CHAPTER XXVI. A TRAITOR KNAVE.

Earl Kenric, on seeing the outlaw and his troops march back in the direction of Rothesay, breathed a great sigh of relief.

The people of Bute were so far safe; much bloodshed had been avoided. The abbot and Elspeth Blackfell had by their simple words reversed the designs of an army. So when the abbot returned into the walled inclosure, Kenric took his hands and reverently kissed them.

"And now, holy father," said he, "let us all offer thanks to God for His great goodness at this time of our need, for God alone can have stayed the hands of these ruffians."

Then the abbot and his friars stood before the many children and moist-eyed women and brawny islanders who crowded into the circle, and all knelt down upon the grass. Never since the gospel of Christ had been introduced into that land had prayers been more fervently uttered.

In the midst of the prayers, Ailsa Redmain, kneeling by Kenric's side, suddenly touched him on the shoulder, and pointed over towards the Arran hills. There, in the direction of Ranza, he saw a great column of black smoke rising in the air.

"Alas for Sir Piers de Currie!" he murmured, and then again bent his head.

But when the prayers were said Kenric quickly rose and climbed the thick wall, and running with all speed to Dunagoil he ordered Allan Redmain to take two ships over to Arran, for that Sir Piers de Currie's castle was in flames.

Not long were the two galleys in crossing the sound. Entering Loch Ranza, they entrapped three ships of the Norsemen that had been sent against the castle while Margad their chief was attacking the castle of Brodick on the eastern side of the island. Attacking these ships, Allan Redmain speedily put the Norse warriors to the sword and took their vessels as prizes.

On the beach he found the gallant knight, Sir Piers, standing in the light of the flames that devoured his home. His wife and six children were clinging to his side piteously weeping. His castle was completely wrecked, and as there was not another fit dwelling for many miles around, Allan Redmain, having driven off the enemies who were on shore, besought Sir Piers to bring his family on board, and with twelve brave men of Arran who had escaped, he was taken over to St. Blane's to such refuge as there remained to him. The beautiful Lady Adela and the Lady Grace de Currie fell into each other's arms, for in the hour of their adversity they were as sisters.

At the time when Kenric was thus receiving his neighbours of Arran, the men whom Roderic had left in charge of the castle of Rothesay were making merry over their victories. A dozen of them, officers of the garrison, sat in the great hall -- the hall in which the good Earl Hamish had met his death. On the bare board of the table there lay a cooked haunch of venison, with other viands that had been found in the buttery, with many cakes of brown bread and drinking horns filled with wine. For these men had not been long in command ere they had broached more than one wine cask with casks of other liquors of a stronger sort, and they grew ever more noisy and more boisterous, this one boasting of how many dogs of Bute he had slain, and that one vaunting that he had with his own hand struck the stripling lord of the island to the ground.

Often one of them would rise from the long bench before the fire and maul the venison with his bloodstained hands, turning it over this way and that; then taking his sword, which had been used that day for a very different purpose, he would cut off a great slice of the meat, and spreading a layer of salt upon it, clap it between two cakes of bread and sit down to enjoy the food. In eating, drinking, and singing wild battle songs, these warriors passed that evening, each thinking himself a king.

Some of the men were wounded, but little did they seem to care; nay, many a one even proudly displayed his bleeding cuts, to prove how sorely bestead he had been in the fight, and the man who had the greatest show of wounds was looked upon almost with envy. To be wounded was next to being slain, and to be slain on the field of battle was the most glorious death a man might die.

"Well, my brothers-in-arms," at length said one who appeared to be their captain, "'tis a good day's work that we have done. So let us drink and be merry. Here's waes-hael to king Rudri of Bute. Long life to him!"

Then the men took up their drinking horns and drank deep to the last drop. But two there were who drank not at all, and they were men of Colonsay.

"Why drink ye not with me?" growled the captain, frowning.

"Because, Thorolf," said one with flashing eye, "I am but ill-content with the way that Rudri broke his plighted word to us. When we set out on this journey, was it that we should but help him to gain his father's island? No. Did he not solemnly swear that he would give us our full meed of vengeance upon the whelp who massacred our children? And what man of us has had that chance? Blood for blood, say I!"

"And so say I," muttered his companion. "Methought when we came here that I should have the chance of driving my spear into a full half score of the children of Bute -- that I might have served them even as the stripling Kenric served my little ones. Saint Olaf curse him!"

"It baffles me," said the first, "to know by what means the women and children of this isle have been spirited away. Not since we landed yestermorn have I so much as seen a living child, nor woman neither, saving only that old witch."

"Ay, and the fighting maid who cut me this wound across my pate," added another. "Methinks this Kenric must surely have got wind of our intention; but how that can be, what man can tell?"

"What then of the thing we found on the moor of Gigha, after the council that King Hakon held?" asked Thorolf the captain. "What man would have slain the young Harald of Islay if it were not some spy of Bute? The lad was stabbed through the back; 'twas in no fair fight that he fell."

"True," said they all. "By St. Olaf, that is surely so!"

"Could we find out in Rudri's absence where these babes and wives of Bute have been so cunningly hidden," said one of the men of Colonsay, "methinks we might well pay out both Rudri and young Kenric. What say you, my bold brothers all?"

"'Tis my belief," said another, "that the old witch who spoke to Earl Roderic had some secret intention in turning us away from yon chapel at the end of the island."

At this the men were silent; but at last one said:

"I'd swear that it was even so. And what say you all if we go thence this very night and fall upon the chapel with fire and sword? 'Tis a straight road from this, and easily found."

At this moment there were footsteps in the outer corridor. Three men entered, dragging with them yet another who was bound with ropes. Their prisoner was David Blair, the farmer of Scalpsie. He had been captured, hiding like a frightened cur, among the rocks of Ascog.

The Norse captain, who could speak the Gaelic, on learning who he was, commanded him, on pain of instant death, to tell where Kenric of Bute had taken the women and children.

The farmer hesitated a moment; then, seeing the captain draw his sword, he gasped:

"Oh, spare me, spare me, my lord! Give me but my life, and I will tell you all. I will tell you where you may find these people, and how you can get at them. But, since death is the punishment wherewith you threaten my silence, tell me, then, what shall be my reward if I tell you this you ask?"

The captain smiled grimly. Then in Danish he said:

"You base inhuman craven! you ask what reward I will give you? Methinks the only fitting reward for such treachery were to have a cauldron of boiling lead poured down your guilty throat. Reward, forsooth!"

"Nay, but I cannot understand, my master. I am but a poor Scot who knows not the Norse tongue. Say, what reward do you promise?"

"Fear not, my man. You shall have your deserts," said the captain. "Tell me, now, or I will even cut you down this instant where you stand trembling."

"The families of Bute -- men, women, bairns -- are all in the abbey of St. Blane's," said Blair. "They are penned up like a vast flock of sheep in the abbey and the chapel, in the chapel vaults, and within the walls of the Circle of Penance. There you will find them, with my lady Adela of Rothesay, and young Kenric himself, and Allan Redmain that murdered my poor dog --"

"Enough!" cried the captain sternly, "and now for your reward."

Then turning to one of the men who had brought in the captive, he added:

"Hundi, this man is a traitor, and as a traitor he must now be served. You will therefore conduct him to the topmost towers of the castle, and taking the rope that now binds him, you will tie a shipman's noose about his neck and let him hang in mid-air, that the carrion crows may taste the flesh of one of the meanest cowards in the isles."

Then, as the farmer was taken away to his death, Thorolf the captain paced the floor moodily, speaking not a word.

"What said this man, Thorolf?" asked one of his comrades. "Come, tell us where we may find these people."

"That will I tell to no man!" said Thorolf firmly, "and as I am captain here, these are my orders: that if any man seek to discover where these families are now harboured, or if any man does aught to further molest the people of Bute, he may expect a reward equal to that of the traitor who has now gone to meet his deserved death. There are ropes in Rothesay for all who dare to disobey me!"

"Coward!" muttered one of the men of Colonsay, rising and passing out of the hall, "think you that you alone could understand that man? I heard his answer, and by my sword, I mean to act upon it;" and thereupon they all stood up and followed, taking their arms and leaving Thorolf alone beside the fire.

Later on that evening, when Sir Piers de Currie with the friars of St. Blane's were sitting quiet in the abbey refectory, when the Lady Adela and the mothers of Bute were busy putting the little ones to sleep, Earl Kenric was walking to and fro in front of the gate of the Circle of Penance. He carried his naked sword in his arms, and he wore the heavy chain armour that had not been put aside for four long days. He was very weary, for he had had a long day's fighting, and no sleep had he known since the night of his adventure in Gigha.

He was thinking now of all that had passed, and of the many men, his companions and faithful vassals, who now lay dead. Also he was wondering what had become of the wild girl Aasta. She had done many things for which he owed her deep gratitude. Not only had she given him the great sword of Somerled, with which he had done so much in defence of his people; but it was she who had warned him of the coming of the enemy; it was she who had gone over with him to Gigha, and made it possible for him to learn the plans of the Norsemen. (She had there saved his life, though Kenric knew it not.) It was she who had told him that the great pirate Rudri was his own evil uncle Roderic. He was accordingly much concerned for her safety, and much troubled in his fear of what had happened to her.

Suddenly, in the midst of his musing, someone passed him like a rush of wind. In the dim evening light he saw Ailsa Redmain.

"Ailsa!" he cried, "where go you? Why do you thus come out here where you know full well that none but men may come?"

"My lord," said she, "it is little Ronald Campbell that I seek, and his sister Rachel. We cannot find them, and they have not been seen by anyone since evensong. Methinks they must have crept under the gate and so wandered into the grove."

"Are there no men who could seek the children as well as you? Go back, Ailsa, and let me seek."

But as he spoke, he heard the sound of children's laughter from among the birch trees, and, believing that Ailsa was turning back, he ran forward towards the woods.

Now little Ronald Campbell was the same who had picked up Earl Kenric's gauntlet on the day of his throning on the Great Plain.

Scarcely had Kenric entered the grove when the laughter he had heard was changed into a scream of terror. Little Ronald, dragging his sister by the hand, came running towards him, pursued by a score of savage Norsemen. Kenric was about to snatch up the children in his arms when he saw it was too late. The Norsemen were upon him. He gripped his sword and stood his ground. At the same moment Ailsa Redmain brushed past him and took the little Ronald by the hand. One of the men of Colonsay darted forward, levelling his spear, and with its sharp point caught the little Rachel. The child fell down, and the spear was but caught in her woollen frock. In an instant Kenric had leapt forward, swinging his sword in air. His heavy blade crashed into the man's skull. Then other twenty men surrounded Kenric, menacing him and pressing forward to reach the children he defended. A man of Colonsay caught Ailsa by her hand, and with his dagger was about to take her life. With a great cry of furious rage Kenric sprang upon him and felled him.

Closer still the Norsemen pressed in upon him. But Ailsa lay down at his feet with the two little ones clasped tightly in her arms, protecting them as a moor hen protects her chicks under the cover of her spreading wings. Kenric, sweeping his blade from right to left, felled every man who came within a couple of paces of Ailsa, until at last the yelling warriors drew back, leaving the young earl standing in the midst of a circle of dead men, with Ailsa and the two children still unscathed.

Then as the enemy, reinforced by many of their comrades from among the trees, and ranking themselves shoulder to shoulder, drew in again, suddenly a shower of arrows poured upon them, and a troop of the men of Bute rushed forward from their ambush.

From another direction a warrior on horseback appeared and crashed in among the Norsemen, felling them with mighty strokes of his heavy battle-axe. Then followed such a slaughter of the Norsemen that in a few minutes not one was left alive.

The warrior on horseback threw his battle-axe upon the ground, and drawing rein, sat upon his saddle with folded arms, and Kenric saw by his armour that he too was one of the enemy, and he marvelled much.

The men of Bute were now eager to make an end of that stranger, for they thought that he was the leader of the men who had thus attempted to surprise the guard and make inroads upon the abbey. But, seeing the man sitting so calm upon his horse and unarmed, they lowered their weapons.

This stranger horseman was Thorolf the captain, who had followed his rebel guards with intent to intercept them.

"Young man," said he to Kenric, "I know not who you are, but by the circle of dead men now lying about you, and by the prowess whereby you have saved the lives of these three children, I judge that you can be none other than the young king of Bute."

"That, sir, is so," said Kenric, wiping his sword upon a mossy stone and sheathing it. "And who are you, my master?"

"The captain of these rebel scoundrels -- Thorolf Sigurdson of Benbecula," said the warrior, uncovering his head of ruddy curls. "I have been left warden of the castle of Rothesay by Rudri Alpinson; and now do I swear on mine honour, my lord, that this matter that hath just befallen is none of my doings, for I would fain have prevented it. But 'tis but an hour ago that one of your islanders was brought in a prisoner to Rothesay, and it was he who betrayed the harbourage of your people."

"Who was that man?" asked Kenric with wrathful voice.

"His name, my lord, was David Blair. He is now, for his betrayal, dangling at a rope's end from the western tower of Rothesay Castle."

"Well have you served him," said Kenric; "and now for your courtesy I thank you, Thorolf Sigurdson."

Then Kenric bade Ailsa Redmain return with the two children to the abbey.

"And now," he added, turning to the captain, "since you are here I would beseech you to grant me a few days' truce, that we may have time to bury our dead."

"For the matter of that," said Thorolf, "I would willingly extend the truce until the return of Rudri. For there are, if I mistake not, many matters to attend to beyond the burial of the slain. The men of Colonsay, as I hear, have played sad havoc with your homesteads, and it were well that these were put again into decent repair."

"Your terms are more favourable than I had hoped for," said Kenric, "and I well see that you are a man of honour."

"My lord," said Thorolf, "much do I commend and admire you for what you have done in protecting your islanders. That protection, I do assure you, was much needed, for had your people remained in their homes not one of them would now have been alive. But I swear that they are henceforth safe from all further peril. And now, for my own curiosity alone, I would ask you how it happened that you were so timely warned of the danger that threatened you, my lord?"

Kenric told how William MacAlpin had come to Bute, and how he himself had spied upon the council of King Hakon in Gigha.

"Ah, then, 'twas you who slew the young son of John of Islay?" cried Thorolf, though not in anger. "The lad was found dead on the very rock you speak of."

"Not so," said Kenric; "I slew him not. And 'tis now for the first time I hear that he is dead."

"But you had companions?"

"A girl was indeed with me. But -- ah, surely Aasta cannot have done this thing?"

"Aasta? That is a Norse name. Well, 'tis no business of mine," said the captain; "and now will I return to Rothesay well content that your people have received no greater injuries than they now suffer at the hands of my friends your enemies. Give you goodnight, my lord."

"By my faith, a right honest man!" said Kenric as Thorolf rode away.

"And a good Christian, if I mistake not," said the abbot, who had heard the conversation.

"Ay, and a gallant soldier to boot," added Allan Redmain. "But for his turning upon those ruffians, methinks it would have gone ill with Kenric and my sister Ailsa."

"God be thanked for our escape," murmured the abbot. "And now, if Roderic and his crew come not back over soon, all may yet go well with us. At sunrise we will all set forth with picks and shovels and give a true Christian burial to both friend and foe alike. And God rest their souls, one and all."