Margaret the Queen (30 page)

Neither did Maldred. As he ate the meal put before him, and the evening grew darker, with the girl still not back, he grew the more concerned — as clearly did the Queen. At length he could stand it no longer.

"I am going to look for her," he announced.

"But — will that serve anything, Maldred?" Margaret asked. "In the darkness. How can you hope to find her, at night?"

"Foolishness," her mother agreed. "If she, with a guide, cannot find her way here, how shall you find
her?"

"It is not more than five miles to the Buzzart Dykes, I think. Less probably. You say that she went well before noon? Even with the Muir of Gormack to cross she should have been there in less than two hours. The same back. Something is wrong."

"What can you do, Maldred?"

"I know the country. Not closely, but well enough to find my way. There is a half-moon rising. I shall take some man from the village. Take torches. And horns to blow. In only five miles, we should find her. Better than sitting here,
idle."

Margaret nodded, only wishing that she might go with him.

In these conditions horses would be only a handicap.

Torches and hunting-horns were readily provided. Maldred could have had half-a-dozen falconers or foresters, but. saw little advantage in numbers and the organising they would entail. He collected one of the royal foresters, a middle-aged man, Donald by name, who knew the hills well, and set off without further delay.

There was a horned moon and little cloud, so that once their eyes accustomed themselves, it was less dark than it seemed at first. They did not light the torches yet, recognising that this would injure their night vision. There was only the one road to go, a little to the west of north, by a track up through the foothills to the villagers' summer pastures in the Braes of Logie. No one could have got lost here, surely. They climbed steadily, Maldred questioning his companion's local knowledge. The man agreed that if there was anywhere between here and the Buzzart Dykes where anyone might go astray, it was while crossing the Muir of Gormack. But even there, the track over to the Lornty was clear, and marked with cairns of stones. The shepherd with the lady knew it like the palm of his hand. So where were they? There were wolves in these hills, to be sure — but it was much too early in the winter for these to be of any danger to humans.

As far as the sheilings, up on the western spine of the moor, the route remained perfectly clear, even in semi-darkness, for up here the people cut their peats and dragged them down by pony-sled on a well-defined track. The two men had blown their horns at intervals, and then waited, listening for any answering call. After the peat-cuttings however, although there were many paths across the slanting waste, cattle, sheep, deer and human, these were apt to be a confusion. The true path northwards to the Lornty valley was marked with heaps of stones at intervals, these to project through winter snows and mark the way. They were not so effective in the darkness.

Nevertheless, winding their horns as they went, the pair found no real difficulty in following the track, downwards now over the long slope to the Lornty, a full mile of it. They crossed the stream, almost a river but shallow here, by stepping-stones alongside a ford.

The Buzzart deer-dyke came down to the Lornty on the other side, climbing for half-a-mile northwards thereafter before making a right-angled turn eastwards to run for many miles, a quite major construction. It was part of this
Donald's duty to help keep it in repair, so he knew all the vicinity notably well, and exactly the position of St. Ethernan's Well and the hermit's cave — which proved to be about a quarter-mile up
from the river and under a littl
e escarpment of rocky outcrops. There was an ancient stone-circle nearby also, so that it seemed likely that, as so frequently, the original Celtic saint had only taken over some holy well of the Druids.

As the standing stones loomed up, a voice, surprisingly robust, hailed them before ever they reached the cave-mouth, demanding to know who, in the name of the Blessed Ethernan, walked the hills at this ill hour, forby making the night hideous with horn-blowing? The forester called back that it was Donald from Cluniemore, with the Lord Maldred of Atholl, come seeking the Sassunach lady.

The hermit proved to be a sturdy, almost burly character who smelled strongly, and scarcely the frail old recluse the Queen had imagined. He declared that the fair young Sassunach female had indeed been there, some hours ago, with the new Queen's message and offering, and had duly obtained her flagon of the precious water, additionally blessed by himself, for the unfortunate child — although he stressed that he did not really approve of this sort of second-hand, long-range use of the water's healing qualities, which ought to be applied by himself personally. This Donald, or others, could have carried the child to him, in a litter if need be, in Christian charity, instead of involving the English Queen and her lady. And more to that effect.

Maldred, whilst agreeing that this was no doubt so, pointed out that the Queen was kind-hearted and much addicted to good works. However, the point was that the Lady Magdalen had not returned to the palace, and the Queen's Highness had become anxious. They had been blowing the horns to try to attract attention, on the way here, in case she was lost. But without result. When had she left? Was all well with her then?

The Friend of God did not seem too gready concerned. The young female, who had appeared to be as sensible and rational as such were ever likely to be, had gone off about the third hour after noon, or a
little
later, with the shepherd Moirdach. They had taken two
other poor sufferers with them
to assist them on their way, cripples who had limped here to wash themselves in the sacred waters — for the holy Ethernan's well was effective, in God's providence, for more than blindness. Indeed these two pilgrims were sitting on the young female's garron and herself walking.

"They went burdened with two cripples, then?" Maldred exclaimed. "This could have made some difference. After three in the afternoon? They would go much more slowly. But — not so long a delay in only five miles, surely? And we would have passed them
..."

"Where were these pilgrims bound?" the man Donald asked.

"They were from Blair-in-Gowrie, they said. And were making for Kinloch of Drumellie, this night."

"Drumellie — that is . some miles east of Clunie," Maldred pointed out. "Is it possible — could she have taken them there? Gone on to Drumellie, and from there returned to the Ward, along the Blair road?"

"Who knows what Sassunach females might elect to do?" the hermit asked.

"It would be a charitable act. . ."

They left, with a blessing of a sort, torches lit now for possibly wandered folk to see.

Across the Lornty they climbed the long slope towards the spine of the Muir of Gormack again, their flaring, smoky torches actually making it more difficult to see. Maldred, leading, was following a wrong track when the other called him back.

"Wrong track?" he wondered. "But, see — there are cairns along it."

"Cairns yes, lord. But it is the track to Drumellie, not Clunie. The roads part here."

"Ha! Then, if they
did
think to take these cripples further on their way, this is the track they would go?"

"Yes. But we do not know that they did, whatever."

"No. But it is a thing that Magda, this lady, might do. Since we saw no signs of them on the Clunie track. I say that we should follow
this
track now. See if there are any traces. How long would it have taken them to get to this Kinloch of Drumellie? From here?"

"It is some three miles. As it is by the other, to Clunie."

"An hour, no more. Even so they should have been back to the Ward by the time we left. Nevertheless, we should try this new track
..."

"Lord, is it wise? If they went to Kinloch, the lady may be back now. If so, will not the Queen's Highness send out a messenger to inform you? Such would come by this
Clunie
track. If we take the other, we would miss him. Then it is
you
who would seem to be lost! More men sent to search. . ."

"M'mm." Maldred saw the point of that. They decided, therefore, that one should go some way along each track meantime, looking for signs. Their torches should at least help for close inspection. If one found a clear indication he should blow three quick blasts on the horn. If not, after half-a-mile perhaps, they should both return to the track-junction.

Maldred chose the Kinloch path, as the more hopeful. Unfortunately there had been no rain for a day or two and there were few suitably muddy patches, the granite grit not showing up footprints, not in the smoky torchlight at any rate. Then, presently, round a bend, was sufficient evidence — a pile of horse-droppings, fresh, only hours old. He was reaching for his horn when, plain from the north-west, wailed three unmistakable blasts.

At something of a loss, he paused. It would be absurd to both start hooting at each other. When the three notes sounded again, he decided to go to see what Donald had discovered.

It was, in fact, a more significant find than his own, where an apron of surface-water had made a wet area on the path — the imprints of a woman's shoes, too small to be a man's. Facing south-west, towards Clunie, and recently-made, the possibility of them being other than Magda's was remote for women did not frequent the moor at such time of the year, and anyway, the local women usually went barefoot.

So what did it mean? With dung on the other track? And only the woman's footprints here? They must have separated. Magda must have sent the pilgrims on direct to Kinloch, on the garron, with the shepherd, and herself chosen to walk the three miles back to the Ward alone. And presumably somehow got lost.

What to do now, then? They had come this way, and seen nothing — not that they had been able to see any distance in the darkness. So clearly she must have strayed off the path. But where, when, why?

As darkness fell, they concluded, she must have followed by mistake one of the deer or cattle trails which criss-crossed the main track, and then been unable to find her way back. They decided therefore to split up, and to move parallel well above and below the main track. Maldred chose the lower side. Magda was no fool, however unused to such terrain, and would surely realise that climbing uphill was unlikely to aid her. Although there was the possibility that she might likewise realise that the lower ground was more apt to be boggy and difficult going. The slantwise moor was about three miles wide here, so there was plenty of room to get lost.

They parted, after searching another wet apron of track and finding no footprints. They had their second torches lit now, and blew their horns regularly. If anyone
was
sent from the Ward to intercept them, they ought to see the lights or hear the noise.

Quickly Maldred found the going becoming very much more difficult, even though he tried to stick to animal-tracks, winding and uncertain as these were. Tripping and stumbling he pushed on, blowing, listening and hearing Donald's horn growing ever fainter. Was he being a fool, he wondered? This seemed a quite profitless venture, highly unlikely to achieve anything but discomfort and humiliation. . .

He was blowing one of his blasts, and consequently not looking down at his feet, when he tripped over a heather-clump into a peat-hole and fell all his length into black slime. Cursing explosively, he was struggling to rise when he stopped, both the rising and the cursing. Had he heard something? A call? A high-pitched, thin calling? Not a curlew. . .

Listening, he heard it again, faintly but distinctly now, coming from some distance down on his left, still lower ground, a woman's cry.

"Magda!" he yelled. "Magda!" And thereafter, he was up and running, actually running, stumbling inevitably but caring nothing for peat-mud or clutching heather or outcrops, last torch left flaring on the ground. Every now and again he panted out a shout, and gained an answering call to aid his direction.

He came to her, where she sat on an ancient whitening skeleton of bog-pine root, a throat-catchingly lonely figure in the desolation. She started up as she saw him, but sat back again quickly.

"Thank God!" she called. "Oh, I am sorry. A fool! My ankle. I lost myself. My ankle . . ."

"Magda!" he bellowed. "Magda, lass! Saints be praised, I've found you!"

"Maldred? Dear Lord — can it be
...?
Is it
...
is it
...
? Oh, Maldred, my dearest, my beloved, my heart's darling!" And ankle or none she was on her feet again and limping towards him, to fling herself into his arms,, gulping incoherences.

Fiercely he took her, to clutch her tightly to him, kissing her brow, her hair, her eyes, her lips, in an ecstasy of joy, love, relief.