had made camp by the loch. From the mouth of the glen, the MacNabs were
arriving, great-kilts swinging about their bare, strong knees, and the
top halves of the kilts wrapped round massive shoulders. Kelpie surveyed
the scene for a moment before going down, counting tartans. MacDonalds
were still most plentiful, with Gordons, MacPhersons, Stewarts—but she
saw no Cameron tartans.
She also saw no children, and only a small scattering of women. Where
were they all, then? Frowning a little, she went down, over the snowy
hillside, to the camp.
“Whist, lass, and what is it you’re wanting?” It was a bearded Irish
MacDonald. “The time for sweethearts’ farewells is past, and we off to
raid and harry the Campbells in their lair.” The beard split in a grin of
vengeful glee.
“It is I that am coming with you,” announced Kelpie cheekily. “Where are
all the women and bairns?”
He stared. “Back at Blair Castle, the most of them, safe in Stewart
country. It is only a few of the strongest, and they with no children,
that we have brought. ’Tis no adventure for you, lassie. Be away back
home.”
“I am strong, and with no bairns,” argued Kelpie. “And I’m frightened to
travel alone.” She looked helpless and pleading. “I have no home, and I’d
like well to raid the Campbells. Can I not be coming?”
He grinned sympathetically. “Och, well—we’ve a bloody enough work to
do, and might even use an extra nurse once or twice. Go find Morag Mhor,
then, who is head of the women.”
Kelpie recognized Morag Mhor as soon as she saw her—the tall, gaunt woman
she had noticed at Blair Atholl, who well deserved the title of “great”
Morag. Ragged woolen skirts were kilted up over a bright red petticoat,
showing ankles as sturdy as a man’s. The worn Gordon plaidie had fallen
back from her head, and her face was more alive than it had been at Blair
Atholl, but as fierce as ever. When Kelpie found her, she was berating a
red-faced MacGregor at least two inches shorter than she, who clearly had
no fight left in him.
“And don’t be crossing my path again until I feel forgiving, or I’ll box
the other ear!” she finished briskly and then turned to look at Kelpie.
“Gypsy!” she said, crossing brawny arms on her breast.
“Indeed and no!” protested Kelpie with great promptness. “Only a poor
lost lass, and away from home—”
Morag Mhor laughed loudly. “Gypsy!” she repeated, pointing a long
forefinger.
Kelpie regarded her warily and trimmed her tale. “The gypsies were
stealing me when I was a bairn,” she conceded, not expecting to be
believed.
“Aye, then,” agreed Morag Mhor surprisingly. “Because of the ringed eyes
of you, I think. You’ll have the Second Sight. Are you a witch?”
“Are you?” countered Kelpie, remembering with a pang that she herself was
not and never could be.
Morag shrugged wide shoulders. “I have a healing power. But I’m not
belonging to any coven of daft folk who hold Black Mass and dance their
silly feet off at midnights. My power is in what I’m doing, not what
I’m saying.” Her lined face drew down fiercely. “I’ll be helping to put
the curse of deeds on the Campbells this week. They passed my happy wee
home in Gordon country and left behind a blackened stone—and I arriving
back from over the hill to find the thatch still smoldering, and my man
dead, and my son beside him, and the lad not yet ten! I have thirsted for
Campbell blood ever since, and I shall drink deep.”
She stopped, staring into the white distance with eyes that were of
burning stone. Kelpie reflected that she would not like to have this
woman for an enemy. Best to go canny.
“I was prisoner of Mac Cailein Mor,” she volunteered. “He would have
burned me, but I escaped.”
“Och, then, and you’re another who hates him!” Morag’s eyes returned
from unpleasant places. “Stay along with me, then, gypsy lass. We’ll see
revenge together, and no man nor devil will harm you whilst I am near.”
And Kelpie believed her.
17. The Road to Inverary
They had slept on the border of Campbell country, after feeding on
Campbell cattle collected by some twenty or thirty Highlanders. Their
tightly woven woolen plaids had helped to keep out the cold, and so had
the fires scattered along the glen. But Kelpie was glad enough of the red
wool hose that Alsoon had knitted for her, and of the warm bulk of Morag
beside her.
Now they were heading up Strath Fuile, and the warm-hearted comradeship
of the Highlanders became a savage expectation, for here at last was the
great enemy ahead. Montrose might talk all he liked of getting to the
border to aid the King in England—but a score or two must be settled
first. Montrose had had to compromise; otherwise too many of his army
would have just slipped away home, taking with them as many stolen cattle
as possible.
Now an advance party had gone ahead of the main army to find cattle
before the owners could be warned and drive them off to hide in the
hills. And Morag Mhor, with a dark and unpleasant grin, had attached
herself and Kelpie to them. The men, knowing of her murdered husband and
child, let her join them, with a grim jest or two about the fate of any
Campbells unlucky enough to run into her.
They rounded a curve in the river, and there before them was a long,
low shieling hut with two children playing out in front and a handful
of cattle scattered up the hill behind. Morag saw the hut first and was
off toward it with a flash of red petticoat. Kelpie wished suddenly
that she had stayed with the rest of the women, but she hurtled after
Morag simply because it didn’t occur to her to do anything else. Now the
men had seen it too, and a menacing yell rose from thirty throats as
some of them raced around after the cattle, and the rest—mostly Irish
MacDonalds—followed Morag and Kelpie toward the hut.
Even as she was running, the thing inside Kelpie felt sick at what was
to come. Campbells they were, certainly, but what fault had the bairns
committed? Montrose would be angry, surely, with his scruples about
making war on the innocent. Now the children had seen them and were
running toward the house, screaming with terror. An ashen-faced woman
gathered them to her and then paused in the doorway, uncertain whether to
run inside or away into the hills. Kelpie could almost taste the fear in
her.
Then Kelpie’s foot hit something soft and yielding. She tripped and flew
head first into a patch of wet snow. There was a wail of pain and—the cry
of a small child.
Kelpie raised her head from the snow in time to see Morag stop, whirl,
and race back toward Kelpie and the child. Was she going to begin her
revenge by killing the bairn?
“Is it hurt that you are?” roared Morag, but she was not speaking to
Kelpie. She picked up the crying child and stood, her gaunt face twisted
with the conflict of feelings going on in her. Then she turned to Kelpie,
with the Irish MacDonalds only a few yards from them. “Come on!” she
ordered and raced with the child toward the hut and the cowering woman.
Bewildered, Kelpie scrambled up and followed, just barely ahead of the
men. Morag thrust the baby into its mother’s arms, whirled, and drew her
_sgian dhu_.
“You’ll not be touching them, whatever!” she bellowed at the astonished
giant who led the pack. “Back, or I’ll skewer you, Rab MacDonald! Am I
not a woman and mother myself? A plague on men and war! Back, I say!”
She was terrifying; her avenging fury turned to defense of her prey. It
was altogether too much for the Highlanders. They stood and stared, a
full dozen of them in a semicircle before her.
“Fine brave soldiers ye are!” jeered Morag. “Are ye no afraid to be
attacking such dangerous foes? Here’s the wee bairn, now. Will one of
you not challenge him to fair combat?”
They shuffled their feet, quite taken aback. The madness that Morag
herself had kindled in them trickled out, to be replaced by the Highland
sense of the ridiculous. One of them chuckled, and then several others
began to roar with laughter. “And is this your own vengeance, Morag
Mhor?” they hooted. “I will be remembering this the next time you are
clouting me on the ear and send for a bairn to protect me,” added the
giant called Rab.
Morag Mhor seemed not to care about the teasing. She stood guard over the
grateful little family while the cattle were caught and while the rest
of the army arrived on the scene. And, with the backing of Montrose, she
defied those who wanted to burn the house.
“I can do no more for ye,” she told the Campbell woman when the army and
its captured cattle had started on once again. “You have your bairns and
your home—although your Campbell army left me neither, nor husband. I
intended to do the same to you, but I could not, for I saw myself in you,
and it came to me that a woman’s place is to give life, not to take it.
It comes to me, too, that men are a senseless lot with all their useless
killing, and perhaps we mothers should be raising our sons to different
ideas.”
And then she turned abruptly and headed in long strides back to the
Highland army, not waiting for the stammered words of thanks.
Kelpie trailed along at her heels, saying nothing but thinking a good
deal.
And so it went, along to Tyndrum and up Glenorchy. Morag Mhor vehemently
defended every woman and child they found, against the threats and
wild arguments of the Highland soldiers. It didn’t take Kelpie long to
discover that all this was a great act put on by the Highlanders for
Morag’s benefit, and it was a surprise to her that a woman as shrewd as
Morag didn’t know it too. But she never guessed.
“I know you for the braw liar you are,” remarked Kelpie saucily to Rab
one morning over their beef-and-oatmeal breakfast. “You will be teasing
her every time, and you as softhearted as herself.”
“As ever was,” agreed Rab, rolling a dark eye at her. “But do not be
telling Morag, whatever, for it is not just teasing. With the grief of
her, she is needing something to fight, but she is happier to be fighting
us to save bairns than the other way around.”
Although the campaign through Campbell territory was less bloodthirsty
than Kelpie had expected, still it was not pretty. Men of fighting age
found little mercy, few cattle escaped the voracious appetite of the
army, and more than a few barns and thatch roofs went up in smoke behind
it.
Blazing fires and roasted meat were good at night, after long and cold
marches. Since there were so few women to do the cooking, the men helped
too, with good will and bantering. Kelpie poked at a haunch of beef
one chill but clear evening, thinking to herself that they were going a
long way round to Argyll at Inverary, in a huge triangle to north and
west. Surely by now Argyll would have received word of this invasion!
Kelpie wondered what he would be doing about it. The obvious thing would
be to come away after them, and she looked apprehensively toward the
purple-black hills that surrounded the orange firelight.
“Is there food for a starving—Why, ’tis the water witch!” Kelpie turned
to face Archie MacDonald, whose black eyes were sparkling with curiosity.
They stared at each other.
“And where did you vanish to that day?” he demanded. “A braw lot of
trouble and grief you caused! If you’ve the power to vanish into thin
air, you might have been doing it before Ian Cameron was cut down trying
to save you.”
Kelpie winced. “Was he killed entirely?” she asked, her heart pounding
for fear of the answer.
“Na, na, not entirely. But a nasty wound it was. Still, he survived it,
although he had to go back to Glenfern, and no more fighting for the
time.” Kelpie saw again in her mind the savage downward sweep of Alex’s
broadsword and had to push aside the tumult of feelings that it brought.
But—Ian was not dead! Alex had not killed him!
“And Alex MacDonald?” she demanded balefully.
“He’s—away,” said Archie, and it was clear that he was going to say no
more. But then, he was Alex’s cousin and not likely to want to speak
of it. At least Kelpie knew now that Alex had not been hanged, and she
thought again that she might be the one to avenge Ian some day. For she
doubted that, even now, Ian himself would raise a hand against Alex.
She looked right through Archie, and her slanted blue eyes held no very
pleasant expression.
The meat was done now and being divided. Archie pulled his _sgian dhu_
from his stocking, vanished briefly into the crowd of hungry men, and
emerged with a smoking hunk for Kelpie in one hand and one for himself in
the other. She bit into the meat hungrily and then looked up to find the
deep black eyes still fixed on her, and a question in them.
“That day,” he began, with an uncertain note in his voice, “were you
sending a call in the mind to Alex before you gave the Cameron rant with
your voice?”
Kelpie looked as blank as she felt. “I don’t understand you whatever!”
she said warily.
“Why,” he began, and frowned a little, “there we were in the tavern,
with Alex and Ian in a fury at each other, and none of us even hearing
the sounds outside. It was a braw quarrel, with Ian gone white with the
anger in him, and Alex the color of a rowan berry. And then Alex was
stopping in mid-word, with an intent, listening look on the face of him,
and looking round. And it was because of his silence that an instant
later we were hearing the Cameron rant, and Ian shouting ‘’Tis Kelpie in
trouble!’”
Kelpie shook her head blankly. “And what then?” was all she said.
Archie shrugged. “Why, then, Ian forgot the quarrel and was away out the
door, and Alex after him with drawn sword, and the rest of us collected
our wits and followed, not knowing if Alex’s black fury was still for
Ian, or for the witch-hunters. His face was a fearful thing to see, and
I’m hoping I never meet the like in battle, for ’twould be the end of me.
But you know the rest better than I. How was it, Kelpie, that Alex heard
you even through the quarrel, and before the rest of us?”
“I don’t know,” said Kelpie absently, her mind on another question
altogether. For the thing she had suspected was clear. It was herself
had helped bring about the scene in the loch, and hatred of her had
caused Alex to strike down his foster brother. It was the only possible
explanation, and there was a sore hurt in the thought of it. How could
Alex have hated her that much, who had never seemed to hate her at all,
but only scorn her? Her short upper lip curled. Och, he would pay for it,
just! Even though Kelpie could no longer hope for witchcraft to help her,
he would pay for it.
Archie looked at her uneasily. There was a look about her not quite
canny, and it was occurring to him that folk called after water witches,
who could communicate without the voice, might not be a braw choice for
companionship, so he brought her another hunk of meat—to avoid offending
her—and melted hastily into the crowd of soldiers.
* * * * *
The army passed the very spot near Loch Awe where Kelpie had first seen
Janet Campbell that June day six months ago. And then they were heading
at last toward Inverary, through the steep wilds of Glen Aray where she
and Janet had gone. And what had been happening to Janet all this time?
she wondered. Not that she really cared, she tried to tell herself,
except that Janet was a harmless soul and not deserving to be harmed by
either Mac Cailein Mor or his enemies.
There was no detour to the top of the hill this time. Straight down
the glen the army came, pipes shrieking in ominous triumph. It was a
braw sound indeed, a wild song that set the blood running with joyful
madness—or the blood of Montrose’s army, at any rate. Kelpie wondered
briefly how it sounded to the ears in Inverary. Along the river they
marched, half running now, and erupted into the valley, the town of
Inverary seeming to cower ahead on its point of land, and the castle—so
familiar to Kelpie—to the left.
Morag Mhor was with the men heading for the village, loudly daring them
to lay a finger on woman or child, her voice rising as they insisted,
grinning, that this time every wee babe would be slaughtered, just. For
once, this game had no interest for Kelpie, and she headed straight for
the castle. If Mac Cailein Mor was captured, she wanted to be there to
gloat.
Everywhere there was clear evidence of surprise and panic. The town and
castle, unaware of the approaching invasion, had been celebrating the
Christmas season—in their sober Puritan way, of course, with longer and
more frequent sermons. Kelpie’s lip curled with scorn for a chief so
feckless as not to know what was happening in his own country—or else so
sure of his invulnerability that he took no precautions. Och, she could
hardly wait to see him taken prisoner! Her small white teeth fairly
glittered in her smile.
She had just reached the castle wall when a shout of dismay and fury
broke out. Kelpie rushed to a high knoll where she could see. Men were
pointing to the small bay. A fishing boat was hastily heading out into
the loch.
“’Tis himself is running away!” And Kelpie hardly needed a second glance
to confirm it. Her keen eyes picked out two red heads, the short bulk of
Lady Argyll, the patch of Cameron tartan that was Ewen.
“Ssss!” said Kelpie in savage regret.
The pipes lifted a wild wail of derision. “Oh, the great Argyll!” someone
yelled. “Brave General Campbell! What, will you be away off, Mac Cailein
Mor, and us just come to visit?”
Montrose wasted no time fuming over what couldn’t be helped, although
he must have been bitterly disappointed. The capture of Argyll this day
might have changed history—although he had not the Second Sight to tell
him how much. Even Kelpie did not know, for the crystal had not yet
showed her the scene to come later, when Montrose himself calmly mounted
the scaffold.
His face was calm now as he gave orders to set about taking the castle
abandoned by its owner. It wasn’t as difficult as it might have been. One
couldn’t expect inspired defense from the men who had been left behind
while their leader fled. And once Montrose’s men were in full possession,
Kelpie entered the castle through those massive gates she had passed
through before—but this time with an arrogant sway to her slim body.
She wasted no time with the fine white bread and wine that had been
discovered, nor even with the miserable figure of Mrs. MacKellar huddled
on a chair in the hall. She knew where she was going, and she wanted to
be the first one there.
Argyll’s apartments were deserted. She walked boldly through the massive
oaken doors, on into the inner chamber. There was a fine large cairngorm
brooch on the table, mounted in silver, bigger than her fist. Fine, that!
She looked around. What else?
A thought struck her. The next chamber must be that of Lady Argyll. In
she went, and in a moment was kneeling beside a chest of fine gowns. A
pity there were none of bright colors. Kelpie had always wanted a gown of
flame-red velvet, but of course such a thing would never be found in a
Covenant household. Still, there was one of moss-green, and the softest,
finest wool she had ever seen, and not so _very_ much too big, provided
she belted it tightly about the waist. And she laughed with joy. Here was
the fine silver belt she had always wanted.
Next she pulled out a lovely cloak the color of juniper—and she must have
it, although it was lined with Campbell tartan—and a silken purse, a
linen kerchief, and several baubles. She tried on a pair of square-toed
leather shoes with silver buckles, but they hurt her feet sorely, so she
kicked them off and went back into Argyll’s room for a silver snuff box
she had seen there.
And as she stood, green gown bunched about her waist under untidy thick
braids (uncombed since leaving Alsoon), the cairngorm in one hand and the
snuff box in the other, the outer door opened.
For an instant memory played tricks on her and she thought that it was
Mac Cailein Mor finding her there with the hairs in her hand, and blind
panic was on her. Then it cleared as a voice spoke.
“_Dhé!_” boomed Antrim. “And whom have we here?”
“’Tis the eavesdropping lass from last summer,” answered Montrose,
standing still, taking in every detail.
Kelpie looked back at him fearlessly. He was amused, she could tell. And
besides, did not his scruples prevent him from harming women or children,
even enemy ones, and she no enemy?
“I see you’ve wasted no time,” he observed mildly. “How is it you’re here
ahead even of your army commander?”
“I was knowing the way and wanting to be first,” explained Kelpie
artlessly. She waved her loot at him with great pride in her cleverness.
He looked at it, and at her. The corners of his mouth moved slightly.
“That would be Argyll’s cairngorm, I suppose?”
She nodded, regarding it happily. Then something occurred to her, and she
glanced up at him dubiously from under her thick lashes. Perhaps it might
be wise to sacrifice material gain—if necessary—for policy.
“Were you wanting it yourself?” she asked reluctantly. “I will give it to
you, if you like. There’s another nearly as good in yon box,” she added,
“and this a wee bit heavy for a lass to be wearing.”
Montrose laughed. “No, I don’t want Argyll’s brooch,” he assured her, to
her relief. Then he looked at her seriously. “I don’t suppose it’s ever
occurred to you,” he suggested, “that stealing could be a bad thing?”
“Och, aye!” exclaimed Kelpie earnestly, “You must be very canny at it,
my Lord, and lucky, too. For ’tis a bad thing indeed and indeed to be
caught! But Mac Cailein Mor’s away in his wee boat, and no danger now.”
This time it was Antrim who boomed with laughter, and Kelpie looked at
him resentfully. Clearly he had had no experience at getting caught, or
he would never be laughing at such a serious matter.
“I didn’t mean quite that, although I’m sure it must be true,” explained
Montrose gently, and the corners of his mouth were jiggling again. “I
mean, did you never think that it might be wrong to steal, whether you
were caught at it or no?”
“Och, no!” said Kelpie, wide-eyed. “But then, perhaps ’tis different for
you,” she added kindly. “Being a chief and lord and all, you will be able
to get things without stealing them, and I doubt you’re ever hungry,
whatever.”
Montrose sighed. “Aye,” he agreed, seeming sad for some reason. “’Tis
different for me. You’d best run along now, though.” And he turned to
look after her as she left the room.
Kelpie went back to the other wing, picked up an item or two from
Mrs. MacKellar’s room, and then stood still for a minute, frowning at
nothing at all. Why did people persist in making her think about new
and uncomfortable ideas? A few months ago she would have been genuinely
puzzled by the notion that it might be wrong to steal, even though a body
was not caught at it. But now, even though she had pretended not to know
what Montrose meant, the idea wasn’t really as startling as it would once
have been. It was the sort of thing the folks at Glenfern might have
said, or Ewen Cameron, or even Alsoon and Callum. It undoubtedly had
to do with the integrity thing Alex and Ian talked of, and all of them
wanting her to apply it to herself. Why should she? Mina and Bogle had
taught her that anything was right if one got away with it—but then, Mina
and Bogle were evil, and perhaps everything they said was wrong.
Kelpie sighed. On the other hand, Alex talked about those ideas, and he
was evil too. So what was a lass to think, at all?
She wandered down into the main hall, which was still a chaos of
triumphant men. But she was so engrossed in her problem of right and
wrong that she quite forgot to taunt the dejected and weeping Mrs.
MacKellar. In any case, it no longer seemed necessary. After all, the
housekeeper had been loyal to her chief, and it the only safe thing
to do—but would it not be safer now for her to side with the royalist
victors?
Kelpie frowned at the red-eyed and unlovely figure of Mrs. MacKellar,
for in it there was something undefeated and almost gallant. No, Mrs.
MacKellar would never change sides, but would stay loyal to Mac Cailein
Mor, even though he was not worthy of it. Why? Did she fear that he would
come back? Or was this something like not stealing, that a body did even
against his own interest? Was that what integrity was? But what good was
it? As far as Kelpie could see, it was more likely to be a nuisance than
an asset.