❧ ❧
Again I was at curst Dunbar
And was a prisoner taen,
And many weary night and day
In prison I hae lien.
Sɪʀ Wᴀʟᴛᴇʀ Sᴄᴏᴛᴛ
Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border
❧
Ross
McCrae
Ross
McCrae
Puffs of white clouds scudded across a sky brilliantly blue on the morning of July 22, 1650, as Ross McCrae walked eastward along the rutted road skirting the Firth of Forth's southern shore. He covered the ground rapidly with a Highlander's bold stride, his long legs moving in effortless rhythm beneath his belted plaid, his head with its thatch of dark brown hair thrown back as he took great gulps of the salty air.
How deeply he missed the freedom of hill and shore he had not fully realized until yesterday, when he had been sent from crowded Edinburgh and the chafing confines of army camp to Tantallon Castle for a tally of its men and arms.
Somewhere in the confusion of dismissals and appointments, while Scotland's leaders sought the most loyal and godly men as officers for the Army of the Covenant, the inventory for Tantallon Castle had been lost. And thankful Ross was for that mischance. For here he was, on as bright and sparkling a day as had ever dawned, walking free and unmolested, with no veteran of the continental wars barking orders at him as if he were a levied Spanish peon or Flemish farmer. How could any officer, even though he had fought under the great Gustavus of Sweden or some other European monarch, put more faith in training and drilling than in a Scot's fierce loyalty to chief and clan?
Beside Ross trotted his collie dog, Tam, one ear pricked skyward and sharp nose lifted as he sniffed the fresh morning air. This is almost like old times, thought Ross. We might be tramping along the shore of Loch Ruich at the Laird's bidding to visit the herders' crofts and to learn what goes well or ill with the folk of Kindonal.
Only the land was different. Unlike the deep glens and steep crags of the Highlands, the Lothian plains, rich with oats and barley, rose in long sweeps to the hills of Lammermuir, where flocks of sheep dotted the distant slopes. And just ahead was a fishing village, its sturdy houses a far cry from the rude bothies of the northwest coast of Scotland. Had he taken the right turn for Tantallon, a mile or so back?
By the roadside two small boys vied in a contest over which could jump farther over a broad puddle. As Ross drew abreast one said, "When I'm a man, I'll be as tall as Fingal."
Ross smiled to himself. Even here in the south of Scotland lads were raised on tales of the legendary giant and his deeds.
The second boy stretched his small frame upward and flexed a spindly arm. "I'll grow sae big that I'll—I'll—" He paused as if searching for some preposterous feat, then finished with a triumphant smile, "I'll build a brig to the Bass, and ding doon Tantallon."
His companion snorted. "Not e'en a giant could smash doon that castle," he said contemptuously.
Tantallon must be nearby, Ross thought, for boys to talk of it thus. Farther on a knot of men were gathered at the market cross. He would inquire of them.
As he came up to the group he heard one old fellow say, "She told that she dreamed the castle would fall."
"Not Tantallon!" said another, with a short laugh.
"Aye, that's what I heard. She said that Cromwell's men would take Tantallon."
"No soul with a lick o' sense would believe that Tantallon's walls could be breached," a loud voice claimed. "Only a witch would say sich."
"Och, a witch she maun be then," an old man stated, wagging his white beard. Others nodded their heads in agreement.
Ross felt a chill running down his spine. A soldier should not be tormented by echoes of an old woman's screams as she was dragged to the stake. He thrust aside the memory of the witch-burning two weeks ago at Edinburgh and called out, "Can ye tell me, am I on the richt road to Tantallon?"
The circle broke, and the men faced toward him, staring at a strange face. "Follow this road, and ye canna miss it," the white-bearded elder said brusquely.
Ross sensed their eyes on his back as he walked away. An unfriendly lot, these Lowlanders. At home a man would offer to show a stranger the way and would give him the gift of his company. These folk seemed to begrudge even the giving of directions. Was it because they lived close to the Border marches? The land hereabouts had been fought over so many times, its inhabitants might rightly look with suspicion upon a newcomer.
When he had left the village behind, and the road ahead loomed empty, Ross reached for the bagpipes slung over his shoulder. Shaking out the sheepskin bag and pipelike drones, he blew into the slim wooden mouthpiece. This would be a good time to practice the march his father had taught him a few days past. This time he must try to get the tune right. But even as he filled the bag with air and tuned the drones he knew that for all he was the seventh of his line to pipe, he could never equal Black Donald's robust notes, no more than he could match his father's bold good looks. He placed his fingers over the holes in the chanter, and the first notes of the march came forth thin and reedy. Tam, barking sharply, darted across the road and snapped at the gulls that swooped in from the North Sea. The next moment he ran toward the sheep grazing on a far hillside.
Ross watched him go. Tam isn't all hunter nor all sheep dog, he thought ruefully, but a little of both. And it is the same with me. I veer one way as the Laird's ward and kinsman and the other as Black Donald's son. While I'm sitting at the Laird's side as he judges what penalty a man shall pay for stealing one of his neighbor's sheep, stray tunes sing in my mind and take my thoughts off the judgment. And when I'm piping a tune, I begin to question if a chieftain should rightly have the power of pit and gallows over his clan.
But here he was again, letting his thoughts wander. Pressing the swollen bag snug under his elbow, and fingering the chanter afresh, he set his mind firmly on the march. Now the notes sang bravely in the breeze. Soon he came to the difficult part, where the tune seemed to double back on itself and then go forward again. He ran through the melody once, then repeated it. Ah, now he had mastered it, and when he was at camp again he would play it for his father and hope for his approval.
Swinging the pipes over his shoulder, Ross quickened his pace. He had met no travelers since leaving the village. The countryside was so quiet it was hard to realize that Scotland was on the verge of war and that English troops might any day cross the border, ready to strike.
Soon the road wound close to the shore, only a narrow ribbon of green separating it from rocky cliffs that dropped sheer to the sea. How blue the ocean was, with white caps frothing, and gulls and kittiwakes soaring and screeching above it.
Offshore about two miles rose the steep contours of Bass Rock, standing like a craggy sentinel at the mouth of the Firth of Forth. Ross chuckled, remembering the small boy's boast. Only a giant like Fingal could build a bridge to that rocky islet.
Soon he must glimpse Tantallon. Would it resemble the castle of Kindonal where he had spent his boyhood, its stonework golden beside the blue waters of Loch Ruich? Or would it be a fortress as black and grim as Sterling or Edinburgh Castle?
Ahead the road rose abruptly to climb a steep hill. Coming down its slope toward him was an old woman. One clawlike hand held her shawl close about her thin shoulders. The other grasped a long stick with which she was driving a gaggle of geese. Wisps of gray hair blew about her face. Ross's throat tightened. Might she be the woman the man had called witch?
Tam ran up and barked sharply at the hissing fowls. Ross gripped the dog's thick ruff. "Quiet, Tam," he ordered, and the dog was silent.
The old woman had cheeks like shriveled apples. She waved her stick and called out, "Ho, laddie, ken ye the price of geese in the town?"
Laddie, indeed! Couldn't the crone recognize a man when she saw one? A man on a mission for General David Leslie? Pulling himself up to his full six feet and trying to look older than his seventeen years, Ross asked indignantly, "Nay, and why should I ken aught o' geese?"
Her cackled rasped in his ears. "Many a man will do murder for a taste o' guid goose before these troubles be o'er," she said darkly, and hobbled on.
Ross looked after her uneasily. Do murder for geese when the fields were thick with grain, when dovecots swarmed with pigeons, and sheep grazed on the hills? The woman must be daft—or worse. The quicker he put distance between himself and the old harpy, the better. He started up the slope.
At the top of the hill he forgot the woman completely. Ahead loomed a castle, its red sandstone vivid against the blue of sky and sea, its bulk majestic atop a high cliff. On this vast promontory jutting out into the Northern Sea, its walls rising to breathtaking heights, Tantallon appeared impregnable indeed. No wonder men and boys alike were certain it would never fall.
❧
Tantallon
For a mile Ross strode forward impatiently. With each step he took, the castle seemed to grow more lofty and massive. And by the time he had turned into the well-worn road to Tantallon's outer ramparts, he felt dwarfed by its steep bulk.
Before crossing the bridge that led over a deep ditch to the castle's outer gate, Ross called Tam to him and commanded, "Begone!" The collie fixed his gaze on his master for a moment, lifted one ear as if to show he understood, then ran off and disappeared behind a low hill.
Though some men kept their dogs ever with them, even in the kirk, Ross had long since taught Tam to go out of sight at his command. There were some places where even a well-trained dog was a nuisance, and Tantallon could be such, especially if the castle dogs were jealous guardians. Tam would not venture far, Ross was certain. And when he left the castle, the collie would be waiting, plumed tail waving a welcome.
Two men lounged at the arched stone doorway of the high gate. One honed a halberd's point; the other munched on a piece of cheese.
The man with the weapon rose. His beard was gray and his smile quizzical. "What might be your errand?" he asked.
Ross stiffened. How his drillmaster would scoff at so un-military a greeting. "I'm frae General Leslie's headquarters," he said.
If the guard was impressed he did not show it. "And I supposed ye have proof o' the same?"
Ross drew a folded square of paper from his saffron shirt. "This is for Captain Alexander Seton," he said impatiently, and started forward.
The man shifted his halberd so that its point was no more than an inch from Ross's chest. "Wait till I've looked at it. Then I'll judge whether ye may enter." Beneath the soft voice was a steely edge. He inspected the folded sheet, his outer lip thrust forward. A moment later he turned toward a third soldier seated at an iron-studded inner door and bawled, "A visitor for the captain. Escort him."
The escort led Ross into the outer bailey, a spacious courtyard bright with sunshine and the flashing of birds' wings around a dovecot. The garrison would have plenty of fresh meat during the winter, thought Ross, eyeing the pigeons.
Ahead the barbican towers rose menacingly before a curtain wall so lofty it seemed to meet the sky. As he passed over the drawbridge, Ross could see the deep ditch it spanned. Overhead hung the portcullis's iron teeth, black and threatening. When he stepped inside the grim entrance, the heavy walls seemed to press down upon him. Awed by the mass of stone, he followed his guide through a shadowy tunnel pierced by doorways, each occupied by an armed guard.
Abruptly they emerged into a broad, sunlit inner court. Ahead and to the right were low walls stacked with fodder. Behind them was the mid-tower, flanked by broad stretches of curtain wall and two more towers, one to the east, another to the west. From the west tower stretched a row of stone buildings.
The inner courtyard had all the activity of a village. Through an open door Ross could see a baker pulling loaves of bread from an oven. Not far away a blacksmith was shoeing a horse while another smith hammered out a pike head on an anvil. Men sat about in the sun, burnishing armor.
At a well, two boys turned a windlass to bring up dripping buckets of water. And nearby a half dozen women scrubbed laundry in a long trough, their tongues as busy as their hands.
While Ross watched, a young girl came up to the women, a bundle of clothing in her hand. Fair hair hung limp about her face, and her eyes were downcast. "It's sae brisk a day for drying I had thocht to do my wash," she ventured.
The women looked up, and as if at a signal, spread their arms along the trough's edge. One with bristling red hair spat venomously at the girl's feet. "There's no room!" she jeered.
The girl cowered and retreated toward a doorway. Two men were passing. At her approach they shrank back against the wall as if they feared her long skirt might brush against and contaminate them.
Ross's guide said impatiently, "This way to the Long Hall." He hurried along the base of the western curtain wall to a doorway just beyond the west tower. Up a curving stone stair they climbed to a landing on which a door stood ajar.
Ross could see a larger chamber lighted by small arched windows on the courtyard side, with a hooded fireplace and two long window slits on the outer wall. The escort turned and descended the stairs, his duty done. Ross waited uncertainly outside the room, loathe to interrupt its occupants.
A stocky man with iron-gray hair and a bristling mustache, evidently Captain Seton, was striding up and down, talking with a gentle-faced woman seated in a ray of sunlight. Her hand was poised as if she had left off her embroidering to listen to him.
"What more proof do ye need that she's a witch?" the man growled. "Didna the gateman's bairn sicken and die after she kissed it? And ye were the one told me of her dream that the castle would fall."
The woman's eyes widened in earnestness. "Kettie confided in me only sae that we might save ourselves. Ye have no right to condemn her for a dream. Ye have nightmares aplenty yerself."
The man stamped his foot. "But Agnes Sampson was not my grandam."
"It's sixty years or mair since Agnes Sampson was put to death in Edinburgh. Can ye not forget the puir soul?"
"After she put an evil spell on Earl Angus in this verra castle? And caused his death? She deserved well the fire and the stake."
The woman rose and put her hand on her husband's arm. "But Kettie is not her grandmother. She is as innocent of evil as I."
The man placed a swift hand over his wife's mouth. "Let no one hear ye voice such madness."
Ross waited to hear no more. He lifted his hand and knocked on the doorjamb.
The captain swung to face him. "Well?" he asked impatiently.
Ross stepped forward. "I bring a message from General Leslie," he announced. "I have orders to take inventory of your force."
Captain Seton thrust out his hand. "Give me the letter," he ordered. "I need nae young upstart to tell me its contents."
Flushing, Ross obeyed. A minute later he stepped back as the captain gave an angry oath and shouted, "I sent a full count to Edinburgh not two months ago. Think they I've naught to do but scratch wi' pen and ink?"
Ross cleared his throat. "I could make the report."
The captain laughed. "Leslie writes that I'm to make a list of my force and arms and return it by his messenger." The way he said messenger made Ross feel that there could be no lower rank possible.
"I'll take ye wi' me and ye can do the scriving, since ye're sae eager," continued the captain. "We'll start in the Douglas Tower; 'tis nearest." He started heavily down the stairs, each thumping footstep a protest.
The woman caught up a sheet of paper, a quill, and a small pot of ink from a table and gave them to Ross. "Pay no mind to the captain's temper," she said. "He has reason enow to be wrought up." Her smile restored some of Ross's confidence.
In the next two hours Ross was thankful that he had not been ordered to to take the inventory alone. Even the simplest task, counting the men and officers, he could not have accomplished unaided, for there was a constant coming and going through the honeycombed fortress. He would have been hard put to locate even the many cannon. As for classifying them, he would have been at a total loss, for here were culverins in three sizes, as well as cutthroats and slangs. In addition there were many handguns, a few of the new flintlocks, but more of the old matchlocks, and even some hackbuts and harquebuses.
After the inventory had been made, Ross was left alone to struggle with his scribbled notes. By late afternoon he had composed a reasonably neat list which numbered a total of fourscore men, eleven officers, a dozen horses, sixteen great guns, and one hundred and twenty small arms. He took the paper to the Long Hall and presented it to the captain, who scowled over it and scratched his signature at the bottom.
Ross folded the list, put it in his shirt, and was turning to go when the woman spoke. "Will ye not ask him to tarry the nicht, husband?"
Captain Seton rubbed one hand across his forehead. "Och, aye," he said. "Tantallon turns no man out in the dark. Tell the guard ye're to sup and sleep here."
What was left of the afternoon Ross spent watching the two smiths. Uncanny it was what they could do with a bar of iron. First they heated it to a whitish glow, then beat it with heavy hammers. Next they thrust it back into the fire, which was made to burn fiercely by means of a bellows operated by a boy. Then came more hammer blows, more trips back to the fire, and at the last, there was a Lochaber ax with a long narrow blade and a hook at the end for catching onto a man's armor and unseating him from his horse.
A page came running with an iron cuirass. The tasse at the bottom had come loose, and his master wanted it repaired. There was a muttered consultation, the armor was heated, and the smiths went to work. They bent so closely over the metal that Ross could not see exactly what they did. But in a short while the skirtlike projection was firmly in place, and the page bore the breastplate away.
A smith as skilled as these would be useful at Kindonal Castle—far more so than the gnarled man there who made a botch even of shoeing a horse. Ross wondered if the Laird had thought of having one of his men trained in such work. He might speak of such a possibility on his return to the camp.
❧
Beacon
Fires
The fresh fish and peas and newly baked loaves were welcome at sundown, as was the talk of the men-at-arms. Some had fought with the Parliamentarians at Marston Moor when Cromwell had led his forces out of what seemed sure defeat into a triumph of victory.
"Old Noll is a man I've no stomach to meet in battle," said a gray-haired guard. "Not for naught is he dubbed Ironsides."
"Is that why ye came here instead of Edinburgh?" taunted a lean-faced stripling.
The guard jutted out his chin. "And what's wrong wi' wantin' to be inside strong walls?"
"The walls won't save ye if what Kettie says be true," said the stripling with a laugh.
"Blast the witch! She'll bring a curse on Tantallon yet. Mark my words." The gray-haired man raised a warning hand.
Later that night Ross tossed and turned wakefully. After weeks of sleeping in the open, he found the guard room stuffy and the snores of his companions anything but soporific. He rose quietly, picked up his bagpipes, flung his plaid over his shoulder, and tiptoed out into the court. No moon lighted the cloudy sky, and only a lone torch sputtered at the entrance of the middle tower.
Ross made his way toward the east tower, and started up the curved stone staircase. After a few steps he was in complete darkness. No matter, the steps were solid, though worm and uneven. With one hand on the wall, he moved upward.
At each landing Ross stopped to listen. All was silent. Four stories he climbed and came to the top of the great curtain wall. A guard, his shadow darker than the night, was moving along the high path. Not wanting to be ordered back to the guard room, Ross waited for him to vanish into the mid-tower, then climbed up to the platform roof and settled down behind the corbeled parapet. Here was fresh air, here was quiet, and here he was alone. Now he should be able to sleep.
He stretched himself out, wrapping his plaid about him against the sea damp, and waited for drowsiness. It did not come. Instead he felt wide-awake and wary, as if something were about to happen.
There's nothing to fret over, he told himself. My work is done, and by morning I'll be on my way back to Edinburgh. But still his uneasiness persisted. When a stifled cough was sounded nearby he was not surprised, only angry with himself. Because no one had challenged him, he had assumed that he was alone.
"Who's there?" he growled, his hand on the dirk at his belt.
"Only me," whispered a small voice. "Kettie."
"The witch?" he asked, the hair on the back of his neck prickling. In his mind's eye he could see the old woman with her shriveled-apple cheeks.
"I dinna feel like a witch though they call me one." The voice was unmistakably young and filled with despair.
He had heard those tones before. Suddenly he remembered. "Ye're the lass that could find no place to do her wash?"
"Ye saw that?" Her tone was wondering. "Ye maun be the Highlander come frae the general."
"I am," he assented. The girl must have some sense if she recognized him as a man of the Highlands. Almost at once he was on guard again. Witches had a way of knowing things, and from what he had heard in the Long Hall, this Kettie's grandmother had been condemned and burned.
"When did ye first ken ye might be a witch?" he asked.
There was a sob. "When I had the dream of the castle falling. I could see the walls, all battered, and the captain's face when he stood on this very tower and called out in surrender."
"What about the babe that died?" he asked. "Did ye put a spell on it?"
The girl burst out weeping. "I loved the bairn. I wished it no harm."
"Why did ye not speak out and say so?" he asked.
"I did. But folk pointed and shouted at me, and made signs to ward off evil. And then I began to think"—the voice dropped so low that Ross could scarcely hear—"that perchance I might be different."
"Ye look like an ordinary lass to me," said Ross stoutly. "Why do ye think ye differ from ither folk?"
"Because o' my dreams. And sometimes I see things ahead."
"Why do ye not leave Tantallon?" Ross asked.
"Because I've no place to go."
"No kinfolk? No friends outside these walls?"
"Nay, none. And besides, of what use would it be for me to leave? I know that I'm to die here."
"Nobody knows how he will die," said Ross.
"I know what my death will be. I saw myself in a dream, falling down a cliff onto rocks, and the sea carried awa' my body. The cliff was like that at the seaward side o' the castle."
Ross was silent. The girl sounded as certain of her fate as if she had sure knowledge of it. If she was not a witch, she was headed for trouble, talking this way.
"Hae ye told anyone about this dream?" he asked.
"Nay. I dare not talk to castle folk now."
Ross stood up. "I'll gie ye some counsel," he said, "and ye'll do well to take it. Leave Tantallon as soon as ye can. Ye could live elsewhere, perchance in Edinburgh."
She gave a low cry. "'Twas there my grandmother was killed."
"Well, somewhere else," he said impatiently. "But get ye away from here, and stop sich feckless dreaming."
Ross was turning toward the stair when suddenly his eye was caught by a pinpoint of light on a distant hilltop. The spark flared in the black night, grew to a flickering flame, then swelled to a mighty blaze.
A beacon! One of the fires lit to warn Scotland that the English had crossed over the boundary and were even now in the Border marches. Soon there would be fighting. He must get back to Edinburgh and the clan.
Toward the west another tiny pinprick glowed in the blackness. By now the Laird, his father, and companions-in-arms would know that the English were on the march. There would be other fires ignited on the craggy hills to the west and north until the alarm went out over all of Scotland.
A cry sounded from the curtain wall. "The beacon!"
Torches appeared in the court below. Men ran sleepily from the guard chambers. Footsteps thudded on the stairs, and voices rang in the rooms.
The girl stood beside Ross. He could feel her trembling. "Dinna fear, lass," he said. "Ye'll be safe enow within these walls."
Just then a guard burst upon them, a torch in his hand. Swift as a greyhound the girl slipped past and started down the stairs. The terror in her face was so great that Ross followed.
They had reached the lowest level when the girl stopped at a slit in the wall. Ross halted behind her and put his eye to the narrow opening. In the courtyard was gathered a bunch of women, muttering and gesticulating. At their head was the red-haired dame of the laundry trough.
"'Tis that Kettie has brought this harm upon us," she shouted.
"She should be chased awa',"offered a stout female.
"And free to set her spells on other innocent folk? Nay. Let her die as her grandam did—and good riddance!" The woman waved the torch, her mouth working in frenzy.
"Like her grandam, at the stake?" quavered an older voice.
"Aye—at the stake. Witches maun needs be burnt." Shrieks and shouts echoed the cry.
"We maun find the witch!"
The crowd started to move along the eastern curtain wall. The girl's slender frame was quaking. Listening to the mob, Ross felt none too steady himself. He must act—and quickly. Soon they would come to this tower.
Shaking out the folds of his plaid, Ross put his left arm around Kettie, pulled her close, and wrapped the woolen folds about them both, covering her from head to ankles.
"Do we walk in the shadows," he said, "wi' ye on the dark side, ye'll nae be seen."
Hidden in the tartan's length, the girl matched her pace with his, step by step, along the courtyard's edge to the mid-tower. A group of guards were gathered there. Ross hesistated.
A soldier looked up and said, "Oh, 'tis the Highlander. If ye're wantin' to get back to Leslie ye maun wait till the morn when the drawbridge be let doon."
Ross turned and walked slowly back toward the east tower, then set out beside the low wall that bordered the seaward escarpment. Far below, the sea beat in distant surf. He could feel the girl trying to hold him back.
"Go not here," she whispered frantically "Not by the cliffs."
"'Tis the only way," he said firmly, "if I'm to take ye to Mistress Seton."
He could feel her yielding to his direction and knew he had been right to think of the captain's wife, just as he was right in his decision to skirt the unlighted side of the court in order to reach the Seton's quarters. He could hear the captain's voice booming out from the ramparts. His lady would be alone, and might give the girl succor.
"Let me walk on the inside, awa' from the cliff," begged a muffled voice.
"Ye'll be in mair danger of being seen there," he said. "Hold fast to me. I'll no' let ye fall."
The crowd of women had grown. Surely there were more than a dozen now. In addition there were a few men, their fists and voices raised in anger. Ross quickened his pace, then slowed. He must try to appear like a man merely passing time till the dawn.
The night wind was cool upon his face. Forcing a saunter, Ross marched his swaddled companion around the borders of the courtyard. Undetected they passed the sea gate and the outward walls. Ahead lay the bakehouse and kitchen, both empty and dark. Then he saw that the crowd had turned and headed for the foot of the Douglas Tower, the very place that he must go to enter the Long Hall.
While he paused, Kettie plucked at his sleeve. He saw that she was peering through a gap in the plaid. "In here," she whispered, and led him up a short flight of steps just beyond the kitchen. It was to the back entrance of the Long Hall. Above was a broad doorway. At his knock it was opened by Mistress Seton, a candle in her hand.
❧
The
Haven
Before Ross could say a word, Kettie tumbled out of the plaid and to her knees before the woman, her eyes wide in terror.
The captain's wife looked at Ross. "I canna keep her here," she said, and stooped to smooth the girl's fair hair. Then she straightened, listened a moment to the cries in the courtyard, and beckoned them both to follow.
Ross put his arm under Kettie's and urged her along behind Mistress Seton through a doorway into a small chamber at the end of the Long Hall, next to the Douglas Tower. She pushed aside a tapestry on the wall, disclosing a door which she unlocked with a key that hung from her girdle.
"Ye maun go down those stairs," she said, pointing.
Kettie shrank back against Ross. "Not the dungeon!"
The woman smiled. "Do ye think I would send ye there? These steps lead around the dungeon to an old haven where small boats used to find shelter. It was partly destroyed in a storm, and has not been used for sae many years that scarce any know of it now. Once ye are down, go alang the beach until ye be out o' sight o' the castle. At first light climb the cliff and go to my old nurse at the cottage on the Broxburn in Dunbar, just off the Great Road. Take her this so that she will know it was I sent ye." She unclasped a brooch from her bodice and pressed it into the girl's hand.
Captain Seton's voice sounded in the Long Hall. "Ho, wife!"
"Go now!" Mistress Seton gave Ross a shove. He stumbled onto the stairs, Kettie behind him, as the door swung shut. The darkness was blacker than any he had ever known. Thoughts of Tam waiting near the outer gate, the clan in arms without him, the message he bore for Leslie, all whirled in his mind. Then he felt Kettie's fingers, cold as ice, on his arm. Only one thing mattered now, getting the girl safely away from her accusers.
He started to take a step, tripped on an end of the plaid, and almost fell. Frantically he yanked it over his shoulder next to the bagpipes and hitched his belt tight around the folds. Then he put his hand out to the cold stone of the wall and began the descent, the girl clinging to his back like a limpet.
The steps were of rough stone, uneven in height, but steady. For that he could be thankful. One slip and who knew how far they might fall?
Round and round, down and down they went, like two ants on a corkscrew. He could feel himself growing giddy with the circling motion. The walls grew colder and were wet with slime. The air was heavy with moisture. How much farther must they descend?
Ross halted to clear his spinning head, then continued down the steps. Suddenly he stepped into ankle-deep water so icy that he almost cried out. At the same moment his hand met the rough planks of a door. His fingers raced over the wood and found a heavy bar swollen with damp. Heaving with all his might, he raised it and pulled the door inward. In a moment he and the girl stood in a hollow space at the foot of the great cliffs.
Together Ross and Kettie clambered along the shore, putting distance between themselves and the castle. Over rocky outcroppings and shallow beaches they made their way to the northwest, the night seeming less dark after the blackness of the stairwell. At last they rounded a steep crag. Now we cannot be seen from Tantallon, thought Ross, and he helped Kettie climb up on a large boulder. Its top, broad and dry, must be above high water. He eased himself onto the rock and let out a long breath. So far, so good. Besdie him Kettie was shivering.
"What might ye be afraid of now?" he asked impatiently.
"I'm cald," she said, her teeth chattering.
He unbuckled his plaid and gave it to her. "Now ye maun try to get some rest," he ordered, and stretched out on the rock.
For some reason—the stony bed, the night's events, or thoughts of the morrow—he could not sleep, and was almost relieved when he heard Kettie's whisper.
"What name might ye be called by?"
"Ross McCrae," he said shortly.
"It has a brave ring. Is your hame far distant?"
"Clear across Scotland and well to the north." For a minute he could see Loch Ruich's clear waters ringed by wooded hills. He could even see himself returning to Kindonal, piping a march of victory while the castle folk cried out a welcome.
"What o' your parents?" asked Kettie.
"My mother died when I was a babe," he said. "The Laird, being childless, raised me like his ain." He paused and added, "My father is piper to the clan."
No need to mention the shame he felt when folk whispered behind their hands that he was the son of the Laird's poor dead cousin, her who ran off with a piper when she could have made a proper match. That Black Donald still tuned his pipes in Kindonal Castle and marched at the head of the clan was a weakness on the Laird's part, said gossips. But Ross wondered if perhaps his father's enemies were merely jealous of his fame and skill in piping and his rugged good looks.
"I've not a soul to care for me," said Kettie wistfully.
"Ye'll have Mistress Seton's nurse," said Ross, yawning. The girl was quiet, and in a few minutes her soft breathing told him she was asleep.
❧
Kettie's
Dream
Soon Ross too dozed off. How long he slept he could not tell. A muffled scream aroused him.
He jerked awake in the gray dawn. "Be still!" he muttered. "Do ye want them to find us?"
Kettie was huddled in his plaid, one hand to her mouth, her dark eyes wide with fear. "I could see ye," she blurted, "as clear as ye are now. 'Twas a fearful dream."
Her fright was contagious. Ross tried to laugh as he asked, "And was I on the castle wall with the captain? Or falling off the cliff with ye?"
"Far worse. Ye were in the midst of battle with the dead and dying all around. I could smell the blood and hear the cries." She put her hands over her ears.
Himself in the midst of battle? Perhaps she had indeed the gift of foresight. Doubt gnawed at him now as it did every time he raised his claymore, the two-edged Highland sword, in a practice drill. "Did I fight bravely?" he asked.
Her eyes widened. "I couldna tell. The dream changed. I saw ye again, and ye were on a ship wi' other men sailing awa' across the ocean."
The girl must be daft. He had no mind to go to sea. Kettie's dreams could be no more than the nightmares every person had at one time or another.
"Ye're o'erwrought from last night's chase," he said. Partly to take her mind off her troubles, partly to steady his own nerves, he drew the chanter from his bagpipes and put it to his lips. Detached from the bag and drones, it produced a flutelike sound that would not be heard at any distance.
A gay little tune he had in mind, one that he had heard his father play in a lighthearted moment. He blew into the slender tube, his fingers remembering their places as the song came softly to life.
In some uncanny way the music changed between his mind's intent and the notes that came forth. Perhaps it was the fault of wind and wave, soughing and swishing. Perhaps because he had only the chanter on which to play. But in some way beyond his power, the song was not the merry lilt he had hoped for, but an eerie, haunting melody.
For a few minutes he kept on. No instrument could thwart him. But the sorrowful keening continued.
Disgusted, Ross slid the chanter into his belt, and noticed that the light had become stronger. Standing up, he stretched, and squinted at the cliff above. "Come alang," he said to the girl, and jumped down from the boulder.
They found a rough path up the cliff, and by clinging to stone outcroppings, climbed to the top. Beyond, the land rose in a slow and steady sweep. All was gray and desolate, with only a faint glow lighting the sky.
They had not gone far beyond the cliffs when a furry form raced through the misty light, barking in joy. "Tam!" Ross knelt at the dog's side and threw his arms around him, while the animal lapped at his face and whined in delight.
Then Ross saw that Kettie had retreated to a distance and was cowering. "Will he bite?" she asked fearfully.
"Not unless I tell him to," said Ross. "Come ye here and gie him a pat."
But Kettie would not move. Finally Ross went up to her, Tam at his side, and forced her hand onto Tam's head. The dog twisted around, sniffed at her fingers, and then licked them in approval.
Kettie gave a cry of pleasure. "He likes me!" Timorously she patted the smooth fur.
Together the three set out, keeping close to some hawthorne hedgerows, and swinging wide to the south to avoid Tantallon. With luck they would not be sighted from the castle.
At a steady pace they continued through the glory of sunrise. By full daylight the land had come alive. Shepherds gathered flocks to drive them into the hills. Farmers scattered dry straw in the fields and set fire to the ripening barley and oats, in order that their grain could not be used by the advancing English army.
The road was filled with people. Women with bundles over their shoulders, leading children by the hand, hastened to the town for safety, some to North Berwick and some to Dunbar. Old men wheeled barrows of provisions. And a few stout fellows armed with pikes or claymores hurried to Edinburgh. No one paid any attention to the young Highlander with a dog and a girl. All were too concerend with their own troubles, set off by the beacons that had flared in the night.
At a cottage in the fold of the hills, Ross bought two loaves and some cheese. Farther on he and Kettie came to a ravine cut by a burbling brook.
"Shall we break our fast by yon burn?" Ross asked. He could hardly wait to taste the fragrant loaf. He was kneeling down, scooping water in his hands and drinking thirstily, when he heard Kettie give a low cry of pleasure.
"Look!" she said. "Wild strawberries!"
While Ross cut the loaves and cheese with his dirk Kettie gathered some of the juicy red berries. A few minutes later she offered Ross a handful and began picking more for herself. Then she sat down near him and accepted gratefully the bread and cheese he held out to her.
The ravine offered shelter from the sea breeze; the sun shone warmly. Ross stretched out on the bank. The bread and cheese had satisfied his hunger; the taste of the berries was still sweet in his mouth.
Kettie sat a few feet away, Tam curled beside her. She was feeding him bits of her loaf. When he licked her hand in gratitude, she stroked his head fondly. For a girl who had been mortally afraid of dogs a few hours ago, she had certainly changed.
In a high sweet voice Kettie began to sing. Ross closed his eyes, listening to the ballad.
There were two sisters sat in a bower;
Binnorie, O Binnorie.
There came a knight to be their wooer
By the bonny mill-dams of Binnorie.
He courted the eldest wi' glove an' ring.
Binnorie, O Binnorie,
But he loved the youngest above a' thing
By the bonny mill-dams of Binnorie.
The tune was one that Ross knew well. He slipped the chanter from his belt, put it to his lips, and blew into it softly. Kettie's eyes lit up with pleasure as she continued her song.
The eldest she was vexed sair,
Binnorie, O Binnorie,
And much envied her sister fair
By the bonny mill-dams of Binnorie.
Together Kettie and Ross went through the entire ballad with its tale of the drowning of the younger girl, the harper's taking strands of her hair to string his harp, and the songs he played thereon.
The lasten tune that he played then,
Binnorie, O Binnorie,
Was woe to my sister, fair Ellen,
By the bonny mill-dams of Binnorie.
When the final plaintive note had died away, Ross shook out his chanter and started up guiltily. For a few minutes he had completely forgotten that he was on a mission for General Leslie and that the English were even now marching into Scotland.
"Come alang," he ordered impatiently.
By midday they had covered the dozen miles to the shepherd's hut, having skirted about the town of Dunbar. Ross had no trouble finding the cottage. It was set in a hollow beside the Broxburn, a short distance from where the stream crossed the Great Road on its way to the sea. The burn carved a deep gully along the foot of the high hill that rose from its southern bank; Doon Hill it was called.
The old nurse sat in her doorway spinning. Suspicious at first, she melted at the sight of the brooch, and held out her arms to Kettie. "Welcome ye are to bide here. Me man's gone to the hills with the sheep, but I'll no' leave me hame for any Sassenachs, e'en though they be led by Cromwell."
Ross turned away, whistling Tam to his side. Now that the nurse had taken charge of the girl, he could hurry north to Edinburgh, deliver his report, and rejoin his comrades.
He had gone only a few paces when Kettie ran up behind him. Snatching his hand, she bent and pressed her lips to it.
"I canna gie ye proper thanks," she said. "Ye hae saved my life and I'll ne'er forget. God willing, I may be o' help to ye one day."
Ross pulled his fingers away impatiently. "Dinna fash yersel' o'er me," he said. "An' forget about yer dreams. They're naught but fancies."
Kettie opened her mouth to speak, then closed it and curved her lips in a wan attempt at a smile. Ross turned abruptly and strode off. But for many a mile the memory of her pathetic face swam between him and the road.
❧
Edinburgh
Ross walked until late afternoon, then climbed onto a cart laden with cheese and dried fish.
