Books: Highland Ballad
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Christopher Leadem >> Highland Ballad
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"Do you know what he said to me, as he lay dying in my arms? `You have
given my death meaning.' He performed that last act of heroism,
Michael. He may have saved my life." Her voice faltered. "And if what
you say is true, then he also helped deliver my love from the depths
of the darkness. And to me, his name shall always be thrice blessed.
"Hold me, Michael, please. Don't ever let me go. Dear God!"
"My only love, I promise you that. With all my soul, I promise you
that."
They put aside all further talk until the morning, and made their bed
together for the first time. Michael was too ill, and she herself too
weary, to make love. And without any words this was understood between
them. They found joy and solace instead in the slow, gentle caress
many lovers never feel, because they do not first feel love. Their
passion would come when the skies above them were less dark, and when
the fruit was ripe on the tree. Not before.
They slept far into the overcast morning. And when they rose a further
bond had been established between them, that no earthly trial could
ever put asunder.
He was a man, and she was his woman.
Eighteen
The Lord Henry Purceville, Governor of MacPherson Castle and the
Northern Garrison, awoke in the worst possible humor. He had quarreled
bitterly with his son the night before, after being informed that one
of his cavalrymen had died in disgrace, and another deserted rank in
consequence. His head throbbed from the excesses of food and drink
that had become habitual with him; the whore that lay sleeping beside
him (his mistress) stank of his own corruption; and the prisoners he
had been charged to find, in the most demanding terms, still eluded
him. In the chill of early morning, he felt every day of the
fifty-three years he bore.
Of all these circumstances, the quarrel with his son troubled him most
deeply. It was not so much the fact of a dispute, all too common
between them, as the disturbing revelation which had come from it.
Because no man, no matter how far he has strayed from the path of
wisdom, wants to appear low and cowardly in the eyes of his son. And
no man, retaining from childhood the slightest memory of loving female
attention, can wantonly desecrate the altar of motherhood without a
latent stab of conscience. Yet both these things had now risen up to
haunt him, in the form of a daughter he had never seen.
If the bastard child had been a boy (as he had vaguely imagined, when
he thought of it at all), the problem might have been more easily
reconciled and acted upon, one way or the other. But a young woman,
and still more, a young woman who had evidently sparked some feeling
of affection in his son---the only person he cared for in the
world---this was far more complicated.
Sending his mistress to the floor with a savage kick, he bellowed for
his servants, ordered her dismissed, then sent for his son to learn
the particulars of the MacCain girl. He was a man of action, and
action would be taken.
One way or the other.
It was the widow Scott who woke them. A premonition of danger had come
to her, and whether real or imagined, she would take no chances so
long as her son remained a wanted man. She knocked on their door as
the mantle clock struck eleven, and asked them to dress quickly and
come out, that they might formulate precautions in the event that
mounted soldiers, or other unwanted strangers appeared at the house.
When the two emerged and sat down to breakfast, and again as they
moved to sit by the fire to hold counsel, the woman was struck by the
seriousness of both faces. Caution and determination she expected from
her son, who had spoken to her the day before of the hardships and
dangers he had already faced, and must face again, until he won his
way to true freedom.
But Mary seemed to understand as well as he the risks and perils of
their position, and acted not at all the happy, naive bride-to-be. And
now, as Michael built up the fire and drew the curtains tight, she
found that the girl would not even look at her, would not return her
questioning gaze.
"Mary? What is it, girl, what's wrong?" Michael, who now returned to
stand before her, intervened.
"Mother," he said gently, putting a hand on her shoulder. "My fears
for James Talbert have been realized. He died yesterday, defending
those he loved. He has been given Christian burial, and as soon as may
be, we will place a stone over the grave. I'm sorry."
The woman looked searchingly into his face, then lowered her head and
wept silently. But when she raised it again, though her eyes still
glistened, their look was firm and determined.
"I will notify my brother tonight. It will be hard for him, and for
his wife, because he meant as much to them..... Nay, do not try to
comfort me. I am a proud Scottish woman, and not rendered helpless in
my grief. The times are hard, and the living must look to their own
devices.
"That is why we are here," she went on. "Painful as it may be, we must
now turn our attention to our own precaution. We must be prepared for
the worst. We must vow to protect your union to the last. And if it
comes to it, you must be willing to sacrifice my safety for your own.
Do not argue with me, Michael! I have had a full life, thank God, for
all its latter hardship. I am determined that you shall have the same.
The blood of Scott and Talbert, our family, must endure."
Having said this, she put one hand to the other, and slowly removed
her wedding ring. She then placed it solemnly in her son's hand. No
further explanation was needed.
"Thank you, Mother. It means a great deal to me."
Michael returned to stand by his betrothed, who looked up at him in
awe and astonishment, feeling for the first time the full import of
what was happening between them. They were to be man and wife, as
surely, and unalterably, as he now stood before her.
"Give me your hand, Mary." She did. "With this ring, on the day of
November 2, 1749, I pledge to you my life, in the eyes of God and man.
Mary. Will you have me as your husband?"
She nodded fiercely, then all at once burst into tears.
"You remember then," he added gently, "that this is your seventeenth
birthday as well? I have not forgotten. It is the date I set long ago,
when you were but a child, to speak openly of my love for you. I tell
you now, if you did not already know it, that you have been my beacon
and guiding star, the hope which I held fast to my heart, when all
others deserted me. I love you, Mary, with every drop of my mortal
blood. I'll love you in this world, and if there is a God, then surely
I will love you in the next."
He kissed her, long and full. Then began to pace, as if to master his
own emotions.
"All right then," he said, moving still. "Our safety.
"The immediate danger---that of a sudden search---has already been
addressed by my mother and myself. Our good steward, as the times grew
dark, had the foresight to install a trap door with a small,
stone-lined cellar beneath it. It has been checked, and with minor
repairs, put in good working order. The cellar itself has been
furnished with blankets, food and water. This occupied the better part
of yesterday afternoon, the first of my return. I had determined to go
in search of you this morning, when fortunately for both of us (I am
still far from well, and had risked the daylight once already), you
came to me first.
"So far, until we've heard your story, I remain the principal danger
to us all. If trouble does come, I can be hidden away in thirty
seconds time. The door is here." He rolled back the threadbare carpet.
"And the latch, here." He bent down and lifted the square trap on its
hinges. When he let it down again, except by close scrutiny the wooden
floor seemed of a piece, the door itself invisible. He replaced the
carpet and came towards her, seeming calmer.
"You see, my girl, Anne and I have already had a chance to talk. From
what she told me of her meeting with young Purceville---and I expect
that for my sake she did not tell all---I wonder if you are not in
danger as well. We need to know fully who our enemies are, or are
likely to be, and who can be trusted to come to our aid. I have one
ally, a fisherman from the village of Kroe, and the beginnings of a
plan, though it is still far from ripe. The first step, as it must
always be, is survival. Can you tell us then, in as much detail as
possible, what has happened in the time since you left the cottage?"
"Will you tell me one thing first?" she asked. "Forgive me, Michael,
but after all I've been through, as you will soon hear..... It would
put my mind very much at rest, if you would tell me....." Her face
betrayed a deep, lingering fear of the Night. "Who, if not yourself,
lies in the grave beneath your stone?"
"It is you who must forgive me. I should have told you sooner." He
took her hand, and held it firmly. "It is no wraith who stands before
you, and no one has raised me from the dead.
"I can't be certain, but I believe it to be a man of my regiment. He
was about the same height and build as myself, with roughly similar
features. Poor beggar. The only name I ever heard him called was Jack.
He was one of the younger lads, and shivering so dreadfully on the
morning of the Battle ---from cold and fear alike---that I gave him my
coat, his being tattered, and far too light to serve. It's hard to
believe to look at me now, wrapped up as for a winter storm, and
pacing like an animal just to warm myself. But I was never cold in
those days, as you'll recall." He gave a bitter laugh, then shook his
head, as if to drive away the feeling.
"Looking back, I guess I was luckier than some. A ball grazed my head
very early in the fighting, and I knew nothing more, until I found
myself being dragged away by two English infantry..... What is it,
Mary? What have I said to upset you?"
"They dragged you to a grove of dark trees! You were dazed and pale,
but still they pulled at you fiercely, as if to throw you to the
ground and run you through."
"How on earth did you know that?"
"I saw it in my dream! I thought I was witnessing your death. Oh,
Michael, I've been so afraid!" It was some time before he could calm
her enough to give voice to his own bewilderment.
"It's all right, now. It's over. But the strange truth is....." He
hesitated, not wanting to upset her further. "I
thought it was the end for me as well, though they only took me to
stand with the other prisoners. That day, and especially those first
moments when I regained consciousness, have woven themselves in and
out of my nightmares ever since. I don't understand. How could you
have known?"
Surprisingly, it was the widow Scott who shed light on this first part
of the mystery. "I've heard it said that twins, or merely siblings who
have been close since childhood, can be miles apart, after a
separations of years, and suddenly know when the other is ill or in
danger. The two of you, growing up as brother and sister, were every
bit as close. And in some ways you shared a bond that was closer
still, because you were in love.
"I once heard you, Mary, cry out `Wolf!' in your sleep, only to learn
the next day that Michael had had a terrible dream, in which he was
being torn apart by wolves. I thought it unnatural, and an ill omen,
at the time. Now I do not. There is obviously a deep spiritual link
between you, such as I felt at times with my own husband. It is not
for us to question God's gifts," she concluded, "but only to use them
as well and honestly as we can."
"That is why I came when I did," the man confirmed. "I knew that you
were hurting and afraid. Somehow I knew."
"But the man in your grave," Mary persisted. "You gave another man
your coat. . .I remember they would not let me see the body. But
surely that was not enough, of itself, to mistake him for you."
"I'm afraid I must take the blame for that," said the woman sadly.
"The body, when it was brought to me for identification, was so
mangled by grapeshot. . .the face nothing but a bloody pulp. . .that
I'm ashamed to say I lost my self-control. Knowing that Michael's
papers had been found on him, I went into such a swoon of grief.....
Our poor countrymen who brought him could only assume that he was, in
fact, my son. The coffin was brought and sealed, and the next day we
buried him, along with all my hopes.
"I was trying to protect you, Mary, and was far too devastated to
think clearly, or to search for further proofs. His hair and features,
what could still be seen of them, were enough to complete the
illusion. I suppose that in after times some doubt of it crept back to
me. But as the months turned into years, and brought no word, I
despaired. The only defense I can make, is that the pain of not
knowing was greater still..... I could not ask myself, or those around
me, to bear it any longer."
There was silence. And then, without prompting, the young woman knew
that the time had come to tell her tale. The spirits of the Night, and
the shadows of Fear, must not be allowed to dwell inside her, but must
be held forth in the hard light of day. She was afraid, and many times
in the telling felt the pain of it too great to bear. But as Michael
had done in the hearing of a wise man of the sea, so Mary now poured
out the cup of her grief, not asking for pity, or answers, but only
speaking the words that would not lie still.
And when she had finished, Michael was there beside her, and her own
flesh still lived. Her eyes, which had misted and looked into places
dark and unfathomable, focused again on that which was real: stone,
fire, and flesh. And in this return to daylight senses she no longer
felt an all-conquering fear of the strange evens through which she had
passed, but only a restless curiosity, and reborn questioning of the
sinister forces which had then seemed so strong and undeniable.
"Can you tell me, Michael, what these things portend? Do you believe
in the powers that my mother worshipped and feared?"
"No, love. I do not believe in that kind of magic, nor have I any use
for miracles, outside the one great miracle of Life. Still less do I
believe in demons and sorcery now, for having heard your tale. It only
shows me, more clearly than ever, the power of superstition to
deceive. Would you like me to show you the key to the mystery, the
weak link which shatters the entire chain of seeming?"
"Yes," she replied. "More than anything."
"The answer is simple," he said. "It is music: a magic that is real,
disproving a magic that is not."
"I don't understand."
"Bagpipes,
Mary. Bagpipes. Twice you heard them, and twice after saw the
`spirits' which gave credence to all else, the foundation on which the
whole illusion was built. Here is what must have happened.
"The first spirit I can answer for plainly, for it was myself. James
and I had at last crossed the high road, and returned to land we could
think of as our own. He had been given the pipes by a crippled
soldier, one of our own, who took us in along the way. And now James
would be silent no longer. He insisted that we return as proud
veterans, and not skulking thieves. So as we parted ways at the last,
and when he deemed me safely hidden by the rise that shields the
cottage, he began to play, and marched off in defiant glory.
"Shortly afterward I found you in tears, lying across a grave that
bore my name. It broke my heart to leave you there, even with the
spoken promise---you did not imagine it---that I would come back to
you. But I was determined to bring no danger upon you, or upon this
house, until the pursuit had cooled, and the chance of discovery grown
less. Looking back, it was a cruel mistake. But I was obsessed. I was
going
to escape, and bring no danger upon you. I hope you can understand,
and forgive me."
"Of course," said his mother, for both of them.
"Thank you," he said quietly. Mary nodded gently, and asked him to
continue.
"All right.... And yet again, by the Standing Stone, you heard
bagpipes. Did they play Scotland the Brave?"
"Yes," she answered, understanding at last.
"It is the only song James knew, or ever wanted to learn. It was he
you saw: pale with affliction, kilted as a sign of defiance, as he
could not be by day. He must have been half dead by then.....
"For he, too, was determined to bring no harm upon his family. Like
myself he would not go to them, though he was too proud, and too far
gone, to conceal himself as I did. I could not convince him to follow
me to the hiding place, and I could not force him. I believe now that
he must have spent those last nights in wandering and delirium,
waiting for the chance to perform his final deed. But unstable as his
mind had become, the heart beneath remained intact. And there were
moments of perfect lucidity, as when he looked up from the ravine, and
saw you.
"He fled from your mother not in fear, but to protect her, and
yourself." He released a deep breath. "The Stone, and the words of the
spell, were impotent but for the power you gave them. The mind creates
worlds of its own, every bit as tangible, and every bit as dangerous,
as the physical reality we all share. Give up your common sense, your
right to question, and you become a helpless lamb among the wolves of
this world."
"Yes," said Mary. "Now it all seems so clear. The trunk filled with
charms, the talismans to drive away your spirit, the spell my mother
believes she cast over Stephen Purceville: all but the fabric of
illusion, given substance by the wholly independent actions of men. I,
too, have no more need of such miracles."
"But," said Michael firmly. "Though the shadows of evil fade in the
light of day, the evil itself does not. The Purcevilles, both young
and old, are still very much to be feared."
Nineteen
As if in answer to his words, the thunder of hoofbeats came suddenly
to their ears, approaching unexpectedly (for the British fortress lay
in the opposite direction) from the west. The widow Scott, who had
felt the danger growing as the day wore on, was the first to react.
She was up and out of her chair, and pulling back on the carpet before
her son had a chance to stand clear.
"Michael, quickly!" And she forced her trembling hands to find the
latch, and pull open the trap door.
"Michael, quickly!" And she forced her trembling hands to find the
latch, and pull open the trap door.
Michael moved toward the opening, then turned to say a last word to
his betrothed. But by chance his eyes lighted on her portrait, and for
the first time he saw the bullet-hole at her throat. In horror he
thought of Stephen Purceville, and in a flash read between the lines
of what the women had (and had not) told him. And even as his mother
tried to urge him down the steps, he reached out and took his lover by
the wrist.
"Mary, too! Until we're sure!" She nodded gratefully, not wanting to
be parted from him, and the two descended.
"Remember my words," the widow whispered through the crack, before
sealing them in darkness. "You must be willing to sacrifice me. No
arguments!"
She closed the trap and pulled the rug to, even as the snorting of
hard-driven animals mingled with men's voices and the sounds of
dismounting. Heavy boots rattled the front steps, followed by a
thumping fist upon the door.
"Open," came a heavy voice. "In the name of the King, and on peril of
your life. Open!"
Anne Scott looked quickly about her for any tell-tale signs of
company. There were none, and gratefully she recalled the other
precautions she had taken: both bedrooms had been straightened, the
dishes cleaned and put away. But for Mary's cloak, which she could
pass as her own, the two still wore all the clothing they had brought.
Mastering her fright as best she could, fiercely determined to protect
her young, she went to the door. . .and opened it.
But for all her resolve, her eyes were unprepared for the spectacle
which greeted them. The Lord Henry Purceville himself stood before
her. And beyond his hulking form, she saw the bodies of two men slung
across spare horses, one of which, dressed in ill-fitting clothes,
pale and stained with earth..... It was only by supreme exertion that
she kept herself from swooning. There were twenty riders at least, all
tainted with the smell of smoke.
"Where is she?" bellowed Lord Purceville, pushing her aside with such
force that she really did stagger. Then to her bewilderment his son,
who had followed him in, caught her up, and in the moment it took to
steady her, whispered in her ear:
"Tell him nothing. I'll do what I can to protect you." The older man
whirled angrily.
"I tell you I want
her. Ballard! Tear the place apart. Stubb! Take the rest of the men
and search the surrounding countryside. Meet me back at the barracks
with your report; and if you value your hide, don't come back empty!"
With this all but two of the men---the one called Ballard, and another
he detained by seizing his collar and shoving him forward---rode off.
These entered quickly, and began going through the rooms, opening
drawers and overturning furniture.
Of the two only Ballard, a large, swarthy man whose hands and face
were darkened with soot, seemed to enjoy the work. The other, a lad of
sixteen or thereabouts, only followed with a scared look, doing what
his Lieutenant commanded. As for Lord Purceville, he sat himself in
the chair that Mary had occupied, and stared at the woman icily,
beckoning (ordering) his son to sit across from him. The widow Scott
could only look back at him in dismay, and try not to notice his thick
black boots, resting at the very edge of the carpet.
He was heavier, and grayer than she remembered, those many long years
ago. But her first impression of him then---that of a bull about to
charge---still held true. He was a big man, both taller and more
thickly muscled than his son. Their faces were much alike, except that
the father's was fuller: more rudely carved, more deeply lined, more
savage.
But if harsh features were a mark of lesser intelligence, then the
rule was broken here. His mind was more than a match for his son's, or
even Mary's. The truly frightening thing about him, as she would soon
learn, was that this glowering beast, this physical brute, was also
sharper and shrewder than any man she had ever known. She could not
feel brave in his presence, only vulnerable and afraid.
But as the two men returned from the loft, reporting, "No sign that
anyone's been here but herself, though the upper room is undoubtedly a
young lady's," she remembered the dangerous nearness of those she had
sworn to protect, and the injuries they had already suffered at the
hands of such men. Her pride returned, along with the instinctive
cunning of a woman cornered.
"Of course," she said, feigning indignation against the search alone,
and total ignorance of what they could want from her. "It is my
niece's room, to return to if and when she chooses."
"And where is she now?" demanded the tyrant.
"She has gone to live with her mother, as I told your son not a
fortnight since. I suggest you look for her there." It occurred to her
only after she had said this that it might endanger her sister-in-law.
"It may please you to know," he said calmly, taking a sharpened
letter-knife from his coat and twirling it carelessly between his
fingers, "that we have already been to see the widow MacCain. She,
too, had the insolence to speak to me in such a manner. Would you like
to know what we did to her?
Tell her, Ballard."
"Burned her for a witch, we did---tied to a tree, right up on her own
roof." The man smiled, as if he found this detail particularly
satisfying. "My one regret, Lord, is that you hit her so hard in the
questioning, she never regained her senses to enjoy it. One would have
thought she was dead already."
"That will be all, Lieutenant. Take the bodies back to the Castle. But
first, check the neighborhood. See if you can't flush out a kilt and
jacket for our amorous red-haired friend, if you follow my meaning."
"I do at that, sir. And I don't suppose it would hurt to brand him for
a prisoner as well?"
"Number 406. Good day, Ballard." The Lieutenant pushed the younger man
forward, then followed him out, closing the door behind.
"As you see," continued Purceville, "I have ways of arranging
circumstances to meet my own ends. And I have no qualms at all about
eliminating women who oppose me. I can think of at least a dozen
pretexts to end your
life right now. Would you like to hear them?"
"I have told you already," said the woman, vainly trying to suppress
the image of her sister engulfed in flames. "I have told you that my
niece is not here, that she left me a week ago. Your son himself can
attest to that..... I do not know where she is."
"That is the second time today you have referred me to my son. The
truth is, dead woman
, that I have no strong inclination to believe him. I don't know what
it is about the MacCain girl that causes those around her to feel so
protective---the illusion of innocence, no doubt---but it seems I must
accept the fact. My own son has lied to me about the `cousin' who
saved her from assault, neglecting to mention that the man was also a
Jacobite, and one of the fugitives we sought. Fortunately, as you saw,
I take nothing for granted. I found it out for myself, and now have
the evidence I need to hang her, if I so desire."
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