Chapter 21
Fiona had awakened early that morning from a terrifying, if vague, nightmare and had experienced much stronger concern for Àdham since then. She feared for his safety, even for his life, and hoped desperately that God had not granted her Granny Rosel’s gift of the Second Sight.
Whether it was the magical Sight or not, Fiona did not want to talk about her dream or her feelings. Not only was she certain to make the other women fret more than they already did, despite their insistence that women must not, but if she could hug her worry to herself, surely she would soon come to her senses.
Fortunately, the rain had stopped, leaving only a mist. So, they were able to open the shutters again, giving the women fresh air and light enough to attend to the mending they had neglected during the darker, rainy days. Fiona was grateful for the task and found it calming.
Later, she would help Catriona and the twins prepare baskets of food from Finlagh’s supplies to take to families whose men had gone with Àdham. When they delivered the baskets that afternoon, they could take all three of the dogs with them.
She would have to leash Sirius, though, until she was certain that, thanks to all the rain, he would no longer be able to track Àdham’s scent.
At midday, the hillside below Àdham was red with blood and littered with the dead and dying. But he no longer heard clashings of steel nearby, and he had run out of arrows. How many of the enemy remained alive above him or hidden between him and the plain below he did not know. But the distant, gut-wrenching cacophony of cries and shrieks of pain down there seemed interminable.
He heard no sound of human, beast, or bird near him in the forest.
Returning to the ancient oak where he’d left Tadhg’s bow and empty quiver, he climbed it. Hidden from below amid its branches, and despite the mist, he could see a wide slice of the plain, bordered by a hill to the south on his left, the mouth of the river Lochy ahead, the castle just north of it, and a length of the plain beyond. Thicker mist hid more distant hills in the north and west. The plain lay in carnage.
Evidently, Alasdair Carrach’s archers had attacked from the hillside at the same time that Donal Balloch’s men had swarmed in from the south, likely just north of what he had learned was the river Nevis, which tumbled into the upper end of Loch Linnhe from its formidable mountain range above and to the south.
A sea of men still moved on the flatlands below him. Not one looked like an ally. Each man seemed to be seeking out and killing any of the fallen who moved.
Not many did. Most men on the ground lay dead still.
The battle had ended in disaster for the Earl of Mar and the royal army.
The only encouraging sign Àdham could see was that the castle drawbridge was up and Mar’s banner and that of Caithness still flew from the tower keep.
Deducing from such signs that Donal Balloch had beached his boats on the shore between the river Lochy’s mouth and that of the Nevis, Àdham considered finding and destroying them to prevent Balloch’s escape. But why, he asked himself with a grimace, would Balloch need an escape route now that he had won?
Moreover, he would have left men to guard those boats, and one man with a sword could do little against what would likely be many more.
The plain truth was that the Islesman was as clever a tactician as others had said he was. If his men had not carried their boats through Glen Tarbet, they had either stolen some from Loch Linnhe’s west shore or allied clans neighboring the loch had provided boats for them. But it no longer mattered how they had got there so quickly. They had, and they had won. He hoped that Malcolm and the men with him somewhere on the west shore of Loch Linnhe had kept themselves safe.
Aside from the two banners atop the castle’s tower keep, Àdham recognized none belonging to allies or member clans of Clan Chattan. Moreover, the two earls’ banners still flying might mean only that although Donal had seized the castle, he had not yet ordered the banners lowered. In any event, neither Mar nor Caithness would have stayed inside, so both men were likely dead.
Even if one or both had survived, Àdham knew he could not count on them or himself staying that way. Nor could he return by the route he had taken to reach Inverlochy or go anywhere until he could gain some idea of what had happened to his clansmen. Those still alive must fear that he had abandoned them or was dead. The Camerons and others on the far side of the rain-swollen river might yet live.
To divert his mind from such thoughts, he reminded himself that he had killed thirty to fifty of Carrach’s archers before running out of targets and usable arrows. As it was, he had had to move frequently, because enemy archers had soon noticed that their own men were falling with arrows in their backs.
Survivors likely still searched for the archer or archers who had shot them.
The woods remained eerily silent. No animal or man made a sound. Even so, Àdham descended from the oak tree as silently as he could and moved cautiously upward through the forest, determined to find a vantage point from which he could see more of the field below. Moving in any other direction, he was certain, would cast him right into enemy arms.
As he made his way amid the trees, aware that others were likely doing so, too, he kept careful watch ahead, behind, and below, glancing occasionally upward.
So it was that, as he passed between two tall trees, the blow from above struck without warning. Blackness descended.
“Bless me soul! Àdham, speak t’ me! Ye canna be dead. I willna let ye die.”
The urgent, yet strangely hushed voice echoed irritatingly through a vast black distance, its Scots words barely understood to mean that he had somehow erred and must collect his wits to make things right.
Was it Uncle Fin who called him? Was he in trouble again? Might Fin punish him this time or simply warn him again? He hated to disappoint Uncle Fin.
“God bethankit, ye’re breathing,” the voice muttered. “I see that. Now open your eyes, damn ye. ’Tis nae time for sleeping, for I need ye! Wake up!”
Not Uncle Fin’s voice but a raspier one, and the man was shaking him. Uncle Fin did not shake people. He might take a stiff tawse to one’s backside, but no shaking. It was someone else who issued orders and demanded obedience.
So many men had given him orders that sometimes their voices . . .
The thought ended in a groan that sounded too loud for safety. Safety was important, although why . . . he could not think. . . .
“Àdham! Open yer eyes, or I swear I’ll clout ye again, although I be weak as a newborn kit m’self.”
Mar! Àdham’s eyes opened instantly. The rest of him threatened to lie right where it was, though, every inch of it and for a good long while.
The man who loomed over him looked less like an earl than anyone Àdham had seen before. The face was right, but the man was muddy and bedraggled from head to toe. Moreover, he was still shaking him.
“Stop,” Àdham muttered. “Don’t shake me, sir. My head aches as if someone had split it right down the middle.”
“That was me. And if ye dinna come tae your senses quick, I’ll do worse tae ye. Nae, lad, dinna shut yer eyes again!”
Memory returned in a flood, forcing Àdham to collect himself.
“Mar, stop bellowing at me!” he growled. “You’ll bring Balloch’s men down on us, or up to us if we’re still where I was when—”
“Aye, sure, we still be here. Where else would we be? I canna carry me own self, let alone a great gowk like ye be. But we canna stay here, lad. They still be busy the noo, searching amongst the bodies below, seeking more good men tae kill. They’ll swarm this hillside anon tae do the same to us. Here now, I’ll help ye.”
“How did you get here, sir? Where are the rest of our men?”
“I got here ’cause one o’ me own lads fell on me when he was shot, and then another fell atop him,” Mar said. “I couldna move, because I’d got an arrow in me thigh. So I stayed put, perforce, trying no tae screech, till I sensed that there be few o’ them villains remaining nearby and managed tae wriggle out from under me protectors whilst doing me best tae avoid more damage tae me leg.”
That explained his bedraggled appearance. “Where were you?”
“North o’ yon hill as shoots up southwest o’ the castle, the one as keeps us from seeing all o’ the loch’s northeast bank. So I crept round tae the hill’s backside, which I’m thinking now may be how those villains came down upon us.”
“I think so, too,” Àdham said. “Have you any water?”
“Nary a drop. But the river Nevis lies none so far south o’ here. I’m thinking that may be the best way for us tae go, too. If we can ford it—”
“It will be as rain-swollen as the Lochy, and Donal will have left a good-sized force there to guard his boats,” Àdham said. “If it were possible to skirt the battle site and get to Tor Castle—”
“Skirt the field or no, we’d ha’ more rivers tae cross, and Tor Castle be a day’s march or more north o’ here in conditions like this,” Mar said flatly. “We’d never get so far alive. I dinna think ye comprehend the damage below yet, lad.
“Anyone on our side who were still alive,” he added, “unless he be royalty or gey wealthy, be dead the noo. Balloch’s men strolled about earlier, ‘putting men down,’ as they said. I heard one say that Donal Balloch and Alasdair Carrach together lost only seven-and-twenty o’ their men.”
“They lied,” Àdham said grimly, forcing himself to ignore the painfully pounding dizziness in his head as he sat up. “I had two full quivers of arrows and then collected all I could find. And every arrow I shot hit its mark. I doubt I killed everyone I hit, but I know that I killed more than seven-and-twenty.”
“Good, because they ha’ besieged Jamie’s castle. My men can hold it for a sennight or longer, but the sooner we get word tae Jamie tae hie hisself here . . .”
As Mar muttered on, Àdham conducted a silent survey of his own body, concluding that, other than a nearly broken head and scrapes and scratches from shrubbery through which he had passed, he was in one piece and relatively fit.
Mar said gruffly, “I was a fool, Àdham. This disaster be nobbut mine own doing. I was their commander, and I behaved like a feckless bairn. Sakes, young Caithness showed more sense than I did, and so did ye.”
“Then Caithness will make an even greater commander than you have been because of this experience,” Àdham said firmly.
Mar was silent for so long that Àdham turned his head despite the pain and looked at him. Seeing tears well in the older man’s eyes sent a chill through him.
“What happened?” he asked quietly.
“That damnable rain of arrows happened,” Mar said. “Caithness was struck in the first volley, right through the neck. He collapsed and died where he stood. Atholl, God rot him, need nae longer worry that the son who so strongly disagreed with him might one day inherit his titles and estates.”
Àdham’s throat closed. He felt tears in his eyes and had all he could do not to howl.
“I will blame myself for his death till I meet my own,” Mar said.
Àdham had no words of comfort to offer him.
“Wi’ them lasses a-walking out by theirselves as they do, as often as they do, ’tis a rare pity we canna get closer,” Hew Comyn muttered on a mist-shadowed hillside northeast of Finlagh as they watched the ghostlike figures of Fiona and the twins heading down into the woods west of the castle. “I’d no let my sister behave so.”
“I’ve seen how ye treat your sister,” Dae replied. “But Raitt be surrounded by Mackintoshes. Them woods yonder be full o’ crofts wi’ who kens how many men and lads left on them tae help look after yon tower. I’m no going near ’em, and ye be the one as said last time, Hew, that we canna get too close tae the castle.”
“Dinna be such a Lowland feardie, Dae. Ormiston’s daughter will still make a grand hostage. I havena heard nowt about leaving her be, neither.”
“Sakes, I dinna ken what good we’d be a-doing by abducting the wench the noo,” Dae grumbled. “If ye’d wanted tae help Alexander o’ the Isles, we should ha’ gone west wi’ all them others tae fight wi’ Donal Balloch and them.”
“Balloch doesna need us,” Hew said curtly. “Moreover, me da said tae stay here, lest them Mackintoshes and Fin o’ the Battles take advantage o’ the fighting in the west tae steal Raitt from us.”
“Like your lot stole it from them during Harlaw, d’ye mean?”
“Hush yer gob,” Hew hissed. “That’s blethers, that is.”
Fiona’s mood darkened more as the day went on, and the strong feeling that something was amiss with Àdham refused to leave her. As she made her way with Katy and Clydia through the rain-and-mist-damp woods, she hitched the wool shawl she’d borrowed from Catriona higher to cover her hair as well as her torso.
She enjoyed aiding Finlagh’s people as much as she had enjoyed similar duties on her father’s estates. Her spirits lifted when the first woman they visited—a middle-aged wife with two youngsters still at home while her older sons and husband were away with the warriors—welcomed them with pleasure and dignity.
Fiona’s proficiency with the Gaelic had improved, although she still needed someone to translate most of what others said to her and what she said to them. She, Catriona, and the twins had filled six baskets, so they soon moved on to deliver the others.
Just as they were leaving the fifth cottage, a renewal of fear for Àdham struck Fiona forcibly. Swallowing hard, fighting her own tension, she said with forced calm, “Katy, I’d like to stop and visit Granny Rosel on our way back, if we may.”
“Aye, sure,” Katy said. “We’ll take this last basket to her, although she will likely refuse it, as she usually does, and tell us to take it to someone who needs it more.”
“And if she doesn’t,” Clydia added, “we’ll be coming out again tomorrow with more baskets, and Granny Rosel will be gey pleased to see us today.”
The old lady welcomed them with her toothless smile, but when her gaze met Fiona’s, she spoke briefly to her in the Gaelic, clearly asking a question.
“What’s troubling ye is what she wants to know,” Clydia said quietly.
“Ask her if the Second Sight has visited her since our men left,” Fiona said. “I have felt frightened for Àdham all day. I felt better when we visited and talked with the other women, but I fear that that was just my own sense of duty and not wanting to burden them with my feelings. Does she know if there’s been a battle?”
Nodding, Clydia spoke to Granny Rosel, who put a gentle hand on Fiona’s shoulder and looked directly at her as she replied.
Katy said, “She says she experienced the Sight only the day her man died in battle, never again. However, Fiona,” Katy added hastily when Fiona’s eyes filled with tears, “she also says that if a man and woman have a strong enough union, they may, by some unknown way, share feelings or emotions even at great distance.”
When Granny Rosel nodded and spoke again, Clydia said, “If you and Àdham have such a union and that is what is happening, Granny says she believes that Àdham still lives and that we must believe that, too. And, she says, we must pray for him, hard.”
Wiping away her tears, feeling reassured despite her hitherto general feeling that what she had heard of Second Sight and such notions was illogical and therefore suspect, Fiona reminded herself that she did believe that God would hear her prayers. Whether he would act on them was another matter, though.
The next day, hoping for the best, Fiona prayed for Àdham’s safety while she helped deliver more baskets and assisted the twins with chores to which the youngest menservants—now away with the army—usually attended, such as sweeping the small bailey and removing and replacing moldy rushes from the great hall floor. She prayed so often that she began to fear that God might decide she was sending up more than her share.
Four days had passed since the rain and the disastrous battle. The chill of autumn had set in, and a thick Scottish mist still shrouded the landscape. Not only had Àdham and Mar failed to find Sir Ivor, Malcolm, or any other ally, but they had also run out of food and gone astray in the mist.
Àdham’s fine sense of direction had fled, and he was sure they were lost.
They had followed the river Nevis for a short way into the steeper mountains, but Mar had struggled with the terrain because of his injury, so they turned northeastward while they could still vaguely see Loch Linnhe below them.
Àdham, well trained by Ivor and Fin to tend archer-inflicted injuries, had been able to break off the barbed end of the arrow in Mar’s thigh, extract the shaft, and bind the wound as soon as they were well away from the battlefield. He had also found a stout branch that, shorn of its appendages, served the earl as a crutch.
Even so, their progress was painfully slow.
The hills east and northeast of Glen Mòr were likely still alive with enemy Islesmen and their allies, seeking anyone who tried to evade them. But avoiding searchers had meant moving, often through underbrush and dense forest, with little awareness of direction other than that they went up or down or right or left.
For the first day or so, turning right meant heading south and left meant north. But the high glens they followed had twisted and turned so, now, since neither he nor Mar was familiar with the range of mountains in which they found themselves, Àdham was certain they would likely run into trouble.
Mar’s injury continued to impede their progress.
Àdham knew they were well east of the rivers Lochy and Nevis in that vast mountain range, and they were still—he hoped—making their way more eastward than north. However, they had yet to see the sun, moon, or any stars, and he strongly suspected that their route had occasionally taken them in circles.
They found water easily in those hills. But, other than berries and a rabbit and trout that Àdham caught and skinned or cleaned, they had found no food. They dared not build a fire, even if they could have in the heavy mist, and although Mar tried to eat the raw rabbit flesh and fish, as Àdham did, his stomach recoiled, and he lost more than he had eaten.
At night, they wrapped themselves well in their damp plaids to sleep, and the dampness was welcome. Wet woven wool swelled, allowing the tightened fibers to confine their body heat.
Having hoped to find Sir Ivor or Malcolm, Àdham feared that each had either perished with his men or managed to escape the area. Neither man had had enough men-at-arms with him to stand alone against such a force as Balloch’s, and both experienced leaders would have known their cause was lost.
The fate of the few Cameron factions whose banners he had seen, or of Ewan MacGillony, was unknown. They were on the west side of the rain-swollen river Lochy, though, unable to cross safely even if they had hiked back to the crossing Àdham had used during the Battle of Lochaber. He suspected that unless Balloch had sent men up the west coast of Loch Linnhe, Ewan, able to witness the attack, would have soon counted the cause as lost and returned to Tor Castle with his men.
Also, Mar would have spoken of such a division of enemy forces. In any event, to defeat Balloch now would take another royal army matching the one that had captured Alexander at Lochaber. And even James might have trouble gathering such a force to go against Balloch. The Earl of Mar, Àdham realized, was not the only one who had underestimated young Donal.
The question now was what Balloch would do next. From the extent of the carnage, Àdham suspected the Islesmen had lost at least half or more of their army, and Balloch was clearly astute enough to believe that more Highland forces—even James with a new army—might be on their way. Strong contingents of Stewart and Mackintosh men still occupied the royal castles of Urquhart and Inverness, as well as Nairn Castle. So, the likelihood was that Balloch would need reinforcements before he could wreak much more damage. Even so, given the man’s history, he would surely act shrewdly and persist in his promise to seize the North.
The light had changed little since dawn, but Àdham still had his keen sense of time and knew the hour was near midday when Mar collapsed by a rivulet.
“We must rest,” Mar said hoarsely.
He was weak enough now for Àdham to fear that the earl might die before he could get him to safety.
Hearing feminine voices a short time later, he left Mar by the stream and crept silently toward them. Seeing two middle-aged women and a dog herding sheep to the rivulet, he moved into the open and stood quietly until they saw him.
He said calmly in the Gaelic, “I’ll not harm you. My friend is injured, and we have run out of food. Can you help us?”
“Aye, sure,” the older one said, patting a fat pouch tied to the sash around her waist. “We ha’ barley, and there be water in the rill if ye ha’ summat tae mix it in. We ha’ a shieling over yon hill, where we bide nights. But we dinna carry a kettle, for we keep the barley by us only tae keep it from the critters.”
Evidently hearing them, Mar pushed through the bushes, leaning on his staff.
“Faith, but the poor man can scarcely walk,” the younger woman said, hurrying toward him. “Ha’ ye no a pot tae mix barley in?” she said to Àdham.
He shook his head.
“Aye, but we do, madam,” the earl said, taking off his filthy shoe, while Àdham stared. “Rinse this out, lad, and whilst ye’re mixing yon barley, discover if these kind ladies can point us toward the town o’ Nairn.”
The women did not know Nairn, but the older one did know that they were some miles northeast of Loch Linnhe. She suggested that if they wished to continue northeastward, they should follow a nearby glen that would take them that way.
“Thank you, mistress,” Àdham said. “It is good to learn that we have not been going in the wrong direction.”
Mar said, “We’ll set out at once, when I finish my gruel.”
They traveled steadily then, if slowly and cautiously, and the next evening they came to a grassy clearing with a thatch-covered cottage in its center.
Leaving Mar to rest at the edge of the woods, Àdham strode to the door of the cottage, which opened as he neared it. A grizzled head of shoulder-length hair and a shaggy beard poked through the narrow opening, and two bright blue eyes stared at him. A long, weathered nose twitched, and the mouth beneath it grimaced.
Then a gravelly, rather weak, but nonetheless gruff, voice said, “Sakes, ye look like a wraith. Who d’ye be?”
“I am Àdham MacFinlagh of Strathnairn,” Àdham said. “My friend and I have traveled a long way, after a defeat in battle at—”
“Sakes, lad, I’m old but I havena lost me senses. I ken fine about the loss at Inverlochy. But if ye be heading back tae Strathnairn, what brought ye doon along the glen here instead o’ making for the river Nairn?”
“My friend was hurt, and we’ve lost our way in the mist,” Àdham explained. “If you could spare—”
“Where be this friend o’ yours?”
“Yonder in the woods.”
“Well, dinna stand gabbling. I canna carry him, but I ha’ food inside and embers I can stir tae a fire. Ye’re welcome tae what I can offer ye. So fetch him in, and we’ll see that we soon set ye on yer road again.”
Àdham obeyed, and when he and Mar entered the hut, they found a basin of water on the floor before the sole chair and the old man awaiting them.
“Sit ye doon, mon, or lie upon the floor, an ye prefer,” he said to Mar. “The water be warm, so we’ll wash yer wound and then ye can wash the rest o’ ye.”
With Àdham’s help, they soon had Mar on a thin pallet on the floor, his wound looking better than Àdham had expected, although he had carefully tended it whenever they stopped near a stream. Certain that the food and drink the old man offered them was all he had, both Àdham and Mar were reluctant to accept it.
But the old man scolded them. “I ha’ been looking after m’self these sixty years past, lads. I’ll look after m’self a good many more, too. But ye’ve sought hospitality, so I’ll thank ye tae take it when it be given right willingly.”
Chastened, the two ate what he gave them, and Mar slept on the old man’s pallet that night. By morning and mutual consent, both Àdham and Mar declared themselves fit again and prepared to set off.
“Ye’ll take that path yonder till it begins tae head hard uphill,” the old man said, handing them a sack with the remains of the previous night’s meat. “There be a stream there as heads round to the east and downhill. That be the Arnieburn, so follow it till it merges wi’ the river Nairn. I’m thinking ye’ll then ken your road.
“I’ve heard nowt o’ Islesmen hereabouts,” he added. “So ye should be safe. But keep a keen eye, especially an ye mean tae go intae the town o’ Nairn.”
Mar shook his hand and said, “I have experienced less hospitality from men who think themselves well-tae-do, sir. If ever ye find yourself in difficulty, ye must make your way east tae Kildrummy Castle, the seat of the Earl of Mar. When ye get there, demand tae see Alexander Stewart, who will see to it that the earl rewards ye for the kindness ye’ve shown us these past two days.”
“Aye, then, and I thank ye for your counsel, sir. I dinna reckon I’ll need it, but if ever I do—”
“Aye, if ye do,” Mar interjected firmly, “ye’re tae do just as I’ve bade ye, and dinna take any sauce from them ye see wha’ tell ye the man doesna exist. He does.”
As they walked away, Àdham said, “Alexander Stewart?”
Mar shrugged. “Aye, and why not? Nae one would recognize me as I be now, all ragtaggle and filthy. Few hereabouts or anywhere else think of me so, in any event. Sakes, few ken aught o’ me save my title, which is what I’ve used since I acquired it when I married my late countess.
“Moreover,” Mar went on, “thanks tae the willingness and rapidity with which my Stewart kinsmen have for generations spread their seed, Scotland must contain any number o’ Alexander Stewarts. At present, though, I am the only one who may be found at Kildrummy Castle.”
“So you will not return to Inverlochy?”
“Look at me, lad,” Mar muttered. “D’ye no think Jamie needs someone stronger and more fit tae be constable there now? I’m for Kildrummy, I am.”
“We must first find the Nairn and safety,” Àdham reminded him.