The Wisewomen fetched Sorcha from the garderobe. While readying her for dinner, Hilde casually asked if Mirren came to visit often.
"Every day," said Sorcha, fighting the slur in her speech. "She's grand company, always has news to tell."
"Fancy that…" said Hilde as she cleaned the mead slops from her mistress's hands. "And she's left ye a wee basket o' treats. Does she bring them every day?"
"Oh aye, fondants and seedcakes and the like."
"Lovely. Ye must miss them when ye are away at court or visiting with yer family."
"Ye would think, but Mirren is so kindly that she gives me a basket to tide me o'er till my return."
"Mmm-hmph," said Hilde. "And ye have the cook make them for yerself at other times."
"Nay, I never bother. Mirren had been here and wed to Ruaridh a year and more by the time I wed into the clan, so she knew the cook already. I supply the wine – from France, of course. I have family there."
The conversation turned to vineyards and vintages and Hilde let the cake topic drop.
A patterned series of knocks came upon the door.
"Here is Oona with our dinners now, milady."
The Grandam Wisewoman was admitted. The offerings in her hamper were exceedingly sparse compared to the smells of roast pork and swan that the wind was wafting in the bedchamber window from the kitchens, but Sorcha at least saw hope of more mead and its euphoric effects when she espied the pitcher.
"Yer mead was delicious, Oona. Is that more ye have fetched?"
Oona's head tilted as she replied, "In a way. What I have brought has the same flavor, and it will keep yer eyes dry o' tears, and have ye more alert."
Sorcha near spat it back out. Honey-flavored springwater… what was this!
"Brought from the Well on the Isle of May, milady. It is said to be greatly efficacious to women in their supplying heirs, though a bit on the plain side without honey from mine own bees. And here is yer dinner."
Sorcha beheld the trencher with disdain. Blaeberries, oatmeal bannocks, a great mass of kail barely cooked, and two bits of salmon somewhere underneath. This confinement to her bedchamber would be a long time in passing. And she was yet to be told what was to happen at the end.
"Eat it up, milady. Ye will need yer strength."
It boded well if activity was foreseen. Being the victim of murder was more usually a passive event. Sorcha squashed blaeberries onto a bannock and munched, finding herself smiling for the first time in too long. They had brought her the gift of hope.
The Three Wisewomen convened briefly in the privacy of the garderobe, which was not unexpected. They knew what they were about. Sorcha would naturally be excluded from their hatchings.
Oona ate a bit of dinner with them all, packed Mirren's unopened basket into the empty hamper and sought out the Bard.
"Carrot seeds, ye say? But they would stop the lass getting wi' child!"
"The wild carrot species, aye, and that is what these are," said Oona with a sadness. "And mair than that, husband… they would cause her to slip any she conceived."
"Ye're sure it has been Mirren herself? A mischief-maker in the kitchens, perhaps…"
"The seeds are raw, worked right delicately into the cakes after they are baked, and they're only in the harder ones. These seeds must be chewed well to work. Mirren has had them for her own use since her two babes were birthed. I have seen her in my scrying and here is the proof now. It was Cecily warned me, for she had marked the time when Mirren's face changed and then followed the lines of treachery grown deeper with every moon."
The Bard sat back in his chair. Sorcha's fallow womb was explained. His problem now lay in deciding what to do with the information. Who stood to gain from this? Mirren was wed to the younger brother Ruaridh and their son would be in line for Chief if Niall had no heir. Was it just Mirren, or was Ruaridh involved? Yet the brothers were close, and Ruaridh had saved Niall's life only last year when an escapade went awry. Nay… this was just Mirren's doing. A minx, she was. But who to tell? Should he convene with the Chief and his two sons?
"Dinna fret, husband. None need be told. Sorcha is safe wi' the Wisewomen for a while yet."
"But the Tradition need no' be invoked at all now, as long as Mirren's cakes are stopped. What is the point o' keeping her confined?"
The grin now on his wife's face was enough to make the Bard wonder what Mirren's comeuppance might be.
"We will still be invoking the Tradition. We canna let Hilde and Cecily's work preparing the Chamber of the Green Man go to waste."
"Aye, well, I suppose a century's worth o' cobwebs has been a long time in clearing."
"Nay, nay, husband, every generation o' Wisewomen have kept it decent and ready. There has simply been no call for its use, for we have bounteous harvests every year and the livestock have birthed fine all that time. Nay, it's the incantations have already been done, and supplies ordered, and... ach, all sorts o' things ye needna trouble yerself about, but they canna be left unused once they're invited. Besides, it will do Niall and Sorcha the world o' good afore their lives are filled wi' bairns. Now, tell me, have ye finished yer research yet?"
"I have."
"And are ye decided?"
"I am. It has to be Hector, though I am no' sure he'll be pleased to hear it."
"Hector?"
Oona threw back her head and laughed herself off the chair.
The boat ride to the Clootie Well was fast becoming a daily run for Mirren since the cake parties with Sorcha had stopped.
Being the wife of the chieftain's younger brother was not as high as her aspirations. She had ever felt second best, the runner-up in the competition, the bridesmaid instead of the bride, the… ach, what was the use. She could feel the wrinkles cracking deeper when it came to mind. It wouldn't do to start wrinkles and her so young.
Her father would not have forced her to wed a MacKrannan, knowing that the clan's traditions were abnormally queer although he was stumped when asked the details, but she had gladly agreed. Ruaridh was a handsome big Highlander and a grand husband, and she'd been gotten with child near straight off. He was attentive enough, when she crooked her finger and could be bothered with him, and he treated her decent. What more could she have asked for?
It was at their wedding that she'd first met his brother Niall and saw she'd committed to the wrong man in the family. Now there was a husband for a girl like her. He had everything of Ruaridh and about a half again extra. The stature that came with his responsibilities because he was chieftain, the extra deep curtsy from the servants because he was chieftain, the invitations to court because he was… ach, what was the use. Niall never looked her road much anyway beyond good manners and a bit of conversation. But in the dark of her bedchamber when Ruaridh came visiting, it was the chieftain's face she imagined above her. The same hair as black as the night but more to bury her fingers in while he loved her, the same MacKrannan eyes but with the power of command in them, the same broad chest but with a set to his shoulders that… ach, what was the use.
All had been tolerable until Niall had wed Sorcha. Built like a flagpole and the fairest of hair flapping in the wind. And Niall was just besotted. A faerie tale, they all said.
Until she'd put a stop to it with her special cakes. Her own son would be chieftain and then Chief if Sorcha couldna breed. And a wife that couldna breed would soon lose her appeal. Sure enough, the big lass was a mess now, going round the castle with her face tripping her. And sure enough, Niall was back at the wenching.
The wife of the chieftain's wee brother had little standing in society but she had a power over the clan that none knew of. Oona the Grandam Wisewoman had come every morn since the Summons to bathe her, and never once given sign that she suspected anything amiss.
Mirren took her guard's arm to step from boat to shore. The island was deserted, the way she liked it, and the climb to the Clootie Well a peaceful one. She took a white rag from her pocket and rubbed it on the grass till it came
streaked with green. And as she tied it onto the tree, her chant was 'Fertility be damned for Sorcha!'
It could never work as well as the carrotseeds in the cakes, but the older way of fixing ills was all she had left to try. Tie a cloot with yer problem onto the tree at the well, and leave yer troubles there behind ye. Green was the color of fertility, and Sorcha's impending fertility was the problem.
She was just turning to leave when she lost her footing, and would have fallen down the slope had she not managed to grab hold a bunch of cloots on a loaded branch. An ominous creaking became a crack. Mirren found herself sitting beside the well covered in years' worth of cloots of ailments and worries. In her haste to be free of it, and trying to get a decent handhold to shove it away, she touched many more cloots than if she had merely stood up and let it fall.
Ach… what the hell sort o' afflictions had she brought on herself… and how many?
Two day's journey away from MacKrannan Castle, the king of Scots snored mercilessly in his own bedchamber. His queen through the wall was restless and awake. What had possessed her to order a plateful of spicy sausages before bedtime, and her not even with child, unusually?
The vivid dreams repeatedly awakening her were about Hector MacKrannan, the Captain of her personal bodyguard. It must be because he had now completed three years in her service, and it had crossed her mind that he should be entitled to a much longer leave of absence than the few days off she'd occasionally allowed him before. Why this should be niggling her into sleeplessness she could not fathom, for the able Lieutenant would cover his post, but she depended much on Hector. The prospect of his not being there to protect her did not sit easily.
The resolution came to her – the sooner he was gone, the sooner he would return. She'd send him home this very minute and get a restful sleep. There. It was resolved. She sent her Lady-in-Waiting to the guard outside the door, who sent his fellow guard down the stairs to the Captain's room.
Hector was already awake, for his mind seemed full of his cottage at MacKrannan Castle and the clansfolk there, and sleep had totally eluded him. Middle of the night or no', the queen's orders were the queen's orders. But just in case it was some enemy ploy to have him out the way, he went upstairs to check with the guard and the Lady-in-Waiting first, and then with Her sleepless Majesty herself. And then he went to his Lieutenant's room to pass on the temporary command of the bodyguard. And only then did he awaken the kitchenmaid and the stablehand, by good fortune both in the same bed, as he acknowledged with a slight lift of an eyebrow, to pack him some sustenance and saddle his horse.
The wench currently on her back with her skirts round her waist had been a favorite of Niall's in his stag days and nights, yet his mind was so far from the job that he'd not yet begun it. The whole room reeked of honeysuckle, an unusual choice of decoration considering there was none in her garden, and his mindload of Sorcha was putting him well off his stroke.
Sorcha really was the bonniest lass in all Scotland. Her flaxen hair spoke of the Vikings in her ancestry and her eyes were as blue as the harebells in the meadow. The Viking influence also made her just a bit over a handspan short o' his own height, and he liked that fine, for she had a way of filling his arms that wee women could never have.
Fair astounded he had been when she'd accepted him. And more so when she heard what she'd need do on her wedding day, and still stayed betrothed. The Coupling of the Chieftain was a MacKrannan tradition guaranteed to sort the oats from the chaff. He'd been so proud of her on the day that he thought his heart would burst along with his balls.
His ease was not to be found with this wench, nor any sign that his body would ever seek it. He lay still, wondering what this next Tradition would entail. The wench underneath him coughed, causing him to remember she was there and scrambling off her lest she had anything catching. He had the grace to apologize for seeing the sun low in the sky and having to rush away.
She was a nice lass, and deserved better, and he could no' have gotten his kilt on quick enough had he gone as far as taking it off.
The wench was unbothered. She had done her work for the clan in keeping their chieftain from straying too far to find his way back to his wife. Honeysuckle had wondrous powers for keeping men faithful. Oona and the Bard would be right pleased to hear how he'd spoken Sorcha's name instead of her own and kept his eyes shut throughout his botched attempt at adultery.
A few more days, Oona had said. The wench did not expect him back atop her or any other in that time. Nor ever again, if her instincts served her right. He was the faithful type. Time he followed his heart and stayed true to his wife, for Sorcha was a nice lass, and deserved better.
On the mountainside above MacKrannan Castle, Niall met with his brother Ruaridh in a small cove well-known to them, where none could overhear.
Conversation did not begin for some time. Each had a secret they wanted to share. Neither knew if the other had the secret as well. So they sat looking out to sea, watching a birlinn drop sail to anchor at the castle, and the fishers landing a catch of herring, until Ruaridh who had called the cove meeting finally broached the subject.
"Did ye receive a Summons to the Vault of late?"
"Aye," said Niall. "You?"
"Aye."
And such was the economy of words needed between likeminded brothers, they got up and went home to the castle.
Ruaridh went straight to his wife, and sent the bairns' nannies out the room.
"Ye were right, Mirren – it is about Niall and Sorcha. He's heard frae the Bard too. So if she's confined to her bedchamber, and the Wisewomen are guarding her, and Niall's no' allowed near her… I would lay odds there's some Fertility Tradition afoot."
"See, I told ye."
"Like I said at the start – ye were right."
"But what does the Bard want wi' the two of us, then?"
Ruaridh shrugged. "Witnesses, I would think. There's always witnesses at Traditions."
"Witness what? You canna mean…"
The state of Mirren's face was worth the jest, but his own grin gave him away.
"I'm teasing ye, Mirren! There has no' been a Fertility Tradition in a hundred years that I know of, and I have no clue what will be asked of us. Ye know what the Wisewomen are like wi' their auras and vibrations and stuff. I suppose we'll be handy to have around, being so fertile…"
He looked to his son and daughter in their cradles, feeling an immense gratitude for what they'd been given so effortlessly.
"Rest easy, wife. It's sure to be something connected to the bloodline. We'll be sent to the kirkyard to bond wi' the spirits o' the ancestors while the ritual takes place, or suchlike duty."
A pity. He would have liked to find out if his own image of Sorcha undressed matched with the reality. A goddess, she was, wi' her hair the color of a cornfield at the harvest. And tall. Ye didna find many women tall like that. Had Mirren come after instead of afore, he'd have taken his chances.
"And Mirren, listen. Ye know what the Traditions are like. Behave yerself, aye? No talking in the silent times. This is serious stuff."
While Ruaridh spoke with his wife, Niall was in the Bard's cottage trying to wheedle information. The Bard would tell him nothing. Oona gave him yet another pitcher of mead to take away with him, with the usual strict instructions about it being for his personal use only. Niall could think of none else who would want plain honey-flavored springwater, which was all this batch of 'mead' was, but he swore upon his honor that he would drink it every day.
He missed Sorcha something painful, and he seemed to be going about with a permanent cockstand that had interest in none but her. And a group of clansmen let him know what kind of temper he'd been in lately by discreetly scattering in all directions at his approach.
Hector stood at the door of his cottage looking at the fire laid ready for lighting in the grate and the provisions ready for a hungry traveller on the table. Stepping inside, he angled his sight to where the sun's rays came through the wind
ow. Not a speck of dust floated in the air.
Whichever woman had done the brunt of the housework had no' done it recently, yet he'd sent no messenger ahead for he'd have been as well riding alongside him. The first anyone could have known of his return was when he greeted the MacKrannan guards at the clan border – and his horse was faster than any there.
He wandered through all four rooms to find naught but a sense of another's presence of late, and evidence of their industriousness in the floors swept clean. Even his bed was made up, and his great-kilt and clean shirts and pairs of hose all neatly laid out atop the trunk. He changed out his Queen's Bodyguard uniform and walked back through to the front door to greet the visitor whose footfall was to be heard on the path.
A shadow crossed the open door. "Hector, ye're home!"
"Bard. Greetings," said Hector, and made formal bow.
"Laddie, yer head is still at court. We may dispense wi' these formalities – and I suspect ye may outrank me now."
Hector's laugh boomed around the cottage. "It is a difficult habit to break. How are ye, man?"
"Fine, fine. Ye received the Summons from Oona, then?"
Hah! He should have guessed there was something afoot wi' the Wisewomen.
"In the middle o' the night, two days past. Her Majesty did no' say the how or the why, and I was sleepless myself and thinking on home."
"Oona's too good at it for the queen to know what stirs her dreaming. See, I could have sent ye a Summons only by way of a man on horseback. Oona's ways are quicker. Women, eh? Ye canna be upsides wi' them, and none dare try. And I hear the queen's sister is to be wed again, is that so?"
Hector yanked the Bard back to the topic. He was used to fast answers and out of practise at idle chatter beyond opening pleasantries. "What is the Summons for?"
"Oh. That. Come sit with me, Hector. And fetch that pitcher o' honeymead over while we talk."
Sorcha's enforced stay in her bedchamber had been made quite enjoyable by the Wisewomen. And she was surprised to find how little she missed Mirren's cakes, for the food and the honeywater brought by Oona three times daily was wholesome fare. Her body and skin had never felt better. Even her craving for cattlemeat had waned. Fish seemed so much easier to digest that their time for dancing was extended. Hardly a moment has passed after today's lunch but she was whirling round the bedchamber instead of snoozing on the bed. Her limbs felt strong and supple and much vitalized. Her mood, too, seemed consistently light and airy. The Wisewomen laughed the day away, and even their serious moments were absent of dourness.
The Chieftain Needs an Heir - a Highland ménage novella (Clan MacKrannan's Secret Traditions) Page 2
