He turned to the other men, and they introduced themselves in quick succession: One was a Scotsman with the name Crawford, and the other was the Marquis of Douglas, the only southern noble to join them on the field. They’d been scouring Selkirk for survivors when they were taken by surprise by the handful of Covenanters.
The four men ran in silence from the town, hugging close to buildings to take cover whenever they heard voices. They spoke little as they moved swiftly out into the countryside, sparing their breath for the hard travel.
They’d gone for hours on foot, tracing a path along the banks of the Tweed, when Ogilvy stopped suddenly, his voice breaking the silence. “My luck’s not left me yet.” He cracked another of his cockeyed grins that made it look as if his mouth were too lazy to curve up on both of its sides.
“Oh, you’re lucky, is it?” James looked with amusement at his companion.
“See for yourself.” He nodded toward two saddled ponies grazing well north of Philiphaugh.
“So I see.” James laughed. “Though I’ll wageryourluck was another’s misfortune,” he added, referring to the owners who’d presumably been killed in the battle.
The four men soon found themselves on a hilltop overlooking Peebles. It was a small burgh, whose buildings sprang up from the midst of a lush meadow as if cupped in a great, green palm.
"And this Neil MacLeod is a friend of yours?” James asked the southern nobleman as they studied the distant estate.
“Of true friends, I have few,” Douglas said as he eyed Traquair House. It was a large manse on the outskirts of town, nestled in an idyllic spot among trees and the gentle curve of the River Tweed. "The MacLeod is an acquaintance, and a Highlander at that. I’ve no cause to doubt his allegiance.”
“A Lowlander with Highland acquaintances, I imagine you don’t count many among your allies.” Ogilvy edged closer to the rise, as if the extra inches could help him discern friend from foe. His hair had come loose, and he held the dirty blond mass of it back from his forehead with a blood-crusted hand. “The Laird of Assynt is housed in Peebles?” He rolled on his side to face the other men. "What’s a MacLeod laird doing in a border town?”
“A skeptic, eh?” Crawford had been eager to find safe harbor, and spoke in favor of approaching Traquair House.
“Aye,” Ogilvy said incredulously, “as would you be if you’d had your home burned to the ground by just such a man keeping strange friends in stranger places.”
“What takes him so far south?” James asked, ever on guard.
“When last we met, he claimed to be rallying men for you, James,” Douglas replied.
“But why at Traquair House? The Earl of Traquair is a Stewart, and I’ve yet to glean his true allegiance.” He looked up from the valley to the Lowland nobleman. The resounding defeat at Philiphaugh had the smell of a trap, and it had nagged at James since. He would trust nobody until he could make sense of what treachery might be at work. “Are you certain of his hospitality?”
“Aye,” Douglas replied, “he encouraged me and mine to partake of Traquair hospitality anytime.”
“Truly, James.” Crawford stood and adjusted his breeches and jacket. “The sun sets quickly now and I’d rather not spend one more night under the stars. I’m not so romantic a soul as you.”
It became clear just how vast the mansion was when seen from up close. Its whitewashed stone was an imposing sight, glowing ghostly in the twilight. The façade was riddled with small square windows that emphasized the house’s stout profile.
The MacLeod was a dour man of middle age, and though clearly he’d once been muscular, the skin had already begun to hang slack on his cheeks.
“My friend the Marquis of Douglas assures me we’ve your hospitality, ” James said. “I’m afraid we need to avail ourselves of it, despite the late hour.”
"Och, what do you take me for?” MacLeod snarled, but it was unclear whether it was truly gruff good humor or something else that tempered his voice.
“You,” he said to James, through lips that peeled into a smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “No day passes that I’m not subjected to some tale of your victories. I’d hear tell from your own mouth, Graham. I’d also hear news of Philiphaugh. It seems you were routed without the MacColla to stand with you.”
“Routed we were,” James ventured in an even voice, “but not for want of MacColla, extraordinary soldier though he may be. Leslie discovered our position.” The good humor that usually animated his face hardened, and James’s black eyes flashed a warning. “Almost as though he’d expected us.”
MacLeod laughed then, a spiritless utterance that chilled him. “Come, Graham, we’ve made a poor start of it. Food and whisky will set us to rights. But you men,” he said to James’s companions, “you must be weary from your travels. A maid will settle you in rooms for the night.”
“Where, pray tell, is our host?” Ogilvy asked, not budging.
“Aye,” James added, “I’ve long wanted to meet the Earl of Traquair. I’ve a question to put to him.”
"He’s gone away,” MacLeod said simply. Two maids appeared to hustle the others to their rooms for the night. Ogilvy seemed hesitant to leave, but James dismissed his men with a shrug.
“That’s unfortunate,” James said. “You see, Cromwell and his Parliament and Campbell and his Covenanters all wish to overthrow the king.”
He followed the MacLeod, who strode without pause toward the mansion’s great room. “And yet,” James continued, “Parliament accuses our host of being for the king, while the Royalists believe he’s an enemy.”
James stopped just inside the doorway. Though his tone was cavalier, his words were dangerous. “I’d hear it from the man’s own mouth where his allegiance lies. And that of his friends,” he added, his eyes glittering.
