An Introduction To The Eternal Collection Jubilee Edition

by Cartland, Barbara

  Lord Niall set his candlestick down on the wooden bench, and then he glanced round, his eyes finally resting on Eachann.

  “Has the prisoner asked for anything?” he inquired.

  “Nay, m’lawd.”

  “Has he called out, attempted to talk with you?”

  “Nay, m’lawd.”

  “The prisoner is securely housed? It is impossible for him to escape?”

  “Aye, m’lawd.”

  “I will look for myself.”

  Lord Niall walked to the door of the Keep and Iona saw him slide back the wooden shutter of a peephole heavily barred with iron. His Lordship stared through it for some seconds, and then he closed the shutter again.

  “Asleep,” he said, “or pretending to be. You are quite certain he has not asked you for anything?”

  “Nay, m’lawd.”

  “There is always a possibility that a man of that sort might have friends in the neighbourhood or for that matter in the castle itself. If he asks for anyone, be sure to remember the name correctly and bring me word of what he has said first thing in the morning.”

  “Aye, m’lawd.”

  Lord Niall put his hand to his chin and appeared to be considering something. After quite a long pause he said,

  “You have the key safely?”

  “Aye, m’lawd.”

  Eachann drew it from his belt and held it up. Lord Niall put out his hand.

  “I think it would be safer if I relieved you of this. As I have already said there is always the chance of someone trying to rescue a Jacobite.”

  He took the key and moved once again up the steps to the door of the Keep. He tried it in the lock, and having made certain that the door was firmly shut, slipped the key into the pocket of his coat.

  “Keep a good watch, Eachann,” he admonished, and picking up his candle he walked off in the direction from which he had come.

  Iona and Cathy heard his footsteps growing fainter and fainter until at last they could hear them no more. Eachann sat down on the bench and took up his knife and the piece of wood on which he had been working. He looked at it, gave a great yawn, stretched himself and put down both the knife and the carving. He yawned again, his breath expelling itself in noisy gusts. It was then that Cathy stepped forward.

  She had advanced several yards towards him before Eachann, opening his eyes after his tremendous yawn, caught sight of her. His mouth remained open in a ludicrous expression of astonishment. Cathy advanced steadily until she was standing beside him, then she smiled.

  “I was sorry for ye doon here in the cold, Eachann.”

  “Hoots, Cathy, but ye gied me an’ awfu’ fright,” he exclaimed. “I thocht ye was a ghost comin’ oot o’ the dark!”

  “I hae no wish tae scare ye, Eachann,” Cathy answered. “I was only tryin’ tae dae ye a kindness.”

  “Aweel, an’ whit sort o’ kindness micht that be?” Eachann asked, catching sight of the bottle.

  Cathy held it out to him with a smile.

  “Wine?” he queried greedily.

  “Aye, an’ guid wine at that,” Cathy answered. “The housekeeper sent me for it, but I was ower long an’ wheen I got back she was fast asleep. It seemed a pity tae waste the wine an’ I thought o’ ye doon here all alane. It will warm ye, for ’tis a cold nicht.”

  “That’s awfu’ guid o’ ye, Cathy,” Eachann said. “I wouldna hae expected it o’ ye, indeed I wouldna. Ye hae been reel cruel tae me this twelve month. I swear ye hae e’en turned yer heid awa’ wheen I looked at ye.”

  “I have nae doot o’ it,” Cathy said severely. “Ye are tae pleased with yersel, Eachann, that’s what’s wrang with ye. But mind ye, I’m a friend an’ ’tis sorry I am that ye hae tae spend the nicht in a place like this. Upon my saul, it gives me the creeps!”

  Eachann looked around him.

  “’Tis no whit ye’d ca’ a gey place!”

  “Gey?” Cathy echoed. “It is doonrich fearfu’, that’s what it is. Why, I’d as soon spend the nicht in a graveyard.”

  “Hoots, I’m no feart,” Eachann laughed.

  “Aye, ye’re a brave laddie, I’ll say that for ye,” Cathy said. “But I’ve heard tell that the ghost o’ MacCraggan Mor walks here at nicht. Ye can see his white sporran swingin’ in the darkness an’ his white feathers at the side o’ his bonnet.”

  She whispered the last words and her tone was eerie.

  Eachann shivered.

  “Put a loc’ on yer tongue, Cathy. Tis a fule yell be makin’ o’ me. I’m no supersteetious an’ if MacCraggan Mor iss walkin this nicht, he’ll no harm a puir Heiland laddie.”

  “Dinna ye be tae sure o’ that,” Cathy replied sharply. “If MacCraggan Mor ken some o’ the things that happen in the castle, it’s nae wonder he rises frae oot o’ his grave.”

  “An’ whit ca’ ye mean by tha’, Cathy?” Eachann asked, but he could not meet her eyes.

  “Ye ken full weel, Eachann mon, what I mean,” Cathy said. “Ye an’ Sime an’ those ithers as make friends with the English should be ashamed. I heard tell as yersel’ were seen with ane o’ they redcoats ootside o’ the Fort last Saturday.”

  “Gawd’s maircy, but who told ye tha’, Cathy?” Eachann expostulated. “’Twas waitin’ for his Lordship we weer an’ the redcoat but proffered me a wee drappie.”

  “Then shame on ye for takin’ it!”

  “An’ what harm ca’ tha’ dae?” Eachann asked defiantly.

  “That’s for ye tae answer,” Cathy said, “an’ dinna fash tae explain yersel tae me. Keep yer excuses for MacCraggan Mor if he visits ye in the sma’ hours.”

  Eachann shivered again.

  “Stop bletherin’, Cathy,” he said, “an’ gie us a kiss. ’Tis gratefu’ I am for the wine.”

  “Then show yer gratitude by keepin’ yer kisses to yerself,” Cathy retorted. “I maun get back oopstairs. If onyone finds I hae been here, ‘tis a fine talkin’ tae I’d get an’ nae mistak.”

  She took a few steps away from him, but Eachann jumped up.

  “Nay, Cathy, bide a wee while.”

  “I canna,” Cathy said, shaking her head. “Ye wouldna get me sent awa’, Eachann, would ye?”

  “Indeed I wouldna, ye wee darlin’,” he answered.

  He put out his arms to catch her, but she was too quick for him. She ran a few steps, then stopped and looked back, realising that he was about to follow her. She pointed to the bench.

  “Gang back tae yer post, Eachann,” she said. “If there’s trouble brewin’ for me, there wad be far worse trouble frae his Lordship if ye lef’ the prisoner unguarded.”

  “Aye, I nae doot o’ that,” Eachann muttered, and his face fell. “But dinna gang awa’.”

  “I maun,” she whispered, and she hurried away while he stared after her, torn between his desire to follow and his fear of leaving the Keep.

  Cathy swung round the buttress and joined Iona in the shadows. For a moment they were both tense for fear that Eachann might come lumbering down the passage, but duty won and he sat down on his bench. His hand went out towards the bottle of wine. He picked it up, looked at it appreciatively, wetted his lips with his tongue then took a long drink.

  It was evidently most enjoyable for he smacked his lips loudly and immediately took another pull at the bottle. Iona and Cathy waited. Iona was conscious now of being intensely cold. She could feel the damp seeping up through the soles of her thin satin shoes, but it was not only the cold that made her fingers seem almost too stiff to move and which kept her so tense that she felt as if she too had turned to stone. Suppose they failed, her mind queried, suppose the laudanum did not work on Eachann, suppose the wine merely revived him or else he dozed so fitfully that he heard them when they approached the Keep?

  She knew that Cathy was anxious too, but there was nothing they could do but wait and go on waiting while Eachann drank. At last the bottle was finished, drained to the very last drop and reluctantly he set it down under the bench.

  Now
he was yawning again, this time drowsily and with not so much vigour. His eyelids were closing, his head nodding a little. His chin touched his chest and startled him so that he awoke with a jerk. He was yawning again, but weakly as if the effort was too much.

  It was evidently uncomfortable on the bench for he moved to seat himself on the floor, his back to the wall facing the door of the Keep.

  “I’m keepin’ watch,” he said aloud in a slurred, somnolent voice. “I’m keepin’ watch, ghosties or no ghosties.”

  His legs were outstretched in front of him, but his head slipped a little sideways, then quite suddenly he keeled over. His head struck the floor, he grunted, pillowed his head in his arms, but did not open his eyes. Slowly his body adjusted itself to a more comfortable position, his knees bent, his back curved.

  He gave a sudden snort, which echoed round the walls, and then he was asleep and snoring in the slow, thick manner of someone who has been drugged.

  Still Iona and Cathy waited until after about five minutes, reassured by the round of Eachann’s rhythmic snores they crept forward into the light. All the way to the door of the Keep they watched Eachann, but it was obvious that the laudanum had done its work effectively. It would be many hours before he would be troubled by anything.

  Iona ran up the steps and fitted the key into the lock. Her hand was shaking and for one awful moment she thought that she had been tricked and that it would not fit. But it was only stiff and with an effort she managed to turn it. Hardly daring to breathe she pushed the heavy door with both hands.

  There was a lantern hanging from the roof of a high circular room. The only furniture was a rough wooden couch covered with a blanket. Lying on it apparently asleep was Hector, but as the door opened he sat up, instantly alert. When he saw who stood there, his eyes widened and he sprang to his feet, but did not speak.

  “The guard is drugged,” Iona whispered, “but come quickly.”

  In answer Hector picked up his belt which he had loosened and which had fallen on the couch. He fastened it round his waist and knelt to tie his shoes. Then he glanced round to be sure he had left nothing behind.

  “Ready,” he murmured.

  Cathy was waiting in the passage, Hector joined her and Iona locked the door of the Keep. Then all three slipped past the sleeping Eachann to where Cathy had left the lantern. Cathy picked it up.

  “Wait here, mistress,” she said in a low voice.

  She sped back again to light her little candle from the lantern on Eachann’s bench. It was but a second or two before she joined them, but in that moment Hector had reached out his arms towards Iona and pulled her close. She could feel his heart beating with excitement.

  “How did you manage it, you wonderful girl?” he whispered.

  “It was the Duke,” Iona replied. “Oh, Hector, I am sure, quite sure, that he is on our side. But we cannot talk here, we must get you away at once.”

  “I have no desire to linger,” Hector replied, “but if what you say is true about Arkrae – it’s splendid news.”

  Cathy joined them at that moment and without wasting time in further speech they set off quickly down the passage, Cathy leading the way, her lantern bobbing ahead like a will-o-the-wisp. They passed the stairs down which she and Iona had come from the upper floors and about two minutes later came to a door in the outer wall. Here Cathy stopped.

  “Ye had best gang oot this way, Mister Hector.”

  “ Where does it lead to?” he asked.

  “Straight on tae the loch,” she replied. “Ma uncle may be below wi’ his boat but if he’s no theer, can you swim?”

  “Like a fish,” Hector replied.

  Cathy raised the lantern and Iona saw there were big bolts on the door and a wooden bar stretched across it. It could not have been used for some time, for the bolts were rusty and it took all Hector’s strength to draw them and to lift the bar from the staples. But he managed it, the door swung open and the sharp night air blew in on them.

  Iona bent forward and looked out. She gave a muffled exclamation, for Cathy had indeed spoken truly when she said that the door led straight on to the loch. There was below the door a sheer drop of perhaps thirty feet into the still dark water. Cathy raised her lantern and waved it slowly then she drew back into the passage.

  “If ma uncle is aboot, he’ll see the light an’ ken ’tis a signal,” she said. “Wait a wee while, Mister Hector, in case he come for ye, but if there’s no sign of him, ye’d best gang swift. Ye maun be far frae here afore the dawn breaks, for his Lordship’ll send his men in search o’ ye.”

  “I know that,” Hector answered. “If only I had a horse, I should feel happier.”

  “Wheen ye reach the ither side o’ the loch,” Cathy said, “take the path which leads to the south, wheen it branches gang due west. After aboot a mile ye’ll come tae a wee hoose. Ask for Raild the Piper. Tell him who ye are an’ if he canna fund ye a horse, he’ll keep ye safe. Ye can trust him as ye’d trust yer ain mither.”

  “Thank you, Cathy,” Hector said, “I shall never forget what you have done for me.”

  “Ye’ll wish tae talk wi’ ane anither,” Cathy said. “I’ll wait doon the passage, but ye maunna linger, Mister Hector. Each minute that takes ye awa’ frae the castle is a minute on tae yer life.”

  She moved as she spoke until she was out of earshot. They could see the flickering of her lantern like a tiny eye in the darkness, but in the starlight Iona could still faintly discern the outline of Hector’s face.

  “There is not time to say much,” he said quietly, “and no words that I could find would begin to express my gratitude, Iona. But my escape will cause trouble and it is you I am worrying about. If you are certain Arkrae is for us, waste no time but hurry back to France with the news.”

  “I had not the slightest idea what His Grace felt until this evening.” Iona replied, “when he deliberately showed me a duplicate key of the Keep and made it possible for me to rescue you. It was fine of him, but I have a feeling that he, too, is in danger.”

  “Arkrae can look after himself – you can’t. Get back to France as quickly as you can,” Hector said urgently. “Promise me?” He put out his hands and took hold of Iona’s. “Promise me?” he repeated.

  “I have not yet found the ‘Tears of Torrish’,” Iona reminded him.

  “Arkrae is prize enough,” Hector replied impatiently, “and there’s one other thing. You will be in France before me, and besides, there’s always the chance of my being captured again. Will you take this notebook and see that it reaches Brett as soon as possible?”

  He drew the little book from inside his coat and put it into Iona’s hand.

  “I had planned to hide it before they handed me over to the English,” he said. “The contents are too valuable for it to be destroyed except as a last resource, but at the same time it would be dangerous for it to be discovered in one’s possession. If you are not leaving at once try and get it into the keeping of Dr. Farquharson of Inverness.”

  “Dr. Farquharson,” Iona repeated reflectively. “That is the man whom Colonel Brett told me to get in touch with when I was ready to return to France.”

  “Then he may already have heard of you,” Hector said. “Ask him to dispatch the notebook to Paris and, better still, you with it as speedily as can be arranged.”

  He looked out of the open door into the night.

  “There’s no sign of Dughall and in a way I’m glad. He has risked too much for me already. I shall swim for it.”

  “The water will be very cold,” Iona said, realising that she was shivering in the chilly air.

  “It will freshen me up and keep me awake,” Hector smiled. “Goodbye, my dear.”

  He put his arms round her and gave her another affectionate, passionless hug. Iona was growing increasingly familiar with this individual form of endearment and it no longer embarrassed her. Instead she clung to him, reluctant to move from the warm shelter of his arms.

  “Take care
of yourself, my dear.”

  Hector released her and sat down on the floor. He dangled his legs over the water before lowering himself slowly, finding a foothold here and there until he was halfway down the side of the castle. Then he jumped.

  Iona, leaning out of the open door, heard the splash, but it was too dark to see him in the water.

  “May God gang wi’ him!” Cathy’s voice said in her ear.

  Iona strained her eyes into the darkness. She could hear a soft movement in the water, then there was silence.

  The further shore seemed dark and foreboding. She felt Cathy’s hand pull her and was obedient to its insistence. There was nothing more she could do, but even as she moved Iona knew with a clear unshakable certainty that Hector was all right. He would win through, serve the Prince and return safely to France. She was as sure of this as she was sure of life itself.

  Hector would succeed, but for herself there was no such certainty.

  With the greatest difficulty, both Iona and Cathy exerting all their strength, they managed to shut home the bolts on the door, and lift the wooden bar into position. As Cathy turned back towards the staircase, Iona remembered the key of the Keep.

  “You must take me first to the Duke’s sitting room,” she whispered.

  The twisting staircase brought them to the first floor. After a few minutes’ walking the passages widened, became carpeted and furnished and Iona recognised where she was. Moving silently, they reached the Duke’s sitting room and found it in darkness save for the glow from a few flickering embers left in the dying fire. It took Iona only a second to slip the key back into the drawer of the writing table from where she had taken it. But as she closed the drawer, she paused for a moment, conscious that the room was filled with the heavy fragrance of tobacco smoke. As she stood there with her fingers touching the smooth polished wood where his arms had so often rested, it brought her a vivid picture of the Duke, of his grey eyes, cold and almost expressionless, looking down into hers.