Kilted at the Altar

by Anna Markland

  Blue stood, wagged his tail, went up on his hind legs and planted his front paws on the MacKeegan chief’s shoulders as he straightened.

  “Dinna be afraid,” Kyla reassured him as he staggered to retain his balance. “Boo just wants to love ye.”

  Decisions

  A flurry of missives went back and forth between the chiefs of the MacKeegan and MacRain clans in the three sennights following their arrival at Dun Scaith.

  Darroch was amazed, nay gobsmacked, by the noticeable changes in his father’s demeanor—the mean-spirited auld man showed signs of turning into a polite elderly gentleman. He scowled less and allowed a trace of a smile when he thought no one was watching. He even seemed less round-shouldered.

  However, the disagreement brewing over which clan should hold a banquet to celebrate the end of the feud threatened to resurrect his cantankerous nature. Darroch feared his father might do something to upset the fragile peace.

  “The MacRains just want to appear to be the wealthier clan,” Stewart complained to anyone who would listen, seemingly not caring his words might offend Isabel.

  Darroch sensed that pointing out Isabel’s clan probably was richer than his own would only infuriate his father more. He tried a different tack. “Remember, Rory MacRain is still recovering from his amputation. ’Twould be a difficult journey for him to come here.”

  Kyla joined the fray. “Ian misses me, and Boo is homesick.”

  Isabel linked arms with her father-by-marriage. “I would love to welcome ye to Dungavin,” she cooed, “and ’tis the responsibility of the bride’s family to cater the wedding feast.”

  This argument resonated, and Stewart apparently missed the thinly veiled reference to the fact he’d failed to provide a wedding banquet of any sort. Darroch had resented his father for the oversight, until Isabel reminded him that auld men seldom think of such things unless a woman nudges them.

  “Aye, ye’re right, I suppose we must go to Dungavin,” Stewart finally declared. “Hafta admit I’ve always been curious to see it. Get a contingent of our best men ready to march in a sennight, Son. I’ll respond to Rory’s invitation.”

  Feeling vindicated, Darroch watched his father stride away. “I canna remember him acknowledging me as his son before,” he told Isabel. “He has ne’er entrusted me with such a responsibility.”

  She stood on tiptoe to kiss his nose. “He has more confidence in the future now the succession is secure.”

  “I was an irresponsible tearaway when I was younger,” he admitted, patting her belly.

  She hugged his bicep. “I almost wish I’d met that wild young mon,” she teased. “But now ye have me to keep ye in line.”

  He inhaled deeply as the soft warmth of her breasts flowed through his body, and silently thanked the Lord for his good fortune.

  *

  Isabel was reluctant to reveal the extent of her relief that Stewart had agreed to travel to Dungavin, fearing her husband might worry. The first few sennights at Dun Scaith had been difficult, despite Darroch’s efforts to make her feel at home.

  Dealing with her father-by-marriage was akin to walking on broken glass; so far he’d been gracious and welcoming in an aloof way, but she was constantly afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing. Darroch had warned her of his unpredictability.

  Kyla was treading the same tortuous path and Isabel did all she could to smooth the way for the grandfather to get to know and accept his grandchild. At the same time, she tried to instill discipline into the bairn who was used to always getting her own way and there’d been a few tantrums.

  She was nervous about her pregnancy. Everyone talked about morning sickness being the norm but, so far, she hadn’t retched once. Mayhap, something was wrong.

  It was exhausting.

  For the most part, she’d been welcomed by the castle folk, though some still snubbed her. She hoped time and the final peace agreement would eventually solve that problem. Coira was also finding life in a new castle challenging and Isabel felt guilty for uprooting her.

  She missed her chamber at Dungavin. The displays of numerous weapons and hunting trophies made Darroch’s chamber feel very masculine in comparison; he told her he’d never felt a fondness for his apartments—until now. He’d surprised her the night of their arrival with an enormous new bed, ordered secretly while they were still in Dungavin.

  His tender and patient lovemaking went a long way to easing her homesickness, but she became preoccupied with the notion of putting her own touches on the chamber. Indeed, there were many things about Dun Scaith she looked forward to changing to make the stark place warmer, more welcoming. Tapestries, rugs, banners…

  “Are ye glad to be going home?” Darroch asked as she lay sated in his arms the night before their departure.

  She heard a trace of nervousness in his deep voice. “Aye,” she admitted, “but home is where the heart is, and ye are my heart.”

  *

  Clad in full regalia and accompanied by all the clan elders, Stewart MacKeegan led the cavalcade across the moors and over the Cuillin Hills to northern Skye. From time to time Darroch caught sight of the eagle feathers in his father’s bonnet, but he had positioned his family in the midst of the fifty clan warriors, protected by the vanguard and rearguard.

  “Ye should be at the front with yer father,” Isabel admonished, but the lack of enthusiasm in her voice told him she was glad of his company at her side.

  “I prefer to ride with ye,” he replied truthfully.

  She was trying hard to conceal her excitement at returning to Dungavin, as was Kyla.

  His daughter wasn’t happy about riding in a wagon with Coira and other servants, but she’d obeyed when Isabel insisted. He admired his wife for the way she often thwarted Kyla’s stubbornness. He’d been a parent much longer than she, but realized he had given in far too easily over the years. Isabel had not only brought light to his life, but his daughter’s future looked brighter as well. He’d been humbled by the hopes and dreams Isabel had shared with him regarding their wee lass.

  Blue loped along at Storm’s heels, stopping to sniff the air now and again, as if trying to determine how many miles lay between him and home.

  “He senses we’re getting closer,” Isabel jested once the Cuillins were behind them.

  He worried she might not wish to return to Dun Scaith after the festivities. She’d have no choice, of course, but he longed for her to consider his castle her home, not just a place she was bound to by duty.

  The Loyal Welcome

  Tail wagging, Blue raced ahead to the group mounted on horseback outside Dungavin, sniffed around the horses a few times, then disappeared inside the open gates. Isabel itched to hurry to embrace her father. However, protocol dictated he officially greet the MacKeegan chief who halted the column a hundred yards from the gates.

  She and her husband rode forward to join his father.

  Kyla, who neither knew nor evidently cared about protocol, stood up in the cart and waved. “Ian, Ian,” she shouted loudly.

  He didn’t return the wave, but set his horse in motion at the same time as his father. When the two came abreast of the visitors, he beamed a brief smile at Isabel. She could imagine how lonely life was for him. Boyd and Siobhan had other bairns at Beaton House; at Dungavin there was only Rory. Anxious as her father was to mend fences with his young son, he was an auld man who’d been through a great deal. Recovery from opium addiction didn’t happen overnight, and for a warrior to lose an arm…

  Her brother’s childhood and adolescence would lack the laughter and joy she’d known when her mother was alive.

  She was glad to see her father looking better, more like his old self. The haunted confusion was gone.

  She swallowed the lump in her throat when the MacRain piper strode out through the castle gates and struck up The Loyal Welcome. Darroch reached for her hand as she struggled not to cry.

  From behind her drifted the answering strains of the MacKeegan Salute from Stewar
t’s piper.

  As the last notes faded away on the wind, her father spoke. “I am Ruairidh, chief of Clan MacRain, and I welcome The MacKeegan and his clansmen…” He glanced briefly at Isabel “…and clanswomen, to Dungavin Castle. My home is yer home.”

  “I am Stiùbhart, chief of Clan MacKeegan,” came the reply. “On behalf of my family and clansmen, I thank ye and accept yer offer of hospitality.”

  Isabel’s father rode forward, tucked the reins under his stump, and proffered his good hand to Darroch’s father. “I’ve looked forward to meeting ye,” he said.

  Stewart removed his glove and accepted the handshake. “Aye,” he replied.

  Rory nodded to Ian, who then dismounted and led his pony towards Kyla. The adults watched with indulgent smiles as the lass climbed out of the cart and the pair shyly held hands.

  Isabel and Darroch both exhaled the breath they’d been holding.

  *

  A crowd had gathered in the courtyard. There was a murmur of recognition when they espied Darroch. The noise level rose when Isabel beamed a broad smile and waved. Cheering broke out when Ian and Kyla walked through the gates.

  Silence fell when Stewart MacKeegan dismounted and glared at the crowd. Darroch recognized his father’s facial expression as one he always showed to the world, but understood why the MacRains might think he was unhappy to be among them.

  He dismounted, handed Barra’s reins to a stable boy and reached to put his hands on his wife’s waist. “Welcome home,” he whispered as he lifted her down.

  She gripped his shoulders and leaned into him. “We must make sure yer father feels folk are glad he’s here.”

  He marveled again how aware she was of the feelings of others. She must be bursting to embrace her father and brother, but her first concern was for her cantankerous father-by-marriage. “Dinna fash,” he replied. “I’ll take care of it. Go greet yer kinfolk.”

  She smiled her thanks then hurried away, nigh on knocking her father over as he dismounted. It did Darroch’s heart good to see his wife and father-by-marriage share a long, tearful embrace. He and Stewart hadn’t made as much progress in mending their relationship, but he was more confident about that than he’d been scant sennights ago.

  Happy to see Boyd Beaton striding towards them, he touched his sire’s elbow. “Father, let me introduce ye to Isabel’s uncle,” he said.

  A Wife for Twopence

  The clans gathered in the fields the next morning for the official start of the celebration. It was painfully obvious the MacKeegans and the MacRains weren’t yet willing to fraternize with each other. Isabel was relieved to stand on the middle ground with both chiefs, her husband, brother and stepdaughter.

  It was expected the first contest—the tug-o-war—would kick off with a rousing pibroch. Her father’s piper stepped forward and announced he would play a new composition entitled MacRain’s Controversy.

  Muttered grumblings from the MacKeegans soon ceased as the poignant lament struck a chord in many a heart. Donald MacCrummen’s pipes sang of the grief of loss on both sides.

  When he was done, birds chirped, leaves rustled in the wind and sheep bleated somewhere in the distance, but nary a man spoke.

  “I hope they are making a solemn oath to themselves that their bairns willna see the same enmity and bloodshed they’ve endured,” Isabel whispered to Darroch.

  He squeezed her hand. “We must pray ’tis so.”

  Isabel’s uncle called for the teams to take up their positions at each end of the stout rope. Darroch anchored the MacKeegan team. Boyd explained the rules of the competition in great detail, but it was all for naught once the pulling began. As the marker moved back and forth, each team soon had at least fifteen men instead of the regulation eight. The early morning dew helped churn the earth, coating warriors with mud as they slipped and fell. Ian and Kyla laughed at the raucous antics.

  In the end, the MacKeegans triumphed and the team was rewarded with a wee dram. Every woman in the audience turned away as participants from both clans stripped off and ran whooping like bairns into the loch. Isabel covered Kyla’s eyes when the lass seemed determined to watch.

  When they emerged, shivering, but clean, she was pleased to see Darroch wasn’t the only MacKeegan engaged in friendly banter with a MacRain. Womenfolk tittered and giggled as the crowd of naked men hurriedly donned shirts and leggings. Isabel saw only one—the man who made her go weak at the knees whenever she set eyes on him. Her husband.

  Much as she’d looked forward to the day of celebration and competition, she hoped it went by quickly.

  *

  Darroch wasn’t a piper, which gave him a chance to relax and enjoy the afternoon’s piping contests with his wife and daughter. Ian and Blue tagged along and he was happy the serious lad wanted to spend time with the older sister he barely knew. His wife’s joy filled him with contentment.

  “Will ye enter the bard contest?” Ian asked him.

  Darroch winked at his wife. “Nay. The only person I’ll be whispering sweet nothings to is yer sister.”

  Isabel elbowed him in the ribs, though he could tell she was trying not to laugh.

  The meaning of his jest evidently escaped Ian who explained, “I’ll enter when I’m old enough.”

  “Do ye compose poetry?” Isabel asked, wide-eyed.

  “Nay, but he sings,” Kyla interjected, causing Ian to blush.

  “Then ye should enter,” Isabel insisted. “There’s no rule about a bard’s age, as far as I ken.”

  She looked to Darroch for guidance. He shrugged. “Ye’re probably right.”

  “Dadaidh will likely disapprove,” Ian said softly.

  Isabel took her brother’s hand. “He willna say nay when I remind him our mother had the sweetest voice. ’Twas one of the things he loved about her.”

  Ian smiled. “I didna ken that.”

  “Come on,” Isabel said. “Let’s go find him.”

  *

  Food was plentiful and wine and ale flowed freely at the banquet in the late afternoon of the first day. Seated at the head table in the Great Hall, Isabel leaned close to Darroch’s ear. “I’m getting the feeling my father does, indeed, intend to impart the message the MacRains are the wealthier clan.”

  “Mayhap,” he agreed, “but my sire seems more than content to eat and drink his fill, and most of my fellow clansmen have followed his lead.”

  “I’ve ne’er seen him so happy,” Isabel replied, aware of how glad her husband must be to see his father enjoy life.

  Isabel ate till she could eat no more, but sipped only watered ale. So far, she hadn’t been plagued by the morning sickness many women suffered, and didn’t want to jeopardize her good fortune.

  When the last of the platters had been cleared away, and inebriated men tried to outshout each other with boasts about the day’s contests, Darroch put his arm around her shoulders. “Is it getting too noisy for ye?” he asked.

  She clasped his hand and smiled. “Nay.”

  “Too hot?”

  She turned to look at his face and saw the familiar glint of desire in his green eyes. “I ken ye want to take me to bed, Darroch MacKeegan, but let’s enjoy the festivities for a while.”

  He nuzzled her neck. “If ye’re certain, but be forewarned I’ll expect ye to dance with yer husband once the music starts.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Ye dance?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Did I nay tell ye o’ the wild youth I used to be?”

  Her foot started tapping of its own volition as the prospect of dancing with him filled her with excitement. However, her father had struggled to his feet, with some help from Boyd, and was calling for quiet.

  It was clear to Isabel as her sire announced the winners of the various contests that he’d over-imbibed. He swayed on his feet and slurred his words. Raucous laughter greeted many of his hoarse mispronunciations. Men cheered and banged tankards and fists on tables to congratulate the winners. Her heart soared. This was the Rory
MacRain she remembered, the rough-and-ready, whisky-loving chieftain. Many men would have been angry and bitter after losing an arm. Ghalla’s spell had been broken.

  Suddenly, the grin disappeared from his red face. “Before we begin the music and dancing, I hafta make mention of a competitor who didna win the contest he entered.”

  Men frowned, looked at each other in puzzlement and peered into tankards as if the answer lay there.

  “Turns out,” he rasped, “Ian MacRain has inherited his mother’s singing talents.”

  “He certainly didna get them from ye,” someone yelled.

  Rory laughed along with everybody else, but it was clear to Isabel he was choking back tears, as was she.

  “So, to kick off the evening’s entertainment, I give ye my son, Ian MacRain.”

  Isabel was relieved when her wee brother stood confidently. At least his father had forewarned him.

  The curious murmurs ceased and mouths fell open the moment Ian began the mouth-song performed by the great King Malcolm Canmore after his victory at the battle of Dunsinane more than five hundred years before.

  Gille Calum dà pheighinn

  Gille Calum dà pheighinn

  Dà pheighinn, dà pheighinn

  Gille Calum bonn-a-sia

  Isabel’s heart swelled with pride as his voice rang out clear and steady. He seemed to gather confidence as others recognized the song and joined in the refrain.

  Gheibhinn bean air dà pheighinn

  Gheibhinn bean air dà pheighinn

  Gheibhinn bean air dà pheighinn

  ’S tagha is rogha air bonn-a-sia.

  Predictably, men roared with laughter at the notion that for two pennies a mon could buy a wife, but for sixpence he could have a selection.

  “’Tisna a suitable song for a bairn to sing,” Isabel complained to Darroch, who was laughing and slapping his thigh along with everyone else.

  “Be proud and let the lad have his moment,” he replied. “When he becomes chief, this will be part of the folklore told about him.”