The reader now looked up from his parchment and gazed over the assemblage.
“Is Malcolm MacLeod here?” he asked. “Let him step forward.”
The giant, somewhat dazed, walking like a man in a dream, approached the foot of the cross. The officer rolled the proclamation and presented it to the shipbuilder, saying: —
“From the hand of the king, to the hand of Malcolm MacLeod.”
Malcolm accepted it, muttering half with a smile, half with a frown, —
“E-god, the king knows a good boat when he gets it.”
Then the officer uplifted his sword and cried, —
“God save the king;” and now the hills around re-echoed with the cheering.
The little company without another word retraced their steps to the small boat, and made for the ship which was now facing outward, anchor hoisted and sails spread once more, so the watching Highlanders had a view of a large vessel superbly managed, as the west wind which brought her into the harbour took her safely out again.
The royal young man had a striking lesson on the fickleness of the populace. Heretofore as MacDonald had truly said, no one had a good word to say for the king; now it was evident that James V. of Scotland was the greatest and wisest monarch that ever sat on a throne.
Malcolm MacLeod had been always so proud of his skill that this proclamation could hardly augment his self-esteem, but it suddenly changed his views regarding his august overlord. In conversation ever after it became, “I and the king,” and he was almost willing to admit that James was very nearly as great a man as Alexander MacLeod of Dunvegan.
The enthusiasm was so great that several bards composed special poems in honour of the king of Scotland, and next day the effusions were to be heard at the cross, and the prizes awarded. The first thing done, however, after the departure of the ship, was to send another mounted messenger to Dunvegan Castle, so that the lord of the island might learn that no invasion was to be feared from the fleet. The parchment proclamation was sent on to the chief, ostensibly in explanation of the ship’s visit, but probably because Malcolm was not loth to let the head of the clan know what the head of the country thought of his workmanship.
It was early next morning that the reading and reciting of the poems began, and so lengthy were these effusions that it was well past noon before the last had been heard. To the chagrin of James he found himself fifteenth on the list when the honours were awarded. MacDonald, endeavouring to keep a straight face, told the king of the judges’ decision, adding, —
“It will be as well not to let Davie Lyndsay know of this.”
“Oh, you may tell whom you please,” cried the king. “I was sure you would bungle it in the Gaelic.”
The king was pacing up and down the room in no very good humour, so the young Highlander thought it best not to reply. He was saved however, from the embarrassment of silence by the entrance of Malcolm MacLeod.
“You are in great good fortune,” said Malcolm. “The messengers have returned with a score of horsemen at their backs, and Dunvegan himself invites you to the castle.”
MacDonald seemed in no way jubilant over what his host considered the utmost honour that could be bestowed upon two strangers.
“What does he say?” demanded the king.
“He says that MacLeod of Dunvegan has invited us to his castle.”
“Well, we will go then. I suppose we can get horses here, or shall we journey round by boat?”
“I understand,” replied MacDonald, “that the chief has sent horses for us, and furthermore an escort of a score of men, so I’m thinking we have very little choice about the matter.”
“Very well,” returned the king with a shrug of indifference, “let us be off and see our new host. I wonder if he will be as easily flattered as the one we are leaving.”
“I doubt it,” said MacDonald seriously.
The King Drinks
The two young men mounted the small shaggy horses that had been provided for them by the forethought of their future host, MacLeod of Dunvegan. Apparently the king had forgotten all about his crushing defeat in the poetical contest of the day before, for he was blithe and gay, the most cheerful of those assembled, adventuring now and then scraps of Gaelic that he had picked up, and his pronunciation contributed much to the hilarity of the occasion.
MacDonald, on the other hand, was gloomy and taciturn, as if already some premonition of the fate that awaited him at Dunvegan cast its shadow before. The news of the great condescension of the laird in inviting two strangers to his castle had spread through all the land, and, early as was the hour, the whole population of the district had gathered to wish the travellers a cordial farewell. The escort, as the king called the score of men, who were to act as convoy from one port to the other; or the guard, as MacDonald termed them, sat on their horses in silence, awaiting the word of command to set forth.
At last this word was given, and the procession began its march amidst the cheers of the people and a skirling of the pipes. The distance was little more than seven leagues over a wild uninviting country. MacDonald sat his horse dejected and silent, for the prospect confronting him was far from alluring. The king was incognito, he was not; and he had begun to doubt the wisdom of having given his actual designation to the people of Skye, for the relations between this island and the mainland were at that time far from being of the most cordial description.
Dunvegan Castle was a grim stronghold in which the MacLeods sat so secure that all the efforts of all the MacDonalds, even if they were for once united, could not dislodge them. It was one of the most remote inhabited places in all Scotland, its next neighbour to the west being that new land of America discovered not yet fifty years. For the son of one Highland chieftain to come so completely into the power of another, his own people knowing practically nothing of his whereabouts, was a situation that did not commend itself to the young man. Allaster Crottach was celebrated more for craft than for violence. He had extended and consolidated his possessions with the skill of a diplomatist rather than by the arms of his soldiers, and MacDonald thought it quite likely that a slice of Sleat might be the ransom for his release. If through any incautious remark of his comrade the Crottach became aware that he held not only MacDonald of Sleat but also the King of Scotland, the fates only knew what might happen. The king, however, appeared to have no forebodings, but trotted along with great complacency, commenting now and then on the barrenness of the landscape.
The party had accomplished little more than half the distance, when, as they fronted a slight elevation, there came to them over the hills wild pipe music, louder than anything of that kind the king had ever heard.
“The MacLeod is evidently about to welcome us in state,” said his majesty to MacDonald, “he must have the very monarch of pipers in his train.”
“The MacRimmon,” admitted MacDonald, “are acknowledged to be the best pipers in all the Highlands, and they are hereditary musicians to the MacLeod. The sounds we hear indicate that a number of pipers are playing in unison.”
On reaching the brow of the hill they found this was indeed the case. There were from thirty to fifty pipers, but they evidently bore no greeting to the travellers, for the musical party was marching in the same direction as themselves, playing vigorously as they swung along. At the instance of the king, MacDonald made inquiries regarding this extraordinary spectacle. The taciturn commander of the guard answered briefly that it was the College of Pipers. The students were marching back to Bocraig on the other side of Loch Follart, where instruction in piping was bestowed by the MacRimmon; this excursion over the hills giving them training in piping and in tramping at the same time. The musical regiment took its way straight across the moors and so very soon was lost sight of by the two travellers, who kept to a track which was more or less of a road.
In due time the cavalcade reached Dunvegan Castle, and even a man accustomed to so stout a fortress as that of Stirling could not but be struck by the size, the strength, and the situation of this frowning stronghold; yet, extensive as it was, its proprietor evidently found it inadequate for his ambitions, as he was now building a massive tower which added a further dignity to the structure.
The king and his companion were received at the front entrance by an old man, whom each at once knew could not be their host, for his back had originally been straight enough, though now slightly stooped through age. He led them within, and up a stair direct to the apartments reserved for them. Their aged conductor spoke no English, so the burden of conversation fell on MacDonald. As soon as the latter perceived that he and his friend were to be separated, the king lodged at one end of the castle, and himself at the other, he protested against this arrangement, demanding two adjoining rooms. The old man replied that he was following instructions given, and if the rooms assigned were not satisfactory, his master would doubtless change them on the morrow.
“But, my good man,” expostulated MacDonald, “we expect to be leaving the castle to-morrow.”
“In that case,” replied their cicerone with a scarcely perceptible shrug of the shoulders, “it makes but little difference for one night.” The king inquiring into the purport of the discussion, quite agreed with the elderly guide, that the matter was of small moment.
“If our genial innkeeper intends to murder us,” he said, “we shall be quite as helpless together as separate, for he has irresistible force at his command. If we are in a trap there is little use in snarling at the bars. By all accounts Dunvegan is a shrewd man, and I can see no object which he can attain by doing harm to either of us. If he had a son who was next heir to the position I hold, I confess I might sleep uneasily to-night; but as he must know that the king’s fleet is hovering about his coast, and that his castle would make a most excellent target for it, as he cannot transport his house to the hills should the ships sail up the loch, I don’t see what he can gain by maltreating two men, whom he must suspect of having some connection with the advent of the fleet.”
“Oh, I have no thought,” replied MacDonald, “that the Eagle of Dunvegan would fly so high as you suggest, but there are lowlier perches on which he may like to fix his talons. He has long cast covetous eyes across the Sound of Sleat to the mainland, and, whatever he knows or suspects, he is sure of one thing, which is that he has the son of the Laird of Sleat safely landed in his own house.”
“How distrustful you Highlanders are of each other!” cried the young monarch laughing. “Bless me, Jamie, no bargain made in durance will hold; then you must remember you have me behind you, and I have all the power in Scotland behind me.”
“That is very true, but the power of nothing is behind either of us if we cannot get word to the outside world. Last night on learning we were invited to this place, I searched for my gillies, but without success. My boat and its crew have been taken elsewhere. So you see there is at least a design to cut our communications. I’m thinking we’ll see more of Loch Follart from this window for a while than of the field of Bannockburn from Stirling Towers.”
“I quite agree with you, Jamie, that we’re fairly nabbed, but the old gentleman who has us in thrall can make nothing by ill-using us. Sooner or later he must divulge his plan, whatever it is, before he can benefit from it, and when he does that it will be time enough to consider what course we are to pursue.” Then turning suddenly towards their guide, who had been standing motionless during this conversation, the king said sharply in English, —
“Is your master at home?”
The old man made no reply, but looked at MacDonald as if for translation. The latter repeated the question in Gaelic and received an affirmative answer.
“He says the laird is at home. He has no English.”
“I wasn’t just sure of that, so I tested it by an abrupt question, thus locking the door after the horse was stolen, for we have spoken rather plainly before him, and so have proved ourselves in the beginning very poor conspirators. However, I care little what the next move is so long as it brings us something to eat. Clear your gloomy brow, Jamie, and tell them in the most culinary Gaelic that this is not a fast-day with us, and the ride across the moors has increased our appetites.”
MacDonald followed his custodian down the long corridor, and the king entered the apartment assigned to him.
After sufficient time had elapsed to allow the travellers to remove the traces of travel from their persons, they were summoned to a small room where they found a most welcome and substantial meal set out for them. A generous flagon of wine stood by each trencher; it was the first the king had had an opportunity of tasting since he left his capital, and he seized upon the measure with some eagerness.
“Here’s to the MacLeod!” he cried.
“I drink to the king, and good luck to him!” said MacDonald.
“I drink to anything, so long as the wine is sound,” rejoined his majesty, enjoying a deep draught. “E-god, Jamie,” he cried setting the flagon down again, “that’s better claret than we have in Stirling.”
“There is no reason why it shouldn’t be excellent,” replied MacDonald, “for the laird’s own ships bring it direct from the coast of France to the coast of Skye, and there’s little chance of adulteration between the two.”
When the repast was finished the aged man who had received them at the door entered and announced that MacLeod of MacLeod was ready to greet them in his study. They followed him and were ushered into an oblong room somewhat larger than the one they had left. The king was astonished to find the walls lined with numerous volumes, some of the tomes massive in heavy binding. As books were not over-plentiful even in the realms of civilisation, he had not expected to find them in a corner of the world so remote.
Allaster the Hunchback sat by the side of a huge oaken table, and he did not rise from his chair when his visitors were presented to him, either because he wished the better to conceal the deformity which gave him his nickname, or because he did not consider his guests of such importance as to deserve a more courteous reception. He addressed them in excellent English, and the king constituted himself spokesman for the occasion, MacDonald standing by taciturn, in spite of the excellence of the wine, which indeed he had consumed somewhat sparingly.
“I understand,” began MacLeod, “that you have honoured my poor rugged island of Skye with your presence for some days.”
“The honour, sir, has been ours,” replied the king with an inclination of his head. “I was visiting my friend MacDonald in Sleat and heard of the king’s barge, so we came over to see it.”
“This is your friend MacDonald of Sleat then?”
“Yes. May I have the pleasure of presenting Mr. James MacDonald to the MacLeod?”
The two Highlanders, one sitting, one standing, bowed somewhat distantly to each other as the king, with a flourish of his hand, made the introduction.
“Perhaps,” continued MacLeod suavely, “your friend from Sleat will do a like obligement for yourself.”
“I shall not put him to that trouble,” said the king airily. “I am of such small account that it would be a pity to put upon a Highland chieftain the task of pronouncing my name. I am called the Guidman of Ballengeich, very much at your service, sir.”
“Guidman, meaning farmer of course?” asked Dunvegan.
“Meaning small farmer,” said the king with a graceful inclination of the head.
The tones of the MacLeod had not been too cordial from the first, but they became less so at this confession of low quality on the part of his visitor.
“You will forgive my ignorance, but where is Ballengeich?”
“It is a little steading near Stirling, but of more value than its size would indicate, for I am fortunate in possessing the custom of the court.”
“You cater for the castle then?” asked MacLeod frigidly.
“Yes, in various ways.”
MacLeod turned from his loquacious guest as if he desired to hold no further converse with him, and thus, however crafty he might be, he convinced the king that the castle had no suspicion whom it held. MacLeod said abruptly to his other visitor, fastening his piercing eyes upon him, —
“I heard you were prisoner at Stirling?”
“Prisoner, sir!” cried MacDonald angrily, the red colour mounting to the roots of his hair. But before he could speak further his garrulous companion struck in.
“What an absurd rumour. MacDonald a prisoner! I assure you he was no more a prisoner at Stirling Castle than he is at this moment in Dunvegan Castle.”
“Ah,” said McLeod turning again to the farmer, his eyes partially closing, examining the other with more severe scrutiny than had previously been the case. “He was at liberty to come and go as he pleased, then?”
“As free as air, sir; otherwise how could he have visited my slight holding and thus become acquainted with me?”
“I thought perhaps he had met you in the courtyard of Stirling with a sack of corn on your shoulder.”
The king laughed heartily at this.
“I said a small farmer certainly, but I am not quite so unimportant as you seem to imply. I have a better horse to carry my corn than the one that to-day carried me to Dunvegan.”
The laird ignored this disparagement of his cattle.
“You came to Skye then to see the king’s boat, of which you had heard favourable report? The news of her seems to have travelled very quickly.”
“Indeed and that’s true,” said the king complacently. “Information spreads rapidly in the Highlands.”
“It seems to spread to the Lowlands as well. You heard the king’s proclamation perhaps?”
“Yes, we heard the pronouncement.”
“It’s possible you came from the fleet?”
“No. We came overland.”
“Had you heard of the fame of Malcolm’s boat before you left Stirling?”
“I did not say we left Stirling. As a matter of fact we left the small village of Doune some miles to the north of it, and at that time had heard nothing either of Malcolm or his boat.”
“Hum,” ejaculated the laird, rummaging among his papers on the table. The king glancing in the direction of MacLeod’s hands saw spread out the charter which he himself had signed, giving MacLeod tenure of his land, and beside it, as if this island magnate had been comparing the signatures was the recent draft of the proclamation commending Malcolm MacLeod’s boat. This document Dunvegan passed to the Guidman of Ballengeich.
“You know the king’s writing perhaps? Will you tell me whether this is, as I suspect, a forgery?”
James wrinkled his brows and examined the signature with minute care. “I have seen the writing of his majesty,” he said at last, “but MacDonald here knows it better than I. What do you think of it, Jamie?” he continued, passing on the parchment to his friend. “Is this the real Mackay, or is it not?”
“It is,” said MacDonald shortly and definitely.
“You say that is the actual signature of the king?” inquired MacLeod.
“I could swear it is as genuine as the one on your charter,” replied MacDonald.
“Well, now,” said MacLeod leaning back in his chair, “will you resolve a mystery for me? How is it likely that James Fifth ever heard of Malcolm MacLeod’s boat? and if he did, do you consider it probable that an august monarch would compliment a Highland cateran’s skill with the axe?”
“James is a douce body,” said the king, “and knows more of what is going on in his realm than folk who think themselves wiser might imagine.”
“You hint, then,” said MacLeod, drawing down his black brows, “that his majesty may have spies in Skye?”
“Truth to tell, Laird of Dunvegan, it is more than likely,” admitted the king, with an air of great candour.
The frown on MacLeod’s countenance deepened, and he said harshly, —
“You two gentlemen probably know the fate of spies when they are captured. Their fate is a short shrift, and a long rope.”
“And quite properly so,” rejoined the king promptly.
“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.”
