and more interested in him. The look of him was not that of a strong
leader at all. Slight, he was, with gentle dark gray eyes and a quiet and
courteous air that hardly seemed to belong in an army at all, much less
at the head of one. Now, Antrim looked like a leader indeed, massive red
giant that he was, with a great roar of a voice. Yet there was no doubt
that Montrose was the heart and soul of the army. Everyone, even Antrim,
listened to him with respect amounting almost to worship, and everyone
said that he had a genius for warfare.
Was it magic? Quite likely, Kelpie thought. She took to watching and
listening whenever he was among the men. But she never saw him make any
magic signs, and his words were about such things as honor and loyalty
and why he was fighting for the King. Ian had said Montrose wanted no
power for himself, but only for right to be done, but Ian was gullible.
Skeptical, Kelpie kept her ears open.
“Loyalty is the great thing,” Montrose remarked one day, sitting at ease
in a misty drizzle, kilted Highlanders all around him. They listened with
eagerness and respect, but Kelpie, at the edge of the group, narrowed her
eyes mistrustfully.
“Loyalty to your clan and your King, to an ideal, to a friend, to a thing
you believe,” he went on. “This is integrity; and it is loyalty also to
yourself.” Kelpie frowned. It was only loyalty to oneself that paid.
She had found that out. Montrose was like Ian, then, too generous and
trusting. They would both suffer for it, no doubt, unless they learned to
care only for their own welfare.
“You see,” said Montrose, “King Charles is a Stewart, and so we have a
double loyalty to him—as our King, and as a Stewart and a Highlander. The
English Parliament and the Scottish Covenant wish to rule the King and
all of us as well. I think I need not tell you that.”
There was a growl from the group. “Aye, Mac Cailein Mor would be King
Campbell with the help of the Covenanters!” “A plague on the lot of them!”
“And so,” urged Montrose, “we must put aside lesser loyalties and
quarrels amongst our own clans, and stand together.”
“Aye!” shouted the men, but Kelpie privately thought that Montrose’s
magic would fail at this point. Who ever knew a Highlander to give up his
clan feuds for anything at all—except a greater clan feud?
She did learn one thing about Montrose. He used different words with
different kinds of people—just as she herself did, in a way. She was
eavesdropping one evening as he sat by his campfire with Antrim and
Patrick Graham of Inchbrakie, and his words to them were less simple and
certain than those to the untaught clansmen.
“No,” he said, “I do not fight for what people call the Divine Right of
Kings. I don’t believe there is such a thing, Alistair. A king must be
subject to the laws of God, nature, and the country that he rules. But as
long as he stays within those laws, then he should _be_ the ruler.”
“And if he doesn’t?” It was Patrick Graham, called “Black Pate.”
The youthful face looked troubled in the firelight. “It’s true King
Charles hasn’t always obeyed the rules,” murmured Montrose. “That is why
I supported the Covenant at first. But then I saw the greater danger we
courted. If a group of subjects takes over the king’s power, they may
become a far worse tyrant than ever a king could be, and that is what
happened. You see yourselves how the Covenant oppresses the people; and
I think those who are fighting for the Parliament in this war may find
that they’ve used their own blood and their own fortunes to buy vultures
and tigers to rule over them. To tell you the truth, my friends, I don’t
know the right way to handle a king who abuses his power, but I do know
that this is the wrong way. Perhaps there should be some limit set to the
amount of power that one man or group can have.”
Kelpie chewed her lip thoughtfully. Och, now, and there was a good idea.
She could think of several such whose power should be limited to nothing
at all. She would begin with Argyll and the Covenant, and go on to the
Lowlander and Mina and Bogle. But how would one set about arranging this?
In her preoccupation, Kelpie forgot that she was hiding and carelessly
shifted her position so that a twig cracked. A small twig it was, and
most folk would never have noticed, but these men were well schooled in
danger. Three heads turned as one, and an instant later Antrim’s huge
hand was plucking her from her hiding place as he would a puppy.
“_Dhé!_” He chortled, holding her up in the orange light of the fire and
looking her over with interest. “Here’s a fine dangerous enemy in our
midst.”
“Och, indeed and I am not!” protested Kelpie as well as she could. She
tucked in her lip and looked pathetically at Montrose. “Do not be letting
him hurt me, your Lordship!” she begged in English. “’Tis only a poor,
wee, harmless—”
“Let her down, Alistair,” suggested Montrose gently, “and perhaps she can
tell us what she was doing there.”
“Spying for Argyll, perhaps?” suggested Patrick narrowly, looking at her
gray dress.
Kelpie’s indignation was genuine. “That _nathrach_!” She
sputtered earnestly and went on to curse him vigorously. “He is a
_droch-inntinneach uruisg_ and a red-haired devil with a black heart in
him!”
Montrose, who knew little Gaelic, looked interested. “What was that?” he
inquired, and Antrim chuckled.
“She called him a serpent and an evil-minded monster,” he translated.
“And I’m thinking she meant it, too! Well, then, why _were_ you skulking
there, lass?”
Once again Kelpie found semi-truth to be the most effective answer.
“Och,” she whispered, ducking her head shyly. “I was wanting to see
himself, and to be hearing him talk, for the singing tongue in his
mouth.” From beneath lowered lids she observed that their faces were
amused and tolerant.
“Well, and so you’ve heard him,” said Antrim, not unkindly. “Away with
you, then, and don’t be doing it again. Next time you might just be
getting a claymore instead of a question.”
Kelpie left meekly enough, relieved to get off so easily. But none of
her questions was really answered. She had wanted to learn the source of
Montrose’s power, and whether or no it was from magic, and if and how she
could learn it. For although it was just possible that Montrose could
destroy his archenemy, Argyll, which would be a fine thing indeed, Kelpie
felt that Mina and Bogle and the Lowlander were another matter, and up
to her. For sooner or later she was almost sure to run into them again,
and when that day came she was going to need a great deal of magic power
indeed!
14. The Battle of Tippermuir
At last word went round that the army was to move, but not, as Kelpie
had expected, away from the danger of Perth and Lord Elcho’s great army.
Quite the contrary. They were, it seemed, going to take Perth.
Recklessness and practical caution fought within Kelpie. A fine, daft,
gallant, and suicidal idea it seemed to her. If she had any sense in the
head of her, she would take her leave now and head for safety. But she
decided, instead, to go along but to stay with the women and children
well behind the lines, once the fighting started, and then take to the
hills when the battle was lost.
The small, poorly equipped army gathered itself together and started
south to the sound of pipes playing valiantly. They had got no farther
than the hill of Buchanty when they ran into one of the enemy forces
which had been surrounding them all the time. A full five hundred bowmen
it must be, and Kelpie looked around hastily for something to hide under.
But she had reckoned without Montrose. He and Antrim rode to meet the two
leaders of the bowmen, and they talked. And, sometime during the talking,
Montrose cast his spell, for presently the two forces spread out over the
purple masses of blooming heather and ate together, the leaders still
talking over wine and food.
And then one of the enemy leaders sprang to his feet, and Kelpie could
hear his words clearly. “You’re wrong!” he shouted. “’Tis not two
thousand men ye have, but two thousand and five hundred! For we’ll never
be fighting against Montrose!”
Kelpie shook her head wonderingly. Why on earth did Montrose fight at
all, if he could do this? Or did Argyll and others have some kind of
counter-magic? Kelpie began to feel newly discouraged about her own
prospects for magical powers, with so much competition about.
The newly expanded army moved on again, undisturbed by the news that, in
addition to his seven thousand infantry, Lord Elcho also had some eight
hundred cavalry and nine pieces of heavy artillery. The Highlanders, like
Kelpie, put their faith in the magic of Montrose. With him to lead them,
no force on earth could beat them.
They spent the night on the moor of Fowlis, and early in the morning were
away down the Small Glen, and on to Tippermuir. There stood the walled
town of Perth, some three miles away. And between stood the Covenant
army, spread wide, waiting to catch Montrose’s impudent small army
between its fierce jaws.
Kelpie looked at it with awe, and some of her assurance left her. Surely,
now, Montrose was stretching his powers too far! Lord Elcho would be
wiping them out as easily as Antrim might knock down herself. There they
stood, six deep, every man protected by corselet and an iron headpiece,
and the most of them armed with muskets, against one-third the number
of Highlanders, who wore only ragged kilts and rawhide brogans and
had claymores and bows and arrows, or no weapons at all. It was a sad
contrast.
The citizens of Perth seemed to regard the coming battle as a fine new
kind of Sabbath sport, for they had turned out in great numbers to
watch the fun. Kelpie shoved through the palpitating crowd of women and
children, now well behind the army, until she reached a spot on high
ground which gave her both a good view and a quick escape route for when
she needed it. And she expected to need it. She hoped that Ian might
escape the slaughter somehow, but she was going to be quite sure that
_she_ did.
* * * * *
Ian, who had an even better view in his spot in the front row of the
battle line, was not feeling very optimistic himself. He looked with
resignation over the flaunting blue banners of the Covenant ranks bearing
the motto: _For Christ’s Crown and Covenant_—and then back to the one
brave royal banner—three golden leopards on a red background—floating
above the Highland rabble. The breeze rippled its folds and shivered
across the purpled moors. It seemed too fine a day for men to die.
Alex turned from chaffing his cousins among the small band of Keppoch
MacDonalds and looked at Ian. There was a touch of pallor beneath the
sunburn of his angular face, but his eyes were bright.
“And are you frightened, Ian?” he asked with a crooked grin.
“As ever was!” retorted Ian forthrightly, and Alex chuckled.
“And I too,” he agreed. “My cousin Archie has just been saying it’s only
a fool does not fear danger—in which case, I’m a wise man indeed!”
Ian looked around him. Most of the ordinary clansmen seemed not
much worried. There was an almost supernatural faith in Montrose,
that he would bring victory at any odds. And Antrim—the magnificent
Colkitto—strode down the line with confidence in every inch of him. His
legs were pillars beneath the MacDonald kilt he wore, and they were
matched by the size of his shoulders.
“I think _he_ isn’t afraid,” observed Ian.
Alex nodded agreement. “Montrose is worried, though,” he murmured. “You
can see it behind his eyes. What is happening now?” For one of Montrose’s
officers was going toward Lord Elcho, waving a white flag of truce.
“Here’s Ranald,” said Archie. “He’ll know. Ranald learns everything.” If
Archie was frightened, one would never know it. His black eyes sparkled
wickedly from under his thick black hair, and he turned eagerly to make
room for another Keppoch cousin. “What is it Ranald, _avic_?”
“An envoy of courtesy,” reported Ranald, shaking his fair head
wonderingly. “Montrose has sent to ask is it against their principles
to fight on the Sabbath, and would they rather wait for tomorrow. Only
Montrose would think to make such a gesture!”
Archie, who seemed to have a low opinion of Covenant principles, shook
his head disapprovingly. Alex opened his mouth for a jesting remark,
and forgot to close it again. For, incredibly, outrageously, the envoy
was being taken prisoner! He was seized, bound, hustled off through the
Covenant ranks.
Incredulous anger rippled through the Highland army. Ian stood aghast.
“He couldn’t!” he whispered. “He _couldn’t_ violate a flag of truce!” And
for once even the more cynical Alex shared Ian’s feelings.
Oddly, Kelpie’s face came to Alex at that moment. Her narrow, slant-eyed,
impudent face would be wondering what was so awful about violating a
white flag. Was it any worse than killing a man in battle? And the envoy
wasn’t even dead—yet, anyway. To his disgust, Alex found himself, in
his own mind, trying to explain it to her. “_Dhiaoul!_” he muttered and
turned his attention to the matters at hand.
It was quite possible that Lord Elcho had done himself an ill service,
for a flame of Celtic rage had engulfed the Highland army. Alex found
that he had shifted forward an inch or two without knowing it, and the
rest of the army with him. Those without weapons had picked up stones.
For a moment it seemed that they would all break into a wild charge, but
Montrose achieved the minor miracle of holding them back. “Wait!” said
his outflung arm. “Wait!” boomed Antrim. “Be patient a wee while, men of
my heart, and we soon will be giving them cold steel for it.”
And they waited, only inching forward a toe at a time, as the Covenant
army moved closer, until not a hundred paces separated them. A long wait
it seemed, long enough for all the army to hear Lord Elcho’s answer to
the message of the unfortunate envoy. “The Lord’s Day,” he had said,
“is fit for the Lord’s work of exterminating the barbarous Irish and
Highlanders.”
“When we charge,” muttered Archie, who had been in battles before, “keep
just one thing in mind. Choose your enemy and kill him, and then a second
man if you can.”
“Very well so,” agreed Alex mildly. “And what will I do with my third
man?” He was pleased that his voice had just the nonchalance he wanted
for it.
Ian’s was equally cool. “Just be leaving him to me,” he said. “I’ll have
had my three by then.”
Another inch forward, and the Covenanters closer yet, and still no signal
to charge. And now came the Covenant battle cry for the day. “Jesus and
no quarter!” they yelled, and Ian shuddered at the blasphemy.
And then suddenly came a shrill wild skirl from the gaunt woman at the
back of the battle. A voice lifted and pealed savagely. “Wolves of the
North! Let the fangs bite!”
And the signal was given, and as they rushed forward Ian’s voice answered
with his own clan battle cry. “Sons of the dogs, come hither, come
hither, and ye shall have flesh!”
“God and St. Andrew!” answered the Keppoch MacDonalds, and the air was
thick with the wailing menace of pipes and clan cries, until the pipers
abandoned their pipes for the claymores, and the slogans became scattered
and mixed with mere yells.
Neither Alex nor Ian remembered the rest clearly—only a wall of armed
men ahead, and then the smashing, tearing impact of battle. There was
Archie’s fighting laughter, and the blazing red beard of Antrim ...
someone yelling “A Gordon, a Gordon!” the whole of the fight. And then
there was no wall of armored men, but only fleeing backs, and the charge
went on and on—until they were at the gates of Perth.
* * * * *
When Kelpie reached Perth, some time later (and a messy three miles it
was too, littered with Covenant casualties), she fully expected to find
it being thoroughly sacked and looted, and to be in time to pick up a
few wee things herself. It was just for this that she had managed to get
slightly ahead of the rest of the women and children.
But there was unexpected quiet and order. Kelpie paused inside the gate,
frowning. A few citizens peered fearfully from windows, waiting for the
worst, but the worst did not seem to be happening. Instead, Highlanders
stood about, glaring at the frightened heads and at a shouting preacher
on the near corner, and looking disgruntled.
“He shall rain snares upon the sinners,” screamed the preacher, “and fire
and brimstone and storms of wind shall be the portion of their cup!”
Kelpie joined a group of ragged Highlanders who were standing there
listening. “_Now_ will he remember their iniquity and visit their sins!”
the preacher was suggesting hopefully. “I will consume them by the sword,
and by the famine, and by the pestilence! I will pour their wickedness
upon them!”
“Is it ourselves he means?” asked Kelpie of the nearest Highlander.
He nodded, looking disgusted. “And we not even allowed to feed his words
back to him,” he growled. “And,” he added regretfully, “I am thinking
that the fine coat of him would be fitting me, whatever.”
“But why? Why not be silencing him and taking it?” demanded Kelpie.
He shrugged, looking aggressive. Montrose, it seemed, had ordered no
sacking, no looting, no harm to the citizens.
Several Highlanders turned from the preacher, who was now informing
them that they were to be cast forth from the land, and chimed in. An
unheard-of thing, that! And they half-starved and in rags, and counting
on food, clothing, and a fine wee bit of loot from these overfed,
psalm-singing heathen hypocrites! And what was Montrose about, then, to
be depriving them of their just reward? And yet, not a man suggested
disobeying.
The preacher, a gaunt, long-faced man in a fine black coat, was working
himself up into a fine passion of Covenanter Christianity. “They shall
die grievous deaths,” he announced. “They shall not be lamented, neither
shall they be buried; they shall be as dung upon the face of the earth.”
“Is it his own friends he’s speaking of?” came Alex’s mocking voice.
“’Tis a fine burial service you’re preaching, my friend, but shouldn’t
you be helping to dig the graves first?”
The preacher stopped, glared, and began to launch forth with more Bible
verses. But the Highlanders had got the idea.
“Now then,” one of them called, chortling. “’Twould be no harm to the
bonnie man if we just see to it that he helps bury his friends, now,
would it? Come away out, now, and be useful!” And in a moment the
preacher was being propelled firmly out of the gate, protesting loudly
that yon muckle redshanks were gang to murther him. Alex and Ian, Archie
and Ranald were left, grinning after them.
Kelpie spared them no more than a glance and then returned to her
grievance. No looting! And she had been wanting a nice silver belt and
perhaps a silken purse.
Disgustingly, Ian and Alex agreed with Montrose. “’Tis a barbaric
practice, sacking cities,” said Ian with quiet intensity. “Why should
soldiers war on civilians, especially women and bairns? If there were
more leaders with the principles of Montrose, war would be less evil than
it is.”
“There’s no use one army stopping, and the others going on doing it,”
argued Kelpie.
“Someone must be stopping first,” Alex pointed out. Odd how he kept
trying to explain principles to this little witch, who could no more
understand them than could his cousin Cecily’s wee and wicked yellow
kitten. “If Montrose shows mercy, perhaps the Covenanters will do the
same.”
Kelpie sneered audibly, and Archie made a rude noise. Alex shrugged.
“To be more practical,” he pointed out, “perhaps Montrose is hoping that
these towns near his own home may be turned to our side if we treat them
well.”
“I think he would do so anyway,” insisted Ian, “’Tis a point of
integrity, Kelpie.”
Kelpie looked blank, and Alex laughed. “Do not be trying to explain
integrity to _her_, Ian!” he pleaded. “Begin first on a creature with
more capacity—like Cecily’s kitten, for example—and then Dubh, perhaps,
and after that you might be working up to a kelpie.”
At the mention of Cecily, Ian saw in his mind a heart-shaped, mischievous
face in a halo of tawny hair. And then he put it away from him, for Alex
had said fifty times that he was going to marry his cousin one day; and
if his foster brother wanted Cecily, then she was not for Ian to think
of. So he thought instead of Kelpie, who was tossing her black head
scornfully.
“Well, whatever integrity is,” she announced, “this is daft. For,” she
predicted with gloomy relish, “all the towns around will be thinking
they may do as they please, with no fear of punishment. Just wait you
now, they’ll be shouting more loudly and burning more witches than ever
before.”
Surprisingly, Alex nodded. It was Ian who was about to argue. But at this
moment Lachlan and Maeve arrived, shouting that at last they had found
Mac ’ic Ian, and would he be coming away this minute to have his sore
wound tended.
Ian laughed, faintly embarrassed, and began to protest. And Kelpie,
with a pang of concern, noticed for the first time that his plaidie was
wrapped oddly about his left arm and that a stain of red was creeping
along the sleeve beneath it.
“_Dhé!_” she cried. “It may be only a wee bit cut as you say, Ian, but
yon orange-top”—she glared at Maeve—“has not the sense to be tending it
for you, and it will surely mortify if you let her. I,” she announced
firmly, “will bind it myself, with bread mold and cobwebs on the cut, and
a wee charm or two over it, and ’twill heal overnight, for I know about
such matters.”
Maeve promptly screamed that the wicked little witch would poison Mac ’ic
Ian only over her dead body. Kelpie retorted that it was a fine idea,
that last. Ranald said that he had known mold and cobwebs to work very
well. Archie’s black eyes sparkled with amusement, and it fell upon Alex
to arbitrate.
Firmly, with the masterful air that Kelpie usually resented hotly, he
declared in favor of her bread mold but against her charms. He pacified
Maeve by allowing her to supervise and to put the sign of the cross upon
Ian’s arm. And because both Maeve and Kelpie were genuinely concerned
over Ian’s welfare a truce of sorts was declared—for the moment.
15. Witch Hunt
An uneasy peace brooded over the whole of Perth the next day. Not only
the citizens but also their Gaelic conquerors tended to feel slightly
abused, and they spent the morning glooming at one another. By noon the
high Celtic spirits had risen again in the conquerors, and a spirit of
mischief took over. They released prisoners from stocks and jails (most
of them guilty of such crimes as failing to attend kirk), and some of
the Irish MacDonalds began preaching back at the dour, hell-spouting
Calvinist preachers.
But this palled too, and presently a group of young and adventurous
Highlanders decided just to go out and have a wee look round the
neighboring countryside. Archie and Ranald came hunting Alex and Ian,
who were delighted. Lachlan firmly attached himself to the party, with
strict orders from Maeve not to be letting Mac ’ic Ian do anything to
start his cut bleeding afresh.
At this point Kelpie announced that she would just go too. Ranald looked
at her dubiously, but Archie laughed. “And why ever not?” he demanded.
“The women do full share of work, what with cooking and nursing, and
should have a bit of fun when they can. Will you come too, Maeve?”
Maeve hesitated, glared at Kelpie, and declined. And the party, some
dozen or fifteen altogether, set off.
“Is Kelpie your true name?” demanded Archie as they started west across
the sweep of moor. He grinned at her engagingly. “It wouldn’t be every
day a body could have a kelpie as mascot. Tell me,” he asked, “have I
seen you turn a soft eye upon Ian? Could you not be giving him a wee love
potion?”
Kelpie smiled enigmatically and declined to answer. But she turned the
idea over in her mind.
It was a lovely day, this second of September. The birches were beginning
to yellow and the bracken to turn rusty underneath. Rowan trees flaunted
clumps of brilliant red-orange berries in the sun; and only now and
again did a cloud shadow glide silently over the rosy-heathered swelling
ground, patching it with somber purple. Kelpie tied her plaidie around
her waist, for she would not be needing it until the chill of evening.
They walked on, with the long, tireless Highland stride, chattering and
laughing with the upsurge of spirits that was a normal reaction from the
fear and triumph of yesterday.
“And did you get your dozen men, Alex?” inquired the fair-haired Ranald.
“I saw you once cutting down an armored musketeer twice your size, and
glad I was to be fighting with and not against you.”