“Aye, and a bonny morning to you too, Uncle. ” Ewen flashed a smile at Donald. He well knew his uncle ’s querulous temperament and had expected that a meeting with the new leader of Cromwell’s army would not sit well with the old warrior.
He prized his uncle ’s bravery and knowledge—the man had been invaluable in Ewen’s early days as laird—so he often gave Donald great latitude in any disputes.
Donald continued, undaunted by Ewen’s attempt at humor, “The man’s a murderer who’s spilt the blood of your kin. It was you who delivered more than a score of Cameron men to the Earl of Glencairn to rise against these Commonwealth whoresons, or have you forgotten so soon? He’s a devil, that man is, that’s why they wear those red tails on their coats. ”
“My uncle you may be, but you ’re not the laird. Sir. ” A roguish gleam in Ewen ’s eye kept the potentially volatile exchange light. “I’ll never forget the destruction he and his bloody British footmen have wreaked on Highland soil. We both of us regret we weren ’t at the Battle of Worcester when so many Scotsmen fell, or have you forgotten so soon?”
“General Monk, och. ” Donald spat in disgust. “The man’s not honorable. I vow lad, I’ll redress not being by my brothers’ sides at Worcester. ” His voice boomed with growing zealousness, echoing down the empty stone hall.
“Damnable Monk. He ’s slow as an old merchant galley, blowing where the wind may, aye? Leaving orphans and widows in his wake. They who’ve luck enough to be counted among the living, that is. ”
“Uncle, respectfully. ” Ewen halted and turned, gritting his teeth so as not to lose patience with the irascible older man. “I am Lochiel, aye? And as such, I have to do what ’s best for the whole clan. A laggard and a scoundrel General Monk might be, but he ’s asked for an audience and I will hear what he’s about.”
“Och, if he doesn ’t stab you in the back first, ” Donald muttered under his breath.
“Aye, in my head, the man ’s no better than a common reiver, but if treating with him could mean peace for the Highlands, then so I shall. ”
After a moment, Donald gave a brisk nod. His scarred face cracked into a snarl that would look much more like the smile it was were it not missing a couple of teeth. “I suppose you have the right of it, lad. ” Not used to such an outburst of emotion, Donald’s usually surly mien returned.
“But the moment Monk shows his true colors, I ’ll spill his blood myself, aye?”
“Fine, uncle. ” Ewen clapped his hand on the other man ’s back. “Now can we be off, or are there other theatrics you ’d have off your chest first?”
Donald was still shaking his head when they approached the courtyard where stable boys awaited them, holding the reins to three mounts. The laird prided himself on his ability with horses and although his stallion wasn ’t exactly easy on the eyes, he was the soundest and most courageous warhorse he had ever ridden. Ares was almost completely black but for one red sock on his right hind leg. It was the color of spilt blood, and Ewen had always felt it an auspicious mark for a battle horse. Ares ’s nose was thick and blunt and covered with numerous spidery black scars, shining dully, artifacts of battles past.
By the time Ewen and his companions crested the final hill revealing Loch Garry and the rugged countryside below there were but a few hours of daylight left. The loch itself was small compared to others in the Highlands, but the view was dramatic nonetheless. The water, silver in the late afternoon light, snaked a path through countryside rough with clumps of shrubbery and thin evergreens that spiked the horizon. The low, rugged peaks of Knoydart held silent vigil in the distance, seeming all the more barren for the dense gray mist that shrouded them.
Ewen stopped, frowning. He had observed large groups of fighting men before, but the assemblage gathered in the glen below made him deeply uneasy. He had led many skirmishes in his life, fighting side by side with men of his clan or those who counted themselves allies, and they were always a reassuringly motley bunch. The larger battles against the redcoats had always been a patchwork of tartans in all colors and combinations.
Scots, both young and old, armed with musket, broadsword, pike, or bow and arrow counted themselves among his people ’s fighting men. Some came astride horse, others on foot. Grooming varied wildly, with some wearing crisp linen shirts and fine woolen jackets and trews, their hair well combed underneath their bonnets. Others appeared more savage, racing into battle on foot, untamed hair flying. Ewen always favored his tartan, a distinctive red and green plaid that he wore with fierce pride.
Looking now at the valley below them, though, made his blood run cold. Not for fear of the redcoats ’ fighting prowess, for Ewen had bested more than a few British regiments in his tenure as laird. What he found disturbing was the sight of this well- oiled machine made up of anonymous boys in red. They were overdressed and undertrained, bearing firearms that proved suicidally slow to reload when faced with a raging Highland broadsword and targe. Who were these young men who sacrificed everything, wielded as tools by British generals, to be used then discarded? To be a Highlander was to be a warrior, but that was also synonymous with clan and country, a proud and noble identity that any man would willingly give his life for. But these boys in their snow-white shirts and breeches, did they know what they fought for?
Ewen hoped he came that day to wage peace with Cromwell’s own General Monk. It wasn ’t that he feared battle. There had been many a time in the midst of a skirmish when Ewen had said a prayer—not for courage, but rather to beg God ’s forgiveness, for he went to the field not just willingly, but with a zealous thirst for the fight, to see injustices that had been done to his people avenged one hundredfold.
What he did fear more than any battle was something he knew deep in his bones: no matter what passed that day, the fighting would persist. More Highland blood would be spilt, more Highland cattle and lands raided and ravaged, and more politicking by men like Monk would continue to define the fates of boys taken from their mothers to face death, be it wearing tartan or a coat of red.
And, Ewen thought, God help him but he would be there on the front lines, ecstatic battle rage writ clear on his face, claymore brutally cutting down any who stood against his Highlands.
“Aye. ” Ewen’s voice came out as a deep growl. “It’s time then. ”
“And which do you suppose might be the good general ’s tent?” The laird’s foster brother, Robert, rode up beside him and eased the tension with apt sarcasm, uncharacteristic for the quietly bookish young man. Compared to the meager furnishings of the rest of the camp, General Monk’s tent stood out as nothing short of a spectacle. Tall enough to accommodate a dozen standing men, it was made of fine linen cloth, soaked in paraffin to repel the Highland mist and rain. A large flap extended from the roof and was braced above the ground to create a covered entryway where Monk or his guard could stand untouched by the elements.
Ewen and his men tethered their mounts and descended into the valley encampment, drawing more than a few stares from the young redcoats doing what it was soldiers do: polishing guns, stoking cooking fires, or just sitting about in circles, drawing deeply from battered metal cups that were almost certainly filled with some sort of alcohol. Wood smoke hung thick and gray in the air, but it couldn’t banish the unmistakable smell of hundreds of men living together in close quarters. The soldiers made do with small tents arranged in tight rows, their once-stiff duck cloth now limp, mottled with spattered mud and mildew from the inexorable Highland drizzle.
By this time, most eyes were on the Camerons as they wound through the camp. The laird purposely led them on a meandering route in order to get as good a look as possible at how his enemy was encamped. He was pensive. Not seeming to notice the stares of the redcoats, Ewen distractedly worried a small stick, slowly snapping off twigs and leaves, appearing lost in his own distant thoughts, although those close to him knew that not one detail of the camp was lost on him.
A guard was posted outside Monk’s tent. He was busily absorbed in an afternoon nap, eyes partially hidden by his wig, knocked askance by his bobbing head.
The laird pressed his stick into the flesh of the sleeping redcoat’s neck. “I ’m glad you find the accommodations comfortable, ” he said in a mischievous whisper as the soldier’s eyes shot open. The man ’s ruddy cheeks quivered as he stammered “Wha—? P-please don’t hurt me, sir. Wh -what do you want?”
“We ’re here to see the general. ” Ewen flung his stick aside and stepped forward to open the thin curtain that concealed the entrance to the tent. He glanced at the sentry. “I assume he ’s in here. ” It was an announcement, not a question.
The soldier’s face paled and Ewen turned to see a stoutly regal figure now looming in the entrance. “What is the meaning of this?” The man directed his question to the guard, not even acknowledging the presence of the Camerons. The soldier was now standing. One of his buttons had come undone during his nap, creating a yawning gap in the too-tight red coat that strained over his belly.
“General Monk, I presume?”
The man answered with the merest of nods.