“How about a story, then? It’ll pass the time until Alex comes back.”
There was an instant brightening of the group.
“Aye, that’d be wonderful,” said Maggie.
“Good. Once upon a time…” began Beth.
“About a hundred years ago,” Simon supplied confidently. Having listened to many of Beth’s stories, as far as the MacGregors were concerned ‘once upon a time’ was some sort of Sasannach slang for saying the story was a century old.
“Ah, no,” said Beth. “This one’s a bit more modern. About ten years ago.”
“Oh,” commented Maggie, disappointed. “I was hoping it’d have that bonny prince in it, like the one in that story ye tellt the other night. He was awfu’ nice, just like Prince Tearlach.”
Beth smiled strangely, but no one noticed, being interested in the story rather than the teller.
“What story was that?” asked Angus, looking up from the fire.
“It was called Cinderella,” said Beth. “I’ll tell that one again, later, if you like, for those of you who haven’t heard it. But there’s a handsome prince in this one, too. He’s the…er…great-grandson of the one in Cinderella.”
“Does he marry a beautiful lassie as well?” asked Maggie.
“No. This is quite a different story.” She settled more comfortably on the log she was sitting on. “Right then, once upon a time there was a young man. He was very tall and handsome, and a good fighter, and he lived in a beautiful country, with a loving family and lots of friends. But he was very poor.”
“Ah, that doesna matter, when ye’ve your health and a good clan behind ye,” said Kenneth. “Was he a MacGregor, then?”
Nearly all Beth’s stories had a MacGregor in them. It was an essential ingredient.
“As a matter of fact, he was,” said Beth, grinning. “Anyway, in spite of the fact that he didn’t have any money, his father decided that before he settled down he should see some of the world. So he went off reiving, and the money he got from the sale of the cattle he gave to his son, so that he could go and see some other countries, and get a bit of experience.”
“That’s how our da got the money for Alex to go to study in Paris,” said Duncan. “It was a good raid, I mind it well.” He looked up, noticed Beth’s flush and assumed she was flustered or irritated by his irrelevant interruption. “Sorry,” he said, “go on.”
“So the young man set off, and he travelled all over, and saw many fine things, and had lots of adventures.”
“Did he kill dragons and rescue fair damsels?” asked Angus.
“He may well have done, it’s the sort of thing he would do,” said Beth. “But the story doesn’t say. After a while, though, he ended up at the sea, and after he’d looked at it for a while and marvelled at how huge and wild it was, he started wondering what was on the other side of it. So he took passage on a boat and went off to foreign parts.”
She shifted position a bit. This was the problem with outdoor fires. Your face could be burning, yet your back be ice-cold.
“When he got there, he was surprised, because the people all looked very much like him, except they weren’t as tall, and they wore different clothes and spoke a strange language. But he soon learnt the language, for he was very clever, and with the last of his money he bought some new clothes and went off to the big city to make his fortune, hoping to return to his clan with great riches and wonderful stories to tell.”
“Like that Whittington laddie ye tellt us about,” said Alasdair. “Did he have a remarkable cat, then?”
“No. But this is a true story, just like the one about Dick Whittington. The young man met a lot of interesting people, and he found out that the streets weren’t paved with gold, just like Dick Whittington did. And as he didn’t have any money, he had to find a way of earning his bread until he could make his fortune.”
“What did he do?” asked Simon.
“He found that he was very good at making people laugh, by…ah, here’s Alex.”
Duncan, who was sitting next to Beth, moved up to allow Alex to take his place beside her.
“Beth was just telling us one of her wee stories,” explained Kenneth, “about a MacGregor laddie who went off tae strange foreign lands to seek his fortune. But when he got there he hadna any money left.”
“I see,” said Alex, obviously trying to work out which famous fairytale Beth was adapting this time. “What did he do then?”
“How did your meeting go?” asked Beth.
Alex made a dismissive gesture and gratefully accepted a flask of whisky from Angus. He took a mouthful.
“It was a waste of time, as usual. Charles and Lord George canna agree on anything. And Broughton isna helping, because he doesna like Lord George either. He’s a damn good secretary, but I wish he’d keep his other opinions to himself. Go on wi’ your story, a ghràidh.”
He made a move to hand the flask back to Angus, but Beth intercepted it and took a large gulp, waiting until it had traced its fiery path down to her stomach before continuing.
“Ye were saying that he was verra good at making people laugh, by…” Angus, with his excellent memory, reminded her helpfully.
“Yes. Well,” said Beth, somewhat uncertainly.
“By what?” asked Alex, smiling down at her.
She took another swallow of whisky and handed the flask back. Then she seemed to come to a decision.
“He found that he was very good at making up funny songs and poems,” she said. “And that people would buy him drinks and meals, to hear them. At first he just entertained the ordinary people in the taverns, but after a while some of the more important people learnt of his wonderful…er…singing voice, and they came to hear him too.”
“And is that how he made his fortune?” asked Alasdair. “Some rich chief adopted him?”
“No, it willna be that,” said Maggie. “He married a bonny princess, did he no’?”
“He did get married, yes,” Beth said, her eyes sparkling now. “But that was much later, not in this story.” She glanced up at Alex, then away.
“So, the important people came to see him, and some of them liked his songs and some of them didn’t, because the songs were often quite cruel, even though they were so funny. He even sometimes wrote scurrilous songs about his friends, although they were never malicious, and his friends took them in good part. He had a great sense of humour, and so did those who were close to him.”
“They’d have to have a good sense of humour, by the sound of him,” observed Duncan.
“Exactly. But even so his friends weren’t above getting revenge, when the opportunity arose. One night, quite late, they were all walking back from the tavern, and they were all a bit drunk. It was very late, in fact, so late that the night-soil men had been collecting for a while, and their cart was more than half-full of…er…”
“Shit,” supplied Angus helpfully. He had a slightly puzzled look on his face, as though trying to remember something elusive.
“Thank you. Anyway, the young man’s friends, on seeing this, decided they couldn’t let this golden opportunity for revenge pass, so they took an arm and a leg each of the singer and heaved him into the night-soil cart.”
There was an explosion of laughter from the audience.
“Och, puir wee laddie!” said Iain. “I’m sure he didna deserve that, no matter what.”
Beside her, Alex had tensed slightly. Angus wore the delighted expression of one who had suddenly recalled what the elusive thing was. He leaned forward.
“Go on,” he said, his blue eyes dancing. “What happened next?”
“He was very fit, but even so by the time he managed to get out of the cart, he was covered from head to toe, and he smelt so bad and was in such a foul temper that even though his friends had been helpless with laughter, they managed to recover themselves enough to run away very quickly.”
She jumped as Alex’s arm settled on her shoulders in a seemingly loving way. His fingers ti
ghtened around the top of her arm, slightly too hard for affection.
She grinned at the MacGregors and exchanged a look of mischievous understanding with Angus. She winked. He winked back.
“Well,” she continued, “who should happen along the road at that very moment but the handsome prince I mentioned earlier, the great-grands…mmmph!”
Alex stood, lifting Beth effortlessly with him. His right arm was wrapped securely round her waist, his left hand firmly covering her mouth, bringing the story to an abrupt end. His clansmen looked up at him, astonished.
“It’s late,” their chieftain said. “Time we were in our beds.”
“No, it isna,” protested Simon indignantly. “It canna be any later than…”
“It’s late,” repeated Alex, in a tone that allowed no argument. “I’m away to my bed. Goodnight to ye.”
He turned abruptly from the fire and strode off in the direction of his tent, taking the storyteller with him, unmoved by her violent attempts to free herself.
“But she was in the middle of her story,” said Maggie, shocked. “What the hell’s wrong wi’ him?”
Kenneth flexed his arms.
“Shall we conduct a wee raid and rescue the lassie so she can finish her tale?” he said. There was a chorus of affirmation. Several men made to stand.
“No need,” said Angus. “She’d nearly finished it anyway.”
“D’ye ken the story yourself then?” asked Alasdair.
“Aye, I think I do. Enough to tell ye what happened. And to supply a few interesting wee details that Beth left out,” he said, grinning.
The MacGregors abandoned their idea of rescuing the damsel in distress from her captor and settled down to listen to the end of the story.
“How the hell did ye find that out?” said the captor a couple of minutes later. He had bypassed the tent and carried her off to a nearby barn, where they would not be overheard. In truth, he seemed far more distressed than the damsel, who was trying hard to appear serious and contrite and was failing miserably.
“I cannot tell,” she said formally. “My sources are of the very highest. Do your worst, sir, but I am sworn to secrecy.” A giggle escaped, spoiling the effect somewhat.
“I should strangle ye now, ye wee besom,” he said. “And Charles, the traitor! If ye canna trust your wife and your prince, who can ye trust?”
“No one,” she said. “You know that, it was one of the first pieces of advice you gave me.”
“Aye,” he agreed. He abandoned his threatening stance, as it was having no effect whatsoever, and sat down on a pile of hay, rubbing his shins. “Christ, lassie, ye kick like a mule!” he said. “Still, I dinna think anyone kent that it was me ye were really talking about. And ye’re no’ leaving here until ye’ve promised me ye willna tell them, either.”
“I can’t do that,” said Beth. “They’ll never rest till they’ve heard the end of the story. They’ll be suspicious.”
“I dinna care. I’ll never hear the end of it if they ken. It’s one of they stories that haunts a man to his grave. When I’m dead no one’ll remember how I helped to win the throne for the Stuarts wi’ my brave and glorious deeds in battle. All I’ll go down in history as is the man who greeted his prince for the first time covered in shite!”
“Ah, the fickleness of history!” trilled Beth, sounding like a feminine Sir Anthony. The former Sir Anthony glared at her.
“Well,” she said. “I won’t promise not to finish the story, and you won’t let me go till I do, so it looks like being a long night.” She moved across to him and straddled his knee. “We’ll need to find something to do to pass the time,” she said, stroking his cheek, and smiling as his arm slid round her waist. “Maybe you’ll be able to persuade me to promise, after all.”
He was able to, being very persuasive indeed. But not until she was absolutely sure that Angus had had ample time to finish and provide those important little details to the tale that would ensure the MacGregor chieftain’s place in posterity.
CHAPTER FIVE
November 1745
It was still dark when Beth woke, although there was a faint lightening of the sky to the east. She lay still for a moment, relishing the warmth emanating from Alex, who was curled around her back, his hand resting heavily on her hip. The ground was hard, the wind fresh, but at least there was little cloud, and she had slept for a few hours, more than the previous night. After a few minutes she sighed, accepting the inevitable, and lifting Alex’s hand carefully from her hip she slid out from under the blanket and struggled to her feet. Alex did not move.
Maggie was stirring a large pot of porridge and watched as Beth made her way stiffly across to the fire, nodding to her as she reached her hands out to warm them.
“Madainn mhath, Beth,” she said softly so as not to disturb the clansmen, whose slumbering shapes were scattered around the clearing. “Sit down awhile, I fetched the water earlier, and I dinna want ye anywhere near the porridge.”
Beth gingerly massaged the muscles of her thighs and grimaced.
“If I sit down right now, I’m not sure I’ll be able to get up again,” she said.
Maggie nodded.
“Aye, the walking gets ye like that when ye’re no’ used to it,” she said. “Ye’ll be fine in a few days, providing you dinna overstretch yourself and pull the muscle. Why do ye no’ ride the day? Give your legs a wee rest.”
“I’ll be fine once I get going,” said Beth. “It’s because I’ve just woken up. Sleeping on the hard ground doesn’t help.”
“Ye dinna have to do that. You could always take a room at nights. Most of the other wives do.”
“You don’t,” Beth replied.
“No,” Maggie agreed. “Clan life’s a dangerous thing at the best of times. Even more so now. I’d never forgive myself if Iain…if…well, ye ken…and I hadna spent every minute I could with him.” She smiled, and stirred the porridge a little more furiously than was strictly necessary.
“Yes,” agreed Beth softly. “That’s it exactly. And as I can’t persuade him to sleep under a roof at night, not until the snow comes anyway, I suppose I’ll have to put up with the ground.”
“Ye will. It’s a chieftain’s duty to suffer wi’ his men. All the chiefs do. Even Lord George Murray and the Duke of Perth sleep outside under their plaids of a night. Their men’d no’ respect them if they didna.”
“The prince doesn’t,” Beth pointed out.
“Aye, well, he’s royal. That’s a wee bit different, though I dinna doubt he could do it if necessary. The men think a lot of him for marching wi’ them when he could be riding. He’s always out at the front, too. None of that skulking at the back surrounded by bodyguards like many a royal would. And he sets a fearsome pace, too.” Maggie’s voice was full of admiration.
“He wants to get to England as fast as he can,” Beth said. “Alex told me. He wants to meet Wade’s army and defeat it before Cumberland can arrive with reinforcements.”
“Hmm,” said Maggie thoughtfully. “Well, you go on sleeping outside wi’ your man. Ye’ll no’ regret it, whatever happens.”
The two women exchanged a look of understanding. They would not voice their fears openly. That was akin to inviting it to happen. The Highlanders were too superstitious for that. Life was hard enough without tempting fate to do its worst as well.
“There’s some warm water there, if ye want to wash yourself before the men wake,” Maggie said, pointing.
Warm water! Beth’s eyes lit up. She went over to where a second, smaller pot was gently steaming at the edge of the fire.
“I’ll just use a tiny bit,” she said, dipping her kerchief in the deliciously hot water and wringing it out.
“Use it all if ye want,” said Maggie generously. “I’ve washed already, and the men’ll no’ use it. They think it’s soft to use warm water, the dafties. They’ve the notion that they have to go away down the loch instead and freeze their balls off to prove they’re true men.”
“I dinna need to do that,” came a deep voice from behind her, making her jump violently. “I proved I was a man twice last night. I think my reputation’ll no’ be damaged if I share the warm water wi’ my wife.”
“Ye must have been a cat in your last life!” said Maggie crossly, her heart still racing. “If ye must walk so quietly when there’s nae need, could ye at least cough or something to let a body know ye’re there, instead of frightening them half to death!”
“And I’d be obliged if you didn’t share our private marital affairs with the whole clan!” said a somewhat flushed Beth as Alex approached her and dipped his hands blissfully into the steaming water.
“I’m sorry,” he said, grinning unrepentantly. “I thought I’d join in the family tradition of revealing embarrassing secrets to anyone who’ll listen. If it’s good enough for you and Angus, it’s good enough for me. I’ll wait till after breakfast afore I go into the details of how ye…” He laughed as she launched half the contents of the pot at him, snatching it away from her before she could waste the rest.
“Christ, man, it’s far too early tae be fighting. And ye canna win, anyway, against they two,” said Iain, emerging from his plaid like a cranefly, his long wiry legs glowing white in the firelight as he stood up clad only in his shirt, which flapped around his thighs in the fresh breeze. “I’d advise ye to come down the loch after all. Better to freeze your balls off than be lashed by a woman’s tongue.”
All around the clearing figures were stirring and making their shambling way down to the loch to drive away the last vestiges of drowsiness from their minds and bodies before settling down round their numerous fires to consume the bowls of oatmeal porridge that was the Highlander’s staple diet when on the march. Within the hour the only sign that over five thousand men and several hundred women had slept and breakfasted in the area was the flattened grass and the black smudges of the carefully extinguished fires dotted about.
The Storm Breaks (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 4) Page 12
