Page 3 of Sighs of the Highland Wind
On that occasion, Maxwell had left Edinburgh in the evening and had walked all through the night. It had been a cold night, but it was moonlit and dry, and after a while, he had expended enough energy to warm up and break a sweat. The road was smooth and quite easy to follow in the cold silver light of the moon. He was beginning to feel quite jolly and began to whistle a cheerful tune, then took a flask of ale from his pocket and drank deeply, relishing the cold, yeasty flavor as it wet the back of his throat. He was carrying twelve shillings in his pocket, the winnings from a card game he had played in Edinburgh. His opponent had been drunk and almost delirious and had been an easy opponent to beat.
Suddenly Maxwell heard a crash from the bushes to the right of him, and as he turned, something hard hit him, a glancing blow on the left side of his head. It was not strong enough to knockhim out, but it was hard enough to hurt, and he instinctively began to run. He was dizzy, in pain, and disoriented and would not have managed to escape, but he had to try.
However, his way was blocked when he collided at some speed with a solid masculine figure, then he was manhandled onto the ground by two others.
“Hold him doon, Sammy!” one of them said angrily in a voice that sounded like the snarl of a dog.
“He is strong as a bloody bear, Andy!” one of the others growled. “An’ about the same size!”
Maxwell managed to raise one leg up enough to bend it at the knee and shoot out a powerful kick to one of the men’s groin.
The thug yelled out in pain and clutched himself, backing away, but Maxwell’s effort gained him nothing. Andy sat on his chest and swiped him across his right cheek so hard that he saw stars for a few moments before an excruciating pain set in. It reminded him briefly of a childhood accident that had befallen him many years before, and at that moment he stopped resisting and went limp. The odds were completely against him.
He felt the robbers searching his body all over until they found the pouch that contained his winnings, then they sat on the ground and gleefully divided up their spoils. Maxwell tried to sit up, but he was pushed down again so hard that his head hit the gravel path and began to vibrate painfully.
“Four shillin’s each!” Sam cried triumphantly. “That will buy ye a good time wi’ Bettie McCauley in Bearstane, eh, Brian? She fancies ye somethin’ rotten!”
“That’s because I am a handsome devil,” Brian answered, grinning. Then he aimed a venomous glance at Maxwell. “I hope I have recovered the use o’ my auld man by that time, mind. Before we go anywhere, I am goin’ tae give this one a taste o’ what he gave me!”
The three men hauled Maxwell to his feet, and Brian took a step backward, enjoying the fear on his face. Andy and Sam were holding each of his arms so that he could not shield himself. By the look on his face, Brian was going to enjoy his revenge.
Maxwell was terrified of the agony that he knew was coming, but he was determined not to show it. He screwed his eyes shut and clamped his top teeth over his lower lip, then waited. He heard the men talking and laughing between themselves and making obscene comments about him while they tormented him by drawing out the agony of suspense.
When the pain came it was blinding, shooting from his groin to every one of his nerve endings, throwing him to the floor and leaving him crippled for a while. Maxwell had never felt anything like the agony that was blazing through him, but he made no sound, and apart from screwing his face up a little more, he showed barely any sign of what he was going through.
Andy and Brian let go of his hands and stood laughing at him, but they stopped as Maxwell stood up straight and squared his shoulders. It was costing him every ounce of willpower he had, but he clamped his jaws shut and said nothing as Brian came up to him and looked him in the eye.
Unfortunately he could not control the tears of pain that had started to fall. Brian gave him a mock-tender smile and patted him softly on the cheek.
“Poor wee soul,” he said in mock sympathy. “Did we make ye cry?”
“Oh, dear,” Sammy said, pretending to be concerned. “Maybe ye need another wee dose o’ yer own medicine, eh, lads? Nothin’ like a hair o’ the dog that bit ye.”
There was an enthusiastic cheer of agreement from the other two, and once more Maxwell felt his arms being gripped in a vicelike hold. This time he knew there was no point in trying to hide his pain since his body was still throbbing and aching with the agony of the first assault.
Yet just as he was beginning to sag in defeat, he heard the welcome sound of a horse’s hooves coming toward him. He was about to cry out for help when he was thrown onto the ground and dragged into the bushes. He felt an agonizing blow on the back of his neck…then nothing.
Fortunately, Maxwell had woken a few hours later, bruised, cut, and aching, but luckily not seriously hurt. Unfortunately, he was now penniless and had no idea where his next meal was going to come from.
That had been two months before, and somehow, by dint of finding an odd job here and there and begging, which he hated, he had been able to amass enough money to survive. Once, he had even been given hot food and a bed for the night by a kindly priest who had given him a shilling. It had not been easy, though. Maxwell had not yet been reduced to stealing—that would be his very last resort—but he could see the time coming when he would have no choice.
Fortunately, that time had never come, and Maxwell was now standing outside the Spotted Dog with his last few pennies wondering if he should go inside. He could see that the big room was brightly lit by the amount of light that was spilling out of the open door, and he could tell that there were plenty of people there by the hubbub of laughter and chatter.
Yet as he looked down at himself, he could see what others would see as soon as he walked through the door. He was obviously a fellow who was down on his luck, and most people would take one look at him and mark him out as a beggar. However, perhaps his thick beard and messy hair would disguise him a little. He wanted no one in Invercree to recognize him at all.
There is nothing I can do about it,he thought resignedly, before he almost pushed the door open to enter the tavern.
As he listened to the laughter coming from inside, he recognized one very familiar voice, that of one of the blacksmiths, who knew him very well. This was because, when he came to visit Lachlan and Douglas to go hunting, his horse, a big black mare called Becky, was always losing her shoes.
Maxwell sighed. It would only take one person to recognize him, and he would be hunted down and captured, then God alone knew what would happen to him. However, it was too cold to stay outside, and even if he could not afford a night at the inn, he could perhaps bunk down in the stables for the night if he was sneaky enough. Hopefully, the warmth of the animals’ bodies would stop him from freezing, and he might be able to steal a blanket from one of them.
Now he had to decide whether to go inside or not, but then he had a stroke of luck as the blacksmith, Hugh Spence, staggeredout of the door of the inn, singing some bawdy ballad that made his fellow drinkers roar with laughter.
Maxwell breathed a sigh of relief, then pulled his hood up and bent over slightly so that he looked a little like a hunchback. This had the added effect of lessening his height a little.
He ordered a pint of ale, making sure that it was the cheaper variety, using a husky voice and speaking in Scots.
“What food dae ye have?” he asked the tavern lady, a plump woman in her middle years.
