Instead they had kept to the anonymous dark-dyed garments they had worn during the persecution.
The Duke now realised that he had made a mistake in not listening to Dunblane and coming attired in the regalia of a Chieftain.
Then he thought angrily it did not matter in the least what The Kilcraig or anyone else thought.
They would accept him as he was or be damned to them!
He was received with courtesy, but otherwise in silence and, when he dismounted at the door of the castle, he was led by a man resplendent in kilt, badgers’ sporran and silver-buttoned jacket up a narrow uncarpeted stone staircase to the first floor.
The Duke knew he was being taken to the Chief’s Room. His own Chief’s Room, having been redecorated and improved by William Adam, was one of the most impressive and magnificent rooms in the whole building.
He saw at a glance as he entered the Chief’s Room of the Kilcraigs that it could be very little changed since first the Clansmen had plotted how to harass and kill their enemies and bowmen had been on the alert on the castle turrets to watch for them.
The floor was covered only with fur rugs and the furniture of heavy unpolished oak would doubtless, if it could talk, have told strange tales.
The windows were narrow so that the sunlight seemed to be excluded and the great claymores hanging on the walls, the flags and banners captured in battle, gave the place a sinister air.
It was easy to believe many of the unpleasant and frightening legends that had grown and multiplied about the castle down the centuries.
At the far end of the room, standing in front of a high-backed chair which was almost like a throne, stood The Kilcraig.
The Duke saw that banked on either side of him were his kinsmen all wearing the Kilcraig tartan.
Again the Duke wished he could rival their splendour and again admitted to himself that he had made a mistake. Because he resented the show that had been put on to impress, if not to intimidate him, he walked languidly down the long length of the room, looking around him with a supercilious air.
He was followed only by Robert Dunblane, the rest of those who accompanied him having been left outside the front door.
He reached The Kilcraig and was annoyed to find that his host stood on a dais which made him half-a-foot taller than he was in reality.
The Duke was, however, determined to take the initiative and, before The Kilcraig could speak, he held out his hand.
“We have never had the chance of meeting before, Kilcraig,” he began. “May I say that I am delighted to make your acquaintance?”
It was almost with an air of reluctance that The Kilcraig took the Duke’s proffered hand.
He was a man of seventy or over with dead white hair and a beard. He carried his shoulders like a soldier and exuded pride in every inch of his bearing.
“Nay, we’ve not met before, my Lord Duke,” he said, speaking with a broad Scots accent. “But I welcome you to my castle.”
He released the Duke’s hand and introduced him to his sons, his nephews, then his grandsons.
The Duke knew instinctively that they had no wish to shake his hand, but regarded him warily. He thought too that they were somewhat bewildered by his appearance, looking at him as if he was a strange animal they had heard of, but never seen before.
The Kilcraig indicated a chair on the right of his own and, as the Duke sat down, servants brought whisky and set on the table a haggis, bannocks, girdle scones and other Scottish dishes.
This, the Duke knew, was not luncheon but merely the sort of food that would be offered to a traveller to abate the exhaustion of a long journey.
He drank a little of the whisky and waved away the food.
Then determined once again to take the initiative he said,
“I think, Kilcraig, we could serve our interests best if we spoke on the matter that concerns my visit alone.”
The Chief’s heavy white eyebrows shot up.
“Alone?” he queried.
“Why not?” the Duke enquired. “I have the unfair disadvantage of having no kinsmen, while there are so many reinforcements on your side of the table that the odds are heavily against me.”
He spoke lightly with a note of amusement in his voice and he knew that he surprised The Kilcraig.
“Alone!” the old man repeated under his breath.
“I think between us we can see that justice is done,” the Duke suggested.
The Kilcraig snapped his fingers and without comment his kinsmen filed slowly down the long room and out through the door.
The Duke leaned back at his ease.
“That is better!” he said. “And now we can talk as man to man. Shall I start by apologising for the mischievous and very tiresome behaviour of my nephew who, I understand, is somewhat wild and out of hand?”
The Kilcraig did not speak, but stared at the Duke in a penetrating manner as if he would look beneath the surface of his casual air.
The Duke again sipped his whisky. It was unpleasant, but he was thirsty.
“Torquil McNarn was captured by my men in the act of stealing a valuable animal,” the Kilcraig said at last.
“So I have been told,” the Duke answered. “It was extremely reprehensible, but no more than a boyish prank.”
“It has happened before. Several of the crofters on the borders of my land have complained in the past few months.”
“Of losing cattle?”
“In one instance several sheep.”
“They must of course be recompensed,” the Duke said. “But I am sure you will agree with me that adolescent boys get up to mischief when they have nothing to do and that is something I intend to remedy in the future.”
“What sort of recompense did you have in mind?” The Kilcraig asked.
The Duke made a gesture with his hand.
“Anything you consider adequate for those who have lost their animals.”
“My sons insist that Torquil McNarn be sent to Edinburgh and punished by the Courts.”
“Surely that is making rather heavy weather over what is nothing very serious?” the Duke questioned. “The days of feuding and the demand for vengeance by our Clans are over.”
“Do you think that is possible?” the Kilcraig asked.
“Of course!” the Duke replied. “The world has become more enlightened. The feuds of the past are as out of date as the dodo!”
“It’s a pity you cannot say that to the MacAuads!”
The Duke wondered why the MacAuads had been introduced into the conversation.
“I remember years ago that they were always up to some devilment,” he said reflectively. “They have not changed in any way?”
“If anything they are worse!” The Kilcraig answered. “I am prepared to admit there was no question of the McNarns as a Clan conniving with your nephew, but, where the MacAuads are concerned, they attack your Clan and mine, not in isolated instances, but continuously, viciously and with premeditated violence!”
“I can hardly believe that!” the Duke exclaimed.
“It is true,” The Kilcraig said, “and that is why, Duke, I have a proposition to put to you.”
“A proposition?” the Duke quizzed,
“I have been thinking over this for some time,” The Kilcraig said slowly, “and the behaviour of Torquil McNarn has only accelerated a decision I have come to reluctantly but of necessity.”
“And what is that?” the Duke enquired;
“It is that if we are to withstand the assaults of the MacAuads then your Glan and mine should become affiliated by the oath of friendship.”
The Duke looked at the old man in sheer astonishment. In his wildest imagination he had never expected that such a proposition would have come from The Kilcraig. All his boyhood he had been brought up to consider him a natural enemy, not in the same category as the MacAauds, but nevertheless an enemy.
He had hoped to create a better relationship between the Clans, but nothing as sweeping as this.
<
br /> There was silence until he managed to say,
“Do you really believe such a solution is possible?”‘
“I think it is not only possible but imperative!” The Kilcraig answered. “We cannot go on as we are. Your nephew has taken some cattle from us, but that is nothing to what is happening on our borders which march with the MacAuads.”
His voice deepened with anger as he went on,
“Some of our more prosperous farmers have even paid blackmail, but the MacAuads in their treachery not only took the mail but waited for a moonlit night and took the animals as well!”
He struck the table and continued,
“Only by guarding every mile of our land can I protect my own people, but the burden is growing too heavy. The marauding thieves get through however much we try to stop them.”
“And you think the McNarns would help you?” the Duke asked.
“Look at the map,” The Kilcraig answered. “If we combine, we will be twice the size, if not more, of the MacAuads.”
“I suppose that’s true,” the Duke murmured.
“They are not only thieves and bullies, treacherous and without honour, they are also leaderless,” The Kilcraig added. “Their Chief prefers the soft living of the South like many others, who have deserted those who trust them.”
The old man paused and then said,
“A Clan without a Chief is like a ship without a rudder.”
The Duke was silent.
After a moment The Kilcraig asked,
“Will you listen to my proposition, my Lord Duke?”
“I am very willing to do so,” the Duke answered.
“It is this,” The Kilcraig said. “I will release Torquil McNarn and the three youths with him. I will give you my sacred oath on the dirk that the Kilcraigs will live in peace with the McNarns and you will give me yours. To make sure that all those who follow us know that the hand of friendship wipes out the blood that has been shed between us, you will marry my daughter!”
For a moment the Duke felt he could not have heard The Kilcraig aright.
It was with an effort that he prevented his mouth from dropping open in sheer surprise.
Then, in a voice that sounded strange even to himself, he asked,
“Did you say that I should – marry your daughter?”
“She is of marriageable age, but I have not yet found a husband for her,” The Kilcraig replied. “As the Duchess of Strathnarn, she will be respected by both our own people and yours. There will be no problems between us in the future and we can concentrate on repressing the MacAuads.”
It all sounded extremely reasonable, the Duke thought, as set forth in the deep slow voice of The Kilcraig.
Then he told himself he had no intention of marrying anyone, least of all a raw uncivilised Scottish girl, who as far as he was concerned was as remote from his chosen way of life as an aborigine from Australia.
Aloud he said,
“I certainly agree to your idea of uniting our two Clans to our mutual benefit, but I am sure you will understand that I have no intention of marrying anyone, preferring for the time being at any rate to remain a bachelor.”
The Kilcraig pushed back his chair.
“In which case, Your Grace, there is no point in continuing this conversation. Torquil McNarn will go to trial and doubtless the Judges in Edinburgh will not be over hard on him.”
The Duke did not rise. He merely sat still, his eyes on the old Chief, trying to think of a way out of this impasse.
“Surely,” he said in a conciliatory tone, “the fact that I am prepared to agree to the oath of friendship is a step forward that does not need my private involvement to the extent of marriage?”
The Kilcraig did not move.
He merely declared,
“First I doubt if your Clan or mine will accept that things are greatly changed without a physical sign that we are affiliated closer than can be shown by words.”
The Duke had to acknowledge this was very likely the truth. What was more, as the majority of the Highlanders could not read, there would be some difficulty in making them understand exactly what was involved unless they had a wedding or some equally sensational ceremony in which to take part.
“Secondly,” The Kilcraig went on, “what is to stop you, once Torquil McNarn has been handed over to you, from repudiating our arrangement?”
“Would you doubt my word of honour?” the Duke asked sharply.
The Kilcraig smiled cynically – it was little more than raising the comers of his thin lips.
“It has happened in the past. You will remember that in 1423 your ancestor made a bargain with mine not to invade the Northern approaches to our land.”
This was a piece of history that the Duke had forgotten even if he had ever heard of it.
“The Kilcraigs were relaxed and at their ease,” the old Chief went on, “and the McNarns, creeping through the heather took them by surprise. They killed fifty of our Clansmen, raped their women and carried off their cattle.”
There was a note in the Chief’s voice which told the Duke that the act of treachery was as vivid and real to him as if it had happened yesterday.
“I have therefore made up my mind,” The Kilcraig continued, “that only by a marriage between you and my daughter will peace come to our troubled people.”
“Are you seriously telling me,” the Duke asked, “that if I do not agree fully to what you suggest, you will send my nephew to Edinburgh?”
“My men are waiting to escort him there,” The Kilcraig said, “and my eldest son will lay his crime before the Justices.”
The Duke was still.
He knew that, if he abandoned Torquil and those with him to their fate, he would not only find it impossible to face his Clansmen but his own name would be dragged through the dust.
He imagined how quickly the press in Edinburgh would become aware of the fact that the Duke of Strathnarn’s nephew and heir was in the dock as a common thief.
The publicity would doubtless coincide with the visit of the King and the Duke thought he would be a laughing stock not only to all the other Scottish Noblemen but to his English friends who were to accompany His Majesty to Edinburgh.
He felt like a cornered rat and it seemed to him that there was no possible escape.
To play for time, he asked rather feebly,
“Is your daughter in agreement with this proposition?”
“My daughter does as she is told, as do all my family,” The Kilcraig answered. “She will serve you with the same obedience and loyalty she has given to me.”
The Duke thought that if he was in his right senses he would rise to his feet and tell the Kilcraig that this was blackmail of the worst type and he had no intention of submitting to it.
Then he knew that the old man was as obstinate and determined as his father would have been and that nothing would budge him once he had made up his mind.
It was part of the spirit of the Scots who would die rather than surrender, who would fight to their last breath rather than admit defeat.
For a moment the Duke wondered if he was dreaming and he would awake to find himself in his house in London with no more important decision to make than in which style he should tie his cravat.
He wanted to play for time, he wanted to discuss his predicament with someone cleverer than himself.
Then he knew without asking that The Kilcraig would not wait. He had already said that his Clansmen were ready to escort Torquil to Edinburgh and the Duke was sure he had not lied.
He looked at the rugged countenance of the Chief and saw a granite-like hardness that recalled the past.
It was how his father looked when he had been determined to beat him into submission, when he gave orders that he was forced to obey because he had not the strength to fight him.
Almost as if it came to him from a far distance, he heard his own voice saying,
“If I agree to your suggestion, Kilcraig. Will you allow me to take my
nephew and those whom you hold back with me?”
The Kilcraig made no movement – only his voice, quiet, yet authoritative, replied,
“Torquil McNarn will come to your wedding, which I suggest should be held at the same time as you receive the homage not only of your own Clan, but also of mine.”
“But that, I believe, is scheduled to take place in the next day or so,” the Duke protested.
He remembered that Mr. Dunblane had intimated that the McNarns were gathering from all parts of his land and he had known without being told what this would entail.
“Exactly!” The Kilcraig said, “and because yours is the older Clan, Clola will be married at your castle and you will present her to both our people at the same time.”
It was a clever idea, the Duke thought, and he knew The Kilcraig must have been cogitating over it and thinking out every detail for a long time.
The ghastly thing was he could think of no possible way to prevent it from taking place.
There must be something he could say, some loophole, some escape, he told himself, and felt his mind turning over and over in an effort to free himself from a noose that seemed to be tightening around his throat.
“I suppose – ” he began.
The Kilcraig moved impatiently.
“Will you eat with us, Duke?” he asked. “Or would you be on your way home?”
It was an ultimatum and the Duke had the feeling that whichever way he decided there would be no appeal, no second chance, no possible way he could extricate himself.
He longed as he had never longed in his life before to hurl defiance at The Kilcraig and tell him to do his worst. Then he knew it was impossible – impossible to betray his own blood, impossible to wash his hands of the inevitable consequences.
Slowly and with dignity, he rose to his feet.
“I am extremely hungry, Kilcraig,” he replied.
*
Afterwards as they rode home, the Duke could remember only the expression of sheer astonishment on Robert Dunblane’s face when, after their meal was finished, The Kilcraig announced to his kinsmen who had sat at the table with them the decision which had been reached.
The Chieftain Without a Heart Page 4
