JOCK O’ BREADALBANE’S WIFE
Loch Awe lay vast and gloomy under the gray skies; it was twilight and
the sky burnt gold and purple with the last of the setting sun behind
Castle Kilchurn. Though it no longer rained, great black clouds lay
over the distant mountains and a thick mist hung over the placid water.
The castle itself, standing huge and magnificent on the tongue of land
that runs into the loch at the foot of Ben Cruachan, bore on the Gothic
turrets the English standard: a symbol of the authority with which the
government had invested the Earl of Breadalbane.
Along the road that wound by the edges of the loch to the castle, rode
a woman in a scarlet cloak.
The vast expanse of cloudy sky, the huge outlines of misty mountains,
the gloomy castle and the great storm-twisted fir-trees were all tinged
with an air of awe and melancholy.
The woman and her bright brown horse were reflected among the shadows
of the broken clouds in the still water; she rode slowly with her face
lifted to the flaring sky and her red hair blown back from her face.
There were lights in the windows of the Castle Kilchurn, and the outer
gates stood open.
The horsewoman rode through and up to the great entrance, where she
alighted. Before she had time to knock, four or five servants came
hurrying across the courtyard to take her horse, and the door was flung
wide.
She silently entered the vast stone hall, and looked about her; a
couple of white hounds came running up to her; a gray-haired butler
stepped forward. She asked him in Saxon:
“Is my lord here yet?”
“Nay, my lady; he is looking for your ladyship, when he found ye were
missing, he returned to find ye, my lady.”
“Let one go after him,” she answered, “to say I am arrived—is my
cousin, Colin, here?”
“Yea, my lady; and all the other gentlemen.”
She flung off her damp coat and ascended the great, bare unfurnished
stairs.
On the first landing she came into a glare of light that fell through
an open door; servants were passing to and fro, and there was the sound
of many voices.
She entered; stood in the doorway looking down the room.
It had been the dining-hall of the old castle; it was a large room with
tapestry on the walls and a huge log fire burning on the hearth.
Round the black oak table a party of gentlemen were dining by the light
of a hundred candles. At sight of the woman in the doorway they all
rose with one exclamation:
“The Countess Peggy!”
She came down the room smiling.
“Ye did expect I had fed the eagles by now?” she asked. “Weel, I’ll no
be saying but I was fearfu’ of it mysel’—welcome to Kilchurn,
gentlemen—gude even to ye, Colin.”
She held out her hand to the gentleman at the head of the table and
took her place beside him, while the others reseated themselves.
“So my lord wanders on the mountains searching for me?” she said. “And
ye’ll no be having a great opinion of my wits for getting lost.”
The green eyes glanced round; some ten men were seated there; all
fair-haired, unmistakably of one race, her own, Campbells with keen
faces.
“I was no greatly fearing for ye,” said her cousin, Colin Campbell of
Ardkinglass. “Ye will be knowing these parts vera weel, I thought ye
could find your way to Kilchurn.”
The Countess Peggy laughed.
“Weel, I’m blithe to be out of the mist and wet,” she said. “Albeit I
have gotten a great cold.”
“Ye didna’ come in with any of the murdering Hielandmen?” asked one of
the gentlemen.
The Countess poured out some wine and drank it before she answered.
“Yea—I was put on my way by one of the Glencoe men.”
A murmur ran round the table.
“Macdonald o’ Glencoe!”
Lady Breadalbane’s green eyes flashed: “Ay,” she said. “He’d been
thieving an’ murdering—burning one of my lord’s houses, he said. He
showed me Campbells rotting on the trees and—”
She checked herself abruptly; her keen glance roved round the grim
Campbell faces. “I think we’ve taken enough from these Macdonalds of
Glencoe,” she said slowly.
There was a little deadly pause; it was not easy for a Campbell to
voice his feelings for a Macdonald.
It was the Countess who spoke first: “They’re vera simple, these
savages; I told him I was a Fraser.”
“It was wise,” remarked her cousin dryly. “If he had kenned ye were
Breadalbane’s wife, weel, ye wouldna’ be here noo.”
“Indeed, they do hate my lord,” she answered. “I had to listen to some
miscalling of Jock Campbell—as they name him.” Her thin lips curled
into a bitter smile. “I tried to sound him about this conference—ye
ken—this matter my lord has on hand for quieting the Hielands—‘we’ll
never take the oaths’—he says—‘Jock Campbell’s got the money in his
coffers for himsel’—we may come,’ he says, ‘but we’ll enter into no
treaty with a Campbell.’”
“Puir fules,” said one of the company. “They think we _want_ them to be
taking the oaths to King William?”
“They’re no’ so simple as that,” answered another. “But they consider
the new government’ll need something for its money—an’ if a Campbell
can’t quiet the Hielands—some one else can try—it’s plain they’re bent
on ruining the negotiations out of spite to Breadalbane.”
The Countess Peggy set her wine-glass down fiercely: “Weel,” she said,
“’tis the end of October noo, an’ they must take the oaths by
January—they’ve been dallying for two years—but I’m no’ thinking either
we or the government will be taking any more.”
“Lochiel and Glengarry show signs of yielding,” said Colin Campbell,
“though they demand, ye ken, too much of the money—and Coll a’ the
Cows, the ould murdering thief, he’ll come in to save his ugly neck—but
Macdonald of Glencoe will na’.”
“I dinna think we shall be troubled as how to treat them,” answered
another. “They’ll be rebels—it’ll be a fine chance to be clearing the
country of a den of thieves.”
The Countess Peggy’s eyes flashed at the speaker a meaning look.
“My lord’ll be equal to them,” she smiled.
In their hearts they all assented; they knew the Earl of Breadalbane,
ruthless and cunning even for a Campbell; of a fine ability and a power
that made him next to his cousin Argyll, the master of the Highlands;
and these kinsmen of his, a body-guard of Campbells kept always about
him, regarded him with a respect that only great cunning, great
falseness and great power could have engendered in their shrewd souls.
Dinner over, they rose; they had come from Edinburgh that day and were
mostly weary.
The Countess Peggy, whose masterful spirit they obeyed, dismissed them.
She was going to wait up for the Earl, she said, and needed no company.
It was hardly late yet; but the Campbells were never of a roistering
spirit; most of them went to bed; the Countess waited alone in the
dining-hall.
It was full of the mellow light of candles and the bright glow of the
fire; the arms and trophies of the chase on the tapestried walls
glittered in points of light.
She seated herself in a large oak chair that almost concealed her
slender figure; her buckle shoes were held out to the blaze; her fine,
thin face was outlined against the ruby head cushion; she sighed,
finding herself tired.
One of the boar-hounds had found its way in and lay by her side; her
long white hand hung idly down and caressed his silky ears; all her
movements were very graceful; her body as supple as her face was
unmoved and hard.
The heavy clock in the corner had struck ten, but she gave no sign of
impatience; her lids drooped over her brilliant eyes, though her firm,
thin mouth was unrelaxed.
It struck the half-hour. She looked round; the table was set, nothing
was wanting for her husband’s welcome; she lapsed into musing again.
Presently she started into alertness; there was a sound without; the
door opened suddenly.
“Jock!” she cried and sprang up.
A slight gentleman in a shining cuirass stood in the doorway.
In a second the dog was at his side and the woman half way down the
room with out-held hands to meet him.
“Jock!” she said again; the change in her was wonderful; she flushed
into an animated color, all hardness left her face; with sparkling eyes
and parted lips she came to him.
“Weel,” he smiled, “I didna’ think ye would be lost on your own
Hielands.” He stooped and kissed her; then with a sudden half-laugh to
hide the unsteadiness in his voice:
“Ye gave me a bitter moment, Peggy, when I found ye had missed us.”
“’Twas the mist!” she cried. “I dropped my whip and turned back for
it—then the mist thickened; ah, my dear, ye canna ken how lonesome I
felt alone in the wild hills.”
She trembled; her overwrought control leaving her at sight of him; he
led her to the table and drew her down beside him; he was more relieved
at sight of her safe in Kilchurn than he would have cared to put into
words, and it was with a sigh of relief that she looked at him; she had
had disturbing visions of the wild Macdonalds meeting the hated
Breadalbane.
She sank on a little stool beside him while he eat his supper, with her
green eyes, very soft now, on his face.
He was a man of a remarkable appearance; of a very elegant build and
upright carriage, though barely of the middle height; his face was thin
and hollow in the cheeks, his lower jaw projecting gave him a sinister
expression; his nose, a high aquiline, his eyes large, light gray and
very restless; his thick brown hair of a blond so pale that it appeared
gray.
There was an air of great delicacy and dignity about him; he smiled
continually, but taken without the smile the face was hard and cruel.
When he looked at his wife, however, it entirely softened and his
unpleasant eyes flashed into a passion that redeemed them as she caught
his free hand and laid it against her cheek.
“’Tis the last time I lose sight of ye when we cross the Hielands,
Peggy,” he said. “Did ye meet any?”
“Yea,” she answered under her breath; “a Macdonald o’ Glencoe.”
The Earl turned in his chair with a flash of steel and gold.
“One of those thieves!” he cried. “What did he do?”
A deep color came into her face.
“He showed me the way,” she said. “He showed me also Campbells he’d
slain—he showed plunder from your house—he named you devil—and—”
“Ah, he didna’ ken ye were a Campbell?” asked Breadalbane.
“Why no, Jock—I told him I was a Fraser—I didna’ desire to be murdered.”
“Ye will have deceived him,” remarked the Earl. “Ye are a bonnie liar,
Peggy.”
He gave the strange compliment in all sincerity and so she took it.
“But ye hav’na’ heard the finish,” she said. “Jock—will ye ever forgive
me?”
She lifted eager glowing eyes and laid her hand on his arm.
Breadalbane put down his wine-glass.
“Weel?” he questioned. “Ye look ower serious, Peggy.”
She gave a great shudder as at the remembrance of something loathly.
“I have broken bread with a Macdonald,” she cried bitterly. “And—”
“Weel?” he insisted.
“And then—by force—he kissed me, Jock.”
The Earl’s hollow face flushed scarlet.
“A Macdonald o’ Glencoe kissed ye!” he cried.
“Ay,” she answered passionately. “But I dinna think he’ll live to boast
of it. I left him on the mountain, shot through the ankle.”
“It should have been his heart,” said Breadalbane grimly.
“Yes, I ken, but I couldna’—’tis work for you, Jock, not for me—I just
shot to prevent his following me—’tis likely he’ll die of hardship.”
She rose restlessly to her feet.
“I wish he hadna’ kissed me,” she cried. “A Macdonald o’ Glencoe!”
Breadalbane’s pale eyes flashed and narrowed, but he spoke quietly:
“The Macdonalds and I will come to issues yet, Peggy—and then—by
Heaven! I shallna’ forget this.”
“Ah, I ken, Jock—but I would he hadna’ kissed me.”
Her face flushed and trembled; the Earl set his mouth dangerously as he
marked her wrathful distress; he held his hand out to her and she very
passionately caught hold of it.
“We’ve taken enough from these Macdonalds,” she cried. “I saw the
plunder of a house of yours to-day—and murdered Campbells feeding the
eagles—”
She swung round on him with tears gathering in her eyes: “Jock, ye are
almost master in the Hielands; are ye going to leave this knot of
thieves in your midst to harry and insult ye?”
“Nay,” cried Breadalbane fiercely. “I’m only waiting, ye ken—ye canna
touch the Glencoe men openly—ye might as weel try to hunt the eagles
off Ben Cruachan as the Macdonalds out o’ Glencoe—but if they dinna
take the oaths—” He finished with one of his sudden smiles.
“Yea,” said the Countess Peggy breathlessly. “Ye’ll have the government
behind ye then, they’ll be rebels and proscribed men—ye’ll have them in
your hand, Jock. Ah, but do ye think they willna’ take the oaths?”
Breadalbane drew her down beside him and kissed her flushed forehead.
“Dinna fear, Peggy; not ane of the Hielanders will take the oaths—or if
Glengarry or Lochiel do, the Macdonalds willna’.”
“Ah!” she took a deep breath. “And then ye will have the law to help
ye.”
“I shall get letters of fire and sword from the government,” said
Breadalbane, “and clear the Hielands of the Macdonalds.”
There fell a little pause; the two utterly absorbed in themselves and
each other did not notice or heed the falling fire and guttering
candles or the lifting wail of the storm without.
The Countess spoke; under her breath:
“But at Edinburgh—in England, where they want the Hielands quiet—will
they no demand an account of ye?—will they support ye?”
The room was growing cold; unconsciously she felt it and shivered,
drawing closer to her husband.
“I have the most powerful man in Scotland behind me,” said the Earl
slowly. “And he has great weight in England—is a close friend of the
King—and he is no’ willing for the Hielands to take the oaths.”
“Who do you mean?” she questioned eagerly.
A dying log on the hearth fell and broke into a shower of sparks; a
gust of wind blew down the chimney.
“The Master of Stair,” said Breadalbane. “Being the Secretary and a
close friend of the King, he can do what he will with Scotland.”
“Yet I do think he is the most hated man in the country,” mused the
Countess. “I did notice a fury of hate in Edinburgh against his father
and him—he couldna’ be more unpopular.”
“I dinna care,” smiled Breadalbane. “He has the power—and a fine
ability. He wasna’ for buying the Hielands. Put the money into powder
and shot, he said—and now, when we’ve been dealing with them for two
years in vain—he says the same.”
“Weel, then,” she cried. “All ye have to do is to wait till after the
first day of January. Then get the letters of fire and sword—and the
Master of Stair will support ye.”
“Both he and his father,” he answered. “Both the Dalrymples. If any
take the oaths, weel, they’ll be within the law—but, as the King said
to Balcarras—let those who stay without the law, look to it—as they
must expect to be left to the law.”
He rose abruptly and crossed to the fire, where the last light from the
glowing embers was reflected in his cuirass.
His wife followed him with shining eyes; it was the first time even she
had so enjoyed his confidence; the first time he had so spoken of his
affairs, though he had always been assured of her passionate sympathy.
He fell into silence as he leaned against the heavy chimneypiece and
she noticed that his delicate face had fallen into lines of weariness.
“Ye look tired, Jock,” she said tenderly.
“Unlace me,” he smiled. “This thing is heavy.”
She came up and unstrapped his armor; as he shook himself free of it,
he gave a sigh of relief.
“I shallna’ need to be riding my own lands armed when the Macdonalds of
Glencoe are—weel, treated as to their desserts,” he remarked as he
shook out his crumpled buff coat.
As she laid down his cuirass he spoke again:
“What was the name of this Macdonald to-day?” he asked quietly.
“Ronald—the chief’s son he said,” she answered.
Breadalbane yawned, then glanced with half-shut eyes at his sword hilt.
“Ronald, the son of Makian,” he said—“maybe the laddie will live.”
He glanced at his wife.
“Ronald, the son of Makian,” he repeated. “Weel, a Campbell always has
a vera gude memory.”