The Chieftain

by Martin, Caroline

  She sat up, relieved that her head no longer ached, though she could still feel the bruise on her skull. She could almost touch the door from her bed, so small was the room, but not quite. She rose cautiously onto unsteady legs and took the two steps that brought the latch within reach of her hand.

  It was locked, of course. She might have known that it would be. She moved instead to the little square unglazed window, and felt the cool freshness of sea wind on her face. The grey-blue surface of the sea beyond dazzled her eyes after the dimness of her room. They must be close to the shore, for she could see a thin edge of green beyond the water, as of a hillside rising steeply. It was very quiet. There was no sound of feet on the deck, no clamour of voices, no land-noises from further off. Only the solitary mournful mewing cry of a gull broke the silence.

  She stood gazing out and listening for some time, and then sudden panic seized her. Where were they all? What had happened? Was she alone here on the ship, locked up, in some deserted harbour where she would never be found?

  She ran to the door and began to pound on it with her fists. The sound seemed pitifully feeble against the gentle lap of the waves, the cry of the gulls.

  ‘Where are you? Let me out!’ she cried, her voice breaking with disuse and terror. And then relief overwhelmed her as she heard an answering step from outside. Even the company of that grim follower of Hector’s would be preferable to being deserted, a forgotten prisoner, on some strange coast. She sank down on the mattress and waited.

  It was Hector himself who came in, his brows drawn together in a frown. ‘What ails you, woman?’ he demanded. ‘You’ve all you need, have you not? There is no call for you to be making that din.’

  All I need! she thought, gazing at him wide-eyed. How can anyone be so stupid, so insensitive? I am his prisoner, taken from all I know and love, and he can imagine for one moment that I have all I need! A great lump threatened to choke her, and she felt the tears fill her eyes, but she would not let them fall. He shall not have that satisfaction, she thought. Fiercely, she cleared her throat and asked, as coolly as she could:

  ‘What has happened? Have we reached your... Where—?’

  ‘Ardshee?’ He shook his head. ‘We are anchored here until the wind changes, to give the rowers a rest. That is all.’

  He was silent then, and stood looking down at her, deep in some unreadable thoughts of his own. She watched him uncomfortably, unable to think of anything to say, but longing to break the silence.

  In the end he broke it himself, saying abruptly: ‘They are on shore just now.’

  So we are alone, she thought; not quite sure why that should make her shiver.

  But a moment later she knew; for he reached out suddenly and drew her to her feet and into his arms, his grasp relentless about her. For an instant she stiffened, her palms against his shoulders, turning her head aside with close-shut mouth. Then—

  Not again! said her wildly thudding heart, and her weakening limbs, and she did not know what exactly it was that she feared; or indeed if this was fear at all.

  Whatever it was there was no escape. His mouth found hers, warm, ruthless, demanding, and all her resistance melted, more quickly, more surely, than it had that first time. The protests of her brain were stilled, drowned in a wave of desire and longing. Her arms lifted and slid about his neck and he carried her to that narrow bed; and there, for the second time, Hector made her his own.

  When, later, he had drawn away from her, and straightened his clothes and left her without a word, she knew exactly what she had feared so much, as his arms had closed about her.

  At that moment it had not been the harm he could do to her that had frightened her, or the fact that she was a helpless captive, or her loneliness, or any other fear that would have been natural enough in the circumstances. No, what frightened her lay in herself, a terrible, newly-discovered weakness to which, shamefully, this man she hated held the key. One touch of his fingers, one fierce meeting of his mouth with hers, and he had her entirely in his power, lost and helpless. All her hatred, all she ought to feel for a man who had so deeply wronged her, could be swept away in an instant by the wild call of his blood to hers. Only for that little while, until, his lust satisfied, he had turned from her, all interest gone; only until shame and self-disgust swept over her, that she should be so weak.

  Trembling now, she closed her eyes and clenched her fists and tried somehow to believe that when next he came to her - as he surely would - she would meet his passion with coldness and anger, so that he would only be able to take her by force, or not at all. But the lingering contentment of her body, half-naked on the narrow bed, gave the lie to her hopes. Perhaps, in time, when passion was no longer new to her, or strange...

  Voices calling on deck roused her from her thoughts, and a little later they brought more food to her. And then, towards evening, the creaking of timbers, the resumption of the strange chanting song of the oarsmen, the rapidly increasing motion of the boat, told her that they had set sail once more. She did not see Hector again that day.

  Chapter Four

  The night seemed interminable. Isobel did not sleep again, for last night’s rest had taken the edge from her exhaustion and she was too unhappy to be able to find that simple refuge from her misery. Even to lie on the bed, inactive, had become too much of an ordeal, for then the confused, bewildering emotions, the dreadful fears, rose up clamorously in her brain and brought her close to crying out.

  So for most of the night she paced the uneven floor of the tiny cabin, or stood at the window, gazing out at the black heaving waters, finding a little refreshment in the salt spray on her face.

  Once she wept, long slow sobs that went on and on as if her heart would break. But in the end they too ceased to offer any relief, for she had no hope of comfort.

  At home, or during the years of James Carnegie’s illness, even at her worst moments there had always been friends to bring her affection and tenderness, people who loved her and wanted to help her. It had never been as bad as this.

  That, she thought, was the worst part of her present plight. When she had married James Carnegie - in willing obedience to her parents, trusting the choice they had made for her - she had still been afraid, a young girl facing the unknown, aware that she had promised to give herself to a man she scarcely knew and did not love. But those she did love, and who loved her, had been close by to support and comfort her. As they had when her husband of a few hours had been struck down, an invalid to the end of his days; as they had when she had been turned overnight from a wife of sorts, to a nursemaid...

  Now she had no one to turn to, no one to love her. She was utterly alone, amongst people who for the most part could not even speak her language, who wanted her money or her body, but cared nothing for the frightened girl inside; who seemed at times almost to hate her, if the light in the eyes of the tall Highlander was any guide. She did not know what kind of life she would have to lead at her journey’s end, but instinct told her it would be frighteningly alien to anything she knew. This little ship, bobbing on the black waves, was carrying her further and further into the unknown.

  With relief she saw the dawn light creep into the sky. Nothing could seem quite so bad in daylight as it had in the grim moments before dawn. But it did not help a great deal. She felt numb now, as if everything she did, all that happened to her, was part of a dream, grey and unreal. She had almost come to believe that soon she would wake and find herself in her own dear room at home with the birds chorusing joyously in the garden beyond the window - when the cabin door was flung wide and two Highlanders came in and led her, one grasping each arm, into the daylight.

  The shock of icy spray and sea wind flung in her face as she stepped onto the deck drove out any lingering doubt as to whether or not she was awake. But the scene before her stopped her in her tracks. Nothing had prepared her for this.

  The waves stretched silver grey and dancing to a mountainous shore, the dark rugged peaks outlined against
a morning sky streaked with palest green and amethyst and rose. And as she watched the sun slid with copper brilliance over the horizon and the landscape woke to life.

  Thick woods covered the nearer slopes, blue-shadowed and gold-edged like the mountain peaks above - kindly mountains, softened by young bracken and the gentler line of the trees. Here and there a burn splashed white into the sea, and higher up the silver gleam of a waterfall shone through the branches. To their left - towards the west - a small loch broke into the shoreline, blue and calm under the morning sky, and straight ahead a solitary, single-towered castle perched arrogantly upon a headland, the waves tossing their spray upon the rocks at its feet.

  A soft exclamation broke into her wondering trance. Isobel turned her head to see Hector near to her, gazing as intently as she had done at the shore. She saw, with astonishment, that his dark eyes were bright with tears. She knew, then, where they were.

  He noticed her at last and came, laughing, and flung his arm about her waist, crying out joyously in his own language. His delight touched her, and she longed to understand him, but one glance at the hesitation in her eyes drove from him all trace of that moment of warmth. He drew away, and turned to the tall Highlander at his other side, and they were soon lost in excited talk, forgetting her.

  The wonder of the sunrise had evaporated now, unrecoverable. The rowers, who had paused for a moment in acknowledgement of its splendour, bent again to their work, their voices raised more vigorously than ever in the rhythmic chanting song that lightened their task. Isobel stared at the swiftly-approaching land, and tried to find some clue as to what awaited her.

  Ardshee: that, she supposed, must be the name of the castle and its land, for they were turning slightly east beneath it and making for a little bay, half hidden by the rocky headland. As they entered it, passing the castle to their left, the wind dropped suddenly, the waves were still, the chanting ceased, and a great quietness fell over the ship.

  Around the bay, sheltering it, towered great rock-strewn cliffs, softened by trees growing even where the slope seemed almost vertical: oak, rowan, birch, clinging against all the odds to rock and grass, vibrantly golden-green in the early light, though the sun still scarcely reached the mouth of the bay. As the ship moved into the shadow the echoing chorus of a thousand bird voices reached them, as if struck up in welcome.

  A cry from the land disturbed the tranquillity, and Isobel’s gaze moved to the narrow shingle beach that fringed the bay at the foot of the trees. There, where the shoreline widened out at the innermost corner of the bay, half a dozen or so thatched stone huts huddled as if for shelter. And from them men were running, gathering on the beach, their excited shouting echoing against the cliff walls.

  Close to the shore the ship grounded gently, its single square sail furled, its oars drawn into the side, the rowers scrambling to their feet and stretching cramped limbs. Isobel wondered how they were to reach the land, for there were still several yards of cold dancing water between ship and shore.

  Then came a sudden dramatic pause. She saw the rowers turn their heads towards the prow, saw Hector step forward to the side of the ship, the tall Highlander a pace or two behind him. And a small stately clansman took up his position close to his chieftain, hoisted bagpipes to his mouth, and began to play.

  Isobel had not often heard bagpipes played, and had the lowest opinion of their musical qualities; but she had to admit to herself that this was different. A solemn melody, full of grandeur, following a strange intricate informal pattern of its own, carried over the quiet water.

  It was like some old tale, full of heroic phrases and magnificent language, weaving a fabric of brave deeds and noble sacrifice. It was not music as she knew it, but it had unexpected power, and somehow it was entirely suited to the wild landscape and the appearance of the listeners, grave-faced, barbaric, yet suddenly dignified.

  She glanced at Hector, a motionless figure but for the quiver of the eagle’s feather in his blue bonnet and the fluttering of his plaid. His eyes were bright, with pride and some warmer emotion, and his expression had something of the solemnity appropriate to a man taking part in a religious ceremony.

  Then, all at once, the pipes leapt into a lively martial rhythm, and the spell was broken. There was a splash, and Isobel saw that one of the men had already jumped into the water and was running towards the shore, heedless of the waves beating about his bare legs. Laughing, shouting, the rest followed, greeting their friends on the beach with handclasps and embraces. Two men stood knee-deep in the sea and reached up to lift Hector and carry him shoulder-high to dry land, cheered on by the others, and the piper strode through the water at their side to serenade his return.

  Just as Isobel had begun to fear herself forgotten, the tall Highlander guided her to the side of the ship, swung himself into the water, and lifted her over into his arms. As easily - and carelessly - as if she were merely a sack of hay, he carried her to the shore and set her down on the beach. And then, his duty done, he rejoined his chieftain, now almost hidden in a clamouring throng of delighted clansmen.

  Isobel’s legs felt strange, unsteady, as if they needed the rocking of the boat to give them strength. She stood alone where the small waves lapped the shingle and looked about her, shivering a little, with fear and loneliness rather than with cold.

  Here, close to the clustering huts, any charm they might have had from a distance disappeared. They were roughly built, she could see that, of large rounded stones without mortar, the weather-beaten heather thatch giving them a ragged appearance. And over them all hung an unpleasant smell: the stink of dirt and damp and poverty, of animals and humans living too close for comfort or cleanliness.

  Not, she reflected, that there were any animals to be seen, beyond a lean dog scavenging among the scraps on the midden nearby, and two scrawny hens. Nor even many humans, she realised, looking about her. Three men only were left on the shore, calling to a fourth still busy on the ship. The piper and most of the others had set out with Hector and the tall Highlander along a little path that curved its way up the slope from the bay, and then turned along the headland towards the castle. The huts had a look of desolate decay, as if they had been long deserted. Yet the men who had run to meet them had come from them.

  Isobel shivered again, her dislike of the little settlement growing with every moment. She drew her cloak closer about her and turned to follow Hector and his companions.

  The path twisted narrowly through thickly growing trees, rising sharply at first, and then levelling out at the summit of the headland to turn back on itself and follow the cliff edge, still sheltered by trees but offering dizzying glimpses of the deep wrinkled blue of the water hundreds of feet below. Then, all at once, the path left the wood and emerged into the sunlight, dazzlingly bright, striking a glittering shimmer from the surface of the sea, forcing her to shade her eyes momentarily against its glare.

  Here, the headland narrowed sharply, its rocky surface spread with rough grasses, heather, bracken and bog myrtle, to the point where the castle stood, a single solid rectangle of red-grey stone, sharply outlined on its little hill against the cloudless sky.

  She knew, in some part of her brain, that this was Hector’s home, now hers. But the knowledge was unreal, and meant nothing to her. From the moment of landing everything had been so strange, so alien, that she could not really believe she had any part in it. The very air was unfamiliar, warm and soft and languorous, heavy with the fragrance of bog myrtle and spiced with the tang of the sea.

  The fact that everyone ignored her only added to the oddness of the sensation, as if she were a disembodied observer from another world, a world that seemed thousands of miles - centuries even - away from here. Hector had been her one tenuous link with the familiar and the loved, for once he had stood beneath the orchard trees, but now even he was out of sight, beyond a rocky outcrop that edged the path. A dream would have seemed more real, for so often then the sleeper knew that wakefulness, and the familiar ev
eryday world, were one short breath away, just beyond closed lids. From this, for Isobel, there could be no waking.

  As she reached the rocks that had hidden Hector from view, Isobel saw him again, not quite so far ahead, where the path became a narrow track rising steeply to the heavy studded door within its primitive arch, which appeared to be the only entrance to the castle. As they approached, one of the party gave a shout and the door opened. Yet another Highlander stood there, the piper struck up another joyful yet martial tune, and two deerhounds, as lean and alert as Hector himself, leapt out to greet him in a frenzy of barking and waving tails. It was then, just as he reached out to fondle the hounds, that Hector seemed to recall that he had a wife - which was, presumably, the sole reason for his absence from home. He turned, looked at her, and said something to his companion. And with a sinking heart Isobel watched the tall man come towards her.

  He did not relish the errand, she could see that. Very likely he would much rather have shared the homecoming of his master, joined in the laughter, walked in with them to the fire and refreshment made ready in the draughty hall inside the door. Instead, his expression was surly as he led Isobel indoors, to a door that opened from the hall to a winding stone stair.

  Silently, obediently, she climbed the stair before him, round and round until they reached a small landing. Here, he opened another door, ushering her through. She heard the door close behind her and saw that she was alone.

  It was a large room, not very much smaller than the hall below. And it surprised her. It was unmistakably the great bedchamber of an ancient castle, its narrow windows set deep in the thickness of the wall, the door heavily studded, the furnishings made with all the solid simplicity of another age. Yet it was not the primitive place she had expected.

  The hangings on the carved oak bed were old and worn, the boards of the floor darkened with age, but an oriental carpet lay over them, much trodden though it was, and the walls were panelled. There were books arranged on a shelf in one corner, and a modern table set against one wall with a mirror standing on it, and a padded stool before it.