The Master of Stair 4

The Master of Stair 4

As he raised them he looked at the woman; she showed through the cloudy

smoke brown and gold and brilliant; her hair was as vivid as the little

tongues of flame she held her hands over.

 

“From the Campbells,” he said, putting the goblets down, “and this from

the King—in France.”

 

He brought out a slender bottle of wine and stripped off the wicker

covering.

 

“We keep these things hidden here,” he explained, “so that when any

cannot reach the Glen they may find food.”

 

He turned over the skins and heather till he found a rough cake of

grain. Helen Fraser rose and came up behind him.

 

“Are these your takings from the Campbells?” she asked, and picked the

goblets up. They were very handsomely engraved with the arms of John

Campbell, Earl of Breadalbane.

 

Macdonald lifted the glittering wine with an eager smile.

 

“We drink as royally as Jock Campbell with his Lowland luxuries,” he

cried. “This is King’s wine.”

 

She held out one of the goblets while he filled it and let the other

drop.

 

He put his lips to it, then held it out to her with something like a

challenge in his eyes.

 

“Drink with me, Helen Fraser.”

 

She took it, drank, and gave it back to him with the same unmoved smile.

 

“Now we are pledged friends,” he cried. “But wait—ye shall break bread

with me—”

 

“I cannot eat,” she said. “Believe me—I am sick with weariness.”

 

He looked at her keenly over the brim of the brilliant wine-cup.

 

“Ye shall do it,” he said. “I would be allied with thy clan.”

 

He broke the bread and salt that to him formed a rite impossible to

violate and gave it her with eager blue eyes on her face.

 

She took it slowly, afraid to show reluctance, and ate a little while

he watched her closely.

 

Then he put one of the skins on the log and another under her feet, and

stirred up the fire to give her warmth.

 

She had become very silent; she took his care with no thanks,

passively, but all the while her jewel-like eyes were covertly studying

him.

 

He came and sat opposite to her; his huge shadow dancing behind him.

Between them lay her steaming red coat, the gold wine-cups, and the

elegant French bottle, brilliant on the mud floor.

 

Outside the rain was coming down less heavily, but the wind had risen

and they could hear the rocking of the fir-trees.

 

She spoke at last, in her quiet voice: “Do you go to the conference

Breadalbane holds at Glenorchy?” she asked. “You know he calls the

Highlands thither to treat of peace—and loyalty to the new King.”

 

Macdonald laughed:

 

“And the gold he hath to buy us fills his own coffers—there will be no

peace while Jock Campbell treats,” he answered.

 

“But many great chiefs have gone,” she said, “And the whole force of

the new King is behind Breadalbane—”

 

“We may go,” replied Macdonald. “But we will not take the oaths.”

 

Another silence fell; she stirred the smoldering peat with her foot; he

seemed to be utterly absorbed in watching her; she had taken his wild

fancy most suddenly, most completely.

 

“I must go on,” she said at last. “They will be searching for me.”

 

She rose and put back her glittering hair.

 

“And I will go with you,” said Macdonald, rising too.

 

She looked over her shoulder; seemed to hesitate, a drift of the peat

smoke floated between them, through it he saw her face, white, calm,

and her narrow, brilliant eyes.

 

She picked up her damp coat and hat.

 

“I can go alone if you will put me on my road to Loch Awe,” she said.

“It cannot be far.”

 

“Too far for you alone,” he cried. “You—surely you are afraid?”

 

Helen Fraser put on her coat and turned up the great collar before she

answered.

 

“And are not you afraid to go any further through Jock Campbell’s

lands?”

 

He was stung by her poise and strangeness. “Helen Fraser, ye are mad to

think to go alone!”

 

She had caught up her hat and very swiftly opened the rough door.

 

The first blast of the wind made her shudder, but she stepped out into

the rain with a resolute carriage.

 

Her horse was tethered close under some fir-trees: his glittering

harness was the only bright thing in the gloomy landscape; he lifted

his head at sight of his mistress and she turned toward him.

 

But she was stopped by Macdonald’s hand on her shoulder.

 

“Look about ye, Helen Fraser—and think if ye would go alone!”

 

She glanced at him and then about her; below them the river Orchy,

tumbled through the ravine, about them the mountains towered into the

mist, to either side were great broken spaces of heather, moss and bog;

straight before them ran a strip of dirty white road that wound through

the Glen of Orchy. Over all was the veil of the pitiless rain and the

sound of the tossing fir-trees.

 

Helen Fraser, erect, bareheaded, looked on it unmoved.

 

“Where does that road lead?” she asked.

 

Macdonald’s blue eyes flashed.

 

“To Castle Kilchurn—Jock Campbell’s house,” he answered. “Not your

way—your kinsfolk can have no business there.”

 

“No,” she said, and coughed and shivered. She gave no sign of where she

was going or upon what errand she and her clan were bound, and he,

having broken bread with her, would not deign to question; she might be

concerned in some of the intricate politics or feuds of the Highlands;

he felt it no matter of his, but he also felt he would not lose sight

of her so easily.

 

She spoke again, suddenly:

 

“I would rather go alone—I can find my way—I have been here before.”

 

A great color came into Macdonald’s face; he put his hands on her

shoulders and turned her round so that she faced him.

 

“Why do you so loathe my company?” he demanded. “I am a prince.”

 

She breathed a little heavily to feel him holding her—but her face was

unmoved.

 

“I have a friendship for you and all the Macdonalds,” she said.

 

“Well, prove it,” he answered eagerly.

 

“Let go of me,” she said a little unsteadily. “I have broken bread—and

drunk with ye.” She shook her head, tossing the damp red curls off her

white forehead and her lips trembled a little.

 

“Let go of me,” she repeated.

 

He looked at her steadily and smiled: “The witches of the mountains

have brought us together, Helen Fraser—I shall find you again—and as a

pledge—ye shall kiss me.”

 

“I will not,” she answered. “Take your hands away, Macdonald of

Glencoe!”

 

But he held her gently against the mud walls of the hut; heedless of

her shudder under his touch.

 

A great rowan-bush full of dull berries grew close; her scarlet dress

pressed against the dripping leaves as she drew as far as she was able

away from him.

 

“Ye shall—” he said simply. “Why not?”

 

She was still and quiet though she saw she was helpless.

 

“We are strangers,” she said quickly.

 

“I would not have it so,” he answered eagerly. “Through war or peace I

would be a friend to thee and thine—and I would have thy kiss on it—so

that there may never be feud between mine and thine—kiss me, Helen

Fraser!”