I brushed the hair out of my eyes; I had tied it back under a kertch, but curly strands kept escaping.

“Is this man somewhere nearby?”

That was all the encouragement he needed; he disappeared through the open door, returning momentarily with a thin young man whose eager gaze fastened at once on my face.

“Mrs. Fraser?” He bowed awkwardly at my nod, wiping his hands on his breeches as though he didn’t know quite what to do with them, but wanted to be ready if something suggested itself.

“I – I’m Richard Anderson, of Whitburgh.”

“Oh? Well, good for you,” I said politely. “My servant says you have some valuable information for Lord George Murray.”

He nodded, bobbing his head like a water ouzel. “Ye see, Mrs. Fraser, I’ve lived in these parts all my life. I – I know all of that ground where the armies are, know it like the back o’ my hand. And there’s a way down from the ridge where the Highland troops are camped – a trail that will lead them past the ditch at the bottom.”

“I see.” I felt a hollowing of the stomach at these words. If the Highlanders were to charge out of the rising sun next morning, they would have to leave the high ground of the ridge during the night watches. And if a charge was to be successful, plainly that ditch must be crossed or bypassed.

While I thought I knew what was to come, I had no certainty at all about it. I had been married to an historian – and the usual faint stab came at the thought of Frank – and knew just how unreliable historical sources often were. For that matter, I had no surety that my own presence couldn’t or wouldn’t change anything.

For the space of a moment, I wondered wildly what might happen if I tried to keep Richard Anderson from speaking to Lord George. Would the outcome of tomorrow’s battle be changed? Would the Highland army – including Jamie and his men – be slaughtered as they ran downhill over boggy ground and into a ditch? Would Lord George come up with another plan that would work? Or would Richard Anderson merely go off on his own and find a way of speaking to Lord George himself, regardless of what I did?

It wasn’t a risk I cared to take for experiment’s sake. I looked down at Fergus, fidgeting with impatience to be gone.

“Do you think you can find your master? It’s black as the inside of a coal hole up on that ridge. I wouldn’t like either of you to be shot by mistake, traipsing around up there.”

“I can find him, Madame,” Fergus said confidently. He probably could, I thought. He seemed to have a sort of radar where Jamie was concerned.

“All right, then,” I conceded. “But for God’s sake, be careful.”

“Oui, Madame!” In a flash, he was at the door, vibrating with eagerness to be gone.

It was half an hour after they had left that I noticed the knife I had left on the table was gone as well. And only then did I remember, with a sickening lurch of my stomach, that while I had told Fergus to be careful, I had forgotten altogether to tell him to come back.

The sound of the first cannon came in the lightening predawn, a dull, booming noise that seemed to echo through the plank boards on which I slept. My buttocks tightened, the involuntary flattening of a tail I didn’t possess, and my fingers clasped those of the woman lying under the blanket next to me. The knowledge that something is going to happen should be some defense, but somehow it never is.

There was a faint moan from one corner of the cottage, and the woman next to me muttered, “Mary, Michael, and Bride preserve us,” under her breath. There was a stirring over the floor as the women began to rise. There was little talk, as though all ears were pricked to catch the sounds of battle from the plain below.

I caught sight of one of the Highlanders’ wives, a Mrs. MacPherson, as she folded her blanket next to the graying window. Her face was blank with fear, and she closed her eyes with a small shudder as another muffled boom came from below.

I revised my opinion as to the uselessness of knowledge. These women had no knowledge of secret trails, sunrise charges, and surprise routs. All these women knew was that their husbands and sons were now facing the cannon and musket fire of an English army four times their number.

Prediction is a risky business at the best of times, and I knew they would pay me no mind. The best thing I could do for them was to keep them busy. A fleeting image crossed my mind, of the rising sun shining bright off blazing hair, making a perfect target of its owner. A second image followed hard on its heels; a squirrel-toothed boy, armed with a stolen butcher knife and a bright-eyed belief in the glories of war. I closed my own eyes and swallowed hard. Keeping busy was the best thing I could do for myself.

“Ladies!” I said. “We’ve done a lot, but there’s a lot more to do. We shall be needing boiling water. Cauldrons for boiling, cream pans for soaking. Parritch for those who can eat; milk for those who can’t. Tallow and garlic for dressings. Wood laths for splints. Bottles and jugs, cups and spoons. Sewing needles and stout thread. Mrs. MacPherson, if you would be so kind…”

I knew little of the battle, except which side was supposed to win, and that the casualties of the Jacobite army were to be “light.” From the far-off, blurry page of the textbook, I again retrieved that tiny bit of information: “…while the Jacobites triumphed, with only thirty casualties.”

Casualties. Fatalities, I corrected. Any injury is a casualty, in nursing terms, and there were a good many more than thirty in my cottage as the sun burned its way upward through the sea mist toward noon. Slowly, the victors of the battle were making their way in triumph back toward Tranent, the sound of body helping their wounded comrades.

Oddly enough, His Highness had ordered that the English wounded be retrieved first from the field of battle and carefully tended. “They are my Father’s subjects,” he said firmly, making the capital “F” thoroughly audible, “and I will have them well cared for.” The fact that the Highlanders who had just won the battle for him were also presumably his Father’s subjects seemed to have escaped his notice for the moment.

“Given the behavior of the Father and the Son,” I muttered to Jenny Cameron on hearing this, “the Highland army had better hope that the Holy Ghost doesn’t choose to descend today.”

A look of shock at this blasphemous observation crossed the face of Mrs. MacPherson, but Jenny laughed.

The whoops and shrieks of Gaelic celebration overwhelmed the faint groans of the wounded, borne in on makeshift stretchers made of planks or bound-together muskets, or more often, leaning on the arms of friends for support. Some of the casualties staggered in under their own power, beaming and drunk on their own exuberance, the pain of their wounds seeming a minor inconvenience in the face of glorious vindication of their faith. Despite the injuries that brought them here to be tended, the intoxicating knowledge of victory filled the house with a mood of hilarious exhilaration.

“Christ, did ye see ’em scutter like wee mousies wi’ a cat on their tails?” said one patient to another, seemingly oblivious of the nasty powder burn that had singed his left arm from knuckles to shoulder.

“And a rare good many of ’em missin’ their tails,” answered his friend, with a chortle.

Joy was not quite universal; here and there, small parties of subdued Highlanders could be seen making their way across the hills, carrying the still form of a friend, plaid’s end covering a face gone blank and empty with heaven’s seeing.

It was the first test of my chosen assistants, and they rose to the challenge as well as had the warriors of the field. That is, they balked and complained and made nuisances of themselves, and then, when necessity struck, threw themselves into battle with unparalleled fierceness.