“We barely had time to say the words over my newly lost kinsman when they fell on us in the darkness. Angus, Mary—my daughter—and I were near to the church and fell back there away from the screeching shadows that seemed to fill the night. When the screams began I was all for rushing out into the darkness, but I was stopped by Angus. He held me forcibly while outside the church my kinsmen were slaughtered and emptied, some of them taken as food, others, the strong ones, recruited to the cause. I ranted and raved, and even swore, there in the house of God, but still he held me.
“‘I will not allow you to kill yourself,’” he said. “‘And I would not see you lose your soul. You have the girl to think of. She is the last of our family. Promise me that you will put her first.’
“My clansmen were dying all around the village, their screams slowly fading to whimpers, and finally a deep silence. I went limp in his arms, and he relaxed his grip, just long enough to allow me to squirm away. I was out of the door before he could make a move to stop me.
“The Others were everywhere, flickering shadows in the darkness. The compound wall had been breached in three places at least, and there were men, real men, dragging the bodies of my clansmen away from the bulbs so that the Others could get to them. The sight of these men, once proud highlanders who had debased themselves to serve the Others, brought my blood to boiling point, and I charged out into the darkness with my sword flashing.
“I didn’t get far. My charge was halted as if I had hit a wall, and I felt my sword being ripped from my hand. I was looking up into a pair of red eyes that seemed to see into my very soul, and I was about to give myself over to those eyes when Angus’s voice brought me back to myself.”
“‘Begone demons! Go back to your master!’
“I was dropped unceremoniously on the ground and was lucky to be able to put my hand on my sword, but when I hefted it and turned to face my enemies, I found they were backing away from me. No, not from me, from something behind me. I turned to see Angus advancing from the church, his silver cross held out before him.
“‘Get back to the church Duncan!’ he shouted. ‘There’s nothing more you can do here. This is my work.’
“I moved behind him, but no further, as he advanced and the dark Others fell away in front of him. It seemed to me that the cross was shining with its own light, but it might have been no more than the reflection of the moon.
“Ten paces. That’s as far as he got. Then the Others parted, and darker shadows emerged from their ranks. There were eleven of them, tall and silent, and they came forward, as if the cross meant nothing to them.”
“‘Go back!’ Angus shouted, and I could hear the desperation in his voice. But still they came on until they had us trapped in the centre of a circle—a circle in which all I could see was blackness and eleven pairs of unblinking red eyes.
“Then one of the shadows came forward and seemed to become more solid, more real. It had been a young man, with long hair powdered white, and what looked like mummer’s paint whitening his face and reddening his lips. He looked at my brother, then at the cross, and he smiled—a thing of menace that I hope never to see again.
“‘Put it away brother,’ he said. ‘I have long since lost my fear of it—after all, what does one dead king have to fear from another?’
“And that was when I knew him for what he was. After all the stories, after the Protector’s purge and the Great Fire in London where it was thought he perished, he was back again. Charles Stuart, the Boy King, had returned.
“He walked up to Angus and took the cross away from him, just like that. He didn’t burn, and he didn’t shy away from it, and it sat in his hand as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
“‘Here,’ he said, and threw it at the ground at my feet. ‘Now I’ll show you how a king deals with his subjects.’
“And before I could move, he lifted Angus off his feet and, with one lunge, his teeth tore a gaping hole in my brother’s throat, the blood gushing black in the moonlight.
“I believe I roared, a shout of defiance, and I rushed him, my sword raised. He didn’t even drop my brother as he backhanded me across the face as if he was swatting a fly. The next thing I remember is lying on my back staring at the stars, some ten yards away from where the shadows were butchering my brother. I managed to twist my head and look towards them. They were standing in a ring, and between them they were throwing what looked like a bundle of rags, a bundle that was getting increasingly smaller as they each took a chunk of it. It was only as the bundle finally fell to the ground, a mass of blood and gore, that I realised it had once been my brother.
“I tried to sit up, but something had busted inside—ribs, I think—and when I coughed there was a bubble of blood at my lips. There was a searing pain down the side of my face. Something, either his nail or a ring I hadn’t seen, had ripped my face open here,” he said, tracing the line of the scar from eye to chin. “And I could feel the heat of the blood running down through my beard.
“Suddenly there was someone standing over me. The Boy King ran a finger down my wound, gently parting the skin and drawing a fresh burst of pain, then sucked his finger clean of the blood that had gathered there.
“‘You shall be my witness,’ he said. ‘What I begin here tonight is my destiny. You will see, and you will tell, and the world will know my purpose. Watch.’
“That’s all he said, just that one word, but suddenly I could not move any of my muscles. I was like a statue, a mute witness to what happened next.”
Campbell stopped again and stared deep into the fire, lost in his memories. Martin realised that the man’s story held them all in its thrall—even Barnstable had given up all pretence of disbelief.
All of them took a draught from their ale—drinking had been forgotten since the story began.
“There’s not a great deal left to tell,” said Campbell. “I believe you can guess his intentions. He raised the old red and white standard of the Stewarts, and an army of over a thousand Others roared and cheered, their screeching sending the night birds scattering over the sky. He proclaimed himself King, calling for Scotland to rise up to his banner and help him reclaim the old bloodline.
“And when it was over, he spoke to me once more, but this time his face was flushed and his eyes never left the trickle of blood by my lips.
“‘Bear witness to this night, my friend. I go to Scone to be crowned on the old stone, but after that I head south. Tell them I am coming. It won’t make any difference if they know in advance.’
“And while I lay there they left, almost as quickly as they had come, having turned over half my clan to their undeath, and having killed all others except myself and my daughter, who I found cowering in the church once I was finally able to move.
“It was a vile morning as dawn broke. Forty people I buried that day, including my brother. I said the rites as well as I can remember, and I did the things you have to do to stop them coming back. I pray to God it was enough. This cross I took as my own as you have seen.
That evening we slept in the church, and, at first light next day, we left, never looking back.”
“And that is my story.” Campbell said. “Do with it what you will.”
There was a stunned silence before Martin finally spoke.
“But that was more than two months ago. Where are they? And what took you so long getting here? And what is wrong with your daughter?”
Campbell laughed and his eyes flashed and it was as if a gloom had been lifted from the room.
“All good questions lad, but I will only answer the first. My daughter’s illness is a great mystery, and we were slowed down considerably by my injuries, amongst other adventures, but as to why they have not yet come, you could answer that yourself if you thought about it.”
Martin was still puzzled, but saw that the Thane was nodding his head.
“Yes. Of course. They are waiting for the long dark nights—it gives them more time for their deviltry.”
“Aye,” said Campbell. “And all this time he has been building his army. On my journey I heard tell of whole towns being turned over. And don’t think it is only the Others you’ll have to contend with. There are plenty of men still alive who will have joined to his cause—the call of the bloodline is still strong.”
“Now that I do not believe.” Barnstable said. “True men would not debase themselves in that way.”
“I can see that you have a good Christian community.” Campbell said. “But there are many who have turned from our Lord, and the Devil is always persuasive.”
“That is true,” said the Thane. “And there are many Stuart sympathisers even on this side of the wall, though I have never really understood how such a sympathy arises. It is almost as if they cannot live within the Protector’s strictures, and that anything else is preferable.”
“Rebellion and the lure of endless undeath has a dark hold over many minds,” Campbell said. “Who does not want to live forever?”
“Yes, but at what cost?” the Thane said and sighed deeply. “The time for waiting is passed. William, I need messengers sent, to Durham and Carlisle at least. And I need volunteers to go over the wall—we must determine their actions if we are to hold them back.”
The Constable looked up from the fire for almost the first time since Campbell had finished his story.
“You cannot ask our men to go over the wall. That would be suicide.”
The Thane clasped the big man on the shoulder.
“Have faith, old friend. This man here, alone, and with a sick girl, survived for months,” the Thane said.
“But he had passage from the Boy King. I’m telling you now—none shall go.” Barnstable said, and for the first time in his life Martin saw fear in the eyes of the big Constable.
“I will go,” Martin said. Quietly at first as if to himself, then louder, and with more conviction. “I will go over.”
He saw the sudden surprise in his father’s face.
“As your Thane I am thankful and proud of my watchman,” the old man said, standing to embrace Martin. “But as your father I would wish this task on some other man’s son.”
“With your leave, Sir,” Campbell said, “I will go with your son, and look after him as my own, if you would do me the honour of protecting my daughter?”
“You have my oath on it,” the Thane said, and the two men shook hands. Martin felt his life change at that moment, as if symbolically he had already parted from his father, some responsibility being passed in the handshake.
The Thane turned to Barnstable who was pushing himself out of his chair, slowly, as if he had suddenly become old and enfeebled.
“See to the messengers, William,” the Thane said. “They must depart within the hour.”
Barnstable left slowly, and it seemed to Martin that he was glad to be out of the Scotsman’s company as if the bleakness of his story was somehow his fault.
“And I must go to write those very messages. See that our friend here is brought to his daughter,” the Thane said to Martin. “Then come back. There are things to talk about before you leave.”
Martin embraced the old man, and when he stood back they both had tears in their eyes.
Campbell clasped Martin on the arm.
“It seems we are to be travelling companions, young sir. Come, lead me to my girl. I am eager to know what your physician has made of her condition.”
“As you should be,” a voice said from behind them.
All three man turned to face the newcomer.
A small, wizened figure stood in the doorway. Every time he saw the doctor, Martin was reminded of the old legends of the enchanter Merlin. There was something about those deep blue eyes, the wild unkempt beard and the old, patched, clothes that spoke to Martin of magic kept hidden until it was ready to use. He had never spoken of it to the old man—he would have been roundly scolded for his efforts. Menzies was a man of science and the oldest man in the village— some said he was past his four score years, but Martin knew that he still had a mind like a steel trap, and no one for miles around, except perhaps for the Thane on a good day, could come close to matching him at chess.
He was also the man with the happiest disposition in the village, but tonight he wasn’t smiling.
“She’s bitten, sire, bitten deep.”
The Thane turned on Campbell.
“You bring an Other into my house? At a time like this?”
“Aye,” Campbell said. “For although she is bitten, she is still my daughter and I could do naught else. Aye, she is bitten, but she has not turned, nor has she shown any signs of doing so.”
The Thane’s anger had quickly turned to shock and surprise.
“Is this true?” He turned toward the doctor. “Two months bitten and not turned? Can such a thing happen?”
“Certainly it is true.” Menzies said. “I have never heard its like before. But she is still a girl, and only a girl. The wounds have healed, but I fear that she has scars in her mind that may never be repaired.”
“She must leave the castle,” the Thane said. Campbell was about to protest, but was stopped as the Thane continued. “I will not break my oath to you, but there are people here, William Barnstable not the least of them, who would burn her first and worry about it later. We must send her away to a safe place.”
Menzies was stroking his beard, a habit Martin knew from old—it usually happened just before the decisive move on the chess board.
“She may have a part to play in what will happen. There may be something in her blood that stops her from turning, and deciphering that trick is something the Protector would regard highly. There is a doctor in Sheffield I correspond with who has an interest in these matters. May I propose we send her to him? I can provide letters of introduction.”
The Thane looked at Campbell, the question in his eyes, and Campbell nodded.
“But who can we trust to take her on that journey? It must be done in secret, for she will be killed quickly if she is found.”
Menzies spoke first, and now his smile had returned.
“I believe I can help you there. Young Sean has not left her side since she was brought to me. He is over there now, stroking her hand and staring at her with big doleful eyes. I do believe the lad is smitten at last—maybe Shoreman can finally go away to work with an easy heart.”
“Martin,” the Thane said. “Will he do it, do you think?”
This time it was Martin who was smiling.
“I think you would have to tie him down to stop him,” he said.
The Thane looked deep in thought, and it was long seconds before he spoke again to Martin.
“I am loath to go down this course. Already this night I have agreed to send a son away. I would not send another that I hold nearly as dear.”
“He would go anyway, whether you willed it or not,” Martin said. “You know his mind as well as I do.”
“Aye,” the old man said. “If it is to be done at all it must be done quickly. You must tell him the full story and get him out of the castle while Barnstable is busy organising the messengers. Then I think it best if all four of you leave at the same time. I can let the Constable think that I have sent you all over the wall.”
He stepped forward and embraced Martin again.
“I will expect you back within a week. There are still things to say between us,” his father said, then turned away, hiding his tears.
Martin and Campbell turned and left the room, one to say goodbye to a daughter, one to send his best friend away from his home.
Chapter 3
27th OCTOBER, 1745 HADRIAN’S WALL
It was less than an hour later that the small group of five left the castle. They saw no one as they crept out, silently. It was easy for Martin and Sean to avoid the guards on the walls—after all, it was they who had set the timetable. They kept to the shadows and made their way quietly through the town, finally making their exit by a door near the South Gate.
The wind still howled, and the rain still came almost vertically into their faces, but Martin scarcely noticed it—he had eyes for only one person.
Campbell’s daughter sat on the pony. Her face was uncovered now, and Martin could see what had so bewitched his friend. Her face was pale, but her skin shone like pearl in the moonlight, deep blue eyes staring out from under heavy lashes. Her hair hung in thick black tresses from her shoulders, and Martin wondered what it would be like to run his hands through it. But there was an emptiness in her eyes, as if her soul itself had departed, and she had to be helped onto the pony as if she was a newborn babe.
She stared listlessly ahead as Sean fixed her feet in the stirrups and loaded up the saddlebags behind her.
Sean had not left her side. He had listened to Campbell’s story, albeit a shorter version of that told earlier, and had pledged himself once more to her protection.
“No harm shall come to her while I am alive,” he had said, and Campbell had spat on his hand and they had clasped hands in the old manner to seal it.
Menzies had given Sean the letters of introduction, which were held in a leather pouch round his neck, and Martin had only enough time to retrieve his sword and his musket from the thankfully empty guardroom before Menzies was hustling them along to the stables to pick up the pony.
Now they gathered together one last time just outside the gate.
“We could do with one o’ yon ponies,” Campbell said. “We may have a long trek ahead of us.”
“No, no horses for you, I’m afraid,” Menzies said, “They cannot be spared, for surely more messengers will be necessary in the days to come. Besides, I doubt if any of our animals would allow themselves to be taken over the wall anyway.”
The old doctor turned to speak directly to Sean.
“The pony has her saddlebags packed with victuals for five days,” he said. “That should bring you well nigh to Sheffield. Remember what I said: Jeffries is old—not as old as me, I grant you— but he is set in his ways. He may refuse to see you, but you must force him to read the letter. Then his curiosity will be pricked and you’ll have his attention.”
The Watchers Trilogy: Omnibus Edition Page 4
