Page 1 of A Time & Place for Every Laird (A Laird for All Time #2)
The Drummosse Muir
Near Culloden, Scotland
April 16, 1746
It was a colorful battlefield. The green of the springtime moors and the Highland kilts contrasted with the turbulent grey-blue of the sky and the vivid blue of the regimental flags. But mostly there was red. The red coats of the Hanovarian army, which vastly outnumbered the supporters of the bonny Prince Charlie, offered a bright counterpoint to the duller red of the Highlanders jackets, whose kilts of green, blue, and red were stained by the sickening hue of their bloodshed, washing the moors of Drummoisse.
T here was also the red of anger, veiling the Highlander’s vision as he watched the carnage. More than a thousand of his countrymen—brothers, clansmen, and friends—were dead already, fallen amid the vicious hand-to-hand melee while many of the enemy who still stood. His mount shifted restlessly beneath him, eager to join the fray as he was, to avenge the lives of those already lost. To spare others a certain death.
The cannon f ire from the Hanovarians continued relentlessly until the blasts were ringing in his ears and raining earth upon their small group as they watched the slaughter from a rise in the distance. Swords clashed and men shouted out their clan’s cry for battle or cried out in pain as they were run through.
“Your Highness, we must retreat.” The words were n either his own nor directed at him, but as they were spoken the Highlander’s jaw clenched in denial. Mayhap they should. If they could not save or avenge, fleeing this ill-conceived catastrophe was one of few options remaining, but he was a Highlander by blood and right. The blood of his ancestors raging in his veins demanded that he not accept defeat.
Their forces on the left flank had not joined the fight that was ripping apart their countrymen by cannon fire and sword. Their main attack had been forced by soft ground to push right and was now pressed from both sides, with no escape from the slaughter, and the combat had waged for no more than half an hour thus far. At this rate, the battle would be lost in the same amount more.
He couldn’t stand fo r it. He hadn’t wanted it. This Jacobite cause wasn’t his own, but he was a man who supported his clan, supported the uncle who had called him to arms. Nae, he hadn’t wanted this, didn’t believe in it, but he would not stand by and be an observer to bloodshed and death… his own pristine jacket red as well but not dyed so by the blood of brother or foe.
His mount shifted under the clenching of his thighs and started forward as he unsheathed his mighty claymore.
“Nae, cousin!” a voice shouted over the din. “Ye dinnae hae tae!”
“Aye, Keir, I do,” the Highlander ground out and spurred his mount into a gallop as he headed into war. Behind him, more of his clansmen followed, including his cousin, and he plowed through the fringes of the bloody battle, swinging his sword left and right at any red-coated soldier he encountered until he was at the heart of the melee. His mount reared against the press of bodies, but he held on and continued to swing, ignoring the scrape and prick of glancing blows and the trickle of blood down his neck and arm.
It was a massacre. Their weary band stood no chance in this fool’s errand. They were outnumbered more than two to one. Even at their best they would have stood no chance, but he was proud of the Scotsmen who refused to concede victory, who continued and would continue to fight to the last man. He lashed out again and again, growling viciously when he felt a blade pierce his leg. The Highlander turned with murder in his eyes to face the man who had done him harm, his face not the blue of his ancestors in battle but red with the blood of his foes. The Englishman’s eyes widened and he spun about, eager to vacate the area, but the Highlander would have none of it. Kicking his mount, he pressed forward with a fierce cry. His horse screamed and buckled beneath him, falling to its knees with a shrill cry. The Highlander had no choice but to leap away, but he couldn’t abandon his enemy. He chased after the fleeing coward on foot, cutting down any who stood in his path.
The ringing of swords faded until all he could hear was the sound of his footsteps striking the ground, his harsh breathing, and the pounding of his heart. His prey glanced over his shoulder and started to sprint in earnest from the Highlander’s pursuit. Horns sounded, calling for the Jacobite retreat, but the Highlander ignored the call. Before this was over, this last Sassenach would be his.
A grim smile pressed his lips into a tight line as he focused on the soldier’s back , just an arm's length away. He swung his sword and caught the man across one shoulder, and the soldier stumbled and fell… no, fell and slipped out of sight through a wide hole before them.
Heels digging into the ground, the Highlander tried to turn aside before he met the edge of the abyss, but his momentum was too great and he too slipped over the edge, through the darkness and into the light beyond.