are allur’d To their destruction.
ROBERT BURNS
Night was falling.
While the lads started the arduous task of fording sixty more lambs, Jamie sought out Rose and the others, who’d watched the proceedings with worried faces. He explained about Evan’s approach and quickly sketched his plans, noting the quiet concern in Leana’s expression, the heightened fear in Rose’s.
Ian, unaware of impending calamity, was his usual blithe self. Jamie stroked the boy’s head, reminded afresh of his obligations. “Tuck my son in his crib for the night while we attend to the lambs. I will do everything in my power to protect you.”
Rose put on a brave face, but her lower lip trembled. “We trust you utterly, Jamie. You are the heir of Glentrool, are you not?”
He kissed Rose’s hand, then gently reminded her, “ ’Tis better to trust in the LORD than to put confidence in princes.”
“Well said, Jamie.” Leana smiled at him. “We shall trust the Almighty to guide you, then.”
Jamie met her gaze. I am glad you came, lass. He could not tell her so; perhaps she knew. On such a night, Leana’s presence strengthened him in ways he could never explain, even to himself.
“To the lambs.” He eased away from the wagon. “With your prayers.”
Back and forth the three men went, making the most of the hour afforded them, with the tide at its lowest ebb and the misty gloaming still lighting their way. Rab was ready to depart at last, wrapped in a dry shepherd’s plaid, courage pinned to his chest like a badge.
“We’ll start north in the morn’s morn and meet you on the way,” Jamie told him, shaking his hand with a firm grip. “The lambs and your pluck may spare us all, Rab Murray.”
The shepherd bobbed his head, then started up the road with his crook, leaving both collies behind. Davie waved in farewell, then turned to Jamie, his concern apparent. “I’ll mind the sheep, Mr. McKie. Ye’d best be crossin’ the water for the ithers while ye still can.”
The water already felt deeper, Jamie realized. Leaping from one rock to the next, the smooth soles of his leather boots a liability, he kept his eye on the far bank of Moneypool Burn and his mind on those whom he cherished, waiting for him.
Fog rising off the burn had turned the twilight into a thick gray shroud. Once he reached the other side, he climbed the steep bank and found the women waiting, their faces pale in the lantern light. “I will lead you across the burn. Quickly now, for every second counts.”
“Take Rose first.” Leana helped her sister to her feet. “She must not fall, Jamie.”
He met her gaze and meant the words he spoke. “I promise you, she will not.” He lifted Rose from the wagon and did not put her down again, holding her tight as he worked his way across while she clung to his neck and wept with fear. “You are fine, lass,” he assured her when they reached the other side. “Wait here for your sister.”
But Leana would not hear of it. “Ian next,” she insisted, “for the water is rising.”
Lighter than one of his lambs and limp with sleep, Ian was easy to carry, though Jamie’s heart still pounded. “My son, my son,” he whispered, holding him close until he laid him in Rose’s trembling embrace.
Leana tried to send the maidservants next, but Eliza protested, and Jamie refused to listen. “Come, Leana,” he said firmly, sweeping her into his arms. Their unborn child pressed against his chest as he carried her, a tacit reminder of all who were depending on him this night. Remember me, I pray thee, and strengthen me.
With Leana on hand to calm Rose and help with Ian, he could take a bit more time with the maids. Caution was called for: He could only see from stone to stone now, and water swirled over the rough surfaces. Eliza stood on the bank with the lantern held high to guide him. “Bless you,” he called out, following the diffused glow until he was climbing the bank once more.
Annabel squeezed her eyes shut and held on. When it was Eliza’s turn, the maid abandoned the lantern and whispered a prayer before the two of them ventured across the murky stream.
When they reached the other side, Jamie respectfully ignored Leana’s plea that he cross back at once. “I ken the water is rising, lass, but it will not reach high tide for many hours. The farm I have in mind is not far. Let me see you safely to your lodging first.”
The ground was damp and uneven, slowing their progress through the trees and brush. At last they reached the farm property he’d remembered from his rambles as a youth. “You’ll find dry beds and ample food,” Jamie promised them. “The folk here know the McKies and will see you well cared for.” He said his farewells, turning back toward the village with some reluctance. How much simpler it would be to stay here! To hide in the steading and pretend that Evan was not headed in his direction.
Nae. The time for hiding was over.
Jamie strode down the lane, now blanketed in fog and darkness, grateful to have solid ground and a well-marked path beneath his boots. ’Twas the same route Evan would travel on his way to Ferrytown. His brother would have to ford the burn as well, along with his ten men. At least their approach would not be silent. Or swift.
The moon had yet to appear on the horizon and would be of no use when it did. Less than a quarter remained, and even that would be obscured by clouds. Jamie was soon at Moneypool Burn, standing directly opposite the lantern, a meager light on the far shore. Not enough to illumine the rocks or to reveal the depth of the stream.
But he could hear the water swirling below him. The rising tide slowly moved up the Cree, against the current, pushing the brackish water round and round, stirring up the mud and silt and sand. Along the water’s edge, underground springs made the sands quick. And treacherous. In one spot his boot might only sink in a few inches; in another, his leg could disappear up to his hip.
Jamie stared at the water below, trying to get his bearings, even as his feet began to slide along the mud, drawing him inexorably closer. Should he wait here rather than cross? Nae, for a borrowed wagon and horses, as well as his own mount and all their possessions, stood unprotected on the other side. And his weapons were stored in the wagon.
He would go. Must go. Now.
Jamie thrust his foot into the water, hoping to strike one of the larger segments of granite, and nearly shouted with relief when he did. Since the surface was slick and his balance unsure, he crouched down and crawled across the rock. The water smelled like seaweed, decaying bracken, and fish. The Cree was known for its salmon. What might the Moneypool have swimming beneath its water’s?
A kelpie.
Lewis McMinn’s voice taunted. ’Tis like a meikle horse that rises wi’ the tide.
“You’re daft, man,” Jamie muttered. Kelpies were no more real than fairies or brownies, though stories about them persisted. Tales were told of finely groomed mounts that inhabited the water, inviting lads to stroke their manes, then dragging them into the deep, never to be seen again.
Foolish legends meant to frighten children away from the water’s edge.
From the far bank, Jamie heard the horses moving about. That was where the sound was coming from, wasn’t it? He reached the edge of the rock, uncertain of his next step. Was that a large stone to the left? Or a pool of black water? Or a patch of mud, waiting to swallow his boot?
He bit back an oath, determined not to lose his nerve. The bank was not far away. Better to ease into the water and walk across than to risk stepping into a void and losing his footing on the sharp-edged rock. He unfolded the cuffs of his boots over his knees, then lowered one leg into the stream, bracing himself against the cold.
The bottom was miry, but he had no sensation of sinking into it. He plunged his other leg into the water and held out his arms to maintain balance. Reaching for the next rock, he found himself pulled along by the flowing water, dragged downstream. The faint lantern light seemed farther away instead of closer, and the mud beneath his boots was growing more tenacious.
By sheer will, Jamie lifted his left foot, then hi
s right, moving forward before sinking into more mud. And deeper water. No matter which way he stretched his arms, there were no rocks to be found. Only a quagmire of silt and mud, which now had a firm grip on his boots. When he tried to shift his stance, he could not. Neither foot would budge. The harder he fought, the farther into the mud he sank. Water sloshed inside the cuffs of his boots.
“Help!” Ridiculous to shout when no one was there. “Help!” Louder this time. And more desperate. All he needed was something to grab on to, some means of leverage.
If he could pull one leg free … If he could hold on…
Jamie fought against the downward pull, struggled against it, railed against it. “Nae!” he cried out, throwing his weight forward, making things worse. Wet clothes bogged him down further. His boots began filling with silt. “Nae!” Jamie rescued his sheathed dirk, jamming it inside the waist of his breeches for safekeeping, but he could not dislodge his boots. His eyes were hot with tears, his throat so tight he could no longer say the words. Help me! Please help me!
Fear rose inside him, choking him. I will not die here. I will not!
Jamie summoned all his strength and managed to loosen one boot, but the momentum threw him tumbling into the water. His head struck an unseen rock with a sickening thud. The dark night turned black as he sank to his knees.
Save me, O God. For the waters are come in unto my soul.
Water. Cold. Pain. Nothing else.
I sink in deep mire, where there is no standing.
Not his words. He had no words. He had only his will.
I shall not die, but live.
Jamie grabbed the immovable rock, the one that had wounded him, and pulled with all his might. He tasted blood, but still he strained to extricate himself. His muscles screamed for mercy, but he would not relent. Fighting, struggling, wrestling.
In God have I put my trust. I will not be afraid.
The mud, like a hungry beast, would not let go of his boots. But Jamie would not surrender. Not to this … this thing, nor to a kelpie, nor to his brother. A worthy adversary, yet Jamie knew he would prevail. He would.
“Aye!” Jamie roared, yanking as hard as he could.
He pulled one leg free of the enemy’s grip, leaving his boot behind. But he did not need his boot. He needed to live. He needed out of this water and onto this rock. Now.
Jamie pulled harder still, his thigh straining against the deadly drag of the mud. “Not yet,” he growled. “I’ll not give up yet.” All at once, his other leg jerked loose from its boot. But not before he felt a fierce wrenching, and a jolt of pain shot through him.
It did not matter. He was free.
Jamie threw himself onto the rock, his body splayed across the great boulder, well above the surface of the burn. Let the tide rise all it wished; he could no longer drown in its cold waters.
He lay there for some time, catching his breath, letting his racing heart slow down and his thoughts come into focus. When he tried to sit up, the searing pain at the juncture of his thigh and hip would not let him. No matter. He would lie there until daybreak if necessary. His brother would find him. Or Davie would find him. But no man would find him dead.
Jamie managed to roll over onto his side, the one that did not hurt. His head was still bleeding where he’d struck the rock, and he could feel a lump growing beneath his fingers when he touched it. Not a fatal wound. He would recover.
Peering into the mist, Jamie tried to determine his location. Though he still heard the horses shuffling about, he could not see them. The lantern oil had run out, and the banks of the burn were dark. Where was Evan? Had his brother been delayed by the fog? Or had Lewis McMinn been confused about Evan’s intentions?
Many questions, few answers. All of them would wait for the morn.
I am blessed of the Almighty. It was not prideful to confess what he knew to be true. He was not worthy of the least of God’s mercies. But even so, mercy was his. The gift of gifts. In God we boast all the day long.
With a stone for his pillow, Jamie laid down his head and slept until the sun warmed his face and a man’s voice called to him across the water.
Sixty-Seven
Earth bears no balsams for mistakes.
EDWARD ROWLAND SILL
Rose stood at the edge of the Moneypool Burn, staring in bewilderment at two men: Jamie, prostrate on a rock in the middle of the stream at low tide, his clothes unkempt and his boots missing; and a black-haired man addressing her husband from the Ferrytown side.
“Sir, if ye dinna mind me askin’, whatsomever are ye doin’ on that stane?”
Rose watched Jamie struggle to sit up, wincing as he did. Much as she wanted to hail him, if he moved about too quickly, he might tumble from his rocky perch. Instead she waited her turn to speak with him—an unsettling start to her bright and sunny morn. She’d left the farm early, hoping to surprise him. Instead, Jamie had very much surprised her.
“A good day to you,” Jamie said, unwittingly turning his back toward her to face the older man. “I am blithe to report that I bested your kelpie yestreen. The beast will bother your village no more.”
The fellow laughed, showing off a full set of teeth. “Is that sae? And what might yer name be?”
“James McKie of Glentrool.”
“Weel, we’d better be changin’ that. Any gentrice wha defeats the kelpie o’ Moneypool is a prince amang men. Can we not call ye laird o’ Glentrool?”
“Nae, you cannot.” The playful note in Jamie’s voice disappeared. “Not as long as my father lives.”
“That’s richt,” the stranger agreed. “Might ye be needin’ help tae climb doon from yer rock? For thar’s a lassie waitin’ for ye on the ither side.”
When Jamie turned round, his smile nearly sent her splashing across the shallow burn to collect him. My poor Jamie!
“You’re a sight for sore eyes, Rose.” He slid from his perch with obvious difficulty and started limping toward her.
“I believe ’tis not your eyes but your leg that’s sore.” She stretched out her arms, ready to welcome him, filthy though he might be. “Whatever have you been up to, Jamie?”
Barefoot and clearly in pain, he took some time reaching her. “Did you not hear me tell that villager I wrestled with a kelpie?” When Jamie turned to acknowledge him, they realized the man had wandered off without sharing his name or bidding them farewell.
“Odd, that one.” Rose offered her hand as Jamie stepped onto the bank. “I heard what you said to him. Now are you going to explain what truly happened?”
“Perhaps.” He lightly kissed her mouth.
She would never tell Jamie he tasted like seaweed. Not when she was so glad to see him. But a kelpie? He’d have to do better than that.
“Leana and the others will be along soon.” Rose leaned back, eying him more closely. “Did Evan do this to you? Injure your leg, then abandon you?”
He glanced toward the road. “I’ve yet to see my brother, though I feel certain we’ll meet him on the way north.” His answer was matter-of-fact, as if he no longer dreaded the encounter. “And on the Sabbath, the whole of my parents’ household will be at the kirk in Monnigaff. With so many folk to see, ’tis well that I lived through the night, aye?”
Rose narrowed her gaze, trying to sort it all out. No boots. Clothes a slitterie mess. And a limp. “If not Evan, then who, Jamie? What manner of man or beast left you in such a state?” She folded her arms across her bodice, letting him know she expected an answer forthwith.
“I … fell,” he began, running a hand through his unbound hair. “The current was swift, the fog was thick, and the mud was determined to pull me under. When I bashed my head on that rock, I very nearly drowned.”
“Jamie! I had no idea …” Perhaps the kelpie was not so daft an explanation.
“ ’Twas a fight for my life, make no mistake. When I could not drag my boots from the mud, my only choice was to leave them behind, though I twisted my leg badly in the process. By the
time I pulled myself onto that rock, my strength was gone, which is why you found me still there this morning.” He looked down at his right leg. “A bit worse for wear. But grateful.”
“Not half so grateful as I.” She kissed him again, not minding the taste of seaweed one bit if it meant her Jamie had survived such an ordeal. “My campie husband.”
“I’m not certain I was brave, lass. Just determined.” He turned his attention to the other side of the burn. “Our first task of the day is to get the wagon and horses across while the tide is still low.”
She tugged him away from the water’s edge. “And Davie Tait will be the one doing that, because Jamie McKie has a limp that will not be improved by yet another trek o’er Moneypool Burn. Once we reclaim our wagon, I’ll find you some dry clothes and a piece of soap.” Rose looked down at his bare feet. “Though you’ll need to visit a cobbler in Monnigaff for boots.”
“Bare feet are very popular among the peasantry in Galloway,” he reminded her. “I certainly look the part today.”
The weather, at least, was improved. Gray clouds and mist had given way to clear skies and drier air. When Davie appeared, Rose put the young shepherd to work leading the horses and wagon across a shingly stretch. Neither hooves nor wheels sank into the mud. Leana and the maids came along in time to see Hastings ford the burn without incident, and the party reassembled themselves for the last two days of their journey.
Davie scratched his head. “I’m thinkin’ ye need tae sit in the wagon for a bit, Mr. McKie.”
“Please do,” Rose pleaded, eager to have Jamie’s company for any reason. “You can ride in the wagon bed with me and stretch out your sore leg.” The last two sacks of coins and the gold cord were well concealed at the bottom of a basket of dirty linens, so she had no fear her husband would unearth her secret at the last hour. Leana assured him she was prepared to drive the wagon on to Monnigaff.
“I’ll ride yer mount,” Davie offered. “We’ll meet up wi’ Rab, aye?”
Jamie hesitated before answering. “I confess, I’ll breathe easier when I spy the lad coming our direction.”
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