Books: Highland Ballad
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Christopher Leadem >> Highland Ballad
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"On what charge?"
"Harboring a fugitive!" he bellowed. "And conspiracy to murder
soldiers of the crown! One of my men was killed in this alleged
`assault', and another has disappeared entirely. All serious crimes,
punishable by death." He paused, letting this new threat sink in. "Now
do you have anything to say to me, to save the girl's life, as well as
your own?"
The widow glanced quickly at the son, wondering when, if not now, he
intended to come to her aid. But he only turned away, and she
surrendered all hope of it. Looking back at the father, who had
stopped twirling the knife, and only stared back at her with cold
murder in his eyes, she could not help but feel that the end had truly
come.
She had been prepared for the worst, and ready to sacrifice all.
Because of this, and because of the skilled aggression of the Lord
Purceville, everything she saw and heard only worked to confirm her
darkest imaginings. Her heart went cold inside her as he rose to his
feet, the knife clenched firmly in his hand. Her eyes misted and her
limbs trembled; but she never once thought of betraying her son. She
hung her head and was silent, waiting for death.
She waited in vain.
Stephen Purceville did not intervene, among other considerations,
because he knew that his father was bluffing. Even a Governor could
not kill a woman without cause, and Stephen was astute enough to know
it. The political winds, to which his father was not immune, were
shifting. A move toward reconciliation had begun, and such acts of
wanton violence, as well as the men who employed them, were rapidly
losing favor in the eyes of the Court. Also, his father had made many
enemies in his rise to power, men who would use such a thing against
him, as they had tried to use the escaped prisoners. To burn a corpse
as a scare tactic was one thing. To murder a woman in cold blood was
quite another. Not that the younger man put it to himself in this way.
He did not have to. He knew the realities, and he knew the man. His
father was bluffing.
The woman was startled out of her black study by the last sound on
earth she expected. Rather than the slow, sinister footsteps she had
tried to anticipate, she was called back instead by the sound,
infinitely more mocking than laughter, of strong male hands striking
together. She looked up, and he was clapping!
"Madame," he said, "I salute you. You have withstood the first
assault. I can afford to be magnanimous, for you will not survive
the second." And again the face turned deadly serious, though the look
of restless violence was gone. It was impossible to believe that it
had been feigned. It had not. But neither had it brought the desired
result; and he was wise enough, now, to adopt a different course.
For he had no doubt that the woman was hiding something. The hard edge
of his foil remained, but the strokes became finer, more mincing.
"A lesson for you, Stephen. Most women, indeed, almost all, can either
be bought, or threatened into giving up what is wanted. Why? Because
they lack the simple courage---to face life in the first case, and
death in the second. They use money, and men, as a shield against
life; and nothing on this earth can induce them to face death, or even
the thought of death.
"I have heard it said that if women ruled the world, there would be no
war. That is true, but hardly a compliment. The reason
there would be no war is that none of them would have the courage to
fight it. At the first shot they would all throw down their arms and
run away. Deceit, manipulation, love. These are the weapons they
employ.
"But as witnessed here, there are a few scattered instances of honest
character, of a woman standing up to death. But almost always it is
done in the defense of her immediate family: her husband, her child.
That is what puzzles me here. Having threatened her own life
unsuccessfully, I took the next step, as I taught you long ago:
threaten the thing she is trying to protect, and mean it. But even
this brought no result. Why? At such times one must draw back, look
beneath the surface, examine motive
.
"The implied motive here is to protect her niece alone, but I do not
believe it. No woman is willing to die for the bastard child---oh yes,
I know!
---of her sister-in-law, and a man she both fears and detests. Perhaps
she raised her from a child? Still not enough. We must look for some
deeper relationship.
"Did you see, when she thought I meant to kill her, the way she hung
her head, and reached down into some secret place she believes I
cannot touch? Whose image did she turn to in her moment of need? For I
tell you, Stephen, she was prepared to die. And it wasn't for any
half-breed girl."
He took a sheet of folded parchment from an inner pocket, and settling
more deeply in the chair, smoothed it open against his thigh. "I have
here a list, names and numbers. It was brought to me yesterday, along
with more detailed information, concerning the prisoners still at
large---thankfully, very few. I think you will find our information
quite thorough and up to date. Now I know not only the men who hail
from this country---and are therefore likely to return---but also the
friends they kept in the stockade, and the smaller groups they split
into after the escape.
"You heard me tell my Lieutenant to brand the number 406 on our dead
comrade's body---though I warn you, I may still use it to incriminate
your niece. Why that particular number? I will tell you. It is the
number of one of the men decidedly traced to this area: the companion,
protector, and...could it be...the cousin
of our heroic James Talbert? Are we coming nearer the mark, Mrs.
Scott? You look quiet pale; would you like to sit down?"
"I will stand," she said desperately, trying to prepare herself
against the coming blow. For now he had found the weak place in her
armor, the secret refuge of her soul. One thought only kept hammering
at her brain. Admit nothing.
At all costs she must not let this shark catch scent of her son's
blood.
And in fact the identity of the second prisoner was not known to him,
though his insight and shrewd guesses had brought him dangerously
close to the truth. Beside the number 406, the reported friend and
fellow fugitive of James Talbert, were written these words: No name
given, possible memory loss from head wound, called by fellow
prisoners `Jamie'
. This was the small victory that Michael had won during the first
brutal year of his captivity: he would not give up his true name. His
identity, and therefore his life, remained hidden.
But through the uncanny memory for persons and places which every
tyrant must possess, the Lord Purceville recalled a sturdy youth,
several years older than his son, who had once accompanied the Scotts
on a visit to Margaret MacCain, during the time of her employment at
his estate---the fierce disdain he had shown as he stepped from the
carriage, and spied its hated Master. Where was this fiery-eyed youth
now, who must surely have been of fighting age and temperament at the
time of the revolt? Had he been taken prisoner, and escaped along with
James Talbert, or merely been killed in the war? In any event the
mention of his name was bound to cause an emotional reaction in the
mother, which might lead him in turn to the girl. Like a skilled
fortune-teller he would draw her out, read the story in her face, and
follow where it led. Between pauses:
"What was this prisoner's name, you ask? Why, his last name appears to
be Scott. Could that be your son? Has he been here of late, to visit
you? Is it he
you are trying to protect? Is he in hiding along with Mary? Yes, of
course. That's it. They grew up together, did they not? Were they very
close, your strong, golden-haired son and fair, emerald-eyed niece?
They say that cousin is a dangerous relationship; surely there was an
attraction. Could they have been more than friends. . .even, lovers?"
At this Stephen's head jerked towards her, as if he had been scalded.
The woman could bear it no longer; she felt herself ready to explode.
But just as fear and rage rose irrepressibly inside her, she
instinctively channeled the outburst to lead him away from her son.
"Have you no shame, sir! My son is dead and buried these three years,
as a short walk to the gravesite of our clan will plainly show. He was
a brother and father both to my niece, and as fine a man as you could
ask. You will not speak against his honor in my house! He was willing
to die to stand up to the likes of you, and so am I. Kill
me, if you have the courage. By God, I'll listen to no more of this!"
"Careful, Mrs. Scott. You say your son lies yonder in the grave, but
that too could be a hoax. I have unearthed two bodies already. I will
not hesitate---"
This was too much for her. For the first time in her life, hatred
flared into animal violence.
"You will do no such thing! Check the funeral record at the vestry,
then take yourself to the Devil!" Seizing her husband's stout walking
stick from its place in the corner she flew at him, screaming. "You
get out of my house! Get out, you Godless bastard!"
And though she was but a woman---though her blows were blocked and the
stick taken from her---the suddenness of her fury served its purpose.
The man believed her son was dead, and saw plainly there was nothing
more to be got out of her.
Yet in his answering rage he might still have done her serious injury,
if his son had not intervened. Henry Purceville pushed her back
against the stone hearth wall, and cocked his great fist for a blow
which might well have killed her. Stephen caught his father's arm and
pulled him away from her, slowly but firmly.
"You don't want to do this," he said.
"No one speaks to me like that. I'll kill her!"
"And give Earl Arthur the weapon he needs to call an Inquest? Destroy
yourself for a moment's passion?"
"She has defied me! I will
have my daughter brought before me."
"Then leave her to me, if that is all you want. I know more of this
family than you do. Promise me now, in front of her, give me your
word, that you will do nothing to harm the girl, or put her on trial
for conspiracy." His father only struggled more fiercely, outraged
that anyone
should force on him such a condition.
But he found himself breathing too hard: his chest ached, and the
exertions of the day had begun to take their toll on him. He was
tired. He felt old.
Still, had the request not come from his son, and had he not already
been willing..... With a last sweep of his arm he broke free, and
relaxed his great limbs. Then looked his son full in the face.
"I will do it for you
, to show that I am not what you think. If you bring the girl to me,
tonight, I will drop all charges. And I never meant to harm her.....
"You accused me of many things last night. You are very naive. Since
your mother's death, it is true that I have not been kind. Kindness
gains a man nothing, nor does the illusion of love, as you will find.
Yes, I sent the MacCain woman away, as the scheming slut she was. But
I have no intention of hanging my own daughter. Perhaps you will not
believe it, but as much as anything..... I just want to see her." He
threw up his hands in disgust. "I promise, damn you all! Bring her to
me, tonight,
and the charges will be dropped."
Stephen stepped away, and to the center of the room, feeling awkward
and stiff. This was the closest thing to a confidence that his father
had shown him in many years.
"Thank you, Father. That should be agreeable..... You might as well
start back. If I may speak to Mrs. Scott alone, I think I can convince
her that it is the only way."
"See that you do!" he growled, turning on the woman once more. "If you
can't, bring her instead. I'm not over-fond of hostages, but they
usually bring the desired result. Good day
, Mrs. Scott." Without further speech he filed past and out the door,
remounted his fierce gray, and rode off.
Stephen was silent for several minutes, as if confused in his
loyalties. Then turned again to face the woman. He spoke stiffly.
"Mrs. Scott. I must apologize to you for my conduct at our last
meeting. You have no reason to believe it, I'm sure. But I am not the
same man now, that I was. Your niece, my sister, has forced me to look
at myself in a new light. I don't much like what I see. I make no
excuses, except to say that I am my father's son, and was raised
without..... Nevermind. I am sorry, too, that you had to endure his
wrath for so long. There was no other way. Had I spoken before I did,
it would simply have made matters worse."
The woman could only stare at him in disbelief.
"And now all you ask," she replied, "in exchange for my own freedom,
is that I turn an innocent young woman over to the man who burned her
mother at the stake, and threatened to violate my son's grave. To say
nothing of what you yourself have done. Why should my answer to you be
any different than the one I made your father?"
His face flushed with anger, which he then suppressed. "First, because
I am trying to protect her. And you, though you don't believe it.
Second, because he didn't kill her mother, or even strike her, as he
told his men. She was dead when we arrived..... You don't believe me.
Here. She left this note for Mary."
He handed her a single sheet, on which was written the woman's dying
message to her daughter. The hand was weak and failing, but
undoubtedly that of her sister. Anne Scott read it quickly, then
looked searchingly into the young man's face.
"The third reason, and I do not say it as my father would..... I know
she's here, Mrs. Scott. The soiled cloak on the peg, is hers. She was
wearing it yesterday when..... When I found out what kind of man I had
become. I can't forgive myself for that. I can only try to make
amends, by seeing to it that she is never again brought to such a
pass.
"But I'm afraid the first step toward that end, must be the visit to
my father. You must believe me, he will do nothing to harm her, so
long as I remain as her protector. He is angry now, and afraid that
she may pose some new threat, when his skies are already darkened for
a storm. But when he learns her true nature, as I have, he will
realize his mistake. And if I have anything to say about it, he will
make restitution as well, for the years he left her destitute.
"Mrs. Scott. I don't ask you to forgive the wrongs that were committed
in the past, only that you trust me to know the realities of the
present. If he is defied, my father will only become more ruthless. He
will scour the countryside; he will never stop. You must let me take
her to him. There is no other way."
The woman moved wearily to her chair, and sat down. Violence she had
been prepared to withstand, and treachery. But a seemingly genuine
offer of help, from the one man with any influence over their most
deadly enemy. . .confused her utterly.
Where did her responsibility lie now? For though she tried to suppress
it, another thought had occurred to her. If Lord Purceville dropped
the charges against her niece, and sent to Edinburgh (or merely
buried) the body of Mary's assailant as prisoner number 406, would
that not end the search for her son, and make him, in time, a free
man? Try as she might, she could not help but wonder at this chance,
and weigh it against the possible danger to her niece.
"Will you do something for me?" she asked him. "Will you return to me
in an hour's time? My niece, as you guessed, is close by. But I must
have time to think, and speak to her at length, before I can come to
any decision."
"You understand that I cannot go far? And that if either of you try to
escape, I merely become an extension of my father---just as hard, just
as ruthless."
"Yes," she replied. "I ask nothing more."
... "Where would you suggest I go?"
"Our ancestral gravesite lies in the wooded dell, a quarter of a mile
from here, by the back path. There you may satisfy yourself that my
son was in fact killed in the war. Nay, don't be angry. I saw the look
that crossed your face when your father said those things about him.
If you are to remain as Mary's protector..... It's important to me
that you know they were not true."
"All right. I will remain in the dell for thirty minutes, no more.
Then I will ride in wide circles
about the house, to insure that no attempt is made to escape. I must
take her back, tonight. And the day is already growing long."
"Thank you," said the woman. "If you will truly act as the friend and
benefactor of my niece..... You will not only have my forgiveness, but
my gratitude as well."
Stephen nodded with an unreadable expression, and left the house. As
soon as his horse's hooves could no longer be heard, she went to the
trap.
Despite all Michael's objections, when she learned the chance existed
to free him from the pursuit and persecution of the English, Mary too
insisted that it must be taken, the plan tried. And his mother told
him plainly:
"You are unwell, and a wanted man. If nothing else, this buys you time
to recover from the harrows of your affliction. You are the one among
us most in danger, and most in need. We are going
to do this for you; there is no time for pride and fear!"
He would never have consented, no matter how great the pressure, if he
knew that Stephen Purceville himself had assaulted Mary, and that his
father had violated the grave of James Talbert, to obtain for him this
`chance'. But he did not know. And it soon became clear that the only
way to stop the two from going---Anne Scott accompanying her as a
guardian---would be to try to restrain them physically, to the
possible undoing of them all. For at irregular intervals they heard
the hoofbeats of Stephen's horse, now nearer, now farther away. And
the hour was nearly expired.
As it was he was far from pacified, and had nearly to be forced down
the steps as Purceville drew rein, and approached the door.
And when two more hours had passed, and he forced open the trap door
beneath the added weight and resistance of the carpet..... They were
gone. The house was dark and empty. Purceville had ridden ahead to
send a carriage back to meet them, as the two women he loved more than
his own life, advanced slowly north along the road to MacPherson
Castle.
Twenty
When the carriage at last arrived for them, looming up out of the fog
like a great floating skull, it was full Night, and the shadows had
again grown long across the young girl's heart.
Walking beside her like a wraith in the gloom, explaining to her the
`details' which she withheld from Michael, Anne Scott had seemed less
and less a loving guardian, more and more the whispering narrator of
the black comedy into which she had so suddenly returned, after a
brief and unreal respite of light and hope.
But of all the things the woman said, only one would take solid hold
in her mind, dimming and obscuring all others like the wreathing mists
that had engulfed her fated cousin upon the margins of Death's
Kingdom:
Her mother, who in her short-lived happiness she had all but
forgotten, had joined him there. She was dead.
Dead.
Her mother, who had suffered so much, whom she had promised both in
thought and word to restore, if not avenge..... Gone forever. Small
voices, peeping like crickets in the dark silent halls of Damnation,
told her she had done everything she could, and must now surrender her
to memory.
"Would have told Anne this evening. . .before she set out for the
Talberts. . .from there to send a doctor." All useless now, swept
away, as the Lord Purceville had swept away her mother's love, and
then her life.
And now, just as surely, she herself was being drawn into the heart of
that great spider's web, to be sucked dry and then discarded. She
remembered her mother's words: the man you most want to love, but in
the end must despise more than any.
Her spirit palled as the door of the plush carriage, like the padded
lid of a casket, sealed them in. Fear and cold and grief at last
overcame her, as she sloughed in near unconsciousness against the
known and unknown woman beside her.
But a moment before all was consumed in the black sleep of despair, a
tiny figure stood at the heart of the abyss and whispered a single,
heart-breaking word.
The figure was herself, and the word:
"Michael."
Twenty-One
Mary woke to find herself in a strange bed, with monogrammed sheets
and a broad, crimson canopy. She lay still and tried to realize all
that had happened. It was impossible. Her recollections of the night
before were so confused. . .and her present surroundings in such flat
contradiction to the naked exposure she felt. . .that the aura of
unreality remained.
She let out a bewildered breath, and pressing her fingers to her
temples, tried to reshape in some logical pattern the events of her
journey, and later installment in this room. Images came to her in
sharp detail, but would not arrange themselves to any firm order or
conclusion.
She saw again the pale interior of the carriage. Then through the
window, the grim Castle looming upon the promontory: above the mists,
beneath the moon
. She saw the drawbridge raised again behind them, and the spiked
portcullis lowered in the arch beyond. And then the great, hulking
form of a man, seated as if in Judgment upon a raised throne of oak at
the head of a long reception hall, hung with bright banners and fading
tapestry. She walked towards him, came closer, then stopped.
At this point, had she known it, she did in fact lose consciousness,
collapsing to the apparent (and unexpected) distress of her father. He
had been the first to come to her aid, and loudly summon a physician.
Afterward she had been taken to the rooms she now shared with her
aunt, who was stationed in the adjoining chamber.
A door opened in the wall to her right, calling her back to the
present. The widow Scott entered quickly, seeming no more assured or
at peace than herself. With a troubled look she approached the bed,
and took her niece by the hand.
"I fear we have made a serious mistake," she said.
The words were so obvious, and such a gross understatement of their
position, that the one reaction the girl felt capable of was
annoyance. The widow read this in her face, shook her head.
"That's not what I mean. Whether we did right or wrong in coming here,
and whether it will help Michael---" She looked about her, as if
fearing the very walls, then went on in a lowered voice.
"Whether or not we can do anything to call off the search. . .I have
found a dangerous weakness in our story, and the one physical detail I
overlooked. I cannot hope Lord Purceville did not notice." She lifted
Mary's hand before her, and slowly she understood.
The ring
.
Such a bitter irony: the very symbol of life and enduring love, of the
common purpose that bound them together. . .might work to the undoing
of them all.
For at that same moment the Lord Purceville sat alone in his study,
pondering many things, not least among them that slender band of
silver, set with a single diamond.
The contradiction to the facade of innocence which the widow had tried
to plant in his mind was obvious. Why did the girl wear a wedding
ring, while the woman did not? Who, and where, was the man who had
given it to her? And what string had Stephen pulled, perhaps
inadvertently, to bring them here? For though in his hard way he loved
his son, he was not blind to his shortcomings. It was unlikely that
Stephen had, of his own devices, unearthed and exploited some weakness
which he himself had missed.
But most puzzling of all was a question far more simple. Why, after
facing death to protect her, had the woman suddenly put her niece, his
daughter, into the palm of his hand?
Back in their chambers, the two women saw they had no choice but to
see it through. To switch the ring back to the widow's hand might
prove disastrous, while to change any element of their story (much of
which was still unclear to Mary), would prove equally perilous.
It was decided that they should speak of the ring as an heirloom,
which had been passed on to the sole inheritor of Scott blood and
tradition. This might also lend credence to the guardian's fierce
determination to protect her. And in this same hurried conference,
Anne Scott went over again all that should, and should not be said at
Mary's inevitable, and surely imminent meeting with her father.
Still, if she had been summoned to him in that moment, and had he not
been distracted, he might easily have picked her story apart, and held
them all at his questionable mercy.
But he was distracted, and distraught. A courier had arrived the night
before, only hours ahead of his daughter's carriage, bearing news that
he was loathe to hear. Earl Emerson Arthur, his sworn enemy of so many
years, had been appointed Secretary of State for Scotland. And full of
his new-found authority, the vindictive old man had decided to abandon
his long siege---waiting for some damning evidence to arise against
his rival---and decided to attack instead, on Purceville's own ground,
while the tide of disfavor was still strong against him. A review was
to be called, if not a formal Inquest, and evidence gathered to
dismiss him. And while losing his seat as Governor was not a literal
matter of life and death, to the aged and slowly despairing Lord
Purceville, the two amounted to one and the same thing.
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