Highland Ballad Part 19

"Are you threatening me ? Do you think I'm bluffing!" he cried, coming to within inches of his father's face. "I am going to the Tower, now. And if I am in any way resisted, I will go to Earl Arthur instead, and put an end to your sorry game."

"You will not ---"

"Watch me!" And he turned on his heel, and made for the door.

Henry Purceville seized his son by the arm, and jerked him back into the center of the room. "Be still , I'm warning you! Don't make me lock you away as well."

With a scream of rage Stephen pushed him off, then flew at him, fists reeling. So great was his fury that he knocked the larger man down and, pinning him there, began to pummel him with half-blocked punches to the face.

Then he felt a sharp pain at the base of his skull, and falling forward, knew no more.

Twenty-Four

The first night that Michael spent alone was indescribable. To have held the treasure of his heart so near, after both had suffered so much, only to be forced to turn her over to the most feared and hated man of the district, and a name of ill repute since childhood.....

There was no reconciling himself to the facts.

That she was his daughter might afford her the narrowest margin of protection. But who could say what an English Lord---his n.o.ble birth a sham, at that---might do when confronted by the threat of an illegitimate child?

And the son, Stephen Purceville. Both Mary and his mother had doctored their accounts of him, knowing Michael's fiery temper of old. But he was wise enough, with the pa.s.sing years, to know when he was being s.h.i.+elded from the truth. The bullet-hole in the portrait spoke for itself, a constant reminder that the younger Purceville was a force, and a danger, unto himself. At best he was an emotional powder keg, p.r.o.ne to sudden threats (and possibly acts) of violence. At worst he was as cold and calculating as his father. The effectiveness of his methods could not be questioned. He had taken the two women he loved, without a fight, from under his very wing. What nest-thieving fox could claim as much?

Such was the image he began to form of his imagined nemesis.

The morning after was no less a torment. Because for all the unquenchable fear and concern he felt for them, Mary and his mother had been right about one thing: he was not well. Nothing short of bed-rest and shelter from the cold would begin to rid him of the debilitating fever, and the deep, constrictive cough that had settled in his chest.

But how could he remain calm, and rest, when those he loved remained in unspeakable danger? Several times he started for the door, only to be halted by the cruel realization that there was nothing he could do.

Not only would the exposure to the elements do injury to himself, but his very presence, in any way connected with them, would only increase their peril ten-fold. And the still deeper question, which lay at the back of all others, which haunted him and gave him no peace:

What could one frail, unarmed man do against the grim, unyielding walls of MacPherson Castle?

As evening began to deepen, and in the same hour that the cell door was being closed upon the women, his inner turmoil reached a fever pitch. Something had to be done! He paced back and forth, howling his rage at the walls.

And yet his mind knew, for all the throbbings of the heart, that he could not yield. He had learned the hard way, in the stockade, that there were times when self-denial and an iron discipline were the only way. And for all the pain it cost him, he knew that he must wrap himself warmly and try to sleep. In the morning there might be some meaningful action he could take. And there was nothing, save pneumonia, that he could accomplish how, alone and in the dead of night.

So he prepared to pa.s.s the dark hours as he had pa.s.sed those previous.

Leaving the fire to burn itself out, he took the stones that had been heating before it, wrapped them in a sling, and carried them up the ladder-stair to Mary's bed, where he would sleep. In the loft he would at least have some warning in the event of a sudden search, as well as the advantage of height in a struggle. There was, perhaps, no reason for the English to return to the cottage.....

Still, he could take nothing for granted. The evening fire was a necessary evil, now smoldering to ash. All else must be patience and concealment, until the morning light brought clearer counsel, or dealt him some new card unforeseen. Until then, patience and hiding.

Patience and hiding.....

He fell asleep.

Twenty-Five

Clear your mind, begin again All that came before is gone; There is no truth, there is no past The day is gone, the light is lost.

The long fought hours slip away To whited stones; The stones are ground to dust Dust blows in the wind, then the song begins again.

The time has come the Judgment soon; Above the mists, beneath the Moon.

Youth to age, and back again And all resounds in death; Death to old and young alike, And all for Heaven's Breath.

Such were the words that Mary heard, as she slipped into a dream. The voice seemed to come from the walls, and the walls from the stone heart of earth, the earth so old it had forgotten them. Too weary and wretched to fight, yet as she spiralled back and always down, the Voice became familiar, and edged all else in fear.

It was the voice of her mother, unburied and unwept.

The voice became a hovering form, which followed her as she walked.

The ground beneath her feet grew hard: it was cold, and the winter wind touched her harshly. Till a great house appeared at the top of a hill, surrounded by well-ordered green.

She drew nearer its stone walls, pa.s.sed through and into warmth and firelight. But it was quickly Night, and in silent corners the shadows gathered thick to hold their counsel. A long corridor it was, and in the distance a candlelight appeared, drawing closer: a large, strong handsome man. He was her father, but she was not his daughter, only Woman already swayed by the strength of his gait, and the unswerving resolution of his hands.

He held a ring of keys, as Ballard had, and like him forced the lock.

The doorway opened and a woman no longer young, but still fair and far from old, sat up in the ghostly bed and wrapped the coverlet about her. And the form of light and darkness was no longer behind her, because it was she, her mother in the bed.

The Lord Purceville took her hard by the wrists, and dared her to scream. But no such sound came, and it puzzled him. Something like love shone in the deep and pleading blue eyes. And pain and pain and pain, because she knew it all before. Yet again the tragedy must be played. And she could only watch, and feel her heart weeping blood as all life was drained by him, the widow-spider.

And then her mother was alone in an unknown room, familiar though she had never seen it, a chalice of poison in her hands. Her face was wet, for the innocent babe that lay wrapped upon the bed. But the anguish and despair were too great, and with trembling limbs she lifted the cup of sorrow to her lips.

Yet bitter was the taste, bitter even as the road which led her to it: the cup was still half full when the baby cried, and something shook in her heart. She uttered a scream, and Anne Scott burst into the room, followed by her brother.

And she did not die, but was taken away. And the child taken from her, forever. The light went out in her soul, and the softness of her heart. . . her youth was gone.

And then she was old and dry, alone in a smoky hut, gnawing on the ends of schemes. Alone in ruin, alone with Death.

But somewhere a door was opened, and in walked the babe, grown to woman. And though she tried not to love her it was in vain: her own Mary, conceived in broken love, the lost treasure of her heart. And she loved her, full love once more, though it was too late. A black curtain was lowered before her eyes, as blood and water flowed from the breast.....

Then large, calloused hands almost Roman, came and took her from the lair, and tied her to a tree. And wood was brought and gathered round.

. . till smoking tongues licked her feet, a beast unproud, devouring death as sure as life, and old and young alike.

Mary shuddered, and her eyes opened wide.

Her eyes were open. She was not sleeping, nor dreaming of a dream. And yet the presence remained. The widow Scott lay breathing evenly, somewhere in the gloom. But the presence remained.

Not a raging ghost, not the white-shrouded form of a woman, but an invisible essence, unimagined: the echo, the afterglow, the spirit of Margaret MacCain. It did not speak to her, but only watched, knowing her thoughts, in some way bound to earth until the drama was played out. Or the dream was gone.

Mary lay still, afraid but understanding. It was not a thing that needed to be taught; it simply was. And she knew it in the depths of her being. And the darkness of Night was infinitely deeper than the darkness of the mind. Fear could not match the hard truth of it.

Thunder rolled beyond the walls in a glowering storm, as spiders crawled freely through the window.

Twenty-Six

Michael woke suddenly, to the sound of the front door being thrown open, and a low scuffling noise in the pa.s.sage which he could not dissect. The door was closed again and voices were heard, along with the m.u.f.fled curses of a man bound. And for all the fugitive plans he had tried to form, Michael knew his one defense now was utter silence.

"The old man's lost his mind," said the first voice, breathing hard but speaking in hushed tones. "How long's he think he can keep things dark, now it's come to this? We can't keep him stowed here like a barrel in the hold forever."

"And you're a d.a.m.ned fool, Stubb," came the second, harsh and uncowed.