The Rogues (7 page)

Taking a deep breath, I let the familiar smell of the cottage wash over me: peat fire, cooked stew, unwashed bodies, and the lingering stink of all the animals we brought inside during the winter. Of course, it wasn't just a concern for the beasts' health that made us shelter them. Having them indoors meant more warmth for us as well. But as I lay there, I recalled the crisp smell of the bannocks and clean aroma of the tea at the Lodge.

How poor we are
, I thought. Then I closed my eyes, but as I had already napped during the day, I couldn't fall asleep.

As soon as Da started snoring, Lachlan turned over on the mattress and poked me in the ribs, whispering, “Come on then, Roddy, tell me all about it.”

“About what?”

He poked me again, harder. “Ye know fine and well what. About the widow and Bonnie Josie, about the laird and Rood.”

“Are ye sure Da is asleep?” He'd already warned me once about telling tales, and I couldn't stand a belting, not the way I was feeling.

“I'm absolutely sure. Just listen to him snore.”

Needing no more prodding, I told Lachlan all. I couldn't see his face in the dark, but I could imagine his expressions of surprise at each stage of the tale. He even gasped when I described my fight with Rood.

“Willie Rood is likely to kill ye if ye go a third round with him,” he warned.

“I'm not afraid of him,” I said. But deep down I knew that was a lie. Only a sudden rage had driven me to attack him. Lying in the dark and thinking more clearly, I knew Rood was bigger, stronger, and infinitely more vicious than I. Lachlan was right. One good blow from his cudgel might do for me the next time. “If there
is
a next time.”

Lachlan stirred beside me, rose up on his elbow. “Of course there will be a next time.”

I nodded, even though he couldn't see me do it.

“And if you are telling me true …”

I sat up indignantly. “Of course I am telling you true!”

“Then the laird is worse than even Da imagines. He's ready to throw his own niece and sister-in-law out, so why should he not send the English sheep into
our
glen?”

As usual, Lachlan was right. I knew that. And I also knew that if Bonnie Josie needed my help again, I would brave any danger: Rood's cudgel's, the laird's anger, or even worse. Though what could be worse, I could not imagine. Except, perhaps, in a bad night's dream.

II. TENANTS' ANGER

What though on hamely fare we dine
,

Wear hoddin grey, and a' that
;

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine
;

A man's a man for a' that
! …

—Robert Burns, “A Man's a Man for a' That”

7 THE ROGUE

Over the next few days life carried on as normal. I tried to forget about what had happened at the Lodge, tried to keep myself to myself so that I didn't find trouble. But I knew trouble was coming, as certain as hail in winter. Lachlan had the right of it. The laird was sure to send his English sheep over our hill. But just when that was to happen, we didn't know. So we tried to work as though nothing was wrong. Or as Ishbel promised, “God will provide.” Though she didn't say if He would provide arms and ammunition or a fast escape route.

Lachlan and I were in the byre milking the cows when the first word of the new trouble came. Outside there was a gale blowing, so we didn't hear anyone approaching because of the wuthering of the wind.

Suddenly the door blew open and in stomped Hamish Kinnell, puffing and waving his arms furiously. A lanky lad with a gap in his front teeth, Hamish made a whistling noise when he was excited. Sometimes, just for fun, Lachlan tried to goad him on just to hear that whistle.

“Have ye heard?” Hamish asked, the words singing through the gap. I was busy milking Thistle while Lachlan stroked her nose to keep her steady. We both looked over at him, waiting for his news, which was not long in coming. “Tam MacBride's cows have been arrested!”

It wasn't what either of us was expecting, and I almost fell off the stool laughing. I succeeded in squirting milk all over my breeks. “Cows arrested? Yer mad!”

Thistle mooed and twitched her head, as if alarmed by Hamish's words or my wild cackling.

“Don't be daft!” said Lachlan, gripping Thistle by a horn to steady her.

“It's true!” Hamish insisted. “Tam's cows strayed into the middle of the Glendoun sheep pastures. The shepherds rounded them up, and Rood's had the animals arrested. They're penned up in a field at the back of Kindarry House. Rood calls it the im … impound.”

“Why don't they just give the cows back to Tam and have him promise to take better care?” I asked. “The old laird would have.”

“Because now it's a crime to let yer cattle stray onto sheep land,” said Hamish. His whistling had stopped because he'd realized he knew something we didn't. Grinning, he added, “That's called
trespassing
. Like in the Lord's Prayer. Tam can only get them back if he pays a five-pound fine.”

I stood up so fast with the surprise of it, the milk stool turned over. “
Five pounds
!”

Lachlan added, “It might as well be a hundred.”

“The laird and Rood dinna care about the money,” I said. “It's sma' pickings for them. They just want to make life hard for us so it will be easier to drive us away.” I grabbed up the stool and milking bucket.

“How can ye be sure?” asked Hamish, wide-eyed.

“I was just down at the Lodge last week,” I said casually, “and Bonnie Josie herself told me.” Well, it wasn't
exactly
what she told me, but who was to know? I walked toward the open door, shoulders squared, certain that Hamish's mouth would be agape. I could hear Lachlan starting to tell him the story, knowing that in my brother's version, my role would grow and grow. Lachlan always made things bigger than they were. Not a liar, but a storyteller.

“He
spoke
with Bonnie Josie …?” Hamish's whistle followed me out.

Over the next week, strange things kept happening. Many more animals from our village strayed into the pastures of the laird and his friends and were quickly impounded by the factor's men. Cattle, goats—and even some of our own straggly sheep—all must have decided to go calling on their plump cousins like poor relations begging on the doorstep. Why they should suddenly take to wandering was a puzzle we didn't understand at first. After all, it was a long way to go to Glendoun, and plenty of grass on our side of the mountain for their grazing.

Finally two of our own milk cows ended up in the impound. They were missing one morning when we went into the byre to milk them, and when we found Da out in the neep field, he was fuming. He led us back to the cottage and said not a word till we were inside, the door carefully shut behind us.

“And where do ye think those cows had got to?” he asked. His voice was low but angry. He didn't wait for a reply. “To Glendoun. Frolicking amongst the laird's new sheep!”

Lachlan and I swore to Da that it hadn't been our fault. “We kept them far away from Glendoun,” I said as we stood before him, heads bowed. Behind us, Cousin Ishbel clanged about her pots, cleaning them vigorously, though they'd been cleaned once already.

Lachlan added, “The cows were clear on the other side of Ben Dorrach with us yesterday and then we brought them home and locked them in the byre. Just as we do every night.” He dared to look up at Da. Catching the movement from the corner of my eye, I did likewise.

Da's face was almost crimson with anger, an awful sign. “Ye've been over-fond of visiting that cursed glen,” he accused. “How do I know ye didna sneak over there again with our animals trailing after ye? Cows are no much smarter than sheep and will follow the hand that feeds them anywhere.” His hand was on his belt as he spoke.

“God is our witness, Da!” Lachlan pleaded. “We've kept well away since that run-in with Rood. I wouldna let Roddy chance another blow. His head is soft enough as it is.” If he was hoping to make Da laugh, he was sorely mistaken.

Da glared at him for a long moment, then said, in that slow way he sometimes has before anger takes him entirely, “Would ye no?”

I waited for the trap to snap.

Then Da bent closer to where Lachlan stood. “Then how is it that one of the factor's own men found me in the field this very morning to serve a fine on me for trespass?”

Neither Lachlan nor I said a word. Answering back would earn us each a clap on the head, and we knew it.

“What are we to do?” asked Ishbel, coming to our rescue by speaking herself. “We've nothing to pay with.”

“
Nobody
has,” I said, knowing it was safe now to say something. “And the laird knows it full well. But why is he doing this slowly, trying to bleed us of money, instead of just sending in the sheep?”

Da's hand was raised slightly, but he didn't strike me. Instead, jaw set grimly, he scratched his beard. “That, lad, is a good question and one I have to consider.”

Cousin Ishbel offered, “Perhaps there are no more sheep?”

Lachlan said, “Perhaps he's afraid of the men of this village because we are now forewarned.”

“Perhaps Bonnie Josie has served him notice …,” I added.

Da shook his head and held up his hand. “A wee lass will not stop such a man, and there are
always
more sheep. Lachlan is right, though. McRoy knows how the men of this village have organized before to stop a laird, and he's hoping we will go quietly and without a fight.”

This made sense to us all, and we said so.

“The men of the village are meeting this afternoon in the kirk. The minister's awa' to Glasgow or he'd likely forbid it. We'll decide there how best to go about getting our animals back.”

“Have we no enough troubles wi'out raising Minister McGillivray's hackles?” Ishbel asked, waving a pot at him. “He's a prickly creature at the best of times, except to the laird.”

“Och, he's the laird's wee lapdog,” scoffed Lachlan, repeating what he'd heard from others. “He'd rather serve McRoy than God, for the pay's better.”

“When McGillivray's away, God has the kirk to Himself.” Da took out a cup and poured himself a draught of water from the barrel before answering. “I don't think He'll scorn to open His kirk door in a good cause. Didna Christ say that the poor will inherit the earth?”

“
Meek
,” Cousin Ishbel said. “The meek will inherit the earth, and ye are hardly that, Murdo Macallan.”

“Can we go too?” Lachlan asked, eager as a dog after sheep.

Da's face got grim again, but Ishbel put a hand on his arm. “This concerns us all, Murdo, and they're at that age now when they should listen to the men at counsel.” She gazed up at him under half lids and, astonishingly, he softened.

“Aye, perhaps,” he said. Then he turned his back on us all, but Ishbel nodded at us and put a finger to her lips before setting the pot back down on the hearth.

We knew enough to be silent. A promise, of sorts, had been given.

The kirk sat off on the side of the road, a small grey stone building. The women of the village had done careful plantings of wild-flowers by the door, the only bit of real color about the church. I had heard that the papists have colored windows in their chapels and cathedrals, as well as paintings of the Gospels on the inside walls. But we didn't hold with such customs. I am not sure why.

By the time we arrived, the kirk was full. Not only were the village men crowded into the hard wooden pews, but many of their women came as well. The few children accompanying them fidgeted at the back, kicking the seats and giggling. There were also folk from villages farther down the glen who had had animals impounded. Some I recognized, but most were strangers. There must have been a hundred people in all.

The sun slanted through the windows, setting a pattern of light on the middle pews so there was no need for the lamps to be lit. Standing in front of the pulpit, Tam MacBride was telling everybody how he'd gone to Kindarry House to make his appeal, his hands relating the story a second time as he talked.

“I said to the laird I couldna pay the fine and the rent as well.” His short black beard seemed to bristle angrily with each word.

There was a low murmur of respect. Going to face the laird is never an easy task. At least not
this
laird.

“Aye, Tam, nor can any of us,” somebody put in, “no the way he's raised the rents twice this past year alone.”

“‘Fine,' says he,” Tam continued, as if no one had interrupted. His right forefinger punched the air. “‘Ye can have yer cattle or ye can have yer land. Ye take yer pick.'”

Another low murmur went through the huddled men.

“It was the same for me,” called out Colin Kinnell. He was Hamish's father and even lankier and bonier than his son. “He said if I couldna keep my animals under control, I'd only myself to blame.”

“Blame?” one of the outlanders shouted. And the others echoed him. “Blame?”

Da stood up, his voice a low grumble. “So it's cattle with nae land to graze on or land with nae means of livelihood.” He looked around. “That's a hard choice.”

“That's nae choice at all,” cried the outlander.

But no one had yet thought to ask how all our animals had strayed into the path of the laird's sheep.

There was an angry uproar among the men, which Da waved to silence. “Look,” he said, “we know Daniel McRoy is no the man the old laird was. Not half. But he is still our chief, the head of our family. And like any father, he might say things he doesna hold to at second thought.”

I knew how true that was, how Da had sometimes refused us something when he was in a sour mood, then thought better of it later in the day after Ma had sweetened him.
Or now, Ishbel
, I thought. But who would soften this laird's stance? Bonnie Josie had tried, and it only seemed to have strengthened his resolve to rid himself of his tenants.