Fearchar walked through the camp. His legs ached. The camp was like all camps before a battle: grim-faced clansmen gathered around smoky fires in groups, catching each others’ eye at intervals. There would be no pipes played until battle was to be joined, and it would be a long November night. The young lads would be afraid, and would look for courage to the veteran soldiers. Fearchar had done this service many times before, and he had no heart for it now. His sons would see to it. The evening was cold, damp and cheerless. Once he would barely have felt it, but the blood did not run so sweetly in his veins any more. Dùn Bhlàthain was a pleasant enough town, by all accounts, and he had some silver in his pockets. He might as well spend it. If they were victorious on the morrow there would be plunder enough to replenish his store. If they were defeated so far south, long leagues from the sanctuary of the trackless Highlands, lack of silver would be the least of his troubles. But they should win easily tomorrow. The government forces were said to number barely four thousand, while the Prince’s army was more than three times as big.
If only he could have any confidence in their commander! John Erskine, Earl of Mar, was not any sort of general. When he considered what both James and John Graham had achieved with far fewer men than Mar commanded, he shook his head. What was needed were swift, decisive victories. Sweep the south and invade England as soon as may be. Delay served only the government forces. And the man had allowed Argyll to stonewall him into pointless skirmishes. Now, too late in the year to be of any real use, Mar had at long last invaded the Lowlands and forced Argyll to oppose him. Blàr Sliabh an t-Siorraim was a suitable battle-field for superior numbers. Argyll would only be fighting there because he must, or else abandon the Lowlands. So his chief had told him. It was rare for a clan chieftain to confide in a common soldier who was not even a tacksman. Fearchar supposed it was because of his age and long experience in battle.
‘Tell Mar that he must envelop the enemy line,’ Fearchar had assured him. ‘Victory is ours if we fight with all that we have, and stretch their line till it break.’ The chief had thanked him, and given him a small silver token. Who knew if the message would even reach Mar? Clan Farquharson had always supported the House of Stewart, and one might expect that its chief would be heard in the council of war. But camp gossip had it that Mar did not ask the chiefs for advice. Not for the first time, Fearchar felt a sullen flame of anger that Scots lairds spent the blood of Highlanders so freely, yet did not attend to the words of battle-hardened warriors. With Claverhouse and Montrose, now; that was different. Both had failed, but they were skilled in warfare. Any Highlander would follow either into battle with confidence that their blood would never be shed to no purpose. Both were long dead now, and the head of Clan Graham had thrown in his lot with the English. He wished they were here to command, and not this bewigged courtier.
He peered ahead through the gloom. The mist made all distances hard to guess, but a glimmer of lights showed yellow across the moor. Many others had passed this way before him. The path felt well-trodden underfoot and he followed it without trouble. The slot where they had walked took him straight to a wooden bridge over the river. He was grateful, for the water of Allan was filled by the everlasting rains and was running in spate. He paused on the bridge and listened. Ahead the westering moon appeared just above the hills. It was no more than a glimmer through the mist, but he felt oddly cheered by it. He walked into the clachan and saw open fires kindled outside and in. Many kilted figures could be seen, their rough faces red with drunkenness. These did not have the means to go within the taverns. Fearchar walked past them in silence and entered the first house he saw. Golden light spilled out its open door. He walked in, bending his head under the low lintel, and went immediately to a dark corner while his eyes accustomed themselves to the light. You did not walk into a public house and attract attention to yourself. There might be enemies here, open and secret. Dank rushes covered the floor, but there were tables and benches of rough-hewn wood. Next to his corner, a kilted warrior at the bench caught his eye and moved along to make room for him.
After a few moments the two men exchanged glances. Fearchar saw a young lad such as he had once been: lean, beak-nosed, lank-haired, with a red-gold beard the colour of autumn heather. He had no garment but his red and green checked kilt, and right shoulder and chest were bare. There was barely a wisp of hair on the smooth skin. ‘Is it that there is any silver at you, sir?’ the other inquired in a sibilant whisper. ‘It is Ruari Mac Griogair who asks this.’
‘It is, Ruari. Is it your clan that holds this house tonight?’ The boy’s round, dark eyes flicked around the dirty room.
‘The most part, indeed. There are some McKenzies also.’ Fearchar nodded slowly. The Mhic Choinneach were distant relatives of the MacGregors, being alike descendants of the legendary king Kenneth Mac Alpin. That was their story anyway and Fearchar was not inclined to argue. Most wore the same plaid pattern as the boy. As yet, it did not seem as though the gathering were too besotted with drink for the evening to turn ill.
He reached into his sporran and held out a small silver piece. ‘Go and buy a bottle of the best whisky you can,’ he told the boy. ‘I see you have a cup.’ When the boy had gone to the bar, he sniffed dubiously at the boy’s cup. It stank of cheap ale; doubtless all that he could afford. Others at the same bench gave Fearchar a curious eye, but he ignored them; and they turned away to face an adjoining table and joined in the conversation there. He heard English spoken amid the hubbub of Gàidhlig. He had learned to speak the tongue. Once, long ago, Montrose had impressed upon him the importance of English, or Beurla as it was called in the Gàidhlig. ‘It is the tongue of those who would conquer you, Fearchar,’ he had said. ‘Be sure you learn it, now, and see what is their will with you!’ Fearchar had worshipped Montrose, and had applied himself to it. It was a dull and lumpish tongue, by his way of thinking, and there were many strange ideas buried within it. He suspected that land ownership meant something quite different if you spoke it in English.
He saw the boy accosted at the bar by another, and both faces turned to look at him. Doubtless somebody wanted to know how the boy had come upon a silver piece, and Fearchar nodded slowly, to give a sign that the silver had not been stolen. Presently Ruari returned with a bottle which gleamed in the lamplight, filled with dark whisky. He placed his own cup on the dirty wooden table. ‘Pour two cups, Ruairi,’ he said. ‘Half filled, if you please.’
The whisky was good, and a rosy flush passed over the boy’s face. ‘My thanks!’ said Ruari. ‘And whose health is it that I am drinking this night?’
‘My name is Fearchar, and Farquharson is my chief.’ He said no more, and the boy did not ask further. Plainly the name meant nothing to him, and Fearchar was thankful. The boy drank slowly, savouring the dark, fiery liquid. One third, perhaps, of the bottle would suffice for the boy before he would need to be helped homeward to camp. His fellow Gregarach would see to it. Indeed they must, for they had brought him here. After a little Fearchar bent his gaze upon the boy. ‘Is there fear at you, Ruairi?’ he asked. The boy looked at him uncertainly. ‘Have you been in battle before?’
‘I have not,’ the boy answered, and drained his cup. Fearchar poured a little more into the bottom.
‘What is your weapon?’ he asked. ‘The great sword?’
Ruari shook his head. ‘I have a spear, and the black knife.’
There would be no shield for an untried youth, nor even a buckler. The spear would be little more than a pointed stick; and once it broke, the boy was as good as dead. Fearchar opened his mouth to speak, but a roar of sound across the room broke out, and he looked to see a girl being manhandled by two of the clansmen. ‘Leave me alone!’ she cried out. Her words fell on deaf ears. Very few Highlanders had the English. But her meaning was plain enough. He had seen the girl earlier in the evening. She was not fair to look on, being scarred with the smallpox; but she was young and buxom and had a fine gleam in her eye and a smile upon her face until these two had grabbed her, one arm apiece. They thought her a harlot, but Fearchar didn’t think so. Landlord’s daughter, perhaps. She had been seen serving behind the bar, he thought.
‘Leave her be!’ said an angry voice from the bar. Again in English. Now this was surely the innkeeper. Would not the fools let be? He turned to Ruari, who had been staring open-mouthed, but Ruari had vanished. The taller of the two Highlanders turned to the man and laughed. ‘You are not the man for her!’ he said in Gàidhlig. The innkeeper walked towards him, and the Highlander picked him up and flung him against the stone wall. ‘Your lust will be better after a sleep,’ he pronounced, to general laughter from the room. Fearchar rose to his feet, thus far unnoticed, and kicked the other MacGregor’s feet out from under him. The man fell cursing. Fearchar grabbed the girl in his left hand and backed towards the junction of the lime-washed walls. He thrust her behind him.
‘Come not out!’ he hissed at her. He had no idea if she understood him, but she seemed too terrified to move of her own accord. The taller of his adversaries folded his arms and smiled. The other rushed at him. He kicked out at the leading knee with his bare right foot. The man went sprawling onto the muddy floor with a curse, but he was on his feet in an instant, waving his black knife. Fearchar’s fist shot out and smashed full into the man’s face. Blood spurted between broken teeth. The tavern noise drained away as three others rose from their benches and paced towards him, knives held before their shaggy faces. He reached into the folds of his kilt and drew out his cavalry sabre, waving it in figures of eight in the empty space before him.
‘Accursed is he who first draws blade in a house of friendship!’ he said. The men did not answer, and fanned out to encircle him. All the other revellers had slipped away to the other side of the room now. ‘This sword I took from the Sassenach at Cath Raon Ruairidh,’ he continued in a dark pool of silence. ‘And your death is here upon its point.’
A commanding voice rang from the doorway. ‘Do the sons of Alpin fight only women and old men?’
All eyes turned towards the newcomer. Dead silence filled the room. ‘A worse thought than war was at them, Rob Ruaidh,’ answered Fearchar, and the newcomer’s gaze lighted upon Fearchar. The gleam of recognition flamed and died away at once in the man’s face. Fearchar sheathed the sabre and tucked it away in his plaid. You would have expected a famous chief to be tall, commanding of eye, strong and imperious. Yet the one thing everyone remembered about Rob Ruadh Mac Griogair were his eyes. Deep, brown, haunted eyes which saw all, and were grieved by most of what they saw. His eyes apart, there was nothing remarkable whatever about his physical presence. His red hair and beard were short and straggling, his limbs average to middling and his chest unimpressive. But the nut-brown eyes – so strange in a red-haired man! – were hypnotic. He held his clansmen in his gaze for a long moment each, and their hands dropped to their sides.
‘You are fools, all of you,’ he said quietly in the Gàidhlig. ‘Do you not know the Grey Warrior when you see him? Death walks at his right hand. Leave your folly, and ask pardon of him.’
Fearchar would have preferred less fuss and bother than this; but since their chief commanded it, he was obliged to nod and make appropriate gestures while a variety of shame-faced apologies were tendered. There was no shaking of hands. These men would behave themselves so long as their chief was present, but thereafter he would need to look sharp. ‘Will you share this bottle with me?’ asked Fearchar, when all was done. Rob Ruadh looked at the bench. Ruari was there again, and the chief smiled.
‘This young lad will drink in my stead, Fearchar. He is worthy of it.’ The two men exchanged a long, searching glance. ‘When did you leave the great sword, Fearchar? That Saxon blade is no weapon for a Highlander.’
‘I can no more wield the claidheamh mhor,’ Fearchar answered. ‘I am old, Rob Ruaidh. And this war is an old man’s folly.’
Again, there was the long, pregnant pause. Another smoky lantern was lit nearby, and by its flickering light the chief’s haunted face looked more mournful than ever. His head shook slowly, once, from side to side. He fumbled in his pocket and brought out another silver coin. ‘Fetch another bottle of whisky, will you, boy?’ said Rob Ruadh, slipping it into Ruari’s hand. ‘Take your time about it, mind! Make sure the landlord gives you the very best he has. It shall not be said that MacGriogair stinted his guests.’
When the boy had gone, Fearchar gave Rob Ruadh a searching look. The chieftain sat himself in the boy’s place and blinked. ‘It is in my mind that my foolish clansmen may not behave themselves if I leave now.’ The heavy-lidded eyes dropped. ‘You have something to say to me, Fearchar?’
Fearchar looked around them. They had their table well and truly to themselves now, and the nearest listener was out of earshot. ‘What will you do tomorrow?’ asked Fearchar.
‘You know as well as I,’ the chief answered. ‘The Great Son of Colin commands the English. And my clan’s safety lies in his keeping. I can do no other. Argyll is a bad enemy if you live upon his doorstep.’
‘Do you fight at his side, then?’
Rob Ruadh shook his head. ‘I will not. You know, do you not, how the morrow’s field will play, Fearchar?’
‘I can guess the most of it.’
‘The battle will not be won by either side,’ said Rob Ruadh in a sibilant undertone. ‘Argyll has not the numbers, and Mar has not the heart for it. If the Prince were here, maybe I might risk all on his behalf. But where is he? The Scots lairds have not served us well, Fearchar. I misdoubt this Prince. I believe he is a fool, or a knave.’
‘I do not know, Rob Ruaidh. I have not met him.’ The chief brought out a silver goblet, and Fearchar poured the rest of his bottle into it.
‘Your health, Grey Warrior.’ Goblet met earthenware mug. An Gaisgach Liath! Fearchar could not even remember when men had begun to call him that.
‘And yours, Rob Ruaidh. My thanks for calling off your men. But it is perilous game you play at. You will be proscribed as rebels whether you fight or stand by. Then you and yours will sit in the palm of Mac Chaelin Mòr.’
‘Already we do that. And you? Why do you fight on, Fearchar? An old man’s folly, you said?’
Fearchar looked towards the bar. The boy Ruari stood there, bottle in hand. Four men in plaid, trews and elegant coats stood around him, talking softly. Their eyes raked the room constantly. Of those who had threatened him earlier, there was no sign. These would be Rob Ruadh’s personal bodyguard, no doubt. They would have packed off the trouble-makers to the Gregarach encampment. And they would be telling Ruari not to interrupt his chief until he gave leave to do so.
‘The Sassenach hate us, Rob Ruaidh,’ he said. ‘We know little of them, and they of us. We are naught but their troublesome neighbours, and one day they will build their great roads in our lands and smoke us out like bees. Why do I fight? Because my chief bids me, and I can do no other. I fight for the House of Stewart, as I have ever done.’
‘Your chief would give you leave to bide at home, Fearchar. I marvel that you fight on, at your age. You must have seventy years, surely? It is twenty years and six since we fought together at Cath Raon Ruairidh, and even then you were an old man.’
‘Fourscore and five years are at me, Rob Ruaidh. Yet still I can wield a sword. The hand does not forget.’
Rob Ruadh bowed his heavy head and drank from his goblet. ‘What hope is there for the clans, Fearchar? Is it death for us all, do you think?’
‘Not for Mac Chaelin Mòr at least. He has thrown in his lot with the Sassenach. His clan will prosper.’
‘We need more than that to sustain us, Fearchar. What else may we do?’
It was a piercing question. Fearchar finished his cup and considered what he should say. ‘When they have conquered us, perhaps they will remember us more fondly, Rob Ruaidh. And when the truth has melted away in the mist of the years, they will make up fine tales about us. Yes, even about Rob Ruadh Mac Griogair.’
Rob Ruadh suddenly laughed. The lines around his face crinkled, and a warm light gleamed in his dark eyes. ‘So we shall all be remembered as brave and noble warriors? No more Rob Ruadh Thief of Cattle, but Rob Roy the Mighty?’
‘Even so, Rob. Provided that your men rape no women, and be proper men.’
The chief nodded, grave and solemn again. ‘The boy ran out into the street to find me. I think great shame was at him.’
‘You came in time, Rob. Young Ruari is a fine lad. See that you look after him.’
Now the steady eyes blinked at him. ‘Would you have killed my men, if I had not come?’ he asked, in a voice barely to be heard.
‘I would. True men do not rape women, Rob. You know this. And if the Sassenach think that of us, they shall show us no mercy.’
‘So we Highlanders should fight on, to show the Sassenach what fine warriors we are? Very well. It is a plan with hope in it. Yet I choose another way for my own folk. You will not blame me for that, Fearchar?’
Fearchar drew out his right hand, and the chief took it in his and clasped it firmly. ‘I will not, Rob. If only because a young lad who worships you will not perish for it.’
Rob Ruadh’s thick-lipped mouth curved. ‘If you are right, in a hundred years the Sassenach will think we fought together at each other’s side like heroes.’ He gestured with his right hand above his head, and young Ruari ran to the table, holding his bottle as if it were a newborn babe. ‘Pour three cups, Ruari,’ he commanded. ‘And let us drink the health of an ancient hero.’
The boy’s eyes were gleaming as he filled the silver goblet and the two cups. ‘The men say that you fought with Montrose, sir!’ he enthused. ‘And that you and the chieftain were sword-brothers with Dundee! Is it true?’
‘The men talk too much,’ Fearchar answered. ‘But it is true. All of it is true.’
‘And is it true that you have The Sight?’
No, it is not, Fearchar thought, but this would not do for now. ‘It may be,’ he said grudgingly. ‘But for you, Ruari, I have this to say. You will live through the day. Your chief will hold his hand over you. And you must not ask questions. A Highlander’s duty is to obey his chief without question, whatever befall. Do you understand, boy?’
‘I do, sir.’ The toast was drunk, and many others until the bottle was empty, and Rob Ruadh purchased another. The landlord had been helped to bed with no worse than bruised limbs and a terrible headache, and the girl returned twice to their table, and thanked him in her Scots accented English. Fearchar spoke her fair and gave her to understand that he wanted and expected no reward for his deeds. And he hoped that the boy would not be too disappointed on the morrow. There would be many chances for the boy later, to prove his valour.
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The battle and its aftermath turned out as expected. Hundreds perished on both sides, and to little purpose; but Mar failed to grasp the victory when it was offered him. Rob Ruadh had stood by, and watched, and done nothing. As Fearchar had prophesied, the Gregarach were proscribed anyway, but Mac Chaelin Mòr had given Rob Ruadh and his men shelter. Fearchar was not required to kill anyone, and was grateful for it. He had slain too many men to take pleasure from it. The long-delayed invasion of England had finally happened, but to little purpose. By the time the Prince arrived from France the opportunity had gone. And now Clan Farquharson was making its formal submission at Braemar. Mac Chaelin Mòr was still talking, in good English and bad Gàidhlig. Fearchar wished he would stop. He was bone-weary, and wished only for his bed. But slowly he became aware that everyone was looking at him.
A man was walking towards him, with silver buttons on his blue coat. ‘Fearchar Gaisgach Liath?’ the man asked in Gàidhlig, looking carefully at him. ‘The Great Son of Colin would speak with you.’
The crowd parted as he walked forward, looking carefully at the red-coated man before him. No wonder he had conquered. The man had fought well for Marlborough, and the bright blue eyes and clean-shaven face spoke of courage, daring, and something of honour.
A lordly hand reached out in a sweeping gesture around the hall. ‘My lords, noble chiefs, and fellow-Highlanders,’ he pronounced; and paused, while the man who had brought him forward translated this for the general company. Fellow-Highlanders! One look at the man’s preposterously rich clothes proclaimed him more English than the English. Fearchar wondered what the man wanted with him. ‘Here is a warrior indeed,’ he continued, looking straight into Fearchar’s eyes. ‘He has fought nobly for the House of Stewart for seventy years. During the late insurrection, he was wounded while defending a widow against those who would rob her of her inheritance. Many men stood against him, and none stood by him. Yet he fought them off, and was wounded in her successful defence.’
Mac Chaelin Mòr paused again while this was translated. Truth to tell, Fearchar had forgotten all about it. It had been just another incident in an inglorious campaign, and he had not thought much of it at the time. The Duke’s blue eyes held his for a moment longer, and turned to the gathering. ‘Because of his wound, and his advanced age, his chief offered to send him home at his own expense. Yet Fearchar the Grey Warrior insisted that he take his place beside his chieftain and go on to the very end. My fellow-Highlanders, this rebellion was wrong. King George is your sovereign now, and you must obey him. Yet I salute a most worthy and chivalrous enemy.’
Now a murmur of voices rang across the castle’s feasting hall. This was unexpected. ‘I cannot offer any gift that is worthy. I will not insult a gentleman of honour by offering him money. Yet this – ‘ He drew forth a sgian dubh, glittering with gemstones on its hilt. ‘This is a gift from one soldier to another. I think it worthy of a mighty adversary. What say you, Fearchar?’
Fearchar looked at once to his chief. Farquharson was not happy, that was clear. Yet the bearded jaw dropped decisively in a nod of approval.
‘I accept your gift, with thanks, in the spirit in which it is offered, Great Son of Colin,’ he said in English. The small, delicate hands presented it hilt first, and Fearchar nodded quickly and stowed it away in his belt. The equerry led Fearchar back to his place among the clansmen, partly as a sign of honour, but also to prevent the slightest risk that Fearchar would think of using his gift on its giver. At a signal from the Duke, the gathering began to break up. Fearchar walked onto the battlements and stared down into the courtyard. This war would not end here, he considered. There would be more battles, and more bloodshed. Scotland would not willingly be ruled by a fat German princeling. But his words the year before to Rob Ruadh had been spoken more in hope than confidence. Perhaps he had spoken truly. He took out the knife and examined it closely. The gems upon it were beyond price for a humble clansman. Mac Chaelin Mòr could afford it. Yet this was a sign of hope for the future. If our people must become the noble savages the English wish us to be in order to survive, then so be it. After all, he could always sell it at need.
© David Greagg 2016