122
The Militia Rides Out
JAMIE KNELT AND SLICED the stitching of the burlap bag, folded back the top, and breathed deep. Huffed all his air out and breathed deeper, then sniffed thoughtfully. A rich, nourishing smell, nutty and sweet. No scent of mold, at least not at the top. Down at the bottom, though, where the damp settled …
He rose and pushed back one set of the big sliding doors that Bree had built for both sides of the malting shed, so they could open it up in fine weather. And it was a fine day, one fit for birdsong, rambling the woods, and maybe fishing a bit near sunset. A morning fit for small, peaceful jobs like replacing a board in the malting floor that had caught fire and was blackened enough that it might taint the flavor of the roasting grain. Fit for judging the quality of the barley on hand. He’d harvested two hundredweight of grain from his own fields in the autumn, and bought another hundredweight from the trading post, but they’d had time to malt, brew, and distill only half of it, what with an early winter, bad weather, and the disturbance at the Lodge in February. He scratched his chest; the scar was well healed, but he could still feel it pull when he stretched his arms wide.
He dragged the bag near the open doorway for light and dumped it carefully over the floor, kneeling and spreading it with his hands, looking for sprouting, damp, mold, bugs, or any of the other things you might not want in your whisky. And as a last check, chewed a few grains, then spat them out into the grass.
“Tha e math,” he murmured, and got to his feet. He fetched the square malting shovel down from its pegs and shoveled the fresh grain aside, making room for the next bag.
A warm breeze brushed his cheek as he opened the sliding door. It was a beautiful day. He’d maybe stop by Ian’s and take Lizard to the lake with him tonight.
These pleasant thoughts were interrupted by a sudden flapping and crying out of a flock of doves nearby, disturbed by something coming. Wary, he took hold of the shovel and keeked out—but it was only a man, coming down the path alone. Hiram Crombie. They hadn’t spoken since the stramash at Lodge.
“Hiram,” he said, as the man grew near and lifted his chin in greeting. Crombie’s pinched face lightened a little at Jamie’s use of his Christian name. He nodded slightly and came closer, still with a wary look, in case Jamie had it in mind to bat him over the head with the shovel, Jamie supposed. He stood the shovel in the mound of grain and straightened up, wiping his sleeve across his face.
“I’ve come to say …” Crombie started, but then stopped, unsure.
“Aye?” He kent well enough what Crombie had come to say, but he wasn’t above making him say it out loud. The auld curmudgeon was already stiff as a dried stick, but his arms seemed stuck to his sides. His fists curled, slowly.
“I—we—I regret … what happened. At the Lodge.”
“Aye.”
Silence, broken only by the wittering of birds in the nearby pines, waiting for Jamie to go away so they could flock down and poach the spilled grains. Crombie drew in air through his long, hairy nose; it whistled slightly, but Jamie didn’t laugh.
“I wish ye to ken that it wasna the doing of myself nor my brother or my cousins. We …” He stopped and swallowed, muttering, “… sorry for it,” under his breath.
“Well, I kent that much, Hiram,” Jamie said, stretching his back. The scar across his chest was burning from the shoveling. “Whatever ye think of the King, I dinna suppose ye’d try to kill me on his account.”
Hiram’s shoulders began to lower, but before he could get comfortable, Jamie added, “But I suppose ye kent what Cunningham was about, and ye didna warn me.”
“No.” After a moment, apparently feeling that this wasn’t an adequate explanation, Hiram blew out his breath and shook his head. “No, I didna. But I kent that Duff and McHugh had a whiff of it—I saw them watching Cunningham when he came out of kirk, like twa foxes watchin’ a wolf go past. And they’re your men. I thought they’d warn ye something was up. But Geordie Wilson—my wife’s brother, ken—he’s one of Cunningham’s. I couldna speak to ye without him gettin’ wind of it, and then …”
“Aye,” Jamie said, after a moment’s pause. “No man wants trouble in his family, and it can be helped.”
Hiram’s shoulders slumped in relief. He nodded to himself for a bit, and then spoke again.
“A wee time past, I said I wished to speak wi’ ye about a matter.”
Jamie remembered. In fact, Crombie had approached him on the way to Lodge that night. Which made him feel more kindly toward the man; he couldn’t have had a hand in what was afoot, if he’d wanted a favor from Jamie at that point.
“Ye did. About a’ Chraobh Ard, I think ye said?”
“Aye. I wanted to ask if ye’d maybe take him as a member of your militia.”
Well, that was a surprise. He’d been expecting a request that Jamie let Cyrus court Frances officially, and he would have said no to that. But this …
“Why?” he asked bluntly.
“He’s sixteen,” Hiram said, shrugging as though this was a complete answer. And it was. A boy that age needed badly to start being a man. And if he hadn’t got a man’s proper work to do …
The other side of the matter was plain, too. Hiram Crombie was anxious that his family should now be seen to stand solidly with Jamie, and Cyrus was his offered hostage. That’s reassuring, Jamie thought wryly. He thinks we might win.
Jamie spat in his palm and offered it.
“Done,” he said. “Send him to me tomorrow, just afore dawn. I’ll have a horse for him.”
SILVIA HAD VOLUNTEERED to rise early—very early—and make the gallons of brose and porridge to feed the militia. The warm, creamy smell crept up the stairs and eased me into wakefulness like a soft hand on my cheek. I stretched luxuriously in the warm bed and rolled over, enjoying the picture of Jamie, long-legged as a stork and stark naked, bent over the washstand to peer into the looking glass as he shaved by candlelight. Dawn was no more yet than a fading of the stars outside the dark window.
“Getting all spruced up for the gang?” I asked. “Are you doing something formal with them this morning?”
He drew the razor over his pulled-down upper lip, then flicked the foam to the side of the basin.
“Aye, horse drills. It’ll just be the mounted men today. With the Tall Tree, we’ll have twenty-one.” He grinned at me in the mirror, his teeth as white as the shaving soap. “Enough for a decent cattle raid.”
“Can Cyrus ride?” I was surprised at that; the Crombies, Wilsons, MacReadys, and Geohagens were all fisher-folk who had come to us—by God knew what circuitous and difficult means—from Thurso. They were, for the most part, openly afraid of horses, and almost none of them could ride.
Jamie drew the blade up his neck, craned his head to evaluate the results, and shrugged.
“We’ll find out.”
He rinsed the razor, dried it on the worn linen towel, then used the towel to wipe his face.
“If I mean them to take it seriously, Sassenach, they’d best think I do.”
THE SKY WAS lightening, but it was still dark on the ground and only a few of the men had gathered when Cyrus Crombie came down out of the trees above New House. The men glanced at him in surprise, but when Jamie greeted him, they all nodded and muttered, “Madainn mhath,” or grunted in acknowledgment.