“Gillean of the Battle-axe,” Amelia repeated, translating it into words she understoodalltoowellfrom the legendary stories about the Butcher, who was descended from a famous warlord. She removed the shield over her head to examine it more closely and touched the polished oval stone in the center of the circle. It was pure white, with swirling veins of gray.
“It’s a Mullagate,” Beth said.
“It’s very beautiful.” But God help her now.
Beth nodded. “My husband noticed it when hefollowedyou outside. Then he saw the basket-hilted broadsword your Highlander wore—with the tiny hearts engraved in the steel—along with the impressive blackstallionyou claim he toppled off of, and knew it was true. The man in the glade was the Butcher, and you were trying to save him.”
Trying to save him …“Yes,” she replied. “Yes, I must ensure that he lives.”
“But you’re not his beloved,” Beth added. “I know that, too.”
“How can you be so sure?” Amelia surprised even herself with thechallengebehind that question.
Beth’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. “Because his beloved is dead, lass, and from what I’ve heard, the Butcher buried his own heart in the ground with her on the day she died—at least the part of his heart that was capable of love. Now he fights for Scottish freedom. That’sallthat matters to him.
Freedom and justice. Besides,” she added, glancing at her baby asleep in the basket, “you’re English. The Butcher would never give his heart to an Englishwoman. I mean no offense by it. It’s just the way it is.”
Amelia sat back in her chair, shaken by the depth of knowledge this woman possessed about the infamous Butcher—the specific details she knew about his weapons and ancestry and the grief inside him, which motivated him to fight andkill.
“You say he fights for Scottish freedom,” Amelia commented. “But how doeskillingaccomplish anything?”
She thought of her dear father, who had tried to negotiate peaceful y with the Scottish nobles and had succeeded with many who werewillingto lay down their swords and unite with England under one sovereign.
Beth stood up from the table. “Would you like some wine?
I know my fatherwillwant a wee dram if he hears me talking of the past.”
“Yes, thank you,” she replied.
Beth went to the cupboard, retrieved a heavy stone jug, and poured wine into three goblets. She carried one to her father, who accepted it with a shaky nod, then brought the other two to the table.
Beth sat down. “There are many Scots who believe fighting is the only way to preserve our freedom, because many remember a time when negotiations proved futile. Do you not know of Glencoe?”
Amelia shook her head. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“Nay, most of you privileged English ladies wouldn’t be told of such things. I cantellby your accent, lass. You’re no kitchen maid. In any case, it happened back in ’92, likely before you were born. Your King—that usurper,Williamof Orange—gave the clansmen an ultimatum to swear loyalty to his Crown or suffer the consequences and forfeit their lands.
Most of them signed the document, but one of the MacDonald chiefs failed to meet the deadline, and not long after, his clan was massacred. They were taken out into the snow at dawn and shot dead. Few Scots have forgiven the English for that injustice, or theCampbellsfor that matter, because they did the dirty work. And now theCampbellssupport the Hanover succession.” She leaned forward. “So natural y, there are more than a few Highlanders who are itchin’ to pick up a sword or musket and fight for the true Scottish Crown.”
“You are referring to the Stuart succession,” Amelia said.
“Is that why the Jacobites rose up in rebel ion? Because of what happened at Glencoe? I thought it was because they wanted a Catholic on the throne.”
Beth set down her goblet. “Ah, it’s complicated, lass. Too much Scottish blood has beenspilledover the centuries, and that bloodstillflows as thick as ever in the rivers and streams of this country. Weneedto fight,” she explained. “We cannot help it. Our proud Highland men are brave and bold. They have warrior instincts coursing through their blood, and they don’t like torollover for a tyrant.”
“King George is hardly a tyrant,” Amelia argued.
“But your parliament can be,” Beth countered. “I’m not even going to mention Cromwel ,” she whispered, “because if my father hears that name in this house, he’llbe kicking over his chair and swinging his cane, and wanting tofollowyour Butcher out the door in the morning tokilla few redcoats for himself.”
Amelia glanced at the weathered old Highlander, then back at Duncan, who had not yet moved. “Pray God he does wake by morning.”
“Pray God indeed,” Beth said. “Because if he does not, I promise you the clanswillrise up like you never imagined and your precious German kingwillwish he’d never been born.”
Amelia uneasily sipped her wine and ponderedallthat she had just heard. She had not known of the terrible massacre at Glencoe. Clearly, her father had kept that information from her.
To protect her, of course. Because in her world delicate young ladies of a certain sensibility were to be sheltered from such horrors.
She turned her tired eyes toward Duncan and realized yet again that there was much she did not know about this country. Its history and politics were far more complicated than she’d ever imagined, and getting more complicated by the hour.
