Sound of the Heart (10 page)

“Nothin’. But I canna sleep. An’ I dinna snore.”

Aidan rolled onto his back and blinked at Dougal. Sleep weighted the boy’s eyelids, his golden hair was mussed. He had fallen asleep in his clothes, and the dirty fabric emphasised his pale skin. Unexpected morning sun sliced through the narrow window, brightening the pillow. He looked very young.

“Why no’?” he asked.

Dougal shrugged.

“Fine,” Aidan said, matching his shrug. “Let’s go.” He sat up, then reached for the book, lying on the floor by his side. He frowned at Dougal. “But when we stop, ye’ll read, aye?” Dougal nodded and Aidan tucked the book inside his shirt so it was safe, then slid his feet off the bed.

“Ye look a mess,” Dougal told him.

“Do I? Well, thank ye very much, sir. On the other hand, ye look ready to meet the king,” Aidan snapped.

“We could use a wash, aye?”

“We can stop at a river,” Aidan suggested. “Get the stink off us.”

An unaccustomed warmth to the day gave a lift to their feet as they stepped onto the still-mucky street. The heat cooked up the street odours so it was impossible not to notice, but Dougal and Aidan were happy. It was a fine day. They were going home.

“Watch out!” someone cried, and from the corner of his eye Dougal saw a brick tumbling from the shoddy building beside them. He shoved Aidan out of the way and the brick smacked into a murky puddle, but missed them both.

Aidan, recovering from his surprise, bowed elegantly at Dougal. “I thank ye, sir.”

Dougal grinned. “My pleasure, my lord.”

All Dougal wanted was to leave this city far behind him. He tired of the grating English voices, the depravity of the place. Far in the distance, the shadow of the Highlands beckoned. He couldn’t see her yet, but she called her sons and he intended to answer. He longed for the clear blue lakes to freeze his blood, the wind to burn his ears. He looked forward to the ache in his atrophied thighs as he climbed unforgiving rock faces. Just thinking about home made his heart sing.

They followed the main road out of London, keeping an eye open for soldiers and criminals, both equal threats. After an hour or so they ran out of discussion topics, so they walked in silence until Aidan started to sing. Dougal walked happily beside him, listening to songs he’d always known, sung in Aidan’s beautiful tones. Sometimes, though he knew he had no talent, Dougal sang along. Aidan never objected to Dougal’s singing, which he thought was quite generous.

“What’s that?” Aidan asked suddenly, his step faltering. He frowned at the road before them.

Dougal squinted into the sun. “A body.”

Their pace slowed as they neared the lump by the side of the road, wrapped in a long black cape. Flies buzzed around the form, lifting and settling so Dougal and Aidan had to wave their hands to keep the things out of their faces. Dougal leaned down to investigate.

It was the body of a man. A small, hatless man in his fifties, perhaps. He was curled on his side and had obviously bled to death through a slice in his abdomen. A horrible way to go, Dougal thought. From the look of the man’s shredded waistcoat, the cut wasn’t very large, so it would have taken a while for his life to seep out onto the road. Dougal frowned, then tugged the heavy cape off the body. The robbery must have been interrupted, or there would have been nothing left of the man other than that with which he had been born. But this was a perfectly good cape and would fit young Aidan. He handed it to the boy, who grinned.

“That’ll be fine for when we reach the hills,” he said.

“And for the rain when it comes again,” Dougal agreed. He scratched his head, studying the body. “Ye need shoes, Aidan. An’ a new tunic as well.”

“Do I?”

“Aye. Yers are no’ fit for a beggar.”

And with that, he pulled off the shoes and shirt of the man and handed them to Aidan. The boy rolled the shirt into the cape and set it on the ground, then inspected the shoes, peering suspiciously into the toe.

“There’s no mice in there,” Dougal assured him. “I’ve only jus’ pulled them off the poor wretch’s feet.”

Aidan shrugged, then sat and tugged the shoes on. “A little big,” he said.

“Room to grow,” Dougal assured him.

Aidan grinned. “’Tis a funny feelin’ no’ bein’ able to wiggle my toes in the mud. I wish I’d had these in that city.”

“Ah well. Ye’ll have them for the next one.”

“We’ll ne’er find shoon big enough for yer feet,” Aidan said.

“Probably no’,” Dougal agreed. “Are ye no’ goin’ to put on the new tunic?”

Aidan shook his head and bent to pick up the bundle of clothing. “Later. After I wash. I’m fine for now.”

They turned back to the road, leaving the mostly naked corpse to bake in the sun.

Having no sporran in which to store food or other small things, both men’s shirts bulged with the items they carried. When the sun reached the top of the sky, Dougal pulled bread and cheese from within and began to eat while he walked. The cheese was warm from his skin, soft on his tongue. He handed a chunk to Aidan, who popped it into his mouth and grunted with appreciation. They would eat sparingly, since they had no idea when they might come across more food. But they wouldn’t starve. No. Dougal promised himself he would never starve again.

The road was a long, uninterrupted one, with fields on both sides and very few trees, which stood far back from the road like a distant army. There were no birds or animals on the road, since they kept a safe distance, enjoying a relative security in the shadows of the woods. It was hot under the sun, but a lovely breeze riffled through Dougal’s hair. The winds were changing.

CHAPTER 13

A New Existence

Scotland had changed since Dougal had offered his life for hers. She was no longer the sweet but hardy refuge, the place where families could disappear into the glens and forget about other people in other worlds. She was now a hostile playground for English soldiers. Dougal and Aidan passed families on the road, people put out of their homes, mothers leading emaciated children toward the unknown. Many of their homes had been burned to the ground, their men killed either in battle or in plain view of their wives and children. Slaughtered carcasses of cattle lay like putrid boulders across the open spaces; thousands more driven south and sold. It seemed everywhere they went, they met up with Highlanders who had decided it wasn’t worth the risk and were escaping to Ireland and other havens.

Dougal and Aidan never knew what had happened to the family whose tiny croft finally became their home. Aidan discovered it by the aptly named Birks of Aberfeldy, nestled within a thick forest of birch. The building was empty, stripped of people and almost everything else. Inside it reeked of mould and rot, but it didn’t appear the owners had met with a violent end. It seemed they had simply packed up and moved away, carrying whatever possessions they could.

The cabin was tiny, but it had a roof and four walls. There had been animals, as evidenced by the rotted hay in the back room, but they were gone as well. A low wooden wall divided the front room from the rear, the latter for the nonexistent livestock. The sweet, stale reek of pig still clung to the timber.

The first thing they did was remove all the old straw and sweep the dirt floor with a broom they found in the yard. Someday maybe the back room would house a pig again—even a cow. But for now it would stand empty, or would be used to store furs or food they managed to catch.

The roof needed new thatch and Dougal set about collecting branches and dried grass to ensure it was weather-safe before winter. A small but neat pile of peat squares, just like those used to complete the walls, leaned against the stone foundation of the croft. Aidan shared the task of carrying them inside and coaxing a small fire from its damp fibres. They kept the smoke and noise to a minimum, always wary of discovery.

It was a challenge, keeping quiet while he cut trees, but Dougal needed to cut wood to make furniture. Everything from before had been made poorly and threatened to collapse under their weight. He was an able woodworker, had always enjoyed working with his hands. It wasn’t difficult for Dougal to produce a table and a couple of stools where the two would sit when they could. Beds weren’t a priority, since they were used to sleeping wherever they could find a place to lie down, but eventually he produced two small bed frames and Aidan pulled together soft branches for their mattresses.

A stream nearby, perhaps thirty feet across, poured clean, cool water over a series of cascading falls. The water was deep near their croft, but it rushed noisily over a small rapids, gurgling and splashing as it raced toward a dramatic waterfall, half a mile away. The noise of the water helped mask the sounds Dougal made cutting wood.

Dougal loved living by the stream. He spent long periods of time in the freezing water, forcing his naked body to stay under the surface for as long as he could. He considered it a personal challenge. As if it proved he was still able to win a battle—even if it was only against the power of nature.

Aidan liked the water as well, though he couldn’t swim and didn’t go in when Dougal did. They went fishing together, or washed clothes in the current, but he never took his clothes off in front of Dougal. He never had. Dougal didn’t judge him for it, only wondered. He must have some reason for guarding his privacy. Dougal wondered if he was hiding a hideous scar or birthmark of some kind, but he never pressed the issue. It didn’t bother Dougal. Everyone had their own way of doing things, including him.

Aidan visited the stream almost every day. After the first shy request, Dougal stayed respectfully away. The two were content in their new home, sharing the duties of hunting, fishing, and trapping as well as cooking and cleaning, though Aidan was by far the better cook. Or perhaps it was just that Dougal was not a good cook by anyone’s standards. The boy worked hard and carried things that appeared far too heavy for his slender arms, but he never complained. At night Dougal read to him until the light gave out. Aidan couldn’t get enough of the stories. Dougal read
Robinson Crusoe
in its entirety three times, and Aidan still begged for more.

“I’ll no’ read it again, Aidan. Ye ken the whole thing in yer mind as it is. We’ll have to find a way to get another book to read.”

“Something good. Like
Crusoe
.”

“Aye. Like that. But there’s no one about who has books, is there? So it’ll be a while.”

Aidan looked disappointed, as he did every time they had this conversation. He hunched over a long stick he was carving into a bow, his lips tight with frustration.

“How about I teach ye to read?” Dougal asked one night.

Aidan stared at him, still as a nervous squirrel. “I’d never be able to read.”

“Why no’? Ye’re halfway smart anyhow,” Dougal teased.

Aidan snorted. “Smarter than ye are by far.”

“Then why can ye no’ learn to read?”

A fragrant curl of smoke rose from the peat fire, elusive as Aidan’s thoughts, which Dougal had never been able to read. This was easy, though. Aidan was afraid of failure. The very idea made Dougal shake his head with wonder. There were so many things to be afraid of in this life, and sometimes failure could be lethal. But not in this case.

“Ah well. If ye’re scairt—”

“I’m no’ scairt,” Aidan growled.

“No?”

“No.”

Dougal put his hand on the book and slid it across the table to Aidan. Aidan glared at him, then at
Robinson Crusoe
. Slowly, the crease between his brows softened as his eyes focused on the words and letters. He licked his lips with anticipation, as if he wanted to devour the entire book in one gulp.

“Ye can teach me this? Really?”

Dougal shrugged. “I can try.”

“Tonight then,” Aidan demanded.

He had a temper like a whip, Dougal had discovered. He was particular about small things, and extremely suspicious of strangers. He was fine with children and animals, but usually stood back and observed adults from a distance.

Dougal was entirely the opposite. He was a social creature who liked nothing better than to make people laugh. Well, that and a good fight. He really enjoyed fighting.

Aidan was the smarter of the two of them. Dougal had realised that right off the start. In the beginning of their friendship, Aidan had been shy to offer opinions, seeming unsure of himself around Dougal’s intimidating bulk, but as they grew close, Aidan opened up, speaking his mind to the extent that Dougal turned to him for advice on many things. He began to rely on the boy almost as much as the boy relied on him.

It was more than that, though. Aidan wasn’t simply a help and a partner in survival. He was a friend. He listened and empathised and laughed at things Dougal hadn’t mentioned to other men, fearing they’d be considered silly. Aidan never made Dougal feel self-conscious. In return, Dougal was the same kind of friend for Aidan. He learned about Aidan’s tenuous existence as an orphan, his decision to join the army, and his kindred friendship with Joseph. They mourned their losses together, and each man understood the other’s pain, though they were unique.

Autumn arrived with a chill they’d both forgotten, but knew like an old habit. Dougal felled a couple of elk, and after hanging and salting the meat, he and Aidan fashioned the hides into cloaks and boots. Aidan was a trapper, but also an amazing archer. He brought in smaller game and presented Dougal with rabbit fur mitts, the most comfortable thing Dougal had ever felt against his skin.

It was a difficult winter, but Dougal had cut plenty of wood in advance, so they kept warm and ate when they could, hunkering down in furs when the snow got too deep. When spring returned, melting the jagged icicles until a small moat circled the croft, the men stepped out into the sun and welcomed the green.

Dougal was the hunter, but Aidan was the one with the gift for setting effective traps. So there were times when Dougal sat back and did other things while Aidan went to check and empty traps. One day in April, Dougal decided this was one of those times. Rain hadn’t fallen for almost a week, and he wanted to climb onto the roof and settle it after the winter had played havoc with the thatch.

It was heavy work and a welcome distraction. The air was crisp and clean, but instead of snow, Dougal could smell sprouting grass, trees anxious to leaf out. The fragrance brought back memories of spring in his family’s home. How he and Andrew had cut the garden dirt, soft after the winter had gone, and Ciaran came behind to seed. He remembered the joy of stepping onto grass instead of snow, leaving their shoes outside the door as they dashed outside, barefoot, playing some game or other. Their house had been larger than this one, with two bedrooms behind the main room. Their roof had been sturdy and the walls thick. A far cry from this little shack. Dougal thought about his uncle Iain’s castle, almost surely destroyed by now. Prince Charles himself had stopped in there before they had gone to Culloden. That would have been an attractive target for the English, no doubt.

Culloden. The images came back as soon as the thought hit his consciousness, taking the sun of spring and smearing it with the sounds and smells of battle, the mortal screams of men. He’d seen terror and madness in so many eyes, seen his own hands crusted with the blood of fathers, husbands, sons. With the blood of his own father.

Strange how men always fought. And even stranger that Dougal, a lover of people, loved to fight. He flexed his knuckles, taking a moment from his work to consider the irony. Aidan would appreciate that. He leaned into the roof, jerking the squares of peat back into position.

An unfamiliar sound from within the trees grabbed his attention and he froze. Like a bird’s call, but not quite. He listened, but the sound didn’t come again, so he shrugged and reached toward another peat square.

There. Not a bird. A shout of panic. A sound that stopped Dougal’s heart. Aidan.

He dropped from the roof and was running before he’d caught his balance, vaulting over a fallen tree and shoving aside lichen-slick branches as he ran.

“No!” came a scream, a high, furious sound that tore at Dougal. If they hurt Aidan, if anyone laid a hand on that boy, he’d tear their hearts out while they still beat.

“I’m comin’!” he roared, tearing through the trees until he burst into a small clearing. He had expected to see red coats and English muskets, but was surprised to be met by the dark tartans of four Highlanders, filthy and haggard. Like bears come from their winter slumber, looking for anything to satisfy their hunger.

He saw a flash of golden hair partially hidden behind one of the men, and Dougal slammed into the first Highlander, a dark man almost as tall as he. He knocked him unconscious with one solid blow to the face. The second came at him and Dougal thrust his dirk into the man’s belly and yanked straight up. His attacker fell like a stone.

Aidan was screaming like a wild animal, pinned to the ground, his long, bare legs kicking madly.

Then came an anguished cry that Dougal had only heard once before, when Joseph had been killed. The two Highlanders knelt over Aidan’s struggling body and Dougal grabbed the first with both hands. He gripped the man’s arms and threw him across the clearing. The last man ignored Dougal, intent on the wriggling body beneath him. Dougal drove his dirk into the man’s kidneys. The body of the man collapsed on top of a weeping Aidan.

“There, lad,” Dougal said. “It’s over. It’s over. Sons o’ bitches won’t—”

He stopped. He had shoved the body off Aidan and the boy was rolled into a ball, most of the clothing stripped from his body.

Except it wasn’t Aidan. It couldn’t have been.

The stricken face turned toward Dougal, blue eyes pleading, tears streaming down the filthy, bruised face of an angel.

“Aidan?” Dougal’s voice was a whisper.

“I’m sorry, Dougal.”

Aidan sat up, trying to cover his body, but failing. And Dougal saw what had been hidden for all that time. The body of a woman.