Journey to Enchantment (35 page)

It had been dark when they'd left the cavern. She had drifted into the tunnel, unobserved, and MacLeod had come very soon. None had attempted to stay them. The guards at the waterfall had accepted his statement that they were going to try to get through to Moidart, where friends would shelter them, but had cautioned against soldiers who were now a scant mile or so to the east. MacLeod had set off at once, and it seemed to Prudence that he had scarcely stopped since, only once or twice leaving her in the shelter of some tree or outcropping while he clambered up to where he could search for patrols.

She had no idea of how many hours they had travelled, nor of how far they had come. The going was incredibly difficult, for MacLeod's way was dangerous and almost impossible at times, and few travellers would have attempted it. At the end of the first hour she was convinced she could take not another step, only the thought of Delacourt enabling her to go on. At last, MacLeod said she could ride again, and carefully lifted her into the saddle. She rode astride, her full skirts enabling her to do so, and she wasted not a second upon qualms for such improper behaviour. In this way she was enabled to lean forward against the garron's mane and at times to doze off. When MacLeod woke her from one of these slumbers she could have wept, but she allowed him to help her dismount and forced her poor feet to tread bravely, reminding herself that she had insisted upon coming and that, whatever else, she must not prove a hindrance to their coming up with Geoffrey. The way levelled off at last and she could ride again. She was somewhere between sleep and waking when she heard MacLeod swear and lifted her head wearily.

Where they were she did not know, but they journeyed along a high ridge and far below a croft was burning. It seemed to her that she heard a shot and then a woman screaming. She had seen many burned-out dwellings since Culloden but this was the first time she had actually seen the flames and been so close to suffering and terror and death. She felt faint with horror and threw her hands over her eyes. “God help them,” she whispered.

MacLeod growled, “Amen tae that, mistress,” and led the pony on.

All too soon the way became steep again. MacLeod lifted Prudence down and peered anxiously into her tired little face. “Be ye all right, mistress? We've come a far piece, but there's a'many long miles yet.”

“I am … perfectly able to go on,” she said staunchly, her voice sounding reedy and distant. “You—you must be a deal more tired than I.”

“No, lady. I can carry ye, if—”

Her chin lifted. “I am a MacTavish,” she said, and stepped out bravely. With that first step she almost fell, for her feet seemed so worn away that she was sure she must be treading on stumps. She forced back a sob and made herself keep trying. The first pale light of dawn, streaking the eastern skies, afforded her a glimpse of the path down the crag—so precipitous and rock-strewn a slope that her courage failed her and she dared not look again. She clung tighter to the stirrup and concentrated on one step at a time, and she thought of how proud Delacourt would be when they reached him with their warning.

“MacLeod!” she called suddenly.

The big man was at her side on the instant.

“Where are we?” she demanded.

“Look there, lady.”

She turned in the direction of his pointing hand and caught her breath at the beauty of it. The skies were now a clear violet-pink. To the north loomed the rugged peaks. Closer at hand, for as far as she could see, were little ravines and towering crags threaded by the sparkle of waterfalls and the hurrying leap of rushing burns. Here and there a clear slope was gowned in the rich purple of the heather; white wraiths of mist twined lazily from high corries into the still air, and far below a great sheet of blue water spread mile upon mile to left and right of them. It was the loch that sank Prudence into despair. “Och…” she wailed tragically, “I had thought we'd come farther than this!”

MacLeod's bushy brows went up. “
Dia,
” he muttered under his breath, and added, “'Tis a hard taskmaster ye are and no doubting, mistress. Come awie, then. And keep yer eyes open if ye will, for we're more like tae be seen now 'tis daybreak, and we must head west, which is verra chancy.”

He trotted on, following the general direction of the loch.

Prudence was silent for a while, then asked a puzzled, “Are ye no heading the wrong way, MacLeod? This leads south, surely?”

“West, mistress.”

“But Loch Lochy runs southwards, I'd thought.”

“Aye. Southwestwards.” He glanced around at her, his blue eyes twinkling. “Only, yon's Loch Arkaig, ma'am.”

Her heart gave a great leap. With a beam of joy she exclaimed, “Arkaig! Och, then we're doing verra
weell,
MacLeod!”

“Better than twenty miles we've come this night, mistress.”

She clapped her hands. “How splendid! Do ye fancy we shall come up with them soon? Shall we be able to see them?”

“Not if Ligun Doone kens what he's aboot. I'm of a mind we've passed them by long since. Nae—never look sae doom-struck. Did I no tell ye I ken this country like the back o' me hand? A sight better nor the Captain and that gowk Lockerbie. All we've tae do is head fer a pass I know of, and wi' luck we'll spot 'em when they come through.” He thought he sounded a fine braggart and, embarrassed, closed his lips, took the tired garron's bridle, and led on.

With her first step, Prudence slipped and came down hard, scraping the heel of her hand on the sharp gravel, and bruising her hip. MacLeod rushed back to her, and only then did she notice that he was limping. He had walked and trotted all those twenty miles, over countless rocky slopes and through hundreds of icy burns, with never a complaint, and because he was so big and strong it had failed to occur to her that he was human, too, and not above being hurt and weary. He helped her up, and she made light of her scrapes and hobbled on. She saw him watching her with a grin, and she felt ridiculously pleased that she had won the approval of this young giant whom, a few days ago, she had regarded with such abhorrence.

The sun began to come up as they struggled side by side through a ravine treacherous with shifting shale and littered with boulders from the higher slopes. Prudence was so tired she had to fight to stay awake, and she began to sing softly, every Scottish song she knew, breathless and stumbling and often improvising the words until MacLeod, chuckling, joined in. The songs faded at last, and died away, but her throbbing feet went on. She did not realize she was asleep until a hand on her shoulder woke her. She was still clutching the garron's stirrup, and her forehead was leaning against the tired beast's shoulder. MacLeod swept her up and carried her to a clump of dense shrubs that grew against the rock face. A burn tumbled noisily down the slope close by. She felt the spray of it, cold against her face as the Highlander put her down. He looked pale and exhausted, his eyes ringed with the shadows of fatigue. “We must hide the noo,” he said.

“Where?”

He pulled the shrubs aside to reveal a hollow cut where there would be ample room for the two of them and the little pony to lie hidden until dusk. Aching with the need to lie down in that lovely hollowed-out teacup, she mumbled, “What about the poor garron?”

MacLeod said he would water the pony and unsaddle it, then bring it into the hollow. “He can graze frae inside,” he said. “Do ye get in and lie ye doon, mistress.”

“I shall. After you come.” She was adamant, and with a sigh for the pigheadedness of even the best of women, MacLeod went over and stripped the pony of saddle and blanket and led it to the burn. He returned with the expectation of finding the girl asleep in the hollow, but she waited, her shoulder propped against the rock wall and her eyes glazed with weariness. When he had tethered the pony, she said, “Come wi' me,” led him to the burn, and commanded, “Sit ye doon. Now dinna argue, mon! Sit ye doon!”

The broad Scots brought a grin to his face and he obeyed wonderingly. She knelt beside him and began to unlace his crude sandals. With a startled exclamation, he wrenched away. For the first time in her life, Prudence gripped a hairy male limb and hung on. Horrified, MacLeod ceased his struggles, but shrank back, peering at her with aghast eyes. “Whatever are ye aboot, lady?” he gulped.

She peeled off his tattered stockings, flinched to see his bruised and blistered feet, and exclaimed, “Oh! Ye poor wee lad!”

MacLeod was very near exhaustion, and the sight of this diminutive girl holding his great foot and calling him a ‘wee lad' struck him as so hilarious that he began to chuckle. Glancing up in surprise, Prudence caught his mirth and the two of them sat there laughing—as she said later—like a pair of gormless thimblewits. Wiping tears from her eyes, she instructed him to soak his feet in the burn. He eyed the water dubiously, stuck in one toe, and gave a yelp.

“It will feel better soon,” said Prudence.

“Aye—it'll be froze solid,” he grumbled.

She turned her back and, commanding him not to look, removed her shoes, slippers, and stockings. Her own feet were not in much better condition than his, but when she shyly immersed them, her breath was snatched away and she whipped her feet back.

MacLeod grinned at her. “It'll feel better soon,” he said.

XVII

Prudence awoke stiff, cold, and hungry. At some time while she slept MacLeod had spread his plaid over her and she tugged it closer about her chin and snuggled down drowsily. Loud, drunken voices raised in dissension brought her fully to awareness. A dim light filtered in through the branches of the shrubs, and MacLeod crouched by the opening, peering out.

She crept to join him. “Who is it?” she whispered.

“The men I told ye of,” he responded as softly. “Anyone coming this way has tae travel through this pass. 'Tis why I thought we'd meet up wi' Mr. Doone here. They've got some Southron—poor chappie.”

Her heart pounding, Prudence peeped through the foliage. And there he was, sure enough: the big lout in the strange leathern tunic that was like a rough patchwork quilt. He had a small, cruel mouth, hard eyes, and a sneering, vindictive expression. There were two others of his kind with him: big, crude-looking individuals, wearing dyed plaids so that the tartan was obliterated. All three were sprawled very close by the side of the burn, arguing mildly among themselves, and passing a flask back and forth. To one side, a youthful redcoat, his hands bound before him, was attempting to gather firewood, presumably to heat the contents of an iron pot that hung on a trivet nearby.

Prudence thought worriedly that if they meant to eat, they'd likely be here for some time. She glanced to the garron. It was asleep, head down. If the bounty hunters had horses, they were not within her range of vision, but she thought they must have, to have come all this way.

The young captive stumbled, dropping the branch he was attempting to haul to the site of his fire and, knocking over the trivet, sent the contents of the pot spilling into the dirt. A shout of rage went up from his captors. The bully in the leathern vest got to his feet and fetched the youth a buffet that sent him sprawling. He fell with head and shoulders in the burn, and the Scot laughed and put one large foot on the back of his neck, holding his head under.

Prudence gave a gasp of horror. MacLeod spun around and clapped a hand over her mouth. “There's naught we can do, mistress,” he whispered. “And he's only a redcoat, forbye.” She struggled angrily, but then the man with the leathern vest removed his foot and bent to haul the half-drowned boy from the water. “Get up, stupid dog's meat,” he snarled, kicking his victim savagely. “Now we've tae find more food, damn yer eyes! Get and saddle the garrons.”

Coughing and gulping air, the redcoat came to his knees. Prudence saw that he was very young—no more than eighteen or nineteen, she judged—his fair face cruelly marked by cuts and abrasions, but his spirit unbroken as yet, evidently, for he swore feebly at his persecutor. His reward was a kick that doubled him up, and he lay choking and helpless while Prudence shook with rage that a bound prisoner should be so ill-used.

Another man, with greying straggly hair, and a long ragged beard, now clambered to his feet and demanded testily that ‘Zeke' stop beating the boy. “If ye kick his ribs in, he'll no be able tae lead us tae Loch nan Uamh,” he growled, “and I dinna ken the way, nor I doot we'd get much help frae the crofters hereaboots, if they're as loyal tae Doone as yon fools we questioned last night.”

The third bounty hunter, a pallid, shifty-eyed man with long twitching hands and hunched shoulders, stood and wandered out of Prudence's sight. “They'll no forget us in a hurry, Jem, lad,” he jeered.

“Mur-derers!” croaked the young trooper, with valour if not wisdom. “Is that … how you mean to serve this … poor fellow you … seek?”

The pallid man came back to bend over him. “Doone will be lucky if we come up wi' him first—he'll die quick. If the military get their hands on him, it's the Tower, where they'll put him tae the question, fer he likely knows a deal o' that fool Stuart. And when he's nigh dead they'll stop kindly fer rope and block, wi' his head saved fer Tower Bridge! We do the laddie a favour, y'ken.” He seized the boy's dishevelled fair hair, and hauled. “Up wi' ye. We'd as well get on, since ye've spoiled our dinner, ye perishin' clod.”

Prudence closed her eyes and did not move until the sound of hooves and the coarse voices began to face. She peered out then. They were making their way along the ravine, the prisoner at the end of a rope, staggering after them. “Poor lad,” she whispered.

MacLeod said, “Are ye able tae go on now, lady? As soon as yon fine gentlemen are clear, we can leave.”

“How could they?” she asked, raising appalled eyes to his face. “They were Scots, yet they cared neither for Ligun Doone nor Prince Charles. And to so brutalize that helpless lad…”