There, in their inundated accoutrements, they put out into the rain a solitary sheltering cow; and through all remaining night hours, the clod roof sweated abundant drops, as if a large cistern was debouching above them. The Prince spat out only one demoralised sentence: ‘It washes away some of this muck upon us at least, my fellows, it washes away the muck at least.’

  At dawn light, O’Neil became cognisant that he had slept the night upon a softened cow pat. The rain and moving mist was ceaseless; small individual clouds rolled across the moorland like wagons. The Prince, thumped by insomnia, impatient in a manner never displayed before, tried to persuade MacEachain to cross the isle to Nunton House, for fresh informations on the two ladies – had they perhaps been taken? MacEachain demurred: ‘I myself cannot leave you, for danger is real and close by. Neither you nor Captain O’Neil can manage well at length in the Gaelic – a situation could arise of misunderstanding, and we must spread a convincing falsity of our true selves often. The tale we spun of us as Irishmen seeking passage home was fine diversion before, and we should repeat it in all instances when credible; if a misunderstanding got afoot in talking without Gaelic to the people of this place, it could divulge up Your Highness to them. These militia are everywhere.’

  ‘I shall go. I shall go for you, sire.’ Captain O’Neil stood. ‘You know I would lay down myself to you, sire. If I am taken, it is as a lone Irish fugitive, and they will wring no knowledge from me until the end of time. Let me go for you; in daylight it will be as a dance compared to our meanders of the night.’

  They watched O’Neil, with his small knapsack, move away into the bog network until he was gone in the cloud.

  ‘Mr MacEachain, now do you believe, as well as serving against my own undeniable hazards, good Captain O’Neil might also be as fresh to see Miss Flora again?’

  ‘Aye, well. There might be a wee flickering light there, sire. You deduce correctly, I think.’

  The Prince chuckled. ‘Well, she comes as a bonnie, bonnie lass – but, Mr MacEachain, I think she inclines somewhat towards yourself.’

  ‘Hush, sire.’

  ‘Why, you blush, Neil. Don’t be so churchy at a snapping lass like yon.’

  And he would have gone ahead teasing, but they both ducked in alarm as two distant figures approached on the shoreline; however, it was now the child and his own mother, the cow-herder from the shieling – as Neil had warned, speaking in the Gaelic alone. They revealed that the militia rose late, but in the mornings they came to them for milk, and even this secondary bothy was too exposed.

  Being so warned and then left, the Prince and MacEachain crouched and moved down onto the only hiding place which existed, the open shoreline, where they found a low boulder to shield them from any landward observation. On its seaward side was a slight concave indentation worn from erosion. They also had to consider possible sightings from passing boats, and in mind of this, into that evil declivity the Prince rammed himself, among the barnacles, urchins, limpets and leathery straps of seaweed, with which they would drape themselves in watery camouflage from any seaborne watchers, should they pass.

  Though MacEachain reclined in the full open, the rock’s dimensions failed to protect the Prince from the vertical rain which poured down. He lodged and clung in there, in this element of seeping liquids, as if he too was some troubled mermaid, crawled from the seas to birth a glistening spawn jelly ashore.

  After some hours in such monotonies, the deluge eased then fully ceased, and the juddering wind too had depleted, but here arose in wafts of mild air swarms of violent midges that coated their faces and hands; they both had to motion ceaselessly, as if soaping themselves in a constant ablution, one hand rubbing the other hand, then both palms furiously slapping the face, like beings afflicted with a deranging tic, and acknowledge that man is not made for this open world, that we come upon the wide earth as strangers not adapted to its nature – indeed, it is our enemy.

  Close by, a crab moved in a series of rapid advances and halts, and the Prince grabbed for it, but missed, before it scuttled back into water. With envy, they thought of the armoured crab and watched seabirds on the wing, which moved through the air unmolested by these infernal mosquitoes. Pocket the hands, but then the face is attacked; their neckerchiefs, ill-suited as face-masks, slipped from brows in their wetness, while the midges penetrated their hair and fed on their scalps.

  ‘Oh my God, Neil, I would as soon walk to the militia and surrender myself up as take this plague for one hour more. These minute demons cause torments beyond their dimensions, an invisible foe. Do you think, Neil, your Lord put some creatures on the earth, and the Devil himself some others, to perish us? Was this debated at your seminary? The strawberry and the yellow honeybee come from God’s handiwork, the barbed stinging hornet and the louse of the itch from the Devil? I am of the opinion there was a fighting factory on the day of Creation, for why bother with these? Curious thought. Yet men swarm the peopled earth too, in our vanities and cities; we seek blood also like these floating termites.’

  They scratched and fidgeted until MacEachain and the Prince checked the whole horizon, crawled on all fours to the sea edge and baptised their entire heads into the salt waves, in search of relief, but after shaking the water clear, in minutes, the swarms were upon them again.

  Yet some hope was offered after midday. The child from the shieling came running on the shoreline to tell MacEachain that the militia men had upped tent and departed. So, they were formally led to their destination, the Prince walking at fair pace ahead, the child having to trot to keep up.

  In daytime, the cow-herd mother of the shieling seemed younger, perhaps even handsome, with her tight collected hair fixed by bone combs back from the face, the cloths bound hard across her small breast, her skirting of rough cloth, stained but slight, for practicalities of movement with no aproning. Her eyes were clear and young, but lines at the side of her face from a toilsome life gave her no certain age between twenty-five and thirty-five. The Prince considered her thoughtfully, his steady countenance always cautious of betrayal in recent days.

  ‘Put the elder child to watch for comers.’

  ‘He is out and at it,’ replied MacEachain.

  ‘How many bairns has she?’

  ‘Three, sire, the two younger in the back room.’

  ‘Three at her youth, such as it is? She takes pleasure in seeking after abundancy. Where is her man? Was he out with us in the rising?’

  ‘No, sire, he has been taken to Barra Isle, for his brother is sick there and it is probable he is unable to return, what with troops demanding passage letters.’

  ‘Hmm. What if he does return and takes alarm at us here with her? Presumes she has taken not one, but two hearty lovers, on her all day as she so loves the act?’

  ‘Sire, please. He is gone a while, and like she, both are trusted by the MacDonalds.’

  ‘Hmm. Were the militias fair to her? They did not try to use her, or paw her, in any particular foul way? For she has a frowsome spirit about her figure, her eyes.’

  ‘No, sire, there were her own people among them, and they took only milk.’

  ‘What food has she here?’

  ‘None this day but cow milk for the bairns; she was to be away for balls of meal from a neighbour, but the troops feared her to leave the elder bairns for a half-day. She has no knowledge who you are, sire, but an Irish officer. It’s better this way, at all times.’

  They were welcomed in, and the Prince greeted her inside the poor shieling cottage with his halting, oddly pronounced Gaelic, and she bowed. He made straight for the new fire in the corner where he sat on a stool, seemingly in a trance, oblivious to all but the pleasing heat. At his side, the woman bent and busied herself, adding more peat clumps, and she hung a bowl then crossed to the crowded corner of chattels, where she dumbly stood.

  Suddenly, to the settled eyes of the woman, the Prince said, ‘I must dry my clothes; tell her to be as accepting as if she were a good campaign-wife; she need not go outside or to the bairns.’ He began to remove his wet clothing – every garment – so for shame, the woman looked aside, increasingly alarmed. MacEachain reassured her. Finally, the Prince was clad only in his damp shirt, which fell like a night gown upon his thin thighs – to offer some little modesty. He bent, revealingly, to place his mud-clagged boots up close to the fire’s edge, so that they soon smoked like two steaming clods of fresh animal dung on a cold day. Sitting on the stool, like a strange fisherman at catch, he used kindle branches to dangle in turn his stockings, breeches, then jacket and trousers, by the hot orange light of the peat, a coiling steam slowly marauding upward off their surfaces as he turned them at angles. ‘Is there anything to eat yet?’

  MacEachain smiled, and in ironic voice stated, ‘Here, sire, see here. She now offers you her finest thick cream, from the most noble of their wide herds, fed on the rich grasses of springtime – the best cream you will taste in Scotland, I would believe.’

  The fevered man missed every tone of the ironic jest and quickly took the bowl of watery hot milk, with a horned bone spoon, from the woman; without thanking her, he thrust the spoon and much of his filthy hand deep into the wooden dish, anticipating lifting a mighty glut of luscious white slime to his lips. Instead, he screamed and cast the bowl and spoon aside, so both clattered on the hearth then fell to the hard mud floor, the liquid hissing back from the fire like a furious, roused tomcat. ‘Putain de merde!’ He flew to his feet, his shirt leaping up and down to wild effect, shaking his right hand and looking at it. ‘Putain de merde, she assassinates me – this witch is a spy. Christ!’ He shook the hand more. ‘What do you set upon me now, man? It is a scalding soup.’

  ‘Sire, I was a-jesting. Pardon me, I was jesting, for it is such meagre fare. It is yesterday’s cow milk.’

  ‘Keep your culinary jests in such desperate hours, man, are you madder than I?’ He turned on the woman. ‘Rustic fool, despite your form, that you should trick me like this.’

  ‘It was I, sire, not she.’

  ‘She is witch and traitor enmeshed; why, she should be goodly lashed for it.’ He licked at the back of his hand. ‘Lashed good and efficiently, with duration.’

  MacEachain spoke harshly to the woman who, terrified, had retreated further into the chattel corner, looking at the floor.

  ‘Strike her one souffler, Neil, and strike her good.’

  MacEachain looked around. ‘Not with my bare hand, sire, surely? With what?’

  ‘You are a schoolmaster, so stroke her steady and severely as one of your errant pupils.’

  Neil MacEachain looked around him. ‘There is the leather of your money pouch belting, sire.’

  ‘No, leave that. It dries.’

  MacEachain crossed to the corner, urging the woman aside, and he crashed items akimbo, some which fell to the ground. He lifted the most exaggerated object that came to hand: a short wooden paddle, not an oar, a coracle paddle. A bairn began to scream in the back room at all this cacophony.

  The Prince sat down again on the three-legged stool, watching. ‘A worthy administrator, but it should be used exclusively on her flesh rump, such as it is, not upon her upper self. We are not brutes of men.’ He stared at the woman. ‘On her rear end there with the skirting, such as it is, pulled fast on that part by her hands alone, so the insulation of each blow is made minimum, and she feels the full biting knowledge of her crime, and it is set a-ringing there, hot and true, for the day long, to remind constantly of me. Put her to recline her frontage across that table and expose the fine target, as one dozen sharp blows are severely delivered. She should be so willing, and it would bring a fine sense of order to her.’ He paused. ‘Were such punishment ever to be carried out, it would remind her. Were it ever to be carried out. Ach. Threaten her with the deed alone, Neil, and let us forget the thing. I am merciful. My humour is poor today, I confess to it.’

  ‘Are you sure, sire? Is the hand injured?’

  ‘No, no, please, now. I reverse my battle orders; I commute the sentence. Leave her be. Leave her be. Woman, woman.’ He slung his arm at her. ‘Drop your alarm. Tell her. Go to that vexed bairn and bring it me here, I want to see it. It would calm me.’

  MacEachain put the paddle down, crossed to the woman, who flinched, and he spoke seriously but with low voice in their language, explaining that his master was a good man who was overlooking her misstep; that he was sore harried, not by ill nature, but from battle scars which were not upon his body, but upon his mind, for a brave Irish fighting officer at the front of line in fierce battle sees pain everywhere around him, and is in association of this danger, which he expects at all times; this hot food had transported him into that injured condition for a few moments only, so he took such immediate offence, but now his condition was tempered to what it should be.

  The woman, clearly traumatised, slowly brought back a crying bairn in arms from the rear room to the near-naked Prince. The man’s nature had utterly transformed, and he stood, gently touching aside the poor swaddling to see the child’s eyes, and remarkably, the child fell silent at his scarred, muddied countenance. In leery fascination, the Prince complimented the woman repeatedly on her child, and he kissed the very injured hand then bestowed royal blessing on the now-silent babe’s brow, commencing a steady translation of praise, through MacEachain, upon her child’s name, its vigour, fair cheeks and her mothering prowess, asking after its age and appetite. The Prince sharply retreated from this line of enquiry soon enough as MacEachain translated details of why feeding from the breast no longer continued et cetera.

  Later, he softly asked her for bedding so he might recline alone by the fire’s heat. It was swiftly brought, and it was another torn sail, so vintage and pandered by coastal breezes as to be soft as linen.

  The Prince slept by the fire, far into the afternoon, with his overcoat as pillow, wrapped up like a slim mast, while MacEachain dried his own outer clothes, draped in his plaid, then dressed. He talked quietly with the mother and bairns in the back room; they discussed figures of the community known to them both, and their varied worthiness, trying to keep near silence, until the urchin came sneaking indoors to warn of a distant figure approaching. This threw both men into new alarms, and the Prince rose in disarray, dressed himself frantically and made to exit from the shieling with such haste that he was in shirt and opened waistcoat alone, his dried long-coat jacket was loose, simply swung over his shoulder in his hand, along with his baggage sack.

  But this figure approaching was only a guide, named Porro-Dan, from Nunton come, bearing gifts in sacking: a cooked fowl and two bottles of wine from the Lady Clan herself, with news that the plan proceeded. The Prince was now delighted, and he stamped his boots in a mad little dance, shedding dried soil onto the floor. The elder child laughed with him, and the Prince enthused to hear that the militias had cleared from this end of the island.

  The tacksman was sent off with relevant messages, then the fowl and wine were hastily consumed, the men tearing the meat with their fingers and sucking clean the bones, the Prince especially swigging jock-fellow-like from the bottle-ends. His fair humour was hugely elevated. The scraps accumulated in the sacking, and some of a single wing, were presented up to mother and urchin, and she was even invited to sit relatively close by him, but on his left side. The Prince took great pleasure, smiling, observing her and her urchin together, gnawing at the fare. ‘Look, MacEachain. Why, earlier today I was to review her sound thrashing, yet now she eats by my side, and knows not she sits with one who has dined with kings of Europe. What a jumbled conjunction you come by in this strange world. Is it not so?’

  Despite his high spirits, with the rain gone, the Prince insisted they should sleep night itself again under open skies. More cautious than the risker of old, he feared that the upturn in his fortunes could be directly reversed by some rogue patrol, so he took dry swaddling rag for his face against the midges. He and MacEachain made towards the lower elevations of heather they had come down from in the ghastly night, and when the loss of light halted them, they found a good cleft in the peat rims to be hidden among, come dawn. MacEachain ripped up a bed of heather for their upper halves, and they wrapped in plaid to sleep side by side.

  At dawn they climbed higher, and there settled for the day’s watch, to keep sentinel for any approach of the Lady Clan, Miss Flora, and their potential entourage – or other more disquieting movements upon this earth and water. But it was a day in utter vain, for not a thing moved upon the lands spread around them, from coast to coast. There was a middling and current breeze, which kept what the Prince called ‘the terror mitches’ away.

  In an unguarded moment, the Prince talked of a fine lady who had cared for him at Bannockburn House, in January month, when he was taken with a savage grippe, whom he named as Clementina, or Clemmy Walkingshaw, possessor of innumerable charms and huge gentility. ‘Walkingshaw, and verily I walked directly in,’ as he boastingly put it to his male companion. Then he became quite poetic in talking of the mysteries of grace found in high women, their mercurial natures and passions, and how this woman revealed ‘hot surprises and revelations’, about which he found it impossible to fathom by what manner she could have come by such proclivities and wily instincts. This again, as was his habit of reasoning, he could but put down to motions and operations of a divine nature alone – for there was no other possible explanation. Other than – he speculated – this woman was driven by the power and influence of moonlight, for she seemed to take pleasure in bathing in it, and was it not possible that the moon which wheeled about the warmed chambers of Bannockburn House at January night, driving its full bars through one window and out the other in their upper floors, might have also communicated some lunar essence unknown to men but receivable only by women, as with the sea tides – as it is known the moon influences their revolving calendars of curse and procreation?

  Neil asked if that was not aired with a tint of heresy, more than considerations of science.

 

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