Books: Highland Ballad
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Christopher Leadem >> Highland Ballad
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Anne Scott heard the key being turned in the lock. But for all her
determination, the great hulking figure who threw open the door was
too fast for her. As she moved swiftly toward him, the knife raised,
her motion was checked by a savage blow that felled her at once, and
left her all but senseless. The Lord Purceville, with the light behind
him had seen her coming, and with his great fist crashed her to the
floor.
Moving past her as his eyes strained to adjust to the gloom, he swept
the cold shadows of the chamber like a ravening wolf that had lost
sight of its prey. For a moment he despaired, as it became clear that
the girl was gone.
But then he saw the rope, rising tautly from the floor and over the
lip of the sill. Himself not wasting an instant he ran to the window,
shifted his bulk, leaned over and out of it. Seeing the girl still
descending far below, he swept out his own knife and began cutting
into the strands one by one.
Michael was too intent upon the progress of his nearing lover to take
in the dark bulge that appeared at the window. Mary never thought to
look up, but only continued to descend.
Perhaps twenty feet from the ground she suddenly felt the rope begin
to give. Releasing her hands once each, she instinctively pushed away
from the wall--- The last strands gave way as she fell back, stifling
a scream.
Michael caught her, shielding her body with his own; but the force of
impact sent them both to the ground. Together they rose, embracing and
in tears. . .until slowly they perceived the danger that awaited them.
And it came not from above, where Lord Purceville knew that any shot
was as likely to strike his son as the two lovers. . .but from
directly behind them. More sinister than raw violence, because it came
from an unguarded quarter, the dark spectre of betrayal rose before
them.
Stephen Purceville stood with the pistol at arm's length, his eyes
fastened with twisted vehemence upon the turning form of the
Highlander, his passion all the greater for the torment of his soul.
"Stephen!" cried the girl in sudden terror. For in her mind's eye she
recalled the dream: Michael standing blind and helpless, returned from
the dark pool of Death, only to find its second emissary standing
ruthless and final before him. As in the dream, the messenger of hate
knew no entreaty. His eyes and voice were cold as steel.
"I vowed that I would help you win her freedom. That I have done. But
I will not surrender her to you
. The girl will come away with me, or be buried here beside you."
"No," said Michael flatly. "No."
"I'll kill you!" cried the betrayer. And the scarlet arm began to
stiffen in the firing motion.
But at the very instant he would have shot, Mary stepped before her
only love, willing to die to save him.
A moment later the Englishmen was confronted by something more
unnerving still. For it was not the love loyalty of another, but his
own, unrealized devotion. A cry was heard from above: not a scream,
for it contained rage as well as fear. Like a stone from a precipice
it fell, and like a stone struck the earth beside him, changing to the
horror of his eyes from a formless clot. . .into the writhing figure
of a man. His father lay, broken and dying, on the ground.
And from the Tower above came another sound, as if in answer to his
pain: a howl of laughter so complete, so devoid of all remorse.....
Ballard had come up behind his leaning master and, all other base
pleasures denied him, with his own strong and gnarled hands, hurled
the aging tyrant to his death.
Casting away the pistol as if itself the instrument of murder, Stephen
fell to his knees before his father.
"What can I do!" he cried. And while the man's tortured movements grew
less, the son knew in his heart that this was not the easing of pain,
but the end of all struggle, brought by death.
The Lord Purceville had just strength enough to turn his head once,
and view the flesh that would outlive his own. But that was all. The
life flowed out..... Angelica. I'm sorry
.
Too late. He had tried to kill his own daughter. His eyes rolled back,
and he was dead.
Stephen's head shot back in agony, as he released a sound more bestial
than human. All was dead for him. He was alone.
But no tears would form, nor did he wish them to. The one emotion that
still burned, and seemed capable of sustaining him, was revenge. He
rushed blindly back and remounted the horse. And brandishing the
sword, rode away toward the gate in a fury, as if the lovers did not
exist.
Anne Scott remained prone on the floor, her mind dazed but her senses
still aware. She had seen Lord Purceville go to the window, as she had
watched his treacherous Lieutenant move behind him. . .and heard the
long fall to ruin.
Now she lay very still, as the man remained with his back to her,
perhaps in contemplation of what to do next. Moving one arm only, she
again found the knife, which had not slipped far from her grasp. And
she in turn felt a strong temptation to creep up behind him..... But
all around her was the taste of murder and death. And for the love she
still bore her children, she could not.
Then Ballard, for reasons known only to himself, turned away and
walked past her, out of the cell, and locked the door behind him.
Mary was the first to regain her senses. For a warning bell had tolled
somewhere within the Castle, and now an answering shot was heard from
the garrison below.
"We've got to get out of here, Michael."
"But my mother....."
"Go!" came a woman's voice, descending from on high with the strength
and finality of angels. The two looked up to see the widow's stern
form pointing out and away, not in gesture, but command: they were to
live, and go on giving.
Michael looked to the ground, to the wasted rope, then into the eyes
of the young life entrusted to his care. And for all the pain it cost
him, he was left no choice.
"I'll come back for you!" he cried. "I love you!"
And taking Mary by the hand, he led her to a crease in the cliffs,
where a knife-slash path led to the sheltered cove far below. There,
in that place removed, he could only hope that the fisherman was
waiting with a boat.
Thirty-Seven
The long, snaking descent seemed to take forever, yet still no pursuit
showed itself on the heights above. Perhaps the death of their leader
had thrown the soldiers into confusion.....
As they drew nearer the shallow inlet, Michael could see something
dark against the encircling stretch of sand; but it gave him little
hope. At first the shape of it was wrong. Then, as the distance grew
less and his eyes began to assimilate detail, he saw that it was in
fact a skiff, but swamped and overturned as from a wreck: the oars
scattered, and no sign whatever of the pilot. Real despair gripped
him, as he could only assume the worst---
A shot was fired from the heights above, and then another, as soldiers
with torches and long muskets appeared suddenly upon the promontory.
Shielding her body with his own, Michael guided his beloved through a
last knifing trough, and out onto the rough outer sands of the cove.
Together they huddled down in the shelter of a jutting stone, as he
tried desperately to form some alternative plan.
But none was needed. From beneath the overturned skiff, now scarcely
forty yards distant, a shadow emerged and stood hard against the
shoreline.
"Michael!" cried a familiar voice, and the Highlander's heart leapt
inside him.
Without answering, almost without breathing, he took the girl by the
hand and ran with her that last naked distance toward the boat. The
crack of muskets was again heard from the promontory, and the torches
began to descend in a long, angling file. But it would have taken a
perfect shot to hit them, even if they had been stationary.
And the three were anything but that. By the time the lovers reached
him, the fisherman had righted the skiff and retrieved the oars. Then
all together they set the prow to seaward, and half lifted, half
lunged it down the wet sand incline, to where the ends of waves
splashed around them.
"Into the boat with you lass," said the fisherman, as the waters
surged stronger beneath it. "Kneel in the prow, and hold steady as you
can." Then together the two men urged the craft forward, into depths
that would sustain it. A short way further, and they clambered over
the sides, taking up their rowing positions. Then lowering oars, they
bent their backs in unison, and prepared to meet the oncoming waves.
The first nearly swamped them with a crash of angry foam. The second
was little better. But each time, during the lull that followed they
would steady the craft, and with determined oars drive the boat
further, away from the writhing shores, and out into the calming
vastness. Another wave, and then another. . .and they floated upon the
bosom of the sea.
Several hundred yards offshore, and perhaps a mile further up the
coast, they came upon the fisherman's boat, securely anchored. Pulling
alongside it, the two men helped Mary up and over the side, the old
man instructing her to go below and change out of her wet clothes,
then heat some broth over the small, cast-iron stove.
"I'm afraid there's no such luxury for us," he said to Michael, as the
two boarded and tied the skiff behind. "The nearest English-held port
is some miles from here, and I'm not sure they'd try to come after us
at sea. But we can't take that for granted; and in any case, we've got
to be off before the fog gets too thick. I'll not have us tacking
blind, this close to an uneven shoreline.
"There's a blanket forward," he continued, catching his breath.
"That's where I'll need you to stand. Help me set the sails, then to
your post, and keep your eyes wide open. Things might get a bit close.
We'll have to find our way out by dead reckoning."
Even as he spoke, the trailing mists that had seemed so harmless began
to thicken, and the wind to grow less. Soon the fog became a patching
curtain, then finally, a dense cloud.
Kneeling at the fore of the vessel, shivering with cold, Michael
strained all his senses for any sign of hidden rock looming up out of
the grey, or sound of crashing surf upon the shore. The cloud-wrack
above had at last cleared away, but the unbridled moon only served to
cast a ghostly aspect throughout the clinging shroud, so near,
ever-present, and menacing.
He fully realized the danger. Even with all the mariner's skill, to
sail in these waters half-blind..... He looked back to see him
standing by the wheel, with compass and lantern beside him, navigating
by instinct and memory alone. Framed by the mists, weathered but hale,
he formed a classic portrait of savvy and determination. But was that
enough? Only time, and agony, would tell.
At length Mary came back on deck with a lantern, bringing each of the
men a steaming cup. Standing by her troubled companion, she offered to
watch in his stead. But for all her courage she shook from the cold as
badly as he, and her darkened eyes and sunken cheeks spoke plainly of
the harrows of the cell.
"Thank you, my Mary," he said to her. "But I've got to fight this last
battle myself. The best gift you can give me now is to know that you
are safe and well. Go lay you down, wrap yourself warmly, and try to
sleep. Go on with you now. John and I still have a bit of work ahead
of us."
She wept to see him struggling so, unable even to keep his jaw from
trembling as he spoke. But she saw that his mind was set, and that
forces warred inside him with which she must not interfere. She kissed
him gently, whispered, "I love you," and went below.
The hours seemed endless, the tension unbearable. A thousand times
Michael thought he must crack---from the pressure, the cold, and the
need to peer unerringly into the formless void. But he knew that he
must stand his ground.
Then slowly, so slowly that at first he thought his eyes deceived him,
the shroud began to thin, and a grey light to grow in what he knew
must be the east. The fog began to patch, as the stubborn light grew
stronger.
Then suddenly they broke into the open, and the red sun climbed once
more above the rim of the world. He lowered his head in exhaustion,
closing his eyes at the last.
And when he opened them again, there on his left hand he saw the ring,
still clinging, forgotten, to the middle joint of his smallest finger.
A sob escaped him, undeniable. Because through all the numbing
darkness, the anguish, futility and death, its single jewel shone hard
and clear and perfect, untouched by the ravages of time, or the
treacheries of men. The tears flowed freely, passionately, for he knew
the Bastard had not beaten him.
His love survived.
Epilogue
Michael sat before a warm fire in the small island cottage,
contemplating the ring about his finger. It had remained there since
the night of the escape, and he had vowed not to take it off until his
mother had been freed, and he gave it once more to his betrothed, this
time in marriage.
Both he and the girl had fallen ill during the long sail to Rona, a
lonely island of the Hebrides, and a place as far removed from English
control as one was likely to find in the whole of Britain. Their first
days there, in the care of the fisherman's brother, had been spent
bedridden, fighting fever and exhaustion alike. Mary, with her natural
vigor and stubborn optimism, had been up and about some days now. But
Michael's hurts were deeper, of longer duration. Only now, after more
than a fortnight, did he feel his body beginning to respond.
The fisherman had returned to the mainland after seeing them settled
in, and had promised to do all he could to secure the widow's release,
including hiring a solicitor, and filing for clemency under the new
articles of Reconciliation. But he cautioned that patience and
prudence were still needed: that they must lie low, and make no plans
without him. In any event, he had said, he would return with news as
soon as it was safely possible.
But each day that passed left Michael more in doubt. For what had
become of the hornet's nest they left behind---Earl Arthur dead at
Lord Purceville's hand, Purceville himself murdered by a subordinate,
and Stephen half mad with rage---he could not imagine. Surely after a
time a new Governor would be appointed, and some kind of stability
return. But where that left his mother..... It was beyond
contemplation, almost beyond hope.
And this was what galled him. He had done all that a man could do,
winning freedom for himself, and for the chosen of his heart. And yet
he could not think of joining her life to his own, because the other
half of his devotion remained imprisoned and destitute. . .for the
crime of loving her children. Try as he might, he could not swallow
this last bitterness, nor put it from his mind.
The cottage door opened suddenly and in burst the girl, breathless and
in tears. He tried to ask her what was wrong, as dark fears of pursuit
and capture raced through him. But she shook her head emphatically,
unable yet to speak.
"You must come with me," she finally managed. "Put on your coat;
something wonderful has happened."
He did as she asked, wrapping himself warmly, then walked with her out
into the bracing, December morning. And as he took those first steps
along the path, it occurred to him that he had not seen the sun, nor
felt the free wind across his face, for what seemed an eternity.
The brisk Fall air was invigorating, the long sweep of rocky hillside
magnificent. He thought he had never seen a sky so deep and blue. Real
hope stirred in him, tormented him. He tried to stay the girl and make
her speak. But she only clutched his hand more tightly, and urged him
down the broadening track toward the sea.
Looking out across the blinding sparkle of blue-green waters, he saw a
single sail approaching the tiny harbor. Shading his eyes he made out
a smallish vessel, with a weathered pilot standing at the wheel. And
beside him stood another, a woman..... He fell to his knees, unable
for a time to continue.
At length he rose, and walked with his beloved the remaining distance
to the landing. There, drawing nearer, the fisherman met his gaze with
a smile that seemed to melt away the years, and make them both
children again. The older man threw the mooring line to his friend,
who tied it to the dock with a trembling but joyous hand. Anne Scott
stepped off the boat, and mother and son embraced.
* * *
Mr. and Mrs. Michael Scott stood aboard the deck of the merchant brig
`Dauntless', watching with deep emotion the nearing coastline. It was
now nearly June, and they had been at sea for two months. A single
word resounded in both their hearts, as the burly captain approached
them, and clapped his fellow Highlander on the back.
"America," he said to them, "and God bless her. America."
When he had gone, Michael put one arm about his young wife's
shoulders, and drew her near. With the other hand he touched the
growing swell of her womb, as if to caress the unborn life inside it.
He looked at her with glowing eyes and said simply, truthfully.
"Now the work really begins."
For he knew that his mother had been right. The story never ends, it
only changes characters. They stood at the end of one road, and the
beginning of another, holding firmly to the roots of their past,
sending hopeful and determined branches into the future.
Anne Scott remained in her native Highlands and eventually remarried,
living with her husband in a modest home near the place of her birth,
until her death in 1776. She was buried in the gravesite of her clan,
and on her tombstone, these words:
"Those who have left something beautiful behind them never die. They
live on in the hearts, the minds, the very souls of those who loved
them."
And on her grave a single, glorious rose.
The End
Acknowledgements
The author would like to gratefully acknowledge the help of Dr. Daniel
Szechi, Professor of History at Auburn University, who so unselfishly
read, and made historical notations upon the entire work, without
thought of acknowledgement or reward. While for artistic reasons I was
not always able to correct the inaccuracies he pointed out, I am aware
of them, and remain deeply grateful for his assistance in making the
book as authentic as the needs of the storyteller would allow.
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About the Author
Christopher Leadem was born in Arlington, Virginia in 1956, the second
son of an Air Force Intelligence officer and a schoolteacher. Shortly
after his birth, his father transferred to the Central Intelligence
Agency, and the young family moved frequently, adding two daughters
along the way.
Leadem's primary education was in Catholic schools, where he earned
the reputation of a gifted student. Attending public high school in
Bucks County, Pennsylvania, the birthplace of James Michener, he
displayed a talent for writing, and a love of history and science. At
the age of fourteen, he saw a short film by Ray Bradbury about the
life of a writer, which galvanized his desire to be an author himself.
Burned out by a stifling high school environment, he did not
immediately attend college, but launched headlong into his writing.
This began with a spiritual novel, "In Search of the Evermore," until
poor health and relative poverty left him injured and dispirited.
After a difficult recovery he attended Penn State and the University
of Colorado, excelling at English Literature. He resumed his writing
career and completed his first novel, "Within a Crimson Circle," at
the age of 22. He has since completed five other novels, five volumes
of poetry and nine screenplays. Three other novels are in progress.
He currently lives in Colorado with his three children.
www.aragornbooks.com
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