‘Oh it is charming,’ said the lieutenant. ‘Is this then the lucky father?’
‘Be damned,’ Marsali whispered to him and turned back to Rory and said, ‘Wake, lad, and easy, please, we have company, the now.’ He opened his eyes, saw her, and at once the shadowy figure behind her, and jerked free to leap up. The pistol jutted forward at once, and she cried, ‘No! He’ll shoot you,’ waking Murdoch with her cry.
Murdoch twisted up, half in a dream, his face wild with confusion and shattered sleep. His eyes rested dimly on the shadowy figure, and he started back. The Englishman cried out, ‘Steady,’ but Murdoch drew back further, his short-sighted, dream-dulled eyes yet on the soldier, and whispered, ‘It cannot be.’
‘Careful, lad, ’tis a soldier,’ Rory cried.
But Murdoch said, once more, joyfully. ‘It cannot be,’ and leapt to his feet, a step towards the soldier. The crash of the gun brought moss and lichen from the walls. Murdoch flung around in a complete circle with the force, and fell headlong on the rotting, snow-covered floor.
He twisted around, as Rory threw himself down beside, and half got up, bracing himself on one arm, down which the blood already flowed. Then he fell back, on his back on the blanket where he had slept.
Rory knelt beside him, reaching for him with shaking, shocked hands, but Murdoch just caught at one of them and said, ‘’Twas my father, Rory. Why did my father shoot me?’
‘’Twas not your father,’ Rory cried, wildly, ‘but one of the bastards who hung him.’ Murdoch shook his head slowly. His shirt front was soaking in blood, and there was blood on his mouth.
‘It cannot be,’ he said softly, and then closed his eyes and whispered, ‘Ah Christ, and me with the ploughing not done,’ and in moments he was dead. Rory flung himself down on his foster brother’s body, his own self wet with his blood, his face buried in Murdoch’s blood-streaked hair. He wept openly, wildly and bitterly, not caring for any about him.
Marsali stood very still, with a strong hard face, like her father at her mother’s grave. She did not kneel beside Murdoch, or touch him, and her prayers she would save for a calmer time. She turned quietly to the bewildered soldier, who stared uneasily at his own thoughtless carnage, his two companions alerted by the sound, now behind him at the broken door. She said softly, ‘You have killed two, now, of my own, sir, one in viciousness and one in idiocy. I think, now, you owe me your blood.’
Lieutenant Percy stepped back, still shaking his head. He said, ‘Mistress, I truly regret that. I warned you wake him gently. I warned you.’
‘A boy without a weapon, lost in a dream of a happier time? Was he a threat to you?’
‘These are dangerous times, mistress. I offer my regrets. I will leave you, a moment, to compose yourselves in peace. Then I fear we must be on our way.’
Rory looked up then, a wild creature, stained with Murdoch’s blood. ‘Bastard,’ he whispered, ‘fucking English bastard.’
‘You are distraught, man; compose yourself.’
‘You’ve fucking murdered him. You’ve murdered my brother.’
‘He is not your brother, MacLeod. We know you all, and incidentally, we know your purpose. I might make it easy for you, if I tell you simply, Archibald Cameron is in our hands.’
‘He would not betray us,’ Marsali cried. ‘You are lying.’
‘He did not betray you, indeed, missie. But others betrayed him. He will hang. We know all. I have no need to tell you my sources. But let us say, there is one among you who loves gold more than his king. You are discovered, all of you, and will stand trial. You will hang, MacLeod, and follow your foster brother. The lady, minding her condition,’ he said slyly, ‘will no doubt be dealt with, with respect. Adieu, now. We will march for Fort Augustus within the hour. And mind now, we are but without the door, and we are armed.’
He went out then and left them alone. Then Marsali knelt beside her brother, and began, softly crying, to whisper over him her ancient prayers. Rory knelt too, his hand yet protectively on Murdoch’s tangle of brown hair, and whispered the responses. When they were done he turned to her and said in a low, sad voice, ‘Lassie, your bonnie Frenchman has played us a weary trick.’
‘Antoine?’ she whispered.
‘Och, Marsali. What other? What other? Who has nothing to lose and all to gain? Whose loyalty has shifted always with the wind? Who is gone now, with your gun, and no word of farewell?’
‘He would not betray us.’
Rory took her face between his hands, yet brown-stained with drying blood. ‘Lassie, I know well you love him. But he has cost Murdoch’s life. I forgave him taking you, but I’ll never forgive him this. He did betray us, and if ever I find him, while yet I live, he will pay.’
‘He would not betray us,’ Marsali said again. ‘You do not understand, Rory. He doesn’t love King James, I know, nor will he serve King George. They cannot coax him with honours or gold, or anything cherished in this world. He is unreachable.’
‘To hell,’ growled Rory. ‘They have reached him.’
‘Never,’ she shook her head and said with a sudden new awareness, ‘I do not speak from love, for I do not love him. Aye, I yearn for him, for he is most comely, and I will not shame you with a tale of his talents. But I do not love him. It is you I love. Love is like singing, lad. There must be an ear to hear, or there is no song. I cannot love where there is no heart for the taking of my love. They could never have reached him with any temptation, for try as I would, I never did.’
‘Do not be so sure.’ A voice from above.
‘Jesus,’ Rory cried and whirled about, seeking the voice. ‘’Tis like a ghost.’
‘’Tis but yourself,’ said the voice again, Antoine’s voice. ‘I’m not quite in the other world yet. Just here, that wee bit above your heads.’
They looked up; he was sitting, comfortably, leaning back against the chimney breast, his long legs drawn up, high above them, in the broken rafters of Glentarvie House. Peaceful, remotely evil, an uncanny child. Rory whirled at once to the door where the soldiers were, but Antoine called softly, ‘Do not fear. They are away, down to the burn for water; I watched them go, and came back then from the hill behind and up the great tree at the back. They did not see me.’
‘They have killed Murdoch,’ Marsali said quietly. ‘Where were you, when we needed you?’
Antoine shrugged. ‘I am sorry for Murdoch. I heard the shot and was fearful. There was no need surely to be shot, though. He must have been foolish.’
‘Damn you,’ Rory cried. ‘He but woke in a dream, and imagined he saw his father. In that confusion, he was killed. A high price, surely, for a dream.’
Antoine said, ‘Dreams are deaf, lad. I was warned of their coming, by a wee mouse, and thought I would be safest in the dark. Had I woken you we’d all have fled, but then, I’d have missed him.’
‘Missed who?’ Marsali asked, angrily.
‘Himself.’ Antoine waved to the distance where the soldiers were. ‘Who else would track you to Glentarvie, but the one who knew you best? I’ve turned their trap upon them, and you were the bait. Now I will have him, the one who killed my lion.’ He shrugged and glanced down to the bloody floor. ‘Begging Murdoch’s pardon, but it’s all I cared about.’ He shrugged again and said to himself, ‘Perhaps all I’ve ever cared about.’
‘Your vengeance for the father has cost the life of the son. I wonder, would he thank you?’ said Rory. ‘But you’ll have your chance, now, and what of us?’
Antoine smiled and took Marsali’s pistol from his belt. ‘If I had not fled with this, they’d have it now,’ he said. ‘Here then, have your own vengeance. But the lieutenant is mine. Be content with the other two.’ He tossed the pistol down and Rory caught it with a satisfied smile. Antoine said softly, ‘Marsali, go now to the corner and sit quiet on your little chair.’ He indicated the stool where long since she was wont to sit. ‘Rory and I will have a little game now, and you’ll be safest well clear.’ He smiled and stood the
n on the black timbers of James MacKinnon’s roof. ‘I am hoping he built well, your father,’ he said, stepping cautiously to the centre of the great room. The beam twisted and groaned but did not give. ‘Aye now, we will wait.’ He drew his sword and looped one arm about a roof support, and leaned there, as calm as on the railing of his ship.
‘Antoine,’ Marsali called.
‘Aye, lass.’
‘Do not fall. ’Tis fearful far.’
‘I think, lass, I have fallen farther. That was a grand speech you made, before. I did not know you were so wise on the nature of love.’
‘’Twas but words.’
‘Aye. But words.’
Then he waved her silence, and listened, and they both heard the footsteps, hard on the frozen ground, and the jangle of English spurs.
‘We are ready,’ Lieutenant Percy said calmly, stepping through the door.
Rory stood yet to the side with the pistol behind his back. Percy had his own in his hand, but casually, expecting no opposition. Rory allowed him into the roofless room, with space for his companions to follow. When they were all within Rory said calmly, ‘God save King James,’ whipped the pistol from behind him, raised it to the second soldier and fired. He fell at once, surprise wide on his face, and the third soldier stumbled over him.
Lieutenant Percy raised his own gun, with furious amazement, only half turned in time to the sound from above, and then Antoine was on his back, like a cat-beast from a tree. Rory fought hand to hand with the remaining soldier, before he could draw his own pistol free of his belt. But Antoine disarmed the lieutenant with a twist of his arm, and sent the weapon skating across the floor.
Marsali caught it up at once and took sanguine and careful aim. The room shook again with the explosion, and a piece of rotting timber crashed in dust from the roof.
Rory dropped the body of the second soldier in a heap on the floor. ‘I hope, lass,’ he whispered, ‘that was aim, and not luck.’ She shook her head numbly and dropped the pistol and curled, sick against the wall. The lieutenant crashed beside her, reeling free from Antoine and drawing his sword.
‘Hold him,’ Rory cried, ‘just hold him, while I load the damned thing,’ working frantically with powder and ball and the ramrod, on the deadly, but awkward pistol.
Antoine parried gaily, and shouted, ‘Never. We are gentlemen, do not forget. Gentlemen.’
Marsali thought he looked more a beast, a devil’s thing, rejoicing in the deadly flashing steel. The lieutenant fought well, and desperately, but Antoine fought as if fighting were love.
The lieutenant’s blade ripped through his coat sleeve and drew bright blood, and he barely flinched. Again, it struck, drawing a red line down the side of his brown throat, within an inch of his life. He wiped the blood with the side of his hand, staining the white lace cuff, and made a small bow of acknowledgment.
‘Fight,’ Rory cried. ‘You’re but playing and he’ll kill you while you do.’
Antoine laughed softly. He had not yet drawn blood. The lieutenant came at him again, and he leapt gracefully backward, backing away, up the ruined stairs of Glentarvie where Rory and Jamesina had seen the laird’s big sheep. Lieutenant Percy lunged for him, angry at their trickery, more angry at Antoine’s sly style, and shouted, ‘Fight like a man, damn you.’
‘No.’ Antoine whirled and fled up the stairs.
‘Don’t, you fool,’ Rory cried. ‘There’s no way out!’
Antoine did not seem to hear. With a grim smile Percy followed, certain his opponent was in foolish error and would pay. He reached the top of the stairs ending in the burnt out remains of the second floor, but black timbers and stone walls. Rory followed, the loaded pistol in hand; honour forbade him use it, and good sense demanded he did.
Percy was alone, among the maze of black timbers, picking his way eerily along the beams of the crumbling floor. Then there was a clash and a clatter, and something silvery flung past him and spun down through the beams to the floor. It was Antoine’s sword.
‘What are you doing?’ Rory cried.
‘I’m not armed, now, sir. Come and get me.’
Percy whirled to the voice, but could see nothing. Rory looked up and caught a flash of movement. Antoine, again, in the attic beams, and in his hands a long piece of cloth, a strip of Marsali’s old plaid. Percy spun about, the sword flashing, but Antoine was faster and the cloth was about his neck, once, twice, and twisted tight.
‘Away, sir, walk carefully, you’ll hang yourself,’ said Antoine. The lieutenant struggled, teetering on the thin, rotten beam. Antoine jerked the cloth tighter, and the man fought, gasping for breath, his sword dropping in a clatter to the distant floor. Both of his hands were on the dark cloth. Antoine twisted the far end around the roof beam and knotted it tight. The lieutenant caught at him, fury and fear together in his eyes. Antoine said soft, soft, ‘Be careful, lad. Be careful. That’s for the lion of Glentarvie. That’s for my lion.’
Then he stepped quietly away, and Rory said, ‘You’re an animal, Antoine. Kill the man fair.’
‘Never,’ Antoine whispered. ‘And I’ll kill you if you touch him. Let him dance now, on James MacKinnon’s roof. Let him dance.’ He slipped down from the rafters onto the stair, and Percy lunged for him, gulping, his eyes strangled wide. There was a splintering crash and the old wood gave way, shattering in charred splinters beneath the soldier’s feet. But the old cloth held.
Antoine swung around a stone support and looked carefully up at the English soldier with his twisted, broken neck. ‘You know, man,’ he said to no one at all, ‘I’d never trust a highlander’s roof with my life.’
The Sea-Harrower lay off Arisaig, in the winter-troubled waters of Loch Nan Uamh, the moonlight yet touching her silvery masts. ‘I did not think I’d ever be so glad of the sight of such a ship,’ said Rory.
Marsali was minded of something her father had said long since, and shrugged and said, ‘An evil ship for an evil day. Who are we to be complaining?’
Antoine laughed quietly, at them both, and said coolly, ‘Speak kind of her, or I will take her away.’
Rory shrugged and turned back to the shore. ‘I think now there was a bothie, a fisherman’s wee hut, along the way. We can shelter until morning, when we can signal her without a fire. I do not wish to be signalling the whole world.’ He sighed then and said, ‘And then you can take her, and ourselves upon her, as far from Scottish land as the winds allow. For they’ll surely be on our heels, the now. I am thinking Murdoch was the wiser. He has won his bit of turf for good and all.’
Antoine smiled, looking off to the sea, and said, ‘You know, lad, a day will come you’ll laugh at those words. I do not think he’ll sleep better in Glentarvie boneyard, than yourself in yon lassie’s arms. But if you truly envy him, I’ll maybe slit your throat and take the lass myself. I will not have her unappreciated.’
Rory’s eyes met his uneasily. ‘I do not think I wish to sleep aside you, tonight,’ he said.
Marsali whispered, stepping within the stone walls of the bothie, ‘Hush, he is but jesting in his eerie way. He’ll not harm you.’ Antoine came behind her and wrapped the remnants of the torn plaid about her shoulders, flicking the fringe across her throat. She shuddered.
‘There’s not a one of you trusts me,’ he said. ‘No matter, I made my point. That mourning soul,’ he gestured to Rory, ‘who but a moment gone was all for laying himself in his brother’s grave, is now so fearful of harm that he’ll sit wakeful all the night. I was only showing him the measure of truth.’
Antoine wrapped himself then in the plaid and stretched himself out on the old straw and sheep dung of the floor. ‘Aye, your folk most surely know how to live,’ he said, wrinkling his nose. ‘I’ll never lie easy in my bed in Provence without a sheep for company.’
‘Where will you go, then, Antoine?’ Marsali said. ‘Home? To the Château once more?’ She had laid herself beside him, like a sister, with Rory on the other side. She took his hand, calmly, sure
that all was peace between them.
‘Aye surely,’ he said, ‘and I will wed some French lady with a dowry of gold, and fine, broad southern hips.’ He smiled softly and she reached and laid her fingers on his lips. He kissed them lightly, and closed his eyes, as to sleep.
But it was she who slept, and Rory, beside her, sound in young weariness, with the sea wind blowing soft in upon them. Antoine rose, when the moon was down, with the sure dark wariness of a cat. He knelt beside Rory with his sword in his hand, tapped it lightly with his long slender fingers, and then turned away and laid the sword, unneeded now, on the floor.
He touched his fingers to his throat, where the mark of Percy’s blade was yet fiery and hot, and his hands were quick beneath his black hair, and quick again with Marsali’s hands at her back. She stirred slightly, and whispered his name, and her hands in his were without struggle.
Then he stood quickly and stepped cautiously across the earthen floor and out onto the sand of the shore. He was barefoot, and there was snow mixed with the sand and yet lying on the kelp frozen beside the rock pools. He walked easily upon it, straight and calm in the darkness, where by starlight he could see the black, thin masts of his ship. He turned once when the water was lapping about his legs, black and icy, and looked back to the blackness of the hut. Then he slipped, without sound, into the sea.
Rory woke first, conscious of a sound and leapt alert, thinking those who surely tracked them had found them already. It was a metal sound, clanking and distant, carrying far over the dawn-still sea. He remembered it then, from his past, and his ship days, the sound of an anchor chain. ‘Antoine,’ he called. Marsali awoke sleepily and looked up, but Rory stood and ran out the door. She tried to rise, and fell, her arms stiff and unmoving. ‘Rory, help me.’
The Sea-Harrower: A Scottish Highlander Historical Romance Page 32
