Kitabı oku: «A Prince of Good Fellows», sayfa 10

“I am glad that you are so well informed, and need no instruction from me,” commented the Crottach with menace in his tone.

Suddenly the king’s manner changed, and the air of authority which was natural to him asserted itself.

“MacLeod of Skye,” he cried, “this discussion and beating about the bush is interesting, but nothing at all to the purpose. You are hinting that we two are spies, and I tell you there are no spies, and can be no spies on this island.”

“I have only your word to set against my own doubts,” said the MacLeod.

“My word and your doubts are both aside from the purpose. Your mind has become confused. Unless you are at war with James of Scotland, there can be spies neither in the domain you hold under his hand, nor in the kingdom over which he rules. Are you a rebel against your king, MacLeod of Skye?”

“That I am not,” answered Allaster hastily, and with evident discomposure.

“Very well then. You see the absurdity of an argument on espionage. MacDonald and I have as much right on the island of Skye as you have, because it is part of the Kingdom of Scotland, and we are loyal, if humble subjects of his majesty.”

“You are not come here then to report on the condition of Skye?”

“We came here of our own free will; the messengers of no man, and we are to report to no man. If the king should ask me any question regarding my visit to Skye, I would answer him, that I had met with the utmost courtesy, except from its chief. I would say that MacLeod of MacLeod was so ignorant regarding the usages of good society that he received us sitting down, and never asked us to be seated, an error in politeness which I was myself forced to amend. MacDonald, plant yourself on that chair beside you. I will take this one.”

MacDonald promptly obeyed the command, and the king seated himself, throwing one leg over the other and leaning back in comfort.

“Now, my Lord of Skye,” he said, “have you any further questions to ask, or any additional hints to bestow upon your guests, at present in your sullen presence upon your own invitation?”

The chieftain regarded the king in silence for a few moments, then said without change of countenance, —

“By God! you may be a small farmer, but you are a brave man. You are the first who has questioned the authority of the MacLeod on his own ground. So the case being without precedent, one has to be made, and that will require some thought. We will postpone the question until later. I trust you will both honour me with your presence at dinner this evening, but if you prefer it, you may sup alone in your own apartments.”

“We are sociable travellers,” said the king rising, for the laird’s words had in them an inflection of dismissal, “and we will have great pleasure in accepting seats at your table.”

Then with a bow to the man who still remained in his chair, the king and his comrade withdrew. They consulted together for a time in the room of the former, but reached no definite decision. MacDonald urged that they should come to an understanding with their host at once, and learn whether they were prisoners or free men, but the king held that Allaster should have the time for thinking over the situation which had been practically agreed on.

“There is no hurry,” he said. “Each of us is younger than Allaster and so there is time to bide.”

On being summoned to the great dining-hall that night, they found a company awaiting dinner numbering perhaps a score, all men. A piper was marching up and down the room making the timbers ring with his martial music. The MacLeod stood at the head of his table, a stalwart man whose massive head seemed sunk rather deep between his broad shoulders, but otherwise, perhaps because his costume was cunningly arranged, there was slight indication of the deformity with which he was afflicted. He greeted his guests with no great show of affability, and indicated the bench at his right hand as the seat of MacDonald. The young Highlander hesitated to take the place of preference, and glanced uneasily at his comrade.

“I am slightly deaf in my right ear,” said the king good naturedly, “and as I should be grieved to miss any observations you may make, I will, with your permission, occupy the place you would bestow upon my friend.”

MacLeod looked sternly at the speaker for a moment, but seeing that MacDonald, without protest moved speedily round to the left, he said at last, —

“Settle it as pleases you, but I should have thought a Highland chieftain took precedence of a Lowland huckster.”

“Not a huckster exactly,” explained the king with a smile. “My patrimony of Ballengeich may be small, but such as it is, I am the undisputed laird of it, while at best MacDonald is but the son of a laird, so because of my deaf ear, and according to your own rules of precedence, I think I may claim the place of honour at your right.” And as the MacLeod, with an angry growl sat down, the king and MacDonald followed his example. The others took their places in some haste, and with more or less of disorder. It was plain that MacLeod preferred the silent Highlander to the more loquacious farmer of Ballengeich, for during the meal he addressed most of his remarks to the man on his left, although his advances were not as cordially received as perhaps they might have been. The king showed no resentment at this neglect, but concentrated his attention on the business at hand.

When the eating was done with, the servants placed three large flagons before their master and the two who sat on either side of him. These they filled to the brim with wine.

“Gentlemen,” said MacLeod, “it is a custom in this castle that our guests, to show they are good men and true, each empty one of these flagons at a draught, and without drawing breath. Will you then accompany me to any toast you may care to name?”

“The wine I have already consumed at your hospitable board,” said the king, “is the best that ever ran down a thirsty man’s throat; but if I supplement it with so generous and instant an addition, I fear my legs will refuse their service, even if my head retain sense enough to give the command.”

“That need not trouble you,” said MacLeod, “for in the last hundred years no man has insulted this vintage by leaving the hall on his own feet. There stand your legs against the wall, Guidman of Ballengeich.”

The king, glancing over his shoulder, saw standing against the wall a row of brawny gillies, each two of whom supported a stretcher, whose use was at once apparent.

“Very well,” cried the king to his host; “give you a suitable toast, MacLeod, and I will enter with you the rosy realms of the red wine.”

MacLeod then stood up.

“I give you,” he said, “the King of Scotland. May he be blest with more wisdom than were some of his ancestors!” This he repeated in Gaelic, and the sentiment was received uproariously, for the wine was already making itself felt in the great hall.

If MacLeod had any design in offering this toast it did not appear on the surface, and if he expected a hesitancy on the part of his guests to do honour to it, he was disappointed, for each young man rose with the rest.

“Here’s to the king!” cried the one on his right, “and may he imbibe wisdom as I imbibe wine.” Then raising the flagon to his lips he drained it dry and set it with a crash on the table again.

MacLeod and MacDonald drank more slowly, but they ultimately achieved the same end. Then all seated themselves once more, and the drinking continued without the useless intervention of further talk. One by one the revellers sank under the table unnoticed by their noisy comrades, to be quickly pounced upon by the watchful stretcher-bearers, who, with a deftness evidently the result of much practice, placed the helpless individual on the carrier and marched off with him. This continuous disappearance of the fallen rapidly thinned the ranks of the combatants struggling with the giant Bacchus.

The king had been reluctant to enter this contest, fearing the red wine would loosen his tongue, but as the evening wore on he found all his resolution concentrated in a determination to walk to his bed. MacDonald proved no protection. Early in the bout his unaccustomed head descended gently upon the table and he was promptly carried off to rest.

At last MacLeod and the king sat alone in the hall, that looked larger now it was so nearly empty; and James, as a test of what sense remained to him, set himself to count the torches burning more and more dimly in the haze of their own smoke. But he gave up the attempt when he saw that they had increased by hundreds and thousands, and were engaged in a wild pyrotechnic dance to the rhythm of the last march that had been played on the pipes. He swayed over towards his host and smote him uncertainly on the shoulder.

“MacLeod,” he cried, “I challenge you to stand, and I’ll wager you I can walk further down the corridor with fewer collisions against either wall than any man in Skye.”

With difficulty the king rose to his feet, and as he did so the stool on which he sat, because of a lurch against it, fell clattering to the floor.

“The very benches are drunk, MacLeod, and the table sways like a ship at sea. That stool is as insecure as a throne. Rise up if you can and see if yours is any better.”

But the MacLeod sat helpless, glaring at him from under his shaggy eyebrows. Seeing him stationary the king laughed so heartily that he nearly unbalanced himself, and was forced to cling for support to the edge of the table. Then straightening himself to excessive rigidity he muttered, —

“Good-night, MacLeod. Sit there and see the rule of your house broken by your – ” If the next word were “monarch,” or “king,” it was never uttered, for as James made his uncertain way towards the door, the expert gillies, who knew their business, came up behind him, swooped the stretcher against his unreliant legs, and they failing instantly, he fell backward on the stoutly woven web between the two poles. There was a guttural laugh from MacLeod, and the prone man helplessly waving his hands, shouted, —

“Unfair, by Saint Andrew, unfair! Curse the foe who attacks a man from the rear.”

The King Sails

The young men awoke somewhat late next day with heads reasonably clear, a very practical testimonial to the soundness of their previous night’s vintage.

“What’s to be done?” asked the king.

MacDonald proposed that they should repair instantly to MacLeod and demand of him conveyance and safe conduct to the mainland.

“We can scarcely do that,” demurred the king, “until we are sure that detention is intended. Let us put the matter at once to a practical test, and see if we are prevented from leaving the castle. If we are, then is the time for protest.”

Acting on this suggestion, the two went outside and took the road by which they had come. They found an agile young gillie at their heels before they were out of sight of Dunvegan.

“Why are you following us?” asked MacDonald, in Gaelic.

“I was told to wait on your lordships,” returned the man.

“We need no waiting on; turn back.”

But the gillie shook his shaggy uncovered head and patiently trod in their footsteps.

“Let us see how far he will follow,” said the king as he strode on. The gillie accompanied them for half an hour or more without making any protest, but at last he said to MacDonald that he thought it was time to return.

“We are going through to the coast we came from,” replied MacDonald, “and do not intend to return.”

At this the gillie drew from his belt a short black tube that looked like a practising chanter, which indeed it was, and on this he blew a few shrill notes. Up to that moment the way had been clear, but now there appeared over the hill in front of them a dozen armed men, who approached carelessly as if they had merely happened to be in the neighbourhood, or were journeying together toward the castle.

“I think it is time to go back,” suggested the gillie in a dull, uninterested voice.

“I think it is myself,” replied MacDonald.

And so the futile excursion came to an end.

Once more in the castle they were confronted again by the question, What next?

“I am certain,” said the king, “that if MacLeod is attempting to hold us, there is little use in making appeal to him, and we have small chance of getting word to the fleet. I propose then to coerce him. He was alone in his study yesterday, and he may be alone there now. A sword’s point at a man’s throat is an irresistible argument.”

“But will he keep his word if he gives it under distress?” objected MacDonald.

“I think he will, but it is better not to put too strong a temptation on him. If we come on him alone we will make him sign a pass for us. Then we will gag and tie him securely, convey him, when the way is clear, to this room, where he will be less likely to be looked for. We will then give him the consolation that if his pass proves useless we will return and finish the business by sending him into a less troublesome world.”

This advice was no sooner promulgated than it was acted upon. The pair traversed the corridors unseen until they came to the door of the study, then, slipping out their swords, they entered quickly unannounced. The sight which confronted them was so unexpected that each stood there with drawn sword in hand as if stricken into stone.

MacLeod was not in the room, but in his stead, beside the wall of books, her hand upraised, taking down a small vellum-covered volume, was the most beautiful young girl, of perhaps nineteen or twenty, that either of them had ever looked upon. She seemed surprised at their abrupt entrance and remained statuesquely in her position, as motionless as they. The young woman was the first of the three to recover her composure. Relinquishing the book to the shelf, the hand came down to her side, and she said in most charming, liquid tones, but in broken English, —

“You are looking for my father perhaps?”

The king, ever gallant, swept his hat from his head and bowed low, his alertness of mind saving the situation, for he answered quickly, —

“Indeed no, my lady. We thought the room was empty, so I implore you to pardon our intrusion. We were here yesterday, and my friend and I have just had a dispute regarding the size of these gigantic tomes on the lower shelf; my friend insisting that they exceeded our sword blades in length. Pardon me madam?” and the king stepped briskly to the largest book, laying his sword down its back as if in measurement.

“There, Jamie,” he cried, “I have won the wager. I knew it was not more than three quarters the length of my blade.”

The glance of fear to which the young woman had treated them departed from her face, and she smiled slightly at the young man’s eagerness.

“I gather from your remark,” he said, “that you are Miss MacLeod of Dunvegan. May I introduce my friend, James MacDonald of Sleat. My own name is James Stuart, and for a time we are your father’s guests at Dunvegan.”

The young lady with inimitable grace bowed her queenly head to each of them in turn. The men slipped their swords quietly back into their scabbards.

“I give you good welcome to Dunvegan,” said the girl. “I regret that I do not speak fair the English.”

“Indeed, my lady,” rejoined the susceptible king, “it is the most charming English I ever heard.”

The fair stranger laughed in low and most melodious cadence, like a distant cathedral’s chime falling on the evening air.

“I am thinking you will be flattering me,” she said, “but I know my English is not good, for there are few in these parts that I can speak to in it.”

“I shall be delighted to be your teacher,” replied the king with his most courteous intonation. He knew from experience that any offer of tutorship from him had always proved exceedingly acceptable to the more dainty sex, and this knowledge gave him unbounded confidence while it augmented his natural self-esteem.

“It is perhaps that you already speak the Gaelic?” suggested the young woman.

“Alas! no madam. But I should be overjoyed to learn and there, it may be, you will accept me in the part of pupil. You will find me a devoted and most obedient scholar. I am in a way what you might call a poet, and I am told on every hand that Gaelic is the proper medium for that art.”

A puzzled expression troubled the face of the girl as she endeavoured to follow the communication addressed to her, but MacDonald sprang somewhat eagerly to the rescue, and delivered a long harangue in her native language. Her delight was instant, the cloud on her brow disappearing as if by magic under the genial influence of the accustomed converse. The king’s physiognomy also underwent a change but the transformation was not so pleasing as that which had illumined the countenance of the girl. His majesty distinctly scowled at the intrepid subject who had so impetuously intervened, but the pair paid slight attention to him, conversing amiably together, much to their mutual pleasure.

Now, it is nowhere considered polite to use a language not understood by some one person in the party. This fact MacDonald knew perfectly well, and he doubtless would have acted differently if he had taken the time to think, but he had become so engrossed by the beauty of the lady, that, for the moment, every other consideration seemed to have fled from his mind. Miss MacLeod is to be excused because she probably supposed a Stuart to be more or less acquainted with the language, in spite of his former disclaimer, which it is not likely she fully comprehended. So she talked fluently and laughed lightly, while one of her auditors was consumed by an anger he dared not show.

The tension of the situation was changed rather than relieved, by the silent opening of the door, and the pause of MacLeod himself on the threshold, gazing dubiously at the group before him. The animation of the girl fell from her the moment she beheld her father, and the young men, turning, were confronted by the gloomy features of the chieftain. The MacLeod closed the door softly, and, without a word, walked to his chair beside the table. The girl, bowing slightly, with visible restraint, quitted the room, and, as she did so, MacDonald’s alertness again proved his friend, for he tip-toed quickly to the door, before the king, accustomed to be waited upon rather than waiting, recollected himself; and held it open for the lady, making a gallant sweep with his bonnet as she passed out.

When the supple young man returned to his place beside the king he said in a whisper, —

“No sword’s point play with the father of such a beauty, eh?”

To this remark his majesty made no reply, but said rather gruffly and abruptly to his host, —

“Do you hold us prisoners in this castle, sir?”

“That will depend on the answers I get from you,” replied the MacLeod slowly. “Are you two or either of you, emissaries of the king?”

“We are not.”

“Does the king know you are here?”

“Regarding the king, his knowledge or his doings, you had better address your inquiries to him personally. We have no authority to speak for his majesty.”

“You are merely two private gentlemen, then, come all this distance to satisfy a love of travel and a taste for scenery?”

“You have stated the case with great accuracy, sir.”

“Yesterday you spoke of my lack of manners in failing to ask you to be seated; I shall now refer to a breach of politeness on your own part. It is customary when strangers visit a province under an acknowledged ruler, that they should make a formal call upon the ruler before betaking themselves to other portions of his territory. You remained for several days in Skye without taking the trouble to inform me of your arrival.”

“Sir,” replied James haughtily, “I dispute your contention entirely. You are not the ruler of Skye.”

“Who is then?”

“The King of Scotland, of course.”

The MacLeod laughed in a fashion that somewhat resembled the snarl of an angry dog.

“Of course, as you say. No one disputes that James is king of all Scotland, and I would be the last to question his right, because I hold my lands under charter bearing his signature, carrying the Great Seal of the kingdom; nevertheless, the MacLeods held Skye long before the present royal family of Scotland were heard of, and I would have been MacLeod of MacLeod although James had never put his hand to this parchment. Meanwhile, I take the risk of detaining you until I learn more about you, and if the king makes objection, I shall apologise.”

“You will apologise,” said James sternly.

“Oh, it is easily done, and fair words smooth many a difficulty. I shall write to him if he complain, that I asked especially if you were his men, that you denied it, and so, both for his safety and my own, I considered it well to discover whether or not you were enemies of the realm. If the father of MacDonald is offended I shall be pleased to meet him either on sea or land, in anger or in friendship, and as for you, who talk so glibly of the king, I would warn you that many things happen in Skye that the king knows nothing of, besides the making of strong drink.”

The king made him a courtier-like bow for this long speech, and answered lightly, —

“The cock crows blithely on his own midden. Your midden is here, while mine is far away, therefore the contest in crowing is somewhat uneven. Nevertheless I indulge in a final flapping of my wings and an effort of the throat when I say that you will apologise, not by writing at your ease in Dunvegan Castle, but on your bended knees at Stirling.”

“That’s as may be,” said the MacLeod indifferently, and it was quite obvious that he remained unmoved by the threat. “Gentlemen, I have the honour to wish you good morning.”

“One moment. Are we then to consider ourselves prisoners?”

“You may consider yourselves whatever best pleases you. If you make another attempt like the one you indulged in this morning, I shall clap you both in the deepest dungeons I possess. Some would even go so far as to call that imprisonment, but if each gives me his word of honour that he will make no attempt at escape, and also that he will not communicate with Stirling, then you are as free of my house and my grounds as if you were the most welcome of guests. But I warn you that if, when you pass your words, you attempt to tamper with any of my men, I shall know of it very soon after, and then comes the dungeon.”

The king hesitated and looked at his friend, but MacDonald, who had taken no part in this conversation, seemed in an absent dream, his eyes gazing on vacancy, or perhaps beholding a vision that entranced him.

“What do you say, MacDonald?” enquired the king sharply.

MacDonald recovered himself with a start.

“To what?” he asked.

“To the terms proposed by our gaoler.”

“I did not hear them; what are they?”

“Will you give your word not to escape?”

“Oh, willingly.”

“And not to communicate with Stirling?”

“I don’t care if I never see Stirling again.”

The king turned to the chief.

“There is little difficulty, you see,” he said, “with your fellow Highlander. I however, am supposed to be a Lowlander, and therefore cautious. I give you my word not to communicate with Stirling. As for the other proviso, I amend it as follows. I shall not leave this island without your knowledge and your company. If that is satisfactory, I pledge my faith.”

“Perfectly satisfactory,” answered the MacLeod, and with that the two young men took their departure.

Once more in the king’s room, from which, earlier in the day they had set out so confidently, MacDonald flung himself upon a bench, but the king paced up and down the apartment. The former thought the latter was ruminating on the conditions that had been wrung from him, but the first words of the king proved his mistake.

“Jamie, you hardly gave me fair play, you and your Gaelic, with that dainty offspring of so grim a sire.”

“Master of Ballengeich,” replied the Highlander, “a man plays for his own hand. You should have learned the Gaelic long ago.”

The king stopped abruptly in his walk.

“Why do you call me by that name?”

“Merely to show that in this ploy the royal prerogative is not brought into play; it is already settled that when I meet the king, I am defeated. It remains to be seen what luck plain James MacDonald has in a contest with plain James Stuart.”

“Oh, it’s to be a contest then?”

“Not unless you wish it so. I am content to exchange all the fair damsels of Stirling for this one Highland lassie.”

“You’ll exchange!” cried the king. “I make bold to say she is not yours to exchange.”

“I intend to make her mine.”

“Ah, we’ll see about that, Jamie.”

“We will, Ballengeich,” said MacDonald with confident precision. And so the contest began.

The girl, who saw few in her father’s castle to be compared with those whom she supposed to be mere visitors at Dunvegan, was at first equally charming to each. A younger sister was her almost constant companion, which was very well at first but latterly became irksome to both the suitors. Occasionally, however, one James or the other saw her alone and made the most of the opportunity presented, but the king soon found himself tremendously handicapped in the matter of language. The young lady possessed a keen sense of humour, and this, with the ever present knowledge that her English was not that of the schools, made her loth to adventure in that tongue before one accustomed to its polished use. This same sense of humour was equally embarrassing when the king madly plunged into the intricacies and ambushes of the Gaelic. His majesty was brave enough for anything and did not hesitate, as a forlorn hope, to call his scant knowledge of the Gaelic to his aid, but even he could see that the result was invariably unhappy, for although the girl made every endeavour to retain her composure, there were times when some unfortunate phrase made her slight frame quiver with suppressed merriment, and no one knew better than the baffled king, that laughter banishes sentiment. The serious Highlander, not less manly and handsome than his competitor, was gifted with an immeasurable advantage in his familiarity with every phase and inflection of his native vernacular. In his despair the king struck up a close friendship with Donald, the second son of the MacLeod, the elder son being absent on some foray or expedition, and his majesty made a frantic effort to learn the only speech with which his new comrade was equipped. But this race against time gave MacDonald long and uninterrupted conferences with his inamorata, and the king saw, too late, the futility of his endeavour. It might have been wiser if he had taken his lessons from the girl herself instead of from her brother, but his majesty was more proficient in teaching than in learning from the fair sex. He had come to the conclusion that his uninteresting rambles with Donald were not likely to further his quest, and was sitting in his room cogitating upon some new method of attack when MacDonald burst into the apartment with radiant face. The king looked up at his visitor with no great good nature, and said sharply, —

“Well, what is it?”

“Your majesty,” cried MacDonald jubilantly, “I think I have found a method of escape, and that without in any way impugning our pledges.”

“Oh, is that all,” said the king, with the air of snubbing too enthusiastic a courtier. “I thought the house was on fire.”

“And I thought, your majesty,” returned MacDonald, “that this subject was ever uppermost in your mind.”

The king rested his closed fist on his hip, leaned his head a little to one side and examined his rival critically.

“Why have you returned so unexpectedly to the phrase, your majesty?”

“Because, your majesty,” answered MacDonald laughing, “the phrase, Guidman of Ballengeich, no longer matters.”

“I do not understand you.”

“It is to make myself understood that I have come so hurriedly. I beg then to inform your majesty, that Miss MacLeod has consented to become my wife. I have spoken to her father, who has somewhat grudgingly and conditionally given his consent. It occurred to me that if I wedded the daughter of your gaoler, I may have enough influence with the family to secure your majesty’s release.”

“I have no doubt,” said the king, “that this was your object from the beginning. And so you have exchanged a temporary gaoler for one that will last you all your life.”

The Highlander knit his brow and compressed his lips, as if to hold back some retort which later he might regret. There was a moment’s constrained silence, then the king flung off his ill-humour as if it were a cloak.

“Forgive me, Jamie,” he cried, springing to his feet. “Forgive the wounded vanity of the vanquished.”

He extended his hand impetuously, which the other grasped with eager cordiality.

“Jamie, my lad, you were right. The crown weighs heavy when it is thrown into the scale, but with this lassie I well believe it would have made not an ounce of difference. Let the best man win, say I, and you’re the victor, so you have my warmest congratulation. Still, Jamie, you must admit that the Gaelic is the cursedest lingo ever a poor Lowland-bred man tried to get his tongue round. So now you see, Jamie, we are even again. You think the crown defeated you at Stirling, and I hold the language defeated me in Skye; thus we are both able to retain a good opinion of ourselves, which is the splendid privilege of every Scotchman to hold. Your bravery deserves success, for it requires some courage to face your future father-in-law. What did the old curmudgeon say?”

“He gave little indication of pleasure or the reverse. He offered me my liberty, now that I had pledged it in another direction, but he refused to release you, so I declined to accept his clemency.”

“Then my proposed rescue must await the marriage ceremony?”

“Not so. I have a more immediate and practical remedy. You have not forgotten the twenty-six oared barge which the MacLeod was to keep for the king, and which Malcolm MacLeod built for him.”

“It is not very likely, when I issued a proclamation commending Malcolm as the greatest shipbuilder in the world.”