Chapter 1
"That from and after the First Day of August 1747, no man or boy within that part of Great Britain called Scotland, other than such as shall be employed as Officers and Soldiers of His Majesty's Forces, shall on any pretext whatsoever, wear or put on the clothes, commonly called Highland clothes (that is to say) the Plaid, Philabeg, or little kilt, Trowes, Shoulder-Belts, or any part whatever of what peculiarly belongs to the Highland Garb; and that no tartan or party-coloured plaid or stuff shall be used for Great coats or upper coats, and if any such person shall presume after the first said day of August, to wear or put on the aforesaid garments or any part of them, every person so offending.... shall be liable to be transported to any of His Majesty's plantations beyond the seas, there to remain for the space of seven years."
Robert reached out, took hold of the parchment tacked onto the wall of the wayside house and tore it away. “Damned Sassies,” he muttered.
“What’s that mean, Robbie?” Duncan asked, “Are we supposed to amble home bare-scud, nothing twix me an’ me lads but the wind?”
“Look, Dunc,” Robert growled, crumpling the proclamation in his fist, “Charlie’s hightailing his pretty arse into the heather, leaving you and me to fend for ourselves. No jobby sassy’s going tell me or mine we can’t wear the plaid any more than he’s going get a Donald to wed a Campbell.”
Duncan, a member of said Donald clan growled, “Aye, that be true.”
Robert looked up at the Inn’s sign, swinging in the breeze. “Sard, but I need a drink.”
Both Robert and Duncan towered over the average folk trudging about the village of Dalvourn, a tiny spot nestled into the moors southeast of Inverness. Many of the townsfolk bore the look of the people who lived in the region centuries ago when the Norsemen first arrived, a smaller, slightly darker type than the blue-eyed giants in their longboats.
Being Highlanders, both men wore their wealth, and their weapons, as well as the tartan of their clan. A silver button here and there, a jewel set into the pommel of a dirk, a claymore or the sgian-dubh, the black knife, tucked into hose or hidden beneath an arm. The pattern on the plaid was dark, carrying with it the colors found in the heather-covered moors and hills of the highlands. Secured with a heavy belt, their kilts hung to just the knees and the broad sash was secured with a large broach of embossed silver showing the thistle of Scotland. Duncan carried a ridiculously large-bladed half-moon ax as well as a pair of dirks set into a harness on his back. Robert, slightly taller but not as massive through the back and shoulders as his friend, bore one of the Scottish greatswords on his back and a full brace of knives on his belt, running back from both sides of his sporran. Both of his hosen showed the bulge of a black knife.
Duncan had the reddish blonde hair associated with his Norse heritage while Robert’s hair was black and had a slight wave. Both Highlanders’ eyes were a deep sapphire blue.
As they pushed through the door to the inn, ducking to avoid running into the heavy black beams of the low ceiling, Robert roared out, “Ale! Or by God, I’ll find it myself!”
Almost all of the tables in the Inn’s room were occupied and the combined scents of sweat, bad breath, and poor cooking filled the air. The Innkeeper, a fat man with too many chins and too little hair bobbled from behind his counter and leaped for the large barrel behind him, pitcher in hand.
Duncan pushed past a diner busy with bread and stew, saying, “I’ll be needing a bite or two along with that drink, pubkeep.”
Stammering yessirs and apologies, the nervous innkeeper filled the pitcher as he ordered a woman, possibly a wife or daughter, to get the food.
Seeing that the two clansmen were only interested in much the same as they were, the rest of the Inn’s patrons went back to minding their own affairs. Shortly, both Robert and Duncan were served, after Robert asked the two villagers at a nearby table if they might not be more comfortable joining some of their friends.
Duncan dipped a chunk of the coarse dark bread into his stew and took a huge bite. From around the mouthful, he remarked, “I like this place. The people are nice and polite.”
“Aye,” Robert said, draining off most of his ale in one pull and then reaching for the pitcher, “That they are.”
They sat there for a while, silently eating and drinking and then Robert said, “Dunc, can I ask ye something?”
Duncan, his mouth still full nodded and said, “Umhmph.”
Robert nodded back and then asked, “What happened? Why’d we lose?”
“Ah,” Duncan said, after swallowing and washing down the last bit of stew with his own long pull. “Robbie, lad. You an’ me, we was having a grand time, loping heads and making new holes for them English asses, but we was outnumbered, laddie. You dinna see the sort young Charlie had about him? Pensioners and babies man! An’ them outnumbered ten to one. A hope in hell, we didn’t have, not one. That’s what happened, an’ now we’ve got them bloody lobsters marching about telling good folk how to dress.”
Robert grunted and signaled for a fresh pitcher.
As the innkeeper was working the spigot, the door to the inn opened, letting in a trio of English soldiers.
Robert saw them, growled an obscenity and began to push himself up from the table.
Duncan reached out, and with a steady, gentle but irresistible pressure, forced his friend back down. “Ah ah, Robbie. The last thing we need is to be chased through the moors by them fanny baws an’ their friends.”
Robert gave the soldiers one last glare and then nodded and settled back into place. “Aye,” he grumbled, “You’re probably right.”
“Well, what do we have here,” a high-pitched voice called out, “A couple of Porridge dribblers. My, my, don’t they ever throw out the trash in this horrid country?
Robert growled again and this time Duncan was unable to keep him seated.
“The only trash I’m smelling sassy is what just walked in,” he grated.
The two redcoats with the one who spoke up scowled and muttered at their friend. He brushed off an imaginary speck of dirt and replied, “Oh, look, some of them have actually been trained to mimic speech. Isn’t that marvelous!”
The trio snickered and chuckled, enjoying the insult.
One of the others added, “Seems to me they lost their manners with their country. The only thing I’ve seen around this kennel that’s accommodating are the bitches these dogs run with.”
Duncan put a hand on Robert’s arm as the latter was reaching for the pommel of his sword. “Ease up, Robbie, that thing’s too long to be swinging it in here, ye’ll like as not twain the pupkeep as anything, an’ I’ll be wanting a refill.”
He stood up, eased the ax in its sling and worked his way through the tables toward the redcoats. Stopping just an arm’s length from the young men, he pointed back to his friend, “Laddie, me and Robbie here were there with mostly old men and boys and even then the only reason you whallupers won is you outnumbered us ten to one, and most of them wasn’t much of a fight. Now, iffn you want a bit of a tussle, me an’ Robbie is only too happy to accommodate, but I only see three of ya. Calling our lassies bitches is calling for blood, but seeing I’m a peaceable man, I’ll give ya a chance to apologize. Now,” he leaned in, “Do you care to rephrase that?”
The redcoat officer who’d spoken first blanched white with rage and drew his sword, a thin-bladed weapon meant for dueling. Snarling a curse he swung it at Duncan’s head.
The large Highlander hadn’t moved once he started talking and both of his hands remained rested on his belt. As the redcoat swung his blade, Duncan’s right hand blurred and then a clanging snap sounded through the inn’s room. The redcoat yelped and fell back holding his hand, his sword lay in two pieces on the inn’s floor.
“Ya daft bampot,” Duncan muttered, “Only a whallupin’ redcoat’d bring a sword to an ax fight.”
“I’ll be having that apology, now,” Robert said, looming up from behind Duncan.
Two of the redcoats mumbled something under their breath.
Duncan reached out, took the one who seemed their leader by the front of his coat and lifted him off the floor with one hand, “What was that sassy? I dinna hear ye quite clear.”
Behind him came the silken song of the great sword being drawn. Robert’s answering growl had death dripping from each word, “Leave off Dunc, they’re not worth teaching.”
Duncan shook the Redcoat as if he was an ill-mannered dog, “Now look what ye done, he’s lost his temper an’ spoiled me supper. Iffn you lot is still here by the time I’ve counted to five, I’ll be leaving you to his tender mercies.”
He dropped the nearly babbling officer, who fell to the floor, a dark stain spreading across the front of his white trousers.
Robert snarled, “Aye. Move out of the way, Dunc, I’ve some harvesting needing to be done. This crop of barley needs its heads removed.”
The two redcoats with the officer were frozen with fear as if suddenly finding out the supposedly crippled bear they were teasing was in fact, healthy, huge and hungry.
Duncan slipped the ax back into its sling and then spread his hands, “Well lads, looks like I ain’t counting. I tried to help ye, I really did, but I suppose some is just too dumb to learn. I hope the angels is kind to ye on yer journey.” He turned to step out of the way.
“No! No, please, don’t kill us!” The two redcoat soldiers held up their hands as they backed up, only to find the bar behind them.
Robert growled the sound an angry animal makes, and then he grated, “If you fanny baws ain’t out of my sight before the pubkeep fills my drink, you’ll all be waking up in hell.”
The three English soldiers left at speed. The officer didn’t even make it all the way off of his hands and feet before he was out the door. After it shut, the room was quiet enough to hear individual heartbeats.
Robert sighed, “Well,” he said, “That’s rung the church bell sure as anything. Pubkeep!” He roared, “Where’s my drink!?”
Duncan scratched his beard, “An’ bring me more stew… an ale,” he called raising a finger. “Why’d you let ‘em go, Robbie?” he asked, “I knows how you feels about them turds.”
Robert drank off a good portion of his ale and slapped the tankard onto the table, ignoring the splash it made. “Well,” he said, belching, “I’ll tell you, Duncan. I just couldn’t stand the thought of ruining your appetite.”