Gray nodded. “We’ll see on the morrow. Now, let’s get out of this rain.”
Lowlanders
On the way back to the encampment, Faith worried about providing Gray and Giles with a midday meal, but needn’t have fretted. Giles had small cold pork pies ready and waiting.
Gray frowned. “Did ye go into town for these?”
“Nay, an enterprising baker and his apprentice came round selling their wares. Did quite a trade.”
“Let’s hope the same holds true wherever we go,” Faith replied. “Cooking is the one thing that I’m nay confident about.”
Gray sat cross-legged on the grass and bit into a pie. “After lunch, I suggest we mingle with others in the camp. When my mother followed Cromwell’s army, some of the women organized a communal kitchen. It makes more sense. And it will give us a chance to listen to opinions about Argyll’s speech.”
“A few Cameronians drifted back here while it was going on,” Giles informed them. “They complained the earl mentioned nothing about the Covenant. I overheard them say the declaration was windy and wordy. They packed and left.”
Faith supposed there was nothing for it but to sit on the damp grass. At least the drizzle had stopped. “It’s odd having a whole group of zealots named after my uncle. Almost makes me want to change my name.”
She wished the words unsaid when Gray’s gaze met hers. He seemed about to say something in reply, but Giles beat him to it.
“When ye marry, ye can take yer husband’s name, if ye like.”
Not for the first time, Faith’s imagination played with the notion.
Faith Pendray. Mrs. Grainger Pendray.
Gray frowned. “Ye shouldna be ashamed of yer family name. ’Tis a strong clan name with a proud history.”
Faith Cameron Pendray.
It had an appealing rhythm to it.
Swallowing the last of the pork pie, Gray eyed the groups of stern-faced men clustered in groups throughout the meadow. He hoped for an opportunity to wander over and begin a conversation. He tensed when six swarthy giants approached, one carrying a small campstool, which he offered to Faith.
“’Tisna right for a niece of Richard Cameron to sit on wet grass,” the newcomer said.
News did indeed travel fast.
“And condolences on the loss of yer father, too,” a second man added.
Gray rose and hastily helped a blushing Faith perch on the stool, nodding encouragingly when their eyes met. “My thanks, friends,” he declared. “’Tis thoughtful of ye. We dinna have anything to sit on, but ye’re welcome to join us.”
The first man nodded and beckoned to others sitting nearby.
Before long, twenty men stood in a cluster around the remains of the campfire. The meeting had been achieved without any effort on Gray’s part. He introduced himself as a Kincaid, using his mother’s maiden name.
Faith explained Giles was her second cousin twice removed, which Gray deemed clever. Few would bother to try to work out the exact relationship.
“MacDreain,” the man who’d brought the stool said with a nod. “This here’s McGeachie, yonder the MacFigeinns and Laings.”
Gray made a point of shaking hands with every last man. “Ye’re all from Kintyre?”
“Aye,” MacDreain replied. “Lowlanders.”
“Cameronians?” Gray asked, aware Kintyre Lowlanders had a reputation as fierce fighting men.
“Some of us,” one of the younger Laings replied, puffing out his chest and smiling at Faith.
Gray tamped down the jealous urge to launch himself at the fellow, calming his irritation by placing a hand on Faith’s shoulder. “My wife,” he stressed, “was disappointed there was nay mention of the Covenant in the earl’s speech.”
“We ken,” McGeachie agreed. “However, first, we get rid of King James, then we fight for the Covenant. Indebted to Argyll, Monmouth will have nay choice but to confirm Presbyterianism as the only religion permitted in Scotland.”
A memory of meeting Garnet’s widowed Catholic mother squirmed in Gray’s brain. The Pendrays’ old family friend, Murtagh, had returned to Blairgowrie in the Highlands to wed Agnes Barclay; the Cameronians would hound kind and generous people like them to convert or face terrible persecution. The prospect churned his gut, but he feigned ignorance. “What news of Monmouth?”
Young Laing grinned. “Already marching through the south of England, gathering strength as he approaches London.”
Gray took a risk. “Good to hear. Puts the lie to the rumor the duke hasna yet set sail from Holland.”
As he expected, the stern, bearded faces of the men from Kintyre betrayed no sign of their reaction to what he’d said, but an uncomfortable silence followed. He was satisfied he’d planted a seed of doubt.
Faith relaxed a little when two women wandered over to join the conversation. She was rewarded with a brief nod when she gave up her stool to the elder of the two.
“Katrin Laing,” the grey-haired newcomer said as she sat heavily.
“Faith,” she replied, her tongue balking at the false family name.
“And I’m Margaret Laing,” the younger woman added. “Yonder my bairns.”
Faith looked over to where she pointed. A lad of about ten poked at a campfire while his younger sister watched.
“I’ve a sister named Maggie,” Faith said with a smile.
“I prefer Margaret,” came the testy reply. “We hear ye’re a niece of Richard Cameron.”
This truth was firmer ground. “Aye.”
“So, if ye’re Michael’s daughter, ye’re from Edinburgh.”
Clearly, this woman knew more about the Cameron family than most. Faith risked a glance at Gray but he was deep in conversation with the other men. “Originally.”
“But yer husband’s from Ayrshire?”
It was a relief when Giles came to her rescue. “My cousins had to flee persecution in Edinburgh after Uncle Michael’s trial and execution. My parents offered them shelter. We’re from Ayrshire, nay far from Airds Moss.”
Faith nodded. Most of this was close to the truth and seemed to satisfy the Laing women.
“Will ye join us later for supper?” Katrin asked. “We’ve a big pot of broth simmering.”
“’Twould be a blessing,” Faith replied truthfully. “I’m nay a good cook, and we brought few provisions. I didna ken what to expect.”
Katrin smiled a toothless grin. “Ye needna explain. Times are hard. Our Lord taught us we must share. On the morrow, we’ll walk into Campbeltown and forage while the men are enlisting.”
“Ye’ll soon learn to cook on a campfire,” Margaret added. “My mother-by-marriage is an expert.”
Faith accepted gratefully, glad the Laings’ interpretation of Presbyterian teachings seemed to bear no resemblance to the hard-hearted rigidity she’d endured in her parents’ home.
Muster
May 22nd, 1685
The entire camp was up and about before dawn. Anticipation hung in the air as men prepared to consign their lives to an uncertain and dangerous future. A handful of Dutch soldiers had remained onshore overnight, but the majority were still aboard the ships. The Rising’s leaders had gone back to the ships again the previous evening. There’d been no sign of the Orkney hostages and Gray could only surmise they were confined somewhere on board. It was difficult to conceive of a plan to free them in the circumstances.
They were invited to break their fast with the Lowlanders, which Gray sensed came as a relief to Faith. She voiced no concerns about the danger they might face if it was discovered they were spies, but her pallor betrayed her nervousness.
Giles was unusually silent. Gray had spent half the night trying to come up with a way to make sure the lad was rejected as a recruit, but accepted it as a lost cause. Rumbold would turn no one away.
Katrin Laing sensed the tension. “I’m guessing ’tis the first time yer husband has enlisted since ye married.”
Faith nodded. “And Giles is just a lad.
He kens naught about war.”
“Dinna worry. The government will be too busy dealing with Monmouth in the south of England to send an army to these parts. I doot they’ll see a lick of fighting.”
“What about Atholl?” Faith asked, biting her lip as soon as she’d asked the question.
Gray tensed.
“Pah,” Katrin replied. “Did ye see how fast they ran? Yon marquess kens better than to tangle with Kintyre Lowlanders.”
Gray breathed easier and sent Faith a reassuring smile. It seemed the presence in Argyll of Atholl’s militia was common knowledge, but Katrin had obviously never met the marquess. He wondered how much the fierce Lowlanders actually knew about military tactics.
“My Domnall will look out for yer mon,” Margaret Laing declared.
Gray reminded himself to be careful around these men if they were keeping an eye on him. “Then I’ll be fine,” he replied, grinning at the bearded Domnall who glared at his wife.
They made arrangements for the departure to Campbeltown; the men would go first, the women later to forage.
“Mrs. Laing’s porridge isna as tasty as yers,” Giles muttered as they returned to their campsite.
His compliment brought a brief smile to Faith’s lips, but didn’t chase away the frown. “I’m sorry I mentioned Atholl,” she told Gray as she helped him strap on his scabbard.
He put his hands on her waist. “’Tis fine. Now, ye ken they are watching us and they believe we’re newly-weds. A suitable parting is expected. Wish me luck.”
Faith longed to wish Gray more than luck.
I wish ye were mine
I wish we were truly married
I wish…
But Giles was close by and she didn’t want to cause Gray any embarrassment. She stood on tiptoe, put her arms around his neck and played her part, hoping a kiss would convey her longings.
She forced herself to keep her eyes open, dismayed at first by the shock in his blue depths when she tried to coax his lips. But then he closed eyes and surrendered with a low growl, delving his tongue into her mouth. She tasted the oatmeal they’d shared. When he drew her close, she took courage in his solid strength as her feet dangled in air.
She’d never kissed a man before, but her tongue took on a life of its own, mating with his in a dance that roused yearnings and desires in every intimate part of her body—and soul.
Whistles and male laughter broke the spell as the Kintyre Lowlanders passed them on their way to Campbeltown.
He set her on the ground and rested his forehead against hers. “Faith,” he rasped. “I wish…”
Holding back tears, she pressed a fingertip to his lips. “I ken. Go now.”
He stepped away. “The women will expect ye to embrace Giles if he’s truly yer cousin.”
She nodded and welcomed Giles into her embrace, kissing him on each cheek. “One from me and one from Esther,” she whispered. “Follow Gray’s lead.”
He nodded. “We’ll take care of each other.”
Gray and Giles hurried to catch up with the other men as Katrin wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Come, pray with us.”
She went willingly. They were enemies, but their prayers would echo the same heartfelt desire—the safe return of their menfolk.
Disheartened to find several hundred men already lined up to enlist, Gray anticipated a long wait. “Hope the rain holds off,” he quipped to Domnall Laing who seemed to have taken the role of his keeper too seriously. The man dogged his heels like a faithful puppy.
Domnall looked to the sky. “Doubtful,” he replied.
Since there wasn’t a cloud to be seen, Gray wasn’t sure if that meant rain was unlikely or water might pour from the heavens at any moment.
“The line’s moving quickly,” Giles remarked. “Will we be allowed to go back to the camp after we enlist?” he asked Domnall’s father.
“Depends,” came another ambiguous reply. “They might form us into companies and expect us to stay together, or they’ll be glad to send us back to our womenfolk so they dinna have to feed us.”
“I’d certainly enjoy more of Mrs. Laing’s cooking,” Giles replied with a grin. “Last night’s broth was delicious.”
The compliment elicited a rare smile from the dour Lowlander.
Gray saw once again that Giles had the ability to put people at ease—a talent they might need to call upon.
In less than an hour, they found themselves at the front of the line facing Hannibal Rumbold. It seemed each recruit wasn’t being subjected to a rigorous interview. That augured well.
“Name?” Rumbold droned, clearly bored.
“Grainger Kincaid,” Gray said, “and my wife’s second cousin, Giles Raincourt.”
Rumbold wrote the names in a ledger then raised the eyebrow of his good eye. “Raincourt’s an English name. I was acquainted with Raincourts in the Midlands.”
The lie rolled easily off Giles’ tongue. “My father was Welsh, actually, sir.”
Rumbold harrumphed. “Thought there was something odd about the way you speak. Are you proficient with a sword?”
“Nay, sir.”
“Pistol?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Do you own a pistol?”
“Nay, sir.”
“Make your mark here, next to where I’ve inscribed your name.”
Gray held his breath, hoping Giles wouldn’t protest that he knew how to write, but the lad made a large X as requested.
“And you, Kincaid, if you please.”
Gray complied, not drawing attention to the fact the Englishman had spelled his name as Grange Kincade. He had other concerns. “Can I request Giles and I be put in the same company, sir? He’s young and…”
“Do you have a horse?”
“Aye, just the one.”
“Then you’ll be in the horse regiment, under my command. Raincourt is consigned to the foot regiment, commanded by Colonel Ayloffe. Report back on the morrow, at dawn. Next.”
Faith was footsore by the time she and the other women returned to the campsite, but local crofters had been generous, allowing them to take turnips and parsnips from crops stored over the winter. Some of the vegetables looked withered and moldy, but Katrin assured her they would cook up well.
They’d pulled up dandelion roots on the way back, with which Margaret Laing intended to make tea. “Good for the liver,” she claimed.
Folks around Campbeltown were clearly supportive of the Covenanters and she was fussed over every time Katrin explained her kinship with Richard Cameron. An extra parsnip or two was added to their foraged haul as a result.
It was an odd situation. She’d glimpsed her uncle’s head hung on the Netherbow Gate in Edinburgh on the way to the orphanage. The gruesome sight had made her retch, and seeing passers-by spit on the grotesque remains had strengthened her resolve to distance herself from the Cameron name. Now, her uncle had become the revered figurehead of a powerful religious movement—a martyr to the cause.
She thanked the Lord daily Michael Cameron’s execution had taken place after her escape to Kilmer. He hadn’t been a loving parent, but he was her father.
It came as a great relief when Gray and Giles arrived back at the camp soon after her return, but both were clearly upset.
“We’ve been sent back here and told to report on the morrow,” Gray explained. “We’re on the muster roll, but in separate regiments.”
“I’m a foot soldier,” Giles added.
Gray patted their gelding’s rump. “I’m concerned with how our nag will fare in a horse regiment.”
Faith stroked the animal’s nose. “He didn’t mean that,” she whispered with a shy smile. “We should give him a name, and he’ll feel more like a proud steed.”
Gray eyed her as if she’d lost her wits, but then laughed. “Right. How about Galahad?”
“Perfect. The knight was successful in his quest, as we shall be.”
Blisters
May 27th 1685
Gray estimated over a thousand men had joined the ranks in Campbeltown over the course of the past five days. The majority had come from the Highlands of Argyll in response to the fiery crosses.
They’d been issued Dutch weapons, mainly muskets, and fewer pistols. Some standard bearers carried colors emblazoned with the motto, For the Protestant Religion, while other pennants declared the army to be Against Popery.
Campbell referred to all the men from Argyll as His Highlanders, though the most fearsome group were from the Kintyre Lowlands. He’d formed them into companies under officers from their own clans.
Rumbold and Ayloffe conducted training sessions for those who didn’t have experience with pistols and muskets, but most of the time was spent standing around waiting for orders. Mumblings of discontent with the lack of action became more vocal, and the obvious loud dissension among the leadership was impossible to ignore.
The recruits were allowed to return to the camp every evening and Gray took advantage of the rifts emerging as the families gathered around the campfire.
“Hume proposes we sweep down into the Lowlands to make use of Presbyterian support before the government can organize its troops,” Domnall Laing declared.
“He’s right,” Gray replied, sensing the older Laing would disagree.
“Aye,” Domnall senior confirmed, “but the earl is determined to build up a strong force in the Highlands beforehand. He canna hope to win control of a town like Glasgow with the numbers we have now.”
“Good point,” Gray agreed.
“But,” Domnall countered, “the emissary from Ayrshire told us Monmouth’s advance is well under way. We should be moving south.”
Gray sniggered inwardly at the memory of the loud cheering that had greeted the erroneous report.
“And,” Domnall continued, “he claims there are hundreds of potential recruits in Ayrshire ready to join us. If we dinna move soon, more of the Islay levies will desert.”
Highland Rising (The House of Pendray Book 4) Page 8
