Burns Night

We go to the impromptu stables so that we can talk. It's practically the only place we can be alone together indoors around here, and not spark scandal. He hands me a currycomb and gestures at the horses. I nod. I've learned how to do this now, and at least Donas seems to enjoy it.

"Jamie, just what is. . . what was your deal with Dougal?"

He gives Donas's coat a few industrious scrubs before answering.

"Jus' how much d'ye know about the '45?"

"Not very much, I'm afraid. I know the Jacobite Risings happened, and they ended at Culloden moor."

"Aye. Ye evar been there?"

I nod, "Once."

Or perhaps a thousand, a million times. . .

"Then mebbe ye ken. It's haunted. By the souls of murdured Scots. Along wi' their most ancient birthright," his eyes meet mine sadly, "Freedom."

"Yes," I say, very quietly, "I ken."

"I may be agnostic in my mind, Sorcha, but. . . weel. I dinnae need god tae tell me that moor is holy. Sacred ground."

"I can understand that."

"Sae that's where we're goin' tae resurrect our freedom."

The most I ever knew – or thought I knew – about the Second Battle of Culloden, was that a band of militant Scots had lured nearly all of the country's contingent of Peace Agents to the moor, and then murdered them, in a bloody, vengeful reversal of the First Battle of Culloden. Most of the attacking Scots died in the process too, and Scotland and most of Europe was plunged into chaos for years afterwards – leading, eventually, to World War III.

Which led, eventually, to World War IV. . .

"I'm. . . not sure I understand that."

He nods, contemplatively, and focuses on Donas's flank for a minute.

"I have family that died there, mo nighean. Tho, at Culloden, all Scots are family," he smiles a tight, grim little smile, "It's about the only place where that's true. Bu' the point is – when a place mattars t'ye as much as Scotland does tae us, there's hardly any limit on how far ye'er willin' tae go."

"For freedom?"

"For freedom."

"But. . . doesn't the Dissolution Act already ensure your freedom?"

"Aye," he combs Donas's hide stolidly, his voice hard, "A cruel, cold, unconscionable freedom – a freedom that demands we accept years of direct exploitation and abuse beforehand, and take the generations of oppression in our history wi'out a word. A freedom that demands that of ye isnae freedom, Sorcha. Freedom wi'out justice is only a more subtle slavery."

I nod. I've never thought about it quite that way, but I very much agree.

"So then. . . it's justice you'll go to any lengths for?"

"Aye. C'n ye understand that?"

Asks the man I've adopted a son with after knowing him less than three months, almost solely out of impulsive notions of justice.

"Yes, I think I can."

"An' can ye understand that, in this case, justice looks like the elimination of those tha' ha' been perpetrating atrocities on us for years now, and will ceartainly continue tae do so? Can ye understand that t'would be nae good tae simply drive them out, tae kill an' rape an' pillage elsewhere, but tha' they must be stopped here, for good? Ended? Finished? C'n ye understand tha' we cannae let them escape? Cannae let them get away wi' it?"

I brush Donas in silence for a while.

"Jamie. . . you're talking about. . . bringing about the death of thousands."

"Aye. The deaths of thousands of rapists. Of thousands of murdurers. Of thousands of thieves, an' abusers, and cruel, heartless men I've watched punch a child in the face because he cried tae loudly when they deported his immigrant mother. Thousands of men who would kill an auld woman for the crime of loving her son, an' tryin' tae protect him. Thousands of men who would slowly, deliberately torture someone, all the while offering him rape as a way out. Or if they wouldnae do exactly that, they would stand idly by an' no' lift a finger tae stop it." His voice lowers, and he looks sideways at me, "Thousands of the kind of men who would see a limping, innocent woman walking down the road, an' assault her for the crime of being. Thousands of men who trade in the souls and bodies of Human beings, and call it peace. Thousands of men who arenae just our enemies – bu' ha' declared themselves tae be enemies of all mankind."

I take this in for bit. Crimes against Humanity are a thing of course, even in this time. But they are notoriously difficult to bring home to the perpetrators, for many and varied reasons, even in my time.

That the Scots took justice into their own hands makes some sense after having met Johnathan Randall.

It makes much more sense when the person explaining it has suffered as much as Jamie has.

It makes all the sense in the world when you actually look at history, and realize how little justice there has ever been. For anyone.

"Jamie I. . ." I reset my grip on my currycomb, "I don't like it. But I do understand."

He smiles mirthlessly, "Naeun's askin' ye tae like it, Sorcha. We dinnae like it. Tha's the point, in fact."

"Is it?"

"Aye. My deal wi' Dougal is tae help convince people tae join us. Tae contribute in some way tae the massive undertaking that is the Free Scottish Underground. No' erryun wants tae, at furst. Bu' after they see my back. . ."

He trails off, voice cracking a little.

My stomach goes cold.

I knew Dougal must be using him in some way, but I'd never have guessed it was like that.

"Oh, Jamie. . . no. . ."

"Aye. T'was Dougal who got the writ of Unlawful Detainment tha' got me away from Black Jack. T'was Dougal who set me an' Murtagh up at Leoch." He runs his hand through Donas's mane, "I owed him, Sorcha. I owed him a lot. Our deal was I'd do as I was told in the mattar of my back, an' I'd support him in his campaign – whate're that ended up meanin'."

He looks at me, significantly.

Thousands of tiny things finally slot into place.

"And then there was me. . ."

"An' then there was ye, aye."

"And. . . the cameras?"

"Aye. The cameras. Accordin' tae the rules of noble warfare," he tilts his head in salute to me, "Once a price has been declared for a hostage, it may no' be altered wi'out the full participation an' consent of both negotiating parties. Unless the hostage escapes, dies en route, or is otherwise freed by outside means, the agreed-upon price shall stand as his full and fair value. Is this no' the case?"

"It is."

"Weel that bein' so, ye were right - that morning after the concert when ye said Dougal offered me tae ye in exchange for those cameras, ye were right - he set my price. He hasnae changed it since. So I bought myself free of him, by your good grace, an' by his own dealing. I dinnae owe him anymore."

"But. . . but why now, Jamie? What about freedom? What about justice? Those haven't changed. Why has this?"

He turns around, and starts currying down the second horse, "I ken the men, Sorcha. They arenae the types tha' would put offal on yer bed. Even givin' ye the silent treatment was further than mos' of them wanted tae go."

My lip twists, "I know the men too. . . or thought I did. But you're doubtless right. So. . ."

"So, I ken that Dougal must ha' ordered it. In revenge for ye stealin' his thunder wi' that Red Sorcha article." He looks over at me, as I start currying the horse's other side, "I ken ye probably asked the men if they were "only following orders" as sarcasm and an indictment – but they wouldnae go so far as that wi'out orders, an' Dougal is the only one among us who would dream of ordering such a thing."

"Right, but-"

"Justice wi'out mercy is only more subtle murdur, Sorcha. An' mercy is nothin' at all wi'out wisdom. The minute Dougal refused tae consider mercy, is the minute he lost my allegiance. He's proven he hasnae any wisdom atal. I'll finish what I started, an' give him my services for the rest of this trip – an' then never nae more. Bu' I want ye there taenight. I want Dougal tae ken ye know his secrets, an' mine, an' that he got himself here by the consequence of his own choices."

He meets my eyes, voice softening for the first time in what feels like ages, "I want him tae ken your worth. I want him tae ken your worth tae me."

He puts away our currycombs, pulls me over to auld Alec's corner, and kisses me, long, and soft, and sweet, and oh, I've missed this. . .

My hands are soon buried in his hair, and his are shamelessly massaging my arse.

"God. . . the shape of ye, mo chridhe. The smell of ye. The sound of ye. . ."

He burrows his face into my neck, and lifts my thigh against his hip, kissing me more, and longer, and decidedly less sweetly. . .

"We'd better stop this. . ." I say, but go in for yet another kiss anyway, "We have somewhere to be tonight."

"Mmm," he growls, sending tingles all over my skin, "Rabbie Burns c'n go tae hell."

He pushes me against the nearest wall, and gets down to the important business of making me forget I need to breathe. . .

"Dhia! I said kiss her, lad, not swallow her."

Murtagh's voice sounds from the doorway, followed by the man himself.

"Dougal wants tae leave early – apparently some bigwig is goin' tae be there taenight, an' he wants tae hob-nob. Sae cut it out."

Jamie sighs, and reluctantly releases me, "Alright. Give us fifteen minutes tae clean up."

"Aye. I've already laid out yer kilt. An' as fer ye," he nods solemnly at me, "Whate'er ye said oor did tae the men this afternoon, would ye teach me? I've nevar seen them sae industrious an' helpful about a place. I've already caught no less than three ov 'em sweepin' the church, two polishin' the brass, an' two more helpin' in the kitchen."

Jamie and I both chuckle as we follow Murtagh out of the stable, "Aye, we'el explain later, mo goistidh."

When we're in the car with Murtagh a few minutes later, following the car that Dougal, Ned and Angus are in, I turn to him, curious,

"So, this is what you were doing the day we met? Drumming up support for the Free Scottish Underground?"

He doesn't look surprised at the question, "Aye – on our way back from it, rather. No' a Burns supper then, a'course – jus' a meetin', that time."

"Are these things always outside the campaign boundary?"

"Oh no – they're more usually inside them. Bu' sometimes our allowed territory doesnae have a place tha's safe or sheltered enough, away from pryin' eyes. An' since the only way the English have tae effectively patrol an' enforce such a complex set of boundaries is the trackers in our coms. . ." he takes his out and waves it, "Weel, let me jus' say, both ye and Davie Beeton hae been ov material searvice tae the cause ov Scottish freedom."

I smile, a little hesitantly. Murtagh isn't usually this voluble. . .

He notices my uncertain look, "Ach, I wanted tae tell ye weeks ago, lass." He reaches forward and clouts Jamie's shoulder, but gently, not wanting to disrupt his godson's driving, "It was this wee plague wanted tae tell ye about his back furst – an' then the twa ov ye hadtae go an' have a wee spat. . ."

"I'm. . . not certain I would say our reactions to Willie's death qualify as "a wee spat", Murtagh. But I take your point."

"Aye. The real problem, a'course, is that Dougal has been an absaelute fool ovar ye, th'eedjit. There didnae end up being much he could do tae ye while at Leoch – no wi' how he works – an' ceartainly no' wi' how ye work." He shrugs, "Sae heer we are."

"Here we are, I agree."

Jamie glances back at us in the rear-view mirror, "D'ye wantae tell him, Sorcha, or shall I?"

"Eh?" Murtagh scowls, looking back and forth between us, "Tell me what, then?"

"Jamie's bought himself free of Dougal now."

"He's. . ."

"He's bought himself free. He won't have to show his back at these things anymore, or be part of Dougal's support team at all after this trip."

Murtagh looks more stunned than I've ever seen him before.

"Wh. . ."

Quickly, Jamie gives him an abbreviated explanation of the spy cameras I found watching me and Colum, and how I used them to get some control over my life at Leoch, and then how Dougal tried to use Jamie to get that control back from me.

"*phewww*," he whistles, "I have been wonderin' jus' what all happened between ye. Dougal's a puir stick, aye, bu' he's nae usually determined tae be stupid enough tae pick a fight wi' another warrior jus' as experienced as he is." He gives me an appraising look, "Or more than he is. Point bein' – he's been actin' odd. Most o' it makes sense now."

I give him a quick rundown of our chess match against Dougal – all our subtle attacks, and mind-game follow-throughs.

Murtagh crosses his arms, "Hmph. I dinnae pretend tae understand ye. All that? Foor what?"

"To show him, Murtagh. To show him what we are capable of. To show him why he should want us on his side, not actively working against him. We can lead men. We can influence whole cities, whole cultures, if given the resources. That's what Jamie and I can do when we try."

"An' when ye don't try."

"Pardon me?"

"Weel," he gestures broadly, "Most of the men feel guilty about the stunt Dougal pulled wi' the Gàidhlig, an' there isnae a one ov them doesnae hate what he makes Jamie do at these meetings – good cause tho' it may be. And nearly all ov them admire ye for singing at that place two nights ago."

"Alright. So?"

"So, ye'er already leadin' the men again. Wi'out tryin'. Need I remind ye I found seven of them doin' housework this afternoon? Ye dinnae need fancy plans an' mind games. Tha's all twaddle annyroad – t'wilnae work, in the end. All ye need is tae be." He pats my hand, "Ye'er a bettar War Chieftain than Dougal will evar be, an' tha's a mattar of blood an' bone, no' convoluted strategies an' subtle psychological bullshite."

"I. . ."

He's right.

I know he's right.

I look quickly at Jamie, and see he knows it too.

I tell Murtagh about the offal on my bed, and my reaction.

"An' after that, ye still wantae be Dougal's ally d'ye?"

"W-well. . ." I stammer.

"Agch, if ye wantae rush in where angils fear tae tread, then work towards gittin' Jamie's warrant lifted – now that's som'thin' I'd be impressed if ye could do."

"Wait. Dougal couldn't do that, if he wanted?"

He shakes his head vigorously, "Nah. He hadtae go all the way up the laddar tae Sandringham jus' tae get an Unlawful Detainment order. He'd havetae go all the way up tae Queen Victoria herself if he wanted som'thin' like a warrant cancellation, an' Dougal hasnae got that kind of influence, an' nevar will, evan if he does win this Council race ov his."

"D'ye really think we could get my warrant lifted, mo goistidh?"

Jamie's voice is quiet, but full to the brim with dozens of emotions.

Murtagh makes an untranslatable, round Scottish noise, "The pair ov ye made Peter Harris walk inta a kitchen and volunteer tae wash dishes. Ye c'n do anything."

All three of us are still chuckling as we pull into a big, secluded farmyard.

Dougal leads us up to the entrance, and a porter lets us in.

From outside this place looked like one of the large family residences that are fairly standard in this area – old, stone-built homes that local families still live in. However, from the moment we walk through the doors, it is clear this is one of the even more common old converted farmhouses. A hotel, a museum, a distillery – there's a whole range of options. This one is very clearly a hotel. Our party has stayed in over a dozen such places by now, so nothing about it should be strange. But what does strike me as very strange is that this place was designated outside the campaign zone. If it had still been a private residence, that would not have mattered, but this is a hotel. Why are we staying in the church instead of here? It is not any further from the center of town than half the places we've stayed at before. . .

The moment we enter the main room, a man who is clearly our host comes up to us and appropriates Dougal and Jamie, muttering something about "taenight's programme".

Murtagh takes my arm, and we start to mingle with the score or so of guests.

"Weel speak ov the devil. . ." mutters Murtagh, and nods surreptitiously over at a tall, blonde man, with a bright neon-blue suit and a face like a shovel.

There aren't many people here in the past that I could have any reasonable expectation of recognizing, but that face has been in my encyclopedia, and my history books. And the suit just clinches it.

Insistently, I clutch Murtagh's arm, and draw him far enough away from the milling, chatting group that a low voiced conversation will not be overheard.

"Are you telling me Sandringham is part of the Underground?"

What. . .

What.

How?

Sandringham hated Scots. He hated Scotland. He directly enabled the Peace Agents in their violence, and he got personally wealthy in the process. It's a matter of history.

Right?

Am I wrong? Is history wrong?

Or not?

Why in god's name is he here?

My mind is buzzing with the implications. What on earth does this mean?

Murtagh nods a bit, answering with a hard voice, "Aye, ye didnae ken that by now?"

I roll my eyes, "Why do people always assume I know things we've never talked about?"

"Mebbe because ye allus seem tae ken things wi'out bein' told them." He gives a sidelong glance across the room, "Now, I'll grant ye he's distinctive, bu' he's no' famous. No' by half. How did ye ken who he was?"

My heart races to keep up with my brain. . . There's only one other thing I happen to remember about the man. . .

"You mean other than the fact that we were just talking about him, and you said "speak of the devil" just now? I don't know – that fashion magazine thing, maybe?"

I think there was a slightly more than mild scandal involving him and some very young male models at some point. . .

Murtagh nods, knowingly, "Ach, that. Weel. Ye should have said."

I can barely contain my rapid, anxious breathing. I lift a whisky from a nearby waiter's tray and take a long drink. "Should have said? Should have said? Why didn't you say that the English Overseer of the Scottish Independence Committee was a member of this illegal and very dangerous Underground?"

"Why should I ha' said anything? I didnae ken the clarty bastard would be heer! "Bigwig" was all Dougal said – how was I tae ken?"

Well. At least this hotel being outside our campaign borders makes sense now. As the official English Overseer and a moderator for this election, he is not allowed to make any appearance on behalf of any traveling party, publicly or privately, or cross into their territories in any way. With this place officially outside the borders, he has plausible deniability.

At the very real cost of safety to the six of us, but what is a consideration like that to a man like him?

Dougal comes up to us then, gesturing grandly and speaking loudly.

"Weel, here ye are then – our very own Red Sorcha! Come an' meet yer countryman." He offers his arm to me with a cheerful grin, and with a dark, vicious look in his eyes.

But his smile is so pleasant, the moment so seemingly friendly and normal, that Murtagh has no choice but to hand me over.

I look around desperately for Jamie, but he still isn't back from wherever our host took him and Dougal.

I kick back the rest of my drink, then plaster a smile on my face. I take Dougal's arm, and let a poisonous sweetness enter my voice.

"Delighted, I'm sure."

On our way across the room, he mutters through his teeth, "I take it I c'n trust ye tae be charming an' civil tae him?"

I speak similarly though my frozen smile, "Can you give me one good reason why I should be?"

"An' heer I thought ye wanted tae be on the same side."

He tries to shift his grip on my arm so he can hold my hand. I dig a pinkie nail into the soft part of his palm so hard he flinches. He doesn't try again.

"Exploitation is not alliance, Dougal. Don't expect to be rewarded when what you're doing is abuse."

Before he can answer, we arrive.

"Overseer Sandringham," says Dougal, his graciousness only slightly forced, "May I present Mrs. Claire Beauchamp, official Guest of Clan MacKenzie, affectionately known among us as Red Sorcha."

Sandringham bows regally, then offers me a hand, "A pleasure, Mrs. Beauchamp."

I delicately touch my fingertips to his palm, but do not take his hand, though the gesture makes it look as though I did, "Indeed. It is always a pleasure to be introduced to a gentleman."

Something in my tone makes him narrow his eyes. I hope it is the disgust, and not the fear.

"May I offer you a drink?"

"No, thank you. I prefer to do most of my drinking during a meal."

Dougal withdraws, murmuring something about finding our host.

"Have you ever been to a Burns supper before?", asks Sandringham, pleasantly enough.

"No, I never have."

"A most charming Scotch tradition. For a most charming Scotch bard."

He smiles, with disturbing, preternaturally white teeth. They look fake, but at the same time, not nearly fake enough. They are the Uncanny Valley of teeth.

"There is only one Bard, Overseer. As Englishmen, it behooves us to only quote him tonight."

He harrumphs, "Oh, I wouldn't dream of quoting Shakespeare on Burns night."

"Who said anything about Shakespeare? I meant the character from The Hobbit."

He blinks, bewildered, "Oh? And what iconic sayings would you take from such a children's tale?"

I half smile at him, and quote, "'Why do you tell us these things? Are you betraying your friends? Or are you threatening us?' - Chapter Sixteen – A Thief In The Night."

I watch his eyes as I speak, and something ugly comes into them. Something else does too. Fear.

Something sighs, deep in my soul. There's no mystery here. He is what history has always painted him. Just another weak, evil little chunk of radioactive waste matter. Worse, there's nothing interesting about him. Not even anything powerful enough to be fascinating. Just brutal, mindless, habitual evil. How he's managed to make anyone in this Free Scottish Underground believe he's on their side is beyond me.

It's men like this that make Dougal look good.

"I don't know what you've heard of me, my dear lady," Sandringham continues, almost smoothly, "But let me assure you that very nearly all of it will have been libelous falsities."

Oh, the millions and millions of things the history books never say!

"I shall keep that in mind, Overseer."

Our host and Dougal re-enter the room at this point, and our host calls out, loudly,

"Some hae meat and canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it,
But we hae meat and we can eat,
Sae let the Lord be Thankit!"

A cheer goes up, and we all file slowly into the dining room. Ned comes over to escort me to my place round the table. I am surprised to find I am seated second, only two places down from the head of the table, and Ned is third, just on my right. I am, however, disappointed to find that Sandringham is seated first. . .

I manage to avoid speaking to him, though, since our host goes to the little podium set up in the clear space behind the head of the table, followed by a bagpiper in full regalia, and a rosy-faced woman dressed in a white chef's uniform. The piper begins to play Scotland The Brave, and two other kitchen staff walk slowly up the room, carrying a huge haggis on a platter between them.

As the final strains of the song are played, they deposit it atop the podium, behind a line of three drams of whisky.

Our host takes a deep breath, and begins.

"Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great Chieftain o' the Puddin-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy of a grace
As lang's my arm."

He goes on a long while, with words I cannot follow, but with gestures and tones that somehow make everything entirely clear. The whisky is drunk, a knife is deftly wielded, and it's clearly all in very good fun. I never expected to laugh so much at a poem I couldn't understand.

Then, the haggis is marched away again, back to the kitchens, and as our host sits in, we are all served a bowl of Scotch broth.

I lean over to Ned, and whisper, "Where is Jamie?"

"The kitchen," he says back, softly, "Our host thought he'd make a better entrance if he was served his supper apart from us."

"Ah."

I enjoy the broth. Then the haggis reappears, accompanied by neeps, tatties, and whisky sauce. Then a slice of steak pie, crusty soda bread, and a glorious golden beet and kale salad with red wine vinegar dressing. And then a blackberry and apple cranachan, and clootie dumpling with custard.

Finally, while we linger over an abundant cheese board, replete with oatcakes, pots of preserved fruit, and the fourth dram of whisky we've been served tonight, our host goes to the podium again.

"Now we all ken why we'er really heer taenight – an' alas, it isnae tae celebrate Scotland's favourite son." There is a bit of a titter at this, but it dies quickly, "Sae instead of the usual speeches an' toasts, taenight, I give ye Dougal MacKenzie – wi' his address, 'An Appeal Tae The Scot'." He retreats, applauding.

Dougal takes his place.

He is very good at this part of things – I admit that quite freely. He launches into impassioned Gàidhlig with such practiced ease he catches me up too. His voice rises and falls, he gestures with great, distinctive gestures that tell a story all by themselves, and his eyes flash with all the righteous fervour of a self-proclaimed Messiah.

If I didn't know the man, I might be completely taken in.

Seeing him up here tonight, if I had any money, I'd want him to have it. If I had the choice to join a resistance movement, I'd want him to lead me. If I wanted a cause to believe in, I'd want it to be the same as his.

He has the entire room eating out of his hand.

And then. . .

Jamie emerges from a side door I hadn't noticed until now. His red hair glows in the warm light, the cool MacKenzie tartan framing his body beautifully. He stops next to the podium, and then, with casual, practiced ease, undoes his formal jacket and shirt, and, turning around, removes them.

There are a few audible gasps, but mostly there is nothing but icy silence. I feel the fervent, patriotic atmosphere Dougal has built up slowly solidify into stubborn implacability.

There it is. That perfect blend of independence and loyalty that Dougal needs, but only Jamie can truly inspire. . .

Sandringham however, openly gawks at the sight of Jamie's back, idly rubbing his hands together in a strange, vaguely disturbing fashion. He murmurs in my general direction, "Magnificent, don't you think?"

I have never wished to know what contaminated sludge would look like if it took Human shape, but now I feel that I know all too well.

"Oh, yes," I agree brightly, "But I think Jamie is rather wonderful too."

At last, Sandringham is brought up short. He barks a small laugh, "How sharper than a serpent's tooth, my dear."

I smile tightly. Evil, a traitor, and a hypocrite. "I'm no child, Overseer. And you're no king."

A small muscle in his cheek twitches, "Fortunately."

"For both of us."

He has no comeback to that, and so turns to speak to our host.

The programme of Highland dancing begins a few minutes later. I politely avoid all requests to join in, and manage to sneak Jamie out to the car, where we can wait in peace for Murtagh.

We huddle in each other's arms, keeping each other warm, not saying anything at all.