Stewart. Stewart, not MacDonald; he had denied it at the beginning. Likely of Appin, then; they were nearly as close as Glencoe.

Glencoe.

Cat, still sprawled in muck, looked up sharply. She ignored the Stewart entirely and stared instead at the mounted man, the MacDonald, the laird's son to whom she had been ordered to serve Campbell whisky.

The man beside her stirred. "Christ, Dair, you're white as a corpse-" He forgot her abruptly, swinging toward the horse. "We'll have you down, aye? . . . we'll have you in the house-"

His eyes were the same whisky-gold, she saw, though sheltered in bruised sockets deeper than she recalled. The lean face was thinner, paler, nearly gaunt; a grimy smudge emphasized the hollows beneath sharp cheekbones, the stark contours of his skull. Near-black hair, curling this way and that beneath the fit of his bonnet, was grayer than Cat remembered, speckled more thickly. He had not shaved; dark stubble etched his jaw, proving only the hair on his head was graying to tarnished silver.

"I'll ride on to Glencoe," Alasdair Og said. "There will be warmer welcome there."

"Warmer yet in Castle Stalker, aye? Here-" The Stewart s.n.a.t.c.hed something from a pa.s.sing man, then thrust it toward Dair MacDonald. "Take something to Jean of the Campbells."

In sunlight, it glinted copper. Cat stared, outraged: Even my mother's kettle!

Dair handed down the reins of a riderless horse to the Appin Stewart. "Ride on. My garron's limping a wee bit-I'll catch up."

"But-"

"Ride on. The men are done here."

The voice was precisely as she recalled it, though a trifle frayed around the edges, as if he had spent its timbre on too much shouting.

Cat was aware of kilted clansmen departing the house with plunder stuffed into table linens, tied in bundles onto horses, or swung over plaid-swathed shoulders. One by one they mounted, laughing and jesting, shouting to one another of the booty they had acquired, and turned their garrons toward the track. Eventually even the Stewart, muttering of fools and madmen, departed Glenlyon's dooryard.

Dair MacDonald watched them go, then turned back. His expression was predominantly solemn, but Cat, sitting up in mud and puddles, marked a peculiar set to his mouth, as if there were other words he meant to say but dared say none of them.

Eventually he offered: "If I get down, I willna get up again."

From another man it might const.i.tute apology. But not from a MacDonald, surely; a MacDonald would never dismount to pull a Campbell from the ground. Nor would a Campbell offer the service to a MacDonald. I willna have his hands on me.

Cat felt hollow and filled with light as she stood slowly. Wet breeks stuck to her thighs. Her muck-laden braid glued itself to her neck and shirt; she felt the damp weight of whisky-scented mud stubbling her chin, dribbling slimy wetness down her neck. She put up her dirty chin to ward away mockery, but into her mind leaped a wholly unexpected vision of Lady Glenlyon's French perfume packed neatly away by a girl who did not believe herself worthy of its scent.

A wild laugh bubbled up.-usquabae and horse-p.i.s.s-She gulped a hiccup and bit into her lip, shutting off the impulse. "Go," she said tightly. "Have you no' done enough?"

He ignored her entirely, wholly focused on something else. "Catriona-? Cat?"

Humiliation gagged her. Seven years later he knew her, knew even her name . . . A wail of grief was briefly born, then died in her throat. It was worse, then, far worse. She had expected never to see him again; that he would never see her, all things she could bear, but to know he remembered . . . to know he saw her in such a state as this blunted anger entirely and robbed her even of pride. She bit again deeply into her lip, hoping pain would halt the helpless uprush of tears. Broken fingernails cut crooked crescents into the flesh of slimy palms.

"Cat-" But he broke it off. His mouth worked stiffly, then stilled into a rigid, taut-lipped line. With infinite care he climbed down from his garron.

He said if he got down, he couldna get up again. . . . But he was down, splashing into muck. It slopped across bare feet and ankles, but he did not heed it.

Cat shook back her sticky braid. She expected him to turn away from her, to inspect his mount's sore hoof; it was why he delayed as the others rode away.

But he did not. Instead he held out the kettle.

Cat gazed at him, uncomprehending. When he did not withdraw the kettle or speak again, she ventured to put trembling hands on the dented metal. As their fingertips brushed she jerked the kettle away. She stared hard at the callused male hands, now empty, because she could not look into his face, could not meet his eyes to see the pity there, the compa.s.sion, the comprehension of what she felt. He would know. He would understand. As he had years before.

Cat hugged the battered kettle, willing herself not to cry. She heard him turn away, saw the tarnished glint of silver. He moved stiffly, as if his joints ached. She remembered there had been a battle fought at Killiecrankie; that the Jacobites had won. He and others like him, fighting for King James, had defeated King William's men.

She wanted to ask it aloud: How many men did you kill? But she did not, knowing he would tell her only because she asked; he had proved his honesty seven years before in the name of a laird's boy-faced daughter. A battle was more important. Victory cried out for truth.

Yet he would tell her because she asked, and because it was the truth, not to rejoice in death. She prayed he would not rejoice, or become a lesser man than in the dreams she had created.

He mounted, muttering beneath his breath: "Dinna be a puny calf, Alasdair Og-"-and then he was in the saddle, gray-faced and sweating, gathering reins, settling kilt, plaid, claymore, and targe. His bonnet badge flashed argent in the gilt-and-rose light of fall.

Cat clutched the kettle. As he turned his garron after the others, she saw it did not limp after all.

Wind rustles trees. There is no peat-smoke upon the air, no smell of cooking meat, no odor of frying fish. No odor at all save of trees, of sap, of turf. Nothing at all of people.

The glen remains, girdled by cliffs and peaks, cut through by the river, but no one lives in it despite fertility. The valley is empty of habitation, save for its natural game. Empty of MacDonalds.

She rides unerringly to the house, ignoring the ruins of others. And there she finds identical destruction as well as similar methods: charred timber and broken stone shattered by the heat, collapsed roof slates. Wind has scoured the ruins free of ash, so that only the stark timbers remain thrusting impudently skyward, fallen into a tangle like a handful of dropped kindling.

Nothing remains to mark human habitation. No sc.r.a.p of cloth, no pewter plate, no perfume brought from France. Only the detritus of ma.s.sacre, of fire and plunder, and the flowers of late spring breaking up through blackened soil.

Part III.

1691.

One.

The road existed because of cows; there were ways held in common with other clans of driving cattle to and from pasturage, and later on to market. This road was one of them, a hoof-beaten, rock-strewn track wider than a deer trail but little better, and certainly no cobbled road like the Romans had built in the land of the Sa.s.senach. But road it was nonetheless, hedged by granite, heather, and bracken, cutting across the mountain fastness warding the northern side of Glencoe.

Glencoe MacDonalds had come up the drove-road to see the English-speakers who, with their Lowland lapdogs, dared to come into the Highlands to set up housekeeping. There had been rumors of it since Killiecrankie, but now rumor was fact. At the behest of General Sir Hugh Mackay, who had lost Killiecrankie-and others who hated Highlanders-King William had given permission to build a fort near Inverlochy. Its placement clearly was deliberate: on a narrow spit of land beside the River Nevis, in the shadow of the mount, where once stood Gearasdan dubh nan Inbhir-Lochaidh, the Black Garrison. There were memories attached, and MacIain of Glencoe, accompanied by his sons and a small tail of men, said he should not doubt the recollections were stirred of a purpose.

The fort was as yet unfinished, though it neared completion. The ramparts of earth, stone, and timber stood firm, setting up a formidable barricade against the enemy. Inside stood crude-built buildings for the housing of ammunition, stores, and officers. Outside huddled a cl.u.s.ter of canvas tents, and the haphazard beginnings of peat huts far more crudely constructed than the shielings that housed the clans during summer. The common man gone for a soldier, wintering in hut instead of house, was less well off than the poorest Highlander.

The MacDonalds did not attempt to hide themselves from view. MacIain and his sons stood upon the crown of the hill looking down upon the fort, and let the men working there see who and where they were. There would be no fighting; there was at present no battle intended, nor even a skirmish, merely reconnaissance. They took the measure of one another.

MacIain's white hair blew in the breeze that crested the hill and set the bracken to waving. He had brought with him, by habit, an a.s.sortment of weapons, including claymore and blunderbuss, though he let those below at the fort see he had men to carry such arms for him, and a gillie to carry him across each stream so as to keep his brogues dry: he was a Highland chieftain.

Dair and John stood together, making independent count of the red-backed Sa.s.senachs. It was early yet; there would be more men to come. Their task, then, was to make the coming dreaded by those men; to make the living so difficult-or even impossible-that no matter how many soldiers were garrisoned at the fort, they would find food less than plentiful and supplies such as clothing and other simple plenishings-pots, kettles, even spoons-nonexistent. It was a simple task: to fall upon supply trains wending from Atholl and Badenoch, taking such supplies as they could carry away. Glencoe would profit from it, while the Sa.s.senachs did not.

MacIain's voice rumbled, though he spoke quietly. "They'll send out patrols to drive us away so they forage for food in peace. Thinking to be clever, they'll send out Scots levies . . . well, we're no' fools, are we, to let even another Scotsman take what belongs to Glencoe." His eyes burned like a banked peat-fire in withered, deep sockets. "We'll take the cows away."

Dair nodded, half-smiling. It was a simple and bloodless solution. Even with protection the soldiers dared not wander too far from the fort for fear of clan reprisal, and those who did would find there was little food to be had. A lack of cattle combined with diverted supply trains would soon combine to demoralize the hungry army. They would turn elsewhere, of course-likely to supply ships coming up Loch Linnhe-but those schemes would take time to implement. The Lowland government would initially delay turning to the sea out of pride and stubborn resolve, and by the time supplies were sent by ship the army garrison would be sick and half-starved.

Dair picked from his eye a windblown lock of hair. Starving men dinna fight so well . . . A movement from MacIain caught his attention. His father took from his jacket pocket a tarnished, battered spygla.s.s brought home from France one year. MacIain raised it to an eye and peered down upon the fort.

When he took it away he was smiling sweet as a babe. " 'Tis as I thought," he said, tucking the gla.s.s away. "They've a graveyard begun already."

English-born Colonel John Hill, former Constable of Belfast and now Their Majesties' Governor of the fort near Inverlochy but newly named after its Dutch-born king, stood before the gates and stared up at the granite-crowned hills. Behind the rocky crest bloomed a lowering sun, but the silhouettes were eloquent enough for a man such as Hill, who understood what a fort meant to the way of life most jeopardized by its presence. There were Highlanders up there, he knew, because he had been told so by a near-panicked English soldier; undoubtedly they were MacDonalds, and fully antic.i.p.ated by anyone with wit enough to acknowledge the Highlanders would take a pointed and wholly natural interest in Fort William's construction.

Beside him, General Sir Hugh Mackay stirred. "I should take a patrol up there to send them scrambling back to their hovels."

Governor Hill did not acknowledge the comment, though he could not help a brief twitch at the corner of his mouth. He understood very well that Mackay's pride yet stung from his defeat at Killiecrankie, but Hill knew just such a patrol would win the king's general no sop to that pride; in fact, he would encounter an additional defeat. At home in their heather, hills, and crags, the clansmen would not be beaten by hungry, ill-clad soldiers more interested in food than in killing or catching a Scot.

"They've come to watch, no more," Hill said quietly. "We would do well to accustom ourselves to the glint of their steel and the sett of their tartan; we'll see them all through summer."

Mackay's sour mouth was grimly set. "We waste time. Breadalbane's scheming will accomplish naught; you should burn the houses, lift the cattle, and destroy all their crops."

Governor Hill did not answer. He had an entirely different opinion of the Campbell earl, whom he believed to be a man singularly dedicated to seizing the main chance for himself. For now Breadalbane spoke of treaties and peace; but Hill had heard rumors that from the other side of his mouth the earl, a Highlander himself, whispered of war to the chiefs.

"It will be left to you," Mackay said. " 'Twill be your task to bring the Highlanders to heel; the king has defeated the Irish at the River Boyne, but now there is another threat. A French fleet lies of Beachy Head and may invade . . . 'tis time I saw to soldiering instead of building forts."

Hill would not be sorry to see Mackay go, though he murmured his regrets. Mackay was a Scot, but his long years of service abroad in the Scottish Brigade had painted over his nationalism with a more lurid dedication to William of Orange. He held his fellow Scot in contempt, while Hill admired the Highlander's fiery pride and virulent traditionalist's culture.

"If it be within my power to persuade the government to send me the meat they promised, as well as other necessities such as beds, of which we yet have none, I shall be content to do as I may here," Hill said. "But leave me English in place of Scots, and all shall be well."

"No." Mackay shook his head. "You will have companies from Clan Grant and Clan Menzies-and four companies of Campbells from the Earl of Argyll's regiment."

Hill felt a twinge of uneasiness. "This is MacDonald country. To invite Campbells here-"

"This is land belonging to whoever is able to hold it," Mackay interrupted disagreeably. "Across the loch are Camerons and Macleans; to the east lie Murrays and Menzies, with the Hendersons closer yet. And Campbells." He glared up at the hill crowned with MacDonald tartan, sparking MacDonald steel. "They are cattle thieves, no more; let them all be hanged."

Hill, no longer young, was decidedly nearsighted; he could not see the steel. But he knew it was there. Mildly he said, "If you hang a man for lifting cattle, you will have to hang half of Scotland."

Mackay turned a congested face upon him. "I am a soldier! I know my duty!"

Hill did not dispute Mackay's choler; he did not blame the man for his frustrations. "Indeed, our duty is to the king . . . but just now a plan for peace prevails in place of force."

"Peace," Mackay muttered. " 'Twill delay the only means for subduing these savages."

"I have had some experience of men such as these," Hill began diffidently; he was not a man who sought confrontation or bombast. "A man keeping in his mind that these Highlanders are at once a proud and honorable people, but wholly reasonable when the way seems clear, can often persuade them to sheathe their claymores and set aside their targes."

"They are savages!"

"Savage in battle, savage in pride and honor; indeed, they are men apart from all, save the Irish, who are similar." The governor smiled; he had reason to know the Irish, after service in Belfast. "But there is kindness in them, given leave to show it." He squinted up at the man-shaped silhouettes cl.u.s.tered on the hilltop. "It is my task to present them with presence; with the promise of strength. They will respect that."

Mackay glared at him. "Is that what you will do? Promise them kindness?"

"Honor," Hill replied simply. "If you hold them in contempt, that is what you yourself shall reap."

General Sir Hugh Mackay of Scourie, defeated by the 'savages' now watching him from the hills, barked a derisive laugh. "And how will honor succeed where military strength has not?"

Hill smiled gently; he did not wish to offend the general, who remained in William's favor, but neither did he desire the man to consider the fort's governor incapable of grasping even rudimentary procedures. "I have promises of John Stewart of Ardshiel, close-linked to Appin's laird, that he and others like him will not protest my governorship with a show of arms. I have promises of Coll MacDonald of Keppoch that he and Ewan Cameron of Lochiel may yet be moved to persuade other clans not to rise, if-in his words-'they can be made to live.' "

" 'Made to live?' Bribed, you mean." Mackay's mouth knotted beneath his nose. "A dishonorable way of winning a war . . . and I'd trust no Highlander to respect his promise!"

Hill sighed inwardly, though he maintained an even tone. "If I can save the life of a single man, be he Sa.s.senach or Highlander, I will praise G.o.d for the chance."

It brought hot color to Mackay's face again. He muttered imprecations beneath his breath as he swung away. "I have duties to attend!"

Hill felt a sense of relief as the general stomped off. He prayed nightly for peace, knowing its path was thick with human obstacles such as Hugh Mackay and John Dalrymple, Master of Stair-now also Secretary of Scotland-who advocated main force. But it was because of men like Mackay and Stair that an old campaigner such as John Hill was made governor, whom they believed could use his experience in the easing of Jacobites from freedom to subjugation.

"Ease it I will, in the true sense of the word, if they give me leave to do so." Hill shielded his eyes from the glare of the setting sun. There were men of the clans he trusted to hold their word if not shown another way as honorable. But a Highlander equated oaths and promises with a system of honor not wholly comprehended by Sa.s.senachs. If one laird stood up to the rest and persuaded them that to tolerate William was to dishonor James, their rightful monarch, all of Hill's careful plans could collapse in disarray.

"One man," he murmured. "One old fox, such as MacIain of Glencoe, could bring down everything."

Breadalbane had lost Achhallader to the MacDonalds on their way home from Killiecrankie; therefore, the earl, possessor of many fine castles, took up residence in Kilchurn on the sh.o.r.e of Loch Awe and immediately set about repairing damages to his reputation.

A knock sounded at the door of his private study. Breadalbane sanded his signature at the bottom of the newly completed letter, then set it aside as he called for entrance.

It was not his gillie, Sandy, whom the earl expected, but his eldest son, Duncan, whom he did not like, had never liked, and did not desire to inherit; but short of pet.i.tioning the king to have Duncan set aside in favor of John, his second son, there was little he could do.

Breadalbane could not suppress a twinge of displeasure, though no guilt accompanied it. "Aye?"

Duncan Campbell was a thin, slight young man narrow through the shoulders, with long, ill-fleshed limbs. The neck separating head from shoulders was short, and the skull perched atop it a trifle too large, Breadalbane felt, for ordinary proportions. Duncan's coloring was sallow, his hair more brown than fair, but with no life in it to lift it from his scalp.

John should be in his place. "Aye?" he repeated.

Duncan Campbell shut the door behind him. He did not approach his father. "I've a thing to say."

"You've many things to say," his father observed, "but I've never known any of them to be worth my effort to hear them."

Dull color flushed the sallow, sensitive features. The eyes were brown, but so dark as to be indistinguishable between pupil and iris. "I wish to be married."

It was astounding news, though Breadalbane did not permit his surprise to alter the austerity of his expression. "Do you?"

"I do."

"And is this notion something that occurred last night over a dram of whisky, in some harlot's bed-or something someone else has put into your head?" There were men who would, the earl knew, seeking preferment through their daughters.

Duncan did not color up well. His sallow complexion darkened perceptibly, but in a complex network of splotches altogether displeasing. " 'Tis something I've been considering-"

"Considering!"

"-for some time," he finished stolidly.

"Ah." Trust Duncan to look to himself rather than to his father's counsel; John knew better. "And have you chosen a woman? Or have you no' got so far?"

"Far enough," Duncan countered, grimly implacable. "Her name is Marjorie."

"And is Marjorie a Campbell?"

Surprise flickered in Duncan's expression; he had not the imagination to entertain the idea that women of other clans might be potential wives. "Aye, Marjorie Campbell. Of Lawers."

Breadalbane snorted. " 'Twas her idea, was it?"