Читать книгу The Master of Stair - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 4

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Some fifty men were making slow progress through the pass of Glenorchy, which lies in the heart of Invernesshire and so in the very depths of the wild Highlands. A thick white mist hung over the landscape; it was the end of October and a raw and chilly day; the dull purple heather, disclosed now and then by the lifting vapor, the gaunt firs and faded bracken that grew along the pass, were shivering under the weight of dripping moisture.

The men strained their eyes to pierce the drifting mist, and drew closer the damp tartans that showed they were of the Clan of Macdonald; they were all on foot: some led shaggy ponies on whose rough backs were strapped packages and what appeared to be the plunder of some great house, for the objects included silver and gilt cups and goblets tied together by the handles; and, slung across the saddle, handsome garments such as the Saxons wore, and guns of a make not often seen in a Highlander’s hands.

A drove of fine cattle were driven in the rear of the Macdonalds, and a man who was obviously the leader walked a few paces ahead of the others. He was distinguished from his followers by the faded laced cloth coat under his plaid, the pistols in his belt, and his high cowskin boots, the others being barefoot and wearing nothing but their tartans and rude garments of untanned leather.

The mist began to lift a little, the dim forms of the surrounding mountains became visible; the leading Macdonald stopped his men and looked about him: the mist had confused even his innate knowledge of the country. Such of the landscape as they could see was pure desolation, vast brown hills and tracts of heather: there were no roads, not so much as a foot-path to guide them.

The only sign of life was an eagle who circled high above their heads, and now and then swept into view, screaming dismally.

The leader of the Macdonalds shuddered in the damp cold and was making the signal for his men to continue, when his quick ear caught a distant sound. He paused, the train of Highlanders motionless behind him.

It was the sound of the jingle of harness, the soft thud of horses’ hoofs on the heather: a party of horsemen riding near.

With the stealthy alertness of men who are always either hunters or hunted, the Macdonalds drew together in the pass; the foremost threw themselves flat on the ground and closed their hands round their dirks. The mist was closing round them again, but it was not so thick that they could not discern a group of horsemen crossing the pass at a swift trot. It was impossible to see how many there were; they were very swiftly gone, and utter silence fell again.

The Macdonalds began to move cautiously. The mist thickened so that they grew uneasy, their eyes were strained for another sight of the strangers, their ears for the sound of the bridle bells.

The eagle flew close, then past them and out of sight; they were feeling their way a step at a time, the ponies stumbled over the wet rocks the heather concealed, the men could hardly see each other. They began talking in whispers, wondering who these horsemen might have been, disputing about the way.

Then it came again, the thud thud of a horse.

The Macdonalds stopped dead; their leader softly cursed the mist and held himself on the alert.

It seemed to be only one horse now, and very close; they could hear it slipping among the rocks, the sound of the clinking harness, but they could see nothing. It died into the distance; the mist rose a little and they caught a sudden glimpse of a red figure on a dark horse in front of them, then they lost sight of it again in the thick vapor.

They pushed on slowly, teased with the faint sound of the unseen horsemen, ready for a stranger and enemy, yet baffled by the mist.

Suddenly the sound grew louder; the Macdonalds looked round fiercely. Their leader was almost thrown by the swift passing of a huge brown horse bearing a rider in a scarlet coat, who crossed in front of him and was swallowed into the mist. He had only a glimpse, and the bells were again tinkling in the distance; the horseman did not appear to have seen him, but as he passed a whip had struck Macdonald lightly on the face.

With a fierce cry the Highlander was plunging through the mist after him; the sound guided him; he ran forward swiftly, maddened by that slash on the cheek, striving to cleave aside the blinding fog.

All at once he heard it coming again, saw the brown horse looming toward him, and made a wild dash at the reins. But it swept past him. He thought he heard the rider say something or give a little cry.

The mist began to lighten, grow thinner; he saw the rider ahead and ran after him with his dirk undrawn. His strength was almost a match for the horse which was evidently very jaded and weary; his rider looked back and urged him faster, but the Macdonald was gaining.

It was clear enough now for him to see who he was pursuing. A slender figure in a scarlet roquelaure with the collar turned up to his ears, his beaver and feather hanging limp with the rain; both his dress and his horse were of the lowlands. The Macdonald’s eyes glowed at the sight of the Saxon; he was too stung to care that he had missed his men in the pursuit. He came on at a run, silently. The horseman had gained rising ground and stood outlined against the sky.

The mist changed to a drizzling rain: they were able to see each other distinctly; the tired horse stumbled and stopped, the rider wheeled him round and drew up, facing the Highlander. In the vast gloomy scene he was the only spot of color on his smooth bright chestnut horse with the glittering harness, with his vivid red coat and the long draggled brown feather hanging on his shoulders.

The Macdonald stopped a pace or two away from him that he might see who this Saxon could be, sitting very still and calm, with his head lifted—haughtily, it seemed. Then he cried out and fell back a step.

It was a woman who looked down at him from the brown horse: a proud, still woman’s face that showed in the high collar.

She calmly viewed his utter amazement, sitting utterly motionless, very upright.

After a second she spoke; slowly, in Gaelic.

“What do you want with me?”

Her voice sounded thin and unnatural coming through the vast open space; she broke her words with a cough and shuddered as if she was very cold.

The Macdonald had stood motionless, eagerly surveying her; when she spoke he came toward her slowly, with the caution and curiosity of a wild animal scenting the unknown.

She too looked at him, but covertly, and her face expressed no interest as her eyes dwelt on his magnificent figure and torn and faded clothes; she waited for him without a movement or a word.

As he came to her saddle bow he pulled off his bonnet and stood erect in the straight rain, his frank blue eyes on her face.

“My name is Ronald,” he said, “and I am a prince of the Macdonalds of Glencoe.”

The horsewoman coughed and shivered again before she answered; she had noted the half-sullen, half-proud defiance of his bearing and replied to that:

“Why do you speak so?” she said. “You give your speech a turn of bitterness.”

He came still closer and laid his hand on her fallen reins.

“I thought you were a Campbell,” he said, and watched for the effect of the loathed name on her; there was none; she merely shook her head.

“I am a stranger,” she answered. “I came with my kinsfolk on a mere family affair—”

His face lightened.

“I saw them through the mist,” he said.

She looked round her.

“And now the mist hath gone and I am utterly lost.” She shivered.

Suddenly she glanced down at him; he was very young, of a giant’s make; his square cut fresh face, tanned the color of ripe corn, looked up at her; his clear eyes were very steady under the rough brown hair; she gave a slow faint smile.

“Are you too lost?” she asked.

“It were not possible for me to lose my way to Glencoe,” he answered. “But I have missed my men.”

He was still studying her with a frank absorbed curiosity; she pushed her heavy rain-soaked hat a little off her face and at sight of her red-blonde hair, he cried out, fiercely:

“Ye are a Campbell!”

Her face expressed a cold surprise.

“I am Helen Fraser,” she said quietly, “and no kin to the Clan of Campbell.”

It would have been difficult to disbelieve her unconcern; Macdonald hesitated, not knowing what to do.

“Will you put me on my way?” she asked as a probe to his silence. “I am wet and cold—and most utterly lost.”

At the note in her voice all his Highland hospitality woke.

“Will you come to Glencoe?” he asked simply.

She shook her head. “I must find my people,” she said resolutely. “Tell me the way—they ride in the direction of Glenorchy.”

Macdonald’s eyes flashed.

“Jock Campbell’s castle—you go there!” he cried.

“I go that way—not there,” she answered, “but to Loch Awe.”

He was appeased again. “Glenorchy is three miles from here,” he said. “And Glencoe some ten—as you are a woman I will go with you to find your people.”

She made no show of either gratitude or refusal. “I shall die of cold,” she said impatiently. “Take the bridle and lead the way.”

The drizzle had settled into a steady downpour; the sky was a merciless even gray; the distant hills wreathed with heavy rain clouds, the gloomy rocks about them running with water.

Macdonald took the horse’s head in silence and led him across the squelching heather. They were at the top of the ravine; the country before them was broken and utterly wild, but he had no fear of losing his way while he had the use of his eyes. The woman shuddered closer into her coat. “Put me on the road to Glenorchy,” she said. “My people will be looking for me.”

“Would you not be afraid alone, Helen Fraser?” he asked.

“No,” she answered quietly.

“Are you friendly with the Clan of Campbell?” he said, “for you must cross their lands.”

“I know nothing of them,” came the tired voice from the great collar. “But—I say—I am not afraid.”

He was silent again; he knew little or nothing of the distant Clan of Frasers, he marveled at the dress and refined appearance of this woman: he had never seen any but the Campbell’s women in this Lowland habit.

Neither spoke as they wound through the rocks and heather; he at the horse’s head, heedless of the cold and rain; she huddled on the saddle, shivering under it.

She spoke at last so suddenly that he turned with a start.

“Who are those?” she said.

He looked in the direction her gloved hand pointed.

From the branch of a great fir-tree two men were dangling, the rain dripping forlornly from their soaked clothes and the fair hair that fell over their dead faces.

“Campbells,” answered Macdonald. “Would there were more than two.”

She turned her gaze from the dead men; her face was utterly unmoved.

“How you hate these Campbells, Macdonald of Glencoe,” she said curiously.

He was bewildered by her note of wonder, turned it over in his mind and could think of nothing to say but:

“I am a prince of the Macdonalds.”

“God fend me from these feuds!” she cried. “My people live at peace.”

“They would not, Helen Fraser, if they were two hundred men alone in the country of the Campbells.” He looked at her over his shoulder, his color risen. “To one side of us we have MacCallum More himself—to the other Jock Campbell of Breadalbane and his vassals swarm in their hundreds—but we do no homage—because there has been no Campbell yet dare enter Glencoe.”

He had stopped with the force of his words and his fierce eyes measured her narrowly.

She gave her slow smile:

“Well—go on,” she said. “I have no call to be the Campbells’ friend.”

He went on at his steady even pace and she said no more.

They were crossing a level tract of moor; once she looked back at the men on the fir-tree; the rain was blotting them from sight, but she could see them faintly, dark against the sky.

Presently the dismal screaming of a bird of prey broke the desolate stillness.

“There is an eagle—has found a meal,” remarked Macdonald.

“How he skrieks!” she answered, and leaning from the saddle peered forward. “Look—ahead of us—”

A great brown eagle was hovering a few feet off the ground and another circled slowly above him.

“What have they found?” whispered the woman. She looked half-eagerly, half-fearfully; they were near enough for her to see a tumbled heap of plaid in the heather with something smooth and shining white in the midst.

The eagle wheeled his slow flight closer and she saw that his beak dripped with blood.

“Who are those he feeds on?” she asked very low.

Macdonald turned the horse’s head away from the eagle’s orgy.

“It is Campbell’s tartan and a Campbell’s skull,” he said. “What else?”

She was still straining her eyes after the ghastly bundle they were leaving behind them.

“It is a woman!” she cried.

“Yes,” he answered, “we got her yesterday from Jock Campbell’s house—we burnt a house of his two days ago—you could see the flames from here.” His eyes sparkled with pride. “They were three to one,” he added, “but the Campbells always fight like Lowlanders.”

She put her hand to a face grown ghastly white.

“You keep your eagles well fed,” she said. “I would not be a Campbell in your hands, Macdonald of Glencoe!”

He looked up, puzzled at her tone; he had not properly seen her face nor could he see it now for the collar and the hat; it occurred to him that she did not understand the bitterness of this hate.

“There is the sword and the flame between us two,” he said. “A Campbell has not broken bread with a Macdonald for a thousand years—we are the older race and by craft they have the mastery.”

“Of the whole Highlands, I do think,” she put in.

“Yes,” he cried fiercely. “But not Glencoe—we have that yet, and we harry them and goad them to curses and slay them, and thwart them though we are but two hundred—now my tacksman return home with the plunder of Jock o’ Breadalbane’s house—we left his door-step wet with blood, not for the first time!”

She caught her breath.

“Some day you will pay the price,” she said, “for he has the Saxons and the Southrons behind him—he is a mighty man.”

The Highlander flung up his head. “Let the Saxons try to reach Glencoe,” he said grimly. “Let Jock Campbell turn his claymores out to touch us here—there will be more blood for the eagles at Strath Tay!”

She lapsed into silence again; the rain was growing colder, changing into a fine sleet; she was numb and frozen.

“Give me rest,” she said faintly, “or I die—is there not one hut in all this barrenness?”

He looked surprised that her endurance should be exhausted already; hesitated with a desire to be rid of her encumbrance.

She put out her hand and touched him delicately on the shoulder; for the first time he saw her eyes, green and very bright, as she leaned forward.

“Ah,” she said very softly. “You would not leave me—when I am lost—or make me ride when I am like to faint—find me shelter for awhile, Macdonald!”

“I would not have left you,” he answered, “and though I know none of you, Helen Fraser, I will find you shelter.”

There was a wattled hut near by, often used as an outpost by the Macdonalds in their plundering raids; he turned toward it now; it was very little off the road to Glenorchy.

Helen Fraser looked at his great figure before her, his resolute strength, his firm face, and she gave a little inscrutable smile.