Glens of Stone, Day Nine

Alison stopped in her tracks and turned to face him. “I don’t know anything about you,” she said

The rider crested the hill and looked across the sun-sparkled River Forth towards the port of Leith and the dark mass of Edinburgh beyond. Another hour or so and his journey would be over. Wearily he passed a hand across his forehead, feeling every one of his 59 years. He was tired and ached from weeks in the saddle. Not for the first time he toyed with the idea of giving up his mission, but the thought of vengeance could not be banished from his mind.

Had it only been two months since the chance meeting with that raddled old woman in an Aberdeen tavern? She’d recognised him despite his whitened hair and the legacy of too much drink. It was obvious she’d lost her fear of him, too, evidenced by the delight with which she’d narrated her tale of duplicity.

“Let bygones be such,” he’d said carelessly, luring her to the nearby harbour area. There, he’d pushed her into the water where, drunk and befuddled, she’d quickly drowned. He dug his heels into the horse’s flanks. There were those in Edinburgh who would come to regret their actions. No-one crossed Thomas McLean. Ever. Revelry

Ewan Ogilvie carefully locked his upstairs room in the Sheep Heid inn and made his way down the rickety stairs, past the main bar room from which sounds of revelry filled the air.

At the outside door he paused, taking a clay pipe of French design from a pocket and lighting it. Puffing contentedly he stepped into the night and walked past the old Norman kirk down to the moonlit waters of Duddingston Loch.

Beneath his feet many white protuberances lay half-buried in the road – sheep skulls embedded as stepping stones for the villagers to use when heavy rain turned the paths into a quagmire.

Within the last two days Ewan had furthered the causes for which he was responsible. He congratulated himself on a job well done and wondered what further tasks lay before him.

The path became steeper as he climbed to the rocky promontory known as Hangman’s Rock from which, legend had it, a former city executioner had hurled himself to his death during a fit of remorse.

At last he stood at the rock’s edge looking down at the water far below. A lone owl flitted across the surface and behind him, on the towering mass of Arthur’s Seat, came the occasional grunts and snuffles of nocturnal animals foraging for food.

He tapped the embers from his pipe and replaced it in his pocket. Then, from his belt pouch, he pulled out a length of white material, part of his disguise as the Reverend Proudfoot. He rolled it into a ball and hurled it into the air. As it fell it unravelled and fluttered, a snake-like ribbon, down to the cold, rippling surface of the loch.

He stood for a while more, then turned and retraced his steps to the village whistling quietly to himself, a satisfied smile on his face. Friendship

Edinburgh baked in the humid July weather. The streets and wynds lacked their usual bustle as the citizens sat on the numerous outside stairways, fanning themselves in an attempt to remain cool and dissipate the foul smell of the heaps of rotten garbage that littered the walkways.

Gingerly Kirsty sidestepped the piles of refuse, a large basket on her arm and accompanied by Ellie. The Mission had been functioning well for three months now and the two girls were on their daily shopping round. A strong bond of friendship had grown between them.

Arriving at the baker’s shop Ellie waited while Kirsty went in to emerge with her basket laden with loaves covered with a cloth to protect them from the flies. “What next?” Ellie asked.

“Just a few potatoes then it’s back to the kitchen. I hope Alison hasn’t gone off again – we need a third pair of hands.”

“You think she’s gone off with her young man again, don’t you?” Ellie suggested. “Sandy’s a gem. So devout and interested in the Mission.”

“And I wish them both well, but she’s aye away when she’s supposed to be helping out.”

“That’s what love does for you,” Ellie said. “There’s them as say it’s a form of madness.” Looking slyly at Kirsty she added softly: “Though it hasn’t affected you that way. We’ve all noticed the way you and young Mr Porteous look at each other.”

“Malcolm and I? There’s nothing between us. Oh, he’s nice enough, and we’re close friends, but...” Kirsty fought for words of explanation. Cocking an eyebrow, Ellie smiled.

“Lassie, as Shakespeare wrote: ‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks’.”

Kirsty looked at her in surprise. “My, but you’re well read for a...” “For a kitchen maid?” Ellie asked archly. “I may have been a foundling but God gave me a brain and I try to use it.”

“I’m sure you do,” Kirsty said softly. “Father says you’ve a good head on your shoulders and it’s true.”

Ellie made no reply but Kirsty saw she looked pleased. Together the girls walked up the street with Kirsty deep in thought. Was the mutual attraction shared by her and Malcolm so obvious? And did she care what others might be thinking? Deep down she knew she didn’t.

Alison Porteous felt the man at her side putting his arm around her waist. Shyly she looked up at him, admiring his craggy handsomeness.

“Father wouldn’t approve, Mr McCrae,” she said, snuggling closer. “He’s very protective.”

“Call me Sandy, for goodness sake. And if I had a daughter as talented and pretty as you, I’d be protective, too.”

As they walked on, hand in hand, Alison was frowning slightly. Noticing it, Sandy gently cupped her chin. “Why the serious face?’

Alison stopped in her tracks and turned to face him. “I don’t know anything about you,” she said. “Just your name.” “Is that all?” He gave a short laugh. “Heavens, I feared some dire news. What do you want to know?” “Everything.” Marvelled

“Well, I first saw the light of day in a little village called Achahoish. That’s in Knapdale.” “I know where it is,” Alison said. “We stayed in Ardrishaig when I was young before Fa– before we came to Edinburgh.”

“I often went to Ardrishaig for provisions. Possibly I was within a few paces of you and didn’t know it,” he marvelled. “Anyway, we moved when I was 11. My father, a forester, hated politics and, it being Campbell country, didn’t favour King George. So he brought us east to Dunbar and that’s where I was reared until I chose to make a life for myself.”

“You’re a Jacobite, then?” Alison asked, and Sandy shrugged. “Like my father I dislike politics, but let’s say I have no great liking for German Geordie.”

“So what do you do now? How do you make a living?” Alison pressed. “I’m a soldier,” Sandy replied carefully, “of fortune. I live by my wits, offering my services to those who need them.” He placed a finger across her lips. “That’s enough about me for now.”

Reluctantly the girl nodded. “Aye. But we’ll talk of this again. For all I know you could be married.”

He grabbed her hand. “Married? Who’d have me?” More tomorrow.