Graham pulled his eyes away from me and looked at Jamie. "Och? Oh, aye. Aye, I've been there. They're all well. Be pleased to see ye, I expect. Go well, then, Fraser." And with a hasty dig into his horse's ribs, he turned aside and headed up the valley.
We watched him go. Suddenly, a hundred yards away, he paused. Turning in the saddle, he rose in his stirrups and cupped his mouth to shout. The sound, borne by the wind, reached us thin but distinct.
"Welcome home!"
And he disappeared over a rise.
Broch Tuarach means "the north-facing tower." From the side of the mountain above, the broch that gave the small estate its name was no more than another mound of rocks, much like those that lay at the foot of the hills we had been traveling through.
We came down through a narrow, rocky gap between two crags, leading the horse between boulders. Then the going was easier, the land sloping more gently down through the fields and scattered cottages, until at last we struck a small winding road that led to the house.
It was larger than I had expected; a handsome three-story manor of harled white stone, windows outlined in the natural grey stone, a high slate roof with multiple chimneys, and several smaller whitewashed buildings clustered about it, like chicks about a hen. The old stone broch, situated on a small rise to the rear of the house, rose sixty feet above the ground, cone-topped like a witch's hat, girdled with three rows of tiny arrow-slits.
As we drew near, there was a sudden terrible racket from the direction of the outbuildings, and Donas shied and reared. No horseman, I promptly fell off, landing ignominiously in the dusty road. With an eye for the relative importance of things, Jamie leapt for the plunging horse's bridle, leaving me to fend for myself.
The dogs were almost upon me, baying and growling, by the time I found my feet. To my panicked eyes, there seemed to be at least a dozen of them, all with teeth bared and wicked. There was a shout from Jamie.
"Bran! Luke! Sheas!"
The dogs skidded to a halt within a few feet of me, confused. They milled, growling uncertainly, until he spoke again.
"Sheas, mo maise! Stand, ye wee heathen!" They did, and the largest dog's tail began gradually to wag, once, and then twice, questioningly.
"Claire. Come take the horse. He'll not let them close, and it's me they want. Walk slowly; they'll no harm ye." He spoke casually, not to alarm either horse or dogs further. I was not so sanguine, but edged carefully toward him. Donas jerked his head and rolled his eyes as I took the bridle, but I was in no mood to put up with tantrums, and I yanked the rein firmly down and grabbed the headstall.
The thick velvet lips writhed back from his teeth, but I jerked harder. I put my face close to the big, glaring golden eye and glared back.
"Don't try it!" I warned, "or you'll end up as dogsmeat, and I won't lift a hand to save you!"
Jamie meanwhile was slowly walking toward the dogs, one hand held out fistlike toward them. What had seemed a large pack was only four dogs: a small brownish rat-terrier, two ruffed and spotted shepherds, and a huge black and tan monster that could have stood in for the Hound of the Baskervilles with no questions asked.
This slavering creature stretched out a neck thicker than my waist and sniffed gently at the proffered knuckles. A tail like a ship's cable beat back and forth with increasing fervor. Then it flung back its enormous head, baying with joy, and leapt on its master, knocking him flat in the road.
" 'In which Odysseus returns from the Trojan War and is recognized by his faithful hound,' " I remarked to Donas, who snorted briefly, giving his opinion either of Homer, or of the undignified display of emotion going on in the roadway.
Jamie, laughing, was ruffling the fur and pulling the ears of the dogs, who were all trying to lick his face at once. Finally he beat them back sufficiently to rise, keeping his feet with difficulty against their ecstatic demonstrations.
"Well, someone's glad to see me, at any rate," he said, grinning, as he patted the beast's head. "That's Luke—" he pointed to the terrier, "and Elphin and Mars. Brothers, they are, and bonny sheep-dogs. And this," he laid an affectionate hand on the enormous black head, which slobbered in appreciation, "is Bran."
"I'll take your word for it," I said, cautiously extending a knuckle to be sniffed. "What is he?"
"A staghound." He scratched the pricked ears, quoting
"Thus Fingal chose his hounds:
Eye like sloe, ear like leaf,
Chest like horse, hough like sickle
And the tail joint far from the head."