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Authors: Gian Bordin

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BOOK: Summer of Love
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The faint noise of running feet made him prick his ears. Helen? Was she
coming anyway? He got up to meet her. As he came to the corner where he
could see the path from the lochan, he stopped in disarray. Four men were
running up—in front the young man who had put his hand so possessively
on Helen’s shoulder. He held a pistol. Close behind were Helen’s two
brothers and Dougal MacGregor. When they saw him, they yelled.

    
"Hoy, we caught him!"

    
"It’s master Andrew!"

    
"A Campbell of Argyle. Get the bastard!"

    
They were after him! It couldn’t still be Dougal’s oath to kill him? All at
once, it dawned on him that they must have discovered his secret meetings
with Helen. That’s why her betrothed was here! Cold fear shot into his guts.
He dropped the book and quickly retreated, looking for a speedy escape from
the promontory. The boulders and loose scree on the steep slope behind the
rock was tricky to negotiate, and the four would be upon him before he could
reach the ridge above. He rushed to the edge of the rock jutting into the lake.
The water was fifty feet below, dark, cold, ominous. Even if he survived the
jump, he would never make it to his horse. They would catch him easily. He
had no pistols to defend himself, not even his dagger. There was little else
left but to let them take him.
They would hardly kill me… or would they?
fleetingly crossed his mind.

    
And then the first one came running around the corner, sneering: "I’ve got
you, you Sassenach traitor! Messing with my woman!"

    
He raised his pistol and took aim. Andrew stared helplessly. The bullet hit
his left thigh, and he staggered backward under its impact, an excruciating
pain shooting down his leg. Dougal had his pistol out by then too. "Jump"
screamed his mind, and he went over the edge, while another shot rang out.

    
It felt eerie, as he tumbled head over heels through the air. Time seemed
to have stopped. The shock of hitting the water was like jumping onto a hard
rock surface from ten feet up. And then cold darkness engulfed him. He had
forgotten to fill his lungs and almost immediately felt the pressure to breathe.
He gasped. A few air bubbles escaped.
Calm now
he forced his mind as
panic threatened to swallow him. He tried to push himself up to the surface,
but the intense stab of pain in his left thigh made him freeze. The weight of
his wet clothing pulled him down into the murky water at the bottom. The
increasing urge to breathe burned like fire in his lungs. Frantically, he pushed
himself up with his arms alone. Suddenly, the underwater entrance to the
cave opened in front of him. Hanging on with a last effort of will, he pulled
himself through and broke the surface with a desperate gasp. How sweet the
air tasted in his lungs! He held on to the ledge in the cave, recovering his
breath slowly. After a minute or two he dragged himself up and lay on the
smooth rock, watching in dismay the blood ooze slowly through the hole of
his leather breeches.

 

 * * *

 

Shortly after midday, Dougal returned to the clachan, riding a horse.
Instantly, Helen recognized Andrew’s steed. She stared in disbelief, her heart
cramped into a knot; she could hardly breathe. Each painful heart beat
reverberated in her ears like the sound of drums.
Why did he go back? He
promised not to.
Then she corrected herself.
I asked him to promise me. He
never did.
Desperate, she needed to cling to hope. Father came back alone.
Maybe he got away, or were the others digging his grave right now?

    
"Who was it," asked Mary as her husband approached.

    
"Master Andrew—He must have returned to Killin, the traitor." He stared
at Helen with an angry frown. "My own daughter secretly meeting with a
Campbell of Argyle. Have you no sense of honor, child?"

    
Helen averted her gaze.

    
"Did you kill him?" questioned Mary.

    
"We don’t know—he simply disappeared in the lochan. We surprised him
on that rock high above the water. Robert shot him, and he fell over the edge.
We never saw him again. All we saw were a few bubbles of air coming to the
surface. He probably drowned himself, wounded and all. It’s a mighty drop
down to the water, enough to knock a man out or even kill him. The others
are watching the lochan. In a day or two his body will float to the surface.
Then, we can fish him out and dig him into the ground somewhere. Nobody
will ever know."

    
"Unless they find his horse here," retorted Mary sarcastically.

    
"I will exchange it with one of our cousins in Balquhidder. I will also send
one of the boys to Killin to watch the inn."

    
As Dougal gave his account, Helen’s hope rose. He made it to the cave.
Nobody but she knew about it. He must be hiding there. He was wounded.
She must help him. But how could she without giving him away? At another
level, she was disturbed by her mother’s apparent complete lack of emotion
about hearing of the death—the man she believed to be her own son. Did she
have no motherly feelings?

    
The only remark her mother made after her father left was: "Now you see
what you have done."

    
All afternoon, Helen looked out for her brothers and Robert to return,
dreading it at the same time. What if they discover the entrance to the cave?
What if Andrew didn’t make it and drowned as father said? Robert shot him.
Even if he made it into the cave, he might be bleeding to death. Her thoughts
went in circles. She felt a frantic need to run up to the lochan, to search for
Andrew. But she knew that this would only give him away. She was going
crazy. Her eyes constantly strayed to the path to the shielings, expecting the
others to appear any moment, hoping they wouldn’t.

 

 * * *

 

The three young men returned for the evening meal without having found
any sign of their quarry. It gave Helen’s hope a needed boost.

    
Robert boasted: "Your lover boy’s done with. I shot him. Tomorrow or
the day after we’ll fish his bloated carcass from the water." He seemed to
relish painting a gruesome picture.

    
She made no response, ignored him, and avoided his presence. Over these
last two days she had gradually come to the conclusion that she couldn’t
marry this man, that it would be a constant hell. He wouldn’t forgo any
opportunity to remind her that she had cheated on him. She had never been
really sure about becoming his wife. It was only her parents’ pressure, and
particularly her mother’s, that had made her agree in the end. But now her
body revolted at the thought of him touching her. She had to find a way to
call it all off. But then, why couldn’t she marry Andrew. Because he was a
Campbell of Argyle—her father’s stinging words like a barb in her throat.

    
While Alasdair went into Killin to keep a watch on the inn, Dougal,
Robert, and Robin climbed up to the lochan early next morning. They
carefully searched the surface of the lake and combed the shore. But there
was no sign of a body. Helen’s hope that Andrew was still alive grew,
although Alasdair’s report that he didn’t return to the inn fueled her worry
that he might be seriously wounded. She racked her brain for ways to sneak
away to the lochan, but no opportunity offered itself. Her mother and the
other women watched her constantly.

    
In the middle of the night she got up noiselessly from her straw mattress.
As she tried to tiptoe past the partition in the cottage, her mother raised
herself and whispered: "Helen, what are you doing?"

    
"I need to relieve myself."

    
"Wait, I want to come with you."

    
For an instant, Helen was tempted to simply run off, but then abandoned
the thought quickly. All men would be looking for her within minutes. So,
she waited for her mother to join her, and then returned to her mattress,
unable to find sleep. She began to curse herself for having met Andrew a
second time. This wouldn’t have happened if she had been strong enough.

    
The men returned to the lochan the next day and the day after. There was
still no body, nor any report of Andrew’s return to the inn. Helen was getting
more and more desperate. She needed to know what had happened to him.

    
On the fourth day, Mary ordered Helen to return to the shielings. She was
glad to get away from her mother and the other women. Every glance of
theirs conveyed an accusation, a reproach, disdain. But more importantly, she
finally saw an opportunity to check if Andrew was still in the cave. So, rather
than go directly to the shielings, she went first to the lochan. Not a ripple
broke the water’s smooth surface, which mirrored their rock in its stark
beauty. Carefully, she scanned the ridges surrounding the glen. There was no
soul in sight. She quickly ran around the lake to the hidden entrance of the
cave. Another check to assure herself that she wasn’t followed, and she
ducked behind the bushes and crawled into the passage. It was blocked by a
rock. For a moment she was confused. Then she recognized it as one of the
shelves. Andrew must have placed it there. So, he was still inside. Softly, she
called his name. No answer. She called again.

    
"Wait, Helen. I’ll open up," came his muffled response.

    
The rock was slowly moved away an inch and then toppled onto its side,
freeing the entrance. She crawled through. For a moment she could only see
bright beams of light slicing through the darkness in the cave. Then slowly
her eyes adjusted and she saw him kneeling in front of her. He wanted to
embrace her.

    
"No, Andrew. I’ve to hurry. I only brought you a bite to eat, and want to
warn you that father has somebody watching the inn. You must get away
quickly!"

    
"Helen, I can’t walk that far. I got a bullet wound in my thigh."

    
"Show me! Is it festering?" she asked anxiously. Only then did she notice
that he wasn’t wearing his leather breeches, but only short cloth pants, a kind
she had never seen before.

    
"No, I don’t think so. I took the bullet out and cleaned the wound with the
brandy I had in my little flask."

    
She removed the primitive bandage. "It looks ugly, but thank God there’s
no reddening."

    
She wrapped her own kerchief tightly around the wound. Suddenly, she
heard a noise from the entrance. They turned and faced a grinning Robert, his
pistol trained on Andrew.

    
"Your mother was right when she said you would lead me straight to your
lover boy," he sneered.

    
Helen moved to shield Andrew. Robert growled: "Move away, lass, or
you’ll get it too. You deserve it!"

    
Helen faced him defiantly. "Then you have to kill us both!"

    
"Helen, do as he tells you, please!" urged Andrew. "I don’t want you to
get hurt."

    
"Yes, listen to your lover boy, lass!"

    
Reluctantly, Helen rose, grabbing a handful of fine sand.

    
"So I didn’t get you last time. I won’t fail this time." He raised his pistol
for better aim. "This is to avenge my father."

    
"No!" she shouted while throwing the sand into Robert’s face. He swore
and, half-blinded, fired the pistol. Andrew immediately dropped to the side
and the bullet hissed harmlessly past him, ricocheting on the wall behind.
Helen threw another handful of sand, while Andrew lunged for Robert.
Filling the cave with his swearing, Robert quickly overpowered the
weakened and injured Andrew despite his impaired sight. His hands closed
around Andrew’s throat. The latter frantically tried to pull them away, but the
grip slowly tightened. Helen saw his face begin to redden and bloat, as he
gagged. She grabbed the nearest rock and hit Robert on the back of his head.
His grip loosened and he collapsed slowly on top of Andrew. Coughing,
Andrew pushed him away.

    
"Did I kill him?" Helen whispered hoarsely, still holding the rock in both
her hands.

    
Andrew checked Robert’s pulse. "No, you only stunned him… Helen, you
saved my life."

    
He tried to take her in his arms, but she resisted, pushing him away.

BOOK: Summer of Love
2.62Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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