by Julianne Lee
The whisperings began, and Beth rose to don her cloak as if the exchange had been the most casual of conversations. A glance at her father and brother told her there would be recriminations once they arrived home, and this time her gut fluttered with apprehension. Knowing those two, she anticipated an ugly scene and with the Redcoats watching.
But nobody could have predicted Gòrdan’s reaction, not even herself. Outside Inverrigan’s house, as Nick took Beth’s hand and walked with her across the snowy field lit by torches stuck in the ground. From the corner of her eye she caught movement as someone came from behind with one of those torches. She turned and there were surprised shouts of warning. The thing whacked Nick across the back of the head in a hail of cinders, and he was knocked to his knees.
“Gòrdan!”
“What the fuck?!” His hands went to his hair, slapping out embers, and he scrambled to his feet to turn on Gòrdan, who stood with the now dead torch in his hands like a staff. His ruddy cheeks were aflame with rage. “What was that for?” He reached out to urge Beth away from him, to get her out of Gòrdan’s range, and she obeyed.
“Ye’ll nae be marrying her.”
“Right, like you’ve got anything to say about it.”
“I’m her cousin.”
“You and just about everyone else within forty miles.” He slapped an ember still smoking on his coat, and brushed it off onto the ground.
“True, and we’re all in agreement that we need no Sasunnaich in this glen.”
Nick sagged with heavily tried patience. “I’m not English, for crying out loud. I’m French-American. Can you say ‘French-American’? How about in Gaelic? Fràngaich. Say it with me: frahhhhn-gayk.”
Gòrdan took another swing at Nick, who successfully dodged. A third swing, and Nick grabbed the torch to wrest it from Gòrdan’s grasp.
“Cut that out!”
“Leave this glen, you intruder,” said Gòrdan. “Sgimilear!”
“Gòrdan!” Beth glanced at Father and Dùghall, and wished Gòrdan would shut up. The word meant “moocher” as well as “interloper.”
Then Gòrdan reached for the dirk scabbarded at his side and pulled it out. Nick took a step back. “Whoa.”
“Father! Nick is a guest!” Beth looked over at Father and Dùghall, hoping for them to put a stop to this, but Father refused to look at her, and they watched with faces that suggested they were only interested in seeing whether Gòrdan would succeed in chasing Nick away. They had no glance for her. She looked around at the gathering crowd. A few private Redcoats were watching, and the MacIain stood back by the white house with his arms crossed over his chest.
The dirk Gòrdan held today was long and sharp, and Beth knew he was skilled with it. Far more skilled, certainly, than Nick, who didn’t own a knife of any kind except for use in his kitchen. Gòrdan jabbed at Nick, who held the torch like a staff to deflect the attack.
“I’m unarmed, Gòrdan!”
“Stop this now!” There was the metallic ring of a sword being drawn, and Private Liam Campbell stepped between the combatants with his unsheathed sword in hand. “There will be no bloodletting tonight.” He glanced around at the several other soldiers standing about, looking bemused, some of whom outranked him but none of whom seemed to care if the MacIains cut each other up. All the officers seemed to be still inside the white house or gone to their billets. “The peace will hold while we are here.”
Beth felt a surge of revulsion as she realized the irony his words would soon become, but nonetheless hoped he could put a stop to this particular display of male posturing. Gòrdan and Nick each took a step backward.
But the MacIain shouted from the edge of the crowd, “’Tis my glen, and I’ll say how the peace is kept.” The group turned to hear him. Nick kept his eyes on Gòrdan. “Let them fight it out. I’ll not have two men at each other without decision one way or another.” He peered at Nick. “And I willnae have a coward in my glen.”
Nick’s eyes went hooded, and Beth knew a deep well of anger had been tapped. They all knew this had become a test that would determine Nick’s welcome in the glen as Beth’s prospective husband. Nick surely realized it, and Beth knew he would do whatever it might take to prove himself.
The private began to protest, but the old laird overrode and roared at him, “’Tis my glen! I have jurisdiction here, and ’tis for me to say how arguments are settled!” He called out over the crowd, “Someone loan this man a dirk, and we’ll see how well he defends himself!”
A dirk was handed to the front, then to Nick. Beth murmured under her breath, “Holy Mary, mother of God...” The rest of it died on her lips as Nick hefted the weapon in his hand and took a stance she knew he’d never done before. He waited. Her heart raced in terror for his safety.
Gòrdan made the first move, and put Nick on the defensive. He deflected Gòrdan’s blade and shuffled backward, but then responded with an attack of his own. Gòrdan, set to gloat, was taken flat-footed and hurried to parry Nick. A murmur came from the crowd as the two circled. It began to snow, and flakes descended yellow in the flickering torchlight. The wind blew them in gusts, and they danced like tiny pixies between the fighters. Onlookers pulled their cloaks and plaids around themselves. Beth wondered whether the cold would slow Nick, or inure him from pain.
“Beggar,” said Gòrdan.
Nick said nothing, but only waited as he circled.
“Savage.”
Still Nick was silent, his narrowed eyes hard on Gòrdan.
Then Gòrdan attacked. Nick fended with his off arm and sidestepped, then in the flurry of motion stabbed Gòrdan in the side. Though Gòrdan staggered sideways, he gave no outcry and only held his side for a moment. The hole in his sheepskin coat was small, and Nick’s blade couldn’t have gone in much more than skin deep.
“Crap,” said Nick. The dirk wasn’t sharp enough to pierce the leather easily. Beth cursed the man who had given it to him, for Gòrdan’s weapon was surely sharpened to a fine edge.
The men continued to circle, and Gòrdan attacked again. This time from the confusion of arms and clashing steel Nick came away with a gash in his right arm. His coat was sliced open, and blood rose to soak the sleeve. The speed at which it soaked the fleece inside to the cuff meant a deep wound. It might kill him if this fight went on too long, and Beth wasn’t even certain he knew it. She wished to shout at them both to stop this madness, but it would do no good, for Nick would be forced to leave the glen if he gave in. The only thing shouting would accomplish would be to distract him from the task before him.
Nick gasped from the pain, but held his ground and moved his dirk to his left hand. Gòrdan stood with his guard down, mocking him, but Nick declined the bait. He waited until Gòrdan tired of the ploy, and the instant he was taken seriously again he attacked. High this time, and a red gash appeared on Gòrdan’s face.
Gòrdan squealed in outrage and replied with wide swings, one after another, which Nick parried easily. As Gòrdan closed, Nick grabbed his opponent’s hair with his right and yanked him backward and around so he staggered. In an instant he had Gòrdan’s back to him, the bright red head bent back over his own shoulder, and the dirk point pressed to Gòrdan’s throat. A deep dimple appeared beneath that point, deep enough for even a dull knife to kill with only a little pressure. Feverish red blotches covered his cheeks and neck.
“Drop the knife,” said Nick.
“Dinnae kill me.” Gòrdan let go of his dirk and it thumped to the ground.
“I’m not going to kill you, you idiot. I’m going to tell you. First I’m going to tell you that if you try anything like this again I will gladly kill you, and more than likely I’ll do it with the blessing of your laird. Then I’m going to tell you that I will marry your ex-wife and have about a zillion kids with her, and there’s nothing whatsoever you can do about that. And thirdly, I’m going to assure you that you have thoroughly screwed up, and are missing out on the finest woman on two continents and you should curse you
r own stupidity as well as the day you divorced her. You’re an idiot, and a navel-gazer, and a poor excuse for a man. Are we clear on that?”
Gòrdan said nothing.
Nick shook him. “I said, are we clear on that?”
Finally Gòrdan nodded. “Aye.”
Then Nick shoved him away so he staggered and nearly fell, then picked up the fallen dirk from the snowy ground. He tossed the dull blade back to where it had come from, then slipped Gòrdan’s weapon into his own belt. Gòrdan opened his mouth to protest, but then closed it and only glared at Nick. Absently he touched the spot on his neck which was surely sore, for it displayed a tiny dot of red.
Nick turned toward the MacIain, who nodded and said nothing. As the crowd dispersed in near silence, Nick had a glance at Father and Dùghall, neither of whom spoke. Beth went to examine Nick’s arm.
The coat had a slash in it, soaked in blood, and the stain showed at the cuff, where the back of Nick’s hand was smeared red. The fleece had soaked up a great deal of it. “Here, take off your coat,” she ordered Nick.
“No. It’s okay.”
“’Tis nae ‘okay.’ You’re bleeding terribly. Remove the coat, if you please.”
He looked into her face to see the fear there, and finally obliged. She tore his slashed sark to reveal his arm, and found the top side of it opened the entire length from wrist to elbow. Blood ran from it and dripped to the frozen ground.
“Och.” She tore the sleeve of his sark entirely off and tied it around his arm just below the elbow. Tight, to make the blood stop. Then she reached beneath her skirt to her shift and tore off another piece of linen to wrap around his forearm and secure the edges of the wound.
“It doesn’t hurt,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone that told her he was drifting away with the blood loss.
“Father! Dùghall!”
But they had already gone, along with Muirhead. Only Liam Campbell had stayed with them, and he stepped in to take Nick under his good arm just as his knees buckled.
“Aw, jeez,” Nick muttered. He struggled to his feet and leaned heavily on the Redcoat. Brightly, he said, “See, my scheme is working out exactly as planned.” Then he giggled and swayed.
Beth finished binding Nick’s wound, and lifted the arm around her shoulders to hold him up. “I have him now,” she told the soldier. She wished he would let go and stay away. But the Redcoat declined to let her carry Nick’s weight by herself. They both helped him all the way back to her father’s house, nearly carrying him, for he was hardly able to stand. By the time they got there, Father and Dùghall had gone to bed, and Duncan Muirhead sat in a chair by the fire and said nothing when his compatriot arrived. Liam excused himself and rolled out his blankets to sleep.
Nick’s bleeding had slowed enough for him to not die from it, so Beth sat him at the table, and by candlelight sewed the edges of his wound together. He snorted with the pain, but there was nothing for him but to suffer until it was done. The binding had helped close the wound, and Beth went quickly, without hesitation, to make his pain brief.
“It’s all right. I’ll be all right,” he murmured more than once just after she stuck him.
“Ye proved yourself, mo caraid. Nobody in the glen will cause you grief again.”
“Better not. I’m fresh out of patience.” His eyes cut toward Liam. He still sounded light of head, and closed his eyes as he rested his chin against the heel of his left hand. Quick breaths escaped him with each prick of her needle.
“There,” she said as she tied off the thread. “You’ll be good as new soon.”
He chuckled. “I’ll have a great, honking scar, you mean.”
“Far better than us burying you.” She leaned across the table and kissed him.
A wistful smile rose to his mouth. “Hey. Now that we’re out of the closet, you think your dad would mind if I didn’t sleep on the floor?”
“Do not press your luck. You’re wounded, and you couldn’t win against him tonight.”
Nick grunted, then kissed her. “Goodnight, then.”
The next morning at breakfast, nobody spoke at first. Liam and Duncan minded their own business as usual. Father and Dùghall both were silent and staring at Nick as they came to the breakfast table. Nick, for his part, said nothing, but with a sleeve missing from his sark laid his arm on the table for all to see the wound crusted with dried blood. Beth served them all from a pot of porridge, then sat with them.
They ate in silence. Beth wished someone would speak, for many things needed saying. Finally Nick opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then he opened it again.
“I wish your permission to marry your daughter, Seòras.”
“I ken it.”
“So, what is your answer?”
“No.”
“Father—”
“He’s nae for you, Beth!”
“Then nobody is.”
“That may well be.”
“Seòras, it’s not right to keep her from marrying. She needs a home of her own. Children.”
“I’m not keeping her from marrying. Just from marrying you.”
“Nobody else...” He glanced at her, and she was grateful he didn’t finish the sentence. Instead he said, “I’ll be a better husband to her than the one she had. I work hard, and I’ll keep her from harm.” He glanced in Liam’s direction, who had the grace to ignore it, then addressed Seòras again. “I can’t take her away to America any time soon, and I’m thinking I might just stay here. I hope to establish myself here in the glen, and stay at least for a while. You’ll see grandchildren, I promise.”
That brought a reaction, and Seòras finally looked at him. “How will you stay?”
“I don’t know yet.” Seòras grunted at that and returned his attention to his porridge, but Nick persisted. “When I first got here, my intention was to simply save some cash and leave as soon as I could. Since then I’ve developed feelings for Beth. For a while I’ve wished to make a life with her and now I want to make a life here. Until you allow us to marry I’m stuck not knowing whether I’m going or staying.”
“And with her, you’ll stay?”
“Aye. I’ll find a way.”
Beth hated that Nick was lying to her father, but the killings loomed and she knew everything would change then. She kept shut and let her family believe Nick intended to settle in Glencoe. “Also, Father, he fought well last night. He staked his life to defend his place in the glen, and nearly was killed.” Only a slight exaggeration.
Father looked at the wounded arm, and grunted. “He did. I cannae deny it.”
“Your daughter will be safe with me. I swear it.” In his voice was the ring of truth, and Beth knew he meant it. Again she glanced at the soldiers.
Father stared hard at his hands clasped together on the table, then sighed. “Very well. If you love him, and want so much to leave your brother and myself.”
“I do.”
He looked over at her, but she couldn’t feel so much as a blush, even for the hint of sadness in her father’s eyes. She wanted a home of her own, and knew she deserved one. Nick had made her realize that. It was that simple. She did not owe it to her father and brother to stay for their sakes. “Then take her,” Father said to Nick. “Marry her, and find a living in the glen.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Nick.
Joy rose, and Beth had to laugh and kiss Nick or she might burst. “Come,” she said. “Hand over that sark so I can repair it before you’re married in it.”
Nick obeyed. Father only grunted. Dùghall said nothing. Duncan watched her jump up and take the bucket for water to wash the sark, and Liam continued to pretend he wasn’t listening.
Beth threw on her cloak, but just before ducking out the door with the bucket she turned to the men gathered at the table, and dropped the bucket from shock. Nick sat with his arm rested atop the table. Dùghall sat opposite. At the end were Liam and Duncan. But between Dùghall and the soldiers was nobody. She glanced around the room for Father,
but he wasn’t there. He’d been sitting on the bench next to Dùghall, but now there was nobody in that seat. Panic rose, and she fought it down. She told herself it was a mistake. Father had only left the room very quickly, was all. It was not a vision, for she was given to them. And this vision could not possibly be true, for if true it would foretell her father’s death.
She picked up the bucket from the floor, and hurried out the door.
Beth and Nick were married the very next day, in a handfasting. As much as she hated the idea of the informal ceremony, she understood it couldn’t be helped, for there was no priest and no time to find one. And better to have the handfasting than grow bigger with every day and not be married at all. She and Nick exchanged vows in her father’s house before all who could fit inside to witness, then the celebration commenced.
There was no fresh meat, for even had they slaughtered one of the cattle it would have yielded little this deep in winter. But there was an abundance of smoked fish, and eels from the loch. The guests ate much if not especially well, and everyone in the glen with a talent for music came with an instrument or voice. Both inside and out of Father’s house people swarmed, dancing and singing outside where there was plenty of room and the cold only a bit daunting. Talk was lively indoors, and the men told stories of other weddings: some funny, some tragic, and many of them very, very old.
Red coats dotted the gathering, and Beth’s heart clenched to see them there. This was to be a celebration of her family and its continued life, not an entertainment for treacherous Campbells who would see them all dead. But the soldiers at least behaved themselves today. No cross words were spoken. Private Liam seemed to enjoy himself, his ruddy face aglow and his eyes bright with ale. Beth’s joy soured at his presence, and she would have liked to tell him to heave his sorry carcass away from her.
Particularly when he sidled up to her as the sun dipped toward the west, and spoke in an accusing voice well lubricated with alcohol. “You don’t like me very well.”
Her reply was sharp and immediate, and ill-considered. “Have I reason to?”
“I’m your guest, but you’re rude to me.” He wasn’t staggering drunk, but there was a glassy cast to his eyes.
