Books: Highland Ballad
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Christopher Leadem >> Highland Ballad
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For no man is so strong that he can hold off forever the grim
whisperings of age. His power and station were all that remained to
him, a last shield of illusion, which so narrowly blocked out the
sureness and finality of Death. Without it, he would have to look its
grim harvest square in the face. And for all his mockery and outward
courage (unfeigned), this was something he was consummately unwilling
to do.
Now he was cornered. And the cornered beast is most to be feared.
Twenty-Two
Several hours later a man-servant came to the women's quarters to
announce:
"The Lord Purceville," (his exact words), "requests a private
interview with his daughter."
Whatever their desired affect, upon hearing these words something
shook in Mary's heart, as she felt again the sudden pang of the
orphan. Because she realized in that moment that this simple phrase,
`his daughter', had never once been applied to her. For an instant the
tears started in her eyes; and for all her fear of him, her one desire
was to run and fall weeping in his arms.
But then she remembered all that her mother had told her. She
remembered, too, the life of empty hatred to which he had driven her,
at the cost of all that was gentle and giving inside her. And the way
he had burned her very corpse.
The tears stopped. A look of such implacable will came into her eyes
that the widow Scott, who had been plaiting her hair in preparation,
took a step back in dismay. All the brooding anger that she had once
seen in Stephen, the forerunner of violence, now showed itself in the
girl, with a keener edge, and yet whiter fire.
"Mary, listen to me," she whispered closely. "You must not do or say
anything to upset him. Our lives, all of them, are in his hands."
But her words were without effect. Mary stood like a fierce, enchanted
statue, waiting only for the sculptor to finish, to come to life and
fulfill its vengeful purpose. And when the last lock of hair was in
place and bound she stalked silently from the room, following the
startled servant.
After two long hallways she hardly noticed, she passed by several
doors in a third, then was ushered in to the great man's den. Her eyes
took in nothing but his seated form, which stamped itself forever in
her mind as the living embodiment of evil, and sole object of
revenge.....
If Henry Purceville had harbored any notions of winning the girl over,
or of displaying even the most distant paternal affection, he soon
forgot them. Her iron gaze quickly despatched the small stirrings of
tenderness (and guilt) which he had felt the night before.
But strange to say, the fearless disdain she showed him was not
without reward. In truth it was the one emotion he still respected. It
at once cut through his predisposition toward women as weak and
spineless manipulators, and gave her a separate identity. She was his
daughter, and she was not afraid.
There could be, for the moment, no thought of killing her.
"Well, girl," he said, settling back in his chair as the servant
closed the polished doors behind them. "If you have hard words to say
to me, say them."
"I hate you," she hissed.
"And why is that?" His face remained immobile, whatever the underlying
emotions.
"You raped my mother."
"Yes, though she did not ask me to stop. And if I hadn't, you would
not exist." The thought staggered her, but she pressed on.
"You burned her body! You denied her Christian burial."
"Your mother was not a Christian. By the look of her hut, I'd say she
fancied herself a Daughter of the Trees. Such as she are not buried,
as you must know."
"If not for your countrymen, and their accursed King, my cousins....."
She struggled. "They would not have been killed in the war."
"And if not for your
countrymen, and their drunkard Prince, there would have been no war.
"No," he continued, raising his hand to stop her. "Don't tell me that
you were oppressed, and had no choice but to rise in revolt. The
strong have always dominated the weak: it is Nature's unchanging law.
Had you been strong enough to defeat us, you would have won your
freedom, and left the women of England to mourn the dead."
Mary looked hard at him, disconcerted. She had been ready to pour out
the crucible of her wrath upon him, and at the slightest mockery, to
rush forward and scratch out his eyes. But he only remained before
her, unmoved and unmovable, with no apparent effort refuting her every
grievance. Worst of all, his words held the power of a twisted truth.
"You have an answer for everything. That doesn't make you right. In
the eyes of God---"
"God
?" he sneered, as if the very thought were offensive. "You have
reached young womanhood and still not seen through that, the cruelest
and emptiest of farces? Look at me, girl."
She did, then wished she hadn't. Those cold and knowing eyes seemed to
look straight through her. Hatred deserted her, leaving only fear. And
in that moment she was sure it was not her father, but the Devil
himself who stood before her. His wicked tongue was a foil far too
clever for her innocence, and she knew it. She felt her innermost
temples exposed, and had little doubt that he could ridicule and undo
the most sacred feelings she possessed.
"Aren't you going to ask me why
I I don't believe? Are you afraid? I am going to tell you; and if only
once in your fairy-tale existence you listen to the voice of reason,
then let it be now." He spoke evenly at first, but it was clear that
she had stirred the cauldron of his emotions.
"I disbelieve for the simplest, and most undeniable reason of all.
Experience
. For forty years I have taken what I wanted, disobeying each
Commandment, each precept, a thousand times over. And not only do I go
unpunished. . .but I have thriven, and raised myself to great power.
"I will tell you something I have never told anyone; you may take that
any way you like. Listen! From earliest manhood I have fought against
the principles, nay, the very heart of Christianity. In truth, a part
of me longed for punishment and reversal: to be put in my place, as a
sign there was some meaning, some Order in the world. But there is
none, unless it be survival of the fittest. Hardly the kind of world
that a God would make, unless his sole purpose was to punish its weak,
pathetic creatures."
He paused, trying unsuccessfully to calm himself. "The only `earth'
that the meek shall inherit. . .are the indifferent shovelfuls the
diggers throw back into their graves!
"What have you to say of that
, little whore of my flesh? Answer me!"
She knew not where she found the words, nor the courage to speak them.
She only knew that they were right.
"The final reckoning has not yet come," she said quietly. "Your
imagined victory will slip through your fingers like sand."
He bolted from his chair and came at her, before either realized what
had happened. Pinning her against the door, he mastered his wrath only
long enough to cry out in a dreadful voice:
"Be gone! Out of my sight!"
Mary fled from the room in tears. He slammed the door after her, then
struck it so violently that the oak shivered and his hand nearly
broke. For she had committed the one act that no evil man can
tolerate.
She had spoken the truth.
That evening Lieutenant Ballard appeared, to escort the ladies to,
"More suitable quarters." He led them, along with two armed guards, to
the high tower at the furthest extremity of the Castle.
After a long and torturous spiralling of stairs (for their escort
would not let them rest), they came at last to the uppermost story.
There Ballard took a long iron key, and forcing the eye of the lock,
pulled back the thick wooden door, pierced by a single, barred window.
They were ushered in, and all doubt of their position left them. It
was a prison cell. Piled hay on the floor comprised the beds, two
water buckets, one filled, the other empty, their only toilet. Two
woolen blankets had been rudely thrown down, as if their captors
resented even this small show of humanity. But for these, and for the
water, the place might have gone unchanged for a hundred years.
Ballard approached the girl, and took her roughly by the wrist. Too
numb to react, she could only watch as he pulled the ring from her
finger, and flung it out of the high, paneless window. No explanation
was given for this action, or for the sudden change in their status.
And when they tried to ask, the Lieutenant only smiled, and said in a
harsh voice:
"Little Mary, Queen of Scots, locked in the Tower, waiting for death."
And he let go a laugh, so void of compassion that it made the blood
run cold. He strode back out onto the landing, then turned again to
face them through the closing door.
"Master `enry has a visitor, and needs no more trouble of you. If you
want to live a little longer, do nothing to call attention to
yourselves. Quiet as mice, my pretties, or bad men will be sent to
keep an eye, and more `an likely both hands, on you
."
He pulled the door to, and left them in darkness.
Twenty-Three
That same evening, after observing the necessary formalities
surrounding the arrival of Earl Arthur, Stephen at last broke away
from the banquet and went in search of his sister. Whatever his
father's feelings, he was both glad to have her under his roof, and
firmly set in the belief that he was acting on her behalf. His motive
for seeing her now (so he told himself) was a sense of responsibility
for her comfort and well-being.
The affection which he felt for her at their first meeting had not
changed, his thoughts continued, except that the lust had gone out of
it. And in a sense, even this was a relief. His greatest need now was
for friendship and a sense of family, both of which might only have
been lost and obscured, had they become conventional lovers.
He had drunk more than his share of the wine served at dinner, seeming
unconcerned by his father's tension, and the measured severity of Earl
Arthur. And now, as he walked the long corridors he fell to
reminiscing, to gentle, water-color thoughts of their long ride
together across the countryside. And he remembered their first kiss,
so innocent, so full of feeling. To see her now, and to know that it
was in his power to bring her back to pride and prosperity, aroused in
him a feeling of warmth and tenderness which he had not experienced
since childhood. To speak with her late into the night. To kiss and to
touch, her..... The door was ajar.
The room was empty. She was gone.
An old peasant woman was making up the bed. He wasted little time on
her. "Where is my sister?" he demanded.
Her eyes narrowed at this. But after a moment's pondering, she seemed
to understand doubly. "Ah. She and her guardian have been moved to
other quarters."
"What
other quarters?"
"I'm sure I don't know, sir."
"What do
you know!" he cried angrily.
"Only it was the Lieutenant as took `em, and that he was none too
gentle." And she turned away, concealing her purpose, as ever.
Stephen stormed out of the room, blind with rage. Those who passed him
in the hallway drew back as from a fire. Even those servants of long
standing. . .none had seen him in a state like this.
He entered the banquet hall just as the Earl and his entourage were
leaving. The withered Arthur nodded stiffly in greeting, but Stephen
never saw him. His eyes knew the presence of one man only, and that
man stood at the head of an emptying table.
His father eyed him darkly as he approached, and with a stern gesture,
ordered him to keep silent until they were alone. Then giving final
instructions to his steward about the service and lodging of his
guests, he turned and walked sharply to an auxiliary den, with his son
a brooding tempest behind. No sooner had the doors closed behind them
than the deluge broke. At first the father tried to weather his son's
wrath, hoping that it would soon spend itself, like all his passions.
But Stephen was not merely upset. He was outraged. For perhaps the
first time in his life, he knew the intoxicating power of righteous
anger. His sister, whom he loved and had sworn to protect, had been
locked away like the coarsest and commonest of criminals. And he knew
Ballard well enough to imagine the state in which he must have left
her, and what she must be feeling now. The thought of his thick,
gnarled hands upon her, dragging her away, was the final straw.
"You bastard
."
It has been truly said that a father shall be judged by his sons, and
that if he is found wanting, they will be a bane and a curse until
death. All the enmity and resentment he had ever felt toward this man,
all the shortcomings of his own character, indeed, every injury he had
ever suffered, he now held to be the fault of the fat, corrupted
animal before him.
"You will set her free, now
," he ejaculated. "Or so help me God, I will find her and do it
myself!"
"Stephen
....."
"You fear Earl Arthur? It is I
you should fear. I know enough to have you transported, along with the
lowest horse-thieves and highwaymen!"
"You had best calm yourself, Stephen," replied Lord Purceville coldly.
"And if you know what is good for you---"
"Are you threatening me
? Do you think I'm bluffing!" he cried, coming to within inches of his
father's face. "I am going to the Tower, now. And if I am in any way
resisted, I will go to Earl Arthur instead, and put an end to your
sorry game."
"You will not
---"
"Watch
me!" And he turned on his heel, and made for the door.
Henry Purceville seized his son by the arm, and jerked him back into
the center of the room. "Be still
, I'm warning you! Don't make me lock you away as well."
With a scream of rage Stephen pushed him off, then flew at him, fists
reeling. So great was his fury that he knocked the larger man down
and, pinning him there, began to pummel him with half-blocked punches
to the face.
Then he felt a sharp pain at the base of his skull, and falling
forward, knew no more.
Twenty-Four
The first night that Michael spent alone was indescribable. To have
held the treasure of his heart so near, after both had suffered so
much, only to be forced to turn her over to the most feared and hated
man of the district, and a name of ill repute since childhood.....
There was no reconciling himself to the facts.
That she was his daughter might afford her the narrowest margin of
protection. But who could say what an English Lord---his noble birth a
sham, at that---might do when confronted by the threat of an
illegitimate child?
And the son, Stephen Purceville. Both Mary and his mother had doctored
their accounts of him, knowing Michael's fiery temper of old. But he
was wise enough, with the passing years, to know when he was being
shielded from the truth. The bullet-hole in the portrait spoke for
itself, a constant reminder that the younger Purceville was a force,
and a danger, unto himself. At best he was an emotional powder keg,
prone to sudden threats (and possibly acts) of violence. At worst he
was as cold and calculating as his father. The effectiveness of his
methods could not be questioned. He had taken the two women he loved,
without a fight, from under his very wing. What nest-thieving fox
could claim as much?
Such was the image he began to form of his imagined nemesis.
The morning after was no less a torment. Because for all the
unquenchable fear and concern he felt for them, Mary and his mother
had been right about one thing: he was not well. Nothing short of
bed-rest and shelter from the cold would begin to rid him of the
debilitating fever, and the deep, constrictive cough that had settled
in his chest.
But how could he remain calm, and rest, when those he loved remained
in unspeakable danger? Several times he started for the door, only to
be halted by the cruel realization that there was nothing he could do.
Not only would the exposure to the elements do injury to himself, but
his very presence, in any way connected with them, would only increase
their peril ten-fold. And the still deeper question, which lay at the
back of all others, which haunted him and gave him no peace:
What could one frail, unarmed man do against the grim, unyielding
walls of MacPherson Castle?
As evening began to deepen, and in the same hour that the cell door
was being closed upon the women, his inner turmoil reached a fever
pitch. Something had to be done! He paced back and forth, howling his
rage at the walls.
And yet his mind knew, for all the throbbings of the heart, that he
could not yield. He had learned the hard way, in the stockade, that
there were times when self-denial and an iron discipline were the only
way. And for all the pain it cost him, he knew that he must wrap
himself warmly and try to sleep. In the morning there might be some
meaningful action he could take. And there was nothing, save
pneumonia, that he could accomplish how, alone and in the dead of
night.
So he prepared to pass the dark hours as he had passed those previous.
Leaving the fire to burn itself out, he took the stones that had been
heating before it, wrapped them in a sling, and carried them up the
ladder-stair to Mary's bed, where he would sleep. In the loft he would
at least have some warning in the event of a sudden search, as well as
the advantage of height in a struggle. There was, perhaps, no reason
for the English to return to the cottage.....
Still, he could take nothing for granted. The evening fire was a
necessary evil, now smoldering to ash. All else must be patience and
concealment, until the morning light brought clearer counsel, or dealt
him some new card unforeseen. Until then, patience and hiding.
Patience and hiding.....
He fell asleep.
Twenty-Five
Clear your mind, begin again
All that came before is gone;
There is no truth, there is no past
The day is gone, the light is lost.
The long fought hours slip away
To whited stones;
The stones are ground to dust
Dust blows in the wind,
then the song begins again.
The time has come
the Judgment soon;
Above the mists,
beneath the Moon.
Youth to age, and back again
And all resounds in death;
Death to old and young alike,
And all for Heaven's Breath.
Such were the words that Mary heard, as she slipped into a dream. The
voice seemed to come from the walls, and the walls from the stone
heart of earth, the earth so old it had forgotten them. Too weary and
wretched to fight, yet as she spiralled back and always down, the
Voice became familiar, and edged all else in fear.
It was the voice of her mother, unburied and unwept.
The voice became a hovering form, which followed her as she walked.
The ground beneath her feet grew hard: it was cold, and the winter
wind touched her harshly. Till a great house appeared at the top of a
hill, surrounded by well-ordered green.
She drew nearer its stone walls, passed through and into warmth and
firelight. But it was quickly Night, and in silent corners the shadows
gathered thick to hold their counsel. A long corridor it was, and in
the distance a candlelight appeared, drawing closer: a large, strong
handsome man. He was her father, but she was not his daughter, only
Woman already swayed by the strength of his gait, and the unswerving
resolution of his hands.
He held a ring of keys, as Ballard had, and like him forced the lock.
The doorway opened and a woman no longer young, but still fair and far
from old, sat up in the ghostly bed and wrapped the coverlet about
her. And the form of light and darkness was no longer behind her,
because it was she, her mother in the bed.
The Lord Purceville took her hard by the wrists, and dared her to
scream. But no such sound came, and it puzzled him. Something like
love shone in the deep and pleading blue eyes. And pain and pain and
pain, because she knew it all before. Yet again the tragedy must be
played. And she could only watch, and feel her heart weeping blood as
all life was drained by him, the widow-spider.
And then her mother was alone in an unknown room, familiar though she
had never seen it, a chalice of poison in her hands. Her face was wet,
for the innocent babe that lay wrapped upon the bed. But the anguish
and despair were too great, and with trembling limbs she lifted the
cup of sorrow to her lips.
Yet bitter was the taste, bitter even as the road which led her to it:
the cup was still half full when the baby cried, and something shook
in her heart. She uttered a scream, and Anne Scott burst into the
room, followed by her brother.
And she did not die, but was taken away. And the child taken from her,
forever. The light went out in her soul, and the softness of her
heart. . . her youth was gone.
And then she was old and dry, alone in a smoky hut, gnawing on the
ends of schemes. Alone in ruin, alone with Death.
But somewhere a door was opened, and in walked the babe, grown to
woman. And though she tried not to love her it was in vain: her own
Mary, conceived in broken love, the lost treasure of her heart. And
she loved her, full love once more, though it was too late. A black
curtain was lowered before her eyes, as blood and water flowed from
the breast.....
Then large, calloused hands almost Roman, came and took her from the
lair, and tied her to a tree. And wood was brought and gathered round.
. . till smoking tongues licked her feet, a beast unproud, devouring
death as sure as life, and old and young alike.
Mary shuddered, and her eyes opened wide.
Her eyes were open. She was not sleeping, nor dreaming of a dream. And
yet the presence remained. The widow Scott lay breathing evenly,
somewhere in the gloom. But the presence remained.
Not a raging ghost, not the white-shrouded form of a woman, but an
invisible essence, unimagined: the echo, the afterglow, the spirit of
Margaret MacCain. It did not speak to her, but only watched, knowing
her thoughts, in some way bound to earth until the drama was played
out. Or the dream was gone.
Mary lay still, afraid but understanding. It was not a thing that
needed to be taught; it simply was. And she knew it in the depths of
her being. And the darkness of Night was infinitely deeper than the
darkness of the mind. Fear could not match the hard truth of it.
Thunder rolled beyond the walls in a glowering storm, as spiders
crawled freely through the window.
Twenty-Six
Michael woke suddenly, to the sound of the front door being thrown
open, and a low scuffling noise in the passage which he could not
dissect. The door was closed again and voices were heard, along with
the muffled curses of a man bound. And for all the fugitive plans he
had tried to form, Michael knew his one defense now was utter silence.
"The old man's lost his mind," said the first voice, breathing hard
but speaking in hushed tones. "How long's he think he can keep things
dark, now it's come to this? We can't keep him stowed here like a
barrel in the hold forever."
"And you're a damned fool, Stubb," came the second, harsh and uncowed.
"All we've got to do is keep him out of sight till Arthur turns tail
and runs. And he will, or I know naught. The old man can't be took on
his own ground. And but for his majesty here, and them bitches in the
Tower, there ain't none as lived long enough to speak against him.
Master `enry does things proper, and no mistake."
"You may be right for now, Ballard, but how long do you think he can
keep it up? He's squeezed blood from these stones long enough. There's
Hell to pay, I'm sure of it."
"Tell it to the parson, Stubb, he'll put it in his Sunday speech."
"You don't understand."
"You're
the one who don't understand. You think I'm married to the old man,
but I ain't. If he comes out on top, I'll stand by him right enough.
But if he don't, he'll learn that Toby Ballard is no man's slave. Me,
I sticks with the meanest dog, and when he's killed I go my own
way..... Oh, his Lordship didn't like that. Here, loosen his gag. No
one to hear him now but the walls."
"---kill you myself!" cried the bound man. "So help me, Ballard, you
won't live to see the new year!"
"Ah, now, your majesty," said the other, unconcerned. "Maybe I will,
and maybe I won't. For the time, though, I think you'd best concern
yourself with yourself. It might trouble your father for a time if
some `accident' were to befall you while in my care. But he'd get over
it."
"You wouldn't dare."
There was a sinister pause, in which the only sound was that of a
saber being drawn, metal against smooth metal. Then with an icy menace
such as Michael had heard only once before, in the stockade, the man
put it to his throat and said bluntly.
"Try me."
Again there was silence. The gag was refitted.
"He's all yours, Stubb. Don't
leave him alone, even for a short time. I'll send someone to relieve
you in a day or two." He turned again to face the young Captain.
"Good night, or should I say, good morrow, your majesty
." Ballard's heavy tread reached the door, opened, closed, and went
beyond it, as he mounted and rode back to the Castle.
Michael tried to think what he must do. There were too many questions
here for which he had no answer. Only one thing was clear to him: the
man Stubb was the immediate danger.
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