And then Hector made a sudden sideways movement. A sharp twist of the wrist, and his blade thrust downwards and found its mark. The sword fell useless to the ground. John lurched into Hector’s arms, his eyes momentarily wide and startled. And then he too fell and lay still.
His face expressionless, Hector rolled John Campbell onto his back and straightened his limbs and closed his eyes. And then he wiped the dirk clean on the wet grass and held out his arm to Isobel.
‘Come,’ he said. She ran trembling to him and his arm closed about her. For a moment he paused, holding her, yet gazing sombrely down at the dead man. She wondered if he too had seen the pistol John had carried thrust into his belt, but had not used though it might have saved him. He drew her closer, and then on a sudden impulse bent down and broke off a sprig from a plant of bog myrtle growing near his foot, and laid it on John’s chest, tucked beneath the white belt that crossed it.
‘Why do you do that?’ asked Isobel.
‘It is the badge of his clan. He was a Highlander after all.’ It sounded almost like a tribute.
His arm tightened briefly about her. ‘It is over,’ he said. ‘Let us go.’
‘Is that... Is that really the end? Or will there be others of his family...?’ She had learned too well the relentlessness of the Highland memory for past wrongs.
‘There is no one to weep for him,’ Hector told her, and she felt a sudden surge of pity for the dead man. But it could not last long. There was no time now for pity.
Up the winding track from the glen below the hut came a scarlet file of men, moving closer every minute. And it was at that moment that her legs gave way and Isobel sank weakly to the ground.
‘Hector, I can’t—’ she faltered, tears rushing to her eyes.
Without a moment’s hesitation he bent and raised her in his arms. ‘I’ll carry you, my heart.’
He strode along the path away from the hut and the approaching soldiers, but she struggled to free herself and cried out:
‘Leave me, Hector—We will never escape like this! You will be better off without me.’
‘Never!’ he silenced her, his grasp tightening about her. ‘Without you there is nothing.’ And she knew she could not move him. She placed her arms about his neck and held tight and he carried her on at a brisk steady walk that she knew would be useless if the soldiers once set out in pursuit.
Over his shoulder she saw that the head of the file had reached the hut. There was a shout, and the first man gestured wildly as the others came running. They gathered about the body, stooping to examine it. And then they began to look about them.
It was only a moment before they had seen the fugitives and came streaming along the track behind them. Hector’s pace quickened, though already he was breathless with the weight of his burden.
‘I’ll have to carry you across my shoulder,’ he gasped at last, apologetically, and paused to shift her into that ignominious position. It was not very comfortable, but he could move faster like that, breaking into a run, which for the time being at least lengthened the distance between them and the soldiers.
The path dropped gently down and then rose again steeply onto a bare rocky hillside. The rain seeped through her plaid, and Isobel began to shiver. She longed for the abandoned bed, but she said nothing. She could hear the running feet of the soldiers clattering on the rocks as they came nearer.
Hector stumbled and then righted himself, but he was labouring now, and she sensed that every ounce of energy and will power was concentrated on forcing one step to follow another, doggedly, stubbornly, up the slope. His pace had slowed again to little more than a walk.
When the path levelled out he gathered speed again for a while, and then the track rounded a bend and descended once more, treacherous with loose stones, into a small glen. Hector’s feet slid uncomfortably on the stones, their customary sureness lost in exhaustion. His breathing came now in sobbing gasps, and she could feel his hold on her slackening.
At a small stone bridge crossing a swift-flowing burn he halted, setting her on the parapet, and bent his head.
‘I cannot...’ he gasped. ‘I am sorry... but I cannot do it...’
She glanced to where the soldiers were running down that dangerous path towards them. A hundred yards perhaps, at most—
‘Leave me!’ she implored him. ‘Hector, my darling, leave me. At least you will be safe, and I do not think they will kill me.’
He shook his head, unable to speak. She could see how his hands trembled as they rested on the stonework to either side of her.
A shot rang out and hit the parapet, scattering small splinters of stone around them.
‘Please, Hector!’
He made a great effort and drew himself up, then lifted her again over his shoulder. And then he set out once more at a swaying stumbling run, which she knew would only delay their capture a little longer. Another shot just missed them, and then another, closer still.
And then she heard Hector give some kind of grunted exclamation, and he veered off the track, his pace gaining new momentum.
A few yards more, and she was aware that he had run under some kind of stone archway and they were in a paved yard surrounded by outbuildings. He ran into the nearest open doorway and there set her down, reaching out for support towards a wooden upright.
It was a stable, with a hayloft above and one or two horses in their stalls, an oddly prosperous-looking place for the Highlands. And facing them, his face blank with astonishment, was a man leaning on a broom.
Hector, too breathless to speak, made an appealing gesture with his hands. For what seemed an age the man looked from one to the other and back again, considering, his face showing neither welcome nor suspicion. Then he flung the broom aside and went to the furthest stall and led out the nervous grey horse that stood there.
‘In there!’ he said in Gaelic, nodding towards the stall. ‘Under the manger.’
Hector pulled Isobel after him and flung himself into the stall. They huddled together beneath the wooden manger, half-concealed by pungent straw, and watched as the man returned the horse to his place. He had just resumed his sweeping when the soldiers reached the door.
‘Where did they go?’ demanded a curt English voice.
The sweeping ceased briefly, and then continued, though no answer was given.
‘Search the whole place!’ came the next order. ‘Run your bayonets into the hay!’
Isobel clasped Hector tightly, and he drew her head against his breast and rested his mouth on her hair. He was making a superhuman effort to control his breathing so that he should not give them away, and she could feel how much he trembled still after his long exertion. His heart throbbed fiercely beneath her cheek.
They heard the soldiers tramping about the barn, and in the hayloft overhead; and the sound of steel thrust into the hay set Isobel’s teeth on edge. If they had chosen that hiding place—! She shuddered.
Steps came nearer, and the sweeping stopped again.
‘I would not be at going near that horse, if I wass you,’ came the man’s sing-song voice, in English this time. ‘It iss he that iss the ill-tempered beast.’
They heard the soldier hesitate, and then say, ‘I’ll take a look all the same.’
Beneath the horse Isobel could see his feet coming into view, neat in their buckled shoes, and the white gaiters above. They stepped nearer, and the horse swung sideways, snorting, his hooves moving restlessly on the straw. She could not see any more of the man beyond his feet, but she sensed that his eyes ran over the horse and the manger and the scattered straw. He stood there for what seemed an interminably long time. It was growing late now, and it was already dark beneath the manger, and the horse was large and restless; but Hector had killed their Captain, and the soldiers would move heaven and earth to find him.
‘They are in here somewhere, I’m sure of it,’ came the soldier’s voice, and the feet moved away. If she had dared to make a sound Isobel would have wept with relief.<
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‘Keep an eye on this place, Private Hopper, and we’ll search next door. Keep your wits about you now.’
The soldiers tramped out again, and their friend went on with his sweeping, whistling faintly between his teeth. Distant thuds and shouts told them where the soldiers were searching now.
Night fell outside, and at the far end of the stable a lantern was lit, sending long beams to blacken the shadow beneath the manger. It was warm and still and Isobel began to feel drowsy. The noise of searching moved away and then drew nearer again, on the other side of the stable. And then orders were shouted, feet tramped noisily on the flagstones, and silence fell at last.
The groom shuffled through the straw to where they lay.
‘They’ve set up camp just outside the gate,’ he whispered. ‘It’s dark now, but there’s a guard by the door.’
Hector struggled to his feet, gently raising Isobel to stand beside him.
‘God will reward you for this,’ he said to the man. And then: ‘We’ll go now.’ He put his arm about Isobel. ‘It’s our only hope,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘If we stay till daylight they’ll find us.’
They crept to the door and he peered round it. The lantern light spilled onto the flags, just reaching the scarlet-coated figure who stood there, his hands resting on his musket. The groom laid his hand briefly on Hector’s arm, signing to him to remain where he was, and then wandered across the yard, pausing to speak to the soldier, keeping him talking with his back towards them.
Hector turned sharply and lifted Isobel, and then slipped soft-footed into the yard, sliding as soon as he could into the shadows at its edge. The groom was talking loudly now, with extravagant gestures, and the soldier was laughing appreciatively. Hector reached the archway and darted beneath it.
Outside, a camp fire glowed, and the voices of the soldiers reached them on the damp still air. Hector turned from it to skirt the side of the stable buildings and the house beyond, and then broke into a run. The friendly blackness of the night swallowed them up.
They did not rest until they knew they had left house and soldiers far behind them.
Three days later Hector and Isobel came at evening to a wide shining sea loch set in a tumbled landscape of rock and mountain. The last lingering fires of sunset touched the sea with rose, and the peaks about it, and loitered on the tall masts and graceful lines of the two ships rocking at anchor on the still waters of the loch. On the shore a knot of men waited, black against the white sand. Beside them a small rowing boat was drawn up, and they were clearly making ready to use it.
Hector paused, his arm about Isobel, gazing at the scene. They had come here by slow stages, resting often so that Isobel could harbour her small strength. Just now they had identified themselves to the Highlanders on watch in the surrounding hills and been allowed to pass. Their journey was nearly over.
Hector slid his arm down to take Isobel’s hand in his and lead her to the shore.
The waiting fugitives, several of them leaders of the fated rebel army, welcomed them warmly. After a bewildering few moments—for she had grown unused to company—Isobel found herself standing before a tall young man wearing a motley assortment of tartan clothes, with light auburn hair roughly tied back, and an unkempt beard. Brown eyes met her gaze and he smiled: it was a smile of considerable charm.
‘You are welcome, Mrs MacLean,’ he said in heavily-accented English. But the accent, she knew, was not Highland, nor even Scots.
And then, with alarm and confusion, she knew who he was, and sank, blushing furiously, into a deep curtsey. She knelt now before the man who above all must carry the burden of guilt for the suffering land he was leaving: Charles Edward Stewart, the Young Pretender, his long flight ended at last.
Late in the night Isobel stirred and woke from a brief but restful sleep. She lay listening to the sounds of wind and waves, the creak of the ship’s timbers, revelling in the unaccustomed comfort of the bunk on which she lay. L’Heureux they called this ship, Hector had told her, ‘the Fortunate One’. It could not be better named, she thought, though she knew that for Hector this moment of parting must be hard indeed.
He had left her soon after they came on board, so that she could rest while he went to talk to the other fugitives, to grieve with them for the cause that was lost and for the ruin that had come upon their people because of it. And also, she knew, to stand on the deck and gaze his last on the land he loved and might never see again.
Distantly she heard the sailors calling orders to each other in French. Another language to learn, another strange land to grow to understand at the journey’s end—But this time she would not be alone.
Hector came to her at last, as the first dawn light crept into the cabin. For a moment she scarcely recognised him, for he had shaved off his beard. And she saw that the young man from the orchard had gone for ever. The man who came now to kneel at her side and draw her into his arms was older and leaner, darkly tanned, with new lines etched about his mouth, and a new bitter knowledge deep in his eyes.
And he loved her.
She reached out and slid her arms about his neck, and made room for him to lie at her side, raising her mouth to meet his kiss, firm and warm and tender. The ship rolled gently through the morning mist, leaving behind the mountains and lochs and glens, and the treeless windswept islands. Somewhere, hundreds of miles away, the coast of France waited, silent beneath the same veiled sky, to welcome the fugitives to safety and a new life.
A long road lay ahead of them, with its share of hardship and sadness and pain, but in Hector’s arms Isobel MacLean was smiling and unafraid. For she had come home at last.
The Chieftain Page 19