“Na, John! Y’ know that isn’t true, what y’ say! A man may have the heart but no’ the skill. Cannot y’ see? The lad wants the skill! He wishes to learn!”
“Why, then?”
So I told it simply, how I fancied myself a swordsman, although I was only a boy, and how those who set upon me proved my skill was nothing like enough.
“And when you’ve the skill, what then?”
“I shall go back. I shall find Rafe Leckenbie again. I shall make him show me his best and then I shall beat him.”
“Hah? Well, I’ll be thinkin’ y’ll have to talk y’ best to get aught from Fergus. He’s no’ the one to teach any who come, only those who seek him out for a fight—and they pay dear for what they get.”
“Where to look, that’s the question,” I said.
The men exchanged glances. “Go north and ask for him. If he wishes to see you he’ll find you soon enough, and if he doesn’t y’ will be whistlin’ to the wind for all y’ll see of him.”
My gruel was hearty enough, and warmed my insides. The ale was good, and soon the chill began to go from me.
“Do y’ have the Gaelic then?” He who was my friend put the question.
“Aye, although a different sound than yours, no doubt. But I have it, never fear.”
“Y’ will need it. There’s some say he takes notions time to time and will speak only that.”
One man got up. “It be late. I’ve a fair piece to go.” He went out, shutting the door behind him. My lids were heavy and I nodded above the last of the ale.
“John? The lad’s dyin’ for sleep. Can y’ not put him down before the fire? He’s not the pailing kind, I’ll warrant.”
“I am not,” I said. “I would steal from no man.”
“There’s a bit of rug b’ the fire, lad, if y’ can make do wi’ it.”
“I could sleep on a stone,” I said, “and think it soft, that tired I am. I crossed the Solway this night from England and traveled some before that.”
“And hurt, too.” John indicated my face. “But it heals.”
The man who spoke for me helped to move back the table and they unrolled their bit of rug before the fire. He made do upon a bench, but I trusted no such place for fear of falling off in the night. John added a chunk or two to the fire, driftwood brought up from the sea it was, looking like a bit of some great spar from a lost ship. I said as much.
“Aye, a few have been lost yonder off the Mull. Some fine vessels, too, and some fine folks.”
John left us then for his own bed. The candle was snuffed and only the firelight lit the room, and all was still enough except for a drop now and again as rain fell into the fire. It hissed at each drop, and sometimes a spark flew. The room was warm, but tired though I was, I could scarcely sleep.
Suddenly the man upon the bench spoke with a whisper. “Lad? Be you awake still?”
“Aye,” I said, not trusting him, although friendly enough he had been.
“Lad, if you’ll come along wi’ me when morning comes, I’ll show you on your way and more. I’ll pay you a bit. I need a sturdy lad who’s not afeared to fight.”
“Fight? I have no wish for it. Only in my own good time, and wi’ those I choose.”
“Lad, lad! D’y’ think I ken not your Gaelic? You’re Irish as Paddy’s pig, and so am I, but there’s those who would have my heart if the chance offered.”
“Here? In Scotland?”
“Aye, even here. I need other eyes to watch, and you’ve a smart way about you.” He paused. “Who are you, then?”
“I did not ask you,” I said.
“That you did not. So be it. My way is your way, lad. I’ve a man to see in the Highlands, a man who is friendly to the Irish, but there’s English spies about. Mind you, I find no harm in the Englishmen. I’ve friends among them, but they’re Queen’s men…ah, that’s another thing!”
“I go to the Highlands, and I seek Fergus MacAskill. If my way lies with yours, so be it.”
“Good, then! They look for a man alone. Together we’ve a chance, and we can take turns sleeping.”
“And tonight?”
“No…I think tonight is safe, but if you hear a sound outside, touch my foot. I’ll come awake soon enough.”
The wind was rising, and the rain increasing. I liked it not and wished to travel alone, yet a fellow Irishman? A man seeking help for Ireland no doubt….Well, I would see what the next day offered, and take each day as it came. I wanted no fight with any man except Leckenbie, and that only in its time.
I slept, awakening only to stir the fire and to listen to the hard rain fall, and the wind. It was an angry sea yon, and I knew why he who brought me turned so quick from the shore, for he smelled it on the wind. He knew the storm was coming. What was it the old wives said? “God have pity on the poor sailors on such a night as this!” Aye, and all who had no shelter, as I might not have had.
Gray was scarcely in the sky before my companion was up and outside, looking about at the weather.
John handed me a bowl of hot soup. “Drink it, lad. You travel a great distance, and I wish you luck.” A movement of his head indicated the man outside. “You walk with him?”
I shrugged. “It was spoken of. For a distance, perhaps.”
“He is a good man, make no mistake, but he walks a dangerous path. All who are with him are in danger, for what he does is close upon treason. If anybody could find Fergus MacAskill for you, he could…but do not become involved with what he does, and if danger comes, think of yourself and get away. He would wish that, too.”
He paused; breaking a chunk of bread from a loaf, he handed it to me. “My mother was from Ireland so I’ve a sympathy for them there. Be careful, lad.”
We walked away in the morning upon a winding road across the moors, and in all the wide land we saw no others but ourselves, save here or there some sheep, and once, a cow.
“Ahead lies Glen Trool,” my companion said. “It is a dark and bitter land, yet with rare beauty, and stories! Ah, the stories it could tell! Murder and mystery and old things found! Spearheads pushing up from the soil after a rain, and once I came upon a length of ancient sword while hiding in the trees there.
“It is a place to lose a man, if he wishes to be lost, or a body if the killer wishes to make no explanation. There are thieves and outlaws hiding there, too, and not afar was where Robert the Bruce won a victory over his pursuers. A small victory, but a victory.”
He looked at me. “What do they call you, lad?”
“They call me Tatt. It is enough.”
“What they call me is another thing, but for the time I am a Scotsman, Angus Fair. I am a seafaring man returning from a long time at sea.” He paused, turning to look back the way we had come. “You know nothing of me, lad, if questioned. Simply say honestly enough that we just met, and you understood I was returning home after twenty years at sea.” He smiled. “That allows for me having no connection, no land, and only a destination.
“My family have all passed on, but I’ve a wish in me to see the place where I was a boy before going back to the seas again. And I have a wish to get on with it, for I have a feeling the Spanish will be mounting an attack upon us.
“Now you know my story, and as for you, I am helping you to go to relatives in the Highlands. Does it please you, this story?”
“Aye, and why not? It answers questions simply enough.”
“One thing more, lad. There are those about who are no lovers of the Irish, so if I were you I’d be the son of a Scottish soldier who was killed in Ireland, fighting for the Queen, and you were raised there. Now you are returning to your own.”
We walked on into the morning, and Angus Fair talked of Ireland, repeating some of the tales I’d had first from my father. “Ah, lad, the trouble with the Irish is that they fight best wh
en fighting for others, and among themselves there is no common cause, no unity. In all the lands of Europe you will find Irishmen, often in command, and always fighting well while their own poor country is occupied by the British.
“Mind you, lad, I am not a hater as some are, but a patriot, a lover of his own land. I wish for its freedom, but do not blind myself to its faults. If the British would stay in their own land we’d love them well, for we’ve much in common, but freedom we must have. How we will use it…ah, ’tis another question, lad, another question!”
As we walked he rambled on, talking of many things, and I listened, having much to learn. He was a man who had traveled, had known many kinds of men under all sorts of conditions.
The clouds were low and gray, heavy with rain. About us the grass was a deep, deep green and the distant mountains were somber. We walked steadily on, each with a stout staff for easier walking. Twice we passed farmsteads not far off the road, houses of gray stone walls and thatched roofs. Once a big dog stood watching us until we were safely by, but it did not bark.
Soon we saw no more people, no dogs, no distant houses, but only the stark and empty grassland and then the forest. It was a lonely land, and we talked not at all, each alert for we knew not what. Out here a man seemed to stand out, and there seemed no place to hide.
“Yet there is,” Angus replied, “you have simply always to be alert. You and me, we must never forget that. So look about you…there are low places in the ground, rocks and sometimes clumps of heather. The thing to remember is to lie still…movement draws the eye.”
And I did look, and from time to time did see places where a man might hide, if he lay still.
Now the land took on a wilder aspect and there was almost continual rain. It was with relief that we saw a cluster of houses before us, and smoke rising from several of them.
“There’s a bit of an inn,” Angus Fair said. “If the weather were not so gloomy I’d say to pass on, but we’ll stop. A warm meal will do us well.”
He lifted the latch and swung open the door, and we stepped in. As we shook off the rain and looked up, we knew we had done the wrong thing.
There were five men in the room, three of them armed like soldiers.
It was too late to draw back. To return to the night in such weather was enough to arouse suspicion of us.
“ ’Tis a heavy dew,” Angus commented. “A good night for a draught of ale and a warm fire.”
They did not smile, but simply stared at us, nothing friendly in their eyes.
CHAPTER 13
THERE WAS NO place by the fire so we went to a rough board table and sat down on benches that faced it on either side. Angus pulled his bench around so he could sit with his back toward the wall and his face to the door. I sat around the corner of the table from him, facing the fire and the men who sat before it.
It was a good blaze, but there was chill at our backs, and not from the cold only.
This was a wild land where we now were, and few were the travelers who ventured to cross it. There were outlaws in the forest or lurking in the glens for unwary travelers, but these were not such.
Mine host brought us a slab of meat, good venison, too. Along with it he brought a loaf and then he drew two mugs of ale.
The inn, if such it might be called, was ancient. The stone-flagged floor underfoot was worn and polished by much use and a corner of the wall was old, too. Someone at a much later date had added the rest.
Angus stamped a foot on the floor. “Old!” he said.
“Aye,” the innkeeper said. “Roman, they say. Not many came this far. They found the Scots too hard for them. Too hard by far.”
We ate, straining our ears to make out the muttered conversation between the others. From time to time they looked at us, but in no friendly or curious fashion. Rather, it was suspicion. We could make out nothing of what they were saying, but when the chance came I eased my staff across my knees, ready to hand.
One whom we took to be a soldier stared hard at us and then said suddenly, “ ’Tis not many come this way.”
Angus wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Aye! Nor would I, but the lad returns home, and I am showing him the way. It was a promise made in an ill-thought moment,” he added, smiling. “His father did me a kindness more than once, and now he is gone.”
“Dead?”
“Aye! Killed in the Irish wars. He was a Scot whom they settled there, and there the lad was born and raised until his family were killed. We escaped together, and now when he is safely among his own folk, I shall off to the sea again.”
“You be a sailorman?”
“Sailed with Hawkins. Two voyages to the Indies, trading and fighting, and the last time a prisoner in Spain. But Sir John looks after his own and ransomed me out, and now when I’ve taken the lad north I shall be off to join him again.” He paused, gulping down a swallow of ale. “There’s talk that the Spanish are readying a great fleet of ships to go against England, so the fighting may be here, along our own coasts.”
This was news indeed, and for a while we were forgotten in the talk bandied back and forth. Many in Scotland were not at all friendly to England but most of them liked the Spanish even less. Yet the comment had done what Angus intended and taken their minds from us.
They argued the effects of such an attack. Some thought Spain was too mighty for England to stand against, but others mentioned Hawkins, Martin Frobisher, and mariners noted for their skill at sea fighting.
“There’s another, too,” Angus Fair suggested. “The name is Drake, Francis Drake. He sailed with Hawkins and made a name for himself among Hawkins’s men. He is a man to be reckoned with.”
“Ah,” the innkeeper said gloomily, “England is but a small nation, and Spain is the greatest upon the world’s seas. England will have no chance, none at all!”
We finished our meal, and I listened to the fury of the wind outside and the rain lashing against the shutters. It was a bitter bad night without, and the walls and fire were a comfort.
We finished our meal and I looked longingly at the floor near the fire, but knew it was not for me. Others had come first. Yet I drew my coat about me and huddled closer, fighting the chill at my back.
From outside there suddenly came a clatter and a banging and then the door was thrown open in a gust of howling wind that set the flames a-roaring on the hearth. In the wide open door stood a huge man wrapped in a sheepskin cloak, the leather side outside, and a great fur cap now sodden with rain. He had a red beard and bushy brows of red, and there was a great scar on his cheekbone partly hidden by the beard.
He stepped into the room, and even against that mighty wind he slammed the door so it shook the house. Without a word he strode to the fire. The men pulled back abruptly, although he said no word. He swept off his sheepskin and dropped it over a cask in the corner.
“Ale!” he said, and his voice boomed harshly in the small room.
Then he sat down with his back to the room and extended his big hands to the fire.
I stared at those huge hands. A finger was missing from one, two nails were gone from another. There were scars upon both hands, yet their power was obvious. The soldiers, who had appeared so threatening a few moments before, huddled back from him, eyes averted.
He carried a claymore, which was a huge two-handed sword, and a dagger as well. Seeing some apples on the table, he reached over and took one of them, turning it in his fingers. Then he drew the blade, lay the apple upon the back of his left hand and with a single deft stroke, hacked it in two without scratching his hand. That blade was obviously razor-sharp. But it was not the sharpness that drew my eyes but the serrated back edge of the blade. The blade itself was wide and strong, but that serrated edge made the knife what was known as a sword-breaker, for a blade caught in the notches could with a deft twist of the wrist be broken, snapped rig
ht off. I had heard of such knives, but never seen their like. My father had told me of fighting men skilled in their use.
The big man—and he would have made two of Angus—ate his apple, the crunching loud in a room where, but for the fire, a silence had fallen.
The innkeeper came with a great mug of ale, and the big man took it and drank it half-empty at a draught. He glanced around the room then, impaling each of us with a glance that told him all he wished to know. His eyes lingered longest upon me as if for some reason I struck a discordant note. It frightened me, for it was as if he saw all that I was and who I was with that single glance. He said nothing, finishing his ale and calling for food.
He looked around suddenly at the innkeeper. “What distance to Ayr? I have gone that way but it has been long since.”
“By the track…belike thirty mile. I have not gone so far, m’self.”
Angus spoke quietly, almost as if to himself. “It is our road, too.”
The big man stared at him.
“We seek a boat there,” he said, “to the high coast of Scotland, or to the Isle of Lewis.”
“We shall go together, then,” the big man said, and thrust his mug out for more ale. “Before the break of day, if you walk with me.”
* * *
SWEET WAS THE walking in the gray time of dawning, sweet the smell of rain-fresh grass and the dark loom of gray granite above the green, with here and there a darker shrub. It was the land I loved where no people were, only us walking and no talk among us for a long time.
The rain had gone but the clouds hung low, heavy with promise and warning. We walked on, matching our strides to his as well as we could, leaving the inn behind us and pleased that it be behind. A dark bird flashed across flying low, and a moor stallion lifted his heavy-maned head and stared at us from a quarter of a mile off, then tossed his head and walked a few steps toward us as if in challenge. I had no trouble for him; he was a noble beast and understood the sweet wine of freedom, which he drank deep on these lonely moors with the Highlands rising up nearby.
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