The Chieftain Needs an Heir
~ a Highland ménage story ~
by
JONNET CARMICHAEL
Novella #2
in the erotica series
'Clan MacKrannan's Secret Traditions'
~~~
Clan MacKrannan is rumoured to have many strange and secret traditions
from centuries past. The chieftain Niall and his wife Sorcha discover just how
peculiar they are when the Heir's Cradle is still empty after many moons.
A special fertility ritual is called for – the 'REMEDIE FOR WYFES TOO TALLE'.
Niall knows his heart belongs to Sorcha, despite his absences to go wenching. He must accept the hard life lesson that believing is never quite as beneficial as seeing.
Sorcha knows that all the clan's enacted Traditions are witnessed.
What she must accept is that witnesses sometimes join in…
FOR MATURE READERS ONLY
Approx. 28,000 words
Highland erotica with GSOH!
Copyright 2013 © Jonnet Carmichael
The characters, places and events depicted in this book are fictional or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Email [email protected]
Blog http://jonnetcarmichael.wordpress.com/
"Wife, I am called to the Vault…" said Niall, crumpling the Summons in his angry fist and dashing it into the fire. It ignited as if infused with gunpowder and was gone as swiftly as his temper when he saw Sorcha's tears.
He gathered her head onto his shoulder, the standard refuge he offered from her hurts, and she tucked her hand into its usual warm place under the plaid across his chest. Battlewounds did no' pain his heart as much as his crying wife, and her broken spirit cut him daily.
"Dinna weep, my lass. It is good news, if ye think on it, for the Bard and his Wisewoman must have cure to offer."
"It is the Bard's cure I am affeared of, Niall!" she sobbed. "Were it the Grandam Wisewoman only, she would have come to me herself with more herbs and incantations. But the Vault? And if the Bard himself has sent the Summons… and I am not to go with ye…"
"It will all come right, Sorcha. Ye must learn to trust their wisdom."
Wise they may be, thought Sorcha, but the strange traditions of the clan were legend and it was the Bard and his Grandam Wisewoman wife Oona in charge of their enactment.
Two Yuletides had come and gone since Sorcha's glorious wedding to the chieftain of MacKrannan. Their passions had been many and wondrous since the time of their first Coupling, a witnessed event, her first insight into exactly how strange the clan's ancient customs could be. And even last eve in the secluded shadows of her bedchamber, she and her chieftain husband had enjoyed much gratifying lust.
Sorcha understood that the passions of their early days were unsustainable, of course, for men must make time to sleep lest a lapse in concentration cost them their lives in battle or even in weapons training. Still, it was not for the want of opportunity that the Heir's Cradle lay empty, yet this morn her womb had wept in disappointment. Niall had five sons born to five different women before their marriage. The fault clearly lay with the wife.
"Niall," she snivelled, "What kind of remedy would the Bard think on, save all that has been already tried?"
In times long past such remedy came too often by the chieftain marrying again after the death of his first wife. Sorcha was in the best of health, but barren wives seemed ridiculously prone to tragic accidents… and her name was not on the Bard's Summons to the Vault.
"I would tell ye if I knew, Sorcha. The problem has no' arisen in a hundred years and more. We will find out very soon, aye?"
A knocking on the door bade him peck his wife on the forehead and extricate himself from her clutches to walk past her. To his surprise, it was the two neophyte Wisewomen who curtsied and asked for admittance.
"Hilde, Cecily…" he greeted them, "But I think to know the way to the Vault unaccompanied, thank ye both."
"As ye say, milord," said Hilde, with another curtsy. "The Bard and Oona await ye there. It is yer dear wife that we seek, pardon our intrusion."
"Ah… right, come in then." He ushered them into Sorcha's bedchamber, wondering briefly at the amount of baggage they trailed in along with them.
Making his way through the labyrinth of corridors and down the stone steps into the bowels of the castle, he wondered further about the twinkle in Hilde's eye and the distinct sound of the door key being turned after his departure.
Oona's presence was keenly smelled, for she made her own beeswax candles and added a particular scent she would identify to none. That same mystical aroma assaulted Niall's nose as he stood now at the entrance to the Vault, trying to remember the code he'd seen but once before his reckless burning of the written Summons.
Three knocks, was it? Everything else with the Bard and the Wisewomen seemed to connect to that number, so he tried it. Nothing. Ach, just three knocks would be far too unpretentious. He chapped another three, stopped, and then a further set.
"Chieftain, enter!"
Three times three, that was it. Why did they make everything so complicated? It was no' as if anyone but him was expected. A Summons from the Bard to the Vault was an alarming dispatch, even if it was to offer the Chief or the chieftain a way out of the trouble they'd gotten themselves into. Whatever, it would take more than sheer nosiness for a man to attend here.
Niall was hesitant to accept Oona's offer to sample her latest batch of mead as he settled himself on the vacant middle chair at the fireside and stretched out his long legs. Good manners and deference bade him take the goblet and swig the heady brew. God's teeth… she'd been at it again with her bees… Whatever she had bidden the creatures eat, his own suffering the following morn was as sure as the sunrise.
He remained silent. This domain belonged to the Bard and his wife the Grandam Wisewoman, representing the clan, and it was they who must state their purpose in Summoning him. The focal point was the flames crackling off the applewood logs. All present were expected to keep their eyes looking that direction throughout the meeting. This saved any embarrassment when announcements were made and their content unwelcome.
After a time of reflection, the stillness broken only by three goblets moving from knees to mouths, the Bard spoke out.
"Niall MacKrannan, chieftain of Clan MacKrannan, son of the Chief of the Name of MacKrannan – I address ye. Seven and twenty moons have waxed and waned since ye took Sorcha to wife."
The silence resumed, and it was the words that the Bard did not speak which took flight to ricochet around the Vault. Niall had led the clan into several battles in that time and won them all with little loss of men. The king was well pleased. But in that same time Sorcha had not borne as much as a daughter to portend that a son might be next. The warrior chieftain had neither heir nor the hope of one.
Although the Bard's voice had contained no accusation, the chieftain nevertheless felt a wee twinge… nay, a big whack of guilt at the current state of affairs.
He loved his wife dearly, and had been ardent in his visits to her bedchamber – well, for the first year, anyway. He had kept from wenching for much longer – for the first year and a half, anyway. Lately he had found his attentions wandering off to the playing fields quite frequently, and was that a rare habit amongst Chiefs and their chieftain sons? No' in the slightest. His brother Ruaridh was out wenching hardly a
month past being wed.
Indeed, he was to be congratulated for his fidelity in the main, for with every moon that passed his wife's desolation ravaged his sensibilities beyond any man's endurance. His thirtieth year was yet to come and already he felt like a tired old bull trying to get a bawling cow into calf and no' managing at all, more the pity. So focussed had she become on talking him through the correct positionings, and then turning herself upside down immediately he'd spent, that some nights he almost wished his manly parts were detachable for sending in a dispatch bag.
Bouts of wenching came from a need for a tup for naught but the fun of it, for that is what he sorely missed with his wife. Bedplay with Sorcha had turned into a chore for procreation.
His Spend was potent, as evidenced by the bairns he'd already sired. Sorcha was fallow, and all knew it. It was beginning to look as if his successor would be his brother's son instead of his own. And it would be all Niall's own fault, for Sorcha was his choice to wife.
The Wisewoman's honeymead reached full effect as the applewood logs sizzled and flamed. Had he to make the choice today, in his heart he knew that choice would still be his bonnie Sorcha and the consequences be damned. Each time he was distant from home his thoughts were of her only. Each time he gathered his thoughts before battle, it was Sorcha's smiling face he envisioned before him as the symbol of victory.
Curious… it took but a minute's peace at the fireside to see such a truth. He should maybe make time for it more often.
"Chieftain, I address ye further," said the Bard. "We have taken a moment to join in reflecting what has been and what is now. As ye'll know, all three Wisewomen have looked for symptom of what might be stopping yer seed to take, and have tried all their herbals and incantations to help it along. Their usual success in such matters has not proved fruitful and so we have looked for a more radical remedy."
Niall sat up in his chair. The clan had better no' be thinking of harming Sorcha in any way…
"Chieftain, I address ye again to tell ye what will be. Upon the seven and twentieth moon with no heir, the Green Book of MacKrannan Fertility Traditions was opened for the first time in many generations. This Green Book gives a veritable host of remedies for situations of this ilk, and all three of the Wisewomen agree that one particular remedy is worth the try."
Oona fetched the book from under her chair and passed it open at the page to her chieftain.
Niall, forgetting his duty of silence, deciphered the first line of the ancient script aloud in disbelief.
"REMEDIE FOR WYFES TOO TALLE – THE PUSHYNG IN OF SPEND… what in hell's name do ye think I'm needing assistance with? Ye were baith at my Coupling and witnessed the size o' my cockstand, aye? And Sorcha only comes up to my chin!"
He was angry, he had to be angry upon reading such drivel, and yet he nodded benignly as Oona placed a refilled goblet in his right hand. A reviving gulp of mead was needed to whet his whistle, for by god he had plenty more to say. That is, he felt as if he should have more to say, though he could not quite think of what it was at present. His warrior instincts appeared to have deserted him along with clarity of thought.
As Niall swigged the mead, a fresh applewood log was placed in his left hand by the Bard, which obligated him to place it on the dulling fire. The book had somehow disappeared from Niall's lap when he moved to read the full details of the Remedie. He lifted every fold of his great-kilt but could find it nowhere.
Silence reigned again, but for the new log's crackle as it caught alight to spread its aromatic fumes, and a noise coming from Oona that was suspiciously like a giggle in suppression.
"My ancestors, in consultation with the clan," said the Bard quietly, "have passed down to us the gift of their wisdom in these proud Traditions. Ye have chosen to wed a lass as tall as one o' yer own ancestors, the great-great-great-grandmother from whom the height o' yer bloodline was further enhanced. Oona will now explain the finer points in her womanly way."
Niall's eyes narrowed as he beheld the fire and listened to the Grandam Wisewoman's words.
Oona's work here was for chieftain's own good, but she still had to give her throat a right good clearing before she was composed enough to speak. "Chieftain, I address ye as Grandam Wisewoman o' Clan MacKrannan…" she intoned, for a Grandam Wisewoman could not help but chant all her words. "…Wife to The Bard o' Clan MacK…"
"Aye, aye," said Niall, swigging blithely. "I ken yer qualifications for the job, Oona. Get on wi' it."
"…MacKrannan. The Tradition named the 'Pushyng In of Spend' was written many centuries ago and last needed for yer great-great-great-grandmother. It will be done when Sorcha's womb will be at its maist receptive. Baith o' ye will sleep alone until then, and the two Wisewomen Hilde and Cecily will watch over Sorcha. Ye will not see Sorcha, nor speak to her, nor have message delivered to her."
Hah! The mystery of the extra baggage solved. He accepted more mead, trying to remember what he'd been annoyed about.
"That's fine wi' me, Oona, but what are the terms o' this Tradition?"
"The clan will not be told. There will be nine present. That is all I can say."
"Seven watchers…? Ach, come on!" he said jovially. "Ye could just write out the instructions for Sorcha and myself to manage it atween us, surely?"
Oona's cap moved slightly backwards as she smiled broadly. "The clan's Traditions are always witnessed."
And she arose from the fireside, followed by the Bard. The Summons was complete and Niall had little of comfort to tell Sorcha – and he was barred from her anyway. He got to his feet, and regained his balance by holding onto the chairback. Trickery had been afoot with the mead.
There was one hope left.
"A moment, if ye please! Have ye consulted my father about this?"
"Aye, we have," she answered. "The Chief asked what took us so long."
"Cooped up in my bedchamber?" cried Sorcha, "and you will not even tell me the purpose? Nay, nay, NAY!"
The two Wisewomen calmly unpacked their baggage. A floorcloth with curious markings. Oona's beeswax candles, a large pitcher of mead, and a clarsach. And their own personal effects. All herbal remedies, incantations, stargazing and divination tools having already been tried, their preparing of Sorcha would be a simple one. Their agreement with Oona was this – what went into their mistress's mouth was none so important as that which stayed out of it.
"What's in that box?" Sorcha yowled. "I will have none of yer weasel's hind paws in vinegar and yer wild boar's powdered genitals in here!"
Hilde held the box open for her milady's inspection. It contained a hair comb and some willow twigs for teethcleaning. Her voice was at its most hypnotic to soothe her mistress.
"Milady, ye confuse us wi' others in yer employ for the task. Such items of which ye speak have never been our ways. We bring little of our craft. The floorcloth of the heavens is for our own meditations, unless ye care to join us. The clarsach is to keep ye entertained wi' music. Cecily, play awhile for the mistress and I will fetch mead for us all."
Three full goblets and a selection of harmonic harp melodies later, Sorcha couldn't remember why the Wisewomen were unwelcome to her. A peace flowed through her that had been long absent. The corners of her mouth tilted upwards when Cecily broke into a livelier tune. Her slippers tapped to the rhythm on the wooden boards. She saw the blur of Hilde swaying and birling with fingers extended in graceful poses, and gladly arose to join in the dance.
Sorcha let herself fly around the bedchamber, and in her exertions breathed deeper the peculiar scent from the beeswax candles. Such fun to be had in the company of women and music and mead!
The party was interrupted by a knocking at the door which, they realised, had been going on for quite some time and got lost among the sounds of feet on floorboards. Hilde and Cecily shut their mistress into the garderobe before going to answer.
"What business have the two o' ye in here? Where is Sorcha?"
The Wisewomen were affected none by the s
napping of Mirren, wife to the chieftain's younger brother.
"Milady…" the Wisewomen curtsied, raising their skirts full wide to deny her entrance, determined as she was.
"We are sent by the Bard, milady," said Hilde.
"And by the Grandam Wisewoman, milady," said Cecily.
"We regret the chieftain's wife receives no visitors," said Hilde.
"On the orders of the Bard and the Grandam Wisewoman," said Cecily.
Mirren's head oscillated to and fro, listening to the Wisewomen's alternating speeches.
"But we shall pass her yer kind regards," said Hilde.
"And we hope ye will no' take offence," said Cecily.
Anticipating Hilde to take her turn again, Mirren discovered too late that her head had already moved sided to side as if in agreement with this last statement of Cecily's.
It wasn't like her to get caught out like that. The Wisewomen were well-named, and their faces so devoid of guile that objections were futile.
"No indeed," she said. "I shall visit again at a time more convenient. When shall we say…?"
The two faces stared at her blankly.
Mirren tried again. "…So, when should I return?"
"We shall send word to ye, milady," said Hilde.
This reply pursed Mirren's lips into the expression she was famed for in MacKrannan Castle, the one bearing impressive resemblance to the underneath of a cat's tail.
Cecily espied the wee basket in Mirren's hand, covered in with a lace cloth and smelling of spices and eggs. "Ye brought gift, milady… I shall see Mistress Sorcha receives yer generosity."
"Never mind it," said Mirren, but somehow the basket had already been taken by Cecily into the chamber.
"We thank ye, milady. Good day to ye," said Hilde, with a final curtsy.
And Mirren found herself facing a closed door whose key was being turned in its lock. The impudence!
The Chieftain Needs an Heir - a Highland ménage novella (Clan MacKrannan's Secret Traditions) Page 1
