Prince Across the Water
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Authors: Jane Yolen and Robert J. Harris
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Prince Across the Water
Jane Yolen and Robert J. Harris
To David
,
who has shared all my Scottish
sojourns and stood with me
on Drummossie Moor
.
âJY
To Kirsty and Mark, to Nik
,
and to Elspeth
,
the next generation
.
âRJH
CONTENTS
RAISING THE BANNERS: AUGUSTâSEPTEMBER 1745
2Â Â THE KING ACROSS THE WATER
CHOPPING NETTLES: MARCHâAPRIL 1746
PRINCE IN THE HEATHER: MAYâSEPTEMBER 1746
A PERSONAL HISTORY BY JANE YOLEN
A PERSONAL HISTORY BY ROBERT J. HARRIS
I. RAISING THE BANNERS
AugustâSeptember 1745
Ah, who will play the Silver Whistle?
When my King's son to sea is going?
As Scotland prepares; prepares his coming!
Upon a dark ship on the ocean
.
âScottish folksong
1 CROSS OF FIRE
Mairi was the first of us to see it. She came flying into the cottage, her yellow hair streaming behind her like straw in the wind and the fringe near covering her eyes. Her ankle-length skirt had torn halfway from its belt so that she was all but running in her petticoats.
“There's fire on the mountain,” she cried. “They're coming! They're coming at last.”
She bumped into Ma, almost spilling the plate of fresh-baked bannocks all over the floor.
“Take care, lass!” Ma said. “When the horse is at the gallop, the bridle's over late.” She meant to chide Mairi, who was always moving before thinking, but as usual Mairi hardly noticed the scold.
Andrew and Sarah started giggling so hard that crumbs of cheese fell from their mouths onto the wooden table. Da silenced them with a hard look and took a swallow from his ale cup. His looks were worth two times Ma's old “says,” but that never stopped her from using them.
“Where's she been off to now?” growled Granda from his place at the hearth. “It's night and not a time for lassies to be off alone. Not disordered the way she is. Look at the state of her clothes. For shame, lass.” He took a deep breath before going on. “Catriona, ye should keep her on a bridle, or she'll be away into the mists before ye can stop her.”
But Mairi was listening to none of them. Instead she leaped up and down, her bare feet scarcely touching the floor. “But they're
here
!” she cried in a pleading voice, turning to me, who was ever her champion. “Just as I always said. Duncan, tell them.”
My mouth was full of bread and I had to swallow before I could speak. “Who, then?” I asked at last. “Who's here?” Though I feared I already knew what she would say.
She slid to her knees at my feet. “The
Sidhe
, Duncan. The faerie folk. Come here from the other side of the water. And their prince will be riding at the head of them all, mounted on a butterfly, with jewels flashing in his hair.”
“Shush!” Da growled, since the look had clearly not worked. “I've told ye before to wheesht with that nonsense, girl.”
“But it's
true
!” Mairi insisted, still looking at me, waiting for me to support her. “I told ye he'd come for me one day.”
We all knew Mairi was soft-headed, a daftie they called her in the village, a girl who saw faeries under every leaf and flower. Usually I was ready to humor her harmless fancies. They hurt nobody and there were already enough people willing to make fun of her. I protected her when I could.
“Dinna
ye
believe me, Duncan?” she asked, turning her petal face up to me. Her green eyes had the sheen of a holly leaf.
Da was about to warn her again when Ma raised a hand. “Listen, Alisdair,” she said to him, “there
is
something going on.” She put the plate of bannocks down on the table and cocked her head.
Ma was right. We could all hear the voices outside, now. I stared down at Mairi, her face aglow, her eyes huge in the flickering firelight.
Could it be true? Could it really? The faerie folk riding down the mountainside into our village, all the bells a-jangle on their horses' bridles?
Then I shook my head. I would be crazy myself if I believed in my sister's nonsense.
Da was up now and, in three great strides, out the door. Granda hauled himself to his feet, moving stiffly after.
Jumping up, Mairi pulled me off the bench. “Come, Duncan, come! Before the fey folk all disappear!”
She dragged me to the open door so quickly, we tripped over Andrew and Sarah as they scampered in front of us. Mairi shooed them on like a dog after straggling sheep, all the while belting up her plaid again.
Outside the stars were bright in the clear August sky and there was a tang in the air from the stacks of peat we'd stored to keep our fire burning through the winter.
A tangle of voices coursed over the road and, as usual, my uncle Dougal's voice rang loudest of all.
“It's come!” he was shouting, pointing to the west, then making the sign of the cross over his broad chest. “The summons has come.”
His family followed his lead, gasping, crossing themselves, while his wife, my aunt Fiona, cried, “Oh, oh, oh!” over and over again as if she were more afraid than pleased. The other neighbors cried out as well, an infection of fear and awe.
Then I saw where he was pointing. There on the dark hillside above us blazed a cross of fire, like a sword that had been heated to a crimson glow. Flames danced along the outstretched arms and the fire swayed from side to side as the messenger who had borne it trotted onward to the next village.
“Creau toigh,”
Da breathed. “The Cross of Shame.”
I knew then what the burning thing was: the Fiery Cross that summoned the men of clan Donald to follow our chieftain into war. Any man who failed to answer the call would live with the shame forever. I smiled slowly. No man of our village would ever fail in his duty to the clan.
Granda broke into a craggy grin. “At last,” he said, his old voice breaking with a kind of pride.
“Nae, nae,” Ma scolded, adjusting the plaid over her head for she'd had no time to find her white kertch. “The devil with ye men. All ye live for is war and glory. Well, hope is sowing while death is mowing. War is no respecter of families. Is it no enough we've children all but starving and nae crops in the field? And three years in a row a ruined harvest?”
“Hush, woman,” Granda said. “What do ye know of honor? We fight for our clan and because our laird calls us out to do our duty. And our duty is to put the rightful king back on the throne.”
The rightful king! James Stuart. My heart nearly burst in two thinking about him across the sea in exile while that usurper, that German lairdie, ruled in London. When everybody knew it should be a Scotâand a Stuartâon the throne. Granda was right. What did Ma, or any woman, know about honor, or about the glory to be won for the MacDonalds when we helped bring the rightful king home?
“Ye see, Duncan,” Mairi squeaked, tugging on my sleeve and dragging me far from the cottage, “they're coming.” She pointed after the burning cross. “That's the sign. The whole host of the Sidhe are on their way. And my faerie prince will be at their head, ready to take me to his palace in the west.”
“Nae, Mairi,” I told her, trying to be gentle, even though I was annoyed with her, “come away.” She was acting just like Ma. She did not understand a thing. “It's got naught to do with faeries. Who's coming is a real live man, the bonnie prince from across the waterâCharles Stuart, son of the rightful king of Scotland and England. He's coming to win the war that will bring his father home and we're to help him, we MacDonalds and the other Scottish clans. The prince is here to get his throne back. He's no here for ye.”