“I know of but one man lost,” Rollo said, riding up from behind. “One man for one thousand Covenanters.”
“Extraordinary,” James murmured as he took in the devastation around him.
“I’ll get you a full accounting by day’s end.”
“Aye, do that. And where has Sibbald got to?”
"He took himself one of those Covenanter ponies,” MacColla said. He looked around the field as if struck by possibility of procuring his own spoils. “It looked to me like the old man rode east.”
“To Perth?” James pulled off his bonnet and shook the sweat from his head.
MacColla merely shrugged.
“Rollo,” James said, “we need to arrange a quick surrender with Perth. I’d not have it suffer the same plundering as Aberdeen.”
“I understand.” If they were to avoid the plundering that could happen after battle, they needed to broker the town’s surrender as soon as possible. Rollo turned his mount and was off at once, his horse picking a tentative path through the carnage.
“Aye, and the Irish were shocked that our James is no blustering bonnet-laird!” MacColla leaned over and clapped James hard on the shoulder for what must have been the twentieth time that evening. The man was built like an ox, and James thought sure he’d have a bruise by night’s end.
Young Alexander Robertson and his family hosted a celebratory dinner for them, seating James in an honored place at one end of the table, with Magda and MacColla sitting to either side. He was becoming quite fond of MacColla and his bluster, though the man did have a startlingly vicious streak in battle that James thought he’d best keep an eye on.
They dined in Blair Castle, and James found the Great Hall a warm welcome indeed. The room was simple but gracious, with high ceilings and a fire roaring in the hearth. Sconces and candelabra chased the gloom from the hall and filled it with a warm golden light.
“Why, James can’t be called a bonnet-laird what with all the Graham landholdings.” Alexander placed his cutlery down, contemplating the issue in earnest. Though already named chief of his clan, he was a young fourteen and his title was more honorific than realistic as yet.
"No, lad,” Rollo said. "I think the MacColla’s meaning has more to do with James’s battle courage and acumen.” Rollo’s usually hard-edged voice was kind, and belied the great pain he must have been enduring. James knew at what cost his friend sat a saddle for the day, and a number of times he’d caught Rollo pounding the feeling back into his rigid, bent legs.
"Aye, but I curse the Campbell.” MacColla slammed his fist on the table. “The rogue was too much of a coward to face us himself.”
“I’ve a feeling he’ll not let this day stand.” James poured himself another glass of Bordeaux. “Bide your time, friend. You’ll get your chance at revenge against the Campbell.”
The glee that had suffused James was subsiding, and he grew thoughtful. They’d only lost one man to the Covenanters’ thousand. It was the first time he’d seen a Highland charge in action and he was awed. And sobered.
“Over a thousand dead,” Alexander marveled, as if reading James’s mind. “Never before have so many fled from so few.”
“Wise words from a young mouth, lad.” James raised his glass in a toast. “You’ll make a fine chief.”
As the dinner guests began to disperse, James once again addressed his young host. “I’ve a gift for you, Alexander.”
James walked to the corner of the hall and retrieved his musket from the shadows. “I owe you a great debt for the hospitality you’ve shown us. I find this is no longer of any use to me,” he said, and holding the barrel pointed toward himself, James handed him the gun.
The boy merely looked at him, incredulous.
“Aye.” James smiled. “My bullets are spent, lad. I’ve my broadsword, and that will more than suffice.”
Alexander took the musket gingerly into his hands. The butt of the rifle was made of wood the color of cocoa that James had polished to a fine patina, and it was short compared to the barrel, which swept forward in a thin, elegant line. Other men in his acquaintance coveted firearms with elaborate carvings or even ivory inlay, but James prized simplicity in a weapon, and his plain iron matchlock was polished to a bright silver sheen.
“Use it well, lad.” James smiled. Alexander beamed in reply, moved by the gift. “I’m taking our fight deeper into the Highlands,” James said. “It’s the weapon of a Highlander I’ll use now.”
James leaned down and traced his fingers through the water. “Touch it,” he told her.
“I’d rather not.”
Magda had been out of her mind with fear during his battle, and she was left uncharacteristically prickly the next day. It had all been so loud— louder than she could’ve ever imagined— with those godforsaken bagpipes keening all the while, making her think she’d tear her hair out. Not knowing, amidst the distant shots and screams, if James lived or died. And the only thing she’d been able to see on the horizon was a thick cloud of gray smoke hanging like an evil portent over the battlefield.
She’d been unable to relax, or even speak, through dinner, alternating between utter euphoria over James’s safe return and bitter resentment over her decision to commit herself to this life of dangerous uncertainty.
He had been eager to lie with her that night, but Magda couldn’t shake clear the anxiety, confusion, and fear that fogged her. So, he had woken her early the following morning and, with a wicked glint in his eye, had spirited her away for a long ride in the countryside. When they’d reached their destination, the sight of Loch Tay glimmering before her hadn’t done much to soothe her nerves, and she wondered what James had been thinking to bring her to a lake, of all things.
