Pride of the Clan

by Anna Markland

  A local farmer who came daily to deliver milk to the Priory was the bearer of these perplexing tidings. This was to be the final day of the spectacle and he had earlier brought lurid details of first days of horrific punishments meted out to the Earl and his grandson and apparently to every member of their family the Royalists had managed to round up.

  For women of religious persuasion the nuns of Emanuel Priory seemed to take ghoulish pleasure in the telling and retelling of the barbaric torture in Edinburgh. The coronation of the seven year old King James the Second in the interim seemed of no interest to them.

  A lead ball lodged itself in Margaret’s belly, rendering sleeping and eating impossible. Her only consolation, the rock on which she anchored her hopes, was Joss’s presence. As Triduana prattled on about red hot coronets and pincers, beheadings and quartered bodies, Margaret’s mind swam with visions of blood and severed heads. She tried to recall Robert Stewart as he was when he’d come to Oban, but a headless body carrying a skull appeared behind her eyes—pointing at her. Head swimming, she got up from her knees in the garden and walked towards her faithful servant. Her legs were moving, she was sure of it, but she wasn’t getting any closer to Joss.

  The next thing she knew she was grovelling in the dirt, retching over the newly sprouted carrots. Joss scooped her up, babbling something unintelligible. She clung to him, trembling as he carried her into the Infirmary. Sister Triduana waddled along beside them, fanning Margaret’s face with a dirty hand, breathlessly lamenting the effects of too much sun.

  Joss was shooed out once he’d laid her on a pallet. She protested she needed him to stay. They made her sip water, which she promptly coughed up before drifting into oblivion.

  She woke in darkness. Someone had called her name, but who? She raised her head, relieved the dizziness had abated. She was alone in the Infirmary except for an elderly nun whose face was illuminated by the flickering glow of a lone candle on the table in front of her. But the woman was too far away to discern who it was.

  “Margaret,” a deep voice whispered.

  She raised up on her elbows. The nun keeping vigil didn’t seem to have heard. Mayhap she’d imagined a man had spoken her name. No men were allowed here.

  “Margaret.”

  She peered into the shadows. “Who’s there?” she whispered hoarsely, fear constricting her throat.

  “Do ye not know me?” the voice teased.

  She clamped her hands over her ears, convinced she was losing her wits. Women who heard voices were shut away in the madhouse. A nunnery was bad enough. “No. Go away. Leave me be.”

  “Ye dinna want me to go,” he said, the amusement in his voice unmistakable. “I’ve something important to tell ye.”

  She gasped. It wasn’t possible. “Braden?”

  “Aye, sweet sister.”

  An urge to scream Bollocks! at the top of her lungs seized her, but she decided against it. That would bring the nun scurrying to her side.

  “That’s nay a proper word for a lady, Margaret. It was remiss o’ me to teach it to ye.”

  “But I didn’t say it out loud,” she protested.

  “But ye thought it,” Braden said.

  She looked over at the nun who still seemed oblivious.

  “She canna see or hear me,” Braden whispered. “I’m beside ye.”

  Despite a determination not to turn her head, she did. Her eldest brother stood at the side of her pallet, looking as hale and hearty as the last time she’d seen him alive, except his hair was shorter. Her eyes welled with tears as she reached out her hand. “Braden,” she sobbed.

  “Ye canna touch me, Margaret, but dinna worry for me.”

  “But ye’re dead,” she wailed.

  “Nay,” he replied with a smile. “Corryvrechan was only a portal. It carried me to the future, and I must admit there’s a lot going on there I dinna understand and I havna located my brothers yet. But everyone is still fighting over who is the rightful king o’ Scotland. Which brings me to the reason for my visit to ye.”

  Margaret blinked rapidly, Braden's words confirming she had completely lost her wits. “Portal?” she parroted.

  “Aye,” he replied. “But what I need to tell ye is they’re searching in the wrong place for Robert Graham.”

  “Wrong place?”

  “Tell Rheade to search near Loch Bhac.”

  “Loch Bhac?”

  “Aye. He’ll ken where it is. There’s a burn, on the west side of the loch. The man they seek is hiding under a giant rock, sort of a cave. In the future they refer to it as Graham’s Rock, and the burn is known as Graham’s Burn.”

  This was too much. “I dinna ken where Rheade is.”

  “He’s at Blair.”

  “But I canna—”

  “Send Joss.”

  “Joss,” she murmured.

  “Aye,” a female voice declared. “’Twas that great lump carried ye in here.”

  She opened her eyes. The Infirmirian stood by her bed, one hand on Margaret’s forehead. Her brother had disappeared.

  “Braden,” she whispered.

  “Nay, his name’s Joss. Dinna fret. The fever’s gone. Ye’ll remember more clearly soon.”

  ~~~

  Sister Triduana looked up from her weeding. “What are ye doing out here?” she shrieked, scrambling to her feet, wiping her hands on the leather apron she wore to protect her habit.

  Margaret smiled weakly, noting out of the corner of her eye that Triduana’s outburst had drawn Joss’s attention. He shaded his eyes against the sun, watching her. “I feel much better,” she said, inhaling the invigorating hint of freshness in the air that hinted at a recent shower. “The Infirmirian gave permission.”

  She stifled a smile, recalling the elderly nun’s spluttering reluctance to allow her to leave, but then the memory of Braden's message leapt into her heart. She still couldn’t believe he’d appeared to her. And his tales of a future world! She was definitely going mad.

  But what if Graham was hiding at Loch Bhac, wherever it was? Nay! Why would people in the future name a burn and a rock after a traitor?

  And if everything Braden had told her turned out to be true, and Graham was captured, he’d be tortured to death with the same barbaric cruelty as his confederates.

  But he’d slain a king. The guilt lay with him, not with his captors.

  Joss might not understand the message. He’d have to procure a horse for the long journey to Blair Castle. But from where? They hung horse thieves. A ghastly memory of the Gallows Tree floated into her mind. Dizziness returned. She clenched her fists, determined to pass on the vital message.

  “I’ll just thank Joss,” she said, “then I’ll help with the weeding.”

  “Ye dinna need to thank him. He’s simple. He willna understand.”

  “Nevertheless,” she replied, inhaling deeply.

  She strode over to Joss. He watched her approach. A few feet away she stopped. “Braden has appeared to me in a dream.”

  He slung his shovel over one shoulder. “Aye. A message?”

  Apparently, Joss had no trouble believing Braden had come back to life. She wished she’d been able to commit the details to parchment, but there’d been no opportunity. Joss would never remember everything. “Go to Rheade at Blair Castle. Tell him to search on the west side of Loch Bhac, near a burn, under a rock.”

  Joss drove the shovel into the dirt. “Blair. Loch Bhac. West. Burn.”

  “Under a rock,” she added, relieved he’d apparently understood.

  “Blair, Bhac, west, burn, rock,” he repeated with a crooked smile.

  “Aye,” she breathed. “And tell him I miss him.”

  “Miss,” he repeated, then abruptly strode off through the field.

  She watched him go.

  “May God be with you,” she prayed before turning back to Sister Triduana.

  “Where’s he off to?” the nun asked.

  Margaret shrugged. “Who knows. He’s simple.”

&
nbsp; BACK AT BLAIR

  Billeted at Blair Castle, Rheade visited the turret room only once. He looked longingly at the small bed where he and Margaret had cuddled, praying she was safe.

  He climbed into the hayloft, immensely relieved to locate Stewart’s sword exactly where he’d hidden it.

  Some of the local peasants who’d worked at the castle gradually returned, apparently no longer in fear of their lives. Who would blame peasants for the actions of noblemen? And a castle ran better with servants. They removed the stinking bodies from the entryway and cleansed away the blood and gore, along with a maggoty pile of horse shit he suspected Bàn was responsible for. Fresh rushes were strewn and the stench was slowly disappearing. He couldn’t smell the aroma of hop Margaret had detected, but the servants had definitely added something to sweeten the rushes.

  The ostler who’d returned to look after the horses was ancient and it was doubtful the man would attempt the rickety ladder up to the hayloft.

  Rheade liked Blair, mayhap because it was where he’d asked for Margaret’s hand. It was a bonny castle, despite the Stewart ghosts.

  He hadn’t witnessed the gruesome executions in Edinburgh, but strangely he’d known the moment Robert Stewart’s life had ended. He’d been forced to sit, shaken with overwhelming relief. He hadn’t cared a wit about the Earl, but Robert’s anguish tormented him because he sensed Margaret was feeling it too.

  He strode out to the bailey and looked up at the turret room. The window had been repaired. “No trace of the chamber pot,” he quipped to Logan who came to stand beside him.

  They’d been alerted earlier to the approach of their chieftain and the men who’d accompanied him to the executions. The outriders posted on the Edinburgh road had evidently passed on the message the search headquarters had moved to Blair.

  He looked out towards the Grampians, and the meadow below them where he’d bested Robert Stewart. He’d feared for his life in those moments. The assassin hadn’t yielded without a fierce fight.

  He clenched his jaw as he waited for the brother who’d stolen the glory of his conquest. He wasn’t looking forward to Tannoch’s return, not that he was ever overjoyed at the prospect. Garth had also decided to go to Edinburgh, “for Joan’s sake”, whatever that meant. Surely the Queen hadn’t witnessed the executions.

  In their absence Logan and Rheade had led shorter excursions, but there’d been no sign of Graham. The wretch had disappeared from the face of the earth. It was possible the rumors he’d fled to France were true. It was well known he’d attended the University of Paris when it was the fashion for young Scottish noblemen, before the never-ending war between France and England.

  Rheade dreaded being forced to listen to Tannoch’s account of the executions.

  He caught sight of Garth first, and didn’t recognise the man riding at his side. “What in the name of—” he gasped to Logan, whose mouth had fallen open.

  Tannoch had evidently shaved every hair from his head. Only a hint of down now covered his scalp, eerily resembling a red halo in the weak rays of the morning sun. His beard was gone, his face darkened by a hint of stubble. He looked like John the Baptiser come down from heaven.

  Rheade shook himself. Mayhap the notion was a bit of an exaggeration. Still…

  Tannoch laughed as he dismounted and faced his brothers. He clamped a heavy hand on Rheade’s shoulder. “Suspected ye might not recognise me,” he exclaimed.

  Rheade couldn’t recall the last time his brother had touched him in greeting, or laughed. The léine and plaid were clean, and looked new. Had the chieftain gone shopping in Edinburgh?

  Logan recovered first. “What hae ye done to yerself?” he asked.

  “Lice,” Tannoch replied. “Pesky buggers. Naught for it but to shave it off.”

  Rheade suddenly had to scratch his scalp. Indeed his whole body itched.

  Garth had dismounted and joined the conversation. “But he didna do it willingly. He scratched for three days while we watched the executions. Drove us mad. Finally had to hold him down while we removed every hair.”

  Emotions churned in Rheade’s gut. Would he ever be rid of the vision dancing behind his eyes—his brother tormented by vermin while watching a gruesome execution, evidently unwilling to tear himself away to take care of the problem? And what of the poor souls around him? The Grassmarket would have been packed with spectators wriggling like maggots to catch a glimpse of the horror.

  Tannoch had probably considered the barbering his own form of torture. Rheade imagined the shouts of protest. But a different realization stunned him into silence.

  Logan’s hoarse voice echoed his shock. “Yer the spitting image of our Da without all that hair.”

  ~~~

  For a moment Rheade wanted to fling his arms around this brother he’d never gotten along with and beg his forgiveness for doubting his parentage. But a wary look from Logan stopped him.

  Instead he cast his eye over the twenty or more horses the ancient ostler was attempting to take care of. “I’ll find somebody to give the auld man a hand,” he muttered.

  “No need,” Tannoch exclaimed, still grinning like a lunatic. Rheade noted with disgust that the barber evidently hadn’t been paid enough to pull the rotten teeth.

  Tannoch waved to the rear of the column where the tired horses had stirred up a cloud of dust. “We brought an ostler. Stumbled across him walking the Edinburgh road. Man’s a bit simple, but he’s a way with horses.”

  Rheade’s heart stopped beating as he peered into the dust, finally making out Joss’s heavy frame as he gentled several horses, leading them to the stables. The urge to rush over and ask what had happened to cause the servant to abandon Margaret was overwhelming. He clenched his fists, the soles of his feet burning. Had she been taken to Edinburgh? Surely his newly shorn brother would have said something?

  Perhaps he should send Logan to Joss, but his younger brother seemed to have disappeared with Garth.

  “Are ye ill?” Tannoch asked.

  “Nay,” Rheade hissed through gritted teeth.

  Tannoch suddenly fingered Rheade’s trefoil brooch and pressed his nose to the sachet. “Still pining for the Ogilvie woman, are ye?” he asked.

  Rheade stiffened his spine. He no longer feared Tannoch and sensed his brother knew it. “I will wed her, whether ye like it or not.”

  Tannoch snorted. “Surprised, were ye?”

  Rheade frowned, not understanding.

  “That I look like Da?”

  Rheade wasn’t sure where this discussion was headed. Probably nowhere good. “Why would I be surprised?”

  Tannoch ran a hand over the fuzz on his head. “I’ve often wondered meself,” he rasped close to Rheade’s ear. “We’re verra different, ye and me and Logan. And Da left his brooch to ye. A body has to ask—why?”

  Rheade stared hard into black eyes inches from his own, and wasn’t sure what lurked there. “Tannoch, ye are my older brother and my chieftain. There’s many a family with sons and daughters who dinna resemble one another. As for why Da passed the brooch to me—”

  Tannoch smiled. “Because I asked him to.”

  This was a perplexing revelation. “Why would ye do such a thing?”

  Tannoch shrugged. “I’m sure Fion has told ye what befell our Mother?”

  There was no point in lying. “Aye. But not long since. I had no idea.”

  “I can likely tell ye the day ye found out. I saw it in yer eyes, and in Logan’s.”

  “But how did you ken?”

  “Da told me the day I turned twelve.” He inhaled deeply, staring off into the Grampians. “He told me because he feared someday others would raise the issue. He wanted me to be prepared.” He swallowed hard. “He assured me he believed I was his son.”

  Rheade suddenly understood. “But ye’ve doubted it.”

  Tannoch studied his feet. “’Tis obvious ye’d make a better chieftain than me. Yer more our father’s son than I’ll ever be.”

  Rh
eade wondered what on earth had transpired in Edinburgh to cause his brother to reveal these thoughts. “It doesna matter, Tannoch. Both our parents loved ye. As far as I’m concerned—”

  His knees came close to buckling when Tannoch abruptly landed both hands on his shoulders. He may have shaved and purchased new raiment but the offensive odor hadn’t changed. “Dinna mistake my meaning, Rheade. I am still chieftain, and I intend to remain so. I’ll brook no attempt—”

  Rheade gripped his brother’s wrists. “Ye have always had my allegiance, Tannoch. I swear it, but I’ll fight ye every step of the way if ye persecute Margaret.”

  Tannoch narrowed his eyes. “Aye, well, if she’s as innocent as ye say—”

  “Stop it, man,” Rheade exploded. “Why persist in this? Ye dinna believe her guilty of anything.”

  Tannoch’s eyes suddenly took on an eerie glow. “Then how did she ken Robert Stewart would be here, at Blair Castle? This is where ye captured him, right?”

  Rheade’s mouth fell open. Tannoch had never been a smart man, but surely he didn’t believe—

  “Ye canna be serious.”

  Tannoch scowled as they became aware Garth and Logan had rejoined them. He let go of Rheade’s shoulders and strode off angrily.

  From the gobsmacked expression on Garth’s face he’d wager the Black Knight had overhead Tannoch’s admission. But he’d no time to be concerned with that. He had to talk to Joss.

  ~~~

  Rheade walked nonchalantly towards the stables, resisting the urge to run. He caught sight of Joss leisurely brushing down a palfrey in one of the stalls, dressed only in a well-worn léine. It struck Rheade as odd that a simpleton who’d wandered miles on foot didn’t give off the same offensive odor as Tannoch.

  The servant seemed engrossed in his task and Rheade didn’t want to startle him. “Joss,” he rasped.

  Joss turned around. “Rheadedonnachaidhstarkeyrobertson,” he said with a smile and a deferential nod of the head.

  Rheade was tempted to laugh. He’d never received such a greeting! “Where is the ostler?” he asked, searching for the auld man. “I don’t want him to overhear.”