Thirty-Four
Catherine sat in the great hall, ensconced in the ancient seat she still thought of as her father’s. It had been in her family, a part of the chamber, for generations, and as her hands gripped its ornately carved arms she could almost feel the history coursing through it. May it lend me patience and wisdom. With Jerrod’s backing, Donald dead, and Alistair gone to France, her status as head of the clan had not been contested, but her people were a loud, opinionated lot who equated discussion with shouting and negotiation with shouting louder. They’d been known to argue over petty disputes for days, and this one had been raging for hours.
Greeted with joy by Martha, and cautious acceptance by the rest of the clan, she’d set to work avoiding an escalation of the feud with the Murrays, pointing out that Donald and his men had been in Murray territory, and too many men had been killed on both sides, leaving them weaker when they needed to be strong. “There’s a threat on the horizon much larger than our petty feuds and border disputes, gentlemen. We must look to what’s coming. We must sue for peace so we can prepare for war.”
She’d managed to cajole and coerce them into a grudging truce, but it seemed all of Europe was rolling the dice, and events were happening faster than she could contain them. Over the winter months, Ewen Cameron of Lochiel had undertaken to write or meet every chief of note in the Highlands, hoping to form a confederation of clans loyal to James to defend his Scottish throne. She’d responded, pledging loyalty, but had avoided offering aid. In March, King James had sailed from France to Ireland with an army of twelve hundred men. He’d landed in Kinsale, marched to Dublin, and was greeted as king of Ireland by cheering crowds.
She wondered what the O’Sullivans… what Jamie… thought of that. She’d been so busy she’d hardly had time to think of him by day, and though she ached for him at night, it was a dull, familiar pain now, no longer jagged and sharp. A good thing, too—he’d made no attempt to contact her, and though she might be disappointed, she wasn’t surprised. He’ll be alert to the danger, and the O’Sullivans, just like my folk, will be filled with patriotism, hope, and pride. How can we possibly keep them all safe?
Avoiding the maelstrom grew harder by the day. At the beginning of April, a convention in Edinburgh declared William the king of Scotland, but a number of people, most of them Highlanders, remained loyal to James. One of them, John Graham of Claverhouse, Viscount Dundee, known as Bonnie Dundee to his friends and Bloody Clavers to his foes, had decided to raise an army of liberation in concert with Lochiel, and was touring the Highlands with the royal standard, gathering clansmen for war. It was this they were discussing now. She rubbed her temples to clear her head, and returned her attention to Jerrod.
“There’s no staying out of it, Cat. It’s coming whether you will it or no. ’Tis said of us there are no better allies in all the Highlands. If we don’t stand with them, we’ll be shamed and dishonored. Our friends will turn against us and we’ll stand alone.”
She knew he was right. What Jamie had hoped to avoid for England was coming to her homeland instead, another religious and civil war. Highlander against Lowlander, Catholic and Episcopalian against Presbyterian and Covenanter, Williamite against Jacobite, Scot against English, and Scot against Scot. There was no avoiding it. Bloody hell!