The officers of the watch crowded around them, jostling and shoving, and Martin had to pull rank as an officer before they let both him and the Scotsman through.
They were stopped at the door to the large hall, which was closed for the first time in Martin’s memory.
Young John Barnstable stood in front of it, a sword held in front of him.
“Halt, in the name of the Thane,” he said, and there was a distinct tremble in his voice.
“Let me pass, Johny,” Martin said. But the younger man raised his sword higher.
“Tonight it is Officer Barnstable, sir,” he said. “The Protector demands to know who asks for entry.” The sword trembled slightly, but the voice was stronger now.
“The Protector is not here,” Martin said, feeling the first flare of anger rise inside him. “I bring a Christian seeking sanctuary.”
“That remains to be seen” the officer said.
“Aye, maybe,” Martin said. “But it is for the Thane to decide, not you. Or your father.”
He saw immediately that he had hit a nerve. The boy flinched, and did not protest when Martin stepped past him and pushed open the oak door.
The first thing that Martin noticed in the Great Hall was the heat. The fire in the huge hearth had recently been kindled with new wood added to the embers which had been lying there from the night before. The hall was filling up fast as the news of an arrival spread, and the mood was not good. Martin could see the distrust on faces that he was more used to seeing laughing, and there was enough weaponry on display to do battle with a small army.
The Thane’s features mirrored those of his people, but he didn’t speak as Martin approached him. The old man sat in the high chair, a rough-cut granite block that was rumoured to be as old as the original fortifications on which the Thaneship was built. A local legend told that Hadrian himself had supervised the building of the wall from this very chair, but at this moment Martin thought that no Emperor could have looked more imposing or sterner than the old Thane.
“Father,” he began, but was stopped by a raised hand before he could continue.
“Your father is not here. Not this night. It is the Thane who will hear you.” The voice was gruff and there was no trace of affection in the old man’s eyes as he continued, raising his voice to ensure that the assembly could hear.
“Bring forth your traveller and let us judge his worth.”
Campbell stepped forward. There was a murmur in the crowd, and a rattling of swords, but the Scotsman stood straight and tall and stared back at them. He cut an outlandish figure in this place of gray and black. The deep vibrant blue of his kilt and plaid seemed to shine in the candlelight, and his hair, long and curly in the manner of old, seemed to mock the severity of cut in evidence among the rest of the room. He still carried his sword, a long, ridiculously heavy thing. But Martin well remembered the stories of how the fighting Scots could remove a man’s head with one cut, and didn’t think anyone in the room would be willing to find out if they were true.
“I am Duncan Campbell, Clan Chief of the Campbells of Glenfinan, and I am in debt to your son for the giving of sanctuary.”
His voice echoed around the room. Martin caught several glances being thrown his way, few of them friendly.
The Thane sighed deeply.
“We shall see which debts our watchman is responsible for presently,” the old man said. “But first you must prove yourself before God.”
“I tested him with the bulb,” Martin began. “And he—”
Again he was silenced.
“Speak no more, watchman. You have done enough for one night,” said a voice from behind him. He didn’t have to turn to recognise the speaker. William Barnstable walked forward to take his place at the Thane’s side—Chief Constable, owner of the byre so recently damaged, and the father of the boy who had barred their way to the hall.
The Constable had taken time to change into his uniform, the stark blackness of it in sharp contrast to Campbell’s gaudy colours. His jaw was cleanly shaved, his tonsure neatly trimmed, and the black leather of his boots was polished to a sheen. He well knew the impression he was giving—to the assembled throng he made Campbell look like a barbarian. When he spoke his voice rang with the practice of a seasoned orator.
“You have allowed a stranger to enter from beyond the wall. For that you will answer to the council.”
Martin was about to speak again when a warning look from the Thane stopped him.
“Bring out the Bible, and let the Lord be judge,” the Thane said.
They stood in silence as they waited for the book to be fetched, dark shadows flickering around them as the candles and the fire hissed and spluttered in the draughty hall.
The Bible was carried into the hall by John Barnstable, and although he had the strength built by many years of farm work, he struggled to keep hold of the massive book.
“This is the book of our fathers,” the Thane said. “A record of our Thaneship and our succour in dark times. Come,” he said to Duncan Campbell. “Come and lay your hand on it and show to me that my watchman has not been proved false.”
Martin was about to step forward in protest, but was stopped by Duncan’s hand on his arm.
“No, son. Your father is right. This is necessary, and I would do the same if I were sitting in his place.”
He stepped towards the Thane, and a quiet fell over the room. Somewhere someone cocked a pistol, and there was the loud whisper of a sword being drawn from a scabbard.
Duncan Campbell looked the Thane in the eye.
“In the name of the Holy Trinity I swear that I am a man and a man only, and that while I draw breath I will be in debt to your watchman, your son, who showed Christian charity in a dark place where few other men would have given it.”
And saying that he placed his right hand on the Bible.
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,” he said, and the Thane echoed the words before stretching out a hand in welcome.
“Well met, Campbell of Glenfinan.”
William Barnstable stepped between them before they could clasp hands.
“That is not enough,” he said. “We know nothing of this barbarian.”
The Thane pushed the big man aside.
“We know he is a Christian. And if you cannot smell the bulb on his breath then it is time we had a new Constable. Shame on you, William.”
He raised his voice that the whole hall might hear.
“He has passed the tests of the bulb and the Book and has proved himself a man, and only a man. We will welcome him as friend and brother.”
Another murmur went through the hall, louder this time, and the elder Barnstable shouted above it.
“No. It is a trick. No one has come from the other side for a hundred years. We cannot trust anyone who does so now.”
A roar of assent greeted him, and, not for the first time that night, Martin wished that he had not forfeited his weapons.
“And what would you have me do?” the Thane said, the sound of his voice instantly quieting the crowd. “Run him through the heart and see if he dies? You know as well as I do that only a man would pass the tests.”
“Aye,” said Campbell. “And I am a man who knew this test would come, but withstood it anyway, for I am a bearer of grave news that you need to hear, so let us talk and have no more of this nonsense.”
“He mocks the tests,” someone shouted.
“Barnstable is right,” another voice proclaimed. “It’s a trick. Kill him. Kill him now and be done with it.”
Martin moved to stand beside Campbell.
“Anyone who wishes to harm this man will have to fight me first,” he said, and was relieved to hear there was no tremor in his voice despite the sudden chill that seemed to flow in his veins. “I have given him Sanctuary. Would you have me made a liar and an oath-breaker?”
He looked at his father and was surprised to see a smile on the man’s face.
“
Duncan Campbell—you seem to have convinced my young watchman here, and as for myself, I am content with the results of the test and your fine speech. But have you anything else that might convince my Constable here?”
Duncan answered with a smile of his own.
“I’m afraid that the Constable will take more convincing than I am able to provide. But there is one more thing which the other fine people here might accept.”
He drew aside his plaid, and there, hanging down on his chest and plain to see by all, was a large, heavy, silver cross. He raised it to his lips and kissed it.
“This was given to me in Glenfinan by my brother, a Minister of the church, as he died two months ago. Two months ago when the Boy King from France raised the Standard of the Stewarts in Glenfinan and a hundred of my kinsmen died trying to stop him. Now will you hear my story?”
Suddenly the room was in uproar, with voices raised, in anger and then in fear. Several people left the room in a hurry, and Martin thought that would be the last he, or anyone else in Milecastle, would see of them. Barnstable was calling for quiet, but his voice was only one of many.
“Clear the hall, Constable,” the Thane said. “Then join me in my rooms as soon as you can— there’s a story here that needs to be told in private. Oh, and you’d better get some horses prepared—I’ve got a feeling that there are messages to be sent. And get the whole watch out onto the wall.”
The Thane got up out of his chair, slowly, as if a great weight had suddenly descended on his shoulders. Martin moved forward but was brushed away as the old man stood up straight.
“So. The day has finally come. I’ve waited a long time. Too long, and now I feel old. Are we ready?”
Martin realised that his father was talking to him.
“As ready as we ever were, my Thane. You have kept the watch well.”
“Aye,” Duncan Campbell said. “Ready and waiting, and finally he has come. Will you hear my story now, Sir?”
The Thane nodded.
“Bring your friend to my room in the high tower,” he said to Martin. “He has a tale to tell and I’m afeared that our lives depend on us listening.”
Martin and Campbell followed the old man out of the hall. The crowd was already beginning to disperse, and the Constable was clearing up the last knots of dissenters with promises to let them know what was happening as soon as he did himself.
The turret stairs were sharp and winding, but the Thane didn’t seem to notice, bounding up them like a goat.
“He’s not as old as he likes to appear,” Campbell said. “That is good. You will need a strong leader.”
“It is true then?” Martin asked. “The Boy King intends to bring back the old bloodline?”
“Aye. That and more besides,” Campbell said. “But you will hear the whole story anon. I don’t have the strength to tell it twice, so no more questions for now.”
They followed the Thane up the stairs, through a thick oak door and into his chambers. A fire was already lit in the hearth and Martin helped his father drag four chairs around it, the last of which had to be brought away from the high, north-facing window. The Thane motioned that they should sit while he went into the adjoining ante-room to return with a pitcher of ale and four flagons.
“I’ve a feeling that your story will not be a short one,” he said to Campbell. “And listening is also a thirsty business.”
Campbell took a proffered flagon, raised it to his lips and drained half of it in one swallow, having to brush the foamy remnants from his heavy moustache.
“Long life and good health to all here,” he said, motioning with his arm and including Barnstable who walked in at that moment.
The Constable ignored the Scotsman and stood beside the Thane.
“The horses are being readied, Sir, and the hall has been cleared, for now at least. But the people need to know what is happening.”
“As do we all, William. Let us listen to what our guest has to say. We can make no decisions until we have his story.”
Barnstable snorted at the word “guest”, but took a flagon of ale and sat down, his eyes staring deep into the fire, never once looking at Martin or Campbell as the Scotsman began his story.
“I was born and raised in Arisaig on the West coast, about thirty miles to the west of the old fort on Loch Linne. I gather from your surprise at seeing me that no one beyond the wall even knew of the existence of men to the north. But we have been on the mainland since the Old Protector drove the Others into the high hills, and in pockets there are those who have never left, surviving even the rapacious days after Bannockburn.
“Oh, we still had to be careful, and we still lost people from time to time, but not like in the old days. The power of the Others was greatly diminished, and no more than a few hundred of them survived the Protector’s purge. The sea was bountiful, the land was fertile, and good trade was to be had with the clans on the islands. All in all it was a good life.
“As you can see, I grew up strong, as did my brother Angus. I was the eldest, and would inherit the role of clan chief in time. My brother, whose cross you have seen, took holy orders across the sea in Ireland, and it was due to him that a church was built in Glenfinan. Our clan moved there twenty years since, when my father died and I became chieftain. And we prospered, although the Others did not like the presence of a house of God so close to land they considered their own. Three times they came, and each time, by the grace of God and the strength of good men, we sent them back to the hills. And eventually a truce of some kind prevailed.”
The Constable snorted again.
“Fairy tales for children. I don’t believe a word of it.”
Campbell smiled back at him, but there was a cold gleam in his eye.
“Hear me out,” he said. “And if you still insist on calling me a liar we can settle it in the courtyard in the morning.”
He stared at Barnstable, his deep blue eyes seeming to blaze, and it was the Constable who broke off first, returning to gazing into the fire.
“It all changed on the night of 25th July, just over three months ago.
“I was in Arisaig visiting my daughter who was recently wed. Just after dusk a black shadow drew up in Loch nan Uamh, and from it came a dreadful keening, the likes of which I hope never to hear again. It was as if a great cat was suffering all the torments of hell, a sound of pain and suffering that struck dread into all who heard it. And in answer to the keening, the dark shadows of the Others flowed down from the hills—the Macdonalds of Glencoe and the Camerons under Lochiel, Clanranald of Boisdale and more, from shadows older than memory. And out there on the loch they met, on a boat as black as sin. Du Teillay they called it, but to my clan it will for evermore be known as the Doom of the Campbells.”
Duncan fell quiet and stared deep into the flame before emptying his flagon.
“And was it him? Was it the Boy King?” Martin asked.
When Campbell looked at him, Martin was surprised to see tears in the older man’s eyes. “Aye. It was him all right, although I didn’t know it then. Him and ten other black shadows as full of sin and pride as himself. And by morning the boat had gone, but I knew that an army had just been called to arms.
“Many of the people in Arisaig had fled during that night—several of the boats had gone from the harbour by morning. Of those that were left, some were mightily afraid. I managed to persuade some to come back with me to Glenfinan, but my daughter and her new husband were not to be moved. They, and some forty others, stayed behind as I led the remainder back to the sanctuary of the church.
“And for the next two weeks all was quiet. Some of the folk drifted back to Arisaig, but most stayed, and my brother’s flock gained many new members.”
He stopped again.
“May I trouble you for more of your fine ale? We are coming to the hard part of the tale, and my throat will need a good wetting before it can be told.”
The pitcher was empty and Martin was sent to the ante-room for more. His mi
nd was buzzing, full with images of black boats on dark lochs and shadows flitting through trees. What did it mean for his existence here? He didn’t know, but he suspected that his life was about to change irrevocably, and not for the better either. He allowed himself an extra swallow of ale before returning to the group around the fireplace.
Barnstable was quiet now, and Martin could see that the Scotsman’s story was beginning to affect him. The Thane seemed deep in thought, his head bowed and his hands clasped tightly in front of him. The Scotsman handed out his flagon to be refilled and took a long swallow before continuing.
“It was the night of 10th August. It had been a glorious day, with the sun beating down hard and only a light wind on the loch. I caught five big trout from the shore, and Angus and I broke bread together as we cooked them.”
The Scotsman stopped, lost in thought.
“That was almost the last time we had together. Angus commented on how quiet it was, and how much he loved the place, and we wondered whether we had imagined the appearance of the boat off Arisaig. But just after nightfall we found out what the Boy King had been up to in the time since.
“They came with the sunset, my daughter and her man. He was sore wounded, bitten deep in the thigh, and the journey had done him in, but before he passed over he told of the army—yes, that’s the word he used, the army of Others that had descended the night before on Arisaig. And the village had died in their beds, died and been recruited to swell the ranks. My daughter’s man had managed to get them away, but they were the only two to escape.
“He passed over after telling his story, and we dispatched him in the old way, and Angus said the words over his remains. May God rest him, and may he stay sleeping in the ground.
“As for my daughter, she has been struck dumb, and no word has come from her from that night to this.”
Martin put his hand on Campbell’s shoulder.
“Our physician is a good man. He will bring her back to you.”
Campbell went on talking as if he hadn’t heard, his eyes focused on somewhere far away, but not long enough ago.
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