Highland Ballad Part 20

"All we've got to do is keep him out of sight till Arthur turns tail and runs. And he will, or I know naught. The old man can't be took on his own ground. And but for his majesty here, and them b.i.t.c.hes in the Tower, there ain't none as lived long enough to speak against him.

Master 'enry does things proper, and no mistake."

"You may be right for now, Ballard, but how long do you think he can keep it up? He's squeezed blood from these stones long enough. There's h.e.l.l to pay, I'm sure of it."

"Tell it to the parson, Stubb, he'll put it in his Sunday speech."

"You don't understand."

"You're the one who don't understand. You think I'm married to the old man, but I ain't. If he comes out on top, I'll stand by him right enough.

But if he don't, he'll learn that Toby Ballard is no man's slave. Me, I sticks with the meanest dog, and when he's killed I go my own way..... Oh, his Lords.h.i.+p didn't like that. Here, loosen his gag. No one to hear him now but the walls."

"---kill you myself!" cried the bound man. "So help me, Ballard, you won't live to see the new year!"

"Ah, now, your majesty," said the other, unconcerned. "Maybe I will, and maybe I won't. For the time, though, I think you'd best concern yourself with yourself. It might trouble your father for a time if some 'accident' were to befall you while in my care. But he'd get over it."

"You wouldn't dare."

There was a sinister pause, in which the only sound was that of a saber being drawn, metal against smooth metal. Then with an icy menace such as Michael had heard only once before, in the stockade, the man put it to his throat and said bluntly.

"Try me."

Again there was silence. The gag was refitted.

"He's all yours, Stubb. Don't leave him alone, even for a short time. I'll send someone to relieve you in a day or two." He turned again to face the young Captain.

"Good night, or should I say, good morrow, your majesty ." Ballard's heavy tread reached the door, opened, closed, and went beyond it, as he mounted and rode back to the Castle.

Michael tried to think what he must do. There were too many questions here for which he had no answer. Only one thing was clear to him: the man Stubb was the immediate danger.

There could be no thought of flight, in any case. A weapon, albeit a treacherous one, had been placed within his reach, in the form of Stephen Purceville. He must find a way to use it. With no clear plan, but not without hope, he determined to bide his time, and watch for some opportunity to ambush and subdue the guard.

He did not have to wait long. Apparently the officer had determined to have a look at all the rooms. For after first checking those on the main level, he was heard just below, as he put his boot to the first rung of the ladder-stair, and began to climb.

Startled into action Michael leapt from the bed, and when the man's face appeared above the level of the floor, kicked it squarely with the flat of his foot.

He had not envisioned the consequences. Perhaps in fear he had struck too hard; perhaps the man had thrown himself backward in sudden shock.

Whatever the reason, his body was sent hurtling back and down, and crashed in a terrible angle against the joining of wall and floor below. The man was killed instantly, his neck broken.

Stepping back from the opening, Michael pulled on his boots with a trembling hand, trying to disbelieve what his eyes had just shown him.

But when he climbed down to examine his foe, all uncertainty left him.

No breath, no pulse. No life.

An anguish such as he had never known overcame him. By his own hand, a human life was ended.

With hot tears stinging him, he gently lifted the body and carried it to his mother's bed. His only thought, irrational as it may have been, was to lay the man more comfortably, and block from his mind the horrible contortion in which he had found him. This done, he staggered toward the cold hearth as if for shelter, arms crossed before him to block out the world.

But the world would not go away. Almost as soon as he entered the main room he heard a m.u.f.fled gasp, and the sc.r.a.pe of a wooden chair being pushed back in alarm.

Michael lowered his arms in dismay, not remembering. He saw before him an English officer, bound tightly to a stiff upright chair, and gagged with a twisted length of black cloth. His senses told him he was looking at Stephen Purceville, but his mind was too dazed to take it in. In that moment he only knew that it was a man, like himself.

"I didn't mean to kill him," he choked. "I just wanted to knock him out, and take his weapon."

Having said this Michael steadied somewhat, and tried to force himself back to the present. With no clearer motive than to relieve the discomfort of the other---his enemy, he knew---he loosened and removed the gag.

Still Purceville could not gather himself to speak. All his life, he had been the one to hold another powerless before him. To be so bound, and at the mercy of an unknown Highlander---who by the look of him was not altogether rational---terrified him. But at last pride goaded him to words.

"Who are you?" he demanded. "What are you going to do with me?"

And with this, like the tolling of a bell, Michael saw the situation laid out clearly before him. And into focus, doubly sharp, came the memories of a lifetime of injustice:

The seizure of his father's home and property, the impoverished conditions to which he was unused, and the contaminated well that had taken his life. Then the War, the Battle, and the Stockade. And he remembered, too, that the English held prisoner his nearest and dearest, in some wretched place called the Tower, where they were no doubt abject and afraid.

And though he couldn't hate to violence any man, now that the soldier's fall had shown him the fragility of all human life. . .pride he could feel, and anger. Roughly opening his s.h.i.+rt, he pulled it down across his shoulder, then turned his back to show the numbers branded there.

"What does this tell you?" he demanded in turn.

"You were a prisoner," said Stephen. "I'm sorry. You're a free man, now..... Look, you can't kill me. There's no reason---"

"What in h.e.l.l do you mean, free?"

The Englishman could not understand the vehemence with which the word was spoken. "All prisoners of war have been pardoned. The word arrived yesterday, with the new Secretary. You have only to turn yourself in, and renounce your former cause..... Reconciliation."

"You're lying," said Michael desperately. "You're like your father. .

. you're lying !"

"No. On my mother's grave, I swear it."

Then to his bewilderment, Stephen saw the man take his head in both hands, and fall to his knees with a tortured cry. At length the worn face looked up, and it was neither joy nor relief, but unutterable sorrow that was written there. Almost a whisper.

"Then why. Why, in G.o.d's name, were you so h.e.l.l-bound to capture us?"

Purceville hesitated, fearful of another outburst. But the answer was so obvious. "A last minute power play. You know. Politics."

And indeed another outburst came. Trembling with rage Michael stormed to the lifeless hearth, and smashed his boot-heel against it.

"G.o.d d.a.m.n YOU TO h.e.l.l!" he cried. "You, and this b.l.o.o.d.y world you've made for yourselves! My cousin is dead because of your politics . The man in the next room is dead, and I am a murderer..... Aahh!

Jesus!"

Stunned by the power of the man's emotions, and fearing for the consequences, Stephen all but begged.

"It was an accident. I'll testify on your behalf. Look, it's not the end---"

"No! Not for you and me. We're the lucky ones. We're left to go on fighting." Michael brought his gaze back to earth, knowing his words would never reach the younger man. But still they must be spoken.

"Can't you see, Purceville? When men hold in their hands the fate of nations, there's no room for whim, or politics. Don't you see that every time your King rolls angrily in his bed, a thousand lives are swept away?

"You! You took away our land, our dignity, and gave us nothing in return but the b.u.t.t of your muskets. Do you wonder that it came to war? Then for years those of us with the courage to resist you were called 'traitors', and hunted down like dogs. Now you say we are prisoners of war, and all we have to do is walk away." He paused, overwhelmed by the thought.

"Can a man walk away from his past? Can the cold stones of the grave lose their shadow, and rotted flesh grow whole again to walk with the living? G.o.d d.a.m.n you! We stand atop a pile of bodies four miles deep, over which you would hold a pretty picnic. And ten times ten thousand left to grieve.