“All my life,” she said. “This tavern has been in my family since the days of my grandfather.”
“T-Then you were here when the battle happened.”
Her movements slowed. “What battle?”
“Culloden.”
“I was here.”
“Y-You must have seen the armies coming through town,” he said. “B-British as well as the rebels. This road leads directly to the battlefield.”
She turned to look at him. “Y-Ye’re a long way from home, m’laird,” she said. “In this village, we dunna refer tae our men as rebels. Ye’d do well tae remember that.”
He nodded. “P-Point taken,” he said. “I-I ask for a reason, however. I will gladly pay you for information.”
“What kind of information?”
“I-I’m looking for my brother.”
Carrie stood up from the fire, brushing off her hands. “Who was yer brother?”
“H-He fought at Culloden,” he said, running his hand through his hair again as he sat forward, arms resting on his knees. “H-He was killed in battle and I’ve come to bring him home. As I said, I’ll gladly pay for any information you can provide.”
Carrie’s gaze lingered on him for a moment. “I see,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry for ye, then. ’Twas a terrible day, it was. So many were lost.”
“W-What can you tell me?” he asked, ignoring the sympathy in her tone because he didn’t want a reminder about the grief he carried around like an anchor. “A-About the English dead, I mean. Do you know what happened to them?”
Her features took on a distant look but she was saved from replying when the woman with the brown eyes entered the chamber, a tray laden with food and drink in her hands. Carrie rushed to help her unburden the tray, setting everything down on the table in front of James. There was bread, butter, boiled pork, stewed turnips, and hard boiled eggs. The drink was a generous amount of ale that had a bitter taste to it.
James hardly cared. He was famished. He, too, forgot about his question as he downed half the ale before plowing into the pork. He was vaguely aware when Carrie and the other lass left him because, at the moment, it was all about stuffing his face and resting his spirit.
He’d finally made it to this horrible place.
He was going to need his strength for what was to come.
Part Two
JAMES
Three big tankards of the cheap ale later, and James was having trouble sitting upright.
He wasn’t a big ale drinker, but he’d been forced by necessity to become one when he traveled deep into the Scottish Highlands. That was their favored drink of choice and he’d sampled a wide variety.
He sat in the little chamber in the tavern, watching the fire pop and thinking that he needed to ask for a bed but he was afraid to get up, afraid he would fall right over on his face. As he sat there, he thought he might simply lay his head on the table. It seemed as good an opportunity as any to get some much-needed rest. As he was contemplating that very thing, the chamber door opened.
Instead of Carrie or the other woman who had been serving him, a tall man in an unbleached woolen cloak entered. James didn’t pay much attention to him other than to watch him for weapons. Considering the fight he’d just seen in the common room, he wasn’t taking any chances. The man had a scarf around his head, which he unwound to reveal a smiling, oddly smooth face.
“May I join you?” he asked.
It was a British accent, so James figured he couldn’t be too much of a threat. He nodded, motioning to the other chair. The man pulled off his cloak, his scarf, and hung both upon a peg near the hearth. Pale and slender, he sat in the chair James had indicated.
“’Tis a difficult night for man and beast,” he said, holding out his hands to the fire to warm them. “I saw the common room. You are wise to be in this small chamber, away from that chaos.”
James tried to nod, but it threw him off balance. “I-I walked into the chaos when I arrived.”
The stranger grinned. “It looks as if the entire room has been upended.”
“T-The ruffians were on the loose.”
The stranger noted the remains of the meal before looking to James. “My name is Rafe,” he said. “And you are far from home, my lord.”
James glanced at him. “H-How would you know that?”
Rafe’s smile broadened. “You don’t speak like a Scotsman,” he said. “Where are you from?”
James sighed heavily. “A-A million miles away.”
“English?”
“Aye.”
“You are very far from home,” Rafe said. “Are you simply traveling to see the glories of Scotland in winter?”
James shook his head and nearly teetered off his chair. “N-Nay,” he said, grabbing the table to steady himself. “I-I’ve come looking for someone.”
“It must be important.”
“I-It is.”
“Can I possibly help?”
James was drunk. That was established. Unfortunately, drink had a tendency to loosen his tongue and he didn’t stop to think that the man was asking a lot of questions, questions he was quite happily and freely answering. He was speaking to the man as if he had known him, and trusted him, all his life.
“N-Not unless you can bring back the dead,” he said quietly.
“I see,” Rafe said. “Then I am sorry for you. May I ask who has died so that I might say a prayer?”
The chamber door creaked open and the brown-haired lass appeared, again bringing more food and drink. James assumed it was for Rafe. As she sat it on the table, James leaned back in his chair and nearly fell over. Frustrated, he grabbed at the table again to steady himself.
“I-I have come to find my brother,” he said. “B-Before you ask, he perished on the Culloden moor back in April of this year and my mother has not stopped weeping. I promised the woman I would find him and bring him home, and that is what I intend to do. His name is Johnathan should you care to name him in your prayers, but it will not do any good. He was not a pious man.”
As the brown-eyed woman began to slowly clean up the remnants of James’ meal, listening to the conversation, Rafe was focused on his inebriated tablemate.
“I am very sorry for you,” he said with soft sincerity. “It is a sad mission that you are on, then. I’m sure your mother appreciates that you are a good son.”
James sighed faintly, chewing on his lip because it was a bad habit of his. When he was frustrated or weary, or both, he tended to chew. His gaze was on the fire but his mind was on the brother he’d lost.
So long ago…
“A-A good son,” he muttered. Then, he snorted bitterly. “I-If you must know, I am a terrible son. I was supposed to go with him, you know. My brother, I mean. To Culloden.”
“Why didn’t you?”
His expression was filled with regret, with irony. “I-I had been struck down by a fever,” he said. “I-I could not leave my bed, so he left without me. Like a weakling, I stayed at home while he went north with the Lancaster Foot Regiment. A friend of his returned during the summer to tell us that he had been lost. And do you know how it happened? My heroic, foolish brother stepped in to help a failing regiment. They had lost their officers, so he went to help them. It cost him his life, the idiot. And he left me with a burden that is impossible to bear.”