by Fiona Faris
Taking her courage in her hands, she went across at sat on the bench beside him, full of trepidation, not at all sure of the wisdom of exposing herself to him like that. She still found him a dangerous man. What if he misinterpreted her solicitude for something else, for some kind of invitation? She did not want him to think she was leading him on, that she was flirting with him.
He looked up at her and smiled sadly, a half-hearted smile that began to fade almost as soon as it had risen to his lips. There was no joy or mischief in it, and she was half-glad. Then he returned to the contemplation of his hands in his lap.
A stab of sorry shot through Siusan’s breast. She bit her bottom lip. What could she possibly say that would make him feel better? There was nothing. She cast around in her head for something to say, some kind words that would not sound trite of formulaic, like a platitude, something that would in some small way console him, but she could find none.
“The others will be here soon,” she said gently, making do with a statement of the obvious. “I heard their horses arrive in the courtyard as I came down. They must have met up on the road and arrived together.”
Uilleam raised his eyebrows and drew his lips into a thin wry grin. He swept his eyes wearily around the room, taking in the preparations.
“You have made fine work of the hall,” he murmured, his voice flat and emotionless. “It looks very… pretty.”
He heaved a heavy sigh and lapsed into silence as if even those few words had cost him a great effort.
Siusan’s heart lurched. But she suddenly knew that she now must try to keep the conversation going, to draw him out of himself and the slough of despondency into which he had fallen. She gave a soft laugh.
“Yes, that is my mother’s doing. She would have been mortified, had the hall not looked it best. It is a matter of pride for her. I only hope that, when I have a household of my own,” she added, “that I will be able to order it as well as my mother orders Clyth. She could make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.”
Uilleam raised his head again and looked her sadly in the eye.
“Oh, I have no doubt that you will one day make some man a fine tablemate, Siusan Gunn.”
Siusan gave a little start and searched his eyes with her own. Had he accepted that it would not be him she would marry? Was that part of his despondency too?
She decided it would be wise to steer the subject in another direction.
“Do you think the chieftains will run with your proposal for a confederacy?”
Uilleam’s thick red beard dropped back onto his chest. He heaved another weighty sigh.
“I hope so,” he replied. “It is our only chance of surviving the Campbell threat. Unless we join forces to stand against them, the smaller clans will be no more in the three glens. It is already too late for the MacGregors,” he added with a small catch in his voice.”
Siusan was suddenly inflamed by a small flare of rebellion. He was feeling sorry for himself, she reflected. That would not do him any good. He needed to snap himself out of it and show a little steel, a little defiance, else he would end up broken and bitter.
“Do not say that,” she chided him, her voice firm but gentle. “You still have the remnant of your clan. With good leadership, the MacGregors can rise again.”
He barked a cynical laugh.
“Aye, and if you look through yon window, you will see the pigs flying with the swallows.”
Despite his bitter cynicism, she could feel the thrum of his disappointment and grief vibrating, trapped just beneath the surface of the grim and stoic front he was presenting, Siusan suddenly feared for him. All that pent-up anguish and rage she could feel would destroy him. It would eat away at his spirit until he was but an empty shell of his former lusty self, a shell that would eventually shatter.
She sighed inwardly in frustration that she could not seem to reach him. Damn his stupid, pigheaded refusal to show any weakness or vulnerability. Unless he let down that reserve and let someone into comfort and console him, he would be lost. While he might well present a tough and invincible exterior, she detected deep within him a gentle and more tender core.
She resolved at that moment to find that core. She put her arm around his broad muscular shoulders and drew his head into her breast.
He did not resist. In fact, he complied like a child seeking comfort. She brushed her lips against the back of his head, and his head stirred but did not pull away.
Just then, Angus marched into the hall, followed by the chiefs of the MacColls, the MacGillemichaels, and the MacLeays.
The conference was about to begin.
The five clan chiefs took their seats around the top table, on which sat flagons of wine, platters of bannocks and oatcakes, pots of honeyed curds, and flat round cheeses. The meeting began with the passing round of the silver quaich of uisge beatha, with which the chieftains honored one another in the sharing.
Angus Gunn opened the proceedings.
“Neighbors! We are all our own men, but we are also united in our interest in the doings of the clan Campbell and the covetous eye they have been casting over our lands in the glens of the Mhoille, the Orchy, and the Strae. They have been promising to let us alone, providing that we do not meddle with them. They have also been promising us peace and liberty, guaranteed by themselves. Yet, lately we have seen their great cruelty; I speak of the massacre of the MacGregors and the slaughter of our neighbor, Iain Mor.”
A murmur ran around the table. The chiefs of the MacColls, the MacGillemichaels, and the MacLeays nodded solemnly and cast surreptitious glances at Uilleam that were not without sympathy. Uilleam, for his part, kept his eyes fixed on the surface of the table and his expression emotionless.
Now, I know,” Angus continued, “that Iain Mor was something of a thorn in our sides. He raided our crofts and lifted our cattle, and lives were lost on all sides among the clansfolk. But he was nevertheless a good man, a man of dignity and honor, a man of his word, a man who could be trusted. He did not deserve the cruel end that he met at the hands of the Campbells.”
Another murmur of assent ran around the table. Still, Uilleam maintained his solemn silence.
“It is just the way of our lives,” Hugh MacGillemichael ventured with a fond chuckle. “He may well have stolen our cattle, but we just went out and stole them right back.”
“The Campbells have shown themselves to be untrustworthy,” Angus went on. “They promise us peace, then slaughter us in our homes. They promise us liberty, then punish us when we exercise our freedom.”
The chieftains shifted uneasily in their chairs.
“But what can we do, Angus Mor?” Euan MacColl spoke up. “They have us between a rock and a hard place. If we stand against them, we will suffer the same fate as the MacGregors. If they are intent of swallowing us up, we are powerless to stop them.”
Angus raised his hand to indicate Uilleam, who still sat staring stonily at the table-top while rolling the stem of his goblet between his fingers.
“Uilleam here, chief of the clan MacGregor, has something to say on that matter,” he told them. “I say we listen to what that is.”
There was a low rumble of discontent around the table. The others looked at him with dark scowls.
“Just hear him out,” Angus urged. “Uilleam, will you speak now.”
Uilleam paused then raised his eyes and scanned the other faces sullenly.
“My father felt the threat of the Campbells with the fall of the MacDougalls.”
“As did we all,” MacGillemichael interrupted. “Power in Argyll was neatly balanced between the two great clans, and we could play one of them off against the others.”
“Precisely,” Uilleam continued. “And with the fall of the MacDougalls, the Campbells were left with free rein in the land. My father, Iain Mor, realized that none of the smaller clans alone could withstand the might of the Campbells. But he also reckoned that, if they stood together, their forces combined could perhaps at least deter t
he Campbells from acting against them. I am proposing that we take forward his plan. As confederates, we can see off the Campbells; standing alone, the Campbells will simply pick us off one by one.”
MacLeay pursed his lips.
“There is wisdom in Iain Mor’s words,” he acknowledged. “But it can never work. It has never been done before.”
“Oh, but it has,” Uilleam insisted. “Clan Chattan of the Great Glen far to the north is a confederation of twelve separate clans, each of which has its own clan chief recognized by law, but who are united under a high chief of the confederation for mutual solidarity, sustenance, and protection. In this way, the smaller clans have successfully survived the predations of first the mighty clan Cameron and, more lately, the clan Donald, which rivals the Campbells in its power and extent over the country of Lochaber.”
MacColl guffawed.
“Aye, but here is the rub: who would be the high chief, to lord it over the rest of us? We would be no better off than we would be under the Campbells.”
Uilleam sighed.
“That would have to be decided,” he replied at length. “The high chief could be elected by a council of the confederate chiefs, or it could be rotated among the chiefs.”
“But it is not our way,” MacLeay objected. “It might be the way among the foreign clans of Great Glen beyond Lochaber, but it is not the way of things here. It would never work.”
“So,” Uilleam bristled menacingly, “you will just roll over and have your tummy rubbed by the Campbells. Is that the way of the MacLeays, to be content with being Neil Campbell’s lapdog?”
Alexander MacLeay’s voice rumbled in his throat.
“You watch your tongue, you young whelp, or I will show you the way of the MacLeays. I will not take any lessons from a damned cattle-thief.”
The others grumbled their agreement, scowling darkly at the upstart.
“Then hell will mend you,” Uilleam growled, “for the craven cowards that you are.”
MacColl was on his feet. He reached for the hilt of his sword, which he could not find since, as tradition demanded, their weapons had been left at the door. He lurched across the table to seize Uilleam with his bare hands, but the table was too broad, and he ended up sprawling over the top of it and knocked several plates and goblets to the floor.
Angus laid a hand on MacColl’s shoulder and helped him back to his feet.
“Peace, man!” he urged. “Let us not end up, fighting among ourselves, when a far greater danger is sniffing at our doors. For the sake of Iain Mor’s memory, let us discuss this in a seemly manner.”
“It seems that there is nothing to discuss,” MacLeay observed. “We are none of us prepared to enter any kind of alliance with the MacGregors. They are not to be trusted, and I for one am suspicious of Uilleam MacGregor’s motive in all this.” He turned to Uilleam. “I am sorry for your loss, son; your father was a rogue but otherwise a fine man, who did not deserve the mischief done to him by the Campbells. But we will not join you in seeking to avenge the MacGregor. That is your feud and yours alone. We will not be drawn into it by any talk of a ‘confederation’ or any such nonsense.”
Angus held up his hands to speak.
“Sandy Mor,” he began in placatory tones. “It may not be nonsense. There is no doubt that the Campbells are a danger and that a confederation of our clans may well be the only way we have to counter that danger. Let us discuss it more calmly. Uilleam,” he added, turning to the towering figure that loomed ominously across the table at Angus’s three guests. “Perhaps it would be better if you were to leave the hall for the rest of the conference. I will advocate on your behalf, as I believe as strongly as you in the course you have proposed. Leave us now, and we will continue the discussion. Go and take some air to clear your tempers.”
Uilleam glowered at his three adversaries.
“As you wish, Angus Mor,” he acknowledged. “I wish you luck with these three…”
“Wheesht, Uilleam MacGregor,” Angus hissed sharply. “I will not have you insulting my guests, especially not when we are trying to impress them with the justice of our proposal.” He smiled at the others. “What say you, my feres? Shall we continue?”
Uilleam stepped out of the door to the keep and into the courtyard of the inner ward. It was now past noon, and the day that had begun so brightly was now overcast and threatening rain. The business of the castle went on around him as if nothing of consequence was being debated in the hall, matters that would have such far-reaching implications for the lives of those who labored in blissful ignorance.
As he drew deep draughts of the fresh early Summer air into his lungs and exhaled the tension that had built up in his body during the argument indoors, Siusan appeared from the stables and crossed the yard to join him. Had she been waiting for him, he wondered.
“How is the business going?” she asked him tentatively, aware that it could not be going too well if he had absented himself from the proceedings.
“Ach, the old men are set in their ways,” Uilleam complained. “Apparently, my scheme could never work for no other reason that it has never been tried before and is alien to the people hereabouts. They are like a worm that has been chopped into several pieces: each piece wriggles away on its own and cannot see the benefit of joining itself together again.”
She punched his shoulder playfully.
“Are you calling my father a worm?” she laughed.
He returned a mirthless chuckle.
“No, your father is the only sensible one among them. He is making the case for me. I’m afraid my temper got the better of me, and he thought it politic that I left. Honestly, if truth be told, I feel like saddling my horse and riding away from here right now and never coming back.”
“Where would you go?”
“I would ride to the north, into Lochaber, and throw myself on the charity of some MacDonald chiel.”
Siusan reached out and gripped his hand in hers, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
“Never fear,” she said. “My father has the gift of the gab. He may win them round yet.”
She made to withdraw her hand, but he held it tight. Startled, she looked up into his face and saw a look of desperation and appeal in his eyes, as if he were begging her not to leave him. She laid her other hand on the back of his and clasped it between both of hers.
He was possessed by an almost overwhelming desire to kiss her, to experience again the solace he had found earlier when she had held his head to her breast. But he did not know how his kiss would be received, whether she would welcome it or whether it would drive her away. He felt there was a delicate balance between them, which he did not want to upset. Besides, they were in full view of the courtyard, and he did not want to set tongues wagging.
He tentatively drew her into the doorway of the keep and took her into his arms. She did not pull away. He gazed down at her, and she raised her face to his. Was it an invitation? He moved his face close to hers, and their lips met.
She returned his kiss, her lips fluttering against his. It was a tender contact. He plucked at her full lower lip with his own, tasting her sweet breath, hearing her soft almost inaudible mewl. He ran his hand up her shoulder and laced his fingers through her hair, cradling the back of her head in his broad palm. He felt something between them melt, like ice from a pond. A heady feeling of elation rose through him. He pulled her deeper into the passage that led into the undercroft and through a second doorway. They found themselves in a cell which was being used as a granary, among stacked sacks of corn. He wanted to make love to her, to lose himself in her and forget all his troubles and his recent tribulations.
He brought his hands back down to her shoulders and drew his head away for the kiss. Now was not the time. He could be summoned back to the hall at any time, and he wanted this to be more than just a quick tumble among the grain-sacks.
“Later,” he murmured. “Will you meet me later, in yon copse down by the river?”
“Ye
s,” she whispers, her eyelids drooping coyly. This afternoon, after dine, I can get away.”
He smiles and draws her to him again, enveloping her in his strong embrace.
“Till then,” he says, laying his cheek against the top of her head and breathing in the scent of her hair, his eyes closing from the joy of it.
“Till then,” she echoes, before pushing him gently away for her and slipping past him back into the keep.
Uilleam was left kicking his heels in the castle courtyard while he waited to be called back into the hall. He took confidence from the fact that the meeting was still going on, that the three chiefs had not just dismissed his proposal out of hand and ridden away. There was hope yet that Angus might succeed in persuading them.
He also could not get Siusan out of his mind. This was all new to him, the experience of intimacy he felt with her. He had enjoyed lots of women in his time, but he had never before felt the closeness he felt to Siusan. It was as if he had discovered in Siusan a whole new part of himself that he had not known before. And, having discovered it, he knew it would now feel like something of himself was missing if she were ever no longer there. He marveled at this; it seemed somehow magical. He could not wait to be in her presence again. He could not wait for the tryst they had arranged for after dine.
