The Chieftain Without a Heart

by Barbara Cartland

  “They dragged him up the cliff and I expect locked him in. I have never been there so I didn’t try to reach him. I thought it’d be best to get help.”

  He paused to say tentatively,

  ‘Perhaps we could rescue him – before they come back,’ Clola thought quickly.

  “I will help you,” she said, “but no one must know about this. It would be terrible if the Duke learnt that Torquil had disobeyed him.”

  “How can you help?” Hamish asked.

  “I will tell you when we get there,” Clola said “Go to the stables – no, wait a minute – I will give the order.”

  She went to find the nightwatchman.

  “My brother has brought me some bad news,” she said to the old man. “A great friend is very ill. Will you please order two ponies for us? We will come to the stables, for I do not wish to disturb anyone.”

  The nightwatchman looked surprised, but he was obviously used to obeying orders.

  “I’ll go to the stables, Your Grace, right away,” he said.

  “You go with him, Hamish,” Clola suggested. “I will join you as soon as I have put on some clothes.”

  Then to her brother she said in a low voice so that only he could hear,

  “Stick to my story about illness. Take care not to mention to anybody what has really occurred.”

  “No, of course not,” Hamish agreed, indignant that she should think him so stupid.

  Almost before she had finished speaking, Clola was running back up the stairs to her bedroom.

  She pulled open the wardrobe, searched for a plain dress, which had luckily been included among her many elaborate gowns and slipped it on with the warm jacket that went with it and then tied a scarf over her head.

  She put on the short boots she wore for walking on the moors, which she found at the bottom of her wardrobe.

  It took her only a few minutes to dress and while she did so Jamie never moved but slept peacefully in the big bed.

  Clola left the candles burning just in case he should wake and feel frightened, then picking up a pair of leather gloves she ran down the stairs and out through the front door towards the stables.

  By the time she reached them, a sleepy groom had been roused by the nightwatchman and had saddled two ponies. Hamish was already in the saddle and, as they started to move away from The Castle, Clola said to her brother,

  “You have your skean-dhu with you?”

  “One in each stocking,” Hamish answered.

  Another time Clola would have laughed at the idea of wearing two of the short Scottish knives at the same time, but she knew the reason he wore two was to equip him for cutting loose an animal they were going to steal.

  They moved with all possible speed over the moors towards the border.

  Clola in fact knew the watchtower well, because it had always been one of the deep bones of contention between her Clan and the McAuads.

  Originally a Pictish fort, the stones had been utilised by the McAuads for a building they called the watchtower on a rocky cliff overlooking both the Kilcraig and the McNarn country.

  As it was on the border of McAuad land, Clola felt it had been put there more as an act of defiance than for any serious use.

  But it had in fact infuriated her brothers that the McAuads if they wished could climb into their watchtower that stood about twenty feet high and stare out over Kilcraig land, while they were in the unfortunate position of not being able to overlook theirs.

  Clola must have been eleven when her second brother, Malcolm, had taken her with him to explore the watchtower, and greatly daring they had climbed the cliff.

  It had been easier than Clola had expected and when they reached the top they had found their way into the watchtower itself.

  It had a heavy studded oak door and Clola remembered now there had been no lock. It was fastened by twine which Malcolm had cut with his skean-dhu and they had gone inside to find a dark and smelly hole with only a wooden ladder up which those who wished to reach the top could climb.

  Malcolm had been disgusted.

  “I thought it was something better than this!”

  “It looks more impressive outside than in,” Clola had agreed.

  “The McAuads can keep it!” Malcolm said in disgust, “but we must leave them something to show we have been here.”

  They had nailed a rather dirty handkerchief to the door and tied Clola’s hair-ribbon to the wooden steps inside. It was not a very effective gesture but it had given Malcolm pleasure to think he had braved and defied the McAuads. But they had been far too frightened to tell Andrew what they had done and certainly not their father.

  Clola was thinking now that it was very unlikely that a lock had been added to the watchtower since she had been there.

  If she knew anything about the McAuads, they were far too slapdash to bother to exert themselves, unless it meant money in their pockets.

  The rain had ceased, but the drive when the ponies trotted down it was swimming with water and the heather was very wet. Now the storm had almost died away in the distance and there was only an occasional rumble far in the East.

  The moon, which had been full the night before. came out from between the clouds.

  Clola and Hamish might have been able to find the watchtower without its assistance, but it was certainly easier when the light showed them the sheep tracks running between the thick heather.

  They were also able to avoid the gullies and most important of all the swollen burns.

  Nevertheless they had to cross one or two, the ponies being used to them, splashing through without difficulty where a horse from Edinburgh and certainly from the South might have been scared.

  At last, after they had been riding for a little over half an hour, the watchtower came in sight.

  “Did Torquil spend the day with you?” Clola asked.

  “We met this morning,” Hamish answered, “as we had arranged to do and caught a salmon at the top of the river.”

  Clola had thought that perhaps that was what they were doing.

  “What have you done with your ponies?”

  “When we arrived here, we tied them up over there,” Hamish replied, pointing his finger. “I was afraid to ride away in case the McAuads heard me. I crawled through the heather and then ran all the way to The Castle.”

  Clola thought it was not surprising that he looked so dirty. But now it was dangerous to talk anymore and she rode ahead taking her pony as near to the bottom of the cliff as she dared.

  Then she dismounted and Hamish did the same.

  The ponies they had been given from the stables were tough, strong and used to long journeys over the moors without suffering from any fatigue.

  The moment they were free they put their heads down seeking the grass between the heather and Clola was certain that they would not wander away.

  “Follow me,” she whispered to Hamish and they went to the base of the cliff and looked up.

  It was actually a rough gorge that started high up the hillside going deeper on the McAuad side until it ended with the watchtower.

  There was quite a lot of water in the bottom of it, but Clola and Hamish splashed across regardless of wet feet and started to climb.

  Frantically Clola tried to remember how she and Malcolm had managed all those years ago.

  Fortunately the moonlight was full on the cliff so that they could avoid the great bare rocks on which their feet slipped and keep to what foothold there was between them.

  Clola found it hard to hold on because the rocks were wet, but somehow she managed to keep going and knew that gradually moving higher and higher she was nearly at the top.

  As she pulled herself over the edge, she was breathless and at the same time she was listening intently just in case Hamish had been mistaken and one of the McAuads had remained behind as a guard.

  Nothing could be a worse disaster, she knew, than that not only Torquil but she too would become a prisoner of the McAuads.

&n
bsp; Then she saw the watchtower towering above her and there was no one there, no sight nor sound of the McAuads.

  She got to her feet and Hamish joined her.

  They went to the door which, as Clola had expected, was tied with thick twine and there was no lock.

  Without being told Hamish drew his skean-dhu from his stocking, cut the twine and pulled the door open.

  For a moment it was difficult to see what was inside, because they themselves blocked the moonlight.

  Then Clola realised that Torquil was lying on the floor bound by a rope which tied his hands at his back and that his mouth was covered with a piece of cloth that gagged him.

  First she pulled the gag from his mouth.

  Then she took Hamish’s other skean-dhu and they hacked away.

  They freed him in a few minutes and, shaking the rope from his legs, Torquil stood up.

  Still without speaking, they slithered down the cliff and splashed across the burn to run towards the ponies.

  Only as they reached them did Torquil say,

  “We must collect the ponies Hamish and I rode here on.”

  “Yes, of course,” Clola agreed. “Ride behind Hamish and we must hurry!”

  The other ponies were only about a hundred yards away and as soon as they reached them Clola said,

  “Hamish, go home! Get on your own pony and go at once. Torquil you will have to lead the other one.”

  “I expect he’ll follow us anyway,” Torquil answered, but he took hold of the bridle which meant, however, that they could not move so quickly.

  Hamish left them and Clola, looking back as she rode ahead, asked,

  “How could you do anything so crazy after what your uncle said to you?”

  “I had promised Hamish. I couldn’t go back on my word,” Torquil replied.

  It was the perfect answer! Clola knew that for any Scotsman to break his word was bad enough, but for a McNarn to break it to a Kilcraig would be unthinkable!

  They rode on.

  Then Torquil said anxiously,

  “Does Uncle Taran know you came to save me?”

  “No, of course not,” Clola replied. “No one knows and no one must ever know. Do you understand?”

  She thought for a moment, then she added,

  “We will have to persuade the nightwatchman and the groom not to talk. I think his name is Hector.”

  “He’ll not talk,” Torquil asserted.

  “You must make sure of it,” Clola said earnestly. “You know as well as I do what your uncle threatened if you got into mischief.”

  Torquil was silent.

  Then he said,

  “It was jolly sporting of you to save me. How did you know how to reach the watchtower?”

  Clola thought perhaps it was a mistake to say that she had been there with her brother Malcolm.

  “We were lucky,” she told him. “Hamish had the sense to come and tell me what happened, and there was a moon.”

  “We just had bad luck in being seen.”

  “It was not bad luck, but crass stupidity to go at all!” Clola scolded him crossly. “You have to promise me, Torquil, promise me on your word of honour, that you will never do such a thing again.”

  He did not answer and she pulled up her pony.

  “Promise me,” she said sharply, “or I might betray you to your uncle!”

  “I promise!”

  Torquil’s tone was surly for a moment, then he changed it.

  “I’m grateful to you too. Those McAuads are rough and spiteful. They even hit me after tying me up.”

  Clola felt inclined to say,

  ‘It serves you right!’.

  But now they were getting nearer to The Castle and could ride side by side and she could see that there was a mark on Torquil’s cheek which she was certain would be a great purple bruise on the morrow. There was also a cut on his forehead.

  She saw that his jacket sleeve had been torn from the shoulder presumably when fighting with the McAuads and his bare knees were bleeding from cuts and bruises.

  She felt that he had had a lesson he would not forget.

  Now they had reached The Castle drive and Clola thought with relief that it could not yet be four o’clock in the morning.

  They could both go back to bed, she thought, and no one would be any the wiser about the adventure they had taken part in.

  They reached the stables to find there was no one about and the groom who had saddled their horses had obviously gone back to bed.

  They put all three ponies into their stables, pulled off their bridles and saddles and shut the doors quietly.

  “I’ll see you in the morning,” Torquil whispered. “Shall we go in by the side door?”

  “No, the nightwatchman will be waiting for us at the front,” Clola answered.

  They hurried from the stables to the front of The Castle.

  As Clola had expected the door was unbolted. As they pushed it open, the old man who had been waiting for them rose from a chair in the outer hall where he had been sitting with his lantern beside him.

  “You’re back, Your Grace,” he exclaimed with an obvious note of relief in his voice.

  “Yes, we are back,” Clola answered, “and thank you for waiting for us.”

  She moved softly towards the stairs while Torquil hung back for a moment and she knew that he was telling the nightwatchman to say nothing about the night’s events.

  Then, as she started to climb the stairway, he joined her.

  “He’ll be all right,” he assured her.

  She turned her head to smile at him and saw by the light of the candles how dishevelled he looked and thought that she must look very much the same.

  There was a turn on the staircase, the last six steps taking them on to the landing of the first floor, when Clola’s heart gave a sudden leap.

  Standing waiting for them illuminated by the candles that had been lit since she left was the Duke!

  He was wearing the long green robe in which he had come to her bedroom and there was an expression on his face that made them stop in their tracks.

  He did not speak until Clola with Torquil just behind her had reached the last step of the stairs and was standing in front of him.

  Then he asked,

  “May I enquire where you have been at this time of the night?”

  Clola heard Torquil draw in his breath and quickly having no time to think and saying the first words that came into her mind she replied,

  “I had to – go and – meet someone – unexpectedly and because I got into a little – trouble Torquil came and – rescued me.”

  “Had to meet someone?” the Duke repeated. “And who might that be?”

  “A – friend. Someone – who wished to – see me and it was impossible to – wait until – morning.”

  “A friend!” the Duke exclaimed and there was no mistaking the disbelief and contempt in his voice. “By a friend I presume you mean lover!”

  Clola gasped and as she did so it seemed as if the Duke grew taller, larger and more overwhelming.

  Then he said in a voice which cut her like a knife,

  “I knew that I was marrying a Kilcraig, but I did not realise she was also a harlot!”

  His voice seemed to ring out.

  Then he turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the corridor.

  Torquil took a step forward, but Clola put out her hand and laid it on his arm.

  “No,” she said. “Not now – not at this – moment when he is so – angry. Wait, we – will think of – something tomorrow.”

  But she thought almost despairingly that there would be nothing she could say then, no explanation she could make that the Duke would understand or forgive.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Clola awoke and realised that it was late in the day.

  Jamie must have slipped out without waking her and she knew that she had in fact been utterly exhausted when finally she fell asleep.

  It had taken a
long time because she had been deeply perturbed by the manner in which the Duke had spoken to her and she had slowly climbed back into bed feeling a despair that was worse than anything she had ever known before.

  For a long time she had turned over and over in her mind what explanation she could give him other than the one that had come spontaneously to her lips when she had found him standing at the top of the stairs.

  It seemed to her that there was no way in which she could excuse herself without involving Torquil.

  Though she felt it was extremely reprehensible of him after all that had been said to go with Hamish into the McAuad country, she was aware that it would have been almost impossible for him to admit to a Kilcraig that he was afraid of the consequences.

  She thought despairingly that the Duke would never understand, because he had lived too long in the South, where men would break their word far more easily and lightly than a Scot would ever do.

  ‘What can I do? What can I do?’ she asked herself over and over again.

  Although mentally she was in a state of high tension, eventually, because climbing the cliff had been physically fatiguing, she fell asleep.

  On waking she realised that she was stiff and she thought too she might have caught a cold.

  But nothing was of any importance except to try by some means, although she had no idea how, to make the Duke believe that she had not, as he had averred, been meeting a lover.

  She turned a dozen different explanations over in her mind only to find they all sounded unconvincing and untruthful.

  She rang the bell and after some delay Mrs. Forse came into the room to say in her hostile voice,

  “You were asleep and I left you.”

  “I was tired,” Clola said simply. “But now I must get up.”

  Mrs. Forse had crossed the room and was pulling back the curtains.

  “There’s no hurry for Your Grace,” she said. “The gentlemen have all gone awa and there’s only the children and yourself left in The Castle.”

  “The gentlemen have left?” Clola questioned.

  “Aye. His Grace and his Lordship were awa first thing.”

  “And Mr. Dunblane?”

  She thought that it was Mr. Dunblane, who she must turn to in her difficulties.

  It was he who had persuaded the Duke to send Torquil to school and to Oxford – and she was certain if she confided in him he would be sympathetic and understanding.