A Heart In The Highlands

6-2

At last, after walking what seemed to Iona a long way, they came to a small oak door in the outer wall. It was bolted and locked. Cathy drew the bolts and they squeaked and wheezed as if they had not been used for a considerable time. Drawing a key from the pocket of her apron, Cathy turned it in the lock and the door opened. Fresh air and sunshine came flooding in.

Iona looked out on to a terrace bounded by a balustrade, which opened immediately ahead to reveal a steep flight of stone steps descending to the loch. There was no one in sight and she realised that they were on the east side of the castle and out of sight of the bridge that joined it to the mainland.

Cathy whistled and almost immediately there appeared, the head and shoulders of a man coming up the steps. He climbed quickly on to the terrace and came to Iona’s side. He was a big man, roughly dressed and wearing a tattered bonnet on his greying hair.

“This is Dughall, mistress,” Cathy said, and added. “He is ma uncle an’ a guid mon. I’ll be leavin’ him tae talk we’ ye, an’ I’ll be waitin’ by the door.”

The Highlander waited until Cathy was out of sight, then he drew his bonnet from his head and feeling in the headband with toil-worn fingers, he drew out a piece of paper. Without saying a word he passed it to Iona. Quickly she opened it and saw it contained one sentence.

“I must see you, you can trust this man. Hector.”

She read it two or three times until she was quite sure she had not been mistaken. It was from Hector MacGregor, of course, but what was he doing here? She had thought by now that he would be on his way back to France. She looked up at Dughall.

“Where is the – the gentleman who sent this note?”

“I’ll tak ye tae him.”

“Now?” Iona asked.

“Aye.”

“But how?” Iona inquired.

Dughall pointed towards the steps.

“I hae ma boat.”

Iona hesitated for a moment, then turned towards the door and called to Cathy. The girl was waiting in the passage.

“Your uncle wants me to go with him,” Iona said. “I hope not to be long. If anyone asks for me, say I am resting and cannot be disturbed.”

‘Ye can trust me, mistress,” Cathy replied. “But when I return, how shall I get in?” Iona inquired.

In answer Cathy handed her a key.

“I’ll leave the door unbolted,” she said. “Ye hae but tae turn the lock.”

Iona knew that this was not the first time this door had been used as a secret way of leaving or entering the castle, but she had no time for further speculation. She went out through the door, locked it behind her and put the key in her pocket, then slipping her shawl over her head she followed Dughall down the cliff side.

Below them she could see a small boat.

When they reached the end of the steps, Dughall jumped into the boat and reaching up took Iona in his arms and set her down in the stem. Then moving his oars with astonishing silence, he rowed away, keeping under the lee of the land.

It took them a few seconds to cross to the mainland. Trees russet and gold with their autumn foliage grew right down to the water’s edge. Dughall edged his boat in amongst them and Iona saw that they were effectually sheltered from being seen by anyone in the castle. In a silence which Iona realised was not essential but due to Dughall’s native reserve they left the boat tied to a tree stump and started to climb the mountain side.

There was the suspicion of a path which wound sharply uphill beneath pine trees. It was hard walking because the ground was soft and sandy and Iona’s feet, clad only in house shoes, slipped or sank with every step she took.

She was soon finding it difficult to get her breath. Dughall sprang along with the tireless gait of a countryman who was used to covering long distances. Up and up they climbed until Iona felt her lungs were bursting, but just when she felt that she would be forced to sit down and rest Dughall turned inland, and after walking on the level for a few moments they came unexpectedly upon a house.

It was only a small croft roughly built of stone with two wooden shuttered windows, a door and a thatched roof, but there was smoke coming from the chimney and Iona guessed that they had reached their destination.

Dughall opened the door and Iona, entering the cottage, saw Hector sitting by the fireside, his long legs stretched out in front of him, the expression on his face serious as he contemplated the flames. He jumped up at the sight of Iona and held out his arms, she had only the breath to gasp out his name.

“You have come!” Hector exclaimed, hugging her. “I was certain Dughall would manage it somehow and that you would not fail me. Sit down, you look exhausted.”

He offered her his chair and she was glad to obey him, for she had an agonising stitch in her side from the speed with which she had followed Dughall.

“You are out of breath,” Hector said and added laughingly as Iona nodded at him. “I should have warned Dughall to bring you slowly. Many a time he’s walked me off my feet, and I know what you feel like.”

“Wad the mistress tak a sup o’ someat?” a voice asked, and Iona looked up to see a little old woman, wrinkled and bowed with age but with bright eyes which seemed to peer at her like a wild bird’s.

“I would be grateful for a drink of water,” Iona replied, and the old woman bustled away into the shadows at the far end of the room, to return with a rough earthenware pot filled with water.

It was cool and delicious and when she had drunk Iona could at last speak easily.

“Why are you here, Hector?” she asked, and even as she spoke she glanced around her as if afraid they would be overheard.

The old woman had disappeared and Dughall was standing outside the door. There was something in his attitude, relaxed and yet alert, which told Iona he was on guard.

Seeing her glance around, Hector understood.

“It’s all right, Iona,” he said. “Dughall and his mother are my friends and you need not be afraid of anything you say in front of them.”

He set himself down at her feet, his legs crossed, his back to the fire.

“I have something of the greatest import to tell you,” he said.

“But surely it is madness to come here?” Iona protested. “Every minute you spend in Scotland is fraught with danger. I thought that by now you would have already returned to France.”

“My plans are changed,” Hector said. “I am making my way to Skye, but it is not for that reason I wanted to see you. Listen, Iona, for we have not much time.”

He felt in the pocket of his coat, drew out a little black notebook and said,

“This concerns you.”

“Why me?” Iona asked.

“That is what I am here to tell you,” Hector replied. “The night after you left Inverness I was sitting in the bar of a drinking house down by the quay, waiting to see someone with whom I had an appointment, when a man came in. He had just landed and was drunk – very drunk. He had been drinking, he told me, for days, as he was miserably seasick. He insisted on talking to me and I was wondering how to shake him off when after another drink he began to boast.

“He said that he had been sent to France to find out various things and because he was so clever he had succeeded in discovering all that was asked of him. ‘The information I have got here,’ he bragged, producing this little notebook, ‘is worth a pocketful of gold to me, I can tell you that. Gold, me boy, and I’ll make her pay me all right. And why not? If you can’t get money from a Duchess who can you get it from?’ ‘A Duchess?’ I asked curiously. ‘Don’t tell me that the Duchesses in Scotland are reduced to paying their lovers?’ He laughed at that, as I thought he would. ‘It’s not love the Duchess will be paying me for – but information. Shall I tell you something?’ He leaned forward in a tipsy fashion and whispered, ‘She’s English and she hates the Scots! What do you think of that? But, do you know who she hates the worst of them all? I tell you, it’s a belly laugh, but women are like that. She hates the Duke himself. Yes, poor Arkrae, how she hates him!’”

Iona drew an excited breath.

“This man was a Scot?” she asked.

“Of course not,” Hector answered scornfully, “he was an Englishman.”

“Go on.”

“Faith, but you can imagine that by this time,” Hector continued, “I was determined to get possession of the notebook and see what was in it. I did my best to draw the fellow out. I paid for further drinks and he told me how the Duchess had sent him to France to follow the Duke. Arkrae has been in Paris, Iona.”

“I knew that,” Iona said.

“You knew it?” Hector exclaimed.

“Yes, but that is another story,” Iona said. “Go on with yours, Hector.”

“Well, he hinted at this and hinted at that, and kept telling me that he had got it all written down, until I was nearly frantic with curiosity. Then just as I was wondering how I could best knock him out and get hold of the book, he began to get truculent and with a sudden burst of shrewdness and sobriety he accused me of spying on him. Yes, he insulted me although for that matter I was quite prepared to make the first move. It ended, of course, with us going outside. There was just enough light in the moon for us to see what we were doing. He was drunk, but even so he was not a bad swordsman. We fought for ten minutes – then I left him.”

“You killed him?” Iona asked.

“If he’s not dead I promise you that he won’t be seeing the Duchess for a long time,” Hector replied grimly. He opened the little black notebook. “There’s a lot in here which the Prince must know and Brett, but I’ll show you the entries which concern yourself.”

“‘July 5th.’ That was after he arrived in France, sent by the Duchess to follow the Duke. ‘Followed the Duke to the Rue Marie. He spent two hours in No. 27. Discovered later it is the house of Estelle Dupret, mistress of the Jacobite exile, Rory MacCraggan, who died in the spring.’”

“The Duke called on a Jacobite!” Iona exclaimed, her eyes round.

“Rory MacCraggan was dead, don’t forget,” Hector said. “If he hadn’t been, we would have consulted him about Arkrae and the family before you came here. He was exiled after the Rising in ’15. He was pardoned about five years later, but he never went back. I remember hearing the others talk of him, but I never met him. He drank like a fish and found the amusements of Paris very much to his liking. He was not a young man when he was exiled and he must have been very old when he died the other day.

“He always lived with the woman Estelle Dupret and she was the chief reason why he did not return to Scotland. Of course, those who would have given their right arms to return home were angry that he did not avail himself of the opportunity. He lost touch with his friends and just vanished into the slums of Paris, where he spent every penny he possessed on drink and debauchery.”

“He sounds horrible,” Iona said. “Why should the Duke go all that way to see his mistress?”

“Rory was related to Arkrae, of course,” Hector said, “but even so you can see the construction the Duchess’s spy was putting on the fact that the Duke visited a Jacobite household.”

“Yes, I – see that,” Iona said. “What else did he discover?”

“He got in touch with a man whose initial was ‘K’. He is also a spy and one, I gather, who has an intimate knowledge of France and the Prince’s friends. He knows Brett by sight and has trailed him on various occasions. You see the danger in that, Iona. If the Colonel is being watched, he should know it or else eventually they will discover the whereabouts of the Prince.”