The Blackhouse Bride

by Fiona Monroe

  Fearghas looked at his daughter, and he looked up at Angus, and a change came over his features. He sagged in dismay. "Daughter... tell me... tell your father the truth."

  It was hard to make out Oighrig's words from her sobs. "I... love... him! I thought he would marry - marry me if he - if I made him - if he had to! And then he went and married her - who is she? - why would he marry a girl he didn't know - why wouldn't he marry me?"

  "So what the tacksman says is true, child? You behaved like a shameless striopach to try to lure him into marriage?"

  "I love him!" she shrieked, uncovering her face. It was red and wild as her hair. "I would have made him a good wife! Far better than her!"

  "Enough!" Angus bellowed.

  Oighrig subsided into gulps and whimpers.

  Fearghas sank into one of the low chairs by the fire, his hands shaking. "You have shamed me, daughter," he said, in a low, quavering voice.

  "A Fheargaidh an Fhìdhleir , I'm sorry this has all come to light," said Angus steadily. "I hoped to avoid it. I thought that after my marriage your daughter would come to her senses and attach herself to someone else, someone who actually wanted to wed her. But I could not overlook her telling pernicious lies about me to my wife."

  "I wish you had told me sooner," said Fearghas. He seemed to pull himself together, and stood up. "She is my responsibility, my duty. If she's wayward, I'm to blame."

  "Father - " Oighrig whined.

  "I've been too indulgent with you, child. I haven't checked you, and this is the result. You need a good hard lesson to set you back on the right path."

  "Father, you would not beat me?"

  "I should have done it sooner. Or I should never have married at my age in the first place." He shook his head and turned away, shoulders slumped despondently.

  "I'm sorry, father!" Oighrig sounded suddenly panicked. "I'm sorry I disgraced you! Please don't turn away from me, father! Please don't wish I'd never been born!"

  Fearghas shook his head, and put up a hand to forestall her attempt to cling to him.

  "It's as well I do it here, in sight of the tacksman and his wife - the people you've hurt with your behaviour."

  Oighrig backed away. "No, father. Don't hurt me!"

  "I've hurt you already, child, by failing to guide and discipline you when you needed it."

  "I'll be good from now on! I promise!"

  "Maybe you will," said Angus, implacably. He was standing, arms folded, blocking the door to the outside, because he could see that she was thinking about making a bolt for freedom.

  Not that there was anywhere to go, and she must know it. Even if she ran away into the glen, she had to return eventually. If she did not the villagers would hunt her down, for her own safety if nothing else, and bring her back to her father. And that kind of hue and cry would hardly be to Oighrig's advantage, as a member of their small community; everyone would know how badly she had behaved, and that she was refusing to submit to the authority of her father.

  "And hopefully you'll think twice before doing anything like this again," he continued. "But your father's right. You need to be punished for what you've already done, Oighrig. The malicious lies, the wanton behaviour, the attack on my wife - her face is bleeding, look."

  He glanced quickly at Bridie, who was still holding a hand to her cheek.

  Oighrig's face twisted in anguish, and he could see the full extent of her offences dawn on her; as did, he supposed, the realisation that punishment was well earned, and inevitable.

  Fearghas, a grim and resolute expression on his face, glanced around the small living area. His eye fixed on the wooden armchair, which was the only full-sized seat in the room.

  "Lean over that chair, child," he said, pointing at the only full-sized seat in the room.

  Oighrig merely stared at him obstinately and didn't move.

  With a heavy sigh, Fearghas caught hold of her wrist and with unexpected strength manoeuvred her over to the chair. She didn't fight him, but she scarcely co-operated either. He pulled her down to her knees in front of the chair, and with a small but firm push made her lean forward over it.

  Some of her fiery hair had come loose from its bun, and was tumbling over her shoulders and neck. Her father lifted up the woollen skirt of her dress and laid it across her back. Oighrig gasped, a squeak of indignation. There was a petticoat underneath, which looked thin enough. Angus could see it clinging to the outline of her thighs and bottom.

  "Aonghais Mhoir," said Fearghas, "May I borrow your riding crop, the fine one?"

  He knew the one Fearghas meant. He had a good riding crop which he had bought some years ago at a saddler's on Lawnmarket in Edinburgh, with some idea of cutting a dash while riding his new black mare through town. It had a silver top carved in the shape of an eagle in flight, an ivory handle, and a stout tapering business end of braided leather over some kind of solid but flexible core. In those days he had been clean-shaven and thought himself fashionably dressed, and had imagined himself encountering Margaret - perhaps while trotting around Charlotte Square - and impressing her with its style.

  As if a stick of wood, bone and leather, even topped with a silver eagle, would ever have mattered one way or the other to a girl like that. It represented, he reflected grimly as he retrieved it from its place in amidst a jumble of other, more practical equine paraphernalia, the foolish delusion of a very young man. He wished that his later ones were so easy to laugh at.

  Foppish frippery though it was, wielded properly the crop would be capable of delivering a swingeing cut to a tender backside, even through a layer of petticoat. Angus flexed the shaft of the whip to test its give and its weight before handing it to Fearghas, who took it solemnly. His furious, stricken expression had been replaced by a look of grim determination.

  He too examined the crop, and then slashed it through the air a couple of times.

  At the sound this made, Oighrig raised her head and twisted around. When she saw what was to be the instrument of her chastisement, she whimpered. "Not with that, Father! Please!"

  "Aye, with this. You have shamed me, daughter, and worse, shamed yourself. You're going to feel every stroke, and remember it well. I don't want to have to do this again."

  "You won't! You won't! You don't need to do it now, I promise I'll be good forever more!"

  "Aye. You will. But you've earned this already. You can start being good by leaning over and taking your just punishment with no more complaining."

  Oighrig sniffed, and gulped back her tears, and hunched forward over the chair again.

  "These," said Fearghas, standing in position behind her, and raising his thin old arm high, "are for behaving like a wildcat, and scratching the tacksman's wife."

  With no further preamble, he brought the crop down across Oighrig's upturned backside in a swift arc. The springy leather-covered wood landed with a solid crack on flesh, and Oighrig screamed. She jumped up, clutching her backside.

  "Get back over that chair!" Fearghas barked.

  "Please, Father! It hurt!"

  "Aye, and it will hurt more. Get back into position, or I'll get the tacksman to hold you down - and I'll give you half a dozen more over what you're getting anyway."

  Oighrig gave Angus one full, resentful glare, as if he were to blame for her punishment, then very slowly leaned back over the chair. She was still rubbing at the spot where the first lash had fallen.

  "Get your hand out of the way," said Fearghas sharply.

  She clutched the wooden slats on the armchair instead. Fearghas re-arranged her skirt again, exposing the thin petticoat.

  "Four strokes," he said, "for attacking Brìghde Bhòidheach, and calling her a foul name. The first one doesn't count, since you stood up. Do that again, the stroke doesn't count. Do you understand?"

  "Y-yes, Father."

  Again, he whipped her upturned behind with surprising force. At the first lash she screamed and jerked, but kept her position. At the second, she raised her head and groaned
. The third and the fourth he delivered in such rapid succession that she scarcely had a chance to draw breath from one scream to the next, but fell into choking sobs. She still held her position, her knuckles white as she gripped the chair.

  After the fourth lash, she put her hands to her backside.

  "Keep your hands out of the way," Fearghas said again.

  "But - Father - " She started to rise.

  "I didn't say you could get up. I haven't finished with you, daughter."

  "But Father! You said four strokes!"

  "Aye. For what?"

  "For - for bad behaviour."

  "For what, child? Say it out loud, or I'll think you haven't learned your lesson. Maybe the tacksman will think so too."

  "For hurting Bridie, and calling her a bad name. I'm sorry."

  "Aye. I should hope you are. Now back across that chair, child. There's the wicked lies you told me, and the tacksman's wife. Lies, and on such a subject! For that, another four strokes."

  "No - please no more!"

  "And what did I say about taking your punishment without complaint?"

  Oighrig merely sobbed, and gripped the handle of the chair.

  The whip sliced through the air with a whistle and struck the soft buttocks below the cotton layer four times more. Oighrig set up a continuous wailing that peaked as each lash hit, and scarcely quietened after her father stepped back, flexing his arm as if the effort was taxing his strength.

  This time she did not attempt to rub away the pain, nor move at all without her father's permission.

  "What do you say, child, to the tacksman and his wife, for the lies you told?"

  "Sorry! I'm sorry!" Oighrig sobbed. "Father, please, I've learned my lesson. I can't stand anymore."

  "You'll stand what I decide you deserve," said Fearghas, implacably. "We haven't dealt yet with the worst of it. You behaved like a wanton hussy, trying to tempt the tacksman into sin, and offering yourself like no decent virtuous girl should. I am ashamed of you, daughter."

  "Father - father - I'm so sorry. I'm a good girl really, I promise I am. I haven't - I'm still pure."

  "I'm glad to know that, but you need to be taught that no virtuous girl should behave as you did. Aonghais Mhoir, you should avert your eyes."

  Angus did not realise quite in time why he should do this, and so he caught a glimpse of Oighrig's naked nether regions when her father pulled up the petticoat to bare her. Though he turned away immediately, he had seen her plump, white bottom and ample thighs, marked up and down with fresh, angry-looking weals. She would have an impressive collection of bruises, he thought, and sit uneasily for a couple of days at least. Especially as she was to receive the rest of her punishment on that soft, unprotected skin.

  "Four final lashes," said Fearghas. "On the bare behind. You'll never shame yourself or me again, after this."

  This time he put his hand on her back, as if to hold her down. Angus was not really looking, so as not to see Oighrig exposed, so he heard rather than saw the rest of the proceedings. The noise of the braided crop striking bare skin was different and excruciating, and Oighrig shrieked in response with a new note of desperation in her voice.

  When it was over, Oighrig slid from the chair and rolled onto the floor, lying for a few moments in the rushes as she cried and rubbed desperately at her backside. Her father bent down and lifted her gently to her feet, and folded her into a tender hug.

  "There now," he said softly. "You're sorry now."

  "Yes," she sobbed. "Oh yes, Father. I'll be good, I'll never do anything like that again."

  "Well then. Apologise to Aonghas Mor and Brìghde Bhòidheach."

  Oighrig broke from her father's embrace and turned, red-faced and very subdued, to face Angus. She even made a small, clumsy curtsy. "Aonghais Mhoir, a Bhrìghde Bhòidheach... I'm very sorry that I told lies, and for - everything else."

  "I accept your apology, Red Oighrig," said Angus. "I hope you remember this lesson and behave better in future."

  He was not aware that Bridie said anything. He was still trying not to look at her. He had no idea how she had reacted to Oighrig's chastisement.

  "Now dry your tears, child," said Fearghas, "and go back to your work."

  "Oh, but father - I can't sit at the bench to gut the fish! I'm so sore!"

  "The other women are waiting, Oighrig."

  Oighrig hung her head and, moving slowly and painfully, shuffled out of the blackhouse. She would be facing a degree of public curiosity and mockery, too, for everyone in the township must have heard her cries, and probably the lashes themselves. That, and the very uncomfortable afternoon she now faced sitting on the hard wooden bench at the fish-gutting table, was all a fitting part of her punishment.

  Fearghas handed the riding crop back to Angus and followed his daughter out without another word. Angus could see that his bearing was firmer, and that he had the satisfaction of having done the right thing by his daughter at last.

  Angus was left alone with Bridie. And now, it could no longer be avoided.

  He turned to her, and looked her full in the face. She was pale, and her beautiful onyx eyes were shimmering with tears. She looked like a guilty goddess, and he could see that she knew her own punishment was coming next.

  He put aside the riding crop, and he saw her relax infinitesimally. Then, slowly, he began to unbuckle his belt.

  Chapter TWENTY

  Despite everything, the overriding emotion that Bridie felt at that moment was relief. Her head and heart were dizzy with it. It was as if something dark and poisonous had been drawn from her soul. To know that Angus had not, after all, been cynically and systematically unfaithful to her - that he was still the man she had thought he was - brought her such joy that the truth came to her with the force of a revelation.

  Whatever she had imagined she felt for Lord John Dunwoodie, in a fever of passion and gratified vanity - both personal, and intellectual - had been a mirage of youth and foolishness. He was nothing to her, less than nothing. This man before her, with whom she had shared so many intimacies in the secret darkness of the leabaidh-dhuinte, this man who owned her body and soul; he was her husband and her love.

  And through doubting him, and her own wicked folly in writing to Lord John, she had lost him.

  She could see that she had lost him in the coldness of those very blue eyes, which were now ice rather than summer sky, and the grim set of his mouth. He had never looked at her in that way before. It was only now that she realised that he had always, from the first, gazed upon her with a warmth and glow that must have meant tenderness and desire. She had lost it. She had lost him.

  She watched Oighrig's father chastise the girl without feeling an ounce of pity for her, especially as she had made such a terrific fuss over her entirely deserved punishment. The blows of the riding crop had looked and sounded painful, but old Fearghas had a feeble enough arm and had kept the whipping short enough. She had got her just deserts, Bridie thought.

  When they were left alone, as alone as they could be with the folks of the township just beyond the curtain of hanging leather and no doubt curious to know what drama had provoked Oighrig's whipping, he gave her that one level look of disgust then turned aside from her. She watched anxiously as he put the fancy riding crop back on a shelf, amidst a jumble of bridles and reigns and plainer horse-whips. She was fearful of his wielding it on her, but she would much rather that he punished her and forgave her, than he continued to think her unchaste.

  Was she unchaste?

  She glanced involuntarily at the crumpled letters on the floor. They had fallen from Angus's clenched fists and had lain unnoticed and unregarded by the peat firepit while the drama with Oighrig had played out.

  "Angus - " She spoke out without thinking, so awful was the silence.

  He was looking at her again, but not with love. With disappointment, with pain, with sadness and resolve.

  With great deliberation, his hands went to his waist and he began to unfasten t
he silver buckle on the wide leather belt that he always wore over his plaid.

  "A dhuine..." she whispered, with a catch in her throat. It was the first time she had called him husband.

  "Am I, Bridie? Am I, truly?"

  He did not take his eyes from her, now that they were interlocked.

  "I'm sorry about the letters," she whispered.

  "Why did you believe her, Bridie? When have I ever given you reason to think, even for a moment, that I would betray the sacred vows we made?"

  "I..." Still, she did not look away. "I never thought that any girl could confess to such a terrible thing, without it being true. I never imagined that any girl could be so immodest."

  "When did she say these things?"

  "The Sabbath night we returned from Scourie, the day I got my first letter from Lady Crieff and - and from Lord John."

  He let out a long breath. He was playing the length of the belt between his hands, and she noticed with a kind of desperate hyperacuity that the leather was embossed with a ridged pattern. "I thought that was when it started. I thought you'd been reminded of the comforts of home, and become discontent. Then I thought..." He broke their gaze at last, and he too looked down at the ball of paper by the fire.

  Bridie made her decision. She was not afraid of provoking him. She wanted the truth, and she wanted to face the consequences of her weakness and folly if it could mean forgiveness. She was guilty and he, it turned out, had been blameless.

  She stooped down, picked up the two letters, and without so much as a last glance at the handwriting, dropped them onto the smouldering peat. The rich cream paper blackened and curled immediately, and a bright flume of flame flared briefly.

  "I was very wrong," she said, still kneeling by the fire. "I should have burned the first letter straight away, not concealed it and taken it home with me. I was - stirred. It came so unexpectedly. Before I came here and met you I did feel something for Lord John, even though I knew he was a reprobate and even though he was so far above me, and to be reminded of that... I gave into the temptation of indulging in a very guilty memory of feelings that should never have been in the first place. I did that, before Oighrig made me believe that you were unfaithful. And believing that, was no justification for what I did - for hiding the letter and replying to it - but it was - at least - a reason..."