“I am prepared to accept any mode of travel,” Lord Hinchley replied, “except that which involved me in going by sea!”
“You have had a rough journey, my Lord?” Robert Dunblane asked solicitously.
“Damnably rough!” Lord Hinchley replied. “If I had not been able to drown my sorrows in the traditional manner, I should have undoubtedly ended up in a watery grave!”
The Duke laughed.
“His Lordship exaggerates!” he said. “It was rather choppy at times, but fortunately the wind was behind us otherwise it might have been far worse!”
“Impossible!” Lord Hinchley exclaimed and they all laughed.
*
It was a sunny day with enough wind to sweep the midges away as they set off on the horses that Mr. Dunblane had provided for them.
Leaving the ‘Fair City’ of Perth they travelled North passing the Royal Palace of Scone where the Duke remembered many Coronations had taken place.
He wondered if Lord Hinchley would be interested in knowing that Parliaments and General Councils had been convened at Scone between the accession of Alexander I, who had been born in 1106, and the death of Robert III in 1406.
But he told himself with a wry smile that the English were not impressed by Scottish history and had done their best to stamp out anything that appertained to the prestige or repute of what was to all intents and purposes a conquered colony.
Then he realised with a start that he was thinking of himself as Scottish and resenting perhaps for the first time in years the English habit of disparaging the Scots and looking on them as uncouth savages.
He believed that a great deal of their hostility and indifference as well as their cruelty was due to fear. There was some reason for this when it was only thirty years ago that the troops at Register House in Edinburgh, inflamed by seditious propaganda, had shouted, “Damn the King!”.
He remembered too that throughout the country when the news arrived of the victories of the French under Napoleon, the Scots had planted green firs as symbolic trees of liberty.
But this was over now. George IV was coming to Scotland and everyone was told it was a gesture of friendship.
“I don’t know whether His Grace has told you,” Lord Hinchley was saying to Robert Dunblane as they rode along, “but I have to leave for Edinburgh in a day or so to prepare for His Majesty’s visit.”
“I imagine, my Lord, you would prefer to go by road,” Mr. Dunblane replied.
“Most certainly!” Lord Hinchley answered. “I shall not be able to look at the sea for a long time without a shudder.”
“I hope one of His Grace’s carriages will prove more comfortable,” Mr. Dunblane said courteously.
The Duke was thinking that if his friend had any sense he would ride.
It was very pleasant to feel a horse between his knees as they climbed above the City with its wide silver river to see the moors purple with heather and above them far in the distance the great heights of the Grampian mountains.
Silhouetted against the sky with small pockets of snow still dazzlingly white against their peaks, they were very beautiful.
A covey of grouse rose at the Duke’s feet, the old cock with its warning caw-caw swinging them away to safety in the valley.
They were climbing all the time until finally at the top of the moor Mr. Dunblane drew his horse to a standstill and they knew that he wanted them to look back at the magnificent vista that lay behind them.
The Firth was a brilliant blue in the sunshine, the spires and roofs of Perth sprawled beside the river and there was, in the wildness of the heather, a feeling of freedom.
Surveying it, the Duke felt as if he had escaped from the confines of what had been almost like prison and it was a sensation for which he could not find an explanation.
He was remembering the expression on the servants’ faces, who had been waiting for them when they left the ship.
Mr. Dunblane had introduced to him the man who was in charge, a huge rough Scot whose eyes when they met the Duke’s had an expression of devotion that was inescapable.
‘After all these years can I still mean something to those who bear the same name as myself?’ the Duke wondered.
He would have liked to question Robert Dunblane about it, but told himself he would feel embarrassed because Lord Hinchley would undoubtedly laugh at his curiosity.
He recalled how vehemently he had complained about coming on the journey in the first place and how often he had reiterated how much he hated Scotland.
“If you hate it so much, why are you going back?” William Hinchley had asked one evening at dinner.
“Family reasons,” the Duke replied briefly.
Because he knew it would be intruding on his privacy, Lord Hinchley had not questioned his friend further. He had, however, thought to himself that Taran was a strangely unpredictable creature.
He had a warm affection for him and it was impossible not to admire him as a sportsman, but at the same time he thought there were deep reserves in the Scot which he had found in no other man of his acquaintance.
He had thought, as they were close friends, that there would be nothing they could not discuss, nothing which would be a taboo subject.
And yet he found that where the McNarns were concerned the Duke was not prepared to talk.
Mr. Dunblane left them and now, riding across the top of the moors, they could move more swiftly and found as they descended a hill that the horses achieved quite a considerable pace.
Both the Duke and Lord Hinchley were used to spending long hours in the saddle. They also drove to Newmarket races without finding it fatiguing and had raced against each other and the King’s horses often enough to Brighton.
Yet Lord Hinchley was in fact relieved when two hours later Mr. Dunblane announced,
“We have only a short distance to go now and we shall see The Castle in five minutes.”
The Duke had seen it often enough in his boyhood and yet, when they rounded a crag and saw it ahead, it was impossible not to feel that it was larger, more impressive and more overpowering even than he remembered.
A great grey stone edifice of towers and turrets, with ancient arrow slits and seventeenth century additions, Narn Castle was one of the most outstanding and certainly the most magnificent in the whole of the Highlands.
Lord Hinchley gasped and stared at it with undisguised admiration.
“Good God, Taran!” he exclaimed. “You never told me that you owned anything as fine as, if not finer than, Windsor Castle!”
“I am glad it impresses you,” the Duke said dryly.
He could not, however, help a faint stirring of pride within himself.
He had hated The Castle.
It had stood like a dark shadow across his childhood to become so menacing, so oppressive, that when he had fled from it in the middle of the night he never thought that he would go back.
Yet, with the sunshine on its windows, with its flag flying in the breeze above the highest tower, with its command over the surrounding countryside he knew that it was a fitting background for the Chief of the McNarns.
He glanced back to see if the grooms who had been following them were still in sight.
The luggage was to travel by road, but they had also been escorted by six men on horseback and now the Duke realised they were drawing closer and not keeping their distance as they had during the long ride.
He turned his head to go forward again and Robert Dunblane said quietly,
“They will be waiting outside the castle to greet Your Grace.”
“They?” the Duke questioned. “Who?”
“The Clansmen. Only those, of course, who live in the immediate neighbourhood. The others will be coming in from the hills tomorrow or the day after.”
The Duke was silent for a moment and then he asked,
“What for?”
It was a sharp question and he knew himself that there was a touch of apprehension in it.
Mr. D
unblane glanced at him swiftly from under his dark eyebrows.
“To welcome a new Chieftain there is always a traditional ceremonial and they have been waiting eagerly for your return.”
The Duke did not reply.
It was impossible for him to say to Mr. Dunblane that until his second letter he had had no intention of returning. Vaguely he remembered his father holding meetings of the Clan to which he had not been invited, and festivities at Christmas, to which he had.
Now he was recalling how important a Chief was to his people, and, although he had reassured himself in London that such things were out of date, he knew that he had been mistaken.
He wished he had made it clear to Dunblane in the letter which announced his arrival that he wanted no fuss, no special greetings, no Clansmen paying him homage.
Then he thought that, even if he had said so, it was very unlikely anyone would have paid any attention.
A Chieftain was the father of his Clan and, as previously he had had the right of life and death over his people, he had been equally responsible for their welfare.
What was it he had read in some book when he had been at Oxford? It had been explaining the position of the Chieftains before the rebellions in 1715 and 1745 and stated,
“As landlord, father-figure, judge and general, his power was great and absolute, but on occasions he would debate major issues with the members of his family and leading members of his Clan.”
One thing was quite certain, the Duke thought sharply, he had no immediate family or plans to debate.
His father was dead, thank God, and so unfortunately was his sister Janet.
That left Torquil and it was that foolish young man, his heir presumptive, who had brought him back to Scotland from the comfort and the amusements of London.
And yet he supposed there were other relatives whom he had not remembered and in a voice deliberately casual he asked Robert Dunblane,
“Is there anyone staying at The Castle?”
“Only Jamie, Your Grace.”
The Duke looked puzzled.
“Jamie?”
“Lady Janet’s younger son.”
“Of course!”
The Duke remembered now, but he had not recalled the name.
It was due to her second son that she had died in childbirth.
“He is a very amusing little boy,” Mr. Dunblane was saying. “Brave, adventurous and a true McNarn in every way.”
“Being adventurous is not a quality I am particularly looking for in my nephews at the moment!” the Duke said shortly.
It was a rebuke and Mr. Dunblane looked anxious for a moment, but said nothing.
Then, so unexpectedly that it made both Lord Hinchley and the Duke start, men appeared from the concealment of the heather and came hurrying round them.
Their arms were raised in greeting and at the same time their mouths opened to give a warlike cry that the Duke recognised as the war-chant of the McNarns.
It was a wild savage exaltation, either as a reminder of the heroic past or as an invitation to slaughter the enemy. The Duke remembered that it was part of the Clan’s identity, as was the badge of heather, gale, ling or myrtle that a man wore in his bonnet.
The war-chant was yelled and yelled again. Then there was the high sweet note of the pipes and the Clansmen fell in beside the horses and marched with them towards The Castle,
Almost before he was aware of it the Duke found himself riding alone ahead while Mr. Dunblane and Lord Hinchley rode behind him and the escort of six horsemen had joined them.
It was a procession and a moment later the noise of the pipes was drowned with a cry from hundreds of throats and he saw the Clansmen waiting for him along the drive that led to The Castle.
They looked strange, rough and poor, yet there was a pride in their bearing, a width to their shoulders and a strength to their arms that told the Duke they were men to be reckoned with.
The uproar was tremendous and there was no question of his speaking to any individual or making any response, except a gesture with his hand and a bow of his head.
Then, as he reached The Castle door the noise and the voices ceased suddenly as did the music of the pipes. The Clansmen watched him in silence and, as they clustered round, the Duke could see their wives and children beyond them, taking no part, but peeping from behind the shrubs and over the brow of the heather.
He had meant to walk straight into The Castle, but something stronger than his own desire, some instinct to do what was right that he could not ignore, made him stand facing the men who had welcomed him.
“Thank you,” he called out in a voice that carried. “Thank you and may good fortune attend us all.”
It was a greeting which came to his mind from the past, but the strange thing was that he had said it in Gaelic, the language he had not spoken or thought of for twelve years!
As a great cheer went up, spontaneous and wholehearted, the Duke raised his arm as if in salute and turning walked into The Castle.
*
“Now, tell me what my nephew has done,” the Duke asked.
They had finished dinner and Lord Hinchley had retired to another room while the Duke had taken Robert Dunblane into the library where his father had always sat.
As he crossed the threshold, his eyes expected to see the dark shadow of the man he had always hated at the desk by the window that overlooked the glen below.
The Duke had always thought that his father was like a gargoyle staring balefully and menacingly out over the land he owned.
Strangely enough the room was far from the dark cavern of misery and despair that he remembered.
The magnificently appointed library had been designed by William Adam with a symmetry and a beauty that was indescribable.
The Duke stood looking around him, thinking it was impossible that the room had been like this when he was a boy and he had not realised its perfection.
Now the colourful leather books seemed to exude a benign influence and the shadow of his father receded. Without really thinking about it, the Duke sat down automatically in the chair his father had always occupied and invited Robert Dunblane to sit opposite him.
“I gathered from your letter that the situation is desperate, but I can hardly believe that to be the truth,” the Duke began.
“It is certainly very serious, Your Grace.”
“In what way?”
“Torquil is a prisoner of the Kilcraigs.”
“A prisoner? Surely they cannot intend to incarcerate him in a dungeon or lock him up in a cellar indefinitely?”
The Duke spoke lightly.
“I should imagine his quarters, whatever they may be, are none too comfortable,” Robert Dunblane replied, “but the alternative, I understand, is to send him to Edinburgh to stand trial.”
“To stand trial?”
There was no doubt that the Duke was startled.
“On what charge?”
“The charge of cattle-stealing, Your Grace!”
“Good God!”
There was no doubt now that the Duke was astonished.
“I have seen The Kilcraig, Your Grace, and he informs me that, while he will wait to discuss it with you on your arrival, there is no doubt in his mind that Torquil and his associates, if they are taken before the Justices, will be severely punished – in fact very likely transported!”
The Duke was stunned into silence.
He was well aware that cattle-stealing was frowned upon by the authorities and very severe sentences were passed on those who committed such crimes.
The growth of the beef trade in the Lowlands and England had increased cattle-thieving and what was known as blackmail. The levying of blackmail was an old Border and Highland custom.
Mails were the rents paid in money and kind on Scottish estates and blackmail was the tribute paid by law-abiding men to freebooters or raiding Clansmen in return for a promise that their stock would not be lifted or their steadings burnt.
Off
enders were no longer hanged as had been usual in the past, but the Justices had no compunction in transporting a convicted man to the Colonies or sending him to prison for a long sentence.
“Why the devil did you allow the boy to do anything so inane?” the Duke asked angrily.
Mr. Dunblane sighed.
“I have discussed Torquil’s position with your father for many years, Your Grace. I told him that he had not enough to do and, as was inevitable, he got into mischief.”
Mr. Dunblane’s voice had a pleading note in it as he went on,
“I believe, quite frankly, that it was just a boyish prank. The Kilcraigs have always been our avowed enemies and it amused him to slip across the border at night to steal away a calf or, if possible, a prime animal and bring it home in triumph.”
The Duke could understand what Mr. Dunblane was saying all too clearly. It would have been a triumph because the McNarns through age-long feuds had always hated the Kilcraigs, just as the Kilcraigs hated them.
They had warred between themselves for as long as anyone could remember and the fact that the Kilcraigs had herds of good cattle would be an enticement in itself.
Aloud the Duke asked briefly,
“How was he caught?”
“Apparently it is not the first time he has played this sort of prank,” Mr. Dunblane replied, “although unfortunately I had not heard of it until The Kilcraig informed me that Torquil and the three boys with him had been taken prisoner.”
“The herdsmen laid in wait for them, I suppose?”
Mr. Dunblane nodded.
“I imagine that they were foolish enough to go by the same route and to the same place as they had done before.”
“It was the nearest to the border,” Mr. Dunblane said briefly.
“I cannot imagine anything more irresponsible or more infuriating!” the Duke exclaimed. “I suppose The Kilcraig will see reason if I talk to him?”
“He said he would negotiate with no-one but yourself, Your Grace.”
The Duke sighed,
“Then I suppose I shall have to see him. I don’t mind telling you, Dunblane, that I am extremely angry about the whole scenario.”
“I was afraid you would be, Your Grace. Equally it would have been reasonable to send Torquil to school and later to a University.”
The Chieftain Without a Heart Page 2
