The Chieftain (25 page)

Later, he left her briefly to light the little fire and bake bannocks over it for them to eat. He had become quite a beggar these days, he told her with a smile, calling at this house and that for meal and milk and anything else they could give.

‘I hope you were careful,’ she said, briefly serious, but he grinned.

‘For you I would take any risk—But I am no longer afraid of anything. I know in my heart that all will be well.’

Isobel sat up when he brought her the food and ate hungrily, and it might have been a sumptuous feast for the happiness with which they shared it. Afterwards she slept a little in his arms; and woke to the delirious joy of finding him there and knowing that his love for her was a reality. He smiled as she opened her eyes, the sweet warm youthful smile that was so new to her; which, even weak as she was, set her pulses racing.

He brought her milk to drink, and then set to work to comb her hair for her, matted and tangled as it was after the long illness. He worked slowly, because he was anxious not to hurt her, and she sat half-leaning against him, enjoying his nearness and the caressing touch on her hair.

‘What became of your own ship?’ she asked dreamily, as her mind lingered on his news of those other ships waiting off the coast.

‘Oh, she was lost long since, I imagine,’ he said. ‘We left her when we joined the
Prince, and I’ve not thought of her since. We shall have a grander ship to take us to France, you can be sure.’

She smiled, and he paused to kiss her briefly before continuing his loving task. He had almost finished when a small unexpected sound caused Isobel to raise her head, listening hard.

There was silence, but for the rain and the chatter of the burn. And then it came again, clear and unmistakable. She glanced at Hector, and knew he had heard it too.

‘Someone’s outside,’ she whispered, shivering.
 

He put his arms about her, his mouth on her hair.
‘An animal perhaps,’ he suggested.

But at that moment a voice spoke just beyond the door, quietly, but with authority and in English.

‘Yes, you are quite right,’ it said. ‘There is someone in there. Bring up the others!’

Isobel thought she would hear that voice for ever in her nightmares.

‘John Campbell!’ she mouthed despairingly.

Suddenly brisk and practical, Hector brought her the faded gown.
‘Dress quickly—I’m going to have a look.’

As she obeyed he crept to the side of the hut and put his eye to the widest gap near the door. Even from here she could see the gleam of scarlet outside. She was pulling the plaid about her when he came back to her, and he helped her, saying softly: ‘Yes, it is John Campbell, and he is alone now I think. You must be ready to leave at once, when I say—’

‘But how can we?’ she whispered in anguish. ‘He is just by the door. He will be armed. We can’t escape.’

‘I am going to kill him.’

She shook her head in unbelieving dismay, struggling to find her voice.
‘He will be watching the door. He will kill you—and you heard what he said. The soldiers are coming. Even if you kill him—’
 

He laid a finger over her mouth, his expression implacable.
‘I shall kill him,’ he repeated.

He knelt suddenly at her side and drew his dirk, and she heard him murmur some kind of prayer.
‘Holy Michael, give strength to my arm. Holy Mary defend me. Jesus stay by me—!’

And then he paused only to kiss her once on the forehead and strode to the door, flinging it wide.

‘John Campbell!’ he cried. ‘I am ready for you!’

Isobel dragged herself from the bed and stumbled to the door, sinking down on the threshold. She saw John draw his sword and face Hector along its length, a little smile tilting his mouth, as eager as a lover going to a tryst. For long seconds they circled each other, like wildcats with their prey, the two blades poised, unequal, gleaming in the rain, their eyes watchful, alert, the only sound their feet light on the grass.

And then Hector lunged forward beneath the long blade and John grasped his wrist and they were suddenly still, grappling silently, their eyes raised to that shorter blade held in the lean brown hand, the point turned towards John’s heart.

John’s grasp tightened, he bent and twisted the wrist, forcing it backwards, all his will directed to loosening that deadly hold. The fingers on the dirk moved, splayed a little and closed again, locked white about the dark ornate leather, thrusting back against the clawing hold on
the wrist. The upraised arms quivered, poised over the two men and between them, moving neither one way nor the other. At his other side John’s free arm drew back, slowly bringing the point of his sword steadily within reach of Hector’s straining body.

And then Hector made a sudden sideways movement. A sharp twist of the wrist, and his blade thrust downwards and found its mark. The sword fell useless to the ground. John lurched into Hector’s arms, his eyes momentarily wide and startled. And then he too fell and lay still.

His face expressionless, Hector rolled John Campbell onto his back and straightened his limbs and closed his eyes. And then he wiped the dirk clean on the wet grass and held out his arm to Isobel.

‘Come,’ he said. She ran trembling to him and his arm closed about her. For a moment he paused, holding her, yet gazing sombrely down at the dead man. She wondered if he too had seen the pistol John had carried thrust into his belt, but had not used though it might have saved him. He drew her closer, and then on a sudden impulse bent down and broke
off a sprig from a plant of bog myrtle growing near his foot, and laid it on John’s chest, tucked beneath the white belt that crossed it.

‘Why do you do that?’ asked Isobel.

‘It is the badge of his clan. He was a Highlander after all.’ It sounded almost like a tribute.

His arm tightened briefly about her.
‘It is over,’ he said. ‘Let us go.’

‘Is that... Is that really the end? Or will there be others of his family...?’ She had learned too well the relentlessness of the Highland memory for past wrongs.

‘There is no one to weep for him,’ Hector told her, and she felt a sudden surge of pity for the dead man. But it could not last long. There was no time now for pity.

Up the winding track from the glen below the hut came a scarlet file of men, moving closer every minute. And it was at that moment that her legs gave way and Isobel sank weakly to the ground.

‘Hector, I can’t—’ she faltered, tears rushing to her eyes.
 

Without a moment’s hesitation he bent and raised her in his arms.
‘I’ll carry you, my heart.’

He strode along the path away from the hut and the approaching soldiers, but she struggled to free herself and cried out:

‘Leave me, Hector—We will never escape like this! You will be better off without me.’

‘Never!’ he silenced her, his grasp tightening about her. ‘Without you there is nothing.’ And she knew she could not move him. She placed her arms about his neck and held tight and he carried her on at a brisk steady walk that she knew would be useless if the soldiers once set out in pursuit.

Over his shoulder she saw that the head of the file had reached the hut. There was a shout, and the first man gestured wildly as the others came running. They gathered about the body, stooping to examine it. And then they began to look about them.

It was only a moment before they had seen the fugitives and came streaming along the track behind them. Hector’s pace quickened, though already he was breathless with the weight of his burden.

‘I’ll have to carry you across my
shoulder,’ he gasped at last, apologetically, and paused to shift her into that ignominious position. It was not very comfortable, but he could move faster like that, breaking into a run, which for the time being at least lengthened the distance between them and the soldiers.

The path dropped gently down and then rose again steeply onto a bare rocky hillside. The rain seeped through her plaid, and Isobel began to shiver. She longed for the abandoned bed, but she said nothing. She could hear the running feet of the soldiers clattering on the rocks as they came nearer.

Hector stumbled and then righted himself, but he was labouring now, and she sensed that every ounce of energy and will power was concentrated on forcing one step to follow another, doggedly, stubbornly, up the slope. His pace had slowed again to little more than a walk.

When the path levelled out he gathered speed again for a while, and then the track rounded a bend and descended once more, treacherous with loose stones, into a small glen. Hector’s feet slid uncomfortably on the stones, their customary sureness lost in exhaustion. His breathing came now in
sobbing gasps, and she could feel his hold on her slackening.

At a small stone bridge crossing a swift-flowing burn he halted, setting her on the parapet, and bent his head.

‘I cannot...’ he gasped. ‘I am sorry... but I cannot do it...’

She glanced to where the soldiers were running down that dangerous path towards them. A hundred yards perhaps, at most—

‘Leave me!’ she implored him. ‘Hector, my darling, leave me. At least you will be safe, and I do not think they will kill me.’

He shook his head, unable to speak. She could see how his hands trembled as they rested on the stonework to either side of her.

A shot rang out and hit the parapet, scattering small splinters of stone around them.

‘Please, Hector!’

He made a great effort and drew himself up, then lifted her again over his shoulder. And then he set out once more at a swaying stumbling run, which she knew would only delay their capture a little longer. Another shot just missed them, and then another, closer still.

And then she heard Hector give some kind of grunted exclamation, and he veered off the track, his pace gaining new momentum.

A few yards more, and she was aware that he had run under some kind of stone archway and they were in a paved yard surrounded by outbuildings. He ran into the nearest open doorway and there set her down, reaching out for support towards a wooden upright.

It was a stable, with a hayloft above and one or two horses in their stalls, an oddly prosperous-looking place for the Highlands. And facing them, his face blank with astonishment, was a man leaning on a broom.

Hector, too breathless to speak, made an appealing gesture with his hands. For what seemed an age the man looked from one to the other and back again, considering, his face showing neither welcome nor suspicion. Then he flung the broom aside and went to the furthest stall and led out the nervous grey horse that stood there.

‘In there!’ he said in Gaelic, nodding towards the stall. ‘Under the manger.’

Hector pulled Isobel after him and flung himself into the stall. They huddled
together beneath the wooden manger, half-concealed by pungent straw, and watched as the man returned the horse to his place. He had just resumed his sweeping when the soldiers reached the door.

‘Where did they go?’ demanded a curt English voice.

The sweeping ceased briefly, and then continued, though no answer was given.

‘Search the whole place!’ came the next order. ‘Run your bayonets into the hay!’
 

Isobel clasped Hector tightly, and he drew her head against his breast and rested his mouth on her hair. He was making a superhuman effort to control his breathing so that he should not give them away, and she could feel how much he trembled still after his long exertion. His heart throbbed fiercely beneath her cheek.

They heard the soldiers tramping about the barn, and in the hayloft overhead; and the sound of steel thrust into the hay set Isobel’s teeth on edge. If they had chosen that hiding place—! She shuddered.

Steps came nearer, and the sweeping stopped again.

‘I would not be at going near that horse, if I wass you,’ came the man’s sing-song
voice, in English this time. ‘It iss he that iss the ill-tempered beast.’

They heard the soldier hesitate, and then say,
‘I’ll take a look all the same.’

Beneath the horse Isobel could see his feet coming into view, neat in their buckled shoes, and the white gaiters above. They stepped nearer, and the horse swung sideways, snorting, his hooves moving restlessly on the straw. She could not see any more of the man beyond his feet, but she sensed that his eyes ran over the horse and the manger and the scattered straw. He stood there for what seemed an interminably long time. It was growing late now, and it was already dark beneath the manger, and the horse was large and restless; but Hector had killed their Captain, and the soldiers would move heaven and earth to find him.

‘They are in here somewhere, I’m sure of it,’ came the soldier’s voice, and the feet moved away. If she had dared to make a sound Isobel would have wept with relief.

‘Keep an eye on this place, Private Hopper, and we’ll search next door. Keep your wits about you now.’

The soldiers tramped out again, and their friend went on with his sweeping, whistling faintly between his teeth. Distant thuds and shouts told them where the soldiers were searching now.

Night fell outside, and at the far end of the stable a lantern was lit, sending long beams to blacken the shadow beneath the manger. It was warm and still and Isobel began to feel drowsy. The noise of searching moved away and then drew nearer again, on the other side of the stable. And then orders were shouted, feet tramped noisily on the flagstones, and silence fell at last.

The groom shuffled through the straw to where they lay.

‘They’ve set up camp just outside the gate,’ he whispered. ‘It’s dark now, but there’s a guard by the door.’

Hector struggled to his feet, gently raising Isobel to stand beside him.

‘God will reward you for this,’ he said to the man. And then: ‘We’ll go now.’ He put his arm about Isobel. ‘It’s our only hope,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘If we stay till daylight they’ll find us.’

They crept to the door and he peered round it. The lantern light spilled onto
the flags, just reaching the scarlet-coated figure who stood there, his hands resting on his musket. The groom laid his hand briefly on Hector’s arm, signing to him to remain where he was, and then wandered across the yard, pausing to speak to the soldier, keeping him talking with his back towards them.