‘He is indeed,’ she confirmed, and knew that she did not want to hear what the man had to say next.
‘Then it will be a sad day for him too,’ continued the ferryman.
Isobel suppressed a longing to turn and walk as quickly as she could from this place. The mountains seemed suddenly oppressive, their stark shapes towering over the travellers, the water they had crossed at once dark and deep and sinister. She pulled the plaid about her in a vain attempt to keep out the chill that was creeping through her.
‘Why do you say that?’ she asked quietly, almost with reluctance.
‘You have not heard, then?’ She sensed his grim satisfaction at being first with the news. ‘It would be two days ago now - a terrible day for those that were with the Prince, and an evil place, on Drummossie Moor where they met their fate. That is near Inverness, you see, and the Duke of Cumberland met them there. The Prince has fled, and his army is gone and the King of England is triumphant. There will be widows and orphans in all the Highlands now—’
Isobel stood motionless, numb fingers clenched tight on the folds of the plaid, eyes wide and dark and haunted in her white face. And then she turned to her maid with a new and desperate urgency in her voice.
‘Janet, we must go on quickly. We’ve no time to waste. We must get to Ardshee as soon as ever we can, if we have to walk through the night.’
As they set out again, Janet said sensibly: ‘I don’t see why the news means we have to rush like this. I’m sure I don’t want your husband to have been killed in battle, if that’s what you fear, but I can’t see that it helps if we hurry. In any case, why not go to Inverness and seek him there?’
‘Because if he is alive, even if he is hurt, he will go to Ardshee. Can’t you see that? And if the battle took place two days ago he may be there now, and in need of me.’
‘I should have thought it was the last place he’d go to, as a defeated rebel,’ objected Janet. ‘If they’re after him it’s the one place they’re sure to come seeking him.’
Isobel shook her head fiercely. ‘No, Janet, they’d never find him at Ardshee. It’s too wild and lonely a place for an army to march to. He’ll be safe there—But I must be there when he comes home…’ Her voice trailed off to a whisper, and Janet scarcely heard the final desolate words: ‘…if he comes home.’
They found a second boat to ferry them across Loch Linnhe at the Corran narrows and then walked through the day and most of the following night over the wild mountains and glens of the peninsular of which Ardshee was a part. They found their way by the sun and the stars, for the paths and tracks were few and ill-defined. ‘We must go south west,’ Isobel pointed out, although she felt sure that the force of her love was stronger than any compass, guiding her towards home and the man she loved.
Just after midnight Isobel halted at last and ordered a rest.
‘We must be fresh for our arrival,’ she insisted. Janet was too weary to quarrel with that argument, and they sank down to sleep where they were.
At dawn they woke and ate their fill from the food their last host had packed for them. There was still barley bread and cheese enough for another meal, but Isobel knew they would not be needing that. Even so she resisted the temptation to feed it to the birds, just in case anything went wrong.
But the horror of yesterday had left her now, fading in the quiet spring morning. She was nearly home, back where she belonged, and Hector would be there, and all would be well. She washed carefully in a nearby burn, and combed her hair, and arranged the plaid in its most flattering folds, joining in Janet’s laughter at her efforts.
‘I must look my best for my husband,’ she explained gently, her eyes bright, and Janet shook her head and said nothing, suddenly grown serious.
It was late in the morning when they came to the shieling ground, silent and deserted in the sunlight. Before long, Isobel reflected, as they passed the empty huts and climbed the hill beyond, the women and children would drive their poor cattle up here again to graze and grow fat, and singing and laughter would echo around the sheltered hollow. The rebellion was over, however unhappy its end for Hector and his people, and life could return to its interrupted order, hard, poor, and yet rich in love and loyalty and tradition. And Hector would find he had a wife proud to bear his name and happy to share in his task of caring for his people. Perhaps, thought Isobel, there would soon be children, many children—
‘The sea - look! And a ship, a ship in the bay!’
It was Janet’s cry that broke into her happy dreams and brought Isobel instantly back to the present. A ship! Her heart gave a great leap and she gazed where Janet pointed, at the sea wide and blue below the far mountains, and a ship gently at rest at the mouth of the bay, near the castle on its point. Hector was home!
And then she stood still.
The ship lying at anchor in the water was a splendid sight, proud and magnificent, with sails furled and sunlight gleaming on polished brass and weathered timber and the sinister lines of her guns. She bore no resemblance at all to the primitive little vessel that had carried Hector from Ardshee on that summer morning nearly a year ago. Disappointment brought a prickle of tears to Isobel’s eyes, hastily brushed away.
‘I think it’s a naval ship,’ Janet pointed out. ‘They’ll be busy keeping a watch on the coast, I suppose. Perhaps they want to prevent the Young Pretender from making his escape.’
They walked on towards the point where, Isobel knew, the ground fell away and they would see the castle and the bay and the settlement clearly below them. The trees on the slopes edging the bay would be misted with green and loud with birdsong, the grass laced with violets and primroses. Soon the singing of the women at their work would reach them, clear and sweet on the breeze from the sea. Eager to be with them all again, Isobel broke into a run.
She had just topped the little rise when a flock of birds flew suddenly up from the bay, clamorous with agitation, shattering the quiet of the morning. And almost at once the air was seared with a long and terrible scream of unbearable agony.
Chapter Fourteen
Janet clutched her arm. ‘Mercy on us, what was that?’
‘I don’t know,’ whispered Isobel between white lips.
The agitated lowing of cattle reached their ears, and the crying of children. And then the sharp rattle of musket fire echoed around the cliffs.
Cold with fear, Isobel took the few paces forward that brought the bay into view.
‘Soldiers!’ exclaimed Janet in a low voice.
Small red figures ran like ants among the clustered roofs of the settlement below - in and out of the houses, flinging cooking pots and furniture onto a great heap a short distance away; circling the frightened cattle, herding them together on the ploughed strips of the clan’s fields; backwards and forwards in pursuit of wildly flapping chickens and leaping goats. And at one side the women and children stood, huddled together, ringed with red sentinels.
Alone by the door of one of the houses lay the still form of a man, face down with his plaid about him, and the red of his blood bright on the grass. Even as they watched a group of soldiers dragged a second man from another house, put him roughly against a wall, and shot him. Blood reddened the white of his hair as he slid to the ground.
Isobel sank down on the grass, sickened and appalled, and met Janet’s gaze full of equal horror and disbelief.
‘What can we do?’ mouthed the maid, as white as her mistress. ‘What’s happening?’
‘The old men... They’re shooting the old men who were left behind...’ Isobel spoke as if even now she could not quite convince herself that what she had seen was real.
A third burst of musket fire rattled over the bay, and then there was a tiny, horrible pause, while the birds settled again and even the cattle were quiet. Isobel could not bring herself to look.
A scream more terrible than the first shattered the brief silence, and then was repeated, again and again and again.
On hands and knees the t
wo watchers crept forward to where they could see. And wished at once that they had not.
It was only too clear what the soldiers were doing now, dragging the women from where they were herded like their own cattle, flinging them down on the defiled turf by their houses, raping them one after the other, while the children cried in terror and the screams rose higher and higher into the clear air.
‘Mairi—!’ murmured Isobel in agony. ‘Oh, dear God, what can we do?’
But she knew there was no answer, and the obscene work went on below, unhindered. A child ran out from the little group towards his mother, and they saw a watching soldier strike out at him with his musket, and he fell, lying still on the grass. His mother struggled to her feet and threw herself screaming over the small body, only to be dragged aside and raped again. Isobel began to cry, with slow hard sobs that could bring no relief. She had never felt so utterly helpless as she did now.
‘Your man’s not there then?’ Janet asked dully. It was more of a statement than a question.
‘I think,’ said Isobel with sudden complete conviction, ‘that I would wish him dead, rather than that he should know of this.’
Yet she knew that she did not wish it for herself. She had spoken instinctively, from her love for Hector and her knowledge of what Ardshee and its people meant to him. It was that part of her now that hoped he lay quietly on the bleak moor where his cause had met its end, past grieving for the suffering women below.
In their horrified absorption in what they saw, it had not occurred to the two watchers that there could be any danger for themselves. It was not until a gleeful shout from behind broke into their concentration that they knew that three soldiers, wandering further afield in search of other plunder, had found them.
Instinctively, aware that escape was impossible, they rose to their feet and faced the soldiers. The naked lust in their eyes was horrible, more frightening then the levelled pistol one of them held. The only comfort was that Janet’s solidly Lowland dress made them pause for a moment, suddenly doubtful of the nature of their prey.
‘You keep your distance!’ commanded Janet warningly, and with more vigour than she felt. The soldiers stood still, though one of them smiled unpleasantly, his eyes running over Isobel’s tall figure, graceful beneath the plaid.
‘Someone in authority shall know of what we’ve seen today,’ Isobel put in with reckless courage, aware that this might simply increase their danger.
But the soldiers were quite untroubled by the threat, and merely laughed derisively.
‘Do you think they’d care?’ one returned. ‘After the trouble these savages have given us, anything goes.’
‘What have those women and children ever done to you?’ demanded Isobel indignantly.
‘Now, don’t tell me they don’t know about the rebellion! Don’t tell me they didn’t wave their men off to follow the Pretender with all good wishes for his success! If their men weren’t rebels, they’d be down there protecting their women, wouldn’t they now?’
Before Isobel could protest further, a second soldier dug his companion in the ribs. ‘We’re wasting time—Come on!’ and he took a step towards them.
‘You lay a hand on us and you’re in trouble,’ warned Janet. ‘I’m no rebel, and nor is Mrs MacLean here.’
‘Then what are you doing here. I’d like to know—’ began the soldier, but his companion cut him short.
‘Mrs MacLean did you say? That wouldn’t be the Mrs MacLean who’s wife to MacLean of Ardshee, would it now?’
‘What if it is?’ asked Janet defensively.
‘I reckon our Captain would like a word with you,’ said the soldier with a smirk of satisfaction. The disappointment of the other two men was clear, but the women heard him with relief. That at least offered some respite from whatever fate the soldiers had in mind for them.
This was not how Isobel had dreamed of coming home, marched between two soldiers, her arms harshly gripped, down the slope where the runner had carried the fiery cross on that summer night last year. The third soldier walked beside Janet, but without holding her, as if with respect for her civilised appearance.
Just before the slope of the hill levelled out to the headland there was a smooth knoll, edged on one side by the woods that covered the cliffs, giving a clear view of bay and castle alike. Here they paused, the soldiers scanning the busy scene for their commanding officer, Isobel and Janet feeling only deeper horror as the small details of the looting and murder and rape became clearer. A new dimension was added to their distress as they watched, for red flames shot up suddenly from the thatch of the nearest cottage, crackling brightly through the dry heather stems. They were firing the houses, and their Captain was personally supervising the operation a short distance away.
One of the soldiers ran to tell him of their find, and he turned, unsmiling but gratified, to meet the prisoners. He was a tall spare man in a powdered wig, very smart in his scarlet coat and tricorne hat. There was an excited sparkle of anticipation in his eyes as he strode onto the knoll and stood before Isobel and raised his hat.
‘So you have come home, Mrs MacLean,’ he greeted her, in quiet yet familiar tones.
The man who faced her in all the magnificence of military scarlet was John Campbell, the respected lawyer and once-trusted friend.
Isobel stood transfixed with astonishment and disbelief, aware of an illogical and yet comforting conviction that now they would be safe and all would be well. Yet what logic was there in thinking that, when her eyes told her that John Campbell was responsible for all that they had seen this morning? She gazed at him in confusion and could think of nothing to say.
‘Does your husband know you are here?’ John asked in the same amiably conversational tone. She shook her head, and saw that he was faintly disappointed by her reply. ‘Then you have not seen him since the battle?’
She shook her head again.
‘I think he may be dead,’ she added with difficulty, between dry lips.
‘Indeed? What makes you think that?’
‘A... a feeling,’ she replied evasively, recognising that in an odd way it was almost a hope. She had seen enough today to know Hector could expect no mercy at John’s hands.
‘Ah, but I think he will come back here,’ John went on, smiling a little. ‘You came to wait for him, did you not?’
She said nothing, frightened as once before by the odd light in his eyes; though he clearly knew what her answer would have been.
‘Then you shall do exactly as you planned, my dear, and sit at home to greet him on his return. We had meant to destroy the castle, but you must have a roof to shelter that pretty head. And I don’t doubt we’ll find some comfortable concealment there too while we wait. We shall be ready to give Ardshee the welcome he deserves on his return. There’s to be no quarter given to any rebel, you see, Isobel.’
Isobel shivered, but raised her head defiantly. ‘I’ll have no part in any plan of yours.’
John raised a quizzical eyebrow.
‘No? I think you will, my dear, I think you will.’ He turned to the soldier who stood at Janet’s side. ‘Take the servant to the castle, and see she’s well cared for. She’s done no harm, and she can go home when an escort is available.’
Isobel glimpsed Janet’s face as they led her away, full of mingled amazement and rage and disgust, and above all a naked loathing for the gentlemanly Mr Campbell whom she had believed, once, to be worthy of her liking and respect.
‘Now—’ said John, as they were left with only the two soldiers for company. ‘Now let’s see what is to be done.’
Isobel knew, with sudden clarity, not only that she was very afraid, but also that whatever John threatened, whatever he did to her, he would not bend her to his will.
‘I promised once to make you a widow again,’ he went on, ‘and I shall keep that promise. Sadly, I did not meet with Ardshee on Drummossie Moor - Culloden, as his Highness the Duke is pleased to call the battlefield - and I must admi
t I do not know his fate, except that there was no report of his death. But if he is alive, he will, in time, come back here, will he not? I think you yourself have argued along those lines, or you would not be here now.’ He paused for her answer, but none came and he continued smoothly, ‘I had planned to lie concealed until he came, but the difficulty is that if he is as cautious as he ought to be, it might be difficult for us to lay hands on him once he sees the - er - disarray—’ His hand indicated the burning settlement. ‘On the other hand, were he to find you living peacefully here, mourning the dead but explaining that the trouble is past, welcoming him warmly as a loving wife should - and were I and some others to lie concealed in the castle - then we would have him as neatly as a salmon on a hook. I think you will agree that your return is most apt, in the circumstances.’
‘I shall do nothing, nothing at all, to help you,’ Isobel asserted; then added: ‘And what if he is dead? You will have a long wait.’
‘If he is dead, then word will come to Ardshee. And then, my dear,’ he caressed her chin with his hand, though she drew sharply away, ‘then, my dear, you will be mine. If Ardshee can force you to marriage, then so can I. And after all he did, you came to care for him a little. It could happen again.’
‘Never!’ she lashed out. ‘I’d sooner die!’
‘Be careful,’ he warned. ‘I might take you at your word.’
‘Then do!’ she flung back at him. ‘I meant what I said. You will never hurt Hector through any act of mine - and you will never have me as long as I live!’
John grasped her arms, and she was reminded forcibly of their last angry meeting. But now he spoke softly.
‘Do not think you can protect Ardshee, Isobel. I have sworn to kill him, and I shall kill him, if he lives still. I swore it before ever I met you, for what his father did to mine. When he took you from me that only made me the more determined. And never think either that I want you for your fortune alone. Once perhaps that was true - but not for very long now, not for years. No, Isobel, you were meant to be mine, and one day I shall have you, as surely as this hand will strike down Hector MacLean and make you a widow.’
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