A MacDonald clansmen guided them. When MacColla had first broached it with James, telling of an unlikely man who knew the lay of the mountains like no other, he had been surprised and amused. What better army than his own, after all, to be led to battle by a poet? Iain Lom MacDonald was a bard of the MacDonalds of Keppoch, and his artistic nature had apparently led him to many a day spent in those very mountains, contemplating the jagged sweep of the land and the vast bowl of the Highland sky.
James sensed a slight alteration to his internal rhythm, and his mind coming back to him, he realized that the men ahead paused slightly before canting to the right and resuming their pace.
As he approached he saw Iain lying in the snow, the man’s face turned to the dawn sky as if to will the sun’s wan light down to warm him.
“Iain, man.” James dropped beside him, the trampled snow crunching beneath his knees. “Are you hurt?” He patted at the man’s ankles and feet. “Cold then, is it?” James blew heat on his hands, then cracked away some of the ice that had frozen his thick beard. “Och, and to think they call you ‘Bald Iain.’ You with hair enough for a shearing.”
Slowly the russet of his beard showed through, and James paused, renegade thoughts of Magda pushing to the front of his mind. Inexplicably, he thought of her dead brother, wondering if he’d had the same red hair as this man before him. And he wondered too if this stranger, who’d forfeited his life to rally under James, was someone’s brother. Or husband.
“Leave me b-b-be,” Iain whispered. He was already covered with a fine dusting of snow, and his lean body chattered, exaggerating the stutter he was known for. He gestured north before dropping his head back to the ground. “I c-can go no f-further. You’ve but to f-follow the northern slopes. The Camerons will see the way. Climb the peak at Meall-an-t’Suidhe. There y-you’ll perch like a gold eagle high above Inverlochy to stalk your prey.”
“You’ll not get poetic with me, lad.” James took the man’s hands and chafed them between his. “Now up with you. Before the blood freezes in your veins.”
“We’ve still s-some distance to go,” Iain said. “Just let me be.”
“I’ll not.” James opened his coat and pulled out a small leather flask that had been kept warm at his side beneath layers of clothing. “We need our bard among us. Who else to sing our praises after the battle, aye?”
Iain’s eyes opened wide, his face frozen in shock. James looked at the container he held, its oblong shape much resembling a powder flask, and he laughed. “Don’t worry lad, I’m not going to shoot you. ’Tis whisky I administer, not gunpowder.”
He unscrewed the brass stopper and tipped it to Iain’s mouth. “Though distillers are known to mix their whisky with gunpowder and set it alight. If the potion explodes they know they’ve made their drink too strong.”
Iain turned his head to the side, sputtering a cough.
“Aye, that’s the way,” James said. “Uisge, the water of life, to warm a man through.” He took a sip and shut his eyes to savor it. “Amber liquid, like a drink from the rising sun.” He tucked the flask back under his vests, quickly rebuttoning his overcoat. “And you’d thought yourself the only poet among us.” He pulled Iain up to sitting.
“You’ll need something to absorb the drink, or it’ll go straight to your blood.” James rifled through his sporran and retrieved a small square containing the last of his dried oats. “I want to warm you, not get you in your cups.”
“B-but what of you?”
“I’ve had my fill. Take it,” he said, wrapping Iain’s hand around the cloth packet. “I’ve choked down my last drammock for a time. Any more oats and I’ll grow a tail like a horse.”
Iain hesitated, but James insisted. “No, we’ll sup well tomorrow. The Camerons will feed us all”—James laughed—“whether the Lochiel likes it or no.”
“But I heard the Cameron laird was captured.”
“A momentary obstacle.” He grabbed Iain’s free hand and hauled him to his feet. “Now off with us, lad. You’re the one who’ll guide us to our triumph.”
Iain seem as buoyed by the newfound hope as by the shared sustenance. James broke into a slow jog, looking behind him to make sure the bard kept up. "Make haste, lad. With the MacColla cutting our trail, I fear we’ll all end up in Ireland.”
They finally arrived after dark on the night of February first. His men were mostly quiet now, ordered to rest a few hours until their dawn attack.
James had made his decision. He would go ahead of the others. To strike Campbell’s camp before rescuing Ewen would be signing the young laird’s death warrant. James himself would go alone, before dawn, and retrieve the Cameron.
He kicked at the ice, studying the dead stumps rotted beneath. It appeared that a small stand of pines had once braved the high altitude, their gnarled roots still clinging tenaciously to the hostile mountainside. James looked around, studying his position. Although the Highlanders claimed to enjoy using the snow as a pillow, James didn’t look askance at warming himself by a small fire. Despite the freezing weather, the run had soaked his shirt through with sweat, and he felt the chill creeping into his muscles. They were high enough above Inverlochy that the smoke wouldn’t betray their location, and he’d do himself the small service of at least melting the ice that had hardened the wool of his trews into a frozen crust.
Will Rollo hadn’t been physically able to march into the mountains, and James was in mind of him now. His friend’s severity always had the ironic effect of putting James into good spirits. But Rollo had been a mix of sadness, regret, envy, and anger at not going into battle with men who’d become like his brothers. Rollo had felt the loss of that fellowship keenly, and he had James’s sympathy because of it.
MacColla, with his boisterous brand of courage and hearty goodwill, had been great solace to him, though. After weeks on the road, MacColla’s black beard had grown full, and with his height and broad shoulders, he seemed like some great, burly bear marching through the snow. It was MacColla who’d lead the charge that day, Irishmen, Camerons, MacDonalds, Stewarts, MacLeans, and more at his back. James hoped to join them all, Ewen Cameron at his side, by the time the battle was under way.
James kicked at the ice again and saw the fuel he needed. He had fashioned a hearth easily enough by loosely arranging stones atop the snow, and collected dead branches enough for kindling. Giving the fire its heart, however, was a problem. Pulling hissgian dubhfrom the cuff of his boot, James scraped into the hardened stump and the smell of pine sap filled his senses; the frozen gold shone dully in the moonlight, thick enough to keep a small fire burning through the night.
He mourned the loss of Magda’s wee red fire starter she called a lighter. It had simply died one day, and she’d insisted there was to be no reviving it.
Hands chapped and frozen, he set to work lighting the fire. He’d had to be creative with tinder, but some woolen lint from the waistband of his trews worked nicely. Pulling a small snuffbox from his sporran, he retrieved a piece of char cloth, one of many squares of scorched black silk that had proven miraculously flammable.
He withdrew his flint from his sporran. The stone glimmered blue black as if it were a piece of the night sky made whole, and James took care not to cut his numbed fingers on its sharp edges. A few strikes of his blade and sparks showered onto the char cloth, which set to glowing and lit the tinder at once. Blowing steady encouragement on the tiny flame, James quickly added small scraps of kindling, and then stacked a careful pyramid of wood on top. He dropped in the slivers of pine sap and a burst of black smoke spewed out. James squatted, warming his hands over a fire set to last for hours.
“That’s a bonny wee blaze you have there.”
