Highland Games Through Time

by Nancy Lee Badger

  “Aye. Teacher tells us each day. Da makes me learn stuff and I can write my name and add sums. I need to know, he says, if I am to help our laird lead our people.”

  “That must be true. What year is this,” Iona said softly.

  “Ninety-eight, milady.” The boy—Jamie—skipped away when a well-dressed man of about forty called to him from the steps of an inner doorway.

  “Did you hear?” Iona asked Cameron under her breath.

  “Aye.”

  “What have we here?” The man’s voice boomed, echoing off the inner walls of the keep. A bailey, they would call it. Iona listened in as he questioned their escorts while she glanced at their surroundings.

  Castle Ruadh lived up to its name. Large, cut blocks of red sandstone lined the bailey, and the tall corner tower rose many stories high. The men led their horses to a building in a far corner that appeared to be a stable. Barn cats meowed from open rafters and loose hay tumbled from a pile near the entrance. More children flitted around the central area. Some carried buckets of water, while others hoisted sacks of vegetables over their shoulders.

  “Throw them in the cellar.”

  Iona whipped around to face the older man. She fingered the sgian dubh that she’d hidden in her pocket. She wouldn’t use it unless they attacked her like the three men in the Alabama mountains had. She had let down her guard with them.

  Never again.

  The older man’s curt command chilled her to the bone, and she took a precious moment to remember his face. His salt-and-pepper hair reminded her of her father, but it hung below the man's collar. His bright white shirt was open at the neck and revealed a chest of brown, curly hair. His plaid was an exquisite example of the ancient Keith tartan.

  Their Laird.

  Two large men with dirks in their hands spat out what she figured were Gaelic curses, then yanked Cameron from her side. When an arm reached around her waist and pulled her off her feet, Cameron lunged. Like a wild man, he shoved and punched until the hilt end of a sword cracked him on the back of the head.

  “No!” Iona cried, but she was quickly hustled away. Dragged from the bleeding and unconscious Cameron, she kicked and screamed. Her last sight of Cameron was him as he lay face down in the dirt, not moving. She kept his name to herself, worried she might reveal something best kept secret.

  Suddenly lifted off her feet by the pair of large hands that gripped her around the waist, she continued to struggle. She had no idea why she assumed his identity needed to be kept secret, but her sense of foreboding came through clear. She’d learned early on to listen to her senses.

  Two armed men pushed through a huge double door ahead of her and her jailer, and she glanced at her surroundings. She had to keep her wits about her, if she was to escape and help Cameron. Her captor carried her through a wide stone-floored room several stories high.

  They crossed a large area and walked by a cold fireplace. Its massive stones were etched with smoke. Nearby sat stacks of firewood. A young woman dressed in gray, entered the room from a side doorway. She covered her mouth, turned, and fled.

  Iona shivered, then struggled more. Muttering curses, she clawed at the hands that gripped her waist and nearly pulled the man off-balance. The other armed men laughed.

  “Calm yerself,” the voice close to her ear ordered when they reached the top of a dark stairway. “I doona want to drop ye.”

  Iona stopped kicking and squirming. She stared at a dark tunnel of stone bathed in shadows as he set her on her feet at the top of a stairway that led down.

  She did not resist his gentle tug. How could she fight him? Cameron had all the weapons. Her little sgian dubh might maim, but would never overpower a man as large as the muscled giant guiding her into the bowels of the castle.

  Besides, she couldn’t rely on Cameron’s steady hand and cool head this time. When had she come to rely on a man? That wasn’t her. Ever since her mother left her father, she had cared for him. She kept their antique shop in the black, did the books, purchased the items, and ran an auction every quarter. She had no use for a husband; someone she’d have to care for, cook for, sleep with...

  Shoving aside her memories of another time, and a disturbing vision of what could follow if she allowed Cameron into her life, they descended a set of circular stairs carved from solid stone. Their smooth surface glowed with a reddish hue beneath the flicker of torches mounted at intervals on the walls.

  “Where are we going?” the echo of her words were eerie.

  “The laird wants ye as guests of his dungeon. Doona fret, milady. The cells are dry, clean, and private. He will talk with ye, soon.”

  “How soon?”

  “He has pressing business to attend to, so relax and eat.”

  “Eat?” Iona’s stomach growled.

  Her reaction made her jailor chuckle.

  “I am hungry. But, where have they taken…” Again, she paused, but the man didn’t notice.

  “Your companion shall find accommodations elsewhere. Here we are.” He turned a corner, shoved open a wood door, and pushed her into the cavernous underbelly of the castle. Smoke drifted from a dozen more torches set into the walls.

  The dungeon smelled like the sheep she’d seen at the New England Highland Games. There appeared to be a dozen or so separate cells. Most were dark as they lay far from the warm, flickering light of torches. Moans drifted up from one.

  Her jailor pressed her into an empty cell. When the door clanked shut behind her, she cringed. A raised bed sat just off the floor in one corner. Ignoring the jailer who glared at her through the cell door’s bars, she walked to the small cot and bent over to test its hardness.

  “Nice view.” The man roared with laughter. His retreating footsteps echoed as he exited the dungeon.

  Happy to be out of his sight, Iona ran her fingers over the piled bedding; the coarse weave of wool blankets, and the silky muskiness of furs from beasts she couldn’t identify.

  A basket of fruit sat on a crude table, and she picked out a bruised apple. Rubbing it on her dress, she bit into its flesh. The bitter tanginess took some getting used to. The taste was unlike the tart sweetness of fresh-picked apples from the New Hampshire orchard she visited with her father every autumn.

  She finished chewing, and swallowed, then picked up a small pitcher and sniffed. It smelled like beer.

  Scottish ale, more likely.

  A three-legged stool beside the bed reminded her of the one outside her friend Haven’s tent. Haven used to sit on it and knit while visitors to the historical village asked questions. Iona spun the wool and Jake formed the knitting needles from long strips of recycled iron.

  She didn’t want to think of the Highland festival. They were far away, as were her friends. Even Dorcas. She and Cameron had left her injured and alone in her tent. The cloaked man had attacked while they said their spell and they ended up in the middle of the Civil war. What had happened to poor Dorcas?

  “I be fine, child.”

  Iona’s silent prayer turned into shock and she ran to the cell door. She grabbed the bars and looked down the cellblock. “Dorcas? Dorcas Swann? Is that you?”

  “Aye. ‘Tis a long story. Where be Cammie?”

  Iona chuckled. She’d started to call him Cammie as well. It suited him and made him a little less threatening, but he’d asked her to stop doing it.

  “Armed men took him away. I don’t think they know his identity, but I have a feeling we shouldn’t use his name, here.”

  “Aye, ‘tis probably true, though the laird might already have recognized him. We are far from the Gunn lands, but stories travel.”

  Iona had not forgotten the dark-cloaked image of the man who had attacked them and burned Dorcas’ tent. “When we were attacked in your tent, how did you escape?”

  “ ‘Tis a tale for another time, lass. Best to rest. We will both need our wits fresh and ready if we are to save ourselves and the ones we love. Besides, I have to visit someone first. If anyone asks about me
here, plead ignorance.”

  Blankets rustled in the old woman’s cell, then a whoosh of cold wind flew into Iona’s face. All was quiet. Shivering, Iona crossed her arms over her chest.

  “Dorcas?” When there was no response, Iona turned back to her makeshift bed. The bedding looked clean and comfortable.

  “I am sleepy,” but, hunger won out. She bit into the apple again and again until juices ran down her chin. When she couldn't find a napkin or towel, she wiped her chin with the back of her hand. She stayed away from the pitcher of ale.

  Best to stay sharp.

  Doing so would be a chore. She was bone weary, but how could she sleep? Not while she worried about Cameron. Was he still alive?

  What could Jake be thinking? Both she and Haven had disappeared from the historical village. He probably went looking for answers only to discover Dorcas and Cameron had disappeared as well.

  How are we going to get out of this mess?

  CHAPTER 17

  Jake’s hammer fell again and again as he did his best to work out his frustrations. What else could he do at this point? Haven had disappeared the night of the ceilidh.

  I should have gone to the dance. I should have kept an eye on her.

  He slammed the metal so hard it split. Cursing, he tossed it into the water barrel. Steam rose, and sweat poured off his face. He tossed his leather gloves to the ground.

  Grabbing a coarse piece of linen, he wiped his forehead and chin. Perspiration dripped down his chest, beneath the leather apron. A warm breeze glided over trickles of sweat that trailed down his naked back. He wished he could take a shower and throw on a clean shirt.

  How can I think of comfort when Haven could be anywhere?

  He hadn’t found Iona, either. Not since she walked away with the big Scottish brute.

  “Iona Mackenzie. Show yerself!”

  Ross Mackenzie marched into the village and roared her name again. Ice filled Jake’s veins, because Iona’s father voiced his fear. Iona was gone. Had she left of her own accord, or had the big, fake, Highlander wanna-be convinced her to follow him home?

  “I haven’t seen her for awhile, Mr. Mackenzie.”

  Why would either of the women go off with strangers?

  “Where is she? She promised to relieve me so I could grab some food. Had to ask Joanna MacPhearson. Now she’ll expect dinner.”

  Jake chuckled. “Sounds like a great idea.”

  “Nay. The woman has matrimony on the brain. Now, where be my daughter?”

  “Last I saw her, she was with a man.” That bastard, Cameron Robeson, seemed pretty taken with Iona, he wanted to say.

  “A man? What man?”

  Iona was a grown woman, but her father acted like she was still in pigtails. “Iona was here, earlier. Said she and Cameron Robeson were going looking for Haven MacKay.”

  “That makes sense, but I thought Haven got married.” Ross shrugged his shoulders and turned on his heels. Jake stared at the feather drooping from Mackenzie’s hat. The man’s pleated kilt flapped in the breeze as he marched down toward the food vendors.

  Jake’s stomach growled.

  Every year he played the role of an ancient Scottish blacksmith, a volunteer position that helped Iona and the games association. How could he begrudge them a few more hours until he took a break? Iona, if she were here, would crack the whip and tell him ‘Just a little while longer.’

  Returning to his obligation to bring history to life for the visitors to the games, he picked up another piece of iron and slammed it into his furnace. Glowing cinders escaped, and wisps of acrid smoke soothed his concerns.

  I love the smell of metal melting in the morning.

  He shouldn’t worry. Iona was smart, but she would do anything for Haven; including following Cameron Robeson to Hell and back. She’d better come back, or Robeson was a dead man.

  Jake plastered a smile on his face to placate several passing visitors, and answered a few questions. When the metal glowed orange, he slipped his protective gloves back on. He drew the heated metal from the coals, placed it on his anvil, and let the hammer fall.

  Satisfaction gripped him, spurring him to forget about Iona, Haven, and women in general. He’d made his intentions known to both women, but neither showed interest in him.

  Someday, Jake ole’ boy…

  Maybe he’d follow Iona’s advice to Haven, which Haven might have taken to heart. Probably why everything was screwy.

  Right. When I find the woman of my dreams, I’ll grab her, and hold on tight.

  He had to change it up a little, but he got the gist of the sentiment. Had Iona finally taken her own advice? Was she hung up on Robeson and followed him God knows where?

  Disgusted with where his thoughts had wandered, Jake took a break. He safely banked the coals, tossed his leather apron aside, and entered the crude sleeping quarters beside his shop tent where he sold black iron goods and leather items. A pitcher of water and a wide bowl sat on top of an oak barrel. They were two of the half dozen crude items the historical encampment committee provided in order to make their village appear real. He lifted his right arm and sniffed.

  He smelled.

  Grabbing an old shirt, he dampened it with water, then used it like a washcloth. It worked fine to wash away sweat and dirt from his hours spent hovered over the fire, but he really missed hot showers.

  Jake’s wet fingers tunneled through his hair, releasing the sweaty strands from the leather tie. Slipping an Albannach Rock Band t-shirt over his head, he dug out his wallet. After checking his cash, he shoved it into the tight back pocket of his black leather trews and headed down the hill.

  Pipe bands competed on the central parade grounds and filled the air with lively tunes. He loved the combination of drums and bagpipes. Their uniforms of matching plaid added to the colorful exhibit of Scottish instruments.

  Highland cows chewed on bales of sweet-smelling hay while young children giggled and petted their thick, red fur.

  Delicious-smelling smoke curled above the dozen or so vendor carts and quickly replaced the odor of manure. The aromas of meat pies and haggis added to the deep gnawing inside his stomach.

  Spotting a fairly short line at the meat pie vendor, he joined the queue. Several young women, dressed in Highland finery, winked at him as they sauntered past. Their colorful plaids, and breast-swelling bodices were enticing. The chemise underthings peeking out were an erotic mix.

  Jake’s leather pants tightened uncomfortably. In order to keep from embarrassing himself, he kept his attention on the bald head of the man in line in front of him. Jake owned a kilt, but the leather offered protection from sparks and shards of metal when working his forge.

  Too bad they can’t hide my reaction to beautiful women.

  He’d been hard most of the morning. Dozens of lovely young women had visited the village and most stopped at his forge. He tried his best to keep the conversations light and above board, but his hormones had run amok.

  Can’t blame a guy when he has a deep-seated need to get laid, he thought.

  “One night of pleasure never killed a man.”

  Jake spun to his right and nearly slammed into the bald man’s shoulder. He looked down into the wrinkled face of an old woman leaning heavily on a crooked cane. When she clamped a set of bony fingers around his forearm, he froze. Wary, he felt certain she knew him.

  “Buy an old woman a bridie and we shall talk of more important things.”

  He pulled his wallet from his hip pocket and said, “Listen, here’s a few dollars—”

  A high-pealed laugh spilled from between her ancient lips. She waved away his hand filled with several bills. When she mumbled a few more words, the hair on his arms stood upright.

  “Aye, Haven and Iona trusted the right man.”

  How does one answer a non-question? His mother’s words about respecting ones elders rang in his head. A curious sense of foreboding also kept his mouth shut. They stood together in silence as the line inched f
orward.

  Once food was in their hands, they snagged an empty table at the edge of the outdoor dining area. The woman bent with obvious pain, and sat on the worn wooden bench. She laid her cane on the picnic table, then slipped a napkin into the hollow between her breasts.

  She munched on a flaky, meat-filled turnover-like pastry. A smile softened her features, easing Jake’s concern toward his new companion. He downed water and waited. His lunch guest rewarded his patience within minutes.

  “The women folk need yer help, if ye be the man fer the job.”

  “What job?”

  “Did ye understand Haven’s letter?”

  First, he noticed she hadn’t answered his question. Then he recalled the strange tale Haven wrote in her letter to Iona…the one he assumed was a joke. He couldn’t wrap his mind around the implications. Was the woman trying to tell him Haven’s words were true? She seemed to know him, but who was she? Could she be the woman Iona asked him to watch over?

  “Aye. Me name is Dorcas and I am older than dirt.”

  Jake couldn’t help himself. He smiled. Then he realized she spoke as if she read his mind. A glint in her eye made him choke on his drink.

  “Nice to meet you. Like I said, what job?”

  “First off, I need ye to make me a piece of jewelry.”

  He laughed, this time.

  “I’m a blacksmith, not Tiffany’s.”

  She pulled a rounded glob of yellow stone from her pocket and shoved it into his palm. It was warm from the heat of her body. “It’s pretty.”

  “Ye like my amulet? ‘Tis a powerful hunk of amber and I owe my fortune to its power.”

  Jake looked from the hunk of stone to her faded dress and crooked cane. If this woman owned a fortune she kept it well hidden.

  “Ah…it’s a stone. An amulet is…like, a necklace.”

  “Aye. This shall again be a true amulet once ye make its setting.” She shoved a piece of paper across the table. Curved lines and cross-hatched strokes showed a mounting and long necklace of twisted steel. “I need ye to make a home for my new stone. Then we shall save yer friends.”

  * * *