The Chieftain (9 page)

‘Isobel—Isobel—It is the fiery cross—The Prince has come!’

Chapter Six

‘The Prince has come!’

So it had happened, the terrible thing they had all dreaded for so long. The flame of rebellion kindled again in the Highlands to sweep down on the peace and prosperity of the south, bringing pillage and havoc and rapine, leaving the scars to linger long after it had been quenched.

And then Isobel recollected with a strange sensation that she was herself now linked in marriage to those terrible Highlanders, a part of them. The worst had already happened to her. She could have nothing more to fear. She could even hope, just a little, that the failure of the rebellion might bring her freedom. But at what cost?

She thought of her parents and all those she loved, still unsuspecting as yet of what was to come. And then she glanced round at the faces about her, and they seemed disfigured with blood-lust and battle fever, the long hatred of the Lowlander brought to horrible life. A chill shudder went through her.

Her coolness communicated itself even to Hector, elated though he was. Abruptly, he released her and said curtly: ‘Go to your room—I will come. This is men’s work,’ and then stepped forward, forgetting her, to greet the approaching runner.

Isobel did not dare to disobey. Nor did she wish to linger any longer among these men made drunk on emotions as primitive and ancient as the mountains and shoreline of this wild land. She slipped away and ran quickly to the sanctuary of the bedroom, closing the door behind her, as if she could somehow shut out the scene she had witnessed.

The room was quiet and orderly, reassuringly civilised. Again she was struck by the contrast between Hector the barbarian chieftain at whose hands she had suffered, and the man who had, supposedly, left something of himself imprinted in this room.

It was almost dark now, and she crossed to the table to light the candles that stood beside the mirror. Her own face gazed eerily back at her, lit by the flickering flames, the eyes wide and dark with fear of the unknown.

She had thought before that the future held unforeseeable terrors, but she saw now that they were nothing against what might now lie ahead. For at least until today she had been certain that somewhere her parents and friends were alive and well and prospering, that something safe and normal lived on to reassure her that the whole world had not turned to chaos. Now there was no longer any certainty or safety.

She was still sitting before the mirror when Hector came in. He seemed almost feverish with excitement, moving restlessly about the room as he talked, the words tumbling out one over the other, his eyes bright, his hands gesturing eagerly.

‘We have dreamed of this moment through all the years, Isobel. And now he is here—He landed two days ago, and the call has gone out.’

‘Was that what the fiery cross meant? The sign to call you out?’
 

Hector nodded. ‘It is the ancient call to war of our people. We shall not hesitate. We leave at dawn.’

A cry broke from Isobel. ‘At dawn!’ She did not know why she felt so dismayed.
 

Hector came to stand beside her, taking her hands in his.

‘You are my wife, so you must try to understand,’ he said, his face alight, imploring, as she had never known it to be before. ‘Our Prince has come, to lead us to war against the German Usurper in England. We shall rise to sweep him from the throne and bring to his inheritance our rightful King, our wronged King James. Thirty years we have waited and prayed and hoped and planned, and now the call has come. Are we now to say “Not yet—Give us two days more—Give us time”? No, Isobel, when the call comes, we follow, without fear or doubt or hesitation. Our Prince awaits us, on our own dear soil.’

‘But,’ Isobel returned, her voice hesitant, slow against the lilting outpouring of his words, ‘last time the rising failed, completely. The leaders were executed. It did not ever seem that it
might
have succeeded, so I have been told. What makes you think it will be different this time?’

‘Because we shall make it different!’ Hector replied, his fervour unquenched. ‘Every man who hesitates, who preaches caution, who fears failure - every timid spirit - threatens our enterprise. But every man who casts fear and doubt behind him and answers the call is worth ten of those others. It is not for us to ask if we shall succeed, but to go because we must. And we shall win, Isobel, this time we
shall
win! The Prince is young and brave; not like his father—he can lead us to victory.’
 

Looking into those burning eyes Isobel almost believed him. The Highlanders would be confronted by trained and seasoned troops, some of the best in Europe, her father said. But those troops did not know the Highlands as Hector did; they were not fired by ancient traditions of loyalty and honour; they had not the fierce warlike spirit of the men she had seen outside this evening. It would be like the setting of one way of life against another, the centuries-old fabric of the clans, bound by blood and loyalty, against the disciplined order of a modern army. In the Highlands the old ways might have the victory.
 

But to restore the Old Pretender - King James III, the Eighth of his name in Scotland - to his throne, the rebels must march south, far from their familiar hills, to the Lowlands, and England, and at last to London.

And in their path, whatever the outcome, they would carry the war with them.
 

Isobel shivered. ‘Let me go home,’ she said in a whisper.

For a moment Hector gazed at her blankly, as if he did not understand her. She had broken into his dream of glory and victory with her poor little request, and he could not immediately take it in. And then the fire died in his eyes, and he withdrew his hands and turned away.

‘You will be safer here,’ he said, without warmth. She could see that she had offended him.

‘I know,’ she replied steadily. ‘But if my parents are in danger then I want to be with them.’

He faced her, his brows frowning sharply. ‘You are my wife,’ he reminded her. ‘Your place is here.’

‘Not by choice,’ said Isobel. ‘How can you expect me to be moved by an appeal of that kind? I owe you nothing—Except hatred, perhaps, for what you have done to me.’

‘I have given you my name,’ he retorted angrily, and Isobel laughed out loud.

‘Do you really think I should be grateful for that?’ Even as she posed the question she saw that he did indeed think something of the kind. Amazingly, he held her in such contempt that he thought he had done her some kind of honour by abducting her and forcing her into a coldly calculated marriage with a Highlander of his birth and rank. Her eyes widened as the truth dawned on her, and then she flared into anger. ‘How can you be so arrogant! You think you’re God’s gift to mankind because you’re born a Highlander. Let me tell you that to any right-thinking person a Highlander is a thief and a barbarian and the lowest scum of the earth.’

His hand flew up as if to strike her, and she recoiled sharply. But the hand fell harmlessly to his side, though he stood breathing quickly with anger, his eyes sparkling.

‘A Highlander does not strike a woman,’ he said stiffly, as if it cost him a superhuman effort to abide by that principle. ‘But nor does he readily forget insults. Remember that, though you are my wife. And tell me,’ he went on, a little more calmly, ‘what is so virtuous about the Lowlander, whose way of life is devoted to the getting and spending of money, by fair means or foul? To my people there are higher aims for which to live.’

‘Have you forgotten why you married me?’ asked Isobel acidly.

‘Exactly,’ he returned quickly. ‘It is for those higher aims that I did so. For love of my people, to give them the means to live, not in luxury and soft comfort, but simply to thrive and grow strong. Because what we have is good and sweet and must be cherished above all.’

‘Even at the cost of stealing cattle - and women - and of murder? Oh, I’ve heard all about your ways, Hector. John Campbell has chosen to turn his back on your fine Highland principles, but he remembers what he has left behind, and he has told me something of it.’

She saw her words had struck home, for the colour rose in his cheeks.

‘Do not dare to speak that name under this roof or I shall indeed strike you!’ he threatened.

‘John Campbell is a good man,’ Isobel returned defiantly. She saw his hands clench, and kept her eyes on them, warily.

‘Dhia!’
he exclaimed, as if the restraint was unbearable. And then he drew a deep breath, and seemed to recollect himself. ‘We are wasting time, Isobel. Let us leave it. There is enough to be done before dawn.’

‘Then may I not go home?’ she asked again.

‘No, damn you, woman, you may not!’ he shouted. ‘Your place is here, and here you shall remain until we return. And I expect from you all the dutiful submission of a wife who waits for her husband. You will remember the name you bear, and honour it. If you do not, then I shall hear of it.’

‘So you set your clansmen to act as spies?’ she asked. ‘Is that also part of the fine honourable Highland way of life?’

‘Don’t taunt me, woman. Remember only that I shall be revenged, if I find cause enough.’

She shivered at the menace in his tone, but kept her head high and hoped that he saw only defiance in her eyes.

Isobel slept very little that night. She was relieved that Hector allowed her to go early to bed and that her wifely duties did not seem to extend to helping the clan to prepare for armed rebellion. She had no wish at all to be a part of that. But once in bed she had small hope of resting.

All night the bustle of preparation continued without ceasing. Voices called, feet ran up and down stairs, weapons clattered, ponies whinnied and dogs barked. Now and then Hector came in to take something from the chest or the cupboard and carry it downstairs. He did not waste time in speaking to her, or even looking her way.

It was not until after midnight that she fell asleep at last, and it seemed as if her eyes had only that moment closed when Hector’s hand was on her shoulder, shaking her awake.

‘Come, Isobel, it is time.’

It was still dark, and the candles burned on the table. Spread over the chair was Hector’s plaid, and resting against it the great sword she had seen in the chest, and the round leather-covered shield from the cupboard. Hector wore shirt and trews and a tartan jacket, and his hair was tied back with unaccustomed neatness. His tingling excitement reached her at once.

‘Come, help me make ready!’ he commanded.

She scrambled yawning from the bed, dressed in the inevitable plaid, and then came obediently to pin the brooch that secured his own plaid. Now, as he was about to set out on the greatest adventure of his life, Hector wanted his wife to carry out the small duties that any Highland wife would perform for her husband at such a time. He stood smiling slightly as she buckled the sword belt about him, her fingers fumbling at the unfamiliar task, and pulled the folds of the plaid to lie at their most graceful across his shoulders; handed him dirk and pistol to thrust in his belt, and then held out the bonnet with its eagle’s feather for him to take with a quiet word of thanks. Then she stood back and looked at him, seeing a stranger dressed for war. His magnificence drew a reluctant admiration from her; and a fiercely repressed impulse to embrace him and wish him well.

‘Now to breakfast,’ he said, linking her arm through his.

She felt strange as she left the room at his side, drawn into this elaborate drama, the devoted wife parting with her heroic husband. His mood had caught her against her will, and she found herself playing her part with grave dignity. She was not sure if she did so because she was still half asleep or because she was afraid of what he might do if she refused to do as he asked. Whatever it was, she found herself unable to resist.

In the hall the clansmen were gathered, and the tables set with a simple breakfast. To Isobel’s surprise many of the women were there, brought back some time during the night. But perhaps that was not so surprising, for they must love the men who were setting out on this enterprise of deadly danger. For them there would be no excitement, no longing for battle to rouse their spirits. Only fear, because they must know that their men were marching in open rebellion against all the might of England. And even in Ardshee, isolated by sea and mountain, they must know what that could mean.

Hector led her to the cold fireplace, where old Mairi MacLean waited quietly, her son Hugh at her side. In her eyes Isobel read a pride and love so great that they veiled the fear lurking there. She would not show the two men who meant so much to her what it cost her to part with them. Briefly she glanced at Isobel, with a sudden warmth, as if to say,
Do as I do. Keep your dignity.
 

Does she really think I care what becomes of them all?
thought Isobel.

‘My foster mother will remain here at the castle with you,’ said Hector quietly. ‘You will learn much from her.’

So she is the spy,
thought Isobel, but she merely smiled coolly, politely, at the old woman, and said nothing.

The men ate on their feet, as if their errand today was too urgent to be delayed by a leisurely meal. And as they ate the women brought food for the journey, oatmeal and cheese and bannocks, and then carried to husbands and brothers and fathers the white cockades that their chieftain distributed, the knot of white ribbon marking their loyalty to King James. With shaking hands Isobel did as the other women, and pinned Hector’s own cockade to his bonnet, with a sickening sense that this must, very likely, amount to treason.