The sunlight crept forward, as the great ball rose up from behind the hills. The rays reached his hand, warmed it with their touch. Was he going to die? The wound had been mortal. No one could survive a wound like that.
Yet? Yet he felt hungry. With a hole in his stomach through which you could push a doorpost, he felt hungry. He lifted the blanket and peered beneath. There was a clotted swab covering his wound. It had stuck to the skin. He peeled it off.
The dark blood had congealed around and over the hole. He scratched at it, gingerly, and it came away in flakes and chunks. When most of it was gone he could see that the wound had closed. There was a pinched depression, like a second navel, but nothing more. He felt around his back. The same there.
And the pain had gone completely.
He was going to live.
‘Kate. Kate.’
She stirred, opened her eyes.
‘Kate,’ he said. ‘I’m well, lass. I’m not going to die.’
She sat bolt upright and her expression was one of joy for second only. It was soon replaced by a look of fear. No, terror. She looked terrified.
‘But - how - ?’
‘God has seen fit to save me,’ he replied, sitting up.
‘The wound has healed.’
Kate was up then, and backing towards the door. ‘God has healed many men,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen them recover from some terrible wounds - but none so terrible as the one you suffered Conner MacLeod - and never in a single night.’
He held out his arms, hardly hearing what she was saying.
‘Kate, I’m well. Come to me.’
‘Never,’ she said, emphatically: Then she ran from the hut, towards the tavern where the men had gone the night before. They would still be there talking over the battle and drinking hard. MacLeod dressed himself and followed her.
When he stepped outside the hut, the warmth of the sun hit him fully in the chest and he felt grateful to be alive. The light shone on the loch, making it look like hammered silver. Hills, with their rounded shoulders, which always seemed to huddle together in the night hours, had parted again to reveal high valleys. The smell of warm milk and cattle straw came from the cowsheds nearby. All this had nearly been taken from him by that dark giant the day before. But he had thwarted death, with God’s help of course.
He made his way towards the tavern, avoiding treading on the chickens that continually tried to cross his path. When he reached the alehouse, he stood in the doorway. He could hear Dugal talking, excitedly.
‘You saw the wound, Angus. He should have died.’
Then Kate: ‘I say he’s got the Devil in him.’
Were these his kinsfolk? Talking about him as if he were some stranger from an unknown land, come among them to cause havoc? He stepped through the doorway. Instantly, all chatter died away.
‘What’s this?’ he said. ‘Have you no greeting for a kinsman that fought beside you in battle? The wound has healed. That’s all I know. Father Rainey’s prayers were stronger than you thought.’
Father Rainey, himself drinking in the tavern, crossed himself at these words. Father Rainey too? Not the good father, surely? Conner walked to the table at which Dugal and Angus were sitting and took a seat. No one looked at him or offered him anything. The silence grew uncomfortable.
Then Dugal blurted out, ‘Drinking with us, are you?’
Conner said, ‘What’s the matter, Dugal?’
‘You,’ came the reply.
‘Why?’
‘Talking and breathing and last night, all but a corpse.’
Conner looked around the ring of faces. They were all hostile. One or two of the other clansmen had stood up and were leaving.
Dugal said, ‘How did you manage that, Conner MacLeod?’
A fury began to build up inside Conner. These were supposed to be his friends, his kinsmen. He had expected them to be happy at his recovery. Instead they were treating him like some Fraser that had wandered into the wrong village by accident. It wasn’t right.
‘Would you rather I was dead?’
Father Rainey had come to the table now and stood beside Kate, who hadn’t moved since Conner had entered. Her face had twisted into a mask of loathing. His own, sweet Kate was full of hate for him.
She said, ‘It’s not natural.’ She touched his arm, tentatively. ‘He’s in league with Lucifer.’
There was a murmur from the others.
‘Don’t say that,’ cried Conner, distressed.
Dugal stood up, leaning over Conner. ‘I’ll say it - you’ve the Devil in you.’
Conner leapt to his feet and faced his cousin. ‘We’ve been kinsmen twenty years,’ he’ cried. ‘We grew up together. See those hills out there,’ he pointed through the doorway. ‘We ran those hills together, looking for eagle’s eggs. We hunted the hare. These hands’, he opened his palms in front of Dugal’s face, ‘pulled you from the loch when you fell through the ice. Are you saying these hands are damned - the same hands that gave you your life?’
Dugal’s eyes burned with hate. ‘Conner MacLeod was my kinsman. I don’t know who you are.’
Father Rainey made a sound and buried his face in his own hands. Conner could see that the priest was in torment.
‘Father, surely you must see how wrong they are?’ The priest murmured into his palms.
‘What?’ Father Rainey looked up.
‘I don’t know. I prayed for no miracles. I asked the Lord to give your soul safe passage. It would have been wrong to ask for your life - for the life of Conner MacLeod. The wound was mortal - I saw it with my own eyes. Only one man has risen after being so close to death, and you are not He - you are. . .’ He stopped, looked confused and then turned away.
Conner was disgusted with his kinsmen. ‘What fools you all are,’ he said, not disguising his contempt from them.
Angus had not said anything, all this while, and he then appealed to the older man.
‘Angus?’
Then the chief spoke. ‘You’d better go, Conner.’
Conner smashed a fist down on the table in his frustration. They were not going to drive him out. He had done nothing wrong. Nothing. They were a pack of superstitious fools and he was damned if he was going anywhere.
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ he said, voicing his last thought.
‘No?’ said Dugal, quietly.
‘No. . .’ He would have said more but Dugal smashed a pot over his head and he fell to the floor, stunned by the blow. He felt himself being lifted beneath the arms and dragged through the doorway, out into the village square. He was dimly aware of people coming from their huts - the women and children, all come out to stare at the man with the Devil in his soul. They handled him roughly, strapping something to his shoulders so that he could not move his arms. When he came round, fully, he realized it was a yoke.
He looked up to see Kate standing over him. Her face still wore that ugly mask.
She kicked him hard in the ribs. ‘Kill him!’ she shrieked.
Her eyes were like bright candle-flames. There was a lust within them - a lust for blood. This was a Kate he had never seen before: a Kate that lived deep within the one he knew. If the Devil was in anyone at that moment, it was in her. He could see that reason was pointless. She was beyond reach of words. Her mind was not her own.
‘Kate, Kate, what have you done to yourself?’
‘Not me,’ she hissed. ‘You. I shared my bed. . .’
So that was it. She was afraid she had slept with the Devil. That the Devil’s seed might be sown within her. Looking at her eyes, he could almost believe it was.
A villager yanked him to his feet and they began to punch and kick him, with Kate clawing at his face and shrieking like some demented beast. Dugal was not taking part in this but he was jeering, almost as if he were enjoying the spectacle of his cousin being torn to pieces. Were they all mad? Only Father Rainey was calling for them to stop, but the priest did nothing physical to help him.
They pushed
him forwards then and the women and children began to stone him, the rocks thudding into his. body. He tried to run, staggering up a slope, but they followed him, still raining stones on him, until Father Rainey shouted, ‘No, not that way.’
Not that way? What, not a Christian martyr’s death? Had they something else in mind for him?
They grabbed him by the clothes again and began to drag him down a track, towards the edge of the village. Then he saw it. The stake with the faggots piled beneath. Fear made his legs buckle but they yanked him to his feet again. He tried to lash out at them with his legs, the terror in his heart giving him new strength. They clubbed him to a standstill.
‘Dugal!’ he cried. ‘Dugal help me.’
His cousin’s face was before him but there was no pity in its expression. Dugal raised a fist, ready to hit him. He stared into his cousin’s eyes.
‘Dugal?’
Compassion had fled, run away somewhere and hidden itself in the heather. It would not show itself that day, not to these people who only wanted to hear the crackle of the flames, smell the stink of roasting flesh, hear the cries of the Devil as he got a taste of his own medicine.
Then Angus was beside Dugal, gripping his wrist, preventing the blow from landing on Conner’s face. Within all this madness, a sliver of sanity was still buried, like a splinter, in the mind of the chief of the clan. Angus hauled Dugal away.
‘He’s your cousin, man.’
Dugal pushed Angus away and a villager took the opportunity of confronting Conner. He butted the yoked man in the face. Then again, breaking his nose.
‘Jesus, God,’ cried Conner, in his distress.
Angus jumped in front of Conner and pushed the villager away. There were shouts of dissent and the people began to make threatening gestures towards the greybearded man. He stood his ground, glaring at them. Angus was no mean fighter and crazed as they were, it would be a very courageous soul that dared to brook the chief.
Dugal cried, ‘No, Angus. . .’
‘Quiet!’ shouted the chief.
Then again, to the crowd, ‘Quiet! Ah’ll break the arm of the next man that speaks.’
The jeers gradually subsided. The atmosphere remained tense. Conner got up off his knees, with difficulty, and stood swaying by Angus.
The chief shouted, ‘They’ll be no burning here today.’ Dugal cried, ‘What then?’
‘We’ll banish him,’ said Angus.
Kate came rushing forward, fury in her face. She tried to claw her way past Angus, who held her back with both hands.
‘No - ‘ she struggled with him, - burn him.’
Angus pushed her back, into the arms of the villagers, but she shot forward again, as if they had propelled her.
‘Angus - burn him?’ It seemed to Conner as if she were almost pleading, as if she were somehow being cheated of something she felt she had a right to. When a woman like Kate felt she had been wronged she would use any weapon at her disposal to get her revenge. She would call it justice, but it was revenge. The Devil had disguised himself in her beloved Conner’s form and had taken her, laughing at her gullibility, filling her with his demon seed.
‘Can you walk?’ said Angus to Conner.
The highlander looked with disgust upon his clan. ‘I’ll bloody well walk out of here.’
Father Rainey crossed himself. There was relief in his eyes. Conner wondered whether the priest could really have stood by and watched them burn a man.
‘Go. Get out of here, quickly,’ said Angus. ‘Go while you still can.’
Conner stared into the chiefs face. The older man looked weary, spent. Wars had not worn him down over the years, so much as the last few hours.
‘Goodbye Angus. I’ll not forget you.’
Angus nodded, dumbly. Conner then stumbled away, up the path that led into the mountains. He wanted to put as much distance between himself and his clan as possible before the night hours, when some of them would surely come hunting for him. The yoke was a great hindrance. At the top of the hill, he turned and took one last look, then continued along the track.
By nightfall he had found himself a cave and worked his bonds loose by rubbing against the rough edges of a rock. The yoke eventually fell from his shoulders and he threw it savagely down the hillside. Then he curled up, without a fire, inside the cave, to get some rest. In the middle of the night he woke to the baying of dogs, but they were a long way off to the west and he settled back down to a troubled sleep.
When morning came, he travelled south, eating a few roots to sustain him. After a long, arduous journey he reached a croft outside which was a lass milking a cow. He went to her.
‘Can you spare some of that milk? I have no money, but I can work.’
The girl looked a little frightened and he guessed it was his appearance that-was bothering her. She called out, ‘Father?’
An old man came out of the croft, holding a hand axe. ‘Whut?’
‘This man wants some milk.’
‘I can work,’ said Conner. ‘I’m not begging.’
The old man looked him up and down. ‘Where’ re ye from?’
‘My name’s Conner MacLeod, from Glenfinnan in the north.’
‘A MacLeod, are ye? And on the road.’
Conner did not want to frighten them with talk of witchcraft, so he said, ‘I wounded a man - a fight over a woman. I was drunk.’
The old man’s face stiffened. ‘Ye’ll find nothing to drink here - except the milk maybe, if ah’ve a mind to give ye some.’ He seemed to be studying Conner’s build. Conner stood up straight, filling his chest with air. ‘Can you chop wood?’ said the other.
‘I can.’
The axe was flung at his feet, the blade burying itself in the turf. No more words were said and Conner made his way to the woodpile, stacked at the side of the croft and began splitting logs. A few minutes later the lass brought him a beaker of milk and some oatcakes.
‘There’ll be porridge, after, when you’ve finished,’ she said. Her blue eyes were clear and innocent. She smiled and he returned the gesture of friendship.
‘Thank you. You’re. . . you’re a fine-looking lass,’ he blurted.
She put her hands on her shapely hips. ‘Would you be fighting over me, next, Mr MacLeod?’
He laughed. ‘I’ve done enough fighting. I’ve a mind to be a farmer now. I’m looking for a quiet life.’
She nodded, then, after a long pause asked candidly, ‘Was she pretty? This woman. . .’
Conner replied, ‘On the outside, she was bonny enough. But we’re not always what we appear to be, from our looks.’
Her expression became serious. ‘That’s true, Mr MacLeod.’
He drained the beaker and then asked her name. ‘Heather. Heather McDonald.’
He handed her the beaker. ‘Then I thank you, Heather McDonald, for your hospitality.’
Over a more substantial meal, later, in the croft, Heather asked casually, ‘Will you be staying a while?’
Her father looked at her sharply and then at Conner. He said nothing however, but continued to spoon his food into his mouth. Conner took this as a sign that the old man would not be displeased, or at least would make no objection to his staying.
‘If I can be of use,’ he said.
Heather’s face broke into a smile. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I think we can find some use for him, can’t we, Father?’
‘Aye,’ said the old man. ‘Ah’ll put ma mind to it but.’
Chapter 13
BEFORE THE OLD man died, three years after Conner had first arrived at the croft, he taught the young man the art of his former trade as a blacksmith. Conner then went to work in a nearby village, to supplement their income, at the local forge.
The death of McDonald hit Heather very hard and it was over a year before her grief subsided enough for them to begin living a normal life once more. Conner himself missed the taciturn old Scot, but he had found something with Heather that had made his life a pleasant experience. They
were not blissfully happy - things were too hard for such a state - but they loved each other and, more important still, they liked and respected each other.
They were comfortable enough not to need words when they were unnecessary and able to feel that silence could be shared as well as empty talk. They fought, too, over certain issues, each showing an independence of spirit without which a man or a woman wears the yoke of the other.
One fine summer day, Conner was just finishing his work at the forge. His busy right hand hammered at a bright shoe, fresh from the charcoal fire, until it was shaped to the hoof of the carthorse awaiting it. He took the off-hind leg of the beast between his own, making soothing noises to the animal to keep it still, then pressed the still-glowing iron to its hoof. The strong-smelling odour of the smoke assailed his nostrils. He dunked the shoe in a bucket of water, waited until the steam had subsided and the hissing had stopped, before nailing it into place.
Looking up, he saw Heather coming through the village to meet him. They would walk home together, through the glen. It was something he enjoyed, their strolls together. She took such a delight in the natural scene and the parts that made it whole. He found such artless joy so endearing and it filled his heart to the brim. He hoped nothing would ever happen to spoil such moments.
Heather had something in her hands and she held it up as she approached him.
‘Pie and ale. Do you want it?’
He slapped the shire on the rump and it clopped forward to where its master stood, a few paces away.
‘Aye,’ he called. ‘That I do.’
When she reached him, he lifted her off her feet and swung her round in a tight embrace.
She punched him on the shoulder. ‘You filthy cooser, you’re all muck and muscle.’
‘Aye, my bonny. The way you like it.’ He kissed her hard.
‘Put me down, you clootie,’ she said.
He frowned. ‘Don’t call me that, Heather. I’m no a devil.’
She touched his cheek, obviously surprised that he was fashed.
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