The Master of Stair 1

The Master of Stair 1

The Master of Stair

 

Author: Marjorie Bowen

 

BOOK ONE

 

CHAPTER PAGE

I RONALD MACDONALD 3

II THE KISS 14

III JOCK O’BREADALBANE’S WIFE 24

IV DELIA FEATHERSTONEHAUGH 35

V THE FOLLY OF DELIA 47

VI HATE MEETS HATE 62

VII THE POISON OF THE KISS 77

VIII MACCALLUM MORE 87

IX ON THE ROAD TO LONDON 98

X THE KING’S MESSENGER 108

XI THE MASTER OF STAIR 119

XII THE LOVE OF DELIA 131

XIII THE MASTER’S WIFE 149

XIV THE CURSE OF THE DALRYMPLES 161

XV THE AVOWAL 174

XVI A LAMPOON ANSWERED 183

XVII THE BITTERNESS OF DEATH 195

XVIII AN INNOCENT BETRAYAL 205

XIX THE PACT 217

XX ON THE VERGE OF MADNESS 227

XXI WILLIAM OF ORANGE 238

XXII THE RESOLUTION OF DESPAIR 256

XXIII JAMES FITZJAMES 261

XXIV THE LOVE OF MARGARET CAMPBELL 272

XXV GLENCOE 284

 

 

BOOK TWO

 

I THE RECKONING 309

II FOREBODINGS 318

III THE TRIUMPHS OF THE CAMPBELLS 329

IV THE LIE ACCOMPLISHED 335

V A WOMAN’S VICTORY 344

VI “THERE WAS NO MASSACRE IN GLENCOE” 364

EPILOGUE THE GLEN O’ WEEPING 374

 

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GLENCOE

 

_In the Glen o’ Weeping,

The Valley o’ Glencoe,

Watch the giant hills are keeping

In their frozen wreaths o’ snow.

Tears from out the mists are falling

And the winds forever sigh

To the lonely eagle calling

As he circles through the sky,

With the blood o’ the Macdonalds

All red upon his claws,

The blood o’ the dead Macdonalds

Who broke the Campbell laws._

 

_Through the Glen o’ Weeping,

The Valley o’ Glencoe,

Where the blighted trees are sleeping

And black the waters flow,

Where the dead lie in their darkness,

Their frozen hearth beside,

As the day glooms into darkness,

Come the living in their pride

Through the lines o’ dead Macdonalds

Lying naked to the blast,

Through the stern and still Macdonalds

Come the Campbells riding fast._

 

_Now is the Glen o’ Weeping

The Valley o’ Glencoe,

Bright with light o’ swords upleaping

And flashing to and fro;

And gallant is the seeming

Of man and horse together

As with flying harness gleaming

They ride the trampled heather

Through the homes o’ the Macdonalds

Who lie defenseless, dumb,

Through the spilt blood o’ the Macdonalds

The victor Campbells come._

 

_Now shall the Glen o’ Weeping,

The Valley o’ Glencoe,

When our noble heirs are reaping

The deeds that now we sow—

Lie desolate, forsaken,

Bleak to the brooding mist,

While we our way have taken,

By winged fortune kissed.

Swept from our path the Macdonalds,

Swept from our path away:

Now out o’ the Glen o’ Weeping,

Into the light o’ day!_

 

 

 

 

BOOK ONE

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER I

 

RONALD MACDONALD

 

 

Some fifty men were making slow progress through the pass of Glenorchy,

which lies in the heart of Invernesshire and so in the very depths of

the wild Highlands. A thick white mist hung over the landscape; it was

the end of October and a raw and chilly day; the dull purple heather,

disclosed now and then by the lifting vapor, the gaunt firs and faded

bracken that grew along the pass, were shivering under the weight of

dripping moisture.

 

The men strained their eyes to pierce the drifting mist, and drew

closer the damp tartans that showed they were of the Clan of Macdonald;

they were all on foot: some led shaggy ponies on whose rough backs were

strapped packages and what appeared to be the plunder of some great

house, for the objects included silver and gilt cups and goblets tied

together by the handles; and, slung across the saddle, handsome

garments such as the Saxons wore, and guns of a make not often seen in

a Highlander’s hands.

 

A drove of fine cattle were driven in the rear of the Macdonalds, and a

man who was obviously the leader walked a few paces ahead of the

others. He was distinguished from his followers by the faded laced

cloth coat under his plaid, the pistols in his belt, and his high

cowskin boots, the others being barefoot and wearing nothing but their

tartans and rude garments of untanned leather.

 

The mist began to lift a little, the dim forms of the surrounding

mountains became visible; the leading Macdonald stopped his men and

looked about him: the mist had confused even his innate knowledge of

the country. Such of the landscape as they could see was pure

desolation, vast brown hills and tracts of heather: there were no

roads, not so much as a foot-path to guide them.

 

The only sign of life was an eagle who circled high above their heads,

and now and then swept into view, screaming dismally.

 

The leader of the Macdonalds shuddered in the damp cold and was making

the signal for his men to continue, when his quick ear caught a distant

sound. He paused, the train of Highlanders motionless behind him.

 

It was the sound of the jingle of harness, the soft thud of horses’

hoofs on the heather: a party of horsemen riding near.

 

With the stealthy alertness of men who are always either hunters or

hunted, the Macdonalds drew together in the pass; the foremost threw

themselves flat on the ground and closed their hands round their dirks.

The mist was closing round them again, but it was not so thick that

they could not discern a group of horsemen crossing the pass at a swift

trot. It was impossible to see how many there were; they were very

swiftly gone, and utter silence fell again.

 

The Macdonalds began to move cautiously. The mist thickened so that

they grew uneasy, their eyes were strained for another sight of the

strangers, their ears for the sound of the bridle bells.

 

The eagle flew close, then past them and out of sight; they were

feeling their way a step at a time, the ponies stumbled over the wet

rocks the heather concealed, the men could hardly see each other. They

began talking in whispers, wondering who these horsemen might have

been, disputing about the way.

 

Then it came again, the thud thud of a horse.

 

The Macdonalds stopped dead; their leader softly cursed the mist and

held himself on the alert.