I mauled one of them. Put a blade in him—and deeply. But I reckon they both made it.

  Stair won’t like that.

  And I smiled when I heard this—I smiled behind my hair, or into my knees, for what else mattered? Not my musket’s wound. Not the bloodied eye. Not where they were taking me, or why.

  LATER, on a snowy night, near the castle of Barcaldine and a stirring sea, I heard what’s her name? They had lit a fire. They were warming themselves, drinking a bottle they’d taken from the ashes of Glencoe, and I lay in the shadows. That one? They meant me. They trod near me, and a redcoat woke me from my lost half-dream, pressed his heel on my waist where the musket had hit me, and he rocked me back and fro.

  He bent down. In my ear, he spat, what’s your name?

  Witch. That’ll do for her.

  Devil’s whore! Ha…

  But no. It was never that. My proper name was never witch, never, and nor has it ever been hag or wicked piece or Devil’s wife or whore. When have I ever been whorish, or cruel? When? And yet all my life I had had that—false names, lies, curses thrown out, and I’d had no family name which made them say whore even more, and the Devil’s her father as well as her lover, most likely—and what was that? Lies! Sadness, and lies. But not now, I thought. By their small fire I thought, no more…That is not me. That’s not my name.

  I rolled onto my back and parted my lips so that a soldier said she’s speaking, sir! Can’t make it out…There’s blood in her mouth.

  Is it English?

  Can’t hear.

  And I blinked at the sky with its scattered stars, at the bare branches of trees, and I felt the blood and a loose tooth in my mouth, and I pushed the tooth out with my tongue, so that it slid down my chin and onto the sand, and I spoke. I said my name very clearly.

  What? What did she say?

  MacDonald for them—for the people I’d lived for, fought for, saved. And as I pushed my forefinger down into the cool, wet sand, I smiled. I said Corrag. For I’d shown them the way.

  There.

  There it is. All you have wanted, Mr Leslie. My telling of it—what I saw, and did.

  Was it worth it, sir? The long wait?

  THE world will speak of Glencoe’s deaths. It will talk of the lies, of the blades pulled back through flesh. It will widen its eyes, say they killed bairns, even—and yes, it must be spoken of. Speak of their deaths. Mourn.

  But Glencoe?

  Its name does not mean death, to me. It means him. It means the cold draughts of water which I’d suck up from the lochs, with my hair in the water. How mist nestled in hollows. Ferns. Wind sounds.

  A DARK place…For now, it is. For now, they will call it so, and shake their heads at it. For now, folk will not go there—or if they do, they will hurry through and not look up at its airy heights. But shadows pass. Before shadows come, there is light, and what follows them is light—for how else can there be shadows? If there is no light?

  So a dark place? Briefly. But Glencoe will always be bright.

  Jane

  I will not write much. There is no need—for you will read this when it is over. You will read this when all will be done, and I will be gone from Inverary, and there will be stories of an Irishman who came, and rode away. Of a witch, who is no more.

  But I will write an apology, my love. I write to express my humble, deep and inexpressible love for you, and how I regret the hardship that my duty puts you and our boys through. I came here to serve a king. I came here to serve him by proving the sins and misdemeanours of the man who took his place—and I do this in God’s name. I feel it is right, that I’m here. But I am aware of what is beyond the sea, without me. I am aware that you must walk the gardens on your own, and hear our boys read without your husband at your side. They grow, with no father to teach them. And I am sorry to you all for how this is the truth of it.

  Forgive me. Understand me when I say that I do not pretend this is easy—for you, or our sons. I know it is not. I know you support me, but I know that there must be times when you stamp your little foot at me, or shake a fist, and wish me to return. I will return. I will.

  I hope it is a comfort to know that I don’t do this for James’s sake alone. Nor do I only have God in mind. I think of you, Jane—with my fight for the Stuart cause, with my hopes for a better, safer world I have a longing to make you proud of me. I would love—dearly love—for our sons to become men who speak of their father with pride, and affection—that they might say our father, Charles Leslie, made a difference to the world. Imagine it…I try.

  Jane, how I miss seeing your face.

  Tomorrow I will go to her.

  I will get her out.

  II

  “[It] may be properly called Heart Trefoil, not only because the leaf is triangular, like the heart of a man, but also because each leaf contains the perfection of a heart, and that in its proper colour, viz. a flesh colour.”

  of Heart Trefoil

  Never love a person. Do you hear?

  So Cora said. Cora, with her blue-black hair like a raven’s wing, and her herbs. She’d taken my face in her hands and said for they won’t love you back. Or if they do, that love will be taken from you—see? And she stepped away, smoothed her hands on her skirts. No-one loves ones like us.

  Love the ice, and wind, instead. Mountains.

  And I loved those things. I loved the whorls of hair on my goats. I loved how the wind met me at a peak, and it wrapped itself about me, shook me like a friend. I loved sky—every single sky. How the wolf was, when it called.

  But Cora was wrong. Never love was wrong. It makes me sad to think it, for I think she had a heart which longed to love, and love. I think she dreamt of it—for I heard her whispers, at night.

  Can she see me, now? Oh yes. She sees me, in this cell. She spends these final hours with me, and says I am with you, Corrag. The realm is near, and waiting, and I am not far away.

  MR LESLIE. I knew you would come. I used to think you never would, that my dirt and voice and witch would send you away, and keep you there. I’d think, he’s gone, and be sorry—but in time, my heart would whisper to me no, he’ll come back, he will… And you did. Each time.

  So. No quill, today. No leather case.

  Come closer?

  I would like my last words with you to be as we hold hands.

  I have names. I have names from that night, and will give them. Barber. Drummond. Hamilton. I know that there were some Campbell men—not many, sir, but some. I know that Glenlyon who wept in a ditch—forgive me, Lord, forgive my soul—was not haunted by his past sins, as I’d thought, as I’d crept by. I’d thought poor man…So lonesome. Look how he regrets his old ways. But he prayed for his future ones. His orders had come, from the King.

  Maybe poor man, still—for his weeping was soul-deep, that night. It hurt my own, to hear it. It made me think find your comfort…Forgive yourself.

  I also have the name Stair.

  Stair. A curious name. But it’s the name I heard, when they shackled me. After they’d struck me, and spat, and knocked me down, I heard them say she warned them.

  Stair should know it.

  Stair will not be pleased at this. Stair’s plans have been ruined by her.

  And a soldier crouched down to my ear, said he’ll not take kindly to you…

  He didn’t. Not at all. The Master of Stair came here. He rode from Edinburgh to see the grey-eyed creature who unpicked his careful stitches, saved that thieving tribe. Through the bars he watched me. Meddlesome piece, he said. The world would have done well to be rid of that clan.

  And him? Would he have done well? To have been rid of them? No doubt. I lost him a title, I reckon. Favour. A little land.

  But what have others lost? What was lost, in snowfall?

  It will be a vengeful burning—that is all. But witch is the reason they give. Witch is why they will kill me, or so the townsfolk say.

  Who will you burn?

  Hag. Witch.

  It has always tried to kill me—this word, this life of mine.

  I do not have long, sir. Not long, now.

  Tomorrow they will come, and take me out. They will lift me up, tie my hands behind the stake, and a rope about my neck to hold me straight, to stop me crouching down and quickening my death—and who thinks, this way? I could hiss, and say what world is this? That has such treatment in it? But I will not say that. I will not die thinking of the dark parts, or the pain.

  Sir? Mr Leslie?

  Have I been so hard? Have I been a hardship to visit, every day? I hope not, very much. I hope I have been worth the crooked stool, and this drip…drip… and I hope that I’ve given you some sovereign help with what you call my cause. You know I’m not for kings. I never was. My heart says that there is more blood—far more—to come for James’s sake, and I hope I am wrong, and I hope this blood isn’t yours. Be careful? No war. Fight with your pen. Give your battle-cry in ink, and mark your dreams down on a page.

  And truth…Tell them the truth. Speak of my story, when I am gone. Say witch? Devil’s wife? She was not those things… Do your best? Please? For the only ones who knew me, who shared their broth and sang with me, are Highlanders—and who believes their words? I know tales will rise up, like ghosts—of wickedness, and spells. I know that some will always hear my name, and cross themselves. But pass a whisper on, sometimes? Say my name? For speaking of the dead makes them less so.

  I hand my telling to you. I pass it through the bars.

  And go to Appin, sir. Ride your way north, along the coast. And in its coves and little homes you’ll find MacDonalds there. Speak to them, and they will give more.

  CALM? No. But Cora is waiting, and I miss her. I will try to make her proud, and I will not scream as I am burning, or clench my feet as the flames find the skin between my toes.

  Hardy Corrag, wasn’t I? I must be again. I must be hardier than ever, and look out across the houses and the loch, and bare trees, and think I am ready, and I do not mind, for look at all the beauty that witch has brought me to, and he lives, he lives, and have I not been lucky? Have I not been blessed to have lived such a blowing life? My heart spoke, and I heard it. I let it sing its song. I trusted my own self, and I had faith in the world—for why shouldn’t we have faith in it? If a tiny seed can be a tree, in time, and if birds know where their old nests are, and if a mare can know north-and-west, and go, and the moon push and pull the silver sea, then isn’t it worth our faith? I think it is. I always have. And for all the times I wished I was not me—fool! Clumsy thing—I know I would not change me, for I’ve tried to be kind, and I love the windy world, and even a solemn churchman with buckled shoes can sit with me, and smile. Look at us! You and I! Did you ever think it? I never ever thought it. Cora never did.

  I prattle, as I always did.

  But I have one more request.

  Watch me, as I burn? I am so sorry to ask it—I am. It’s a dreadful asking. But when the fire is still small and I’m waiting, waiting, and I’m twisting at my ropes and still wanting to live, I know I’ll whimper, and be afraid, and I’d like to see your face amongst the faces saying witch. I’d like to see your spectacles, your wig, your wrinkled brow, and it will be a friend’s face that I can look upon. I will be less fretful. I will think I’m not alone, and you cannot hold my hand as I burn, but you can smile fondly and it will be the same.

  Maybe say a prayer? As my soul unties itself? We are different, yes—but we both pray, or make wishes, and our prayers may drift in different ways, and roll out like cold breath, but I reckon they meet up in the same place, in the end.

  SAY you’ll remember me. That you’re glad a snowy road led you to this cell.

  Say you’ll not think of me as a girl on fire, or a shackled one—but as I was, when I was happiest. In Glencoe, with my hair blowing out. With Alasdair by me.

  Say yes to this?

  Say yes?

  But you say no.

  No, Corrag, no! You will not die.

  We all die, Mr Leslie. The realm waits—

  In time, yes—we die. But you will not die tomorrow. You will not die this way.

  Once, just once, I thought I saw my death. I was knee-deep in English marshes, with the frogs saying cleep, and the wind in the reeds. It was early evening, and as I looked down I saw my face in the water—and it looked strange, to me. Still my face, but very old. My hair was grey. I saw the geese also reflected, and sky, and I thought there. That will be your face, when your life is nearly done. And I waded out, and wandered home.

  An old, quiet death. Was that what I saw? I saw an old woman, drinking from a wild pool. I saw a quiet life, at least. Quiet, and long.

  I’d forgotten. All these years, and I’d forgotten that.

  DO NOT love. But it is all I’ve ever done.

  STOP talking, you say. Open your hands.

  And in my ear you say come with me, Corrag. Come with me.

  Five

  Jane,

  It is done. It is over. The man I once was is dead, now—and I am standing in his place.

  There are so many words I have, to tell you. So many moments, and thoughts. How can I write of them all? I can’t. I will keep most of them inside me—or I shall, for now. I will tell you of them, when I can see your face, and have you by my side. Perhaps we can walk in our gardens after rain, so that the air smells of earth and wetness, which is how all of Ireland smells to me. Perhaps we can sit, you and I, on the bench beneath the willow tree, and I can tell you how I lifted up the large and fearsome file from the blacksmith’s forge and tucked it underneath my coat. He had many files. I trust he’ll not miss it—or I hope he does not. “Thou shalt not steal,” Jane—but also what of the Psalms, which the moths have eaten in your Bible? “Who is like the Lord our God, the One who sits enthroned on high, who stoops down to look on the Heavens and the earth? He raises the poor from the dust and lifts the needy from the ash heap; he seats them with princes, and the princes of their people” (Psalm 113:5–9)—and am I not His servant? Is she not in need?

  She speaks of love being all that truly matters. Love is the heart of faith, I think.

  If I took from the blacksmith, I gave to the gaoler. Love, for him, is whisky—he has always smelt of it, and spoken like it’s in his veins. So I gave him a bottle—as thanks, for his help, over these past weeks—and as soon as I left him, I heard him uncork it, and drink. It was the strongest I could find. It would lead him to a stupor, if not to proper sleep.

  Who is this man in me, who did such deeds?

  Corrag was so wide-eyed, when I found her. She sat by the bars, waiting, and we were quiet for a time. She spoke of her death. She held my hand, and was brave, Jane—so brave, in her talking. She did not rage, or curse the world, and I thought, as I sat with her, she has never asked for help. She has never asked for me to write to Stair, or get her out.

  I gave the file to her.

  I will speak of her expression when I see you—to see yours. But perhaps, you can imagine it. She looked at the file and looked in my eyes, and I saw a thousand things in her little face. As she filed at her chains, her hair dropped down about her, and I thought of your hair, then. How it curls, at its ends. My love, through all of this, I thought of you.

  The chains broke. Corrag held them, briefly, in both hands. She looked upon them, felt them, and I think she said goodbye in that small moment—a farewell to her chained, tollbooth life.

  I hated her, once—didn’t I? I wanted her burnt, and gone. But tonight, when she tried to fit between the bars, I said push, and turn, and I wanted her out. I pulled her arm, and twisted her. I tried to press the bars aside—but she shook her head, stepped back. Try again, I said, but she could not slip through, and so I said try again very sharply. And then? Next? I saw her close her eyes. I saw her take hold of her other wrist, and tug, and there was a sound, Jane—a pop, a tongue’s click. Her shoulder rose up. It shifted high, and over—like a wing. Her mouth was wide. She longed to scream in pain, I think, and she came towards the bars with this new shape of hers. She bit her lip. She held her breath, shifted through. And when Corrag fell against me, she was so light and so warm—like a cat, or a bird. Then, a second pop. A frail mewl came out, and I saw her eyes were wet. But she was standing by me, and was human-shaped again.

  She wiped her nose, and looked at me.

  I carried her out. I stepped over the gaoler who was talking in his sleep, and I carried her out without holding her: I bore her, with her fingers grasping tightly to my clothes, and her legs fixed very tightly about my body, and I held my cloak about me with my hands on such a night—such a wet, unruly night. I carried her. I walked up into the streets, feeling this life clinging to me, her face against my chest, those fingers clutching on, and when I passed others I hoped they only saw a man in a buttoned coat, hurrying home at such an hour, and in such rain. I hurried. I looked down. When I came to the chestnut cob by the inn I mounted very gently, and I heard a small whimper against me, as if I had leant upon her.

  The cob had new shoes, and two weeks of rest. He took us well.

  And I rode, and thought what is this? What life is this? My heart beat so strongly I thought it may burst—as if she was clutching to it, and might pull that organ out. My lungs breathed very quickly, and my back ached, and I thought how are these hands mine, and these legs mine? I had our daughter’s ghost with me, Jane—and I rode, thinking of you.

  By a cold line of trees, I slowed the horse.

  Inverary was behind us, and the smell was wet pines, wet horse, wet earth. And it was there that I set Corrag down.

  For a moment, she stayed as she was. In the heavy rain, she stood with her arms held up, and fingers bent, and her eyes were tightly closed as if she was afraid to open them, and see. But she opened them. She brought her arms down, and she filled herself up with rainy air, and looked about herself, and blinked, and I will not forget that, Jane.

 

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