The Reavers. George Fraser MacDonald

that was fun,” mused Kylie. “Can’t complain about boring old travelling, can we? Nay, but Goddy – oh, sweet gossip, what’s amiss?” For Lady Godiva’s damask cheek was flushed like strawberry puree, e’en as she gnashed pearly incisors, and two great tears welled up, teetering on beauteous lids ere they blooped over to burst on her angelic chin.

      “Oh, dear Kylie, I am distraught, my senses riven every which way!” she lamented. “To be so cruelly deceived – my tender heart so wrung, my treasures ta’en … Gosh, but he’ll pay for it, the two-timing rat! What, trifle wi’ me, will he?” And she punched the upholstery with mortified yowls, only to prostrate herself on it a moment later, sobbing and whimpering “Sorry, cushions!” in remorse.

      “Nay, mistress, what gives?” cried Kylie, all anxiety. “You rage, yet heave great sighs! Grind teeth, yet flutter maidenlike! Your mascara’s a mess, incidentally, and you need a hairdresser, pronto –”

      “Ah, fond child, I’m in a state!” Godiva raised her lovely tear-streaked face, oomping piteously. “I hate the smooth Scotch crud … and yet … oh, when he kisses, ’tis like being eaten by a pagan god! In his arms I am molten Jell-o! What am I to do? The softer, weaker, wanton, love-happy me yearns for him e’en now … the low-down rock-snatching renegade!” She sat up, dabbing herself, and sighed dolorously. “And yet … my better, sweeter, gentler self is consumed wi’ such longing … to see him dragged to the gibbet, half-hung and disembowelled, his quarters sent by parcel post, and what’s left swinging in chains for the crows’ elevenses … the adorable sexy big beast!” She did another gnash and sigh, her eyes shining like soft acetylene. “He hath rendered me schizo quite. Ah, faithful Kylie, of your charity, advise me. What am I to do?”

      “Abate these fancies, you’ll get over it,” counselled Kylie, setting compassionate arm round Godiva’s shoulders. “Sure, this Gilderoy is Superman on wheels, but the woods are full of them. Thy timely need is for a nice warm bath, a flask of peach brandy on the bedside table, and a good, long sleep …” The sound of hoof-beats and stern voices was heard outside the coach. “In the meantime, the marines have landed, so let us e’en compose ourselves – who knows, there may come now some gallant young officer whom you’ll want to bowl over, and ’tis not meet that the proud Godiva D. should be seen looking like a lovelorn bag lady.”

      “Ah, little Kylie, so wise beyond thy years,” murmured Godiva, kissing her companion’s cheek. “Thy comfort is vain, I fear, yet would I requite thee for it.”

      “No problem,” said Kylie promptly. “Lend me some of your spare jewellery, buy me a runabout coach ticket, and wish me luck.”

      

      ^* Alert readers may think they have spotted an anachronism in this paragraph, since the first public performance of Macbeth did not take place until 1610. In fact, Godiva and Kylie had attended the sneak preview held in the 1590s, after which the play was shelved for more than a decade because Burbage refused to appear in a kilt.

      ^* For the record, Gilderoy, alias Patrick Macgregor, was a dashing Scottish highwayman whose victims included Oliver Cromwell and Cardinal Richelieu (yes, he operated in France, too). He was famously handsome and well-dressed, and the lethal quality of his kisses is suggested by the ballad in Percy’s Reliques which refers to his “breath as sweet as rose”, and describes him as “sae trim a boy” with “two charming een” and “costly silken clothes”. No wonder Kylie was impressed.

       On which tender note we end Chapter Two, with our Heroine in bittersweet turmoil, Gilderoy off with her bijouterie, and Kylie wondering hopefully if he’s got a younger brother, maybe. Elsewhere the surviving Charltons are emerging from the ditch, demanding Band-Aids and revenge, and as for Archie Noble’s supper … but let’s not talk about food just yet, for in a cave under the dreaded Eildon Hills things are happening which would ruin the keenest appetite…

       Chapter 3

      The Eildons are those three peculiar eminences, rather like green slagheaps, which you see on crossing the border at Carter Bar. They’re just hills, but there’s something not quite canny about them in that regular landscape, and you’re not surprised to learn that legend links them with sorcery and black magic, for it was here that a celebrated medieval necromancer, mathematician, and Scotsman-on-the-make, Michael Scott, known locally as Mike the Magic, cast some of his best spells, when he wasn’t blinding the experts with legitimate science at the universities of Bologna, Toledo, Paris, and Oxford. He must have been pistol-hot, academically, but however sound he was on Aristotle, astronomy, and long division, his forte was wizardry, and long after his day the Eildons continued to be a sort of social centre for alchemists, witches, thaumaturges, Satanists, and enough supporting fiends and goblins to stock a Dennis Wheatley novel.

      Especially in the sixteenth century, which is why we now approach the fearsome triple hills with wary tread, chewing garlic and muttering “Tripsaricopsem’ to ward off evil spirits, for it is still dead o’ night, and bitter cold wi’ sleet and wind, and as we stumble through the gullies, leaping three feet whenever a bat squeaks or a sheep rumbles, and Fearsome Shapes seem to come and go in the murk, frankly we’d rather be in Philadelphia. But this is where the plot is happening, down there in a dank and dismal cave at the very roots of the Eildons, where five sinister figures are seated about a boardroom table of polished black basalt, in the centre of which a cauldron has been sunk; it bubbles fitfully, and green steam wreathes along its rim – but this, like the ultra-violet fog carpeting the floor, and the spark-shimmering red glow visible in the arches ’neath the Exit and Toilets signs, is really no more than set-dressing to terrify the tourists. Likewise, the five s.fs. round the table may be eccentric, but they’re not supernatural, being perfectly ordinary Villains hatching the usual diabolic scheme of fiendish normality – mind you, it’s a pip, if we do say so, but there’s nothing necromantic about it, just political skulduggery on an earth-shattering scale which, if it succeeds, will play havoc with the history of our tight little island. Let’s look them over.

      First, at the table head, looking like an emaciated Gandalf, is the Wizard – silver hair to his waist, a face that would split kindling, glittering eyes, long bony black gloves, gown of cobra fur covered with cabalistic signs, etc. But if his appearance is outlandish, there’s nothing other-worldly about the framed diplomas and group pictures hung on the nitre-streaked walls of his lair: honorary degrees from St Andrews and Tarzana, autographed likenesses of Ibn Khaldun, Cagliostro, and Roger Bacon, a pennant inscribed “Hold ’em, Yale”, and a colour print of the All Souls Come Dancing team with the young Wizard in a sequined jacket in the front row.

      On his right at the table sits a paunchy, oily, utterly repulsive specimen in Gaudy Finery, hairy fingers a-glitter with gems, yellow jowls quivering and piggy eyes disappearing in folds of flesh as he munches candies from a silver comfit-box and washes them down with copious draughts of Malaga. Robert Redford he’s not, but the Spanish Ambassador to Scotland, Don Collapso Regardo Baluna del Lobby y Corridor, scion of one of the noblest houses of Castile and ancestor of at least one memorable Viceroy of the Indies in the next century.^* He is perspiring freely, conscious that as an accredited envoy he’s got no business to be here, but orders are orders, so he has snuck down privily from Edinburgh, disguised as a prop forward for the Escurial Inquisitors who are due to compete in the Langholm seven-a-sides (a rotten pretext in his opinion, but it was King Philip’s personal brainwave, so who’s arguing?). Dropping off the team bus at Hawick, disguised in domino and snow-covered boots, he has made his way across country to this summit of evil.

      Opposite him sits the reigning Scottish Traitor of the Year, Lord Anguish. Left to ourself, we would have dressed him in normal garb of the period, but since this is an American co-production he has got to wear a full outfit of the MacDali tartan, with a soft-watch sporran, red whiskers, golfing stockings, and a three-foot feather in his tam-o’-shanter. A ghastly sight, but wait till he starts talking, hoots awa’ wi’ ye and whigmaleeries being the least of it. He is half-drunk, and lolls och-ing