Page 35 of A Promise of Love
" I t’s a foolish thing we do here, Malcolm," Geddes mumbled, his shuffling gait in the ancient rushes the only sound in the room.
To his ears, perhaps. But not to Malcolm, whose glower intensified with every harsh breath exhaled by the other three occupants.
Stealth was what was needed here, not complaints, not the wheezing protests of an ill assorted band of conspirators.
Not that he had much choice, now, did he?
These were the elders of the clan, as pitiful a sight as they were, but he still punctuated his displeasure by glaring at his kinsmen .
They were a sorry bunch. Old Geddes, arthritis crippling him so badly that he walked in a permanently stooped position.
Hamish, his one remaining eye so filmed over that he needed help to see even on the brightest of days.
Alex, however, was the worst of the lot, and if they were caught, it would be because of his infirmity - one leg replaced by a crooked, whittled stick of a limb which fit so painfully that every piercing scratch upon the floor was accompanied by a muffled groan of pain .
"Quiet!" Malcolm hissed, his brow furrowed, his irritation growing with each precious second they lingered. They were the wise men of the clan, yet all they had done since they had met in Geddes' cottage an hour earlier was moan and groan or bicker like old women .
It was Alex's accusations which pierced him to the core, though, for all their muttering. He whirled and faced his detractor. "Would ye have the English take it a' away , mon ?"
"What they've no' taken, Malcolm, is our lives," Alex said stubbornly. "As puny an' as ill fed a lot we are ."
"I'd no' thought to hear a coward's voice from yer throat ."
"A coward is it? A coward? When I lost my own son?
When his bairn died because there was nothin' for her to eat except for the grubs an' the worms of burned out fields?
I answered the call as willingly as the next.
" His words were whispered, but no less vehement for their lack of volume.
Nor was the look he shot Malcolm softened by the gloom of the keep .
"Then ye' should ken mon, more than the rest ."
"What is there to understand, Malcolm?" he said tiredly. “ Would ye have the four of us take on England's army, now?" Mockery tinged his words, and an odd sort of sadness .
"Aye, Malcolm, do ye preach rebellion?" The question came from Hamish, standing alone and apart from the others.
He too had buried kin and mourned even now for their loss.
What Malcolm wanted was a return to days of glory, as few as they were.
He could appreciate the sentiment at the same time he realized its stupidity.
What Malcolm wanted was as futile as their own march to Carlisle, but oh, those had been days to recall for the rest of their lives, weren't they?
They had marched into England behind the Bonnie Prince filled with dreams and exhilaration in knowing that, for once, the men of Scotland had occupied English soil and not the other way around.
For a few blessed days, the sons of Scotland had determined the course of events, not England.
For a few glorious days, there had been change in the air and Scotland had been considered more than a nuisance, more than a wayward child.
Aye, he could well understand why Malcolm preached insurrection now.
But the days of Carlisle had been pre-Culloden.
Before the end to the rebellion, before most of the able bodied men of the Highlands had died in a battle so unevenly matched.
Surrender was what the English had wanted and surrender they had gotten and sent the Duke of Cumberland, the Butcher, to make it so .
"Rebellion, is it now?" Malcolm answered angrily. "Is it rebellion to want a Scotland filled wi' Scots, then, Hamish, an' no' the Sassenach?" he said, his spine stiffened by the accusations of his long-time friends .
"It's rebellion against the laird I'm speaking of.
Have ye forgotten what the lad wants? Have ye forgotten the pardon?
" His soft words were accompanied by a muttering of assent from the others.
Alisdair's dreams of economic independence had found strong supporters in the glen.
It was a sad fact of life, but one undeniably true, that they could not beat the English.
The dreams of a Jacobite rebellion were only that, the prince had returned to the continent; the men who'd so gladly followed him either dead or stripped of their possessions, titles, estates, or like Alisdair, living a tenuous existence with a conditional pardon .
The dream of out trading the English was their only way of retaliation, not to mention what would happen to Alisdair and the rest of the clan if insurrection could be proven.
Alisdair's conditional pardon was exactly that - based upon a series of conditions, none of which Hamish was sure, included meeting in a deserted keep for the purpose of anarchy .
"Besides, Malcolm, what about the English wife you brought to the glen? It was your idea to wed her to the MacLeod." It was Malcolm’s words, but he uttered the thoughts of all of them .
“An’ I’ll go to my grave regrettin’ it. Is tha’ what you want to hear ?"
Hamish did not reply .
“It’s time to arm oursel’s, for each member of the clan to have a weapon to protect against the English.
Are ye for me, or no?" Malcolm asked, turning and fixing them with a steady look.
Hamish sighed, and reached out one arm, which was taken by Alex, who lurched forward with him.
Old Geddes shambled towards them, his step as shuffling as before, echoing his reluctance .
Malcolm crossed the room swifter then the others, pushing back the rushes to expose the metal ring hidden in the floor .
"We're for ye', Malcolm," Hamish said, when his companions remained mute. "Please God, this decision will no' bring tragedy down on our heads ."