The Master of Stair 5

The Master of Stair 5

“Ye have done what ye wished,” she said unsteadily. “Put something

between us that I shall remember.” She was trembling; passionately

clasping and unclasping her hands; he came toward her; she clutched at

the reins of her horse and leaped into the saddle.

 

She flung on her hat, her eyes shone through the floating feather and

hair; she had a perfect seat in the saddle; Macdonald noticed how

gloriously she sat and how her proud look became her face.

 

“I am very glad to come with ye,” he said, his fair face flushed. “I

will not leave ye, Helen Fraser, until ye find your kinsfolk.”

 

She had one hand in the pocket of her coat. Her green eyes were on him;

she suddenly spurred her horse forward.

 

Macdonald taken by surprise, stood still a moment, then impulsively

came after her. He saw her turn in the saddle with something glittering

in her hand. The next second the report of a pistol rang out; a flash

of fire through the rain.

 

Ronald Macdonald cried out and fell on his side, shot through the ankle.

 

A sweep of color came into her face as she saw his plaid prone on the

heather; she thrust the smoking pistol into her holster and turned her

horse’s head down the white road that led to Castle Kilchurn.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER III

 

JOCK O’ BREADALBANE’S WIFE

 

 

Loch Awe lay vast and gloomy under the gray skies; it was twilight and

the sky burnt gold and purple with the last of the setting sun behind

Castle Kilchurn. Though it no longer rained, great black clouds lay

over the distant mountains and a thick mist hung over the placid water.

The castle itself, standing huge and magnificent on the tongue of land

that runs into the loch at the foot of Ben Cruachan, bore on the Gothic

turrets the English standard: a symbol of the authority with which the

government had invested the Earl of Breadalbane.

 

Along the road that wound by the edges of the loch to the castle, rode

a woman in a scarlet cloak.

 

The vast expanse of cloudy sky, the huge outlines of misty mountains,

the gloomy castle and the great storm-twisted fir-trees were all tinged

with an air of awe and melancholy.

 

The woman and her bright brown horse were reflected among the shadows

of the broken clouds in the still water; she rode slowly with her face

lifted to the flaring sky and her red hair blown back from her face.

 

There were lights in the windows of the Castle Kilchurn, and the outer

gates stood open.

 

The horsewoman rode through and up to the great entrance, where she

alighted. Before she had time to knock, four or five servants came

hurrying across the courtyard to take her horse, and the door was flung

wide.

 

She silently entered the vast stone hall, and looked about her; a

couple of white hounds came running up to her; a gray-haired butler

stepped forward. She asked him in Saxon:

 

“Is my lord here yet?”

 

“Nay, my lady; he is looking for your ladyship, when he found ye were

missing, he returned to find ye, my lady.”

 

“Let one go after him,” she answered, “to say I am arrived—is my

cousin, Colin, here?”

 

“Yea, my lady; and all the other gentlemen.”

 

She flung off her damp coat and ascended the great, bare unfurnished

stairs.

 

On the first landing she came into a glare of light that fell through

an open door; servants were passing to and fro, and there was the sound

of many voices.

 

She entered; stood in the doorway looking down the room.

 

It had been the dining-hall of the old castle; it was a large room with

tapestry on the walls and a huge log fire burning on the hearth.

 

Round the black oak table a party of gentlemen were dining by the light

of a hundred candles. At sight of the woman in the doorway they all

rose with one exclamation:

 

“The Countess Peggy!”

 

She came down the room smiling.

 

“Ye did expect I had fed the eagles by now?” she asked. “Weel, I’ll no

be saying but I was fearfu’ of it mysel’—welcome to Kilchurn,

gentlemen—gude even to ye, Colin.”

 

She held out her hand to the gentleman at the head of the table and

took her place beside him, while the others reseated themselves.

 

“So my lord wanders on the mountains searching for me?” she said. “And

ye’ll no be having a great opinion of my wits for getting lost.”

 

The green eyes glanced round; some ten men were seated there; all

fair-haired, unmistakably of one race, her own, Campbells with keen

faces.

 

“I was no greatly fearing for ye,” said her cousin, Colin Campbell of

Ardkinglass. “Ye will be knowing these parts vera weel, I thought ye

could find your way to Kilchurn.”

 

The Countess Peggy laughed.

 

“Weel, I’m blithe to be out of the mist and wet,” she said. “Albeit I

have gotten a great cold.”

 

“Ye didna’ come in with any of the murdering Hielandmen?” asked one of

the gentlemen.

 

The Countess poured out some wine and drank it before she answered.

 

“Yea—I was put on my way by one of the Glencoe men.”

 

A murmur ran round the table.

 

“Macdonald o’ Glencoe!”

 

Lady Breadalbane’s green eyes flashed: “Ay,” she said. “He’d been

thieving an’ murdering—burning one of my lord’s houses, he said. He

showed me Campbells rotting on the trees and—”

 

She checked herself abruptly; her keen glance roved round the grim

Campbell faces. “I think we’ve taken enough from these Macdonalds of

Glencoe,” she said slowly.

 

There was a little deadly pause; it was not easy for a Campbell to

voice his feelings for a Macdonald.

 

It was the Countess who spoke first: “They’re vera simple, these

savages; I told him I was a Fraser.”

 

“It was wise,” remarked her cousin dryly. “If he had kenned ye were

Breadalbane’s wife, weel, ye wouldna’ be here noo.”

 

“Indeed, they do hate my lord,” she answered. “I had to listen to some

miscalling of Jock Campbell—as they name him.” Her thin lips curled

into a bitter smile. “I tried to sound him about this conference—ye

ken—this matter my lord has on hand for quieting the Hielands—‘we’ll

never take the oaths’—he says—‘Jock Campbell’s got the money in his

coffers for himsel’—we may come,’ he says, ‘but we’ll enter into no

treaty with a Campbell.’”

 

“Puir fules,” said one of the company. “They think we _want_ them to be

taking the oaths to King William?”

 

“They’re no’ so simple as that,” answered another. “But they consider

the new government’ll need something for its money—an’ if a Campbell

can’t quiet the Hielands—some one else can try—it’s plain they’re bent

on ruining the negotiations out of spite to Breadalbane.”

 

The Countess Peggy set her wine-glass down fiercely: “Weel,” she said,

“’tis the end of October noo, an’ they must take the oaths by

January—they’ve been dallying for two years—but I’m no’ thinking either

we or the government will be taking any more.”

 

“Lochiel and Glengarry show signs of yielding,” said Colin Campbell,

“though they demand, ye ken, too much of the money—and Coll a’ the

Cows, the ould murdering thief, he’ll come in to save his ugly neck—but

Macdonald of Glencoe will na’.”

 

“I dinna think we shall be troubled as how to treat them,” answered

another. “They’ll be rebels—it’ll be a fine chance to be clearing the

country of a den of thieves.”

 

The Countess Peggy’s eyes flashed at the speaker a meaning look.

 

“My lord’ll be equal to them,” she smiled.