Oatcakes and Courage (2 page)

Anne squared her shoulders and started down the path with a determined step. She hoped to reach Ullapool by morning.

A dark form stepped from the cover of a roadside hedge and loomed before Anne. Every hair on the back of her neck stood on end. Anne uttered a terrified squawk, then swung her bag of belongings from her shoulder and spun on her heel, hammering the bag against the side of the intruder's head.

The dark form staggered and collapsed. “Anne!” a voice choked.

She gasped and dropped her bundle. She fell to her knees in front of the prone man.

“Ian!” Anne exclaimed, her voice relieved and reproachful. “You gave me a scare. My heart almost stopped.”

“What do you have in that bag, lass? Stones?” Ian asked, sitting up and rubbing his temple gingerly.

“I am so sorry, Ian, but you startled me.”

He waved her away and came slowly to his feet. He flexed his neck and shoulders, then peered at Anne in the dim light
of the summer stars. Anne picked up Ian's hat, dusted it off and passed it back to him. He placed it very gently on his head.

“So you really mean to leave,” he said.

“I do.”

Ian nodded and without another word, took up her bundle and placed it over his shoulder. He stooped to grab another bundle from the roadside.

“Ian, I…”

“You have to go, and I can't very well let you roam around the Highlands by yourself, now can I? Even if you are able to bludgeon poor unsuspecting wayfarers to the ground.”

Anne's cheeks grew warm. She grinned sheepishly.

Ian continued, “Besides, we're going the same way, seems like. So, there's naught else to say.”

Anne reached out and touched his hand. She was so grateful, tears filled her eyes. “Thank you, Ian. I am very glad for your company.”

Anne turned her back upon the only home she'd ever known and set off with Ian toward Ullapool.

Chapter 2

T
HE FIRST HOUR OR
so of their journey was a pleasant walk in the country. Anne might have pretended they were out for a midnight stroll. But as the night wore on, the hills grew steeper, the road more rutted and muddy, the wind more chill. Anne settled her cloak around her shoulders and pulled it close.

Ian would not let her carry either bundle, and after they had walked for three hours, Anne had to admit that she was glad. She was having trouble putting one foot in front of the other. The boots were chafing her feet; she was sure she had blisters on her heels. She gritted her teeth and said nothing.

“I am not going back,” she thought. “Bleeding heels are a small price to pay for getting out of that marriage.”

She let the words “I am not going back,” echo in her mind like a chant as she trudged doggedly along the dark road.

Lake Broom lay on their left as they made their way coastward. The track skirted the shore much of the way, although at times they climbed through passes that took them out of sight of the ribbon of lead-coloured water.

Inky clouds blew in and snuffed out the stars. It became hard to see the ruts in the track. Anne began to stumble.

Ian halted when she nearly fell face-first into a puddle. Only his quick, steadying arm prevented a very messy tumble.

“We need to rest a bit,” Ian said. He peered into the night. “Down there. We could sit under those beech trees for a while and have a bite to eat.”

Anne was sure he could have travelled on all night without rest, but she was too tired and sore to argue. “Aye, that would be grand.”

They carefully made their way off the road and down to the grove of trees. To Anne's delight, there was a narrow stream
running beneath the beeches. While Ian unpacked some black bread and cheese from his pack, she peeled off her boots and stockings and slipped her feet into the cold water.

Ian sat down and passed her a chunk of bread and a slice of cheese. Then he glanced at her feet. “Ach! Anne, why didn't you say your feet were…?”

“It's fine, Ian. I'll just soak them a bit, and they'll be all right.”

Ian took hold of one foot and drew it out of the water. He held it close to his face. “This is not all right. It's a wonder you can walk at all.”

“What choice have I got? I have to keep going,” Anne said, her chin lifting.

Ian sighed. “Well, we'll have to bandage them before we go on. Otherwise you'll be crawling before we reach Ullapool.”

Anne pulled her foot away from Ian's grip and slid it back into the numbing chill of the stream.

They ate in silence. When Ian finished, he brushed the crumbs off his shirt and then dug through the bags. At last, he pulled Anne's spare petticoat from her bundle.

“What are you doing?” Anne asked.

Ian inspected the petticoat a moment, then swiftly tore a strip from the hem.

Anne squawked, “What are you doing!?”

“Making you a bandage. For your feet.” Ian ripped a second strip from the undergarment.

“That's my best petticoat!” Anne yelped.

“It
was
,” Ian said. “Dry off your feet. Then I'll wrap them for you.”

Anne lifted her feet from the stream and huffily dried them on her cloak. She sulked as Ian wound the remnants of the petticoat around her heels. Then he eased her stockings and boots over the bandages.

“How does that feel?” he asked.

Anne wanted to be cross with him. But her feet
were
more comfortable. And he looked so concerned, she couldn't stay annoyed. She sighed. “Better. Thank you.”

“Ready to go on? We have about four leagues to go, I think, before Ullapool.”

Anne stood. “Aye, ready.”

Ian helped Anne to her feet, picked up their packs, and led them back to the road. They climbed a long hill, and as they crested it, the eastern horizon was smudged with a creamy glow.

“Soon be sunrise,” Ian said. “It may be raining by then.”

They passed sheepcotes and cottages. The wind picked up and began to snap Anne's cape around her legs. As Ian had predicted, the dawn was a wet one. At first, it was a heavy mist, driven by the breeze, but soon it changed to a steady rain, hammering at the right side of their faces. Ian drew his cloak over his shoulders. They ducked their heads into their hoods and tramped on.

Before noon, they came to an inn, The Broom. Its stone walls and creaking wooden sign looked impervious to change or the weather.

“You're soaked to the bone,” Ian said. “We're only about a league outside of Ullapool. Why not stop here and dry off? Maybe get a hot meal.”

Anne clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering.

“Come on,” he said, pushing her through the inn's door. The smell of whisky and ale and tobacco smoke greeted them. A warm fire danced in an enormous stone hearth.

Ian shook back his hood and stamped his feet. “G'day,” he called pleasantly to a rotund, red-faced woman behind the counter.

“Nasty day to be out,” she said cheerfully.

“It is that,” Ian agreed. He took Anne by the elbow and steered her toward the fire. “My poor sister is nearly drowned.”

Anne gasped but Ian artfully spun her toward the fireplace to hide her surprised expression from the matron innkeeper and he cleared his throat noisily.

The matron said, “Tsk, tsk. Hang your cloaks up to dry. Would you be wanting a pint of ale?”

Ian hung his cloak and hat next to the hearth, then took Anne's cloak and hung it next to his. He pulled a chair near the fireplace and ushered Anne into it. Then he turned to the woman. “Naught to drink, thank you. But do I smell a mutton stew?”

The woman smiled. It made her wide face look like a split apple. “You do indeed, young man. Would you and your sister care for a bowl?”

“It would help warm us up, I'm sure,” Ian replied.

“It won't be but a minute,” the woman said and she hurried through a door into the kitchen.

“Sister?” Anne whispered, one eyebrow raised. Ian sat down next to her and held his hands out to the flames.

“What did you want me to say? This is a betrothed lass I'm kidnapping and spiriting away to the New World? She might not have found me so charming if I'd told her that.”

“Well, you hardly kidnapped me.” Anne thought for a moment. “You could have said you were my squire.”

“Sorry, lass. You don't have enough wealth to pull that off.”

“Well…”

“And she wouldn't be too impressed if I said we were good childhood friends, either. The only other story I might have tried was to say you were my wife. And somehow I didn't think you would like that tale. You nearly gave us away when I said you were my sister.”

Just then, the woman backed through the kitchen door, balancing two steaming bowls of stew on a tray. Ian pulled a table next to the hearth and she set the bowls and spoons on it for them.

“There now. That'll heat you up from the inside out. Where are you going on such a miserable day?”

“Have you heard of John Ross?”

The woman raised both hands over her head and brought them down in a loud clap in front of her ample bosom. “Now who around here hasn't heard of him, I wonder? You're not off to…?”

Ian smiled. “I'm a Scot, through and through, lady innkeeper. And they tell me that in the New World, I'll be able to wear my tartan, and speak the Gaelic, and own land. Now, does that not sound good to you?”

The matron's voice dropped to a whisper. Walls had ears. “Aye. After all the troubles we've had… If me and my man were younger… Ah, but it's a dangerous thing you are planning, my lad.”

Ian glanced at Anne as he said, “We live dangerous lives, lady. I just want some choices about the dangers I face.” Then he smiled at the matron again. “No need letting the English have a say in everything.”

The woman gave him a hearty slap on the shoulder. “Here, now. Eat your stew while it's good and hot.”

Anne and Ian ate in silence, letting the food and the fire warm them. The woman returned to her kitchen. The cloaks gently steamed on their hooks.

When they'd finished their stew, the lady innkeeper called to Ian from the kitchen doorway, “Would you care for a piece of dried apple tart?”

Ian licked his lips. “Is it as delicious as the stew?”

The woman giggled in a girlish way, making her jowls quiver. “I'm told it is the best tart this side of Ullapool.”

“Then I cannot pass up on that, can I? What about you, sister?”

Anne shot him a glare but said, “Thank you, but I am so full from the stew, I could not eat another bite.”

The woman bustled into the kitchen again.

“So, is this the story we are going to keep using?” Anne asked. “That I am your sister?”

“Hmmm?” Ian murmured, his mind on the apple tart.

“Are we going to continue as brother and sister? When we get into Ullapool?”

“I had not really thought about it,” Ian admitted.

“Don't you think we should? Think about it, I mean.”

The woman reappeared, carrying a large slice of apple tart with a chunk of goat cheese on the side. She stood by Ian's
chair till he'd had a bite and rolled his eyes in appreciation. “Delicious. Very good. No doubt the best in Wester Ross!”

The woman went back into the kitchen, smiling widely.

“Is it really that good?” Anne asked.

Ian shook his head. “It's not bad. But it always pays to tell a cook her food is wonderful.”

The woman came back into the dining room with a sack. “For your travels,” she said. “No extra charge.”

Ian paid for their dinner, and as they got up to collect their cloaks, he looked in the sack. There were two pieces of tart, a large chunk of cheese and a small, fresh loaf of dark bread. “See?” he said. “A good idea to compliment the cook.”

“I'll remember that,” Anne muttered as she followed him to the door.

The rain had slackened to a drizzle and the wind had calmed, but the air held a deeper chill. They hunched into their cloaks.

They had not gone more than a hundred paces when a lone horseman, riding hard and fast, appeared out of the loom behind them. Ian took Anne by the elbow and hauled her between two gorse bushes.

The rider halted his horse abruptly outside The Broom, and left it heaving and blowing, its head between its knees.

“In a great hurry, he is,” Ian murmured. He drew Anne further into the prickly gorse.

It was not long till the rider, lean as an alder sapling, came to the door with the lady innkeeper behind him.

“Aye,” her voice carried to them, “I'll keep my eyes open for such a scoundrel. You will likely be able to get a fresh horse in Ullapool.”

The rider mounted and spurred his horse on. He clattered past Anne and Ian and soon disappeared over the hill.

Ian eased from the hiding place and beckoned Anne to follow.

Anne's face was white. “You don't think he was looking for us, do you?”

Ian looked soberly from the inn to the road. “It doesn't seem likely, does it? And yet, I think we cannot be too careful. At least the dear old soul at the inn didn't let on she'd seen us.”

Anne nodded. “Thank goodness you said you liked her apple tart,” she said solemnly.

They trudged on without speaking for a time. Their ears were tuned to any sound that might be an approaching horse or a man's step. Anne felt ready to jump at the thrum of a partridge's wing. Exhausted, they eventually came to a rise that overlooked the village of Ullapool – a cluster of low houses huddled on a small cape. The loch was as gray as the clouds, and flecked with white waves.

“Well, here we are, then,” Ian said cheerfully. There was a crease between his eyes that betrayed his concern.

“Aye. Is the
Hector
in the harbour?” Anne asked, squinting.

“That's her, at anchor,” Ian said, pointing. “See? Three masts.”

Anne nodded.

Ian regarded Anne. “Perhaps we'd best sit and talk for a bit.”