Part 15 (1/2)
I walked to the window and looked down. The night was now dark, but below a glimmer from the taproom window lit the ground. It was a court paved with cobblestones from the beach, where stood one or two waggons, and at one end of which were the doors of a stable. Beyond that a sloping roof led to a high wall, at the back of which I guessed was a little wynd. Once I were there I might find my way through the back parts of Leith to the country, and borrow a horse and ride to Tweeddale.
But all was hazardous and uncertain, and it seemed as if my chance of safety was small indeed. I could but try, and if I must perish, why then so it was fated to be.
”Nicol,” said I, ”bide here the night to keep off suspicion, and come on as soon as you can, for the days have come when I shall have much need of you.”
”There's but ae thing to be dune, to tak to the hills, and if ye gang onywhere from the Cheviots to the Kells, Nicol Plenderleith 'ill be wi'
ye, and ye need hae nae fear. I ken the hills as weel as auld Sawtan their maister himsel'. I'll e'en bide here, and if ye ever win to Dawyck, I'll no be lang ahint ye. Oh, if I could only gang wi' ye! But, by G.o.d, if ye suffer aught, there'll be some o' His Majesty's dragoons that'll dree their wierd.” My servant spoke fiercely, and I was much affected at the tenderness for me which it betokened.
”If I never see you again, Nicol, you'll watch over Marjory? Swear, man, swear by all that's sacred that you'll do my bidding.”
”I swear by the Lord G.o.d Almighty that if ye come to ony scaith, I'll send the man that did it to Muckle h.e.l.l, and I'll see that nae ill comes ower Mistress Marjory. Keep an easy mind, Laird; I'll be as guid as my word.”
Without more ado I opened the window and looked out. My servant's talk of taking to the hills seemed an over-soon recourse to desperate remedies. Could I but remove my sweetheart from the clutches of my rival, I trusted to prove my innocence and clear myself in the sight of all. So my thoughts were less despairing than Nicol's, and I embarked on my enterprise with good heart. I saw the ground like a pit of darkness lie stark beneath me. Very carefully I dropped, and, falling on my feet on the cobblestones, made such a clangour beneath the very taproom window that I thought the soldiers would have been out to grip me. As it was, I heard men rise and come to the window; and, crouching far into the lee of the sill, I heard them talk with one another. ”Tut, tut, Jock,” I heard one say, ”it is nothing but a drunken cadger come to seek his horse. Let be and sit down again.” When all was quiet I stole softly over to the other side, that I might scale the wall and reach the wynd, for I dare not pa.s.s through the open close into the Harbour Walk lest I should be spied and questioned by the soldiers who were ever lounging about.
But some fortunate impulse led me to open the stable door. A feebly-burning lantern hung on a peg, and there came from the stalls the noise of horses champing corn. They were the raw-boned hacks of the soldiers, sorry beasts, for the increase of the military in the land had led to a dearth of horses. But there was one n.o.ble animal at the right, slim of leg and deep of chest, with a head as shapely as a maiden's. I rushed hotly forward, for at the first glance I had known it for my own mare Maisie, the best in all Tweeddale. A fine anger took me again to think that my cousin had taken my steed for his own mount. I had sent it back to Barns, and, forsooth, he must have taken it thence in spite of the vigilant Tam Todd. But I was also glad, for I knew that once I had Maisie forth of the yard, and were on her back, and she on the highway, no animal ever foaled could come up with her. So I gave up all my designs on the wall, and fell to thinking how best I could get into the Harbour Walk.
There was but one way, and it was only a chance. But for me it was neck or nothing, my love or a tow in the Gra.s.smarket; so I tossed my plumed hat, my sword, and my embroidered coat on a heap of hay, tore open my s.h.i.+rt at the neck, put a piece of straw between my lips, and soon was a very tolerable presentment of an ostler or farrier of some kind. So taking Maisie's bridle-and at my touch she thrilled so that I saw she had not forgotten me-I led her boldly across the court, straddling in my walk to counterfeit some fellow whose work was with horses. My heart beat wildly as I went below the archway and confronted the knots of soldiers, who, sitting on a low bench or leaning against the wall, were engaged in loud talk and wrangling.
”Ho, you, fellow, where are you going with the Captain's horse?” cried one. I knew by his tone that the man was a Southron, so I had little fear of detection.
”I'm gaun to tak it to the smiddy,” said I, in my broadest speech. ”The Captain sent doun word to my maister, Robin Rattle, in the Flesh Wynd, that the beast was to be ta'en doun and shod new, for she was gaun far the neist day. So I cam up to bring it.”
The man looked satisfied, but a question suggested itself to him.
”How knew you the one, if you were never here before?”
”It was the best beast i' the place,” I said simply; and this so put his mind at rest that, with a gratuitous curse, he turned round, and I was suffered to go on unmolested.
Down the Harbour Walk I led her, for I dared not mount lest some stray trooper recognised the mare and sought to interrogate me. Very quietly and circ.u.mspectly I went, imitating a stableman by my walk and carriage as I best knew how, till in ten minutes I came to the end, and, turning up the Fisherrow, came into Leith Walk and the borders of Edinburgh.
CHAPTER II
HOW I RODE TO THE SOUTH
The night was full of wind, light spring airs, which rustled and whistled down every street and brought a promise of the hills and the green country. The stars winked and sparkled above me, but I had no mind to them or aught else save a grey house in a wood, and a girl sitting there with a heavy heart. 'Faith, my own was heavy enough as I led Maisie through the West Vennel, shunning all but the darkest streets, for I knew not when I might be challenged and recognised, losing my way often, but nearing always to the outskirts of the town. Children brawled on the pavement, lights twinkled from window and doorway, the smell of supper came out of c.h.i.n.k and cranny. But such things were not for me, and soon I was past all, and near the hamlet of Liberton and the highway to Tweeddale.
Now there was safety for me to mount, and it was blessed to feel the life between my knees and the touch of my mare's neck. By good luck I had found her saddled and bridled, as if some careless, rascally groom had left her untouched since her arrival. But I would have cared little had there been no equipment save a bridle-rope. I could guide a horse on the darkest night by the sway of my body, and it was not for nothing that I had scrambled bareback about the hills of Barns. Maisie took the road with long, supple strides, as light and graceful as a bird. The big ma.s.s of Pentland loomed black before me; then in a little it fell over to the right as we advanced on our way. The little wayside cottages went past like so many beehives; through hamlet and village we clattered, waking the echoes of the place, but tarrying not a moment, for the mare was mettlesome, and the rider had the best cause in the world for his speed. Now this errand which seems so light, was, in truth, the hardest and most perilous that could be found. For you are to remember that I was a man proscribed and all but outlawed, that any chance wayfarer might arrest me; and since in those troubled times any rider was suspected, what was a man to say if he saw one dressed in gentleman's apparel, riding a blood horse, coatless and hatless? Then, more, all the way to Peebles lay through dangerous land, for it was the road to the southwest and the Whigs of Galloway, and, since the Pentland Rising, that part had been none of the quietest. Also it was my own country, where I was a well-kenned man, known to near everyone, so what might have been my safety in other times, was my danger in these. This, too, was the road which my cousin Gilbert had travelled from Barns, and well watched it was like to be if Gilbert had aught to do with the matter. But the motion of my mare was so free, the air so fine, the night so fair, and my own heart so pa.s.sionate, that I declare I had forgotten all about danger, and would have ridden down the High Street of Edinburgh, if need had been, in my great absence of mind.
I was recalled to my senses by a sudden warning. A man on horseback sprang out from the shelter of a plantation, and gripped my bridle. I saw by the starlight the gleam of a pistol-barrel in his hand.
”Stop, man, stop! there's nae sic great hurry. You and me 'ill hae some words. What hae ye in your pouches?”
Now I was unarmed, and the footpad before me was a man of considerable stature and girth. I had some remnants of sense left in me, and I foresaw that if I closed with him, besides the possibility of getting a bullet in my heart, the contest would take much time, and would have an uncertain ending. I was fairly at my wit's end what with hurry and vexation, when the thought struck me that the law and military which I dreaded, were also the terror of such men as this. I made up my mind to throw myself on his mercy. Forbye, being a south-country man, the odds were great that my name would be known to him.
”I have no money,” I said, ”for I came off this night hot-speed, with a regiment of dragoons waiting behind me. I am the Laird of Barns, in Tweeddale, and this day an outlaw and a masterless man. So I pray you not to detain me, for there's nothing on me worth the picking. I have not a groat of silver, and, as you see, I ride in my s.h.i.+rt.”
”Are ye the Laird o' Barns?” said the man, staring. ”Man, I never kent it or I wadna hae been sae unceevil as to stop ye. Be sure that I'm wi'
ye, and sae are a' guid fellows that likena thae langnebbit dragoons and thae meddlesome brocks o' lawyers in Embro. Gang your ways for me. But stop, ye've nae airms. This 'ill never dae. Tak yin o' my pistols, for I'll never miss it. And see, gin ye tak my advice and gin ye're gaun to Barns, gang off the Peebles road at Leadburn, and haud doun by the Brochtoun and Newlands ways, for a' the way atween Leadburn and Peebles is hotchin' wi' sodgers and what-ye-may-ca'-thems. Guid e'en to ye, and a safe journey.” The man rode off and almost instantly was lost to my sight; but his act gave me a.s.surance that there was still some good left in the world, though in the most unlikely places.