Thirty-one-year-old Simon Fraser of Lovat, son of ‘the Old Fox’ and un-blooded veteran of the 1745 Rising, rode into Glen Cailleach with his back straight and his head held high, as befitted the chief of a clan, albeit one without a square inch of land to his name.
“Gather the men,” he said quietly to the tacksman who hurried to greet him. “I wish to speak to them.”
Fraser’s word was passed around from clachan to clachan and man to man until eventually, it reached Mary MacKim.
“Your time has come, Hugh,” Mary said.
“Yes, Mother.”
“Fraser himself has summonsed the men,” Mary said. “That can only mean one thing. He is leading the clan to war.”
Hugh nodded. There was no question of refusing the summons. He would follow the chief, as his brother had done, and his father, and his grandfat
