by Alisa Adams
“Of course, blossom.” He kissed her on the mouth, letting himself be captured by the intimacy. He never tired of kissing his wife. Each time was like the first, only better and more familiar. Unlike most couples, they had never fully overstepped that inevitable and sometimes elusive line that marked the end of being in love, to what then became love. In their case, it was as if they danced along that line, always being in love and loving the other simultaneously.
Their mutual respect and devotion for one another were what would be coined as love. However, their physical and carnal desire was the same as two people who were in love at the beginning of a relationship. They shared the best of both worlds. The love one harbors for that significant other. That special sentiment when you would give all of you to another person without wanting anything in return. Very few people could attain this emotional perfection that emulates the feeling of love that one has for one’s child and project that very same sentiment onto one’s partner – this love was unconditional and pure.
“All that remains is what to do about your sister and her people,” said Alastair, moving on to the next topic.
“What do you mean?” asked Mary, worry etched onto her features.
Castle Diabaig, the Highlands, September, 1346
* * *
“No, I regret to inform ye that ye cannot leave this burgh until I return,” said Alastair.
“This is preposterous. Are you imprisoning us? What is the meaning of this?” ranted Sir Peter with his fist raised.
“If the Sassenach doesn’t compose himself, I will ram my claymore up his arse,” hissed out Mungo, inviting a grunt of support from Murtagh who stood next to him in the Great Hall.
“There’s no need for that, Mungo. I understand Sir Peter’s grievances. I dinnae want to do this, but as the circumstances suggest, ye must stay here until everything settles down,” said Alastair in a placating tone.
“What circumstances? What needs to calm down?” The expression on Sir Peter’s face switched from one of aggravated bewilderment to an expression of slyness that would have put a fox to shame. “This is about Crécy, isn’t it? Word has finally reached your king… and I am assuming the king of France has asked him for his aid based on the covenants in the ‘Auld Agreement’ between your two kingdoms… King David means to invade England, eh?”
“I cannae answer that, Sir Peter. Just ken that ye are safe here and my guests for as long as ye need to be here.” Alastair shifted his gaze from the English man-at-arms to Elizabeth who had remained silent throughout the entire exchange. “Besides, sister, why don’t ye see it as an opportunity to bond with my wife. There must be loads that ye two need to discuss after so much time passing.”
Elizabeth nodded. Strangely enough, she did not dread the prospect of spending more time in the Highlands. Alastair was right. Being with Mary would be a good idea for the both of them, but most of all for their father’s inheritance. If she could bring Mary to her side, there might be a chance that Brice would become the next Lord Leighton.
“Then it is settled. Sir Peter, I will arrange for some of my best men to take ye on a boar hunt further north. If ye feel even more daring than that, then maybe ye can seek out some bears.” Alastair got to his feet in the Great Hall. “Ye have full use of my hunting lodge… Enjoy yer time here; it is the best ye’ll find in the British Isles.”
“Thank you, my Laird; even if it is a gilded cage into which you place me,” said Sir Peter, still not feeling comfortable with the notion that he was a prisoner in everything but title.
“Think nothing of it,” said Alastair, taking no notice of the jibe and marching out of the hall.
He walked down the long passageway to the main door of the keep that was situated in the center of the entire complex referred to as Castle Diabaig. Alastair could smell the aroma of roasting beef coming from the direction of the kitchen. The scent made him salivate like the wolf on his sigil. Caitlin, Murtagh’s wife, was busy preparing the final big meal before they departed for Perth on the morrow.
Alastair thought about the impending voyage some more as he exited the motte onto the main courtyard with the cobbled stone surface. The sun dominated again. There was the occasional cloud, but they did not distract from the sun’s splendor that beat down on the earth in late summer delight. It was a lovely day, like most of the days had been in the past weeks. They had been fortunate this summer. For how much longer? Alastair asked himself. Soon the autumn rains would come, swathing the Highlands in an aquatic mist.
He would take three hundred of his men with him to Perth. All of them seasoned warriors. The greenest of the bunch would be his two sons, Brice and Doogle, and Mungo’s lads, Bruce and Alick. The four of them had proved their mettle in skirmishes along the Anglo-Scottish frontier, but fighting in a pitched battle was a different affair altogether.
Blood ran in rivers over a field of battle. The stench and the screams from the men and horses were unbearable. Once a man witnessed the heat of battle, it stayed with him for the rest of his life. When stuck in the fray, it could almost seem romantic when observed by an innocent bystander who was without the senses of hearing and smell.
The fractious and hostile dance among men could look almost quixotic as they swayed on their feet like branches on a tree or blades of grass in a field in a high wind. The sparks emitted off the soldiers’ blades as they clashed, the look of disbelieving surprise on the victim’s face when cold steel entered into his flesh or the triumphant grimace when the hilt of the victor’s sword smashed into the torso of another man – pure exhilaration and the reason why man was born.
Yet, afterward, this strange bystander, when given back his smell and hearing, would be consumed by the agony suffered by young men and old. He would witness what they felt once the fighting died down. There would be whimpers from those who were too weak to scream, there would be crying from those men still in denial and fighting their predicament, and there would be screaming from those men who suffered the most excruciating agony. The stench of burning flesh would be everywhere; the rank odor of dead bodies and the sound of scavengers defiling the corpses for anything valuable would scour the landscape like a storm.
Alastair had seen it all before. Brice, Doogle, Alick, and Bruce had not. The experience hit men in different ways. It had nothing to do with cowardice or being brave. It had to do with being able to compartmentalize. Some people were able to do it and others not. No one with a sane mind could live through the carnage of a fight and keep the images seen stored at the forefront of one’s mind. They needed to be put away until the time came for the next conflict and when they would be useful again.
Alastair’s mind was full of thoughts on how he would make the aftermath of his sons’ first encounter the easiest possible. His musing had taken over so much of his existence that before he knew it, he had crossed the stone bridge, connecting Castle Diabaig to the village that bore the same name.
Behind him, the castle rose up on a small island in the middle of the loch. It was ideally situated for protection purposes. The only way to reach it was by using the bridge or by boat. The structure itself was relatively simple compared to some of the castles in France and England. It was a square edifice with crenelated battlements on all sides. At the front, there was a single tower containing the gatehouse. It comprised the openings used for spewing hot oil on any would-be attacker. There were two other towers, each one strategically positioned on the corners of the fortress.
To the east and north and beyond the village’s boundaries, ruled lush, verdant fields, which seamlessly transformed into meadows that were planted with oats and barley. These turfs lead all the way up to the outer structures belonging to the small burgh of Diabaig.
On the edge of the settlement, there was a windmill where the grain for the bread and other victuals were ground. Nearby, there were various animal enclosures with cows, some mules, and a few packhorses. In the center of the village, an impressive church’s spire rose up to the heavens;
the lower structure had been adorned with new effigies and magnificent mullioned windows with colorful glass elements. As a God-fearing man, Alastair made sure to add new features to the parish church every year.
Freeing his mind for a moment or two, he had to admit that the church at Diabaig was gradually becoming rather impressive thanks to his and the priest’s efforts. Maybe it might be a good idea to send Callum to Rome to meet the pope. His youngest son would surely pick up a thing or two along the way. He pressed his lips together and nodded – Just where will I find my youngest laddie though? I haven’t seen him anywhere, he thought as he walked on.
Overall, Alastair’s burgh was the archetypical Scottish medieval town. It had a well for drinking water, stables for horses, a stream, and a loch in which to fish. A blacksmith, a carpenter’s house, beehives on the outskirts, and the all-important inn where the inhabitants indulged in a whiskey or an ale too many were further characteristics that could never be missed.
Stone buildings had replaced nearly all of the wooden ones in the village as Diabaig’s lairds had invested heavily in improving their people’s lots. This was not the case in all burghs in the Highlands. Many noblemen preferred to keep their wealth to themselves and leave their people to their own devices. Alastair’s father, the former Laird Roderick Henry of the Clan Macleod, had instilled in his sons, Kyle and Alastair, that the clan’s people were what made a clan great – it was the laird’s God-given duty to make sure that his people had everything the clan could afford.
As Alastair walked down the main thoroughfare that still transformed into a muddy rut when it rained, he thought of his late older brother, Kyle. He was killed at the Battle of Stanhope twenty years ago. They had been close until the day he died. Alastair had never wanted Kyle’s birthright. He often asked himself, “What would Kyle do if he were the laird and not me?”
As he grew older, Alastair thought of him often. He thought of the children he might have had with the woman he loved. He regularly wondered why he had been given the opportunity to have all of that, which had been denied his brother at such a young age. How did God choose? Was a man’s destiny already cast in stone the day he was born? Was fate inexorable? Was there no way to change it? Was Kyle doomed to his fate the moment he took his first breath?
Will I survive this next battle, fighting alongside my king, my sons, and my brothers? Will I be with Kyle again soon? Alastair shook his head as he tried to free his brain from all of the thinking. In his musing, he had walked straight through the entire village toward the outskirts. Studying his surroundings, he made his mind up. When I get back, I will build new homes here.
The structures on the fringe of the settlement were of a different tone to the ones in the center. It surprised him that it had taken all of this time for him to see that difference. Living in the same place day in and day out invariably caused blindness. A man becomes accustomed to what he sees and subsequently loses the ability to offer change. Alastair had uncovered this phenomenon a long time ago when he coined the phrase: ‘Normality and habits kill.’
The buildings in the town’s center, although still fairly basic with their thatched roofs, glass windows, and bare floors, were made of stone and that was what mattered. In comparison, many of the town’s houses where the laird stood were timber framed with walls made using a technique called wattle and daub, which was basically covering twigs with mud and straw.
“Father, what brings ye out here?”
“Ah, Callum. I have been looking for ye,” said Alastair, taking a few more steps toward his son.
“What for?”
“Do I need a reason to look for my youngest son, loon?” Alastair placed his hands on his hips and frowned. “What are ye doing, son?”
“I am making plans for the lay of the land. You ken when it rains…” Callum chuckled. “And it does that a lot in the Highlands… How the roads in the village bog up and get all muddy. Walking about is a veritable challenge.”
“Aye, laddie. It’s a right mess. So, what are ye gonna do about it?”
Callum shrugged. “We need stone flagged roads like the Romans had, Faîther. I read that their roads crisscrossed their empire as far away as the Orient. They still exist in some parts to this day.” He shook his head in amazement.
“What are ye thinking?”
“Just how it is possible for us to live like barbarians when, not all that long ago, men in the British Isles lived in stone buildings with heated floors…”
“We have warmth in the castle, son.”
Callum chuckled. He walked up to his father and placed his hand on his arm. “The Romans had the hypocaust system.”
“The what?”
“A series of channels under the floor that were heated. This network of passages directed the heat under the entire house, thus heating it – ingenious if ye ask me.”
“Aye… As interesting as all of this is, I did not come to talk to ye about the Romans’ cleverness – take a few steps with me, my boy.” Alastair pointed in the direction of the magnificent countryside that surrounded the village.
It reared up and dove in delightful intervals. If the surface of the land were as liquescent as the sea, the land could emulate its watery cousin with green and gray waves of endless pastures and rocky hills. In the distance, a bank of clouds threatened to the east. They came on like an impenetrable wall of white. Their direction was never certain. One moment, they could be heading west to Diabaig, and the very next, to the north or south and away from them. That was how it was in the Highlands – April fickleness throughout the year.
“What did ye want to talk to me about, Da?” asked Callum after a few minutes of silence.
“I want ye to ken that I love ye like Brice and Doogle.” He paused. “I sometimes feel that I dinnae show ye that enough. I usually always ask about yer sword practice and lasses but hardly ever about yer studies… Yer mother tells me that ye have learned a great deal.”
Callum chuckled. “Aye, ye could say that, Da. I like learning new things.” He stopped walking and turned to stand in front of his father. “Ye dinnae have to tell me that ye love me. I have always felt it no matter what. I ken that I am different to both Doogle and Brice.” He shrugged. “How many soldiers does this burgh need anyway, eh, Da?”
“True, my boy… So, what do ye have in mind for yerself then if ye don’t want to go into battle?”
“I have a calling… it just hasn’t fully manifested itself yet.”
Alastair placed his hand on his son’s shoulder. “I might have an inkling as to what it might be… Ye will head south with us on the morrow to find it…”
“Da, I dinnae want to…”
“Don’t ye worry, laddie. Ye are going to Rome.” He laughed when he saw the surprise on his son’s face. “It was yer mother’s idea. She is of the opinion that a mind like yers is better suited for the streets of Rome where I hear the learning cannot be surpassed. Ye will get the best of the western hemisphere combined with that of the east – apparently, the Arabs are the best healers and mathematicians about. We are slowly learning from them.”
Callum arched his eyebrows. “Da, I dinnae ken that ye were so well informed. Ye surprise me.”
Alastair hooted laugher. “My laddie, I may look like a lout to ye from time to time, but I do try to stay abreast of current affairs. Now, come. We shall walk and speak some more. I have the great urge to get to ken my youngest son some more before he goes on the trip of a lifetime.”
“Da, we still have the banquet tonight and the whole ride down to Perth.”
“Ye trying to get rid of me?”
They laughed freely in the way that only a father and son can. Alastair spoke to his boy of the impending campaign, and his son regaled him with his vast knowledge of what he was going to learn when he arrived in Rome.
5
The Road South
* * *
The Highlands to the Lowlands, September, 1346
* * *
Gone we
re the mountains that like jagged teeth parted the land with their magnificence. Gone were the grassy glens and steep crags. The burns had turned into creeks, and their water was no longer as pure – well, that was what the Highlander would think for no water was more pristine than that which flowed in the north. Even the color of the sky had changed. It was no longer as intense or maybe as translucent as the northern light became weaker the closer the posse of the clan Macleod got to Perth.
It was their third, and the beginning of their final night, since leaving Diabaig. The following day, they would reach King David and his host. Along the way south, many more groups of clansmen had joined their procession. Words had been exchanged and occasionally insults. Murtagh had sent two men home with broken limbs for calling him a “dimwitted galoot”.
The sun edged lower, its color turning from bright yellow to orange, and ultimately a searing red – it made the horizon look as if it was on fire or maybe bleeding in anticipation of the lives that would be lost. It would be dark soon. Alastair had already given the command to make camp. Not much needed to be done. Unlike the English who resided in tents, the Highlander slept as he was in his plaid, on the ground, and under the stars. When it rained, the shelter of a tree would suffice. Water on the checkered fabric insulated it and kept the occupant warm and partially protected against the elements.
“So, laddie, are ye looking forward to the next leg of yer voyage?” asked Alastair.
“Aye, Da. I am. It will be such an adventure,” said Callum.
“What will ye do so far from home? Are ye not afraid?” asked Brice. The notion of being so far away from Skye and his family made him shudder.
Callum thought a moment. “Naw, brother. I am not afraid of being away from Scotland. In the pursuit of knowledge, no man should be fearful, lest he misses that which is true… Although, I am a little apprehensive that I will not do the journey justice. There is so much to see: the towns of Paris, Florence, and Bologna – the majesty of the Punic Alps, the ones the great Hannibal crossed with his elephants when he went to fight the Romans on their own soil… and so much more… Not to mention the writings of learned men like Constantine the African…”
