Chapter V: Part 5

“Och, indeed and I am not!” protested Kelpie as well as she could. She tucked in her lip and looked pathetically at Montrose. “Do not be letting him hurt me, your Lordship!” she begged in English. “’Tis only a poor, wee, harmless—”

“Let her down, Alistair,” suggested Montrose gently, “and perhaps she can tell us what she was doing there.”

“Spying for Argyll, perhaps?” suggested Patrick narrowly, looking at her gray dress.

Kelpie’s indignation was genuine. “That _nathrach_!” She sputtered earnestly and went on to curse him vigorously. “He is a _droch-inntinneach uruisg_ and a red-haired devil with a black heart in him!”

Montrose, who knew little Gaelic, looked interested. “What was that?” he inquired, and Antrim chuckled.

“She called him a serpent and an evil-minded monster,” he translated. “And I’m thinking she meant it, too! Well, then, why _were_ you skulking there, lass?”

Once again Kelpie found semi-truth to be the most effective answer. “Och,” she whispered, ducking her head shyly. “I was wanting to see himself, and to be hearing him talk, for the singing tongue in his mouth.” From beneath lowered lids she observed that their faces were amused and tolerant.

“Well, and so you’ve heard him,” said Antrim, not unkindly. “Away with you, then, and don’t be doing it again. Next time you might just be getting a claymore instead of a question.”

Kelpie left meekly enough, relieved to get off so easily. But none of her questions was really answered. She had wanted to learn the source of Montrose’s power, and whether or no it was from magic, and if and how she could learn it. For although it was just possible that Montrose could destroy his archenemy, Argyll, which would be a fine thing indeed, Kelpie felt that Mina and Bogle and the Lowlander were another matter, and up to her. For sooner or later she was almost sure to run into them again, and when that day came she was going to need a great deal of magic power indeed!

14. The Battle of Tippermuir

At last word went round that the army was to move, but not, as Kelpie had expected, away from the danger of Perth and Lord Elcho’s great army. Quite the contrary. They were, it seemed, going to take Perth.

Recklessness and practical caution fought within Kelpie. A fine, daft, gallant, and suicidal idea it seemed to her. If she had any sense in the head of her, she would take her leave now and head for safety. But she decided, instead, to go along but to stay with the women and children well behind the lines, once the fighting started, and then take to the hills when the battle was lost.

The small, poorly equipped army gathered itself together and started south to the sound of pipes playing valiantly. They had got no farther than the hill of Buchanty when they ran into one of the enemy forces which had been surrounding them all the time. A full five hundred bowmen it must be, and Kelpie looked around hastily for something to hide under.

But she had reckoned without Montrose. He and Antrim rode to meet the two leaders of the bowmen, and they talked. And, sometime during the talking, Montrose cast his spell, for presently the two forces spread out over the purple masses of blooming heather and ate together, the leaders still talking over wine and food.

And then one of the enemy leaders sprang to his feet, and Kelpie could hear his words clearly. “You’re wrong!” he shouted. “’Tis not two thousand men ye have, but two thousand and five hundred! For we’ll never be fighting against Montrose!”

Kelpie shook her head wonderingly. Why on earth did Montrose fight at all, if he could do this? Or did Argyll and others have some kind of counter-magic? Kelpie began to feel newly discouraged about her own prospects for magical powers, with so much competition about.

The newly expanded army moved on again, undisturbed by the news that, in addition to his seven thousand infantry, Lord Elcho also had some eight hundred cavalry and nine pieces of heavy artillery. The Highlanders, like Kelpie, put their faith in the magic of Montrose. With him to lead them, no force on earth could beat them.

They spent the night on the moor of Fowlis, and early in the morning were away down the Small Glen, and on to Tippermuir. There stood the walled town of Perth, some three miles away. And between stood the Covenant army, spread wide, waiting to catch Montrose’s impudent small army between its fierce jaws.

Kelpie looked at it with awe, and some of her assurance left her. Surely, now, Montrose was stretching his powers too far! Lord Elcho would be wiping them out as easily as Antrim might knock down herself. There they stood, six deep, every man protected by corselet and an iron headpiece, and the most of them armed with muskets, against one-third the number of Highlanders, who wore only ragged kilts and rawhide brogans and had claymores and bows and arrows, or no weapons at all. It was a sad contrast.

The citizens of Perth seemed to regard the coming battle as a fine new kind of Sabbath sport, for they had turned out in great numbers to watch the fun. Kelpie shoved through the palpitating crowd of women and children, now well behind the army, until she reached a spot on high ground which gave her both a good view and a quick escape route for when she needed it. And she expected to need it. She hoped that Ian might escape the slaughter somehow, but she was going to be quite sure that _she_ did.

* * * * *

Ian, who had an even better view in his spot in the front row of the battle line, was not feeling very optimistic himself. He looked with resignation over the flaunting blue banners of the Covenant ranks bearing the motto: _For Christ’s Crown and Covenant_—and then back to the one brave royal banner—three golden leopards on a red background—floating above the Highland rabble. The breeze rippled its folds and shivered across the purpled moors. It seemed too fine a day for men to die.

Alex turned from chaffing his cousins among the small band of Keppoch MacDonalds and looked at Ian. There was a touch of pallor beneath the sunburn of his angular face, but his eyes were bright.

“And are you frightened, Ian?” he asked with a crooked grin.

“As ever was!” retorted Ian forthrightly, and Alex chuckled.

“And I too,” he agreed. “My cousin Archie has just been saying it’s only a fool does not fear danger—in which case, I’m a wise man indeed!”

Ian looked around him. Most of the ordinary clansmen seemed not much worried. There was an almost supernatural faith in Montrose, that he would bring victory at any odds. And Antrim—the magnificent Colkitto—strode down the line with confidence in every inch of him. His legs were pillars beneath the MacDonald kilt he wore, and they were matched by the size of his shoulders.

“I think _he_ isn’t afraid,” observed Ian.

Alex nodded agreement. “Montrose is worried, though,” he murmured. “You can see it behind his eyes. What is happening now?” For one of Montrose’s officers was going toward Lord Elcho, waving a white flag of truce.

“Here’s Ranald,” said Archie. “He’ll know. Ranald learns everything.” If Archie was frightened, one would never know it. His black eyes sparkled wickedly from under his thick black hair, and he turned eagerly to make room for another Keppoch cousin. “What is it Ranald, _avic_?”

“An envoy of courtesy,” reported Ranald, shaking his fair head wonderingly. “Montrose has sent to ask is it against their principles to fight on the Sabbath, and would they rather wait for tomorrow. Only Montrose would think to make such a gesture!”

Archie, who seemed to have a low opinion of Covenant principles, shook his head disapprovingly. Alex opened his mouth for a jesting remark, and forgot to close it again. For, incredibly, outrageously, the envoy was being taken prisoner! He was seized, bound, hustled off through the Covenant ranks.

Incredulous anger rippled through the Highland army. Ian stood aghast. “He couldn’t!” he whispered. “He _couldn’t_ violate a flag of truce!” And for once even the more cynical Alex shared Ian’s feelings.

Oddly, Kelpie’s face came to Alex at that moment. Her narrow, slant-eyed, impudent face would be wondering what was so awful about violating a white flag. Was it any worse than killing a man in battle? And the envoy wasn’t even dead—yet, anyway. To his disgust, Alex found himself, in his own mind, trying to explain it to her. “_Dhiaoul!_” he muttered and turned his attention to the matters at hand.

It was quite possible that Lord Elcho had done himself an ill service, for a flame of Celtic rage had engulfed the Highland army. Alex found that he had shifted forward an inch or two without knowing it, and the rest of the army with him. Those without weapons had picked up stones. For a moment it seemed that they would all break into a wild charge, but Montrose achieved the minor miracle of holding them back. “Wait!” said his outflung arm. “Wait!” boomed Antrim. “Be patient a wee while, men of my heart, and we soon will be giving them cold steel for it.”

And they waited, only inching forward a toe at a time, as the Covenant army moved closer, until not a hundred paces separated them. A long wait it seemed, long enough for all the army to hear Lord Elcho’s answer to the message of the unfortunate envoy. “The Lord’s Day,” he had said, “is fit for the Lord’s work of exterminating the barbarous Irish and Highlanders.”

“When we charge,” muttered Archie, who had been in battles before, “keep just one thing in mind. Choose your enemy and kill him, and then a second man if you can.”

“Very well so,” agreed Alex mildly. “And what will I do with my third man?” He was pleased that his voice had just the nonchalance he wanted for it.

Ian’s was equally cool. “Just be leaving him to me,” he said. “I’ll have had my three by then.”

Another inch forward, and the Covenanters closer yet, and still no signal to charge. And now came the Covenant battle cry for the day. “Jesus and no quarter!” they yelled, and Ian shuddered at the blasphemy.

And then suddenly came a shrill wild skirl from the gaunt woman at the back of the battle. A voice lifted and pealed savagely. “Wolves of the North! Let the fangs bite!”

And the signal was given, and as they rushed forward Ian’s voice answered with his own clan battle cry. “Sons of the dogs, come hither, come hither, and ye shall have flesh!”

“God and St. Andrew!” answered the Keppoch MacDonalds, and the air was thick with the wailing menace of pipes and clan cries, until the pipers abandoned their pipes for the claymores, and the slogans became scattered and mixed with mere yells.

Neither Alex nor Ian remembered the rest clearly—only a wall of armed men ahead, and then the smashing, tearing impact of battle. There was Archie’s fighting laughter, and the blazing red beard of Antrim ... someone yelling “A Gordon, a Gordon!” the whole of the fight. And then there was no wall of armored men, but only fleeing backs, and the charge went on and on—until they were at the gates of Perth.

* * * * *

When Kelpie reached Perth, some time later (and a messy three miles it was too, littered with Covenant casualties), she fully expected to find it being thoroughly sacked and looted, and to be in time to pick up a few wee things herself. It was just for this that she had managed to get slightly ahead of the rest of the women and children.

But there was unexpected quiet and order. Kelpie paused inside the gate, frowning. A few citizens peered fearfully from windows, waiting for the worst, but the worst did not seem to be happening. Instead, Highlanders stood about, glaring at the frightened heads and at a shouting preacher on the near corner, and looking disgruntled.

“He shall rain snares upon the sinners,” screamed the preacher, “and fire and brimstone and storms of wind shall be the portion of their cup!”

Kelpie joined a group of ragged Highlanders who were standing there listening. “_Now_ will he remember their iniquity and visit their sins!” the preacher was suggesting hopefully. “I will consume them by the sword, and by the famine, and by the pestilence! I will pour their wickedness upon them!”

“Is it ourselves he means?” asked Kelpie of the nearest Highlander.

He nodded, looking disgusted. “And we not even allowed to feed his words back to him,” he growled. “And,” he added regretfully, “I am thinking that the fine coat of him would be fitting me, whatever.”

“But why? Why not be silencing him and taking it?” demanded Kelpie. He shrugged, looking aggressive. Montrose, it seemed, had ordered no sacking, no looting, no harm to the citizens.

Several Highlanders turned from the preacher, who was now informing them that they were to be cast forth from the land, and chimed in. An unheard-of thing, that! And they half-starved and in rags, and counting on food, clothing, and a fine wee bit of loot from these overfed, psalm-singing heathen hypocrites! And what was Montrose about, then, to be depriving them of their just reward? And yet, not a man suggested disobeying.

The preacher, a gaunt, long-faced man in a fine black coat, was working himself up into a fine passion of Covenanter Christianity. “They shall die grievous deaths,” he announced. “They shall not be lamented, neither shall they be buried; they shall be as dung upon the face of the earth.”

“Is it his own friends he’s speaking of?” came Alex’s mocking voice. “’Tis a fine burial service you’re preaching, my friend, but shouldn’t you be helping to dig the graves first?”

The preacher stopped, glared, and began to launch forth with more Bible verses. But the Highlanders had got the idea.

“Now then,” one of them called, chortling. “’Twould be no harm to the bonnie man if we just see to it that he helps bury his friends, now, would it? Come away out, now, and be useful!” And in a moment the preacher was being propelled firmly out of the gate, protesting loudly that yon muckle redshanks were gang to murther him. Alex and Ian, Archie and Ranald were left, grinning after them.

Kelpie spared them no more than a glance and then returned to her grievance. No looting! And she had been wanting a nice silver belt and perhaps a silken purse.

Disgustingly, Ian and Alex agreed with Montrose. “’Tis a barbaric practice, sacking cities,” said Ian with quiet intensity. “Why should soldiers war on civilians, especially women and bairns? If there were more leaders with the principles of Montrose, war would be less evil than it is.”

“There’s no use one army stopping, and the others going on doing it,” argued Kelpie.

“Someone must be stopping first,” Alex pointed out. Odd how he kept trying to explain principles to this little witch, who could no more understand them than could his cousin Cecily’s wee and wicked yellow kitten. “If Montrose shows mercy, perhaps the Covenanters will do the same.”

Kelpie sneered audibly, and Archie made a rude noise. Alex shrugged. “To be more practical,” he pointed out, “perhaps Montrose is hoping that these towns near his own home may be turned to our side if we treat them well.”

“I think he would do so anyway,” insisted Ian, “’Tis a point of integrity, Kelpie.”

Kelpie looked blank, and Alex laughed. “Do not be trying to explain integrity to _her_, Ian!” he pleaded. “Begin first on a creature with more capacity—like Cecily’s kitten, for example—and then Dubh, perhaps, and after that you might be working up to a kelpie.”

At the mention of Cecily, Ian saw in his mind a heart-shaped, mischievous face in a halo of tawny hair. And then he put it away from him, for Alex had said fifty times that he was going to marry his cousin one day; and if his foster brother wanted Cecily, then she was not for Ian to think of. So he thought instead of Kelpie, who was tossing her black head scornfully.

“Well, whatever integrity is,” she announced, “this is daft. For,” she predicted with gloomy relish, “all the towns around will be thinking they may do as they please, with no fear of punishment. Just wait you now, they’ll be shouting more loudly and burning more witches than ever before.”

Surprisingly, Alex nodded. It was Ian who was about to argue. But at this moment Lachlan and Maeve arrived, shouting that at last they had found Mac ’ic Ian, and would he be coming away this minute to have his sore wound tended.

Ian laughed, faintly embarrassed, and began to protest. And Kelpie, with a pang of concern, noticed for the first time that his plaidie was wrapped oddly about his left arm and that a stain of red was creeping along the sleeve beneath it.

“_Dhé!_” she cried. “It may be only a wee bit cut as you say, Ian, but yon orange-top”—she glared at Maeve—“has not the sense to be tending it for you, and it will surely mortify if you let her. I,” she announced firmly, “will bind it myself, with bread mold and cobwebs on the cut, and a wee charm or two over it, and ’twill heal overnight, for I know about such matters.”

Maeve promptly screamed that the wicked little witch would poison Mac ’ic Ian only over her dead body. Kelpie retorted that it was a fine idea, that last. Ranald said that he had known mold and cobwebs to work very well. Archie’s black eyes sparkled with amusement, and it fell upon Alex to arbitrate.

Firmly, with the masterful air that Kelpie usually resented hotly, he declared in favor of her bread mold but against her charms. He pacified Maeve by allowing her to supervise and to put the sign of the cross upon Ian’s arm. And because both Maeve and Kelpie were genuinely concerned over Ian’s welfare a truce of sorts was declared—for the moment.

15. Witch Hunt

An uneasy peace brooded over the whole of Perth the next day. Not only the citizens but also their Gaelic conquerors tended to feel slightly abused, and they spent the morning glooming at one another. By noon the high Celtic spirits had risen again in the conquerors, and a spirit of mischief took over. They released prisoners from stocks and jails (most of them guilty of such crimes as failing to attend kirk), and some of the Irish MacDonalds began preaching back at the dour, hell-spouting Calvinist preachers.

But this palled too, and presently a group of young and adventurous Highlanders decided just to go out and have a wee look round the neighboring countryside. Archie and Ranald came hunting Alex and Ian, who were delighted. Lachlan firmly attached himself to the party, with strict orders from Maeve not to be letting Mac ’ic Ian do anything to start his cut bleeding afresh.

At this point Kelpie announced that she would just go too. Ranald looked at her dubiously, but Archie laughed. “And why ever not?” he demanded. “The women do full share of work, what with cooking and nursing, and should have a bit of fun when they can. Will you come too, Maeve?”

Maeve hesitated, glared at Kelpie, and declined. And the party, some dozen or fifteen altogether, set off.

“Is Kelpie your true name?” demanded Archie as they started west across the sweep of moor. He grinned at her engagingly. “It wouldn’t be every day a body could have a kelpie as mascot. Tell me,” he asked, “have I seen you turn a soft eye upon Ian? Could you not be giving him a wee love potion?”

Kelpie smiled enigmatically and declined to answer. But she turned the idea over in her mind.

It was a lovely day, this second of September. The birches were beginning to yellow and the bracken to turn rusty underneath. Rowan trees flaunted clumps of brilliant red-orange berries in the sun; and only now and again did a cloud shadow glide silently over the rosy-heathered swelling ground, patching it with somber purple. Kelpie tied her plaidie around her waist, for she would not be needing it until the chill of evening.

They walked on, with the long, tireless Highland stride, chattering and laughing with the upsurge of spirits that was a normal reaction from the fear and triumph of yesterday.

“And did you get your dozen men, Alex?” inquired the fair-haired Ranald. “I saw you once cutting down an armored musketeer twice your size, and glad I was to be fighting with and not against you.”

Alex’s red brows slanted upward. “_Dhé!_” he said. “I was so frighted I just held out my sword, and it seems the enemy was obliging enough to run into it. ’Twas Ian was the braw fighter, and none better in Scotland. It was he saved me more than once.”

“Only so that you could be saving me, Alex _avic_,” retorted Ian, “and Lachlan saving the both of us,” he added. “Besides, it was I was so scared I could only think to run away.”

“And since you were headed for Perth, already, the only thing to do was just cut your way through the face of the enemy,” finished Archie with bland seriousness.

Ian nodded gravely. “That was the way of it. I was too frightened to think of turning around.”

And so they went on, with the same old bantering Kelpie had heard so often at Glenfern, and each of them claiming to have been more frightened than any of the rest. Kelpie listened with an odd feeling of contentment. This brotherhood, this easy straight-faced teasing which was an unspoken love between friends, was a warm and joyous thing to hear—for all that it was dangerous to have it. There was wistfulness in her heart as she walked silently among the cheerful group, and a shadow on her face.

Presently they came to a river and a small gray town on the near side. “I doubt they’ll love us there,” predicted a tall lad in Duncan kilt, “but perhaps their good Lowland sense of business will make them willing to sell us a pint or two of ale—or even good _uisghebaugh_, if there is such a thing outside of the Highlands.”

It was a popular suggestion, and the long Highland strides became even longer, so that Kelpie—though she denied it—had to stretch her own to keep up. As they drew near the cluster of stone houses with the somber square kirk in the center, she frowned a little. A dour, gloomy place it was! Not that it looked different, really, from other towns, but there was a bad feel to it. None of the others seemed to notice, but Kelpie’s bones were wary.

There seemed to be very few people about. Perhaps most of them had seen the Highlanders coming and gone inside. The few folk they did meet cast looks of hate at the kilted barbarians—which the barbarians, secure in the safety of numbers and reputation, found rather amusing.

An innkeeper sourly sold them ale, with black looks thrown in for good measure. “Och, wouldn’t he like to poison it, just!” said Alex in Gaelic as Kelpie refused the ale Ian offered her. It might not actually be poisoned, but it could have an evil spell on it, all the same. She said so.

“If your spells haven’t worked, I doubt anyone’s could!” Alex taunted her. “For you’ve tried hard enough, haven’t you?”

Kelpie glowered from under her thick lashes. Had he seen her, then, all that while at Blair Atholl? Or was it just his evil way of always knowing what she was thinking? She had begun to feel a trifle more friendly since learning that he had saved Ian yesterday instead of cutting him down. But once again Alex was taking the offensive.

Alex had known what she was about at Blair Atholl, and it had amused him, in a way—once he was sure her spells were impotent. But just now, for some reason, all her hatred for him was rankling, and he was in the mood to goad her a bit for her irritating ways—although he was not at all sure why she got under his skin so easily. So he deliberately treated her to his most satirical grin. “And didn’t your hex work at all, poor lass?” he inquired sympathetically.

Kelpie started to hiss at him, but Ian was looking at her oddly. He would not take it kindly that she had tried to hex his foster brother, even though it was himself she was trying to protect. And she wanted to keep Ian’s good will.

Her lip drooped. “Always and always you will be thinking evil of me, Alex MacDonald!” she lamented. “You will be trying to make everyone hate me, and never giving me the chance at all to be better, no matter how I might try.”

The other lads were listening to all this with great interest, and they now regarded Alex with severity, and Kelpie with sympathy. But it was Ian’s sympathy she wanted—and got.

“’Tis true enough, Alex,” he said accusingly. “You’ve ever thought the worst of the poor lass, and her only sin is in being what she was taught to be. How could she ever change with you condemning her in advance?”

A rare blaze of rage swept over Alex. “_Dhiaoul!_ ’Tis a fool you are, Ian!” And suddenly he was quarreling—it was incredible—with his foster brother, dearer than kin, and over a young rogue of a gypsy lass not worth a hair on Ian’s head! And yet the quarrel went on and on.

Kelpie had never seen them angry at each other before, and she was frightened. It was the town had done it! The town was filled with hate and malice and had put a spell on them all! And she, who should be pleased at seeing Ian turn from Alex, found that she couldn’t enjoy it. She couldn’t even bear to listen. She slipped out of the tavern with their angry words drifting after her.

The streets were no longer empty. A crowd was streaming out of the four-square meeting house and along toward the town square, and it was the sort of crowd she knew all too well. Their faces held a savage and bloodthirsty fanaticism, and this was not a mob looking for a victim, but one which had found one. It was someone, no doubt, who had committed the sin of breaking the Sabbath, or dancing, or perhaps chancing to glance at a neighbor’s cow before it fell ill. Och, it was a witch trial they had been having! No knowing was it a real witch or not, nor would it matter; for to be accused was to be condemned.

“Burn them!” the crowd growled as it surged past the tavern. Kelpie should have ducked back inside, but her curiosity was too great. And despite her vow to be hard-hearted there was a flicker in her of pity. The victims were coming now, being roughly hustled along toward the square. The crowd swept Kelpie along, not noticing one more gray gown among so many others.

Kelpie squeezed through a gap between a stout man and a bony woman, and as it closed behind her she found herself almost pushed against the victims, her eyes staring straight into theirs—and their eyes were as filled with hatred as those of the crowd.

Mina and Bogle!

Panic gripped her heart. Frantically she tried to back up, to melt back into the crowd. But there was no gap now, only a wall of townsmen at her back. And it was too late. Mina’s shrill screech cut the other sounds.

“There she is! The kelpie who led us into witchcraft! In the gray dress! There! Look at the ringed eyes of her!”

“She’ll be putting the Evil Eye on ye all” croaked Bogle venomously.

Sick fear and revulsion were in Kelpie as her quick eyes swept around—vainly—for an avenue of escape. They were not accusing her to save themselves, which would have been logical, but in sheer malice. That she might have done the same didn’t occur to her, for there was no time for thinking. The crowd was responding with a new roar, seeking more blood, turning to find its new victim.

Kelpie looked instinctively for a scapegoat, another gray dress to point out—but again, too late. Hands grabbed her. She wrenched free with a twist, only to be grasped by more hands, caught beyond hope of escape.

“Alex!” screamed Kelpie. “Ian! Help!” And she lifted her voice in the Cameron war rant, hoping that the familiar words might reach Ian. “_Chlanna non can, thigibh a so_—” A blow on the head cut it short, and she thought with bitterness that it could not matter. How could they hear her so far away, and over the crowd, and when they were themselves quarreling in the tavern, and herself being carried farther away every minute?

“Ye’ll not be taking a witch’s word!” she cried out. “I am of the Kirk, and have been servant to Argyll himself!”

One or two of the nearest people hesitated doubtfully, for Argyll was a name to conjure with. But Mina dashed Kelpie’s faint chance. “Aye!” she shrieked. “To be getting a bit of his hair for a hex! Look at her eyes, just!”

She was doomed, then. “Sons of the dogs!” she yelled once more, with despair in voice and heart. And then she was being shoved along with Mina and Bogle.

“_Chlanna non can, thigibh a so’s gheibh sibh feoil!_” It was Ian’s voice. A wedge began to cut itself into the crowd from behind, a bright blade gleaming, and Ian’s wild face at the back of the sword.

And then another voice, that of Alex. “_Ian!_” it roared, and another wedge appeared behind the first. And now figures in MacDonald and Duncan bonnets cut a swathe, more swords gleamed, voices roared happily with the joy of battle.

But Alex was coming after Ian, and a black rage on his face, and his voice bellowing Ian’s name. He was angry still, then, and the more so because Ian was trying to save her! Kelpie’s feet were set against the cobblestones of the street, her body twisted to see behind. And now the hold on her was loosening as the witch-burners began to take alarm. But oh, would Ian be in time? Would Alex stop him?

Ian had nearly reached her. The crowd, mostly unarmed, swirled and shoved in disorganized fury. They turned from their victims now, and two or three dirks were flashed. The MacDonalds were gleefully wreaking havoc somewhere behind, but Alex had caught up with Ian now, and his face was fearful to look on. Ian’s back was to Alex, his attention on dealing with those dirks still separating him from Kelpie. Kelpie could not see his hands, for the shoulders and heads in the way, but his face was grim, intent. “Hold on, Kelpie!” he shouted.

“_Ian!_” roared Alex again, and his sword rose—rose and then fell with a furious slash. And Ian was down, and his dark head had vanished in the crowd.

It was just as she had seen it in the loch! For an instant Kelpie felt nothing at all but a terrible cold emptiness, and then grief was in her very bones, and a small cry of anguish on her lips. She made a move toward the swarming, fighting spot where Ian had vanished. There was one brief glimpse of Alex, raging like one gone mad, and then the MacDonalds were there, making a havoc that sent townspeople screaming for safety. And somewhere, being trampled beneath, was the body of Ian, and perhaps she could reach him and help....

And then she hesitated. Alex would be wanting to kill her too! And now was her chance to be away and safe from him. And after all, what good could she be to Ian? For either he was dead and past help, or, if not, there were the MacDonalds to care for him, and Maeve back at Perth.

Kelpie hesitated a moment longer, then she reverted to old habits and saved herself. She slipped like a hunted wildcat through the crowd, which now had other things on its mind than stopping her. She was out of it, around a corner, through the narrow streets in a swift streak of gray. The clamor grew muffled and scattered. She tore across the stone bridge and the moor and along a glen and over a hill. She ran until she could no longer breathe, and then crawled into a thick patch of broom and lay gasping and sobbing.

She must not think! She could not bear to think. Alex had really done it, then! The thing inside her had never really believed he would, and that was the thing now keening in black anguish that he could have done it.

And Ian! Was he dead, then? Dead trying to save herself, who had then fled without a backward look?

But it was only sense to have saved herself! It was what Ian had been trying to do, to save _her_, and wouldn’t he have wished it? Why should it be the weight of a stone on her? Ian would have wished it, she told herself. And then she rolled over on her face and was violently sick.

* * * * *

How long had she been walking? And to where? It was just away from the town she had been going, and she was now far away, for she had spent more than one night in the heather. And yet she could not get away from the beating blackness in her mind.

Kelpie sank down in the drenched heather and discovered with vague surprise that rain was pouring steadily from a dreary sky. She looked wearily around and saw nothing but hills and heath closed in mist. She was wet as a water horse, and when had she last eaten?

What was she to do now? And where was she going? She didn’t care much. It would be nice just to lie down and not be waking at all at all. But some inner vitality would never let her do that. She sighed. She must be finding food, then, and learning where she was. For all she knew, she might be back in Campbell country—and that thought roused her just a little.

She dragged herself to her feet and tramped on again. The glen ended in a long loch, so large that both ends were out of sight around the curves of the hills. Kelpie sat down again and thought, slowly, because she could not seem to think very well. There were not so many lochs of this size. She did not think she could have got so far as Loch Rannoch, and this seemed too long for Loch Earn and not wide enough for Loch Lomond. It must be that it was Loch Tay, and if this were so, then she might well be in Campbell country.

If only the sun would come out! If only there were some place that she could go and rest and hide away from the world and her thoughts....

And then she remembered the braes of Balquidder and two kind and lonely old folk who had said, “Haste ye back.”

At this point Kelpie’s instinct and gypsy training took over. Without stopping to wonder was she right or no, she turned to the left and trudged along the southern bank of the loch. She found berries and roots to eat. She lay down in the wet heather and slept, her plaidie around her, when she could go no farther. And then she awoke and went on. To the end of the loch she went, and down a glen, and around a mountain.

And late on a drizzly afternoon old Alsoon MacNab heard a faint scratch at her door and opened it to find her own plaidie back—wrapped round a morsel of wretched humanity that for once was not shamming in the least.

16. Morag Mhor

It was pleasant to be cared for, pleasant and strange. Kelpie lay for several days on the pile of springy heather which served for her bed. At first she just slept and awoke to eat and sleep again. But then she began lying awake, her eyes on the smoky fire, or on the mortarless stone walls that leaned a little inward against the black rafters and thatched roof. Alsoon was always busy, cooking or sweeping the earthen floor with a besom broom or weaving or knitting, one eye always on her patient.

And why should they take her in and care for her so, when they had nothing to gain by it? Glenfern had done the same thing—no, best not to think of Glenfern, for that was too painful. She must learn to wall off those memories from her feelings, so that they would become like a witch-spot on the body, a spot that could feel no pain even though a pin was stuck in to the head. Kelpie had no witch-spots, though Mina did. But then, Kelpie was not a witch, and what was more, she never would be, however hard she might try!

The knowledge crept upon her stealthily, while she was still too weak and drained to resist it. She had no power at all. None of her spells had ever worked. And Mina had lied about teaching her the Evil Eye. It came to her with bitter clarity that the Evil Eye was a thing one must be born with; it could never be learned. All Kelpie had was the Second Sight, and many Highlanders had that.

She received the knowledge with a strange kind of indifference. Later, when she wasn’t so tired, she would no doubt feel a savage sense of loss. But she could not think about it now—not yet.

Alsoon was bringing her some broth now and crooning to her wee dark love to drink it and sleep. Callum must have tramped far over the hills to find a deer to make it, and they knew very well that she could never pay for it at all, and they would be hurt even if she offered payment. Highland hospitality was a warm, strong thing with rules to it. It made a grace between host and guest and a bond not to harm each other. This was why Alex had been so angry at the way she left Glenfern, and Eithne so hurt, and—and Ian—

She wrenched her mind from the thought of Ian, drank her broth, and drifted back to sleep.

When she was on her feet again, Kelpie was strangely content just to stay where she was. It seemed to her that her life had been violently wrenched apart, and she hardly knew how to begin putting it back together again. She needed time to think. Kelpie had always found the world full and interesting, however cruel. She played a game. She avoided the cruelty when she could, and bore it if she must, and fought back when she had the chance. She adapted herself to each new situation that came along, and had quite enjoyed—on the whole—the glimpses of various new worlds that the last few months had offered.

But now she seemed to be cast out of every world she knew, for she could never go back to Glenfern, or to Mina and Bogle (even if she would), or to Campbell country. Worse, she did not even know what she wanted, now that the power of witchcraft was denied her. The old gypsy life no longer seemed attractive. New ideas had been planted in her mind, and she had found herself groping restlessly for something she could not name.

To keep her mind and hands busy, she began to help Alsoon and Callum with the various chores, and took an unexpected pleasure in them. For once, walls seemed not a trap but a warm, safe shelter from the early frost and biting wind outside, and from the world in general.

And so the autumn passed, and it was the dark of the year, with only a few brief hours of daylight and long gray dusks. In that remote glen they heard little of the outside world. It wasn’t until she had been there for two months that a neighbor from over the hill came that way in search of stray cattle and stopped in to pass on the news that his brother had heard from someone’s cousin who had been away in to a town.

Montrose had taken his army north to Aberdeen, and this time he had let his men sack the city. “It was because they had shot a wee drummer boy,” explained the neighbor. “The lad was just along with the envoy, asking them would they like to send their women and bairns to safety. And Graham was so angry at it that he took the town and turned his army loose on it, but they say he was sorry after.”

And then, it seemed, the old game of tag had started again, with Argyll panting after Montrose all the way from Bog o’ Gight to Badenoch, Tumnel to Strathbogie, devastating lands as he went, and slaughtering people if he even suspected them of royalist sympathies.

When Kelpie awoke the next morning, she saw the white light of the first snow coming through the cracks in the shutters, and her first, unbidden thought was: did Ian lie somewhere beneath that blanket? Had Alex been punished for killing him? Where was Montrose now, and what was happening in Scotland? It was the beginning of a new restlessness and a growing desire to learn whether Ian was dead, and perhaps even to take vengeance herself on Alex, if no one else had done it already. Even without magic powers, she reflected with narrowed eyes, she could still use her wee _sgian dhu_!

The dark, smoky shieling became too cramped for such thoughts, and, in spite of the cold, Kelpie took to making long walks over the braes and around the foot of Ben More. Alsoon looked at her wisely. If she guessed that confusing thoughts were disturbing the young waif, she said nothing but merely finished whatever task Kelpie might have left undone when the restlessness was upon her.

“Och, and you’ll be away again one day,” predicted old Callum mildly one crisp afternoon when Kelpie paused at the sheep pen where he was working. “’Tis the wanderlust you have in your feet—but are you not also wanting somewhere to call home?”

Kelpie had never thought of the matter. She did so now. What _was_ a home? For Ian it had been Glenfern, where his heart stayed wherever the rest of him might be. But for Kelpie, Glenfern was not just a place; it was a feeling and it was people. It was Wee Mairi’s bonnie face and confiding smile; and the twins crowding close, bright-eyed, to demand more stories; and Eithne’s quick sympathy; and laughter beside the loch. It was teasing and love and trust among them all, and her own heart given recklessly against her better judgement.

No, home was not a place but a feeling—a deceitful feeling, she remembered bitterly. She had endangered Wee Mairi by her very affection, and Ian had trusted too much.... And Kelpie thought again that if Glenfern had not settled the score with Alex, she herself might do it one day. She thought of Mina and Bogle too, and hoped fiercely that they had not escaped.

There was more heavy snow the next week, and now this was nearly the longest time she had ever spent in one place—except for Glenfern, and Glenfern had been much more lively. She longed more and more for excitement, for adventure, aye, even for danger, for these were the spice of life. And so she stiffened with anticipation on the morning that wee Angus MacNab came racing over the hill toward the shieling hut. Important news was in his every movement.

“Och, Callum, and have you seen it?” he demanded in a shrill shout. “Montrose himself it is, and his army, just yon over the braes on the edge of Campbell land. It is said they will be going to harry Mac Cailein Mor in his own castle!”

Kelpie had been standing over near the sheep pen, very still, watching the small lad come. A too large kilt flapped about his knobbly knees, and himself and his long shadow and his twisting track were all dark against the white of the snow. To her left was the black of the shieling hut, smoke rising vaguely against the pearl-blue of the sky, and Callum standing by the door. Everything seemed to stop in time for just an instant, while something inside Kelpie awoke, stretched, looked around, and made a decision.

She didn’t ask herself any questions then, but turned in her tracks and walked back to the hut, where Callum and Alsoon were greeting the lad and asking for more details.

“And where are they?” she demanded.

Angus waved a skinny arm toward the north. “Yon, near Loch Tay. The clan is called out and will be joining there. I wish I could be going!”

Sudden reasonless elation filled Kelpie. She wrapped her plaidie more firmly about her shoulders and looked at Callum and Alsoon. “I’m away,” she announced.

“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.

“Whist, lass, and what is it you’re wanting?” It was a bearded Irish MacDonald. “The time for sweethearts’ farewells is past, and we off to raid and harry the Campbells in their lair.” The beard split in a grin of vengeful glee.

“It is I that am coming with you,” announced Kelpie cheekily. “Where are all the women and bairns?”

He stared. “Back at Blair Castle, the most of them, safe in Stewart country. It is only a few of the strongest, and they with no children, that we have brought. ’Tis no adventure for you, lassie. Be away back home.”

“I am strong, and with no bairns,” argued Kelpie. “And I’m frightened to travel alone.” She looked helpless and pleading. “I have no home, and I’d like well to raid the Campbells. Can I not be coming?”

He grinned sympathetically. “Och, well—we’ve a bloody enough work to do, and might even use an extra nurse once or twice. Go find Morag Mhor, then, who is head of the women.”

Kelpie recognized Morag Mhor as soon as she saw her—the tall, gaunt woman she had noticed at Blair Atholl, who well deserved the title of “great” Morag. Ragged woolen skirts were kilted up over a bright red petticoat, showing ankles as sturdy as a man’s. The worn Gordon plaidie had fallen back from her head, and her face was more alive than it had been at Blair Atholl, but as fierce as ever. When Kelpie found her, she was berating a red-faced MacGregor at least two inches shorter than she, who clearly had no fight left in him.

“And don’t be crossing my path again until I feel forgiving, or I’ll box the other ear!” she finished briskly and then turned to look at Kelpie. “Gypsy!” she said, crossing brawny arms on her breast.

“Indeed and no!” protested Kelpie with great promptness. “Only a poor lost lass, and away from home—”

Morag Mhor laughed loudly. “Gypsy!” she repeated, pointing a long forefinger.

Kelpie regarded her warily and trimmed her tale. “The gypsies were stealing me when I was a bairn,” she conceded, not expecting to be believed.

“Aye, then,” agreed Morag Mhor surprisingly. “Because of the ringed eyes of you, I think. You’ll have the Second Sight. Are you a witch?”

“Are you?” countered Kelpie, remembering with a pang that she herself was not and never could be.

Morag shrugged wide shoulders. “I have a healing power. But I’m not belonging to any coven of daft folk who hold Black Mass and dance their silly feet off at midnights. My power is in what I’m doing, not what I’m saying.” Her lined face drew down fiercely. “I’ll be helping to put the curse of deeds on the Campbells this week. They passed my happy wee home in Gordon country and left behind a blackened stone—and I arriving back from over the hill to find the thatch still smoldering, and my man dead, and my son beside him, and the lad not yet ten! I have thirsted for Campbell blood ever since, and I shall drink deep.”

She stopped, staring into the white distance with eyes that were of burning stone. Kelpie reflected that she would not like to have this woman for an enemy. Best to go canny.

“I was prisoner of Mac Cailein Mor,” she volunteered. “He would have burned me, but I escaped.”

“Och, then, and you’re another who hates him!” Morag’s eyes returned from unpleasant places. “Stay along with me, then, gypsy lass. We’ll see revenge together, and no man nor devil will harm you whilst I am near.” And Kelpie believed her.

17. The Road to Inverary

They had slept on the border of Campbell country, after feeding on Campbell cattle collected by some twenty or thirty Highlanders. Their tightly woven woolen plaids had helped to keep out the cold, and so had the fires scattered along the glen. But Kelpie was glad enough of the red wool hose that Alsoon had knitted for her, and of the warm bulk of Morag beside her.

Now they were heading up Strath Fuile, and the warm-hearted comradeship of the Highlanders became a savage expectation, for here at last was the great enemy ahead. Montrose might talk all he liked of getting to the border to aid the King in England—but a score or two must be settled first. Montrose had had to compromise; otherwise too many of his army would have just slipped away home, taking with them as many stolen cattle as possible.