Free Prince Across the Water by Jane Yolen and Robert J. Harris Page A

turns riding in the cart and walking by its side, and so outpaced the army behind us.
    When night truly fell, we were well along the loch. It was the kind of black night without moon or stars, for dark clouds hid everything and promised rain. We drew tightly together around a big campfire, the little ones sleeping curled up in their mother’s arms. That was when we began speaking of the Rising and what the bonnie prince looked like.
    â€œThe prince is strong,” I said. “Scotland will no find him wanting, whatever lies ahead.”
    The tinker and Granda nodded, and I added, “And the one they call ‘gentle Lochiel’ seems hardly gentle at all. He’s a fighting man for sure.”
    â€œYe see well, lad,” said the tinker.
    Granda told him, “There were thousands of men to watch the prince land and thousands more promised. Frenchmen, too, it’s said. They’ll all rise up at his bidding.”
    Suddenly, the tinker man said in a strange, soft voice, as if he were dreaming, “There’s nae good to come of it.”
    â€œWheesht,” his wife cautioned. “These be two strong Jacobite gentlemen.”
    â€œWhat’s that?” I asked, never having heard the word before.
    â€œJacobite,” the tinker said, “is the name given to those who support King James Over the Water. From the Latin tongue, where he is called King Jacobus.”
    His wife added, “A tinker knows many tongues. It is part of our trade.”
    I smiled at her then for calling me a gentleman.
    Shaking his head, the tinker repeated, “There’s nae good to come of it. War makes thieves and peace hangs ’em.” It was something Ma had said often enough.
    But Granda held up his hands. “Peace, man, we dinna mean ye harm.” At that moment the fire sent out crackling sparks as if it were warring with us.
    â€œNobody ever means harm,” the tinker said, “but wars harm the helpless nonetheless.” He picked up one of the sleeping twins and carried him to the cart.
    â€œMy man means nae offense,” said the tinker woman.
    â€œNone taken,” said Granda, and I nodded.
    A thin shred of cloud suddenly uncovered what was left of the moon, and then I could see the mountains far south of the loch. They were a dark, brooding presence. I began to shiver, and not from the cold, either. The tinker’s hard words had been like a sword to the heart.
    A while later, after we’d traded some more tales, we all got ready for sleep. The children were both bedded down in the cart, bundled together, but as Granda and I lay down on the ground next to the tinker and his wife, a sudden whooping noise made me sit up again.
    â€œWhat was that?” I gasped. “A wolf?” The stories had made me uneasy, as had the tinker man’s strange look into the future.
    Granda patted me on the shoulder. “Rest easy, Duncan. It was just an owl hooting.”
    The tinker added, “There’s nae wolves left in the Highlands, laddie. I saw the last one killed with my own eyes. There’s only the foxes left, who some call their children, and they’re nae threat to the likes of us.”
    Strangely, as soon as he had mentioned foxes, we heard the yipping cries of one on a hunt. So, without more of a beginning, the tinker told us a tale of a vixen fox who loved a man and what came of it, both good and bad.
    After that I slept well and without dreams.
    A small rain had begun to fall as we parted company with the tinkers at the head of the loch. They were going south to Fort William and its market, and we were headed north and east to our glen. There was a redcoat garrison at the fort, according to Granda, but as the tinker man said, “The redcoats’ coin is just as good as yers.”
    Looking grim, Granda answered, “Only if ye dinna count the Scottish blood on it.”
    The tinker shook his head. “There’s nae coin that doesna come