to march under Murray’s leadership, alongside the Mackenzies, Farquarsons, MacDonalds, MacPhersons, Frasers, Camerons, and Appins, their weapons bared. To their rear were the Gordon, Atholl, and Ogilvy clans. All had come dressed in Highland garb, swords gleaming and sharp, muskets loaded—if they had them.
Their caps were adorned with white rosette cockades, pinned to show those loyal to King George just whose side they were on—the Stuarts. Not a Sassenach would get past her nor a traitorous Scot, and none would take her life. That was the vow Jenny had made to herself, no matter how unrealistic the first part might be. She was going to do her damnedest.
The prince had not joined them on the battlefield. He was instead nursing an ague at Bannockburn House with Lady Clementina for company, the woman Jenny had seen beside him when she first met him. Annie had been asked to aid him as well. While he might not be there in the flesh, he was there in spirit. Jenny swore that she’d be among the leaders who presented the victory to him.
Most of her men were on foot, while the rest were on horseback. Being on the frontline, with the English using their cavalry to fight foot soldiers, Jenny and her men would have to rely on the unpredictable tactics they’d practiced.
She was flanked by Toran and Dirk, with Archie at the rear, as though they formed a shield around her. Both Toran and Dirk had fought to stand in front of her, but she’d not let them. She knew what they were up to, not wanting her to be hurt, and she could appreciate that. But she wasn’t going to be the type of leader that stayed hidden in the background.
Most of all, she feared the moment when she finally came face-to-face with her brother. She’d rather face him on Mackintosh lands where the rush of battle made their judgments not about life and death but instead about negotiation. A negotiation that she might be able to swing toward her favor on their own lands with the elders there to back her up.
Boyd, however, she would gladly meet on the field of battle. She was certain that black-hearted bastard would revel at the idea of cutting up Scots.
At last the time came to make their presence known to their enemies. The Scots stepped from the shadows, eight thousand strong, to surprise the Sassenachs on their stolen ground. Flashes of red, gold, and white went by in blurs as the English scrambled to get themselves into place, tossing on coats, pulling on boots, grappling with reins and weapons.
As they stared at the faces of their enemies, their breaths puffs of clouds in the frigid air, thunder rumbled overhead. The skies that had been mostly gray and threatening now unleashed, pelting against their faces. Jenny smiled. This was Highland weather at its finest. If these bastards thought they could simply come onto Scottish soil and steal their holdings, their very lives, then they had better be ready for the Highlanders to steal them back.
The battle was fierce, and throughout the melee, true to their word, Dirk and Toran remained by Jenny’s side, fighting shoulder to shoulder. More than once Jenny raised her father’s sword high, saving one or more of them from English blades. Their enemy fell quickly, none having been ready for the battle—men half-dressed and fighting in bare feet.
As the rain pelted down on them, the English forces broke. Loud cannon fire erupted with the thunder, and the screams of those dying and being torn apart shook the earth. Seeing that they were on the losing end, the English generals called their men to retreat.
The Jacobites gave chase to the retreating English forces, some of the men looting the bodies of the dead loyalists along the way. And it was only belatedly that she noticed Dirk was nowhere to be seen, having joined the men who chased after the retreating rebels, while Jenny and Toran took their contingents to fight the dragoons who remained behind.
“We have to find Dirk and the other men,” Jenny said.
Toran searched the fallen with her for what felt like hours. The ground was littered with men in red coats, some of them reddened by dye and others by death. None were Dirk or any of her men, which relieved Jenny at the same time as it sent a chill down her spine. Pray God none had been taken captive by King George’s men.