White Rose Rebel by Janet Paisley Page A

before.
    ‘Release the deserter,’ he commanded Anne.
    She tightened her grip.
    ‘He’s a frightened boy,’ she said. ‘And you have no authority here.’
    Ray dismounted, drew a pistol from his saddle bow and walked towards her.
    ‘His chief will deal with his disobedience,’ Anne insisted.
    Without a hesitation, Ray pushed the pistol against the boy’s forehead and fired, deafeningly loud in Anne’s ears. The back of the boy’s head exploded. Blood and brain spurted over her face, neck and shoulder. His warm body went limp in her arms, the dead weight of him too heavy to hold. Cottars gasped and cried out with horror. The boy’s mother screamed, breaking free of her restrainers. Griefstricken, she lurched across the grass to her dead son, now sliding down from Anne’s grip to the ground.
    Ray, back at his horse, drew the second pistol from his saddle bow, aimed and fired. The ball hit the bereaved woman full in the chest. She fell just as she reached her son, her body landing over his. Anne, immobilized with shock, stared open-mouthed at Ray, blood spattered across her cheeks, trickling between her breasts, her dress smeared with red.
    ‘She would only breed more traitors,’ Ray said, before turninghis horse, calling to his men. ‘Come, we’re finished here. There are more to hunt down before dark.’ He rode off, the soldiers running behind.
    The dozen or so cottars who’d been invisible to Anne earlier surged forwards. Some issued low moans of shock and horror, others were in tears. Gently, they disentangled the bodies of mother and son. Carefully, they straightened their limbs and clothes. A man tended Ewan, who was beginning to come round from the blow to his head. Voices asked Anne if she was all right. She could barely make them out. Hands touched her, checking, cleaning away shattered flesh, offering care and concern. But she barely felt them. She had seen death before but not this brutal. Not a mother and child, the most valued, most treasured and protected people in any clan. She could neither speak nor feel nor move.
    The arrival of more horses sounded like the distant tremor of drums beating in the air. Then Aeneas was in front of her, touching her hair, her face, her shoulders, her breast.
    ‘Are you all right? Are you hurt? Anne, will you speak to me?’ His voice was like an echo heard through water.
    ‘I am fine,’ she heard her own voice answer.
    ‘You are very far from fine,’ he said. ‘But the blood on you is not yours, thank God.’ Reassured she was alive, he shouted, anger rising out of him. ‘ Gonadh! Damn them! Damn them to hell!’ Then he was giving orders. To MacGillivray. ‘Take my wife home.’ To the cottars. ‘Help her up.’ To Ewan. ‘Go easy, or we’ll lose you too.’
    Then Anne was in the saddle, MacGillivray wrapped around behind her, his strong arms holding her, taking the reins, trotting the horse away towards Moy. Behind her, she could still hear Aeneas, angry at the harm to his people, instructing the care of their bodies, alternating between swearing and soothing.
    Back at Moy, the Dowager took over, helping Anne upstairs to change while Jessie fetched towels, a bowl, a jug of warm water. Stripped to her shift, Anne bent over the bowl. The water was sparkling. She splashed it up on her face. Now the water was red with blood. Again and again she threw the liquid in her face. The red only deepened.
    ‘Enough now,’ the Dowager said. ‘Will stoked the fire, and the water is hot enough. Jessie has drawn a bath. We’ll get you clean.’
    But even as she sank into the deep warmth of the bath, letting her head fall back so it soaked her hair, the clear water round her turned blood-red. She had helped send young Calum to the Watch. She had failed to protect him at the cotts. Aeneas would bring the clan out now but she, she would never feel clean again.
    At Fort George, Aeneas dismounted outside the commander’s headquarters. He had a dozen young lads with