The Master of Stair 13

The Master of Stair 13

“The coos,” he answered, “and the bonnie pasture lands—they have been

keeping ye, Macdonald, this mony year, I ken—I willna’ be mentioning

the gould and siller, the plate and furniture and sic details—for I’m

no’ doubting ye have come to return the coos.”

 

“I’m no’ understanding,” said Makian pleasantly. “We hav’na’ ane coo in

Glencoe.” His two sons emphasized the statement with a scowl, but the

Earl was imperturbable.

 

“Weel,” he remarked, “ye eat a muckle of meat in a fortnight—it is only

that time since ye took a hundred fat coos—but I make no doubt that

since ye have eaten them, Macdonald, ye have brought the siller to pay

for them.”

 

Again there was a slight pause; the venerable Makian’s face assumed a

still more amiable __EXPRESSION__, but he appeared a little at a loss for

an answer; the sons exchanged fierce glances.

 

Breadalbane, still fondling his sword-hilt, spoke slowly.

 

“The market value of the coos is twa pund English apiece.”

 

At this one of the young Macdonalds broke out: “Ye play the fule, Jock

Campbell! We hav’na’ come to prate of coos—but of the oaths to King

Wullie.”

 

Breadalbane looked at him calmly.

 

“So you’re thinking of taking the oaths? Weel, I’m no’ a sheriff.”

 

Makian interposed:

 

“We will gang to the sheriff, Jock Campbell, but there was talk of

siller for those taking the oaths and I’d no’ be adverse to my ain

share.”

 

“Weel?” said Breadalbane mildly.

 

“We’ll no’ be asking a muckle,” said Makian generously. “King Jamie

couldna’ do more for us than fine words and a siller bawbee apiece—gie

us twa hundred of King Wullie’s money and we’ll be taking the oaths.”

 

“I take your meaning, Macdonald,” answered Breadalbane. “The twa

hundred pund would just pay for the coos—well, I’ll keep it and then

you’ll be still owing me the rent.”

 

Makian was silent, recognizing a master-stroke of cunning; Ronald had

little Lowland speech and could only frown angrily; but Ian, his elder,

made a step toward Breadalbane:

 

“We owe ye neither money nor friendship, Jock Campbell,” he cried

fiercely, “we come to ye because ye stand for the government—we’ll no’

be considering what there is between us here and noo.”

 

Breadalbane lifted his head with a little laugh. “Keep back,” he said.

“Dinna forget that I’m no’ ane of your Hieland thieves, but Campbell o’

Glenorchy and Breadalbane! Keep back, I say! Do ye ken that in

Edinburgh the lifting of my finger would hang ye before the Tolbooth?”

 

His eyes shone with a steady contained hate, and fire flashed in Ian

Macdonald’s gaze to meet it.

 

“Na doot ye could lee awa’ a mon’s life in Edinburgh, Jock Campbell,”

he answered, “but noo we stand on our ain ground.”

 

“Ye stand in Kilchurn Castle!” cried the Earl. “Dinna forget that,

Macdonald!”

 

A passionate reply was on Ian’s lips, but the old chief interposed:

 

“Ay, we stand in your ain castle, Jock Campbell, because we treat ye as

the government’s representative—in your public capacity, ye ken. I’ll

no’ be saying it’s greatly to our liking to treat with a Campbell, but

I will be saying it’ll no’ be greatly to your credit to be remembering

ye are a Campbell.”

 

Breadalbane’s hand clutched tightly round his sword-hilt; he struggled

to maintain his wonted dignity of demeanor.

 

“Take the oaths an’ ye will, Macdonald,” he said. “But dinna think

ye’ll get ony siller frae me—not a bawbee. Ye owe me in money and kind

mony times your share o’ the English siller.”

 

Makian drew himself up with stately gravity.

 

“Ye are wrong,” he said. “’Tis not in your right to withhold the money.”

 

“’Tis in my power,” flashed Breadalbane. Ian answered fiercely:

 

“I fling your word of thief back at ye, Jock Campbell!”

 

He was striding forward when his brother and father caught him by

either arm.

 

“We must have no fighting,” cried Ronald in Gaelic. “There are a

hundred Campbells here—woe that we ever came!”

 

Breadalbane, holding himself erect, smiled coldly at them; he had

himself well under control; Makian glancing at his set face felt it had

been a mistake to cross his threshold.

 

There was an intense pause; Ronald scowled till his blue eyes were

hidden; the wily old chief with one hand tightly on Ian’s arm was

considering a means to conciliate or to outwit the Earl.

 

Breadalbane looked at the silent Ardkinglass behind him, then back at

the three Highlanders and his lids drooped till his eyes were hidden.

 

The silence was broken by the opening of the heavy door, and the quick

entry of a woman.

 

It was the Countess Peggy.

 

She wore a green coat and there was some heavy brown fur about her

neck; she carried her hat in her hand and on her shoulders and in her

red curls was a faint powdering of snow.

 

At sight of the three Highlanders she stepped back and the color rushed

into her face. And Ronald had seen her; he turned full to where she

stood and cried:

 

“Helen Fraser!”

 

The two Macdonalds stared at him; but he, breathing fast and flushing,

took no heed of them; it was as if the mere sight of her had uplifted

him from all thought of aught beside.

 

The Earl came, very softly, nearer, but he made no attempt to interpose

when Ronald strode up to the woman.

 

“Helen Fraser!” he cried passionately, “what do ye under a Campbell’s

roof? Ah, God, ye broke bread with me and I cannot forget—I forgive

that ye turned on me, Helen Fraser.”

 

She cut him short:

 

“I am Margaret Campbell,” she said, very white, “and that man’s wife.”

She pointed to Breadalbane with a smile of unutterable pride and before

the glitter of her green eyes Ronald fell back.

 

“But—ye broke bread with me,” he stammered like a stricken man—“and ye

are—Jock Campbell’s wife!” He glared round him with bewildered eyes:

they were all silent, held in a tense hush. The Countess glanced at her

husband, then back to the magnificent figure of Macdonald.

 

He stared at the Earl with wide eyes, stormy and inscrutable; he spoke

very slowly: “So I have kissed Jock Campbell’s wife!” and he laughed,

as if there were tears in his voice.

 

The thing was done; with a sound like a rip of silk the Earl’s sword

was out and the light ran down the length of it before the eyes of the

Macdonalds.

 

“Take the steel’s welcome to Kilchurn!” he cried in their own language

“Thieves and liars! do ye think Campbell o’ Glenorchy is to be insulted

in his own castle?”

 

In a second the Highland dirks were out and the Countess had cried to

Ardkinglass: “Call my cousin, Colin—in the name of God haste!”

 

He dashed from the room and she flung herself forward, with eager eyes

on her husband.

 

He had his back against the wall and was keeping Makian and his son at

bay with the sweep of his long sword.

 

The sight drove the Countess wild: “Two to one!” she shrieked, “ye foul

cowards!”

 

“Hold the woman back!” cried Makian; he had no scruples; what chance

had they for their lives if the Campbells came? and Breadalbane was

before the door. Ronald started at his father’s voice.

 

“Bolt the door!” cried Ian; Ronald obeyed as if he knew not what he did.

 

The Countess dashed forward to stop him and a second time Makian cried:

 

“Hold the woman, Ronald!”

 

This time he turned and caught her by the arm and swung her, not

ungently, back. Under his uplifted arm that held her she saw the

crossing swords of her husband and Makian, and Ian standing grimly by;

she saw Breadalbane hopelessly overmatched and her eyes flashed to the

bolted door.

 

“Let me go,” she said in a quick whisper, staring up into his grave

troubled face. “Oh—take your hands away!”

 

But he held her as firmly against the castle wall as he had done