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The Highland Brides
The MacKinnon’s Bride
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On Bended Knee
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Fàilte ort féin, a ghrian nan tràth,
‘S tu siubhail ard nan speur;
Do cheumaibh treun air sgéith nan ard,
‘S tu màthair àigh nan reul.
Thu laighe sìos an cuan na dìth
Gun dìobhail is gun sgàth,
Thu ‘g éirigh suas air stuagh na sìth,
Mar rìoghain òg fo bhlàth.
Ancient Gael prayer to Sun God*
*Look for the translation in the following story. Happy Yuletide!
Chapter One
Chreagach Mhor, Scotland December 21, 1148
EVERYONE SAID ALEXANDER Ailbeart MacKinnon was tall for his age, though not so tall as his brother Malcom. According to everything Alex had ever heard, his brother was born braw. Malcom was gifted in everything he’d ever attempted. He could strike a mark with his bow from some unthinkable distance, and if he swung his axe, it felled ten men. His hair was spun gold, his face made lassies swoon, and therefore, with so much to recommend him, it only stood to reason he could create works of art with his piss, and he could speak three languages, and put a blade through an apple-core from fifty paces away. Pphht!
Of course, the first son must be the best and most beloved son—and yet, all this time, it was Alex here at home, splitting his Da’s wood and carrying his minny’s pails.
Cursing beneath his breath, he carried in the heavy bucket, hoisting it up, atop the kitchen worktable for Glenna, wincing as a bit of the milk spilt over the edge onto the flour dusted table.
The old woman peered down at him, arching a perfectly white brow. “Di’ ye wash your hands afore milking Nettie?” she asked charily.
“Yes’m,” he said, sliding his hands behind his back.
“Good lad,” she said, before returning her attention to the contents of her table, and Alex stood by, watching her work, amazed by the way her fingers so deftly braided the dough.
“Are ye making Yule bread?”
“Aye lad, I am.” She turned to give him a pointed look, waving a flour-crusted finger at him. “An’ ye best be thinkin’ what you’re most grateful for this year. There’ll be no hemmin’ and hawing, d’ y’ hear? There are wee ones aboot, who’ve naught so much as ye do, and you’ll surely think of just one thing to be thankful for.”
Not Malcom, that’s for sure.
Alex frowned. His sun-kissed copper bangs falling into his face and he swiped them away, annoyed by the thought of his eldest sibling. Never in his father’s presence would he say so, but, betimes, he called his brother a traitor. After all, hadn’t Malcom abandoned their clan, setting off to England, only to bend his knee to a usurper?
“D’ y’ wish tae know what I’m grateful for?” asked Glenna.
Alex lifted his shoulders, ’cause it was always the same every time. Her answer was always about bones or teeth.
“Good health! Long life! And sturdy teeth!” she exclaimed, and like every other time she made this confession, she chomped her teeth together, then tried to wiggle the eye tooth, and when it wouldn’t budge, she made herself a bony little fist and put her knuckles to the enamel, knocking like a crazy auld hag. “I thank the Cailleach for these,” she said. “Good teeth are a great blessing, an’ ye’d best be puttin’ paste to yours, or ye’ll lose ’em and never get yourself a good woman, Alex.”
Alex didn’t want himself a woman. All he could think as of late was that Malcom had gone and wed himself a Welsh witch, and she must have bewitched him, but who cared? Malcom deserved every bit of toil and trouble he got, and it infuriated Alex to no end that his entire household was in such a dither now, preparing for the prodigal son’s return. God’s teeth! Even his sister Liana was fairly crooning with joy. But, after all, who cared about Malcom! Who cared that he’d gone and wed himself a daughter of King Henry! Who cared if his lady could kill a hundred thousand birds with a turn of her hand!
Who cares! Who bloody cares!
In all these years—eleven, to be precise—Malcom had never once come home to meet his one and only brother. So much as Alex didn’t wish to admit it, this fact sat like nails in his gut. It made him want to run into the woodlands and roar like a hell beast. And if all of these discredits were not insult enough, his brother wouldn’t even keep the name of their clan. Instead, he’d styled himself Malcom Scott. Pphht!
So, all the while his Ma and his sister Liana ran about washing windows, sweeping the floors—all whilst singing—Alex was busy prodding Glenna for everything she knew about protecting their home against witchery. Surreptitiously, of course, though she might have guessed, because she’d told him this morning, “Not all witchery is bad, my boy. There was a day not long past when all the things I do for this clan might have seen me burned.”
Malcom’s brows collided. “Like what?” It seemed to him that all Glenna ever did was weave cloth, bake bread, or run about scolding young maids to “keep their skirts” lest they end like Cousin Constance—pregnant and living blind amidst hill Scots.
“Birthing babes, healing, to name a few,” she’d said. And then she’d gone on to explain, not for the first time, that she’d been the one to bring his Da into the world. “He was born with eyes as blue as Loch Morlich—like Malcom. I brought your brother into the world as well, and your sister, too.”
Alex frowned. “What about me?”
She smiled, and nodded. “Aye, lad, ye too.” But she said naught more, and he’d heard naught more about his own blue eyes, which were every bit as blue.
Still, auld as she was, Glenna was a great font of knowledge. Alex watched as she continued to braid the dough. Once the Yule loaf was formed she would twist the braided dough into a good sized wreath, and she would take the caraway seeds and liberally sprinkle them over the loafs before baking. Only once every year did she make this particular recipe, perfectly fashioned to appease all Gods, old and new. The three braids represented the holy trinity, and the added caraway seeds were meant to prevent the bean sídhe from stealing away their vitality throughout the long, cold winter. The seeds held magical properties, and because caraway was prized by bean sídhe, it was meant to confuse the spirit, so it became distracted picking off each little seed, and thereby forgetting to steal souls.
Really, everything Alex had ever learned about the Old Ways, he’d learned from Auld Glenna. And, in truth, everything he’d ever learned about most things, he’d learned from his
womenfolk, because his Da was too busy, training for war, and he said Alex wasn’t auld enough to take up a sword. Soon, he’d said. Soon. But not yet.
“Now, your brother,” said Glenna, her reverie entirely unwelcome. “He was a fine, braw lad from the day he was born—the very image of his Da.”
This made Alex frown, because the MacKinnon wasn’t only Malcom’s Da. He was Alex’s Da, too, and there were lots and lots of folks who’d said he had his father’s chin—precisely so, with that wee cleft Malcom apparently shared as well. Regardless, he was sick unto death over hearing about Malcom. Blah. Blah. Blah. Blah. Blah.
“Glenna?”
“Yes, lad?”
“Are ye certain witches canna eat salt?” His eyes shifted back and forth, from Glenna to the bread, then back.
Glenna lifted a wiry brow and gave Alex a knowing glance. “I know what ye’re thinking, Alex. There’ll be plenty o’ salt in this bread already, and your Da’ll take a strap to your arse. You aren’t yet auld enough to escape the rod for such waste.”
Too late.
He wondered if she’d looked inside the cupboard. Alas, there was no sense regretting what was already done. He shrugged, thinking that he’d already learned more than enough already, and set off to mind his own tasks. With only a day remaining before his brother’s imminent arrival, he’d fashioned himself a few brass bells to put about the necks of their finest cows.
He’d also brought in a number of old horseshoes from the barn to hide behind the doors. In fact, he was so determined to keep his family safe and sound, that he’d placed his own iron dagger—the one Auld Angus had given him—beneath the threshold of the front door, because, according to Glenna, folks believed that iron was a witch’s greatest weakness, and therefore, a true witch couldn’t touch iron, step over it, or pass by it, and, just in case they entered the house some other way, Alex was busy gathering as much holly and ivy as he could carry to hang about the house. Later, once Malcom and his bride showed their true colors, everyone would thank him for sure. He took his wagon down the hillside to where a thick patch of holly grew, and very carefully, plucked the spiky leaves and put them into his wagon. He would use the ivy that grew on the house to string it all together, berries and all. With a bit of luck, his arsenal would prove effective, and his damnable brother and witchy wife would run back to Angle’s land, where they belonged.
Chapter Two
EVEN AT THIS late hour, Elspeth was glad she’d chosen to ride astride her palfrey.
The Scot’s air was fresh, and the landscape was spectacular—moorlands, interspersed with pinewoods that were filled with evergreens as tall as any she’d ever seen. She could smell them as they passed, a tantalizingly sweet aroma that reminded her of Wales, and tarts left cooling on windowsills.
It was at times like these that she most missed her grandmamau, and she wondered, idly—because she daren’t linger on morose thoughts—what her sisters must be doing right now, and when she would be seeing them again.
Deep in her soul, a silky voice whispered, “Don’t worry, Elspeth, everything will be alright.” And be that as it may, her belly was jostling, like day-old pudding, and she had a thirst great enough to swallow a burn. However, a wagon wouldn’t have made the journey any easier, and at least this way, she could control the pace, and she was far enough from her confinement that she wasn’t worried about going into labor. She had months yet to go. Excited to see Malcom’s sire again, and to meet his entire family, she would have suffered twice the discomfort for merely a chance to spend the yuletide with kinsmen. Aside from her own sisters, she’d never much known familial closeness, and she’d never properly celebrated the winter solstice. And, of course, she was all the more pleased to know that, after more than ten years, Malcom himself would be returning to his fold. “How long have we to go?”
“Art ready to stop for the day?”
She cast her husband a tilted glance, arching a brow. “I did not say that, husband. I merely asked how long we had to journey.” She placed a hand to her belly.
Of course, Malcom noticed, and he frowned. “Has the babe grown displeased?”
Elspeth reassured him. “The babe is fine, love. And were he not so fine, I am quite certain he would say so.” Malcom gave her a befuddled look and Elspeth reminded him, “You should know by now that there are more ways to speak than with words.”
“Nay, but you said he?”
Elspeth smiled, realizing now why he was looking at her so… animatedly. By now, she had come to think of the baby as a he, only because she had a strong sense of the gender. However, it could still easily be a girl. And it wasn’t as though her dewine senses could reveal such things—at least not hers. But, indeed, Elspeth had dreamt of a boy with dark hair and bright sea-green eyes, so, perhaps, it could be a boy, though she wasn’t about to say so and get Malcom’s hopes up, only to dash them. “It was a slip of the tongue.”
“Ah, well,” he said. “And still, perhaps we should stop for the day?”
“Only tell me, how long have we to go?” Elspeth persisted.
“At our pace, a few hours, perhaps more.”
Elspeth waved him away. “Tis well and good,” she said. “I promise to speak up if I need to rest, and in the meantime, if Cora can keep the pace, so can I.”
Peering over her shoulder, she waved at the maid, who was riding in the wagon, guarding their gifts—as though her fierce look alone might be sufficient to ward away brigands. And, well, it could be true… as sweet as Cora might be, she was a fire-breathing dragon when the occasion merited. The woman had come to them along with the estate, and so far as Elspeth could tell, she was the only one—Page’s father included—who had ever cared much for Malcom’s mother.
Malcom nodded, hardly appeased, though he was coming to know Elspeth well enough to know she’d not take kindly to his telling her what to do. She was fine, and if she were not so fine, she would say so. To this day, eight months removed from the day he’d discovered her affinity for the Craft, he could still not quite grow accustomed to the fact that she was more capable than most. Aside from the constant bounce, bounce, bounce, bounce she was perfectly at ease in the saddle, and to prepare herself for this journey, she had taken to riding daily, even against her husband’s protests. They were traveling now with a small retinue, and Cora as well, because Malcom had insisted, in case the journey was too arduous and put her into labor. However, Elspeth knew she was in no danger of delivering this babe any day soon, and she knew as much because she knew to the minute when her child was conceived—that day in the woods, on the way to Aldergh, that very first time she and Malcom made love. It had been her greatest desire to carry his babe, and the Goddess had fulfilled her heart’s desire.
Thankfully, it didn’t become apparent that she was breeding, until long after the skirmish with her mother, and then more than a month after his sire departed. What a surprise this would be to all—a Yuletide gift, even if the babe would not join them until closer to Candlemas.
At any rate, she didn’t wish to stop yet. She couldn’t wait to arrive—and for that matter, she had never in all her life met a man more gleeful for the acquaintance of a sibling.
She smiled at Malcom, all the while caressing her belly, hoping that someday she would bear her wee son a brother or a sister. “I warrant your brother must be anticipating your arrival with bated breath. Every younger must admire his elder.”
Properly distracted from the state of her wellbeing, Malcom grinned, and said, “He canna anticipate this more than I do.”
This, Elspeth knew to be true. “You are quite wonderful with children, Malcom. Wee Davie loved the bow you gave him, and I expect Alex will love the sword as well.” It was a spectacular gift for a young boy—the infamous sword of the Devil Bellême. “Did I ever tell you I once met that man? When I was five.”
“Robert de Bellême?”
Elspeth nodded, and Malcom said, “I believe I was twelve when he died, but we heard tales of his ter
rors as far north as Chreagach Mhor.”
Elspeth nodded soberly. “He remained fodder for our nightmares for many, many years after his death. Alex will be pleased to be gifted such an illustrious sword. But, tell me, do you not worry overmuch that such an infamous weapon will bear the spirit of its maker?”
“I wielded it for years before I commissioned my own.”
“Did you?”
“Alas, though some might say my deeds were the acts of a demon—and I cannot deny it—I was so greedy for my own legacy, I would have done such things with or without the possession of Bellême’s sword. In fact, I did not even own the sword when I took possession of Aldergh, and neither did I wield it during the battle of the Standard.”
The battle wherein he’d faced his father. His expression darkened, and so did his aura, and Elspeth let it go. She wouldn’t dare tell him now that it was possible to imbue such items with the essence of their makers. It was a common form of magic. And no matter; if Malcom did not believe it, it could not be true, because in order to imbue anything with power of any sort, its bearer must believe it, and the recipient as well. Therefore, Alex, too, must be prepared to embrace Bellême’s legacy as his truth. And only an ignoble soul would ever embrace the hud du. From every tale Elspeth had ever heard, Alex was a sweet little boy, hardly capable of villainy.
As for the Battle of the Standard, Malcom only rarely spoke of it and Elspeth never asked—not because she didn’t care to hear his accounts, but because his aura always shifted from the placid hues that were his normal shades to hues of red and black. She could detect these dark threads in his aura even now, and therefore when Malcom fell into silence, she let him brood. She loved him well enough to not wish him to have to suffer his ill-begotten memories, and neither would it suit anyone who must abide his presence thereafter. As wife to an Earl, she had a duty to her people—far more so than she’d ever had as the ill-conceived daughter of a King. As for her husband, his present days were fraught with so much tension, councils with David of Scotia, councils with the northern castellans, and councils with some of Matilda’s emissaries. If only for a short time, she would have him forget the strife that awaited. England, alas, was suffering a calm before the storm, and loyal subjects like Malcom were caught in a tempest, but the day would soon arrive when peace was restored. Until that day, Elspeth was pleased Malcom could enjoy a heartfelt reunion with the family he adored.
All Things Merry and Bright: A Very Special Christmas Tale Collection Page 6
