Eighteen
The Lord Henry Purceville, Governor of MacPherson Castle and the Northern Garrison, awoke in the worst possible humor. He had quarreled bitterly with his son the night before, after being informed that one of his cavalrymen had died in disgrace, and another deserted rank in consequence. His head throbbed from the excesses of food and drink that had become habitual with him; the whore that lay sleeping beside him (his mistress) stank of his own corruption; and the prisoners he had been charged to find, in the most demanding terms, still eluded him. In the chill of early morning, he felt every day of the fifty-three years he bore.
Of all these circumstances, the quarrel with his son troubled him most deeply. It was not so much the fact of a dispute, all too common between them, as the disturbing revelation which had come from it.
Because no man, no matter how far he has strayed from the path of wisdom, wants to appear low and cowardly in the eyes of his son. And no man, retaining from childhood the slightest memory of loving female attention, can wantonly desecrate the altar of motherhood without a latent stab of conscience. Yet both these things had now risen up to haunt him, in the form of a daughter he had never seen.
If the bastard child had been a boy (as he had vaguely imagined, when he thought of it at all), the problem might have been more easily reconciled and acted upon, one way or the other. But a young woman, and still more, a young woman who had evidently sparked some feeling of affection in his son---the only person he cared for in the world---this was far more complicated.
Sending his mistress to the floor with a savage kick, he bellowed for his servants, ordered her dismissed, then sent for his son to learn the particulars of the MacCain girl. He was a man of action, and action would be taken.
One way or the other.
It was the widow Scott who woke them. A premonition of danger had come to her, and whether real or imagined, she would take no chances so long as her son remained a wanted man. She knocked on their door as the mantle clock struck eleven, and asked them to dress quickly and come out, that they might formulate precautions in the event that mounted soldiers, or other unwanted strangers appeared at the house.
When the two emerged and sat down to breakfast, and again as they moved to sit by the fire to hold counsel, the woman was struck by the seriousness of both faces. Caution and determination she expected from her son, who had spoken to her the day before of the hardships and dangers he had already faced, and must face again, until he won his way to true freedom.
But Mary seemed to understand as well as he the risks and perils of their position, and acted not at all the happy, naive bride-to-be. And now, as Michael built up the fire and drew the curtains tight, she found that the girl would not even look at her, would not return her questioning gaze.
“Mary? What is it, girl, what’s wrong?” Michael, who now returned to stand before her, intervened.
“Mother,” he said gently, putting a hand on her shoulder. “My fears for James Talbert have been realized. He died yesterday, defending those he loved. He has been given Christian burial, and as soon as may be, we will place a stone over the grave. I’m sorry.”
The woman looked searchingly into his face, then lowered her head and wept silently. But when she raised it again, though her eyes still glistened, their look was firm and determined.
“I will notify my brother tonight. It will be hard for him, and for his wife, because he meant as much to them..... Nay, do not try to comfort me. I am a proud Scottish woman, and not rendered helpless in my grief. The times are hard, and the living must look to their own devices.
“That is why we are here,” she went on. “Painful as it may be, we must now turn our attention to our own precaution. We must be prepared for the worst. We must vow to protect your union to the last. And if it comes to it, you must be willing to sacrifice my safety for your own. Do not argue with me, Michael! I have had a full life, thank God, for all its latter hardship. I am determined that you shall have the same. The blood of Scott and Talbert, our family, must endure.”
Having said this, she put one hand to the other, and slowly removed her wedding ring. She then placed it solemnly in her son’s hand. No further explanation was needed.
“Thank you, Mother. It means a great deal to me.”
Michael returned to stand by his betrothed, who looked up at him in awe and astonishment, feeling for the first time the full import of what was happening between them. They were to be man and wife, as surely, and unalterably, as he now stood before her.
“Give me your hand, Mary.” She did. “With this ring, on the day of November 2, 1749, I pledge to you my life, in the eyes of God and man. Mary. Will you have me as your husband?”
She nodded fiercely, then all at once burst into tears.
“You remember then,” he added gently, “that this is your seventeenth birthday as well? I have not forgotten. It is the date I set long ago, when you were but a child, to speak openly of my love for you. I tell you now, if you did not already know it, that you have been my beacon and guiding star, the hope which I held fast to my heart, when all others deserted me. I love you, Mary, with every drop of my mortal blood. I’ll love you in this world, and if there is a God, then surely I will love you in the next.”
He kissed her, long and full. Then began to pace, as if to master his own emotions.
“All right then,” he said, moving still. “Our safety.
“The immediate danger---that of a sudden search---has already been addressed by my mother and myself. Our good steward, as the times grew dark, had the foresight to install a trap door with a small, stone-lined cellar beneath it. It has been checked, and with minor repairs, put in good working order. The cellar itself has been furnished with blankets, food and water. This occupied the better part of yesterday afternoon, the first of my return. I had determined to go in search of you this morning, when fortunately for both of us (I am still far from well, and had risked the daylight once already), you came to me first.
“So far, until we’ve heard your story, I remain the principal danger to us all. If trouble does come, I can be hidden away in thirty seconds time. The door is here.” He rolled back the threadbare carpet. “And the latch, here.” He bent down and lifted the square trap on its hinges. When he let it down again, except by close scrutiny the wooden floor seemed of a piece, the door itself invisible. He replaced the carpet and came towards her, seeming calmer.
“You see, my girl, Anne and I have already had a chance to talk. From what she told me of her meeting with young Purceville---and I expect that for my sake she did not tell all---I wonder if you are not in danger as well. We need to know fully who our enemies are, or are likely to be, and who can be trusted to come to our aid. I have one ally, a fisherman from the village of Kroe, and the beginnings of a plan, though it is still far from ripe. The first step, as it must always be, is survival. Can you tell us then, in as much detail as possible, what has happened in the time since you left the cottage?”
“Will you tell me one thing first?” she asked. “Forgive me, Michael, but after all I’ve been through, as you will soon hear..... It would put my mind very much at rest, if you would tell me.....” Her face betrayed a deep, lingering fear of the Night. “Who, if not yourself, lies in the grave beneath your stone?”
“It is you who must forgive me. I should have told you sooner.” He
took her hand, and held it firmly. “It is no wraith who stands before you, and no one has raised me from the dead.
“I can’t be certain, but I believe it to be a man of my regiment. He was about the same height and build as myself, with roughly similar features. Poor beggar. The only name I ever heard him called was Jack. He was one of the younger lads, and shivering so dreadfully on the morning of the Battle ---from cold and fear alike---that I gave him my coat, his being tattered, and far too light to serve. It’s hard to believe to look at me now, wrapped up as for a winter storm, and pacing like an animal just to warm myself. But I was never cold in those days, as you’ll recall.” He gave a bitter laugh, then shook his head, as if to drive away the feeling.
“Looking back, I guess I was luckier than some. A ball grazed my head very early in the fighting, and I knew nothing more, until I found myself being dragged away by two English infantry..... What is it, Mary? What have I said to upset you?”
“They dragged you to a grove of dark trees! You were dazed and pale, but still they pulled at you fiercely, as if to throw you to the ground and run you through.”
“How on earth did you know that?”
“I saw it in my dream! I thought I was witnessing your death. Oh, Michael, I’ve been so afraid!” It was some time before he could calm her enough to give voice to his own bewilderment.
“It’s all right, now. It’s over. But the strange truth is.....” He hesitated, not wanting to upset her further. “I thought it was the end for me as well, though they only took me to stand with the other prisoners. That day, and especially those first moments when I regained consciousness, have woven themselves in and out of my nightmares ever since. I don’t understand. How could you have known?”
Surprisingly, it was the widow Scott who shed light on this first part of the mystery. “I’ve heard it said that twins, or merely siblings who have been close since childhood, can be miles apart, after a separations of years, and suddenly know when the other is ill or in danger. The two of you, growing up as brother and sister, were every bit as close. And in some ways you shared a bond that was closer still, because you were in love.
“I once heard you, Mary, cry out ‘Wolf!’ in your sleep, only to learn the next day that Michael had had a terrible dream, in which he was being torn apart by wolves. I thought it unnatural, and an ill omen, at the time. Now I do not. There is obviously a deep spiritual link between you, such as I felt at times with my own husband. It is not for us to question God’s gifts,” she concluded, “but only to use them as well and honestly as we can.”
“That is why I came when I did,” the man confirmed. “I knew that you were hurting and afraid. Somehow I knew.”
“But the man in your grave,” Mary persisted. “You gave another man your coat. . .I remember they would not let me see the body. But surely that was not enough, of itself, to mistake him for you.”
“I’m afraid I must take the blame for that,” said the woman sadly. “The body, when it was brought to me for identification, was so mangled by grapeshot. . .the face nothing but a bloody pulp. . .that I’m ashamed to say I lost my self-control. Knowing that Michael’s papers had been found on him, I went into such a swoon of grief..... Our poor countrymen who brought him could only assume that he was, in fact, my son. The coffin was brought and sealed, and the next day we buried him, along with all my hopes.
“I was trying to protect you, Mary, and was far too devastated to think clearly, or to search for further proofs. His hair and features, what could still be seen of them, were enough to complete the illusion. I suppose that in after times some doubt of it crept back to me. But as the months turned into years, and brought no word, I despaired. The only defense I can make, is that the pain of not knowing was greater still..... I could not ask myself, or those around me, to bear it any longer.”
There was silence. And then, without prompting, the young woman knew that the time had come to tell her tale. The spirits of the Night, and the shadows of Fear, must not be allowed to dwell inside her, but must be held forth in the hard light of day. She was afraid, and many times in the telling felt the pain of it too great to bear. But as Michael had done in the hearing of a wise man of the sea, so Mary now poured out the cup of her grief, not asking for pity, or answers, but only speaking the words that would not lie still.
And when she had finished, Michael was there beside her, and her own flesh still lived. Her eyes, which had misted and looked into places dark and unfathomable, focused again on that which was real: stone, fire, and flesh. And in this return to daylight senses she no longer felt an all-conquering fear of the strange evens through which she had passed, but only a restless curiosity, and reborn questioning of the sinister forces which had then seemed so strong and undeniable.
“Can you tell me, Michael, what these things portend? Do you believe in the powers that my mother worshipped and feared?”
“No, love. I do not believe in that kind of magic, nor have I any use for miracles, outside the one great miracle of Life. Still less do I believe in demons and sorcery now, for having heard your tale. It only shows me, more clearly than ever, the power of superstition to deceive. Would you like me to show you the key to the mystery, the weak link which shatters the entire chain of seeming?”
“Yes,” she replied. “More than anything.”
“The answer is simple,” he said. “It is music: a magic that is real, disproving a magic that is not.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Bagpipes, Mary. Bagpipes. Twice you heard them, and twice after saw the ‘spirits’ which gave credence to all else, the foundation on which the whole illusion was built. Here is what must have happened.
“The first spirit I can answer for plainly, for it was myself. James and I had at last crossed the high road, and returned to land we could think of as our own. He had been given the pipes by a crippled soldier, one of our own, who took us in along the way. And now James would be silent no longer. He insisted that we return as proud veterans, and not skulking thieves. So as we parted ways at the last, and when he deemed me safely hidden by the rise that shields the cottage, he began to play, and marched off in defiant glory.
“Shortly afterward I found you in tears, lying across a grave that bore my name. It broke my heart to leave you there, even with the spoken promise---you did not imagine it---that I would come back to you. But I was determined to bring no danger upon you, or upon this house, until the pursuit had cooled, and the chance of discovery grown less. Looking back, it was a cruel mistake. But I was obsessed. I was going to escape, and bring no danger upon you. I hope you can understand, and forgive me.”
“Of course,” said his mother, for both of them.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. Mary nodded gently, and asked him to continue.
“All right.... And yet again, by the Standing Stone, you heard bagpipes. Did they play Scotland the Brave?”
“Yes,” she answered, understanding at last.
“It is the only song James knew, or ever wanted to learn. It was he you saw: pale with affliction, kilted as a sign of defiance, as he could not be by day. He must have been half dead by then.....
“For he, too, was determined to bring no harm upon his family. Like myself he would not go to them, though he was too proud, and too far gone, to conceal himself as I did. I could not convince him to follow me to the hiding place, and I could not force him. I believe now that he must have spent those last nights in wandering and delirium, waiting for the chance to perform his final deed. But unstable as his mind had become, the heart beneath remained intact. And there were moments of perfect lucidity, as when he looked up from the ravine, and saw you.
“He fled from your mother not in fear, but to protect her, and yourself.” He released a deep breath. “The Stone, and the words of the spell, were impotent but for the power you gave them. The mind creates worlds of its own, every bit as tangible, and every bit as dangerous, as the physical reality we all share. Give up your common sense, your right to question, and you become a helpless lamb among the wolves of this world.”
“Yes,” said Mary. “Now it all seems so clear. The trunk filled with charms, the talismans to drive away your spirit, the spell my mother believes she cast over Stephen Purceville: all but the fabric of illusion, given substance by the wholly independent actions of men. I, too, have no more need of such miracles.”
“But,” said Michael firmly. “Though the shadows of evil fade in the light of day, the evil itself does not. The Purcevilles, both young and old, are still very much to be feared.”