“Och, no, heart’s darling!” protested Alsoon. “Not into Campbell lands, and in midwinter! Bide with us a wee while longer, until spring.”
“I’m away,” repeated Kelpie, a little sharply, as she realized that once again she was in danger of giving her heart. “And what harm from cold or Campbells when the army and all the women and bairns are along? I cannot bide longer, for my feet have the urge in them.” And she tossed her dark head like a young Highland pony, so that the thick braids—well tended by Alsoon—leaped over her shoulders and beat against her waist, as if impatient.
Alsoon sighed. “Well, then, and you must go if you must. But come away in first, my light, and I’ll be giving you food to take along. Dried venison there is, and fresh bannocks, and oatcakes. And here are the new skin brogans that Callum has finished for you.”
“Haste ye back, white love,” she added at last as Kelpie took the food and put on the shoes and stood looking at her.
“Aye,” said Kelpie, and her heart was torn. The MacNabs gave and asked no return but to be able to give more. “You’ve been kind, and I not deserving it,” she murmured, and then clenched her fists and walked quickly out of the low doorway, lest she be caught up in folly again.
Halfway up the hill she paused, stared back at the long, low shieling hut, and then waved at the two old people standing there. Tears stung her eyelids for a moment, and impulsively she crooked her forefinger, calling down a blessing upon them.
Five minutes later she had shaken off her sadness. She lifted her head and breathed the air of new adventure. The hills had been calling this long while, calling through the spell of black depression that was on her. But the spell was broken now, and she was answering the call.
At the top of the hill she was seized by fresh exuberance. Curving her arms upward like a stag’s antlers, she broke into the light, wild leaps of a dance that the Highland men did around the campfire or at friendly gatherings, and then laughed aloud at her own impertinence—she, a lass, to be doing a man’s dance, and doing it well too. The dance took on a distinctly mocking and impudent quality.
From the top of the next hill she looked down on Montrose’s army, which had made camp by the loch. From the mouth of the glen, the MacNabs were arriving, great-kilts swinging about their bare, strong knees, and the top halves of the kilts wrapped round massive shoulders. Kelpie surveyed the scene for a moment before going down, counting tartans. MacDonalds were still most plentiful, with Gordons, MacPhersons, Stewarts—but she saw no Cameron tartans.
She also saw no children, and only a small scattering of women. Where were they all, then? Frowning a little, she went down, over the snowy hillside, to the camp.