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.”
“Well, Malcolm has arrived at Dunvegan to receive into his own hands once more that same proclamation. I asked him, in MacLeod’s presence, if the fleet still lingered in Torridon Bay, and he answered that it did. MacLeod pricked up his ears at this, and thinking he was to get some information, now that I proposed myself as a member of his family, inquired if I knew why it remained so long. I said I had a suspicion of the cause. If Malcolm had not replied to the king’s proclamation it was natural that the fleet would wait until he did. Old Alexander and Malcolm seemed surprised that a response was expected, Malcolm being but a simple yeoman. However, we wrote out a courteous reply to the king, in Gaelic, and Malcolm is to send it to the fleet as soon as he returns to the northern coast.”
“I don’t see how that is to help us,” demurred his majesty.
“Here is my proposal. If you will now write out an order to the admiral commanding the fleet to appear before Dunvegan Castle, I will ride part of the way home with Malcolm, and suggest to him at parting, that perhaps none of the officers of the fleet understand Gaelic, or at least that none can read it, so I will fasten your letter to the other document, and tell Malcolm it is a translation of his Gaelic effusion. Neither Malcolm nor any of his friends at the port can read English, and as he is a simple minded man it is not likely that he will return and allow the laird a perusal. So in that way we may get word to the fleet. Even if the letter is discovered, you will have kept your word, for you promised only not to communicate with Stirling.”
The king pronounced the device a feasible one, and set himself at once to the writing of the letter.
MacDonald succeeded in getting the unsuspicious Malcolm to take charge of the supposed English version of his note, and the king was left to await the result with whatever patience was vouchsafed him. The island had suddenly lost all interest for him and he fervently wished himself safely in Stirling once more. He complimented the girl on the excellent choice she had made, and she returned his compliment laughingly in Gaelic, glancing timidly at MacDonald as she asked him to be her interpreter.
Two or three days later there was a commotion in the castle. The guards on the western headlands reported the approach of numerous ships, and by-and-by from the castle wall itself the fleet could be seen sailing slowly up Loch Follart. For the first time since they had known him, lines of deep anxiety marked the frowning brow of MacLeod as he stood gazing at the approaching vessels. Here were visitors who, if they proved not to his liking, he could scarcely threaten with the dungeons of Dunvegan.
“What do you make of this, MacDonald?” said the chieftain, turning to his future son-in-law, as if already he looked to him for support and counsel.
But MacDonald shook his head, in spite of the fact that his wife who-was-to-be, stood very close to him.
“All negotiations have been carried on by my friend here, and so to him I must refer you. He is the leader of our expedition of two.”
During his brief acquaintance MacLeod had but thinly veiled his dislike of the Lowlander, who had always ventured to speak with him in a free and easy manner to which he was unaccustomed. Instead then of addressing his question to the other, he returned to his occupation of watching the ships manœuvring in the loch before him. But his air of expectancy seemed to indicate that he thought the usual glibness exhibited by the man at his right would bring forth some sort of explanation, but the king stood as silent as himself, his eyes fixed on the fleet. One by one the ships came to anchor and even an amateur in the art of naval warfare could see by the protruding guns that they were prepared for action.
MacLeod could restrain his impatience no longer, so without glancing at his visitor, he said,—
“Perhaps you, sir, can tell me the purport of all this display.”
“Assuredly,” answered the king with a trace of sternness in his tone that had hitherto been absent in his converse with his gaoler. “The fleet comes at the command of the king to take away your prisoners, if they are unharmed, or to batter down your castle if they have been molested.”
“I suppose then I should be thankful they are unharmed?”
“You have reason,” said the king shortly.
“His majesty must set great value on your heads if he sends his whole fleet to succour you.”
“He does.”
“How did he know you were here if you did not break your parole and communicate with Stirling?”
“The king knows there is more going on in Skye than the making of strong drink. I did not break my parole, neither did MacDonald.”
“In spite of what you said to me, you must have told the king before you left Stirling where you were going.”
“I did not.”
“Then word must have been brought to him from Skye?”
“It was not.”
“In that case the only conclusion I can come to is that the king is unaware of your presence here.”
“He is well aware of it.”
“You speak in riddles, my friend. However, I had no real wish to detain you, and you might have gone where you pleased any time this fortnight or more.”
“So you say now.”
“It’s true enough, and if you wish to visit the fleet one of my boats will be ready to carry you the moment you give the order. I told you the first day that if you were a friend of the king’s, or an emissary of his, you could go on your way unchecked. Did I not, MacDonald?”
“You said something of that sort, sir.”
“You denied being a friend of the king’s,” persisted MacLeod, “and said you were but a small farmer near Stirling.”
“I deny yet that I am a friend of the king. On the contrary, I don’t mind confessing to you that I am the greatest enemy he has in the world, and it’s well he knows it.”
“You amaze me. Then you do not wish to meet the fleet.”
“On the contrary, I do, and I ask you to order a suitable boat for me.”
“You shall have the best boat in my possession,” said MacLeod leaving them for a moment to give his command.
In a short time a large boat with ten oarsmen was waiting at the landing.
“They are ready for you,” said MacLeod with an effort at geniality, which gave a most sinister effect to his face. “I am sorry to bid you good-bye, but I hope you bear away with you no ill will against Dunvegan.”
“Sir,” said the king ignoring his compliments, “that boat will not do for me.”
“It is the best I have,” said MacLeod looking at his truculent guest with new anxiety.
“The boat you must bring to the landing is the twenty-six oared barge, which Malcolm MacLeod builded so well.”
The MacLeod stepped back two paces.
“That boat is for the king,” he said in a voice scarcely above a whisper.
“Yes, it is for the king, therefore the king demands it. Give the order instantly that it be brought to the landing, well manned with twenty-six rowers.”
All colour left MacLeod’s face. His next words were to MacDonald.
“Is this true?” he said.
“Yes,” answered MacDonald, “it is true.”
The girl, her wide eyes distended with fear, clutched the arm of her lover. Even she knew this was a case for the headsman, but MacLeod, with not a quiver in his voice, called down to his followers,—
“Bring round the king’s barge, and see it is well manned. I myself will take the rudder.”
The stern face of the king relaxed as he saw this chieftain stand straighter than ever before since he had known him, ready to take on his head whatever might befall.
The girl impetuously flung herself at the king’s feet, and in her excitement forgetting the limitations of his learning, she poured forth a plea for her father in Gaelic. The king smiled as he stooped and raised the suppliant.
“My dear,” he said, “I shall never hear that language without thinking of you, and of my own discomfiture. If it were not that MacDonald stands there with that dour Highland look on his face, it is I would kneel at your feet. Your father is to come with me to Stirling, for I have said he should, and I must keep my word with myself as well as I have kept it with him. Do not draw away your hand, in spite of MacDonald’s scowls, for I have this to promise you. If you and he will accompany us to Stirling, I pledge to you the king’s word that I shall grant you whatever you ask. So you see you need have no fear for your father’s safety.” Saying this, the king, with that courtly manner which so well became him, gave the hand of the girl into that of MacDonald.
Thus it came about that the MacLeod took a voyage he had not intended, and came so unscathed from it that he long outlived the man who was the cause of his journey.