by Deb Kemper
“That’s an excellent idea, Gerty. I need the fresh air.” She pulled on her underclothes and the short stays the dressmaker designed to allow her belly to grow unencumbered. A loose white shift finished her dressing for the moment. “If anyone wants me, I’ll be on the parapet.” Not that my husband’s spoken to me in more than a week, so I doubt he’ll be askin’ after me.
“Aye, ma’am.” Gerty left her to find her way up the third floor to the parapet.
She trod the narrow stone staircase that spiraled up to a landing with a heavy wooden door. She pushed it open and eased through the portal into the glare of brilliant sunshine. She waited at the doorway until she could see and stepped out onto the roof.
The prospect is fantastic! She whirled to catch the glimmer of snow-capped mountains on three sides. The village, castle, and barmekin nestled on the tall end of a valley against a peak. Green mist covered the trees as leaves began to unfurl. The water of the loch was still as a mirror, reflecting the brilliant blue sky.
I hear birdsong.
Noise from below drew her to the wall. She stretched to peer over the top to see the troubadours, taking advantage of the weather, by moving outside the great hall. They set up their instruments and harmonized their tones.
“There, Jed, ye have the lead next.” Everyone laughed as Jed clowned, twirling the mallets between his long fingers before striking the bass drum for the resonating sound that pierced Amalie’s heart.
Lark fingered the strings of the harp, setting the melody. Her voice fractured the roughness of barmekin life with clear, penetrating notes of an ancient Celtic tune.
While the minstrels played in earnest, a waft of heavenly melody immersed Amalie. This must be what angels do all day.
She began to dance, a sacred, ancient dance of her people. Words tumbled out her mouth as she sang to Yah. She twirled, swept along with the melody. Her hands extended high into the air, praise pouring out in her words.
A smile crept over her somber countenance. “It feels strange to smile. I haven’t felt so oppressed, since the cargo hold, in the merchant ship. Forgive me, Holy One, for forgetting Your benefits. Thank You for beautiful days with sun to warm us, blue skies, trees bursting with new leaves….” Her dance flowed, gracefully celebrating her Creator’s love.
The door to the parapet opened. Garth stepped out, blinded by the bright light reflected from the white stone of the roof.
He heard a sweet voice for a full minute before he realized it came from his wife. He squinted and watched her dance. He tried to shake the feeling of profound presence. He glanced around to see if there were others. No one was evident but Amalie.
He froze, found himself barely breathing. Good God, what’s this she’s doing?
I AM!
What? No, that’s the mallets striking the drum. He heard it again, I AM! He shook it off.
Amalie swayed through the dance, having no idea she entertained an audience of more than One. She opened her eyes for a flash and stopped in her tracks, rigid with alarm.
“Garth!” She gasped his name.
“Amalie.” He nodded, offered a curt bow before he opened the door.
He bolted.
She ran to the entry, grasped the latch, and jerked it open in time to hear her husband’s quick steps down the narrow twisted stairs. She plopped into a heap on the cold stone landing and wept.
****
A fortnight later, Garth stopped at the top of the stone stairs. A specter floated toward him down the darkened hallway. He watched the white-clothed figure drift without a candle. As it neared, he realized Amalie studied him strangely.
“You just now comin’ home, sire?” She held the rail beside her, an arm’s length from where his hand gripped the oak support.
“Aye.” He scrubbed his hand over his weary eyes. “Another Chattan council meetin’ gone long.” He didn’t make eye contact.
“I see. May I pass?”
“Where ye going?” He glanced at her.
“The kitchen. I’m hungry.”
His voice curt, he frowned. “Why don’t ye get Gerty?”
“No need for us both to be up. I can find my way and what I want.” She took a step to pass him.
He reached out and caught her arm. “Here, I’ll go wi’ ye.”
“No need. I do this every night though you wouldn’t know that.” She held his arm close to her side. “I count my steps, you see. There are forty-seven steps between my door and the landing, twenty-nine between my door and yours. I make that trip frequently but you’re not there.”
They entered the kitchen together.
“Do you want to know how often I’ve made the trip the past sennight?” She drifted past him, one hand tucked under her expanding belly.
He didn’t answer but struck a match, holding the flame to the wick of the lamp mounted by the kitchen door. “What do ye desire, Amalie?” He headed for the pie safe, where she stood.
“Ah, here it is. Rosie throws a potato, on the dyin’ embers, then hides it for me.” She peeled back the crisped brown rind and plucked out flaky white flesh to pop into her mouth. “Mmm, just like home.”
Garth glared. “This is yer home now.” He leaned against the preparation table and crossed his legs, the toe of his leather brogue resting on the stone floor.
She studied him as she chewed another bite. “Home is where people love you, husband.” She looked down, noticed that he wore no kilt. “You wear trews. Have you been away?”
He nodded. “Most o’ the day but ye wouldn’t know that.”
“Because you don’t talk to me anymore. I caught a brief glimpse of you yesterday for the first time in more than a week.”
“Sorry ’bout that. I don’t want to worry ye. There’re things happenin’ out in the world that affect our lives, but I don’t want it touchin’ my family until it has to be.” He wearily rubbed his eyes.
“I’d like to go to Dublin, for a visit, before the bairn comes.” She sucked the starch from her fingers.
“Nay! Ye’ll not leave the barmekin until it’s safe. That’ll likely be a long time.”
Her eyes welled with tears. “I’d dearly love to see Papa and Kaykay, Garth.”
“Nay, I can’t allow ye outta my sight. Ye’d fetch a king’s ransom. No tellin’ how many people I’d have to kill to get ye back. The killin’ll come soon enough. Fer now ye and my girls are restricted to the castle and the barmekin. Do ye ken, woman?”
She brushed the tears away from her cheeks and nodded. She tossed the potato peel on cooling ash, in the fireplace, and passed him, heading back upstairs.
He blew out the lamp and followed. He stayed behind her, his hand in the small dent of her lower back. He went along to her chamber and closed the door behind them to undress.
“I’ll stay wi’ ye tonight. I’m sorry life is like this, really I am, but the times we live in are dangerous.” Exhausted, he used his best argument.
Amalie climbed into bed and turned her back to him.
He lay down behind her, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face in her hair. He felt her body convulse with a sob and rolled her to face him.
“My sweet, please.” He kissed her soft lips, tasted salty tears streaming from her smooth cheek, and pulled her close. “What do I do to please ye, Amalie?”
She took repose against his broad chest. “Be my husband, Garth, please.”
He sighed. “For tonight, my heart.”
Garth woke before dawn and lay still in his wife’s bed. Thumping against his hard belly puzzled him for a moment. His hand slipped between his body and Amalie’s to find his child awake and kicking.
How on earth can she sleep through that? Ah, there ye are, little one, safe with yer mam. The thought of her carrying his child renewed his passion. He rolled out of her bed, to the cold stone floor, and grabbed his clothes. It was better to leave before she woke.
****
The great hall kitchen hummed with activity. Steam rose from massi
ve pots of boiling water on the stove. A spit roasted a stag, over the fire.
Millie stopped at the brochette and handled the mop in a bucket of baste by the hearth. “Ye see, Glenn? Ye dob the liquid o’er the meat ever so often. It keeps it from dryin’ out and seasonings add flavor.”
The young lad nodded, a lank of dark hair falling across his eyes. “Aye, ma’am.” He took the mop from her, dipped it into the bucket, and swabbed the meat on the turn. “Like that?”
“Good man!” She smiled and went back to the stove, to stir potatoes, boiling in a massive copper pot.
Amalie passed from the kitchen garden with an arm load of greens. “What’ll ye have me do with these, Millie?” She wiped her forearm across her sweaty brow.
“I’ll get one o’ the girls to give ’em a wash and we’ll dry ’em a bit. You stir up a vinegar sauce with herbs to wilt them. Do we have sassafras in the larder?” Millie stirred the potatoes to keep them from sticking on the bottom.
“Nay, we used the last yesterday. I can send to the brook…the burn for it, if you want.” Amalie looked around for a page.
“Find someone in the barmekin. Tell them to go out the back way. The bridge is up ’til Himself gets home.”
“Aye, I can do that.” Amalie left with a basket and a spade from the kitchen porch.
A breeze swept through the barmekin stirring the dust on the lane. Amalie breathed deeply of the fresh dry air and began her search for idle hands.
The laundress and her helpers labored away at scrub boards and clotheslines. The smithy sweated over a piece of flaming iron he pounded into shape with powerful strokes of his peen hammer. His apprentice stoked the fire, sending embers aloft in the draft. She checked the gatehouse and found two lads keeping watch at each front corner. She proceeded toward the rear gate.
The milkmaid set a fresh gallon bucket of milk on the shelf and reached for an empty one. The stable hands mucked out stalls and hauled waste to the compost pile at the back of the barmekin.
“There’s not a soul in the place with no work.” She sighed. It’s a ten minute chore. I’ll slip out, stay to the tree line, and return before anyone misses me.
She glanced back once more, and seeing no one available, she opened the gate and hurried to the burn where the sassafras grew.
Fog still clung to the low places though the sun shone high. She stepped into swirling mist, near the stream, and trod carefully, among the carpet of leaf mold and ferns. The late call of a whippoorwill drew her into a faeries’ world, across a small stone bridge, over bubbling icy water, by its moss-covered bank.
She knelt, digging into the soft earth beneath the sassafras tree. Deep green leaves made cooling shelter above her, the heat of the sun blocked, for the moment. Dappled light exposed the root as she brushed away dirt with her hand and cut a piece off with the tip of the hand shovel. She placed it in her reed basket and cut another piece off the root.
A dog barked nearby.
She scanned the area and nearly fainted.
Och!
An Irish wolfhound, the size of a pony, bounded through undergrowth directly toward her. She froze.
I have a sharp spade in hand that might deter him…or make him very angry. What else? Think, girl!
Immediately behind the dog, trotted two men she’d never seen before.
Garth will flail the life from me if there’s any left when he finds me!
The larger of the two men stopped and whistled. The dog hesitated, a mere arm’s length away from her. His low, threatening growl rumbled and his ears laid flat against his head.
“What have we here, Fergus? Looks like a lass from the village is out scoutin’ for treasure.”
“No lass, that. She wears the kertch of a married woman. She may be good for ransom, though.”
“…and a bounce.” His companion added with a wily smile.
****
Quentin and Garth rode the wagon path, past fields of oats and barley, half a dozen men in their wake. Garth threw up his arm to silently stop the trek as he tightened the reins on his horse.
A light breeze drifted over the chest high grain, gracefully swaying in brilliant sunlight. Voices ahead of them flowed above the meadows, with a tinge of alarm.
“Do ye hear that?” He turned to his cousin; an ear cocked toward the direction of the cry.
“Aye, we’ll advance cautiously.” Quentin dismounted, dropped his reins, and led at a jog toward the tree line opposite the road ahead.
Garth caught up with him, after mutely sending three men to each of their flanks. They stealthily crept toward the ruckus. Once in sight, Garth sighed and dropped to his knees to study the situation.
“Unhand me, you brute!” Amalie yelled, struggling to free her arms grabbed by a large unkempt man.
“Shut up, wench, or I’ll do worse than slap ye next time.” His gruff voice growled into her face.
“When my husband finds you, he’ll beat you bloody!” Amalie declared loudly.
“Why should tha’ concern me, madam? Who is yer husband, eh?” He tightened his grip on her.
Garth exhaled a mild curse under his breath.
“The gatekeeper, sir, Grayson’s his name.” She countered. “He expects me back…he’s probably at the burn this very moment.”
The man holding her mumbled something into her ear, then threw back his head and laughed heartily.
“Brigands,” Quentin whispered in the direction of Himself.
“Aye, lad. Rodney McPherson, Fergus Landry, and that one,” he pointed toward the man, who held his wife roughly. “Barney Buchanan just sold his soul to the devil, who’ll see him shortly. He’s mine. How many do ye count?” He checked to be sure his single-shot pistols were loaded.
“I see ten but there may be more. They usually ride twelve, sometimes fifteen, to a scoutin’ party. We’ll have to go in and pray our flanks hold ’em.” The champion dropped his head and whispered a prayer. “Make my hands swift and sure, Lord.”
“Aye, mine as well, Father. Silence my bride and calm her nerves.” Garth blew out and inhaled deeply before standing upright and screaming, “Loch Moy!”
They dashed forward to engage the trespassers. Garth aimed straight for the man holding Amalie’s arms in a bind.
Buchanan looked up and reached for his dirk at the same time. He started the long bladed knife, in the direction of Amalie’s throat.
She saw her husband rushing toward them and plopped her full, pregnant weight straight down.
Garth, the brace of pistols in hand, shot Buchanan between his eyes, dropped the gun, even as he fired at a second man about to dismount his horse, near Amalie. His empty right hand drew his Claymore over his left shoulder simultaneously. He turned in a flash clasping the sword with both hands and struck another attacker running at him.
Amalie slipped to the ground on her knees, tucked her head underneath her arms, and stayed there. The smell of blood thickened in the heated air. She swallowed bile and squeezed her eyes shut.
A man on horseback arrived at her side.
Gordon skidded off his saddle and knelt by Lady Mackintosh. “Are ye alright, ma’am?”
At her nod, he drew his sword and stood guard over her, circling her position, facing the enemy.
A man drove his horse straight at Gordon, attempting to run him down. Gordon straddled Amalie and drew his weapon over his left side, slicing down.
“Aaaah….” The man screamed as the sword separated half the flesh from the bone of his right leg. The horse reared, dropping the wounded man at Gordon’s feet.
Gordon lifted the Claymore high over his head and plunged it into the middle of the trespassing bandit’s body. “Loch Moy!” he screeched as his sword cleaved the man’s chest.
“Halt!” Garth bellowed over the clamor. Once quiet he roared, “Who’ll undertake the task of livin’ long enough to return yer comrades’ bodies to yer clan?” He circled to scan the three men left standing. “Any takers? Ye can all die nobly, but I’d l
ike to send yer chief a message.” He looked them over. He flourished his empty left hand, “Quentin, the lad there at yer right, volunteer him.”
Quentin pushed the teenager forward a step and whispered, “Ye wanna live, don’t ye, boy?”
The young man stumbled frontward with a nod. “Aye, sir. I…I…I’ll take ’em home.”
“Good lad!” Garth glowered at the two men left with fury. “Dispatch ’em to hell!”
He watched as his men followed his orders.
“Gor-don! Where’s Lady Mackintosh?” Garth waited, his back to her.
“Here, sir.” Gordon lifted Amalie from the ground and brought her to the laird, holding her arm gently.
Garth propped one hand on his sword, blood running off it into the ground where the point lodged. He glared at his wife and took her in hand. “Ta. I’ll take her home.” He whistled sharply for his horse. The big roan stallion tore through the grain to his master.
Amalie sputtered. “I, um, walked down here. I can walk back, sir.”
He lifted her up to his saddle and growled. “And ye did a bloody good job of it too, pickin’ up a dozen men on the way. Don’t think I’ll leave ye here, as bait, to see who else turns up.” He mounted behind her and scooped her onto his thighs.
Quentin glanced up at Amalie’s pale face, his countenance sorrowful. “Laird, shall I send fer a wagon or will ye order one on arrival?”
“I’ll tend to it. Bring the lad in fer a bite and a rest before ye take him to the edge of the Chattan. I’ll have a message fer him after I take care of a personal matter.” Garth kicked his mount’s sides and they fled the scene of the massacre.
****
Garth carried his bride into the keep, kicking the door shut behind them.
“Gerty!” He roared. He set his wife on her feet, taking note of the blood and gore splattered in her hair, on her face, and clothes.
He held her up, his arm securely under her breasts, her back pulled against him.
“Aye, sir!” Gerty hied down the stairs, head bowed at his rage.
