Historical Novel - The Flight of the Heron (Historical Novel)

They were at the top of the pass at last, and had a fine view before them; but the captive did not find it so, the mountains being too high for his taste and the downward path too steep. Stones rolled away from beneath the grey’s hoofs; now and then he slipped a trifle, for which his owner, leading him carefully by the bridle, apologised. He would not have come this way, he said, but that it was the shortest from the spot where he and Captain Windham had ‘chanced to meet’, as he put it. And then all at once the descent was less steep and they were looking down on a glen among the mountains, with a little lake, some signs of cultivation, grazing sheep and cattle, and, in the midst of trees, the roof and chimneys of a house, whence a welcome smoke ascended.

“There is Loch na h-Iolaire,” said the young Highlander at Captain Windham’s bridle, pointing to the sheet of water; and he paused after he had said it, because, though Captain Windham could not guess it, he never came upon the loch from any point of the compass without a little fountain of joy bubbling up and singing to itself in his heart. “And there is the house of Ardroy, our destination. I am sure that you will be glad of a meal and a bed, sir.”

Keith admitted it, and the descent continued, in the face of the sunset afterglow. His captor did not live in a cave, then—but the Englishman had abandoned that idea some time ago. Indeed Mr. Cameron was apparently a landed proprietor with tenants, for besides sheep, goats and cows, there were a good many roughly constructed cottages scattered about. By and by, skirting the end of the little lake and its birch-trees, they struck into another track, and Keith saw the house in front of him, a simple but not undignified two-storeyed building of which one end was slightly lower than the other, as if it had been added to. Over the porch was a coat-of-arms, which successive layers of whitewash had made difficult to decipher.

“I expect that my aunt, who keeps house for me, and my guests are already supping,” observed the young owner of this domain, assisting his prisoner to dismount. “We will join them with as little delay as possible. Excuse me if I precede you.” He walked in and opened a door on his right. “Aunt Marget, I have brought a visitor with me.”

From behind him the ‘visitor’ could see the large raftered room, with a long table spread for a meal, and a generous hearth, by which were standing an elderly man and a girl. But in the foreground was a middle-aged lady, well-dressed and comely, exclaiming, “My dear Ewen, what possesses you to be so late? And what’s this we hear about a brush with the Elector’s troops near Loch Lochy? . . . Mercy on us, who’s this?”

“A guest whom I have brought home with me from the Glen,” replied the late-comer. “Yes, there has been a skirmish.—Captain Windham, let me present you to my aunt, Miss Cameron, to Miss Grant, and to Mr. Grant, sometime of Inverwick.”

Keith bowed, and the two ladies curtseyed.

“You are just going to sit down to supper?” queried the master of the house. “We shall be glad of it; and afterwards, Aunt Margaret, pray find some bandages and medicaments for Captain Windham, who has met with a bad fall.”

“I had perhaps better tell you, madam,” interpolated Keith at this point, holding himself rather erect, “that, though Mr. Cameron is kind enough to call me a guest, I am in reality his prisoner.—But not one who will put you to any inconvenience of wardership,” he added quickly, seeing the look which passed over the lady’s expressive countenance. “I have given Mr. Cameron my parole of honour, and I assure you that even ‘the Elector’s’ officers observe that!” (For he believed so then.)

Miss Cameron surveyed him with humour at the corners of her mouth. “Every country has its own customs, Captain Windham; now I warrant you never speak but of ‘the Pretender’ in London. You are English, sir?”

“I have that disability, madam.”

“Well, well,” said Miss Cameron, breaking into a smile, “even at that, no doubt you can eat a Highland supper without choking. But take the Captain, Ewen, and give him some water, for I’m sure he’ll be wanting to wash off the traces of battle.”

“I should be grateful indeed,” began Keith uncomfortably, wondering how much blood and dirt still decorated his face; but his captor broke in: “You must not think that I am responsible for Captain Windham’s condition, Aunt Margaret. His horse came down as he was riding to fetch reinforcements from Kilcumein, and he was disabled before ever I overtook him.”

“An accident, sir—or was the poor beast shot?” queried Miss Cameron.

“An accident, madam,” responded Keith. “A heron, I presume it was, rose suddenly from the lake and startled him; I was riding very fast, and he came down, breaking his leg. I twisted my ankle, besides being stunned for a while, so that I must apologise if my appearance——” And this time he put up his hand to his forehead.

“A heron, did you say?” exclaimed Ewen Cameron’s voice beside him, surprised and almost incredulous. “A heron brought your horse down?”

“Yes,” replied Keith, surprised in his turn. “Why not, Mr. Cameron? An unusual mischance, I dare say, and none of my seeking, I assure you; but it is true.”

“I don’t doubt your word, sir,” replied the young man; yet there was something puzzled in the gaze which he turned on his prisoner. “It is . . . yes, unusual, as you say. Herons, as a rule——” He broke off. “If you will come with me, Captain Windham, you shall refresh yourself before we eat.”

* * * * *

Captain Windham sat down to a better supper than he had met since he left London, and even in London he would not have tasted such trout and venison, and might well have drunk worse claret. Out of regard for him, perhaps, or out of discretion, the conversation never touched on political matters, though he thought that he could feel a certain excitement simmering below the surface of the talk. (And well it might, he reflected; had not the master of the house this day committed himself to overt hostilities against His Majesty’s Government?) The elderly gentleman in the grey wig, who appeared to have been living recently in Paris, discoursed most innocuously of French châteaux and their gardens, with frequent references to Versailles and Marly, and appeals to his daughter—“You remember the day of our little expedition to the château of Anet, my dear?” Keith would have thought the deserted shrine of St. Germain a more likely goal of pilgrimage, for he took Mr. Grant, from his mere presence here, to be a Jacobite.

But surely his daughter would have preferred to this mild talk of parterres and façades a recital by Mr. Ewen Cameron of his afternoon’s prowess! As far as their personal conflict went, Captain Windham was perfectly willing that this encounter should be related by a victor who was evidently disposed to allow the fullest weight to the physical disabilities of the vanquished; yet he was grateful for the tact with which Mr. Cameron (in his presence at least) had glossed over the flight of the Royal Scots from the bridge. Only questions, indeed, drew from him the partial information which he furnished. He would tell them more afterwards, no doubt. . . . Who was this pretty Miss Grant with the blue fillet in her dark hair—a kinswoman? If she was the future mistress of the house, young Cameron had good taste. So, to be just, had the lady.

But, despite the courtesy shown him, the unwilling guest was not sorry when, very soon after supper, it was suggested that he should retire, for his ankle was painful and one shoulder ached, though he protested that he could look after his own hurts. His conqueror showed him to his bedchamber exactly as a host might have done. The room was of a fair size, and had good old-fashioned furniture; and, presumably because it had been for some time unused, there was even a fire burning. An elderly woman brought up a crock of hot water, a salve and linen for bandages, and the Englishman was then left to her ministrations. And it was not long before his discreet questions had drawn from this dame, who was not very communicative, and spoke English as though it were a foreign tongue to her, the information that Miss Grant was to marry the laird in the autumn. Keith privately hoped that the prospective bridegroom might not find himself in prison before that time, as a consequence of having laid hands on himself—if of nothing worse—though, after that venison, he resolved that he would not lift a finger to send him there.