Master of the Highlands

by Veronica Wolff

Page 5

 

  Donald was still shaking his head when they approached the courtyard where stable boys awaited them, holding the reins to three mounts. The laird prided himself on his ability with horses and although his stallion wasn ’t exactly easy on the eyes, he was the soundest and most courageous warhorse he had ever ridden. Ares was almost completely black but for one red sock on his right hind leg. It was the color of spilt blood, and Ewen had always felt it an auspicious mark for a battle horse. Ares ’s nose was thick and blunt and covered with numerous spidery black scars, shining dully, artifacts of battles past.

  By the time Ewen and his companions crested the final hill revealing Loch Garry and the rugged countryside below there were but a few hours of daylight left. The loch itself was small compared to others in the Highlands, but the view was dramatic nonetheless. The water, silver in the late afternoon light, snaked a path through countryside rough with clumps of shrubbery and thin evergreens that spiked the horizon. The low, rugged peaks of Knoydart held silent vigil in the distance, seeming all the more barren for the dense gray mist that shrouded them.

  Ewen stopped, frowning. He had observed large groups of fighting men before, but the assemblage gathered in the glen below made him deeply uneasy. He had led many skirmishes in his life, fighting side by side with men of his clan or those who counted themselves allies, and they were always a reassuringly motley bunch. The larger battles against the redcoats had always been a patchwork of tartans in all colors and combinations.

  Scots, both young and old, armed with musket, broadsword, pike, or bow and arrow counted themselves among his people ’s fighting men. Some came astride horse, others on foot. Grooming varied wildly, with some wearing crisp linen shirts and fine woolen jackets and trews, their hair well combed underneath their bonnets. Others appeared more savage, racing into battle on foot, untamed hair flying. Ewen always favored his tartan, a distinctive red and green plaid that he wore with fierce pride.

  Looking now at the valley below them, though, made his blood run cold. Not for fear of the redcoats ’ fighting prowess, for Ewen had bested more than a few British regiments in his tenure as laird. What he found disturbing was the sight of this well- oiled machine made up of anonymous boys in red. They were overdressed and undertrained, bearing firearms that proved suicidally slow to reload when faced with a raging Highland broadsword and targe. Who were these young men who sacrificed everything, wielded as tools by British generals, to be used then discarded? To be a Highlander was to be a warrior, but that was also synonymous with clan and country, a proud and noble identity that any man would willingly give his life for. But these boys in their snow-white shirts and breeches, did they know what they fought for?

  Ewen hoped he came that day to wage peace with Cromwell’s own General Monk. It wasn ’t that he feared battle. There had been many a time in the midst of a skirmish when Ewen had said a prayer—not for courage, but rather to beg God ’s forgiveness, for he went to the field not just willingly, but with a zealous thirst for the fight, to see injustices that had been done to his people avenged one hundredfold.

  What he did fear more than any battle was something he knew deep in his bones: no matter what passed that day, the fighting would persist. More Highland blood would be spilt, more Highland cattle and lands raided and ravaged, and more politicking by men like Monk would continue to define the fates of boys taken from their mothers to face death, be it wearing tartan or a coat of red.

  And, Ewen thought, God help him but he would be there on the front lines, ecstatic battle rage writ clear on his face, claymore brutally cutting down any who stood against his Highlands.

  “Aye. ” Ewen’s voice came out as a deep growl. “It’s time then. ”

  “And which do you suppose might be the good general ’s tent?” The laird’s foster brother, Robert, rode up beside him and eased the tension with apt sarcasm, uncharacteristic for the quietly bookish young man. Compared to the meager furnishings of the rest of the camp, General Monk’s tent stood out as nothing short of a spectacle. Tall enough to accommodate a dozen standing men, it was made of fine linen cloth, soaked in paraffin to repel the Highland mist and rain. A large flap extended from the roof and was braced above the ground to create a covered entryway where Monk or his guard could stand untouched by the elements.

  Ewen and his men tethered their mounts and descended into the valley encampment, drawing more than a few stares from the young redcoats doing what it was soldiers do: polishing guns, stoking cooking fires, or just sitting about in circles, drawing deeply from battered metal cups that were almost certainly filled with some sort of alcohol. Wood smoke hung thick and gray in the air, but it couldn’t banish the unmistakable smell of hundreds of men living together in close quarters. The soldiers made do with small tents arranged in tight rows, their once-stiff duck cloth now limp, mottled with spattered mud and mildew from the inexorable Highland drizzle.

  By this time, most eyes were on the Camerons as they wound through the camp. The laird purposely led them on a meandering route in order to get as good a look as possible at how his enemy was encamped. He was pensive. Not seeming to notice the stares of the redcoats, Ewen distractedly worried a small stick, slowly snapping off twigs and leaves, appearing lost in his own distant thoughts, although those close to him knew that not one detail of the camp was lost on him.

  A guard was posted outside Monk’s tent. He was busily absorbed in an afternoon nap, eyes partially hidden by his wig, knocked askance by his bobbing head.

  The laird pressed his stick into the flesh of the sleeping redcoat’s neck. “I ’m glad you find the accommodations comfortable, ” he said in a mischievous whisper as the soldier’s eyes shot open. The man ’s ruddy cheeks quivered as he stammered “Wha—? P-please don’t hurt me, sir. Wh -what do you want?”

  “We ’re here to see the general. ” Ewen flung his stick aside and stepped forward to open the thin curtain that concealed the entrance to the tent. He glanced at the sentry. “I assume he ’s in here. ” It was an announcement, not a question.

  The soldier’s face paled and Ewen turned to see a stoutly regal figure now looming in the entrance. “What is the meaning of this?” The man directed his question to the guard, not even acknowledging the presence of the Camerons. The soldier was now standing. One of his buttons had come undone during his nap, creating a yawning gap in the too-tight red coat that strained over his belly.

  “General Monk, I presume?”

  The man answered with the merest of nods.

  Ewen continued, “I’m Ewen Cameron, seventeenth captain and chief of Clan Cameron. This is Donald, brother to my late father. And this, my foster brother, Robert MacMartin. ” Each man nodded toward the general at the mention of his name.

  “You requested an audience, and we ’ve come, aye?” Ewen ’s nonchalance belied the tension of the moment.

  The inside of the General’s tent was as well appointed as any Highland cottage. A small fire burned on one side of the room, vented through the top of the tent by way of a copper stack. Two leather-backed chairs were placed in front of the fire, a half-played chess game sat on a table between them. There was a large cot in the corner, piled high with furs.

  The laird slowly paced around the tent, inspecting his surroundings. “Now, shall we get down to business? I haven ’t the stomach to stay here longer than necessary. ”

  Ewen paused for a moment to study the chessboard then slowly raised his head to meet Monk’s gaze. “Tell me why you ’ve summoned us and what it is you’d have of the men Cameron. ”

  The general was smoothly elegant in a way that Ewen immediately distrusted. He dressed not as a soldier, but as a British nobleman. Ewen sized him up at once, assessing that his wig, the gold buttons on his overcoat, and the silk stockings that hugged his thick calves would cost more than what a Cameron clansman could make in one year working the land. Fine, impossibly white lace framed his face and peeked out fro
m underneath the cuffs of a sky blue coat embroidered with whisper-thin gold threads. His aquiline nose jutted sharply from his face in counterpoint to otherwise jowly features. Although in his early fifties, Monk had a stately air and a physical confidence unusual for his otherwise stout frame. Ewen imagined that he drew the attentions of many a lady and the ire of more than a few young lords.

  “Down to ‘business, ’ as you call it. But of course, Ewen Cameron, seventeenth chief of Clan Cameron. ” Monk gave him a well-oiled smile.

  “I see you’re dressed for battle, General. ”

  Monk’s fashionable clothing was startling in the context of all the hundreds of redcoats waiting just outside his tent for imminent battle.

  “Touché ! And ‘Monk’ will do fine, thank you Ewen. You don’t mind if I call you by your Christian name, do you? ”

  “As you wish. ” Ewen dropped unceremoniously into one of the general’s leather chairs. “Now enough of the niceties, Monk. I’ll not ask you again. Why’ve you called the Camerons to the middle of a redcoat camp? I’m assuming it ’s not for tea and biscuits, aye?”

  Monk picked up a decanter from atop a side table at his elbow and gingerly poured himself a snifter of brandy. “Ah, yes. Why indeed have I called you here. Brandy?” Ewen ’s impatient glare answered for him.

  “You and your tenacious Highlanders seem to be fighting a losing battle. Even now, those of your…farmer-warriors”—Monk bit back an affected smile, lips pursed in a tight red bow, dimpling his fleshy cheeks “who weren’— t slain have been forcibly dispersed back into your savage countryside with that fellow of yours, oh” Monk fluttered his hand in mock impatience “what — — is his name … General Middleton! That’s it. Those Highland…generals …are so difficult to keep track of, are they not?”

  An unctuous smile spread across Monk’s face as he eased himself into the other chair and leisurely swirled and nosed his drink. “Mmm, a noble little vintage. Only once have I enjoyed better—a fine Armagnac aged in the private cellar of some monks in Gascony. Nothing like a little monastic prayer to improve the character, eh? You know, the French call Armagnac their eau-de-vie. They believe it holds therapeutic powers, and after experiencing it, I am loath to disagree. Perhaps when these vulgar proceedings are concluded, you too might enjoy a snifter. ”