Read Sound of the Heart for Free Online Page B

straight-backed, his jacket was freshly cleaned, his proper white wig at odds with the dingy surroundings. “You men are filthy and sick,” he declared. “We have orders to remedy both these situations as well as we might. You shall remove your clothing.”
    Dougal and John exchanged a glance, then shrugged and unwound the stiff wool of their plaids from around their bodies. It made a soft crackling noise as it was peeled off. The other prisoners did the same, muttering and moving awkwardly as the plaids fell solidly to the ground. The soldiers, faces twisted with disgust, carried the lice-ridden material and tossed it into a fire that burned beneath an overhang at the other end of the yard. Dougal, feeling nothing but dazed, watched the fire catch the edges of the plaids, taste the fouled material, then burst joyfully into flame.
    The captives stood waiting, naked and shivering in the rain. Clutching his arms around his body for some hint of warmth, Dougal looked at the stooped bodies of so many beaten men, their bones obvious through mud-encrusted skin. The rain started to work on the dirt, beating away layers of the stuff, and the men used their hands to weakly scrub more of the filth away.
    Dougal lifted his chin and closed his eyes, letting the rainwater pelt his face. Ignoring the men around him, he dropped his hands to his sides and let the moment carry him back to the Highlands, back to his home, back to the neighbouring loch that had been his sanctuary. Despite everything, he felt a smile rising within him, but a curt order from a soldier drove it back down.
    The plaids were replaced by shirts and breeks. Dougal hated the breeks. He felt confined in every sense of the word. They chafed the insides of his thighs, they blocked any possible ventilation . . . and they forced him to pick a side. The Scots objected to the clothing, feebly demanding their traditional dress, but the soldiers informed them of a recent law passed in parliament. Plaids were no longer allowed. No tartans permitted at all in the kingdom. No tartans, no bagpipes, no dancing, no traditional songs, no weapons. Anything that represented Scotland had been outlawed. The penalty for going against any of these edicts was a severe beating, even death.
    “So Scotland is gone,” John muttered under his breath.
    “No, John. She is only in hiding.”
    When the group’s shock faded to mumbled complaints, each man was led to a chair, where servant women sheared off most of their hair and beards, letting the greasy locks drop to the dirt. This, too, was thrown into the fire.
    It was a strange sensation, the tickle of air and water against Dougal’s shorn scalp. Rain washed over the bristles, running in rivers down his face and neck, making him almost giddy. He hadn’t worn short hair since boyhood. Running his fingers curiously over the uneven tufts of black hair, he tried to visualise his appearance. He dug ragged nails into his scalp and scrubbed hard, enjoying the tingle and burn of his skin under the attention.
    His cohorts looked completely different, their features clear for the first time since they’d gone to war. Now that John’s hair stood up in sharp contrast to his white scalp, Dougal realised it was closer to a copper colour than brown. Where the beards had been, the men’s sunken cheeks were a sickly white, darkened by blue-black bruises of exhaustion. They were a sorry lot, and Dougal was well aware that he looked almost as haggard. Almost, because he and John had occasionally enjoyed clandestine contributions of extra food provided by the two boys.
    Dougal knew a few of the men in the makeshift prison. Two were from his clan, both older than he by about ten years. There were others from nearby lands with whom he’d had a passing acquaintance growing up. But he and John had struck up a friendship from the moment Dougal had scratched his friend’s nose, and it suited them both. John was a friendly, cordial soul, just like Dougal,