi, and she was seventeen. She was a bonny lassie, a Cameron. She had a fearful temper on her when roused, but Duncan could calm her, he’s always had that way wi’ people. Anyway, they’d been married for about six months, when the MacDonalds decided to raid our cattle.”

“I thought you said the MacDonalds and MacGregors were friends!” Beth said.

“We are, but that doesna stop ye raiding each other. Everyone does it, it’s no’ a matter for hatred, more a warning that ye should be taking better care of your animals. We’d hae done the same. There wasna any ill feeling over that. Well, no’ much, anyway. We didna live here then, ye ken, but a wee bit further north. Anyway, they made off wi’ thirty head of our cattle from the hills, and Mairi had been watching over them.”

Beth suddenly wished that she hadn’t asked how Mairi had died. A terrible dread filled her.

“Did the MacDonalds kill Mairi when they took the cattle?” she asked apprehensively.

“God, no. They took her along wi’ them. No, they didna harm her at all. Anyway, as I said, she had a fearful temper, and she was determined they were no’ going to have an easy time of it, so she hamstrung three of the calves wi’ her knife to slow them down. Of course the mothers wouldna carry on without their babies, and so the MacDonalds had to stop to try to sort it out. She was hoping to run away in the confusion and tell us so we could send a party out tae get them back.” He drained his wine and refilled the glass.

“She might have managed it, too. Certainly the MacDonalds were concentrating so much on the cattle that they didna hear the MacFarlanes until they were almost on them. There was somewhat of a stramash, and Mairi was caught in the crossfire and killed. Two of the MacDonalds were killed as well, and three of the MacFarlanes. The MacDonalds got the better of it, and brought the cattle and Mairi’s body back to us the next day.”

“That was awfu’ brave of them,” Ealasaid commented.

“Aye, it was,” Alex agreed. “All the more so because we MacGregors are no’ renowned for our reasonable natures, and they didna ken what manner of chief I was, being so new to the job, as it were. They even admitted that they didna ken if it was them or the MacFarlanes that had killed her, things being somewhat frantic at the time. I admired their courage and agreed to leave it to Glencoe to decide their punishment, although I tellt them I would be visiting him to make sure that justice had been done.”

“It was,” the old lady said. “Alexander had them flogged. He tellt me that himself.”

“So it
was
an accident,” Beth said. “God, poor Duncan. He must have been heartbroken.”

In spite of Beth’s earlier comment about the disappearance of the porcupine, Alex now scrubbed his hand viciously through his hair. She leaned over and captured his hand as he was about to repeat the gesture.

“You don’t have to tell me any more if you don’t want to,” she said, aware that there was clearly more to the story and that it was not pleasant.

“I’d as soon get it over with now I’ve started,” he said. “I’m all right.”

The old lady stood up suddenly, with surprising agility.

“Well, an ye’ll excuse an old lady’s rudeness,” she said. “It’s been a long day, and if ye’ve no objections, I’ll away to my bed.”

Alex and Beth stood to wish her goodnight and Alex gallantly escorted her up the steps. Beth heard a short whispered exchange between her grandmother and husband, and then he came back down alone, his eyes strangely moist. He pulled his chair closer to Beth’s and she took his hand again. He continued with the story, his eyes dark with remembered pain.

“I sent the raiders off home, and then I called Duncan in, and tellt him what had happened. He was always the reasonable one of us three, always the peacemaker. He still is. I kent he’d be verra upset, but I was sure he’d understand that it was a tragic accident, too.”

“But he didn’t understand, did he?” Beth said.

“No, he didna. He went wild with grief, said he was going to kill every MacDonald in Scotland, and…I’ve never seen him so, and hope I never will again. I ended up having to lock him up for two days until he calmed down. I thought that would be long enough. I didna understand then. I do now.”

“Understand what?” Beth said.

“What love can do tae a man, how it can drive him beyond reason. MacDonald of Glencoe understood it, thank God. But I’d never been in love then, had no idea…Christ, Beth, if I even think about anyone hurting ye, it makes my blood boil. I’d kill any man who laid a violent hand on ye, ye ken that.”

She did.

“Do I ken him?” he asked suddenly.

“Who?” she asked, thoroughly confused.

“The man who hurt ye? I’ll no’ force ye to tell me who he is, until ye want to, but if I ken the man, it’s a whole different matter, ye understand.”

She was paralysed by the sudden change of subject. What could she say? If she admitted that Alex did know her assailant, he would insist on her identifying him. She had no idea what Duncan had done to his wife’s killers, but she could imagine all too clearly what Alex would do to Richard.

She had sworn not to lie to him. She could not tell him the truth. She sat there, stricken, speechless.

“I’m sorry,” Alex said. “I didna mean to remind ye of him and what he did. I can see I’ve upset ye. But I couldna stand it if I’d spoken pleasantly to the man unawares, and him having hurt ye so.”

She made her decision, and summoned up everything she had ever learned from Sir Anthony and everyone else she had had to dissemble with.

“No,” she said. “You don’t know him.” She looked him straight in the eyes as she said it, because if she did not he would know she was lying. He had to believe her, but when she saw by his expression that he did, she felt sick with shame and self-loathing.

“Well, that’s all right then. I’ll speak no more of it. I’m sorry,” he said.

She wanted to crawl away into a corner and die. He trusted her. He was sorry. For a moment she thought she was going to be sick, and she forced herself to concentrate on the continuing tale of Duncan until the feeling passed.

“Duncan waited for three days after Mairi had been buried, then he left. He said he wanted to be by himself for a while, to think things over, and I believed him. He’d never lied to me before,” Alex said.

Beth closed her eyes. She felt genuinely ill. How could this have happened? Three hours ago they had been sitting on a tree deeply in love, and now she had betrayed his trust. She swallowed, thankful that the story he was telling her was distressing enough to account for her behaviour.

“What did he really do?” she asked.

“He killed five of the MacDonalds who’d raided the cattle. The last one wounded Duncan in the side before he died. He was away for a week, and when he came back he was in a bad way, for the wound was turning bad.”

“But you said it was an accident,” Beth said.

“Aye, so it was, but Duncan didna see it that way. Whoever had killed Mairi, he blamed the MacDonalds, because they’d taken her hostage and should have looked after her. Well, of course I had some sympathy for him, but I also kent that I had maybe fifty men at best and Glencoe has nearly four times that number. If he chose to make a blood debt of it, which I was pretty sure he would, we didna have a chance.”

“What did you do?”

“I discussed it wi’ the clan, and then decided that the only way to avoid annihilation was to go to Glencoe and ask him if he’d be happy to settle the matter by single combat. And then I made the mistake of telling Duncan what I intended to do. I thought he was too sick to say anything against it, but his fever had broken and he insisted that if anyone was going to die because of his actions, it would be him, no’ me, and that he would go and challenge the MacDonald chief himself. I couldna let him do that. I was in full strength and in all honesty didna rate my chances of survival very highly. Glencoe was a formidable man. Duncan, weak as he was and only nineteen, wouldna have had a hope.”

The candle guttered in the sudden draught, but Beth hardly noticed it.

“What happened?” she asked, thoroughly engrossed in the story again.

“He broke my wrist,” Duncan said from the doorway. His voice, normally soft and well-modulated, was flat and hard.

Beth started violently and turned to the door.

“I came to fetch my best plaid for the morrow,” he said, taking two paces into the room and then stopping.

“Would ye rather I didna…?” Alex began.

Duncan waved a hand in the air.

“No, I dinna mind if she kens about it,” he interrupted, then turned to Beth. “Ye’ll understand why I did it, I think,” he said. “Alex does, now. I was wrong, but I couldna say that if it happened now I wouldna do the same thing again.” He sat down heavily, his eyes guarded. “Go on,” he said to his brother. Alex searched Duncan’s face for a moment, then continued.

“As Duncan said, we argued and I broke his wrist. I couldna think of anything else to do. I couldna get him to see reason, and I wasna about to lose my brother as well as my sister-in-law.”

“Couldn’t you have just locked him up again?” Beth said. “You’d already done that once.”

“Aye, I had, but things were different by then. For one thing, he’d just killed five of the MacDonalds. There were those in the clan who resented the fact that he was risking a blood feud for the sake of personal vengeance over an accident. Others thought he had the right to challenge Glencoe himself. And quite a few didna see why their chieftain should risk his own life to save his idiot of a brother.” He smiled fondly at Duncan. “If I’d locked him up there was a good chance that the minute I left for Glencoe, someone would hae let him go.”