Pursuit of Princes (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 5)

by Julia Brannan

  For the first few days Angus had called on him regularly, asking him questions about everyday clan affairs, but Alex had ignored him too, knowing that he could make such trivial decisions as when the cattle should go to pasture and the oats should be planted, without his help. Angus had persisted for a while, but getting no response had finally taken the hint and had not called in for several days.

  And then, two days ago, just when it had seemed to Alex that his life had settled into a routine that he could cope with for the next few weeks until he died of starvation - sleep for twelve hours, wake up, drink a little water and a lot of whisky, daydream about Beth, drown the physical and emotional pain with a lot more whisky, and repeat - Iain had called to see him, had brought him food, and had not gone away.

  Instead he had pulled a chair up in front of the fire and had sat in silence for a while. Alex had ignored him, sure that after a short time he would get up and leave, as everyone else did. Some considerable time had passed, during which the sun moved across the sky and Iain stayed where he was. Alex tried to pretend he wasn’t there. He had grown accomplished at pretending people weren’t there for several minutes at a time, but not for several hours.

  He tried to think about Beth, about the way she had looked and felt the last time they had made love, but the fact that someone was sitting in the room silently distracted him, and the memory wouldn’t come.

  What the hell does he want?

  “What the hell d’ye want?” he said when he could bear it no more. He had intended to sound impatient, authoritative, but his voice came out as no more than a croak, ruining the effect.

  “She wouldna want this, ye ken,” Iain said conversationally. “Neither of them would.”

  “Fuck off,” Alex replied. He closed his eyes. Now Iain would get up and leave him in peace.

  “She’d be disgusted an she saw ye lying in bed, wasting away, when there’s work to be done.”

  Alex turned to face the room, wincing at the pain the movement caused him. Iain was staring into the peat fire, which gave off a dull red glow.

  “Iain,” Alex began.

  “Ye’re wanting to die, so ye can be with her again,” Iain interrupted quietly. “I can understand that. It’s what I’m wanting myself. But what do ye think she’ll say, if ye die in such a way as this? She didna give in. The last thing she did was kill the redcoat bastard who stabbed Maggie. That’s a fine way to die, if ye have to. If ye lie in your own filth till ye starve yourself to death, and go to her reeking o’ self-pity and sweat, d’ye think she’ll still want ye?”

  With a strength born of pure instantaneous rage, Alex had launched himself from the bed, forgetting everything except the need to kill this bastard who sat there so calmly, daring to tell him what Beth would think! Iain had no idea, no idea at all, what he was going through!

  He had stood, his hand reaching for the dirk on the small table at the side of his bed, had taken one step forward and screamed in agony as his injured leg took all his weight and collapsed under him, bringing him first to his knees, and then to the ground.

  For a moment he had lost consciousness, and when he’d come round, Iain had been standing over him. He picked up the dirk and replaced it gently on the table.

  “Aye,” he’d said, nodding. “Ye can still feel, then. That’s something. I’ll fetch Peigi.”

  He’d walked out, leaving Alex lying helpless on his stomach on the dirt floor of the cottage, gritting his teeth and moaning as the pain tore up his leg, obliterating everything else, even Beth, from his mind.

  A few minutes later the door had opened, bringing with it sunlight, a fresh breeze and Peigi, her arms full of bedding, followed by Kenneth. She put the bedding down on the table, deftly stripped the bed of its filthy, sweat-soaked linen and, wrinkling her nose in disgust, threw it out of the door, followed by the mattress and pillow.

  “I’ll be back shortly,” she said, and disappeared out into the sunlight.

  Kenneth knelt down by his chief, and very slowly and gently turned him over onto his back. Sweat poured down Alex’s face, which was white and contorted with pain. The muscles on his neck bulged as he fought the agony, and tears trickled down his cheeks.

  “Isd,” Kenneth said softly, although Alex hadn’t spoken. “Lie still a minute, while I look at ye.” His fingers moved gently over the injured leg, feeling for any sign that the bone had rebroken, and then he sat back on his haunches. “Ye’ll be fine,” he said reassuringly.

  Alex took a deep breath and tried to sit up, but Kenneth pressed him back down.

  “No’ yet,” he said. “Bide a while, and Peigi’ll change the bed.”

  As if on cue, Peigi had bustled back in with a fresh mattress.

  “I’ve emptied the other one,” she said, “but the cover’ll need washing. Several times,” she added. “So ye can have mine for now.” She shook the heather-filled mattress out and laid it on the bed, then started to make it up.

  Alex had lain there waiting for the pain to subside, not daring to open his mouth to speak, fearful that he would burst into tears if he did. The pain was terrible, but the emotions swirling round in his mind were worse; rage, humiliation, grief. Better to remain silent.

  “There,” Peigi said, patting the bed in satisfaction. “Ye can put him back now,” she told Kenneth. “I’ll away and get a bannock and some broth.”

  Kenneth very carefully scooped Alex up as though he were a small child, and laid him gently back on the bed, pulling the blanket over him.

  “I’ll away and get some whisky to go wi’ the bannock and broth,” he said, winking.

  Alex had waited until they were gone, and then had tried to pull himself up into a sitting position, his arms trembling with the effort of merely levering his body up. How could he have lost so much of his strength in so short a time? He sat there and thought.

  In due course the broth and the bannock had arrived, and for the first time in over ten days Alex had attempted to eat, managing around half of the bowl of soup and a bite of the bannock before giving up. Then he sat there and thought some more, until Kenneth came back with the whisky. He put it down without a word and started to leave, but Alex reached out and grabbed his sleeve.

  “Will ye help me take my shirt off?” he asked. “There’s a clean one in the press.”

  Kenneth helped him to pull it over his head.

  “Shall I get ye some water to wash wi’ afore ye put on the clean shirt?” Kenneth offered.

  “Aye, that’d be good.”

  Kenneth rolled the dirty shirt up into a ball and turned to go.

  “One more thing,” his chieftain said.

  “Aye.”

  “Fetch Iain, will ye?”

  Kenneth hesitated.

  “Alex,” he said, “Iain’s grieving. He didna mean-”

  “Aye, I ken,” Alex interrupted. “I’m no’ angry, man. I want to speak wi’ him, that’s all.”

  Kenneth nodded, and turned to go.

  “Thank you,” Alex said. “For the whisky, and…” He pointed to the floor where he had so recently lain helpless.

  Kenneth smiled, and left.

  Ten minutes later, Iain had returned. His face was closed, his mouth compressed in a tight line.

  “Sit down,” Alex said.

  Iain brought the chair from the fireside and sat stiffly down near the bed, but out of arm’s reach.

  “Did Kenneth tell you I’m no’ angry with ye?” Alex asked.

  Iain nodded.

  “I’m sorry ye fell, but I’m no’ sorry for what I said,” he stated. “It needed saying, and I’d say it again. I spoke the truth as I see it.”

  “I wanted to kill you for it,” Alex said. “I lay there like a wee bairn on the floor, and all I wanted to do was find a way to kill you.”

  “I’ll leave the morrow.”

  “And then I thought about it,” Alex had continued as though Iain hadn’t spoken, “and I realised that ye’re right. I think ye’re the only man in the c
lan who could make me see it. Because ye’re the only other man in the clan who’s grieving the way I am.”

  Iain closed his eyes and swallowed.

  “I thought about what Beth would say, if she were to walk in now and see me lying here wi’ my muscles wasting, while the others go out to find out who’s willing to fight on, and Angus does his best to act as chieftain, though he’s sore afraid to. And I was ashamed of myself.”

  He’d paused, and there was silence. In the distance he’d heard a child laugh and the sound of women talking. Life was going on, and he had to find a way to go on, too.

  “I’m no’ going to pretend I want to live without her,” he’d continued. “But ye’re right. When I die, whenever that is, and we meet again, as I’m sure we will, I want her to be proud of me. And between now and then, that’s what I intend to do – to make her proud of me. She died well and bravely, and so did Maggie. And I canna tell ye how sorry I am to be the cause of it. I dinna expect ye to forgive me, for I canna forgive myself.”

  Iain’s eyes shot open.

  “What the hell are ye on about?” he said rudely. “Ye didna kill them!”

  “I’m your chieftain,” Alex said. “I should have made them go home, the pair of them. I should never have let them come wi’ us. If I’d sent them home with Angus and the others after Prestonpans, they’d be alive now.”

  To Alex’s surprise, Iain had burst out laughing.

  “Made them go home?” he’d said. “Have ye forgotten them entirely, in such a short time? God Himself couldna have made them go home! If ye’d tied them to their horses and ordered Angus and the others to take them, they’d have ridden straight back again the moment they were left, and ye ken it well, man. If ye’re wanting to blame someone, blame Cumberland and the redcoat bastards that killed them and thousands of others. And then get out of that bed as soon as ye’re able, and do something about it. It’s a powerful incentive to live; it’s what’s keeping me going. And then when we die, we can look Beth and Maggie in the face wi’ pride, for we’ll have died doing as they’d have expected us to.”

  Alex stared at his adopted clansman, astonished. And ashamed. This was the rallying call to arms of a true chieftain to his men, and he should be saying the words, not listening to them.

  “Christ, Iain,” he said softly, after a moment. “What have I come to?”

  Iain stood, and leaning over the bed, took Alex’s hands in an uncharacteristic display of affection.

  “Ye’ve come to your knees wi’ grief,” he said. “We all understand that, and no one blames ye for it. She was your life, as Maggie was mine. But now it’s time to come to your feet, and fight back. Because it’s what the MacGregors do, and we do it well, and we all want to. But we need you to lead us. Angus canna do it, not yet. Will ye do it?”

  He let go of Alex’s hands abruptly, and swiped the tears away from his eyes.

  “Aye, well,” he said, trying to regain his composure and turning away without waiting for an answer to his question, “I’ll away to my bed. It’s been a tiring day.”

  “Before ye go to bed, will ye do something for me?”

  Iain waited.

  “Will ye ask Kenneth if he can fashion a crutch of some sort for me until Angus gets back frae the hunting and can make me a proper one?”

  Iain grinned. He had his answer.

  “Aye,” he said. “I’ll tell him.”

  So it was that now, two days later, Alex was trying, and failing, to stand, even on his good leg, for long enough to get the crutch into place. Without the rage to fuel him he didn’t have the strength in his muscles to support himself.

  This is ridiculous, he told himself. Three weeks ago I marched all night on a biscuit, and fought the next day, too. I should be able to stand up. I can stand up.

  He pulled himself to the edge of the bed again, picked up the makeshift crutch Kenneth had made for him until Angus could fashion a more comfortable one, and hanging on to it for dear life, managed to stand on his good leg. Very carefully he tucked the top of the crutch into his right armpit and leaned his weight on it. So far, so good. Balancing on his good left leg, he moved the crutch forward a few inches, then putting all his weight on it, tried to hop forward. His leg was already trembling just from the effort of taking his weight, and shards of white-hot pain were knifing up his injured leg. Try as he might, he couldn’t move. He would have to sit down again.

  With the crutch still under his right arm he reached back with his left, feeling for the bedpost and realising that it was too far away for him to grasp without leaning for it.

  “Shit,” he said, softly, but with great feeling.

  He couldn’t move. He would have to stand here until someone came in, and that could be hours, because he had deliberately waited until no one would be around to see his pathetic efforts to walk.

  The door opened, and Janet walked in.

  Alex jumped in surprise, and the crutch slid out from under his arm. He started to lose his balance, felt himself falling, and then Janet dropped the basket of food she was carrying and leapt across the room, managing by a Herculean effort to grab his right arm and support him as he sank gracelessly back onto the bed.

  They both sat there for a moment while they got their breath back, his arm still wrapped round her shoulder, and her hands gripping his wrist for dear life. Then she released him and standing, retrieved the basket and its contents from the floor.

  “I made oatcakes, and thought ye might like some,” she said. “I waited till the rain let up, and brought them for ye.”

  “Thank you. Ye came at the right moment,” Alex admitted.

  “Hmmph,” she replied. “Ye shouldna be trying to walk yet. Ye need to build your strength first.”

  “I canna do that lying in my bed,” Alex pointed out, frustrated.

  Janet thought for a moment.

  “Wait there,” she said tactlessly, and walked out of the cottage.

  Alex waited there. The pain in his right leg was easing a bit now. If he shuffled up to the end of the bed he could try standing again, bracing himself on the bedpost.

  Janet returned, carrying a large stone in her arms.

  “Here ye are,” she said, dropping it on the bed next to him. “Before you can walk, ye need to let your leg heal. If ye fall ye could break it again, and if ye do, ye might lose it this time.”

  He’d been so intent on getting well enough to fight, he hadn’t thought about the possibility of breaking his leg again, or that if he did he could damage it beyond repair.

  The blow to my head must have addled my brains, he thought. It wasn’t just his body that needed building up. He needed to start thinking properly again. He’d be no use to the clan if he couldn’t think strategically and plan ahead.

  “And while ye’re waiting for your leg to heal, ye can build your arms and suchlike. This was the best I could find for now, but I’m sure Angus’ll be able to find something that’s the right weight for ye, when he gets back.”

  Alex smiled, and reaching, lifted the rock, surprised by how heavy it was. True, Janet had staggered a little under its weight as she’d carried it in, but even so, in his full strength he’d have been able to lift it effortlessly with one hand.

  “Thank you,” he said. “This will be fine for now. And ye’re right.”

  “Of course I am,” she replied. “If ye dinna need anything else, I’ll get back to the bairns.”

  “How are ye doing, Janet?” Alex asked.

  “I’m doing well,” she replied. “Of course it’s no’ so easy wi’ Simon away, but I’ll manage well enough until he comes home.”

  “Janet,” he said softly. “Simon’s no’ coming home, a graidh. Ye ken that, d’ye no’?”

  “Ye didna see him killed, did ye?” she retorted.

  “No, but-”

  “And ye didna see him taken prisoner, did ye?”

  “The redcoats didna take prisoners,” he said.

  “Well, then. If he isna dead, and he w
asna taken prisoner, then he’ll come home,” she affirmed.

  “Janet, it’s been over three weeks. If he was coming home, do ye no’ think he’d be here by now?”

  “He isna dead, Alex. If he was dead I’d feel it, here.” She put her hand to her chest. “And I dinna feel it. He’s alive, and he’ll come back to me. Now, I’ve the bairns to see to.”

  After she’d gone, Alex cradled the rock in his arms, and sighed.

  In truth, he didn’t feel in his heart that Beth was dead, either. But he knew she was, because Maggie had seen her die. Wanting her to be alive couldn’t make it so.

  How long would it be before Janet accepted that Simon was dead? Dougal had told them how the redcoats had behaved, when he came back. True, he had been rescued by one, but that was a miracle. The vast majority of the soldiers had revelled in their victory, had roamed around the battlefield finishing off the wounded, laughing and splashing each other with their enemies’ blood as though it was a game.

  If Simon had not died immediately, if he had managed somehow to crawl away and lie low, then he had surely died of his wounds. Otherwise he would have been back by now.

  We all deal with grief in our own way, Alex thought. Iain lives for vengeance. I wanted to kill myself. Iain had saved him, given him a reason to fight on.

  Janet was in denial, but she would see the truth, eventually. And when she did, her children would save her. She had them to live for. She would survive.

  * * *

  And so it was that when the men returned four days later, and Angus walked into the chieftain’s cottage full of dread, with a headful of news he knew Alex would ignore completely, he was confronted to his utter delight by the sight of his brother sitting on the edge of the bed, one splinted leg stuck out straight in front of him, the other bent at a right angle, dipping up and down to work his arms. Beside him on the bed were four stones of varying sizes.

  “A fichead ‘s a h-ochd, a fichead ‘s a naoi, a fichead ‘s a deich,” Alex grunted, then sat back on the bed. His hair had been washed, he’d shaved, and the room no longer stank of sickness, Angus noticed. Clearly something momentous had happened while he was away. Whatever it was, he sent a silent prayer of thanks up to God for it.