Books: Highland Ballad
C >>
Christopher Leadem >> Highland Ballad
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 | 12 |
13 |
14
"You don't understand," said Stephen. "If we rescue my sister and her
guardian, and you take them away from here, your fight is ended. But
mine is just begun."
Michael wrestled with his own emotions, then came up and put a hand on
the troubled man's shoulder.
"You've made a good beginning, my friend. You've looked the Devil in
the eye."
Purceville met his penetrating gaze, puzzled that these simple words
should mean so much. And in that moment this stranger was so like
Mary---the way he spoke, the way he knew him so well.....
"Stephen. Every man chooses his own time to stop running. And it's
only when you turn, that you find out what you have inside you. I
cannot lie, and say it will be easy, or that you will triumph simply
because your cause is just. The truth is that it's much harder to be a
good man than a bad one, to do what's right, than to be selfish and
afraid. I've fought the Devil, in my way, for thirty years, and come
to no reward. On the contrary, my life has been a constant struggle.
"And tonight," he went on, "I face the battle of my life. Nothing else
matters, in all the world. And so help me, Stephen, I'm terrified. I
speak of faith, and yet I do not feel it. Getting Mary safely away is
everything. Everything
. If I fail, or injure her in the attempt, my own life is less than
meaningless. My life must end....."
Then it was he who stiffened in defiance. "But God or no God, I will
have her out. With all my soul I swear it. She will be freed."
Stephen studied him, both stirred and bewildered. "Who are
you?"
Michael, too, hesitated at the truth. It could forge a bond between
them, or destroy everything.
... "I am Michael Scott. Another man lies in my grave."
Stunned silence.
"Then it's true!
You are in love with her."
"Yes, and I have been for most of my life. But it's not something
sordid, Stephen, whatever you've been told, or your fears may imagine.
I've watched her grow from a child. I've dried her fatherless tears.
I've loved her in silence, as a brother and a friend. And never, until
a few days ago, did I tell her all that was in my heart.
"She loves me too, Stephen. If ever two people were meant to be
together, it is she and I..... I have asked her to marry me, and she's
consented."
Stephen walked away to control himself, as bitter jealousy burned
through him. The thought of her with anyone
was more than he could bear. He whirled, his face flushed and
distorted.
But anger was soon drowned in despair. Because the truth had finally
come to him: he was in love with his sister, whom he could never have.
He clenched his fists to his eyes as if to banish all sight, all
memory. Then slowly he mastered himself, became perfectly still.
"Well," he said darkly. "There it is."
"What do you mean, Stephen?" The Englishman looked full into his face,
then turned away.
"My trial. My test. In order to free the one person I truly love, I
must lose her forever. To do what is right for others, I must do
injury to myself. It is a bitter choice."
"Yes," said Michael. "But it is not the choice you think. What you do
tonight, or do not do, will be for yourself, not for Mary or for me.
Because if you don't help, and something happens to her, you will
carry it for the rest of your life." He released a weary breath, and
shook his head. "I cannot help you choose."
"No," said the other, looking down. "It seems I must help myself."
There was nothing more to say. Michael started back toward the hut,
wondering if he hadn't made a terrible mistake---if he hadn't tried
the character of this man too hard already. He slowed, stopped
outright, then said without turning.
"I would like to have you with me, Stephen. You know the place, and
the situation, far better than I. But if you feel you cannot. . .you
are free to do as you like after I have gone, with no further
obligation to me."
Purceville was silent. Michael first saw to the horse, thought for a
moment to keep it with him at all times..... No. If this man was going
to risk life and limb to help them, he must be shown this much trust,
at least. He reentered the hut, and began to work on the long length
of rope he had brought with him from the cottage.
Purceville watched him go, then slowly refilled the hole that he had
dug, thinking his own dark thoughts.
Thirty-Two
Earl Arthur stood in the cold cellar-chamber with a cloth held to his
mouth, examining two corpses. While both were branded, and both wore
native clothing, that was where the similarity ended.
The authenticity of number 383, James Talbert, could not be
questioned. His curling, brown-blondish hair and classic Scot
features, his square but emaciated form, all fit the known facts: the
prisoner who would not be disciplined, who had escaped mentally ill,
and on the verge of death. Even now he wore a look of defiance.
But the other, number 406, was all wrong. While no physical
descriptions were listed on the tally sheet he held, this surely could
not be a man who had fled across half the country, hunted and
desperate, remaining with and protecting his doubly afflicted
companion.
Beside the physical anomalies---the body before him was lean, but not
from hunger, and bore no other signs of a destitute existence---he
could find no indication in the pale, languid countenance of the
necessary courage and character to survive such an ordeal. Indeed, it
was difficult to imagine a face that exhibited less character, or
spoke of a nature so obviously low and unseemly.
And what of the way he had been killed---by a single, clean
blade-thrust to the heart? Why wouldn't mounted patrols simply shoot
him, if it came to it, rather than dismount, and engage in
hand-to-hand fighting? Such a confrontation, with such a result,
seemed unlikely at best. And to think of it, why had Talbert been shot
in the back? A dying man, and one of his fiery and unstable
temperament, was not likely to turn and run from his final meeting
with the hated English pursuers.
But the most damning evidence required no such speculation. As an
underling reluctantly turned the red-haired man onto his stomach, the
discrepancy was plain. The brand just below the left shoulder was not
a scar, but an unhealed burn, perhaps not even inscribed while the man
still lived.
Earl Arthur had the weapon he needed.
But there was more to come. Upon returning to his chambers to mull
over the discovery, and think how to use it to greatest advantage, he
had found an old woman still at work on the rooms. He started to leave
for the solitude of an adjacent library, when she accosted him with
her knowing voice.
"Begging your lordship's pardon," she said, eyeing him steadily. "If
you will forgive me, speaking so bold, I have words about my master
you may find worthy of your attention."
The Secretary did not think to remind her of her place, as he normally
would have done. This was the very type of disclosure he had sought,
and been unable to secure, from all the local persons his men had
questioned. Fear seemed to padlock their jaws, and even the promise of
reward (and protection from Lord Purceville's wrath) could not induce
them to speak.
So seating himself graciously on one side of a small table, he bid her
sit down on the other, and the interview began.
The woman spoke mysteriously of an illegitimate daughter and her
guardian, locked away to keep them from telling what they knew, and of
the sudden disappearance of Purceville's son when he learned of it,
and sought out his father in a rage. Arthur himself had witnessed
their tense meeting in the banquet hall, and marked the subsequent
absence of young Stephen, which had been explained to him in a most
unusual and unsatisfactory manner.
Wasting no more time he thanked the servant, gave her a silver coin,
then called for his orderly and dictated a strong letter, informing
Parliament and the King of his intention to call an immediate Inquest.
By this time it was late afternoon. The Earl's breathing was tight, as
ever, and his heart beat hard and unevenly from the excitement.
But he was determined to act swiftly. After a quarter century, he
finally had the means to slap down this crude upstart, who had seduced
his niece away from him, and forced her into an unnatural marriage,
ending in death.
From that time on they had been enemies. And he had sworn that if it
took a lifetime, the rogue would be brought to term for his insolence.
That Purceville had risen still further, despite his every
intervention, had only fanned the embers of his jealous hatred,
driving him on and on. Most galling (to a man who held as sacred trust
his own noble birth) were the manipulations, never proved, which had
led to his recognition as a Lord, descended from other Lords. Let
others believe what they liked! This man was lower born than the
commonest sailor, and one day he would hold forth his true nature for
all to see.
And now, now
that day had come! Throwing caution to the winds, he strode briskly
down the long corridors, seeking a direct confrontation with his foe.
At length he came upon him in his study, sitting unconcerned with a
beautifully printed, leather-bound book in his hands: The Gentleman's
Creed, by Sir William Blythe.
"Purceville," said the smaller man hotly. "I should like a word."
"Certainly, Earl," returned the other, with his hand indicating an
adjacent armchair. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" His
calm and courteous manner were infuriating. But seeing the book, Earl
Arthur contained himself.
"I am here to inform you, Lord
Purceville, of my decision to hold a formal Inquest into your conduct
as Governor of this province. I have made this intention known to the
King, and only await the arrival of his official observer to begin
proceedings against you."
"Well," replied Purceville calmly. "You are within your rights as
Secretary, I am sure. But might I inquire, as an innocent man, what it
is I am being charged with?"
Arthur went on to tell him, with some heat, of the suspicious nature
of the second corpse, of the bastard daughter imprisoned somewhere
within the castle walls, and of the subsequent disappearance of his
son, who could perhaps have explained both these things.
But not only was Purceville unruffled, when the girl was mentioned, it
was all he could do to suppress a sinister smile.
"Yes," he said, when the other had finished. "I can see how these
things might upset you. And to tell the truth, I am as anxious for the
answers as you are. I myself suspected mischief, when my men brought
to me the alleged prisoner, number 406. I have since been conducting
my own investigation into the matter.
"In fact, it was to this very end that I despatched my son---to the
place where the capture is said to have occurred---to secure further
details. I'm sorry I could not have been more forthcoming with you on
this. Perhaps you will understand if an old soldier, far from his
native soil, feels a certain loyalty to the men who help him defend an
often hostile frontier? I did not wish to hold one or more of them
before you as criminal, until there was conclusive evidence against
him."
He touched his fingertips lightly together, continued.
"As to the second charge---that of an illegitimate daughter---I must
confess that I myself am bewildered. There is in fact a young woman
here who claims that title---or rather, her guardian claims it for
her. And though the evidence is quite clearly against them, still the
woman persists. She has asked for a rather large sum as recompense,
which I can only interpret as outright blackmail. But I assure you,
they are not under lock and key. If it will ease your mind, I will
take you to them after supper. In fact, I insist."
So convincing had the performance been, the casual air and supreme
confidence, that Earl Arthur experienced a moment of doubt. What if
Purceville had spoken the truth, and the charges against him proved
groundless? But his stubborn anger rallied, and he remembered with
whom he was dealing.
"Yes, we will pay a call on them, immediately
---and I mean just
that!---after the evening meal." Which was, of course, exactly what
Purceville wanted.
The old man started to leave, then paused in the doorway. "And when
shall I have the pleasure of speaking to your son?"
The master never batted an eye. "Will tomorrow noon be acceptable?
That is when he is scheduled to return to me with his report." Arthur
grunted, presumably in assent, and left the room.
The stage was set. Alone in her chambers, the old woman smiled.
Thirty-Three
As the shadows of afternoon grew long, deepening toward sunset,
Michael began the final preparations. Trying to suppress his own
anxiety, he saddled the horse slowly and with care. He stroked its
flanks, checked its limbs and hooves, all the while speaking softly
and steadily. For this animal must not only carry them a considerable
distance, but be silent and disciplined when they arrived.
It was a good mount, he reassured himself, sturdy and well trained.
Whatever its master's faults, he had clearly loved and cared for his
horse.
With a sudden pang of sorrow and exhaustion, he remembered who that
man had been, and to what end he had come. The unfairness of life, the
endless cruelty.....
No. He could not give in. Whatever happened this night, to himself and
the ones he loved, rested squarely on his shoulders. He must act. He
must find a way.
As he finished, and led the mare toward the hut, Stephen stepped out
of it. "You're coming?" Michael asked him, as calmly as he could.
"Nothing has changed," replied Purceville stiffly. "We've got to get
her out. All else comes after."
"Good," said Michael thickly. "Good..... Will you hold her while I
fetch the rope?" The other nodded.
Once inside, Michael slung the long, heavy coil across his neck and
shoulder, then reemerged into the still, expectant air. The time had
come.
He bowed his head in silence, but no words of prayer would come to
him. Instead he took a deep breath, and opened his eyes to the task
that lay ahead. He nodded tersely to his companion. Then began to
descend, with Stephen leading the animal behind.
Upon reaching the branching of ways, it was agreed that neither would
ride until they came down from the rough mountain paths, onto
smoother, more tractable ground. They walked, as distance and Night
closed around them.
* * *
"What is it, Anne? What's wrong?"
"I don't know, Mary. A premonition. . .something." She stood up and
shook herself against the cold, but the feeling remained.
At first she thought to keep it to herself, out of habit, and to
protect the girl. But they had grown so close these long, empty days
in the cell, with little to eat and only the shelter of each other's
bodies to keep them from despair. All barriers had fallen away,
leaving them what in fact they were: two frail and frightened human
beings, surviving both physically and emotionally by sharing the same
warmth, the same breath, the same meager sustenance. She could not
hide anything from her now.
"I feel," she went on, "as if something terrible is going to happen."
"To Michael?" Both understood so many things without words.
"No, Mary, I don't think so. Perhaps to us..... Someone is going to be
murdered, and it will happen in this room."
* * *
The banquet hall was again nearly full, though the air was far from
festive. Both camps seemed to realize that something major had
occurred in the battle between their respective leaders, and to sense
that something further would happen that night. Only Purceville
himself, and the large, rough-looking officer to his right, appeared
unconcerned.
The meal proceeded, largely in silence. Then, as the cloth was drawn,
the Governor rose and began to propose a series of toasts.
There was nothing unusual in this. Rather, it seemed the act of a
genial host, trying to smooth over the obvious tension of his guests.
"Gentlemen, I give you the health of the King.
"Gentlemen, to a strong and united Britain." And so forth.
But after these stock phrases, suitable for such an occasion, his
words began to take on a more personal tone, which bordered at times
on outright sarcasm.
During the first several toasts, Arthur had worn the air of a
righteous man who would not be pacified. But as their nature and
content became more inflammatory, and their number far exceeded
decorum, he became first agitated, then flushed and quite angry. The
latter speeches of Purceville ran something like this:
"Gentleman, to the health of vibrant leaders." To Arthur, an obvious
slur against his age and recurring angina.
"Gentlemen, to the gallant soldiers who conquer and protect, so that
others may live comfortably from their labors." The Secretary had
never been more than a token officer, nor served in a single campaign.
"Gentlemen, to those with the strength and courage to make their own
way in the world." And so on.
Finally the aged aristocrat stood defiantly, and raised his own cup
high. "I see no gentleman
before me," he retorted. "But I will answer his challenge." And he
glared about the room. "To the truth about low-born men. And to those
who will not leave their treachery in darkness, but hold it forth in
the hard light of day."
The gathering, already hushed and apprehensive, now fell silent as a
stone. For unlike his rival, Arthur had made no attempt to hide his
animosity, or to engage in verbal cat-and-mouse.
But Purceville only smiled blithely. "Splendid!" he cried, as if the
remark could not possibly have been directed at him. He drained his
goblet with a flourish, then crashed it gaily back down onto the
table. Anyone who did not know him well (and there were many present
who did not), might have thought him too deep in his cups.
"Well, my friends," he said, a bit unsteadily. "It has been a lovely
evening. But sadly, all things must come to an end.....
"For now there is work to be done. In the name of that same truth
which the Earl so eloquently serves, he and I must be off on an errand
of our own. We are going to interview a lady
." And he raised his eyebrows suggestively, the very portrait of a man
who had lost all restraint. "Lieutenant Ballard will accompany me, as
my faithful right hand in all things. But perhaps Earl Arthur would
feel more secure with a somewhat larger retinue?" Again (to Arthur)
the underlying insult, the slur against his courage and character.
"My orderly officer will be more than sufficient escort for me,"
returned the Secretary. "To record the events of our interview. For I
am sure that I
will have nothing to fear, once the truth is known."
"Bravo," said the larger man heartily. "Your strength and vitality are
an inspiration to us all. Now gentlemen, if you will excuse us."
Purceville himself led the way, as the four-man procession filed out
of the room, leaving behind the light and heat of the banquet hall.
And on toward the back reaches of the Castle.
"I'm afraid it's rather a long way," he said, as they turned the first
corner. "Perhaps the Earl might care to take a short rest?"
"Your audience is gone, Purceville. This is between you and me. I may
not be as young as you; but by God I'd walk to the ends of the earth
tonight!"
"Of course." And after a time. "One last corridor."
When they reached the massive Tower door, Ballard drew out his ring of
keys. Inserting the largest, he turned it roughly in the lock, then
pushed in on the heavy oak barrier with a groan of iron hinges. A dark
opening awaited them.
The company stepped inside, and were enfolded in echoes. To their
right, illumined by a single, recessed lamp, stood the beginnings of
an ancient stairway, cold stone that spiralled out of sight. Ballard
relocked the door behind them, then took up a torch, and lighted it at
the lamp.
"Perhaps you should reconsider, Earl? I'm afraid the ladies in
question reside on the uppermost story."
Arthur ground his teeth in impotent wrath. He had eaten and drunk
obstinately at the meal, as if to prove himself. He had taken the
bait, and dug the hook deep into his flesh. And though now a part of
him smelled the trap, his pride would not let him back down. For the
strong wine had gone to his head, and he believed himself more than he
was.
"I shall go wherever you lead," he said hotly, unable to control
himself. "To bury you, I would descend into Hell itself."
"Very well, Secretary. My second will lead the way with the torch.
Watch your step, and be sure to tell us if you begin to flag along the
way."
Ballard suppressed a grin of pleasure, and began to climb. The others
followed.
The aristocrat's hard resolve could not last. Soon he moved as if in
chains, every step a punishment. This man who had begun life so high,
gliding easily and arrogantly down the gentle incline, now found
himself struggling bitterly just to reach the level ground of final
judgment.
Halfway up it was clear that he should go no further. His breath came
in tight gasps, as almost unconsciously he clutched at the growing
pain in his left arm and shoulder.
Becoming alarmed, his orderly called a halt, and approached his
failing master. "Your Lordship must rest," he whispered emphatically.
But the others looked down in sneering silence. As soon as he regained
his breath the old man pushed him off, and said harshly.
"We go on."
"But surely," said Purceville, in his best native tongue. "'Tis no
trouble to stop."
"We move
!" The procession continued, always upward.
Ten steps from the top, Arthur collapsed. Rushing toward him with a
look of sudden concern, the Lord Purceville lifted his shriveled form,
and carried it like an injured child up to the broad final landing.
"Oh, this is bad," he said, as he set him down and stooped to examine
him. "I fear I've made a terrible mistake. Mister Cummings," (this was
the orderly), "Run like the Devil! Fetch my personal physician. Tell
him what has happened, and that I fear for the Secretary's heart. I'll
do what I can to make him comfortable here: we dare not try to move
him." The man turned pale with fright, then rushed headlong down the
steps.
As soon as he was out of sight and hearing, Ballard set the torch in
its iron mount, and allowed himself to smile in earnest.
"Got to hand it to you, Governor. That was a fine piece of work. He'll
be nine parts down before he remembers he can't get out without my
key. And he's half winded as it is."
"You must not take that for granted!" growled Purceville, himself not
immune to the rigors of the climb. "Did you bring the flask as I told
you?"
"Of course." And a look of reproach.
"Then give it to me. Now
!"
Ballard glared at him, but the other was not even looking. He lifted
the tin from his pocket, and placed it in Purceville's outstretched
hand.
Burning with rage, Henry Purceville took the fine embroidered
handkerchief from the breast pocket of the crumpled man. Then soaked
it with water, and brought it slowly toward his face.
"What are you going to do?" ejaculated Arthur helplessly. But his
voice had been reduced to a cracked whisper, and his imagined safety
deserted him.
"This is for the soldiers, your Highness
. And for me." And the son of a sailor stuffed the cloth full into his
mouth. Then with one great hand holding the jaw shut, he pinched off
the nose with the other, and stopped all flow of air.
The old man could not endure it long. Suffocating, struggling to
breathe and break free, his heart gave one last, violent pump, then
seized and ceased forever. The life slowly left his body, and his eyes
sank deeper in their sockets. Earl Emerson Arthur, was dead.
But a moment later a sound became audible below: the soft rasp of
leather on stone. The orderly was returning.
Purceville reached hurriedly into the dead man's mouth and began to
pull out the soiled cloth, but too late. The orderly turned the final
arc, his head rising above the floor of the landing. . .and he saw.
The scene before him, the events of the entire evening, required no
further explanation.
"You--- You've killed him!"
And though weary to his very bones, the man whirled and flew down the
steps once more. For now his own life was in danger, and the fear of
death worked like lightning on his limbs, still young enough to
respond. It could not occur to him that he was still trapped inside
the tower (as he had realized halfway down), or that all its doors
remained locked to him. He only knew that these men would try to kill
him, and that he still wanted to live.
"What are you waiting for?" bellowed Purceville at his Lieutenant. "Go
after him!" But Ballard stood very still, his eyes narrowing.
"And what about them bitches?" he said, motioning with his head toward
the door of Mary's cell, pierced by the barred window. "They heard the
whole of it, too."
"Fool!" cried Purceville, with deliberate menace. "They'll not live
out the night. Now go!
"
Ballard lowered his head, then walked sullenly past his two superiors:
the one living, the other dead. He began to descend in pursuit, but
his pace was far from running.
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 | 12 |
13 |
14