The Chieftain

by Martin, Caroline

  ‘Perhaps it was her knowledge of my wife’s unkindness that killed her,’ returned Hector unpleasantly. ‘I only know she died in January, and they brought me word of it. That was when I learned you had gone, and that you were to bear a child.’ The cold eyes scanned her searchingly. ‘You do not look as if that was true.’

  ‘I lost the baby,’ Isobel told him in a faltering whisper. Even now, after all that had happened, the memory pained her, filling her eyes with tears. Would it have been different if she had stayed in Mairi’s care? Would the child have lived, and Mairi too?

  As if in echo of her thoughts, Hector went on, ‘That was one result of your flight from Ardshee I suppose? Then you killed my child as surely as you killed my brother.’ He ignored her anguished protest and went on. ‘Why did you come back? What possible reason could you have, in God’s name? Did your parents throw you out?’

  She longed to tell him the truth, but feared the bitter contempt of his response. So she said only, ‘It was not that. But I... I did make a solemn vow, once, even if I was forced to it... and... I wanted to show I was - worthy - of you...’

  He gave a harsh laugh, abrupt and utterly without warmth.

  ‘Oh you have shown it, Isobel MacLean, you have shown it—! Only I wonder what I am to have deserved you—’

  ‘I did not choose to marry you, remember.’ She was so close to tears that her voice sounded rough and petulant, concealing the pain she felt.

  ‘You did not, God help me!’ he agreed bitterly.

  A silence followed, uncomfortable and prolonged. It was Duncan who broke it, placing his hand on Hector’s arm.

  ‘Your foster-brother Hugh—how is it with him?’

  Hector turned away from Isobel, his expression at once softer, full of a gentler grief. ‘All is well with him now, Duncan. Thank God they had not used his body as foully as they did those of the dead on Drummossie Moor. The women will see to his burying.’

  ‘He was a good man,’ added Duncan, and Hector nodded his agreement. The older man went on, as if reciting an old tale, ‘He saved your life on Drummossie Moor. When you fell with that wound to your head he bore you on his back from the field and would not rest until you were far from the fight. And he watched over you to keep you from harm, and from the soldiers who were killing the wounded.’

  ‘And you watched with him,’ Hector reminded him.

  ‘What happened to the other men who went with you?’ Isobel asked.

  Again that cold light gleamed in Hector’s eyes. She told herself she would not question him again.

  ‘They died, of course - with all the hundreds who fell that day. If any lived I did not hear of it.’

  After a while their more immediate needs came to mind. Forgetting her resolution to ask no more questions, she asked: ‘Did you bring any food from Ardshee?’

  Again came that unpleasant laugh. ‘Food? Where do you imagine I would find food at Ardshee? The soldiers drove off the cattle before they left, and took everything else they could lay their hands on. We have your good friend John Campbell to thank for that.’

  ‘You know he is no friend of mine!’ she retorted, stung to indignation by his tone. ‘You saw what he did to me—And it’s because of him that I lost the baby.’

  ‘That does surprise me!’ Hector flung at her. ‘I did not know he had such a hand in my wife’s affairs. Did you enlist his aid to rid you of it?’

  The injustice of his words stung her to anger.

  ‘How can you say that? I know only too well what he is, to my cost.’

  She told him briefly how John had come to take her home, and then how she had learned the truth about him, and how his violence had brought on the miscarriage already threatened by the long journey. When she had finished she saw Hector’s brows draw together fiercely and he burst out,

  ‘Then I have more than I knew to charge him with—and he shall pay for all the wrong he has done. For taking you away from me. For the death of my unborn child. Above all for the death of my brother. For that I blame you, as for the other things, but John Campbell more even than you, for you are only a weak woman and it was his hand fired the shot that killed my brother.’

  All at once he pulled the dirk from his belt and fell onto his knees and laid his hand over the gleaming blade, his eyes burning and terrible words pouring from him like liquid fire.

  ‘I swear by the Trinity and the Blessed Saints that I shall seek John Campbell all my days until I find him, and that I shall end his life with my own hand. And if I fail in this may I be cursed in all I do, may I meet a coward’s death and lie without burial in a strange land. So let it be to me!’

  As Isobel shivered with horror he rose to his feet, slid the dirk back into his belt, and said, ‘But first you must be taken to safety.’

  She almost retorted that he owed her nothing, that she did not ask him to take care of her, knowing that he hated her as he did.

  And then she realised what his words implied. So long as he felt responsible for her, so long as she was with him, he would put aside his sworn intention to seek out John Campbell and kill him. And for so long therefore he would be safe from the soldiers who marched under John Campbell’s orders, and who would imprison or kill him the moment he came near their Captain.

  So she said nothing, and rose to her feet in her turn to follow Hector on the next stage of this seemingly endless journey.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The days fell into a dreary and repetitive pattern. Mile after mile of heather and grass and bog passed beneath their feet, their only rest when they huddled in cold and darkness in a wood or against a wall or anywhere that offered some hope of shelter. They ate roots and plants, or once a little food given by a kindly Highland woman whom the soldiers had somehow missed. They drank from the burns. They were eaten in their turn by midges. When, now and then, Hector ordered a longer stay - a day or two perhaps - in some precarious hiding place, there was little chance of repose, with the need to be constantly watching for the approach of troops. And always it seemed to rain and rain almost without ceasing.

  A glimpse of scarlet through trees, or the familiar sounds of soldiers at work, caused the only breaks in the routine of the days. They had learnt long since that John Campbell was not alone in wreaking a terrible vengeance on the rebels. Isobel thought they must have covered miles retracing their steps to avoid the plundering troops of one regiment or another. She had lost all track of time, and had no longer any idea how long they had been travelling, or what day it was. She grew used to aching legs and sore feet, and when her shoes shredded away to nothing she walked barefoot like the two men and endured the discomfort without complaint. She was relieved at least that the gentler walking in Janet’s company had prepared her a little for this.

  But she knew she could cheerfully have borne any hardship if only Hector had shown her some little kindness greater than the cold disdainful courtesy of his manner towards her. She longed almost for the fire of his anger, as preferable to the chilling contempt that marked his every word and action. She recognised she was no more to him than a burdensome responsibility of which he must rid himself as soon as possible. But she did not ask him where he was taking her, for he so clearly wanted as little to do with her as he could. Only to Duncan did he choose to talk at all, and that not often.

  One day, when it had rained even more than usual and the wind had blown since dawn with relentless force, they came on a cottage set by itself in a small glen beside a loch. They had eaten nothing of any substance for some days now, and Hector suggested they ask at the house for food and shelter.

  They approached it together and knocked on the door, but when it opened at last suspicious eyes examined them through a narrow crack.

  ‘What are you wanting?’ demanded a man’s voice. The hospitable courtesy Isobel had come to expect even from strangers among Highlanders was entirely lacking in his tone.

  ‘We should be glad of an hour or two of rest, if you have a little space under your ro
of,’ replied Hector. ‘And if by chance you could spare us some food—’

  The eyes looked them up and down, and then the man said: ‘We have nothing for you. Go on your way and leave us in peace.’

  As Hector opened his mouth to protest, the door was shut firmly in his face.

  ‘God’s curse on him!’ muttered Duncan into his beard, but Hector laid a weary hand on his arm.

  ‘We can do nothing. Let us go on.’

  They were well on their way when a cry from behind caught their attention. A woman came running from the house towards them, waving a package in her hand.

  ‘I am sorry,’ she panted as she came up to them, ‘for the unkindness of my husband, but he is afraid, you see, for myself and the children as well as for himself.’

  ‘He was out with the Prince then?’ Hector asked, but the woman shook her head.

  ‘He is no rebel. But the soldiers do not ask before they shoot. Two men of our clan were killed just three days ago, and the women attacked. And we are told that any who give aid to rebels are to be named as rebels themselves. So you see we have cause to be afraid. But,’ she went on, ‘here is a little meal, so that you will not go hungry.’

  Hector took the package, breaking into warm thanks, but she stopped him.

  ‘Take it and go,’ she said quickly, and ran back down the track to the house.

  Hector watched as the door shut firmly behind her and silence descended again on the glen, but for the rain and wind. Then he turned without a word and led them on up the hillside.

  They found a hollow where the full force of the wind did not quite reach and crouched there while Hector placed a little of the oatmeal on a wide flat stone and mixed it to a paste with some water cupped in his hand from a burn, and gave it to them to eat. It was surprisingly satisfying, Isobel found, at least when one had not eaten for so long beforehand.

  Afterwards Hector spoke to them with new decision.

  ‘I had meant to take you, Isobel, to the house of my uncle Ranald MacDonald. If it had not been for the soldiers we should have been there by now. He is a very old man and in poor health, so he was not out with the Prince, and it had seemed to me that he might be able to arrange for you to be escorted safely back to your parents, without danger to himself. He would have been happy enough to assist in any scheme that might thwart John Campbell—’

  ‘What has he to do with John Campbell?’ Isobel asked, bewildered.

  ‘He is my mother’s older brother,’ was Hector’s cryptic reply, and he almost smiled at her sigh of exasperation. ‘That is not very clear, I know. You see, what lies between John Campbell and myself goes back a long way—’

  ‘Then it is not just... because of...’ She hesitated, not wanting to remind him too readily of his score against her. But it had never been far from his thoughts of course, and there was no alarming change in his expression.

  ‘Because of Hugh, and of you? No, they are only the latest wrongs, Isobel. It is an old story. You have heard perhaps how when King James - grandfather to Prince Charles - was driven from his throne by William of Orange, the clans were slow to swear an oath of allegiance to the usurper? And how, because the MacDonalds of Glencoe delayed, the false Campbells came to their homes and, having broken their bread and sheltered beneath their roofs, slaughtered them, against all the laws of God and man? My mother and her brother Ranald were children then, my mother little more than an infant, and they escaped somehow, but they saw how the guest who had broken bread in their house killed their father and their mother and their older brother while they slept, without mercy. Later they took shelter in my father’s house, for he was some kind of kin of theirs, a young man just entered into the chieftainship at Ardshee. When they grew older, my mother and my father were married, and for his wedding gift to her my father swore a solemn oath to kill the man who had slaughtered her parents. So it was that he and my uncle Ranald MacDonald went together to the house of Archibald Campbell and saw justice done.’

  Isobel considered the grim story in silence for a moment, conscious of Hector’s eyes on her face, watching her enigmatically. She remembered John Campbell’s claim that Alan MacLean had killed his father ‘during a cattle raid’. She had enough knowledge of Highland morality to suspect that Hector’s father might well have helped himself to some of his enemy’s livestock when he took his revenge. Did that mean, then—? She raised her eyes to Hector’s face.

  ‘So it was John Campbell’s father whom your father and uncle killed that day.’

  ‘That is so,’ agreed Hector.

  ‘But surely,’ Isobel continued earnestly, ‘it should have ended there. Justice was done, as your parents saw it. Perhaps you could not be expected to like John Campbell, but it was not your quarrel or his.’

  For a moment, very briefly, a faint smile lifted the corners of Hector’s mouth, as if in acknowledgement of her Lowland naïvety.

  ‘It is never as simple as that,’ he pointed out. ‘And it did not end there. Because of his father’s death, ruin came to John Campbell’s family. They lost their lands, his mother died, he was sent to be brought up far from his home, knowing he must make his own way in the world. He grew up hating my father for bringing this upon him—’

  ‘It was your uncle’s doing, too,’ she reminded him. ‘And surely you had nothing to do with it yourself?’

  ‘I was not born then,’ he conceded. ‘And my uncle even as a youth was sickly and often ailing. It fell on my father to lay the plan to kill Archibald Campbell, and it was his hand that struck him down. So you see, John Campbell had been taught to hate my name, and when we met whilst I was at the University—’

  ‘The University!’ she exclaimed, her interest in the story briefly swallowed up by this new revelation.

  ‘At Edinburgh—I was a student there for some months before my father’s death.’

  She gazed at him in astonishment, seeing him with new eyes. That, then, explained the books, and perhaps the wine-coloured coat in the chest. But it was strange to think of this wild young man with his primitive notions of justice and revenge working quietly at his studies in the civilised city of Edinburgh. Especially as he was now, a black beard growing thickly about his darkly-tanned face, his hair tangled, his clothes ragged, his brown feet bare.

  ‘Mairi never spoke of it,’ she said wonderingly.

  ‘It was not important.’ He looked faintly amused, as if he understood her surprise at finding that her savage husband also had claims to be a man of the world. Then the sparkle in his eyes died away, and he resumed his story.

  ‘It was while I was there that I met John Campbell, and from the first it was clear that he hated me. At that stage, though, it was on his side only—until I came to know him better, that is. There were one or two things—a game of cards, when he cheated, and the stakes were high—and there was a girl—’ He broke off, lost in thought for a little while.

  Isobel was astonished at the force of the jealousy that twisted in her heart. ‘A girl?’ she asked, as casually as she could. But the careful tone drew a sharp glance from Hector, and she blushed.

  He observed her for a moment or two longer, his expression unreadable but discomforting, and then went on:

  ‘She was very young, as I was then, but an heiress. I suppose I had no hope in her parents’ eyes, though in hers I think it was different—but that’s not to the point. John Campbell was already making a name for himself, among those who knew less of him than I had cause to do, and he was older, and wiser in the ways of the world—’ He paused again, his expression brooding, remembering. Finally he said: ‘I think now it was a good thing for her that she died before she could become his wife.’

  It explained so much, thought Isobel. When he learned that it was John who had taken her away from Ardshee it must have seemed almost as if history was repeating itself. Except that with her it had been different, for he had never wanted anything from her but her money, and she sensed from his manner that he had loved that girl in Edinburgh, long
ago. With a new insight she guessed that it was the presence of John Campbell at her side in the orchard that had driven him to abduct her, more than any anger at her rejection of him, more even than his desire for her fortune. In marrying her he had taken some kind of revenge for the loss of the girl he had loved all those years before. It was not a reflection that she found consoling.

  ‘The rest you know, of course,’ he added in conclusion.

  Yes, she thought, only too well.

  ‘Do you think,’ she asked slowly, after a pause, ‘that he has given up the pursuit, and will leave us alone now?’

  ‘What do you think?’ he returned. There was no need for her to reply. ‘I think only that he has lost us for the moment, God willing. He will never give up as long as he knows we are alive. But he is not the only man we have to fear, and that is why I shall not after all take you to Glencoe. You have seen how even the innocent are not safe—and my uncle is a known Jacobite, for all his infirmity. No, I think taking all together we should not put him at risk. Instead, we shall find a secure hiding place, depending on help from no one, and remain there until the worst is over and I can find a way to see you safe home myself. It is not what I wanted—the sooner you are off my hands the better—and this will only prolong it. But I cannot put my friends at risk for my convenience. So we shall each have to endure the other’s company for somewhat longer.’ He sprang to his feet. ‘As for you, Duncan, I see no reason why you should not at once make your way back towards Ardshee, and hide near there until you judge it safe to go home. I doubt if the soldiers will return, and they would not go all that way to seek you. And alone you will be safer by far than in our company.’

  ‘Who then will protect you, if I am gone?’ demanded Duncan fiercely.

  Hector smiled and laid a hand on his arm. ‘I know of a place where we can lie hidden so safely that we shall not need your protection. You have done all you can. Be content with that, and go home in peace.’