by Alisa Adams
“TO THE CAMPAIGN AND TO VICTORY,” yelled the rest of the men in the room, joining in.
“Come along, come along, let us foot it out together
Come along, come along, be it fair or stormy weather
With the hills of home before us and the purple of the heather
Let us sing in happy chorus, come along…”
* * *
The song came to an abrupt halt the moment Murtagh vented his disgust at the singers’ performance. He spat some gristle into the fire from the meat he had just eaten. This gesture was soon followed by a hearty swig of the ale in his cup. “Shite, shite… the lot of ye,” he said to Brice, Doogle, and Callum. “Even that old boot, Mungo, sounds better than ye do.”
“Aye, ye have got to do better than that when we are marching with the entire army, laddies. It’s to keep up morale and remind us of what we are fighting for,” said Mungo. “That was the most miserable showing if I ever saw and heard one.”
“Aye, the lot of ye had faces like melted wellys and the voices of gelded hogs. What’s the matter with ye? It should be me feeling worn-out thanks to the drubbing I got earlier from that miserable oaf,” said Murtagh, indicating with his head at Mungo.
Mungo snorted his mirth. “Aye, ye deserved it for calling me a whelp.” He emptied his tankard of ale. “Here, Callum, fill this up for me, will ye?”
Callum took the wooden drinking vessel without protest and got to his feet to walk up to the large keg they had obtained from stores. Behind him, Murtagh and Mungo continued to berate his brothers for their lack of musical acumen.
“All right, all right, ye two… we ken what we sound like. What would ye suggest we do to sound better?” asked Callum, handing Mungo back his mug and sitting down.
“Right.” Mungo thought while he scratched the bristled whiskers on his face. “Ye, Brice… I have seen ye shouting yer lungs out when ye’re racing after my daughter and begging for her to slow down. Ye are agiler than a hare in pursuit of the rabbit and louder than a stag during the mating season.” The remark invited a snigger from both Murtagh and Doogle. Callum remained serious. “Employ the same impassioned ardor when ye are singing, and ye’ll have the whole bleedin’ army following in yer footsteps,” he concluded with a slap to his leg.
“And ye, Doogle. I dinnae ken what to say? A cow in labor sounds better than yer singing voice,” said Murtagh, reverting to harassment.
“Callum was not bad for a mouse trying to squeak,” added Mungo, happily joining in.
Murtagh was immediately cut short of his next remark when Brice beat him to it.
“That is not helping,” said Brice in an authoritative voice. “Yer aggravations are getting on my nerves. As my brother said… how do we improve?”
Both Murtagh and Mungo exchanged glances as if it was the stupidest of questions. “Ye put yer hearts into it,” said Murtagh at last, wiggling his shoulders.
“Aye, I bet ye didn’t sound so feeble when ye were asking my daughter for her hand in marriage, eh?” said Mungo. “Ye had more pluck to ye then. And that is what I want to hear when ye’re singing, laddie.”
“Aye… and ye, Callum, try and show the same zeal as ye do with yer history. And ye, Doogle, try not to open yer mouth. I see no hope for ye,” said Murtagh, guffawing.
Nobody, including Doogle, could hold back their laughter.
“So, we will sing the song again. And ye lads over there,” shouted Mungo to the men of the clan sitting close by. “Ye will join us too.” He swiveled his head just in time to catch a glimpse of his sons. “And ye, Alick… Bruce, show them how it is done, eh?” he added to his stepsons with a large grin of pride on his face when he saw them approach.
“Aye, Da. We won’t let ye down. Nothing like a good singsong after walking the rounds,” said Bruce.
Alick and his brother, both meticulous in their duties, had walked the camp as their father had bid them to do. It was always what Mungo and Murtagh had done before they became responsible for the laird’s sons. The object of these rounds was to gauge the morale of the men and to obtain any gossip about the enemy and the other commanders in the army. And, of course, if they were lucky, to maybe catch the latest news from the king’s private gatherings with his commanders.
Alick and Bruce soon joined the brothers and Mungo and Murtagh by the fire. They promptly inquired whether there was any food left. Mungo made sure they received a hearty share of the pig that had been roasted for their dinner a short while before.
“Any news on the king’s gathering and whether the laird is on his way back to camp?” asked Mungo, once his sons had sat down with plates full of sustenance.
Alick shook his head with his mouth brimming to overflow with meat. Next to him, Bruce was of a different opinion. “Da, word is spreading that the north of England is undefended,” he said, popping some flesh into his mouth and sighing with pleasure.
“Shut yer puss… ye are full of shite,” spat Alick, emitting a few projectiles of his food from his mouth as he spoke. “Those are only rumors. Ye ken when men just say something to sound smart and informed.”
Bruce arched his eyebrows. “It is ye whose bum’s oot the windae, ye mangy bampot. The laddie who gave us that information had just come from the tavern in which the king himself and our Laird Alastair speak.” He moved his face closer to the fire, making him look almost devilish in the orange and red hue of the light. “There is even word out that we march all the way to London.”
Alick only waved his hand at him flippantly. He preferred to devote all of his attention to his food.
Mungo stirred on his backside along with Murtagh and the rest. “So, if there is some truth to the idle wagging tongues of army gossips… then a victory is in the making, laddies.” He looked to his left and right with an almost maniacal glint in his eyes.
Most of the others grunted their approval. Callum and Brice were not as convinced. They had listened to their father speak of King Edward, and they knew that he was no fool. Mungo stopped them with a guttural bellow before they could put voice to their misgivings or curiosity about the next stages of the campaign.
“Ye lot, didn’t I tell ye to get yer arses over here for the song. It appears we have to get our singing voices into shape for we shall soon be marching south.”
“Aye,” yelled the rest of the clansmen enthusiastically. They sat nearby. As soon as they had vented their eagerness at the prospect of fighting the English, they got to their feet and moved closer to the fireplace where Mungo sat.
“Good idea,” bawled Mungo when he saw the men remain, standing rather than sitting around the warmth of the fire, “we will all sing standing up. Give us more room to let it all out. Come on, laddies, up to yer feet.” He gave Doogle a hearty kick to the backside to spur him into action.
When they were standing at their full height, Mungo and Murtagh made an elaborate show of clearing their throats. This invited quite some hilarity from those present around the fire. After Mungo had made sure everyone was ready, he intoned with three flicks of his fingers that they were about to begin.
* * *
“Come along, come along, let us foot it out together
Come along, come along, be it fair or stormy weather
With the hills of home before us and the purple of the heather
Let us sing in happy chorus, come along…
* * *
So gaily sings the lark and the sky’s all awake
With the promise of the day and the road we gladly take
It’s heel and toe and forward, bidding farewell to the town
And the welcome that awaits us ere the sun goes down
* * *
Come along, come along, let us foot it out together
Come along, come along, be it fair or stormy weather
With the hills of home before us and the purple of the heather
Let us sing in happy chorus, come along
* * *
It’s the smell of sea and shore, it�
�s the tang of bog and peat
It’s the scent of brier and myrtle that puts magic in our feet
So home we go rejoicing over bracken over stile
And soon we will be footing out the last long mile
* * *
Come along, come along, let us foot it out together
Come along, come along, be it fair or stormy weather
With the hills of home before us and the purple of the heather
Let us sing in happy chorus, come along
* * *
Come along, come along, let us foot it out together
Come along, come along, be it fair or stormy weather
With the hills of home before us and the purple of the heather
Let us sing in happy chorus, come along.”
* * *
“Now, that was much better,” said Mungo, slapping his sons on the back before he moved around the group of men, praising them individually for their efforts.
“Doogle, I must apologize to ye. Ye have a lovely singing voice. When we march, I want ye at the front alongside me,” said Murtagh, who also did his round of praise in imitation of his comrade.
“Aye, that was great, laddie,” agreed Mungo, enveloping the lad in a bear hug.
Doogle beamed with pride at both Murtagh’s and Mungo’s approval. It was a rare occurrence, but when it came, it was heaped with free abandon. Everyone present continued to bask in the afterglow men felt when they shared sweet words sung with melody. It was in moments like these when bonds were forged or strengthened. Along with humor and banter, it was how men welded together when far away from their homes and their families. It was how men remained sane and maintained human civility and civilization.
It also might be one of the last times a man might see his comrades alive and breathing. An army camp was rife with tension as everyone present knew what awaited them. Seasoned veterans like Mungo and Murtagh were aware how to release that strain from a man’s chest and heart. It was only when the men of the clan acted, laughed, sung and fought like brothers that each member’s memory would live on for all eternity. There were not many more important things in life than being able to trust the man fighting alongside you.
“When will we be going?” asked Brice, directing the subject back to the campaign.
“That’s for yer father to tell us when he gets back from the king,” said Mungo.
“How long will he be? He’s been gone for ages,” interjected Doogle.
“I dinnae ken. Them nobles might be drinking the night away. There won’t be any curfew in that tavern tonight – not if the king has anything to say about it,” said Murtagh. “I’d wager they’re tucking into a fair share of suckling pig right about now.”
“Ye can’t complain, ye peevish ole grunt. I got a hold of a good couple of pigs for us, and plenty of ale. Judging by the singing the lads are in good spirits, eh?” said Mungo.
“Aye,” said Alastair’s three sons in unison.
After Murtagh’s disciplinary treatment, the army quartermaster had been more than amenable to Mungo’s requests for fresh meat and drink. They had one of the best spots in the camp – far away from the latrine ditches as possible. Also, the river Tay meandered along past the transitory settlement and the town. It was a fine, dry night with the stars twinkling in free abandon, embedded in the dark canopy of the sky.
If the men sitting together wouldn’t know any better, they might think that the impending war was only a mere figment of the imagination. Or maybe a mere rumor or a tale told by wandering troubadours, frequenting the land’s castles and towns. Yet, deep down, every soldier knew that peaceful nights that only spoke in whispers would slowly fall victim to a fateful day that shouted with bloody vehemence. It was only a matter of time until the sound of the drums of war drowned out all else, heralding the beginning of the slaughter that would define each and every one of their destinies.
8
My Heart’s in the Highlands but My Love is Not
* * *
Castle Diabaig, Scotland, 28 October, 1346
* * *
Mary fell victim to the beauty of her surroundings. She always did when she was atop the tower belonging to Castle Diabaig. Everything became so clear to her when she was up there, like the Highland air or maybe the sensation of soaring like a bird in the sky. It was the perch from which she had last laid eyes upon her family as they had gradually made their way south and to the war with the English.
Her lips mechanically pressed together when a familiar heap of differently shaped rocks came into view. They had been stacked high by the forefathers of the clan many years ago as some sort of religious tribute to their then gods. At that moment, they appeared as mere specks in the distance. But Mary knew they were there. Everyone in the clan knew of their existence, mystic, and power.
It was the point in the land that marked the maximum distance of view from the tower. Pass it, and nothing remained in sight, only that which God had decreed as stationary and imperative to the lie of the countryside. A wane smile appeared on her face as the harshness of her reality sunk in. They were gone, her family and all that she loved in the world. She shivered as she felt that strange but familiar feeling ride her spine, that like spider’s legs tickled and circled with soft and persistent strokes.
Her gaze automatically shifted as if guided by the gods of old. The clan’s forefathers had known what had been meant when they had established that archaic stone shrine in precisely that spot. One could never look at it for too long without one’s mind getting lost in the corridors of the brain, no matter the distance.
Her gaze soon rested on the glinting ripples of the cerulean blue water. Looking down, Mary fixed her vision on a lone boat that floated idly in Loch Torridon. It was such a peaceful sight, giving her hope that what evil that had recently slumbered within her was for naught. She thought about the vessel’s occupants. Were they fishing for their evening meal or just enjoying the last rays of sunshine before sunset?
I don’t know, screamed her brain. Of what import is it when those you love are no longer here? Mary closed her eyes in retaliation to her hateful reality. When she next opened them, she was staring back at the jumbled pile of jagged stones again. They were closer than before; so close actually that Mary could almost make out each sharp line on the sides and surfaces of the rocks. They were like knives, sharp and dangerous like the tales they told.
What are they telling me? Perspiration beaded on Mary’s forehead as her mind worked eagerly to find an answer. She felt slightly nauseous. It described itself as a sort of vertigo, but she was not afraid of heights. And soon, as so often told in the Highlands, the mystic of the land worked its magic. A strange calmness befell her as she let herself go. Mary felt hope that her customary positive nature had won out in the end. She had never really been one to succumb to negative emotions of any kind – Mary was a fighter. At least she thought she was.
Blurred thoughts raced through her mind, jumbled and presented in no well-defined way. They quickly turned from mere images of haziness into the well-defined picture of marching men. With a deep breath of crisp air, clear and unmistakable questions appeared in her head as fresh oxygen-induced the neurons in her brain into purposeful action.
How is Alastair? My man… The man I love with all of my heart. A tear seeped from her left eye, rolling onto her cheek. Mary promptly felt the cold there as the icy wind caressed it, inviting more to follow as her eyes burnt from the elements and the advent of worry and sadness. What if he never comes back to me? My darling Alastair – I could never live life without you.
Her heart began to beat faster when more questions started to form in her busy mind. Her brain, induced by the oxygen, became increasingly more demanding with each inhalation she took. What of Brice, Doogle, and Callum? My boys… Oh, my God, my boys. What is to become of them if the English win? They are my people – or at least they used to be. Could my fate be so twisted that my own kind will be the one slaughtering my sons?
>
No… I will not let that happen. Mary pressed her fingertips onto the coarse surface of the crenelated stonewall that encircled the tower. She moved them up and down. She felt the texture of the stone exactly. It left a tactile imprint of what she felt on her fingertips. Behind her, the banner of the Clan Macleod flapped in the light wind as if it was angry, like the thoughts in its mistress’ mind. I will not succumb to these negative emotions… My mind plays tricks on me. I will not let Alastair down! I cannot.
The breeze increased in speed and power. It behaved like a mirror to Mary’s soul as another image of her sons’ faces turned from those of young boys into those of men. With them was Alastair. The four men in her life shouted something at her. Mary could not comprehend what it was they were trying to tell her. She squinted as the angry air hissed by her eyes. She let her lids slide shut. When Mary opened them again, the image of her family was gone.
She looked up. “God, please don’t let anything happen to my boys and my husband. I would gladly hurl myself from these battlements if that meant they might return home unscathed. God, God, send me some sign that my family will be well… God.” Her words were carried away on the floating airstream that became more prevalent with her every heartbeat.
Above her, the sky had started to turn from a broken light gray mixed with patches of blue to an increasing dark gray. In the distance, the sun hung low on the horizon, fighting with the late afternoon’s rain clouds for dominance of the heavens. Mary tried to find solace in the brief warmth given to her by its rays. Her eyes closed again.
Her mind began to wander back to the time when she had first come to the Highlands as Alastair’s prisoner. She had hated him back then. He had betrayed her father’s trust and hers when he had not returned her to her people as he had promised. Mary had been so afraid back then but she had not shown it. She would never have given him the satisfaction. Yet, when she had gotten closer to his home, that special place she now too called her home, she could never have imagined the power of its seduction.
