In olden days the east coast of Scotland was studded with fortresses,
which, like a crescent chain of sentinels, watched carefully for the
protection of their owners and their dependents. The ruins remain
and raise their hoary heads over valley and stream, by river bank
and sea shore, along which nobles, and knights, and followers “boden
in effeyre-weir” went gallantly to their fates; and where in the
Highlands many a weary drove followed from the foray, in which they
had been driven far from Lowland pastures or distant glens, with whose
inhabitants a feud existed. Could the bearded warriors, who once
thronged these halls, awake, they would witness many a wonderful change
since the half-forgotten days when they lived and loved, revelled
and fought, conquered or sustained defeat. Where the bearer of the
Crann-taraidh or fiery cross once rushed along on his hasty errand, the
lightning of heaven now flashes, by telegraphic wires, to the farthest
corners of the land. Through the craggy passes, and along the level
plains, marked centuries ago with scarce a bridle path, the mighty
steam horse now thunders over its iron road; and where seaward once
swam the skin curach, or the crazy fleets of diminutive war galleys,
and tiny merchant vessels with their fantastic prows and sterns, and
carved mast-heads, the huge hull of the steam propelled ship now
breasts the waves that dash against the rugged headlands, or floats
like a miniature volcano, with its attendant clouds of smoke obscuring
the horizon.
The parish of Fearn, in Easter Ross, contains several antiquities of
very distant date. One of these shattered relics, Castle Cadboll,
deserves notice on account of a singular tradition regarding it, once
implicitly credited by the people—namely, that although inhabited for
ages no person ever died within its walls. Its magical quality did not,
however, prevent its dwellers from the suffering of disease, or the
still more grievous evils attending on debility and old age. Hence many
of the denizens of the castle became weary of life, particularly the
Lady May, who lived there centuries ago, and who being long ailing, and
longing for death, requested to be carried out of the building to die.
Her importunity at length prevailed; and, according to the tradition,
no sooner did she leave it than she expired.
Castle Cadboll is situated on the sea-shore, looking over the broad
ocean towards Norway. From that country, in the early ages of Scottish
history, came many a powerful Jarl, or daring Viking, to the coasts,
which, in comparison with their own land, seemed fertile and wealthy.
There is a tradition of a Highland clan having sprung from one of those
adventurers, who with his brother agreed that whoever should first
touch the land would possess it by right.
The foremost was the ultimate ancestor of the tribe; his boat was
almost on shore, when the other, by a vigorous stroke, shot a-head
of him; but ere he could disembark, the disappointed competitor,
with an exclamation of rage, cut off his left hand with his hatchet,
and flinging the bloody trophy on the rocks, became, by thus “first
touching Scottish ground,” the owner of the country, and founder of the
clan. The perfect accuracy of this story cannot now be vouched for; but
it is an undeniable fact that the Clan Macleod have successfully traced
their origin to a Norwegian source; and there is a probability that
the claim is correct from the manifestly Norwegian names borne by the
founders of the Clan Tormod and Torquil, hence the Siol Tormod—the
race of Tormod—the Macleods of Harris; and the Siol Torquil, the race
of Torquil—Macleods of Lewis—of whom came the Macleods of Assynt, one
of whom betrayed Montrose in 1650, and from whom the estates passed
away in the end of the seventeenth century to the Mackenzies.
The Macleods of Cadboll are cadets of the house of Assynt, but to what
branch the Lady May of the legend belonged, it is difficult to decide,
so many changes having occurred among Highland proprietors.
The cliffs of this part of Ross-shire are wild and precipitous, sinking
with a sheer descent of two hundred feet to the ocean. The scenery is
more rugged than beautiful—little verdure and less foliage. Trees are
stunted by the bitter eastern blast, and the soil is poor. Alders are,
however, plentiful, and from them the parish has derived its name of
Fearn. There is a number of caves in the cliffs along the shore towards
Tarbat, where the promontory is bold, and crowned with a lighthouse,
whose flickering rays are now the only substitute for the wonderful
gem which was said of yore to sparkle on the brow of one of these
eastern cliffs—a bountiful provision of nature for the succour of the
wave-tossed mariner.
During the reign of one of the early Stuart kings—which, is of little
moment—Roderick Macleod ruled with a high and lordly hand within the
feudal stronghold of Cadboll. He was a stout and stern knight, whose
life had been spent amidst the turmoil of national warfare and clan
strife.
Many a battle had he fought, and many a wound received since first he
buckled on his father’s sword for deadly combat. Amid the conflicting
interests which actuated each neighbouring clan—disagreement on any
one of which rendered an immediate appeal to arms the readiest mode of
solving the difficulty—it is not to be wondered at that Cadboll, as a
matter of prudence, endeavoured to attach to himself, by every means
in his power, those who were most likely to be serviceable and true.
Macleod had married late in life, and his wife dying soon after, while
on a visit to her mother, left behind her an only daughter, who was
dear as the apple of his eye to the old warrior, but, at the same time,
he had no idea of any one connected with him having any freedom of
will or exercise of opinion, save what he allowed; nor did he believe
women’s hearts were less elastic than his own, which he could bend to
any needful expedient. About the period our story commences, the Lady
May was nearly eighteen years of age, a beautiful and gentle girl,
whose hand was sought by many a young chief of the neighbouring clans;
but all unsuccessfully, for the truth was she already loved, and was
beloved, in secret, by young Hugh Munro from the side of Ben-Wyvis.
The favoured of the daughter was not the choice of her father,
simply because he was desirous to secure the aid of the Macraes, a
tribe occupying Glenshiel, remarkable for great size and courage,
and known in history as “the wild Macraes.” The chief—Macrae of
Inverinate—readily fell in with the views of Macleod, and as the time
fixed for his marriage with the lovely Lady May drew nigh, gratified
triumph over his rival Munro, and hate intense as a being of such
fierce passions could feel, glowed like a gleaming light in his fierce
grey eyes.
“Once more,” he said, “I will to the mountains to find him before the
bridal. There shall be no chance of a leman crossing my married life,
and none to divide the love Inverinate shall possess entire. By my
father’s soul, but the boy shall rue the hour he dared to cross my
designs. Yes, rue it, for I swear to bring him bound to witness my
marriage, and then hang him like a skulking wild-cat on Inverinate
green.”
It was nightfall as he spoke thus. Little he knew that at the same
moment Hugh Munro was sitting beneath the dark shadows of the alder
trees, which grew under the window of the little chamber where May
Macleod was weeping bitterly over the sad fate from which she could
see no way of escape. As she sat thus the soft cry of the cushat fell
upon her ears. Intently she listened for a few moments, and when it was
repeated she stepped to the window and opened it cautiously, leaning
forth upon the sill. Again the sound stole from among the foliage,
and May peered down into the gloom, but nothing met her gaze save the
shadows of the waving branches upon the tower wall.
“It is his signal,” she whispered to herself as the sound was repeated
once more. “Ah me! I fear he will get himself into danger on account of
these visits, and yet I cannot, I cannot bid him stay away.”
She muffled herself in a dark plaid, moved towards the door, opened it
cautiously, and listening with dread, timidly ventured down to meet her
lover.
“I must and will beg him to-night to stay away in future,” continued
she, as she tripped cautiously down the narrow winding stair; “and yet
to stay away? Ah me! it is to leave me to my misery; but it must be
done, unkind as it may be, otherwise he will assuredly be captured and
slain, for I fear Macrae suspects our meetings are not confined to the
day and my father’s presence.”
After stealing through many dark passages, corridors, and staircases,
in out-of-the-way nooks, she emerged into the open air, through a
neglected postern shadowed by a large alder, opposite the spot from
which the sound proceeded.
Again she gazed into the shadow, and there leaning against a tree,
growing on the edge of the crag, she saw a tall slender figure. Well
she knew the outlines of that form, and fondly her heart throbbed at
the sound of the voice which now addressed her.
“Dearest,” said the young Munro in a low tone, “I thought thou wouldst
never come. I have been standing here like a statue against the trunk
of this tree for the last half-hour watching for one blink of light
from thy casement. But it seems that thou preferest darkness. Ah May,
dear May, cease to indulge in gloomy forebodings.”
“Would that I could, Hugh,” she answered sadly. “What thoughts but
gloomy ones can fill my mind when I am ever thinking of the danger you
incur by coming here so often, and thinking, too, of the woeful fate to
which we are both destined.”
“Think no more of it,” said her lover in a cheerful tone. “We have hope
yet.”
“Alas, there is no hope. Even this day my father hath fixed the time
for, to me, this dreaded wedding! And now, Hugh, let this be our last
meeting—_Mar tha mi!_ our last in the world. Wert thou caught by
Inverinate, he so hates thee, he would have thy life by the foulest
means.”
“Fear not for that, dearest. And this bridal! Listen, May; before
that happen the eagle will swoop down and bear thee away to his free
mountains, amid their sunny glens and bosky wood, to love thee,
darling, as no other mortal, and certainly none of the Clan-’ic-Rath
mhearlaich has heart to do.”
“Ah me!” sighed May, “would that it could be so. I cannot leave my
father until all other hope is gone, and yet I fear if I do not we are
fated to be parted. Even this may be the last time we may meet. I warn
thee, Hugh, I am well watched, and I beg you will be careful. Hush!
was that a footfall in the grove below the crag?” and she pointed to a
clump of trees at some distance under where they were standing, and on
the path by which he would return.
“By my troth it may be so,” said he. “Better, dear May, retire to your
chamber, and I shall remain here till you bid me good night from your
window.”
Again they listened, and again the rustling met their ears distinctly.
It ceased, and the maiden, bidding her mountain lover a fond good
night, ascended to her chamber, while he, disdaining to be frightened
away by sound, moved to his former position below the alder tree.
Seating himself at its root, with his eyes fixed on the window, in a
voice low but distinct, he sang to one of the sweet sad lays of long
ago a ditty to his mistress, of which the following paraphrase will
convey an idea:—
“O darling May, my promised bride,
List to my love—come fly with me,
Where down the dark Ben Wyvis side
The torrent dashes wild and free.
O’er sunny glen and forest brake;
O’er meadow green and mountain grand;
O’er rocky gorge and gleaming lake—
Come,—reign, the lady of the land.
“Come cheer my lonely mountain home,
Where gleams the lake, where rills dance bright;
Where flowers bloom fair—come, dearest, come,
And light my dark and starless night.
One witching gleam from thy bright eye
Can change to halls of joy my home!
One song, one softly-uttered sigh,
Can cheer my lone heart—dearest, come.”
The moment the song ceased the fair form of May Macleod appeared at the
casement overhead, she waved a fond farewell to her mountain minstrel,
and closed the window; but the light, deprived of her fair face, had no
charm for him—he gazed once more at the pane through which it beamed
like a solitary star, amid the masses of foliage, and was turning away
when he found a heavy hand laid on his shoulder.
“Stay,” exclaimed the intruder in a deep stern voice, whose tone
the young chief knew but too well, “Thou hast a small reckoning to
discharge ere thou go, my good boy. I am Macrae.”
“And I,” answered the other, “am Hugh Munro, what seek’st thou from me?”
“That thou shalt soon know, thou skulking hill cat,” answered Macrae,
throwing his unbuckled sword, belt, and scabbard on the ground, and
advancing with extended weapon.
“Indeed! then beware of the wild-cat’s spring,” Munro promptly
replied, giving a sudden bound which placed him inside the guard of
his antagonist, whose waist he instantly encircled with his sinewy
arms with the design of hurling him over the crag on which they
stood. The struggle was momentary. Munro, struck to the heart with
Macrae’s dagger, fell with May’s loved name on his lips, while Macrae,
staggering over the height, in the act of falling so wounded himself by
his own weapon as to render his future life one of helpless manhood and
bitter mental regret.
Macleod was soon after slain in one of the many quarrels of the time,
while his daughter May, the sorrowing heiress of the broad lands of
Cadboll, lived on for fifty years one long unrelieved day of suffering.
Fifty years! alas for the mourner—spring succeeded winter, and summer
spring, but no change of season lightened May Macleod’s burden! Fifty
years! year by year passing away only brought changes to those who
lived under her gentle sway, and among the dependents of her home;
youth passed into age, young men and maidens filled the places of the
valued attendants of her girlhood; and the lady, solitary, still a
mourner, in her feudal tower grew old and bent, thin and wan, but still
in her heart the love of her youth bloomed fresh for her betrothed.
And then disease laid hold of her limbs—paralyzed, unable to move, she
would fain have died, but the spell of Cadboll was on her, death could
not enter within its walls.
Sickness and pain, care and grief, disappointment, trust betrayed,
treachery, and all the ills which life is heir to, all might and did
enter there. Death alone was barred without.
Sadly her maidens listened to her heart-breaking appeals to the spirit
of Munro, her unwed husband, the murdered bridegroom of her young life,
to come to her aid from the land of shadows and of silence. They knew
her story of the fifty years of long ago, and they pitied and grieved
with her, wondering at the constancy of her woman’s heart.
Still more sadly did they listen to her appeals to be carried out from
the castle to the edge of the precipice, where the power of the spell
ceased, there to look for, meet and welcome death; but they knew not
the story of the spell, and they deemed her mad with grief.
Terrified at last by her appeals to the dead, with whom she seemed
to hold continual conversation, and who seemed to be present in the
chamber with them, though unseen, and partly, at length, worn out
with her unceasing importunities, and partly to gratify the whim,
as they considered it, of the sufferer, tremblingly they agreed to
obey her requests and to carry her forth to the edge of the cliff. A
frightened band, they bore the Lady May, lying on her couch, smiling
with hope and blessing them for thus consenting. Over the threshold,
over the drawbridge, her eyes, fixed on the heavens, brightened as they
proceeded. Hope flushed with hectic glow upon her pale suffering face,
grateful thanks broke from her lips. Hastening their steps, they passed
through the gate, wound along the hill side, and as the broad expanse
of ocean, with the fresh wind curling it into wavelets, burst upon
the sight, a flash of rapture beamed on her countenance, a cry of joy
rushed from her pallid lips—their feeble burden grew heavier; a murmur
of welcoming delight was uttered to some glorious presence, unseen
by the maidens, and all became hushed eternally. The Lady May lay on
her couch a stiffening corpse. The spell of Cadboll had been broken
at last. A Macleod inhabited it no more, and decay and ruin seized on
the hoary pile of which now scarcely a vestige remains to tell of the
former extent and feudal strength of Castle Cadboll.
[Illustration]