Michael rode in full daylight toward the sea. It was a little used
road, linking the fishing village of Kroe to the uplands; and if what
Purceville said was true, he was, for the moment, no longer a wanted
man. But he had little choice in any case. Riding against the
sea-winds at night would be the death of him, and plans must be laid
for the twilight after next.
Even so, he could not help feeling apprehensive as he slowed his horse
to a canter, and turned down the single brick street of the town,
overlooking the bay, then the sea beyond. As he passed through its
center---small shops, a public house, plain, two story homes joined at
the shoulder---he found himself looking down and straight ahead,
subconsciously drawing his shoulders together as if to fade into every
shadow, afraid of every eye. James Talbert's phrase, "skulking
thieves," came back to him. At the same moment he passed a sturdy lad
of fifteen or thereabouts, who looked up at him with a fearless eye,
almost mocking.
And all at once his fugitive life became intolerable. For in the boy
he had seen himself, half a lifetime before.
With sudden resolution he checked his horse, and sat up straight and
proud in the saddle. Shading his eyes he looked out to the sea, and
beyond. Somewhere, across the unfathomable waters, there had to be a
better life: a new land, where he could start again.
He would never submit to Imperial rule; this he knew with absolute
certainty. And he would not live like this. What had begun in his mind
as a means of short-term escape---fleeing the Castle by sea---now
branched out into thoughts of a new home, a new world, where the skies
were freer and a man could still dream.
He turned back again to the hills of his beloved Scotland, the land of
his birth. A great sorrow filled him, and an ache that was almost
physical gripped his chest, for a dream that had died, and a home that
was lost.
But the past was gone, and there was no returning. He must look to the
future. He must live free or die.
The lad looked back at him, startled by the change. "Master," he said
plainly. "Who are you?" The Highlander breathed deep the sea air, then
replied.
"I am Michael James Scott, a proud veteran of the war against tyranny,
and a man who will hide no more." With that he gave rein to his
fretting animal, and rode openly to the fisherman's cottage.
The old man had seen him coming, but remained smoking placidly as
before. There was much here that he did not understand, and he had
many questions. But he knew enough not to worry himself, or to act in
haste. Life, in the form of young `Jamie', was coming straight toward
him, and would no doubt make itself clear.
Drawing up to the low stone shelter, Michael dismounted and tethered
his horse, then strode quickly up the steps. The eyes of the two men
met, and though everything had changed, nothing had changed between
them. Michael was still in need, and the fisherman was still willing
to help.
"Can we go inside and talk?" he said. The old man nodded.
Again they sat before the fire, grateful for its warmth, and for the
strong walls around them. Michael had laid out the facts as he
understood them, told his friend all that he knew. And now he waited
on his judgment, seeking aid and counsel alike.
"Well," said the other, after mulling over all that he had heard. "I'd
say it's more than clear we've got to get them out. . .and I'd have to
say you're right, not trusting their fate to the English. There's good
men among `em, it's true. But when there's a struggle for power
between adamant men, innocents are going to be hurt, and conscience
swept aside.
"On one thing you can rest assured," he went on. "I'll be at the cove
with a skiff, if and when you need me, with my boat anchored not far
off. I'll move in at nightfall tomorrow, prepared to stay till dawn,
then do the same the next night if need be. I know the place well
enough, as I know most every coast from Skye to Inverness. It'll be a
tricky sail coming out---with the wind against us. But I'll warrant
the wind's been against us some years now, eh?"
"Thank you," said Michael. "It means a lot."
"Aye, but that's the easy part. First we've got to get them out."
Again he puffed on his pipe thoughtfully.
"Well then. I've seen that tower from a distance, and know the castle
by reputation alone. It was built centuries ago as a defense against
the Vikings, and word has it it's never been taken. It was built to
withstand far greater force than any you or I could hope to bring
against it." The mariner paused, considering.
"Stealth, you say. And rope..... Aye. A grappling hook might be the
answer, if the window weren't as high as it's bound to be, and you had
all night to make the throw. But I suspect you don't, and the weight
of the attached line would make it all but impossible in any case."
"I'd thought of that," said Michael. "But I didn't know what else to
try..... Tell me the truth, John. Is it hopeless? I think another
prison cell would be the death of me. But if there's no other way. .
.I'll turn myself in along with Purceville, and try to reach the new
Secretary---"
The fisherman shook his head. "No. Your kin have turned themselves in
once already, and you see the result. And I did not say it was
hopeless. You were on the right scent. You're just not the crafty old
hound that I am." He gave the younger man a wink. "Where a rope won't
go, perhaps a bit of string will, to lead the way."
Michael set his horse at an easy gallop, as the road leveled and he
began the second, less arduous leg toward home. He felt heartened as
his leg brushed against the saddlebag, and he thought of the bundles
contained within. For the first time since the women had been taken
from him, he felt a tentative hope. There was a chance.
The last daylight faded behind him; but now the feared night wind was
less, and only urged his mount to greater speed. After a time he
looked up at the waning, but still formidable moon, wondering if its
light would be a blessing or a curse in the coming escape. For the
hard clear skies of mid autumn had begun, with ten thousand stars
looking down unobstructed. There seemed little likelihood of change by
the following night. Perhaps the fog would be a factor, though the
high promontory on which the Castle was set.....
It was no use worrying, he told himself, with less conviction than he
wished he felt. Again he fought off the familiar sense of dread which
had never fully left him since the morning of the Battle, but only
varied in theme and intensity. Familiar too was the dull, oppressive
ache of his affliction. How much longer he could deceive his body with
the promise of future rest, he did not know. He was worn, both
physically and emotionally, to the last thread of resilience. And yet
he could not rest. Still one more journey must be undertaken, before
he slept that night.
Perhaps an hour later he came at last into sight of the lonely
homestead. When he circled at a distance, to interpose the chimney
between himself and the moon, a faint trail of smoke could be seen
rising from it, and this encouraged him. Someone remained within. Any
trap set by the English, he felt sure, would be presaged by absolute
silence and stillness. But this did not rule out the possibility of an
ambush by Purceville, who had not yet made his intentions clear.
With this in mind, he dismounted several hundred yards from the house,
and wrapping the horse's reins about the branch of a sheltering tree,
advanced on foot.