"Ah, if only Kenric were here!"
It was on the evening of a bright day in June, in the year 1262, and a
girl, clasping her hands in distress, walked restlessly to and fro on
the bank of a stream that tinkled merrily along its gravelly bed towards
the sea. She, in her loose gown of gray woollen homespun and girdle of
crimson silk, was then the only figure to be seen for miles around. Far
to the south were the blue mountains of Arran, and westward across the
Sound were the brown hills of Kintyre, with the rosy light of the
setting sun behind them. The girl, shading her eyes from the strong
light, looked over the moorland towards the castle of Kilinory.
"If Kenric were but here!" she said again.
And as she turned to run to the stream, all suddenly she was startled by
the sound of a heavy thud upon the heather at her feet. She looked round
and saw that a large capercailzie had fallen there. The bird was dead,
and there was an arrow in its breast.
At the same moment there was a lusty shout of joy from among the trees
and a stalwart youth came bounding towards her. In his right hand he
bore a longbow, and at his belt were hung a dead hare and a brace of
wild moor fowl, whose dripping blood trickled down his sturdy legs.
"Ailsa!" he cried in surprise, seeing the girl as he came to secure the
bird he had just killed. "You here so late, and alone?"
Ailsa's fair cheeks grew rosy as the evening sky, for the youth was he
whom she had wished for, Kenric, the son of the brave Earl Hamish of
Bute, and now that he was so near her she felt suddenly timid.
He was a lad of sixteen years, not tall, but very thickset and stout
built, broad shouldered, deep chested, and strong limbed. His long silky
locks were a rich nut-brown, and his sparkling eyes were dark and gentle
as those of a fallow deer. The sun and the bracing sea air had made
ruddy his fair skin, even to his firm, round throat and his thick arms,
that were left bare by his rough coat of untanned buckskin.
"You have been weeping, Ailsa," said he, looking into her tearful eyes.
"Sir," said she, speaking, as he did, in the guttural Gaelic tongue,
"come, I beseech you, to the help of two poor ouzels, whose nest is far
in under the roots of yonder birch tree. If you help not quickly, their
little fledglings will be eaten up by a thieving stoat that has but a
few moments ago entered their nest."
"Youmake needless dole, Ailsa, over a pair of worthless birds and their
chicks," said he scornfully. "Why, I have this day slain a full
half-score of birds! Ay, and right willingly would I have doubled their
number."
"The birds you have slain are for men's food," said she, "but the birds
I speak of sing as sweetly as the mavis, and I have watched them
tenderly for many sunny days past. Rescue them for me, good Kenric, for
I love them right well, and I would not for the world that any ill
should befall them."
Then Kenric went with her to the stream's bank, and as he stood there
his keen eyes saw something move across the short grass at the water's
edge. Promptly he put an arrow to his bowstring and took deft aim. The
shaft sped quickly to its mark, plunged into the body of a stoat, and
pinned the animal to the soft turf.
"There, Ailsa," said he, "the murderous thief is justly punished!" and
springing down the bank he put his heel upon the writhing animal and
lightly drew out his arrow from its body, while Ailsa picked up the
bleeding fledgling that the stoat had been carrying away in its teeth.
She took the maimed little bird to the birch tree that Kenric might
restore it to its nest. But at the mouth of the nest lay the dead body
of one of the parent birds, and hovering near it was the mother ouzel,
uttering sharp cries of distress at the murder of her mate and little one.
"And now," said Kenric, "I must hie me back to St. Blane's, for our good
Abbot Godfrey bade me be with him ere nightfall. Where is your brother
Allan? Say, was he of those who went with my father and Alpin to the
punting in Glen More this forenoon?"
But Ailsa was again weeping over the fate of her water ouzels and did
not answer him.
Ailsa was some two years younger than himself. They had been companions
from the time of their infancy. Her father, Sir Oscar Redmain, of
Kilmory Castle, was the steward of Earl Hamish of Bute, and Ailsa was
even as a sister to the two lads of Rothesay Castle. With Kenric, the
younger of the earl's sons, she had been taught what little there was to
be learned in those rude times, under Godfrey Thurstan, the Abbot of St.
Blane's, a wise and holy man who, next to Earl Hamish himself, was held
in the highest honour of all men in Bute.
Now, just as Kenric, unable to soothe Ailsa, was turning to leave her, a
shadow passed between him and the evening sunlight, and at the head of
the bank there walked an aged woman, bearing upon her bent back a bundle
of faggots. Ailsa raised her blue eyes, and at sight of the old woman
shrank back and felt in her dark hair for the sprig of feathery rowan
leaves that she wore there as a charm against witchcraft.
"Give you good e'en, my lord of Bute," said the old woman, seeing Kenric
and dropping her bundle on the ground.
At these strange words Kenric's cheeks grew crimson.
"I am no lord, Elspeth Blackfell," said he, going nearer and trying to
fathom her meaning in her wrinkled and grimy face, "and I know no reason
for your calling me by that high name."
"Not yet," said the old crone, "not yet. But by my sooth, the time will
surely come, and that full speedily, when all shall hail you lord of Bute."
"I seek no sooth from such as you," said Kenric frowning; "and you shall
win naught from me by your false flatteries."
Just then he felt the hand of Ailsa drawing him back as though to keep
him from the blighting touch of the old woman's bony fingers.
"Go not so near to her!" whispered the girl, making the sign of the
cross. "Let her not touch you with her evil hands, lest she put her
enchantments upon you."
Old Elspeth smiled grimly, and showed the one lonely tooth that was in
the front of her shrunken gums.
"Heed not the child's silly fears," said she to Kenric, "and tell me,
for what cause has she been weeping?"
"It was a stoat that harried an ouzel's nest and slew the birds,"
replied Kenric.
"Bairns weep at trifles," said Elspeth; "what matters the death of a
little bird? The stoat must live by the food that the great God gives
it, and the birds must die when their time comes. 'Tis alike with all
God's creatures upon earth. Even the castle of Rothesay is no more free
at this moment from its secret enemy than is the smallest wildfowl's nest."
"The castle of Rothesay?" repeated Kenric. "Set me none of your riddles,
Elspeth, for they are harder to read even than the abbot's missals. What
is your meaning? My father has not an enemy in all the isles. Who, then,
would do him an injury?"
"Speed you home to Rothesay and see with your own eyes," said Elspeth,
taking up her bundle of faggots again; "Earl Hamish of Bute is in great
danger, I say. Go to him now, I charge you, and give him my warning
against the enemy who is within his gates."
And at that she hobbled away down the hillside towards the little wooden
hut that was her home. As she went the red sun sank behind the dark
hills of Kintyre. Kenric stood in doubt.
"I marvel that you will dare to hold speech with that evil hag," said
Ailsa. "'Tis our own good fortune if she have not already cast her
eldritch spells upon us both."
"Nay, Ailsa; fear her not. She is but a poor harmless body," said
Kenric. "Only the witless carls and cottar folk are so simple as to
believe that she has aught of evil in her words."
"Ah, but I well know that Elspeth is a witch," declared Ailsa. "Never do
I see her but I must shrink away and cross myself in dread of her. Why
do all the brave men of Bute fear her more than they would fear a band
of armed Norsemen? She casts her spells upon our kine so that they give
no milk, and upon the fountains so that the clear drinking water is
turned rank and brown. Allan told me but yesternight that she rides over
to Inch Marnock in a boat that has neither sails nor oars, and that the
ribs of the boat are of dead men's bones."
Kenric smiled no more at Ailsa's fears; for, indeed, so great was the
superstition of that time, that deep in his heart he believed no less
strongly than did Ailsa that Elspeth was assuredly a witch.
"And what meant she by her warnings of an enemy in your father's
castle?" added Ailsa.
"Little reck I that," returned Kenric, "for never lived man in all the
Western Isles who had so few enemies as my good father."
"Right so," said Ailsa. "But none the less, Elspeth is a most wise
soothsayer, and you are unwise if you heed not her warning. And now I
mind me that on this very day, as I was returning from matins, a great
ship of twelve banks of oars came in from the west through Kilbrannan
Sound, and it let anchor in Scalpsie Bay. As I looked upon that ship
three tall warriors were brought ashore in a small boat, and, landing,
they walked along the shore towards Rothesay."
"Three tall warriors, say you?"
"Even so. Lulach the shepherd boy also saw them, and said that they were
surely three of King Hakon's men of the Northland. And Lulach was much
afraid of them, and he fled from their sight lest by chance they should
learn that he was a Dane, and seek to carry him off. But now, Kenric, I
must away, for the night is coming on and you have far to go. Yonder is
Lulach driving home my father's kine. Go to him and he will tell you of
these strange men."
So Ailsa and Kenric bade each other goodnight, and Kenric sped lightly
over the heather to where the young shepherd was driving home the
long-horned cattle.