Chapter 35
Calan’s ship took them out between the Suitors to the open sea, then back into Beauly Firth and so to Inverness.
Malcolm and Will landed on the sixteenth of April, to find the armies already out of Inverness, gone to meet Cumberland in a field near Culloden House.
They hastened the few miles there, covering it in less than thirty minutes. Gunfire popped in the distance, then the roar of men fighting came at them in a wave of sound, punctuated by the shrill wail of the pipes. Mal and Will halted near the edge of the field, catching their breaths and surveying the scene.
Colors swirled across the open moor—the red of English soldiers; the blue, red, and dun of plaids; the bright coats of dragoons. Flags moved forward, precious standards that flapped in the wind. The ground was littered with bodies, the black red of blood washing into the grass. Smoke drifted upward to mix with mist, lending to the confusion.
Will seized Mal’s arm. “Find Dad and Alec—there are things I can do. Meet up here afterward?”
“Aye. Give ’em hell.”
There were things Mal could do as well. Today he wanted to stand and fight, to find Cumberland’s standard and take the man’s life, but he’d become the brollachan again if that were the only way. The next few minutes would decide.
Will clasped Mal in a hug, Will’s tall body crushing Mal’s, the scent of wool and damp Mackenzie cutting the acrid stench of gunpowder. Will released Mal, then sprinted away, disappearing into mist in the way only Will could.
Malcolm loaded his pistols, straightened his weapons, and made for the battlefield and the sounds of the pipers.
I love ye, Mary, he said silently as he broke into a run. Never forget that.
A quarter of an hour later, Mal realized that the battle was lost. He ran through marshy ground, trying to find a solid path, his boots sinking into mud and water. Bodies lay everywhere, blood mixing with water on the damp ground. The smoke, stink, and damp hampered him, as did the pockets of soldiers that swarmed him, a lone Highlander, and tried to cut him down.
Mal fought with dirk and claymore, diving under the reach of those with pistols and muskets, spinning from bayonet thrusts to sink his dirk into the men trying to kill him. The stink of blood splashing him made him sick, but at the same time awakened the warrior that lurked beneath his surface. Mal knew how to fight and how to live. No heroic and legendary last stands for him.
He’d found no Jacobite company he recognized, no clans he knew, in spite of the pipers still calling to clansmen. Mal didn’t find his own family either, until he broke away from a skirmish to make for an open area of the battlefield.
He saw them to his left, amid smoke and mists floating over the ground. There was Duncan, swinging his deadly sword at a knot of soldiers in red, bellowing as loudly as the duke had ever done. Near him was their father, also with sword and dirk, and Alec, firing a musket into the line. There was no order—they were fighting on their own, as so many were.
Malcolm ran for his father and brothers. Mists flowed up from the damp ground, obscuring his vision. He was aching and tired, his right side stinging where a redcoat had gotten in a lucky jab. His plaids were covered with blood, most of it not his own. His hair, uncovered, was wet, water and sweat dripping into his eyes and smarting.
The mists cleared before him in time for Mal to see Duncan’s body jerk, a spray of red spattering outward from his back. Mal heard Alec’s cry of rage as he sprang in front of Duncan, musket gone and sword raised, as Duncan fell and lay still. Smoke billowed upward, obscuring the scene, but Mal had seen.
A roar worthy of his father surged from Mal’s throat. He rushed through the closing lines, swinging claymore and dirk, cutting through Cumberland’s soldiers between himself and his brother. The men who’d shot Duncan converged on the family, and Mal sprinted toward them, his throat hoarse from his raw shouts.
The duke had gone down on his knees next to Duncan, reaching for his son. Alec stood over them both, sword swinging to defend them.
A musket ball whistled by Mal, missing him by an inch. Mal dove forward, rolling through the mud, and came up at his family’s side. Cumberland’s men, muskets spent, tried to draw sabers, but not quickly enough.
A strange, red rage rose up in Malcolm, one that took over his body and his thoughts. He felt nothing, no pain, no grief, naught but this fury. Mal cut and thrust, knocked weapons from men’s hands, plunged his sword and dirk into flesh. There were five soldiers on him, then four, then three.
Alec was with him, his face set, blades working. Back-to-back the brothers fought, until the remaining men lay dead at their feet.
Malcolm’s breath came back to him with a slap. The battlefield returned to focus, and with it, his family, and Duncan. His brother was dying.
Mal dropped to his knees next to Duncan. At least three musket balls had gone through him, blood soaking through his kilt in a gush of red. Mal’s oldest brother, who’d driven him mad since he could remember, struggled to breathe, blood slipping from his mouth to trickle down his chin.
“Help me with him,” the duke said, looking at Alec. “Angus . . .”
Mal went cold, but Alec didn’t correct him. He only nodded and bent to slip his hands under Duncan.
“Don’t.” Duncan closed a hard hand over Mal’s wrist. There was strength in the grip, though Duncan’s eyes were clouding over, and he couldn’t raise his head. “Don’t drag me off to die in pain waiting for Cumberland’s soldiers to come for me. Give me some peace.”
“We’ll get you to a surgeon,” Alec said quickly. “We’ll nurse ye back t’ health, and ye can snarl at us all while we do it.”
Duncan smiled, and that’s when Mal knew it was too late. “I’m as full of holes as a sieve. Ye can’t put me back together. I’d die of rot and fever, and ye know it. Spare me that, eh?”
The duke brushed Duncan’s hair from his face, stark sorrow in his golden eyes. “I’ll do it. I understand, son.”
Duncan’s hand tightened on Mal’s wrist. “You look after him now,” he said to him. “He needs you.”
A hard lump blocked Mal’s throat. He swallowed, and nodded. “Aye. I will.”
“Thank you.” Duncan kept hold of Mal, but transferred his wavering gaze to his father. “Do it.”
The duke’s face was streaked with tears. There were lines there Mal hadn’t seen before Angus’s death and more gray in the red-brown hair. His father had become an old man in a matter of weeks.
Alec lifted a pistol from his holster and passed it to his father. The duke checked it, making sure it was loaded, the pan primed. This had to be a sure shot, and not leave Duncan alive and in pain, ready to be captured by the enemy.
The duke again brushed his son’s hair from his forehead, taking with it the bonnet and Charles Stuart’s badge of the white rose. He tucked the bonnet under his kilt, and touched Duncan’s face again.
“Good-bye, son.”
Duncan’s smile widened. “Thank ye, Da.”
The duke firmed his mouth, placed the pistol in the center of Duncan’s forehead, and fired.
Duncan’s eyes, which had remained open and fixed on his father, went blank. The hand that had held Mal’s wrist went slack, and dropped.
The duke remained on his knees, the pistol at Duncan’s head. His body began to heave, the sobs that he’d held back rising up to engulf him.
Shouting came at them in waves. Cumberland’s men were returning.
“Dad.” Mal got to his feet, grabbing his father’s arm. “We have to go.”
The duke shook his head. “I can’t leave him.”
Mal felt new strength surge through him. It was as though Duncan had passed the last of his vitality through the conduit of his hand into his brother.
“He told us to look after ye,” Mal said, voice firm. “So we’re looking after ye. They’re coming. We have to go.”
The duke stared down at Duncan, slowly moving the pistol from him. He drew another breath, and Mal saw him deliberately suppress his sobs. He handed the pistol back to Alec, closed Duncan’s eyes, arranged his son’s hands over his chest, and covered him with his plaid.
Alec and Mal helped their father to his feet. Around them the English army surged, determined in this last blow to crush the rebellion forever.
“Come on,” Alec said. “We need t’ hurry.”
The duke nodded. “All right, Angus. Stop fussing.”
Mal and Alec exchanged a glance, pain sharp in Alec’s eyes. He said nothing, only pushed his father into the smoke, away from Duncan’s body.
They didn’t make it out of the field. Soldiers saw them and came for them. Mal had his sword out again, Alec his pistol and dirk. The duke let out a Highland battle scream and ran at them, all his grief in his voice.
The English soldiers fired, bayoneted, drew swords. Alec shot then threw down his pistol, attacking in a flurry of plaid and blades.
The three men fought side by side, ducking blows, raining them down in return. Around them smoke clouded the field, and the stink of shot and the screams of the dying clogging Mal’s senses.
Malcolm saw his father go down, Alec dive on top of him to defend him to the last. Mal leapt for them both, but something caught him on the side of the head.
He spun around, sword and knife flashing. A bayonet came at his chest, and he slammed it away. Another blow to the head, from the back of the musket this time, and Mal fell. His sword, made by one of the best sword masters in Scotland, tumbled from his hand and plunged into the earth, the hilt standing straight up.
This battle has slain Scotland, Malcolm thought dizzily, then something else heavy crashed on him, and everything went blank.
Mary . . .
Mary found Duncan in the middle of the battlefield. Around her, the British soldiers were rounding up the Highlanders with ruthless efficiency, marching them off or simply killing them in place. It was over.
Mary saw one man in plaid struggle to crawl away, to reach the border of the field. A red-coated British infantryman walked up to the Highlander and calmly shot him dead. Mary pulled her plaids more securely around her, turning from the sight.
She’d traveled from Kilmorgan when Ewan, who had come running home from who knew where, told her that Will had gone off to find Mal and drag him to the battle against Cumberland. Will had sent Ewan back to keep Mary informed, and also to take care of her.
Mary put together a small pack of belongings and marched off down the road toward Inverness. She’d not stay in Kilmorgan, wringing her hands and waiting. She wanted to be close as soon as the battle’s outcome was known.
She knew in her heart what it would be. If Malcolm was going to die in defense of his land, she would be there to bring him home.
Mary did not want to take a child into such danger, but Ewan wouldn’t leave her. He had no one but his gran in Edinburgh and Mary, whom he still stubbornly called his captain. He’d followed her from Kilmorgan, and Mary gave up leaving him, not daring to take the time to return him to safety. This afternoon, though, she made sure he stayed in Inverness, away from the fighting.
She heard rumor after rumor as she made her way from Inverness to Culloden House. Charles Stuart had fled the field, running for his life. The British soldiers were pursuing Highlanders down the road to Inverness, and to the forts the Jacobites had taken. Everywhere men were surrendering, or fighting to the last drop of blood. The soldiers had been told to give the Scots no quarter—they were to die, whether they surrendered or not.
Mary avoided any man she’d seen in a British uniform, and even those in Highland dress. Too many Scotsmen had fought for Cumberland for her to simply trust a man in plaid. She hid, putting the lessons Malcolm had taught her to use.
Malcolm. The syllables of his name drove her on. Mary refused to let herself think of his touch in the night, his amber eyes that could flash from anger to sinfulness to laughter, and back to wickedness in a heartbeat. If she existed in anything but numbness, she’d collapse and never rise.
The first Mackenzie she came upon was Duncan. He lay on his back, a plaid covering him, his hands folded over his chest as though he’d been laid out to rest. Bodies lay around Duncan, heaps of plaid unmoving, cloth fluttering in the wind. Mary’s heart squeezed so hard it nearly stopped beating.
So many. Each one could be a Mackenzie, from the duke to Malcolm.
For a long time, Mary only stood and looked at the men around her. They were dead, no movement, blood long since dried. She’d have to go to them, turn them over, see who they were.
Somehow she believed that if she didn’t discover Malcolm dead here, didn’t look into his face and know he breathed no more, he would be all right. So would Alec, and Will, and the duke. If she never looked, they would never be gone. She could go through her life believing they’d survive, were somewhere in the world, lifting a whisky and remembering her.
A man rode across the grass toward her. He wore a surly look, and had his saber out, ready to strike.
Mary pulled the plaid back from her head and gaped at him in shock. At the last minute the cavalryman swerved, lowering his blade, but he swung his horse around and came back to her.
“Clear off, woman!” he yelled. “Or I’ll arrest you as a traitor.”
The man’s accent put him from somewhere in Lincolnshire, the familiar vowels stirring a strange longing. Mary lifted her chin, gazing up at him with all the haughtiness of a peer’s daughter.
“I am Lady Mary Lennox,” she said clearly. “Am I not to be given leave to collect my dead?”
“Not if they were Charlie’s men, ma’am . . . my lady. There’ll be a grave for them, don’t you worry.”
“I am taking this man.” She pointed at Duncan. “Have someone arrange for a litter for me.”
“No, my lady.” The cavalryman wasn’t going to budge. “Now, you have to clear off. The men have orders to finish off anyone in Highlander clothes, and they might not stop themselves running you through until it’s too late. I’d go.”
Mary didn’t move. “A litter, sir, if you please.”
The man growled. “I don’t care if you’re the daughter of his majesty the king. Clear off.” He brought his sword up and pointed the tip directly at her chest.
Hooves rumbled, and another dragoon rode straight at the first one. The cavalryman started, then wheeled his horse as the second dragoon pushed himself between him and Mary.
“Leave her be, Lieutenant,” came the voice of Captain Ellis. “That’s an order. Go!”
The cavalryman looked furious, but he turned his horse and rode away, shaking his head.
Captain Ellis swung to the ground. “Lady Mary, you can’t be here.”
Mary clenched her hands, fighting a shaking that threatened to overwhelm her. “I have to take them home.”
Ellis glanced down at Duncan, recognized him. His jaw tightened. “I’m sorry.”
“Please, let me take him away from here. The duke will want him buried properly. And I have to find the others. Malcolm . . .”
Her voice broke. She could hold her bravado with her enemies—rage saw to that. But Captain Ellis was a friend, and that she feared. If she let down her guard, with it would go her strength.
Captain Ellis came to her. “I’ll see to it,” he said. “I promise you. And I’ll look for the others. But you have to go from here, all right?”
Mary could barely stand. Her eyes burned, the tears refusing to come. “Malcolm. I can’t leave without my husband.”
Ellis’s eyes widened. “He married you?”
Mary tugged off her thick glove enough to show him the gleam of gold on her finger. “Properly. Witnessed and all.”
Something flickered in Ellis’s eyes. His face was drawn, and for a moment, Mary thought he’d turn away and abandon her. Then he gave her a nod, his polite mask coming down.
“I’ll find him.” He brought his horse forward and boosted Mary into its saddle, the strength of his hands a sharp contrast to her shaking body. Ellis signaled to another cavalryman, who rode quickly over.
“This is Lieutenant Carter,” Captain Ellis said. “He’ll look after you. Take Lady Mary back to camp, Carter, and make sure she’s safe. I’ll join you there.”
Lieutenant Carter made her a polite bow from his saddle. He was younger than Ellis, fresh-faced despite his bloodstained uniform and smoke-grimed face. “Yes, sir. My lady?” He turned his horse in such a way that it nudged Ellis’s. Ellis’s horse, well trained, fell into step.
Mary looked back. The lumps of plaid lay unmoving in the middle of Culloden field, left in the care of a British cavalryman, who’d do his best by them.