"Can you? Write with the other, I mean?"
He nodded, reapplying the injured hand to his mouth. "Aye. Makes my head ache to do it, though."
"Do you fight lefthanded too?" I asked, wanting to distract him. "With a sword, I mean?" He was wearing no arms at the moment except his dirk and sgian dhu, but during the day he customarily wore both sword and pistols, as did most of the men in the party.
"No, I use a sword well enough in either hand. A lefthanded swordsman's at a disadvantage, ye ken, wi' a smallsword, for ye fight wi' your left side turned to the enemy, and your heart's on that side, d'ye see?"
Too filled with nervous energy to keep still, he had begun to stride about the grassy clearing, making illustrative gestures with an imaginary sword. "It makes little difference wi' a broadsword," he said. He extended both arms straight out, hands together and swept them in a flat, graceful arc through the air. "Ye use both hands, usually," he explained.
"Or if you're close enough to use only one, it doesna matter much which, for you come down from above and cleave the man through the shoulder. Not the head," he added instructively, "for the blade may slip off easy. Catch him clean in the notch, though"—he chopped the edge of his hand at the juncture of neck and shoulder—"and he's dead. And if it's not a clean cut, still the man will no fight again that day—or ever, likely," he added.
His left hand dropped to his belt and he drew the dirk in a motion like water pouring from a glass.
"Now, to fight wi' sword and dirk together," he said, "if ye have no targe to shelter your dirk hand, then you favor the right side, wi' the smallsword in that hand, and come up from underneath wi' the dirk if ye fight in close. But if the dirk hand is well shielded, ye can come from either side, and twist your body about"—he ducked and weaved, illustrating—"to keep the enemy's blade away, and use the dirk only if ye lose the sword or the use of the sword arm."
He dropped low and brought the blade up in a swift, murderous jab that stopped an inch short of my breast. I stepped back involuntarily, and at once he stood upright, sheathing the dirk with an apologetic smile.
"I'm sorry. I'm showin' off. I didna mean to startle ye."
"You're awfully good," I said, with sincerity. "Who taught you to fight?" I asked. "I'd think you'd need another lefthanded fighter to show you."
"Aye, it was a lefthanded fighter. The best I've ever seen." He smiled briefly, without humor. "Dougal MacKenzie."
Most of the cherry blossoms had fallen from his head by now; only a few pink petals clung to his shoulders, and I reached out to brush them away. The seam of his shirt had been mended neatly, I saw, if without artistry. Even a rip through the fabric had been catch-stitched together.
"He'll do it again?" I said abruptly, unable to stop myself. He paused before answering, but there was no pretense of not understanding what I meant.
"Oh, aye," he said at last, nodding. "It gets him what he wants, ye see."
"And you'll let him do it? Let him use you that way?"
He looked past me, down the hill toward the tavern, where a single light still showed through chinks in the timbers. His face was smooth and blank as a wall.
"For now."
We continued on our rounds, moving no more than a few miles a day, often stopping for Dougal to conduct business at a crossroads or a cottage, where several tenants would gather with their bags of grain and bits of carefully hoarded money. All was recorded in ledgers by the quick-moving pen of Ned Gowan, and such receipts as were needed dispensed from his scrap-bag of parchment and papers.
And when we reached a hamlet or village large enough to boast an inn or tavern, Dougal would once more do his turn, standing drinks, telling stories, making speeches, and finally, if he judged the prospects good enough, he would force Jamie to his feet to show his scars. And a few more coins would be added to the second bag, the purse bound for France and the court of the Pretender.
I tried to judge such scenes as they developed, and step outside before the climax, public crucifixion never having been much to my taste. While the initial reaction to the sight of Jamie's back was horrified pity, followed by bursts of invective against the English army and King George, often there was a slight flavor of contempt that even I could pick up. On one occasion I heard one man remark softly to a friend in English, "An awfu' sight, man, is it no? Christ, I'd die in my blood before I let a whey-faced Sassenach to use me so."