Twenty-Nine
Michael rode in full daylight toward the sea. It was a little used road, linking the fishing village of Kroe to the uplands; and if what Purceville said was true, he was, for the moment, no longer a wanted man. But he had little choice in any case. Riding against the sea-winds at night would be the death of him, and plans must be laid for the twilight after next.
Even so, he could not help feeling apprehensive as he slowed his horse to a canter, and turned down the single brick street of the town, overlooking the bay, then the sea beyond. As he passed through its center---small shops, a public house, plain, two story homes joined at the shoulder---he found himself looking down and straight ahead, subconsciously drawing his shoulders together as if to fade into every shadow, afraid of every eye. James Talbert’s phrase, “skulking thieves,” came back to him. At the same moment he passed a sturdy lad of fifteen or thereabouts, who looked up at him with a fearless eye, almost mocking.
And all at once his fugitive life became intolerable. For in the boy he had seen himself, half a lifetime before.
With sudden resolution he checked his horse, and sat up straight and proud in the saddle. Shading his eyes he looked out to the sea, and beyond. Somewhere, across the unfathomable waters, there had to be a better life: a new land, where he could start again.
He would never submit to Imperial rule; this he knew with absolute certainty. And he would not live like this. What had begun in his mind as a means of short-term escape---fleeing the Castle by sea---now branched out into thoughts of a new home, a new world, where the skies were freer and a man could still dream.
He turned back again to the hills of his beloved Scotland, the land of his birth. A great sorrow filled him, and an ache that was almost physical gripped his chest, for a dream that had died, and a home that was lost.
But the past was gone, and there was no returning. He must look to the future. He must live free or die.
The lad looked back at him, startled by the change. “Master,” he said plainly. “Who are you?” The Highlander breathed deep the sea air, then replied.
“I am Michael James Scott, a proud veteran of the war against tyranny, and a man who will hide no more.” With that he gave rein to his fretting animal, and rode openly to the fisherman’s cottage.
The old man had seen him coming, but remained smoking placidly as before. There was much here that he did not understand, and he had many questions. But he knew enough not to worry himself, or to act in haste. Life, in the form of young ‘Jamie’, was coming straight toward him, and would no doubt make itself clear.
Drawing up to the low stone shelter, Michael dismounted and tethered his horse, then strode quickly up the steps. The eyes of the two men met, and though everything had changed, nothing had changed between them. Michael was still in need, and the fisherman was still willing to help.
“Can we go inside and talk?” he said. The old man nodded.
Again they sat before the fire, grateful for its warmth, and for the strong walls around them. Michael had laid out the facts as he understood them, told his friend all that he knew. And now he waited on his judgment, seeking aid and counsel alike.
“Well,” said the other, after mulling over all that he had heard. “I’d say it’s more than clear we’ve got to get them out. . .and I’d have to say you’re right, not trusting their fate to the English. There’s good men among ‘em, it’s true. But when there’s a struggle for power between adamant men, innocents are going to be hurt, and conscience swept aside.
“On one thing you can rest assured,” he went on. “I’ll be at the cove with a skiff, if and when you need me, with my boat anchored not far off. I’ll move in at nightfall tomorrow, prepared to stay till dawn, then do the same the next night if need be. I know the place well enough, as I know most every coast from Skye to Inverness. It’ll be a tricky sail coming out---with the wind against us. But I’ll warrant the wind’s been against us some years now, eh?”
“Thank you,” said Michael. “It means a lot.”
“Aye, but that’s the easy part. First we’ve got to get them out.” Again he puffed on his pipe thoughtfully.
“Well then. I’ve seen that tower from a distance, and know the castle by reputation alone. It was built centuries ago as a defense against the Vikings, and word has it it’s never been taken. It was built to withstand far greater force than any you or I could hope to bring against it.” The mariner paused, considering.
“Stealth, you say. And rope..... Aye. A grappling hook might be the answer, if the window weren’t as high as it’s bound to be, and you had all night to make the throw. But I suspect you don’t, and the weight of the attached line would make it all but impossible in any case.”
“I’d thought of that,” said Michael. “But I didn’t know what else to try..... Tell me the truth, John. Is it hopeless? I think another prison cell would be the death of me. But if there’s no other way. . .I’ll turn myself in along with Purceville, and try to reach the new Secretary---”
The fisherman shook his head. “No. Your kin have turned themselves in once already, and you see the result. And I did not say it was hopeless. You were on the right scent. You’re just not the crafty old hound that I am.” He gave the younger man a wink. “Where a rope won’t go, perhaps a bit of string will, to lead the way.”
Michael set his horse at an easy gallop, as the road leveled and he began the second, less arduous leg toward home. He felt heartened as his leg brushed against the saddlebag, and he thought of the bundles contained within. For the first time since the women had been taken from him, he felt a tentative hope. There was a chance.
The last daylight faded behind him; but now the feared night wind was less, and only urged his mount to greater speed. After a time he looked up at the waning, but still formidable moon, wondering if its light would be a blessing or a curse in the coming escape. For the hard clear skies of mid autumn had begun, with ten thousand stars looking down unobstructed. There seemed little likelihood of change by the following night. Perhaps the fog would be a factor, though the high promontory on which the Castle was set.....
It was no use worrying, he told himself, with less conviction than he wished he felt. Again he fought off the familiar sense of dread which had never fully left him since the morning of the Battle, but only varied in theme and intensity. Familiar too was the dull, oppressive ache of his affliction. How much longer he could deceive his body with the promise of future rest, he did not know. He was worn, both physically and emotionally, to the last thread of resilience. And yet he could not rest. Still one more journey must be undertaken, before he slept that night.
Perhaps an hour later he came at last into sight of the lonely homestead. When he circled at a distance, to interpose the chimney between himself and the moon, a faint trail of smoke could be seen rising from it, and this encouraged him. Someone remained within. Any trap set by the English, he felt sure, would be presaged by absolute silence and stillness. But this did not rule out the possibility of an ambush by Purceville, who had not yet made his intentions clear.
With this in mind, he dismounted several hundred yards from the house, and wrapping the horse’s reins about the branch of a sheltering tree, advanced on foot.
Opening the back door soundlessly, he slipped inside with the pistol
cocked and ready. Nothing. Heart pounding, he advanced slowly down the passage, toward the indirect glow of the hearth. He turned the corner.....
Purceville sat motionless facing him, a drained goblet in his hand. He evinced no surprise. Apparently his senses were sharper than the Highlander guessed.
“I will do it,” he said evenly. “On the condition that I am never again left weaponless in an indefensible corner.”
Michael came closer, unbuckled the dead officer’s sword. He handed it to Purceville in the English fashion, then straightened and looked him square in the eye.
“I ask for no greater promise,” he said, “than that you do what you know is right. Now, if you will take it, here is my hand.”
The Englishman took it in his own, with the same measured gaze that he had worn since the Highlander’s return. There was no time to wonder at the thoughts that lay behind it.
“Come on,” said Michael. “We've got a long ride ahead of us.”
“Where are we going?”
“To find a more defensible corner.”