The Chieftain's Curse

by Frances Housden

  Anger, cold and lethal as black ice, slowed the blood in his veins, slowed the heartbeats in his chest, and Euan realised that he had naught but one choice. Until he discovered the whereabouts of the crone and had her remove the curse, he could see no way forward. Aye, he had done the right thing with Graeme. It was the only way to safeguard his people.

  With that thought in his head, Euan fell asleep.

  “I will accept no excuse, Comlyn. No matter that Harald hadn’t concealed the sword about his person when he entered Cragenlaw. He stole it from the guardhouse. Your man broke the contract we agreed upon. If he had managed to kill me, you wouldn’t now be sitting next to me alive, breaking your fast.”

  Euan had made sure he and Comlyn were the sole two seated at high table for this conversation. It would need a steady hand to attain the end he had in mind, and humiliating his one time father-in-law was not the way.

  “I ken that well. I had no realised Harald’s feelings for Astrid still ran sae deep. Perhaps it was her death that brought about a revival of his love for her,” Comlyn muttered, his voice an undertone. Even so, Euan recognised a consistent need for denial in every word the older man uttered.

  In one way, he was glad Astrid had someone who felt strongly about her death. For sure it wasn’t the cold-hearted man at the table with him, rubbing his fingers across the initials Euan had carved in the wood as a lad. His mother had twisted his ear, but his father had laughed and said, “The lad’s already making his mark on the world.”

  The carving had grown smoother over years from an excess of fondling with greasy fingers, yet as Euan looked on, a dread feeling grew in the pit of his stomach, as if he watched Comlyn attempting to rub his name away.

  Using restraint, he laid his fist on the table next to his trencher instead of pounding his knuckles on Comlyn’s face as he had a yen to do.

  “If Harald loved Astrid so much, why didn’t you let them marry?” he said, more demand than question. “You knew about the curse, but didn’t stay your hand. Astrid had barely seventeen years in her dish and now she’s dead. Yet, you would have me marry Kathryn in her place. What happens when you run out of daughters?”

  For once Comlyn looked taken aback. His pale blue orbs snapped open, and his once reddish-brown hair danced around his ruddy face and open mouth like flames. “Ye y-young w-whelp,” he stuttered and his hand reached for his sword.

  Euan was younger, faster and ready for him. His fingers closed around Comlyn’s, out of sight of the horde of men, both his and Comlyn’s. “You overestimate yourself, Comlyn, I grew out of being a whelp, when I survived my first battle in Northumbria against the English. On my father’s death five years ago, I became Clan Chieftain of the McArthurs. I’ve survived three wives and, if I have my way, I won’t have to survive another.”

  Slowly, he relaxed his grip on his neighbour’s hand with a final twist that let the sword hang free. Erik the Bear’s face twisted in a snarl and the tired-looking fur hunched up around his shoulders, swamping his thick neck. “We had an alliance.”

  “We can have one still. It all depends on how firm a grip you feel you need on me and mine, so I’ll offer you a solution. When you and your coterie depart today, leave Alexander, your son with me—”

  “A hostage? … Ma son a hostage? The deil tak ye, McArthur!”

  “You mistake me, me Comlyn. I would have Alexander stay here as a squire, such as the English do with their young lads. I would see him well trained, a credit to the Comlyns,” Euan cajoled, voice soft but firm, willing Comlyn to agree.

  “I’m weel able to dae that myself,” his response less aggressive. “He’s ma only son.”

  “I am aware of that.” Euan looked his sometime father-in-law straight in the eye and held his gaze. “I’m also aware that you spoil him. He needs discipline. Otherwise, he’ll never be the chieftain his father is. I recognise your ambition, Comlyn, but how would it feel to discover all your efforts, all you’ve built up, was for naught?”

  “Ye’d gie me your word the lad would be safe here?”

  “Aye, my hand on it.” Euan fitted his actions to his words.

  Left with nowhere else to turn, Comlyn reached out with his sword hand and took Euan’s in his thick red fist. “What of Harald? There’s no malice to him, not a skerrick of wickedness in him. He was nae use for Astrid.”

  The irony struck Euan as humorous, but he didn’t smile, instead, he kept his voice bland, free of any emotion. “I’ll let you have him. Perhaps, Kathryn will catch his fancy.”

  Nhaimeth escorted Morag to the top of the keep. From there they watched Erik the Bear and his entourage of pretenders get on their way. Their stay had been brief, the McArthur’s doing, he’d no doubt. Nhaimeth experienced a stab of pride. It took cunning to get the better of Erik the Bear. He should know.

  It felt as if he had been fighting that battle for every one of his twenty years. An almost gleeful laugh escaped him. With Comlyn on his way north, Nhaimeth’s need to play least in sight was no longer necessary.

  With one of his wee short legs hooked over the battlements and an arm linked around the chunk of granite next to him, he turned to Morag. “What do you think of all the pageantry on a grey day?”

  She smiled. “The banners and gilding are merely to distract the eye from the dross.”

  “Hah, at last someone else who can see through the Bear’s bluster.” He chuckled, the day could nae get much better.

  “A long time ago, when I was naught but a lass, I watched opposing armies gather, facing each other over an imaginary line drawn in a wide flat vale. I’ve seen rows of pennants fluttering in the breeze, bright gleeful colours on hills topped with tents and the splendour of kings, Scottish and English. And when it was over, all that bonnie splendour was reduced to fields of mud and blood and death.”

  A frown replaced his laughter. “A battle is no place for a lassie. You sound as though you suffered a loss of someone.”

  Morag’s gaze dipped as if now focused on the crowded bailey. “Lost and found, but it was a long time syne.” Then, expression brightening, she exclaimed, “Look, they’re leaving.”

  In the bailey, the McArthur stepped back, hand on Alexander Comlyn’s shoulder. So, the rumour was true. Alexander was staying behind at Cragenlaw.

  “Doesn’t Euan look braw in all his finery? I made sure it was laid out for him.” She gazed at the McArthur the way Astrid had when first married. Morag had soon fallen under the Laird’s spell. It made him sad, but not surprised. He had fallen under Morag’s in as few days.

  It seemed an unlikely blessing, but Nhaimeth felt happy knowing Morag was barren. At least she was safe.

  Just then, the sun came out, spilling gold over the castle as Comlyn looked up and saw Nhaimeth. The Bear wouldn’t recognise Morag, but this time he made certain Comlyn recognised him.

  Hand high overhead, Nhaimeth waved, too far above to read the Bear’s expression, but there was nae gainsaying the fist shaken at the wee Fool he hated with a vengeance.

  Nhaimeth smiled. Aye, it was the best day in a long time.

  Chapter 11

  Outside the thick walls, a mavis was singing. Morag imagined a brown speckled bird bathed in sunlight, whistling a bonnie tune that seemed to promise a good day. And hope.

  Perhaps Euan and Graeme would return today—a thought she held each morning when she woke.

  They would have fine weather, travelling weather, welcome after a dank week of soft drizzle that could soak through a plaid as swiftly as a downpour. Strange that behind it the rain should leave the scent of heather blossoms on the air, as once more they lifted their faces to the sun. Once Comlyn left, taking his men with him, the McArthur hadn’t wasted a moment laying out his plans. Together, he and his constable would decide on the best, strongest and most easily defended place to build the Keep that Euan had promised Graeme for his own, along with the title of Thane.

  A tall Keep, it would command the surrounding land. The mere sight of its high wal
ls should warn off any neighbours intent on raising their hand against the McArthur Clan. Already Euan had sent men to quarry the stone—the same sparkling granite that had kept Cragenlaw safe for generations.

  Morag eased up and squirmed on her bottom across the thick furs until her toes touched the floor. In her thin linen shift, she skipped across the herb-scented rushes and stretched on toe-tips to look outside. The sky was Elysian blue, similar to bluebells. She remembered them growing beneath the trees near her father’s hall, masses of them covering the vale where so many had died. She liked to imagine them as a sign that yon souls who had perished were in heaven, Gavyn among them.

  The forest of Cragenlaw rose from the highest crest of the brae opposite; beyond lay the Grampians and, farther, the soft purple outline of the Highlands tipped the far edge of the horizon. But that wasn’t what excited her. Through a gap in the trees, she caught a glimpse of a wagon approaching the castle.

  Against the greenish-black pine needles, the brightly striped wagon flashed, gay as a banner. This was an event; a pedlar was visiting Cragenlaw. Her heart tripped; a small spurt of excitement tingled. She ran the warmth of her palms over her thin shift, then stooped to pick up her linen kirtle and woollen plaid, both of them faded to pale shadows of the colours they had been when new.

  Astrid had owned a chest filled with plaids, shifts, kirtles and veils in beautifully woven fabrics. Morag couldn’t bring herself to touch them, or to benefit through another’s misfortune. Only a fool, thought Morag, would chance reminding him of his late wife. Auld Mhairi had turned up her nose and sniffed, saying, in her nae nonsense sort of way, “Whit a waste, Euan paid guid sil’er for yon fancy clothes.”

  Downstairs at the high table, Duncan, the seneschal, had begun breaking his fast with bread and cold meat cut from last night’s haunch of venison; no porridge for him. She grabbed an apple from a shallow wooden bowl and took a bite. Crunching the crisp flesh between her white teeth, Morag waited for him to empty his mouth. Duncan enjoyed his food, a truth that showed in the many holes in the leather belt he wore around his middle, but he was fair-handed, almost kindly—reason enough to make Morag certain he wouldn’t refuse her.

  She took another bite, watching expectantly across the apple’s russet-coloured skin. “Well now, Morag of Roslyn,” he enquired, “What has put a sparkle in your eyes this fine day?”

  “There is a pedlar on his way here, from Stonehaven by the looks.” She glanced down at her threadbare kirtle. “I couldn’t help but wonder…”

  He looked her up and down. “Aye, and wonder you might. Even the kitchen maids would look askance if yon,” he nodded, taking in the state of her dress, “were all they had tae their name.”

  She interrupted him, intent that he shouldn’t think her a pauper. “I have another, but it, too, is the worse for wear. The journey was hard on my clothes.”

  “Aye, Roslyn is some distance from here, especially on foot. Never mind, though, with your wee change of employment, as you might say…” he paused as if considering her new position in the household. “Perhaps, you’d better see if this pedlar has anything to suit you. Get something for the coming winter besides, and footwear as well. Cragenlaw gets a mite colder than I doubt you’ll be used tae in Roslyn. The north wind gives it a good skelp.”

  If only he knew the truth, the ‘roundaboutations’ of that journey, the twists and turns they had made to escape her wicked brother. Doughall’s notion of pleasure had been making sure she begged for every particle of clothing either she or Rob needed. Standing between her and her father, Doughall had taught her cunning. She squinted down at her kirtle, the emotion piercing her pride. One thing was certain: no one would ever see worn patches on her skirt from kneeling to her bluidy brother.

  Morag stopped, apple halfway to her mouth, and raised her eyebrows, hoping Duncan could see the question in them. Behind her, she could hear Euan’s deerhounds snuffling around the floor, stirring up the rushes as they searched for any scrap of food tossed or dropped on the flagstones.

  “Och aye,” Duncan nodded, “the pedlar will let me know the sum. And don’t you be stinting yourself, mind. The McArthur is a braw generous man.”

  “My thanks, Duncan,” she said, so pleased she bobbed at the knees in a half curtsy, though few at Cragenlaw bothered with such niceties.

  Nhaimeth sat at the end of a board nearest the northeast stairs, feet barely reaching the floor. She drew her fingers across the smooth grain of the wooden planks opposite his place. “There’s a pedlar on his way. Will you kindly help me choose some lengths of cloth?”

  “I’d be delighted, lass. I’ll meet you in the outer bailey.”

  Morag’s longer legs took her to the wagon ahead of Nhaimeth. He didn’t mind. Since Astrid’s death, Morag had become the joy in his life—that and his friendship with Rob, something he’d never experienced before.

  Rob treated him as if was nae different than himself instead of short of limb and round of back, a freak. He would have done anything for Astrid, saved her life if possible, but even she treated him like a child, as if he’d never grow up, when in truth, he was two years older. His bond with Morag and Rob was different, these friends made him feel an equal, without the need to aye be making them laugh.

  It felt guid.

  He never thought of Morag as striking, always comparing her with Astrid’s golden loveliness. The gleam in the eyes the pedlar swivelled in the lass’ direction pointed to the truth.

  “And how many ells of cloth can I sell you today, bonnie lass?” the pedlar wheedled, taking her measure.

  “I’m not too sure,” she swithered, as if unused to a lot of choice, yet Nhaimeth knew from her speech she wasn’t lowborn. Looking back over her shoulder, as if seeking reassurance, confirmed her true worth. Morag wasn’t one to take advantage of her place as the McArthur’s leman, to fill her arms with silks and velvets, though the McArthur could well afford them.

  She followed the pedlar to the opening in the striped cover hiding much-sought-after fripperies. Nhaimeth stayed at her heels, urging her on with a nod and wink as she said, “Just enough to make two kirtles, and some shifts, summer ones, as well as worsted for winter, and plaids to keep out the cold.”

  “Och, I thought, I hadn’t seen you before. I can tell you’re nae frae here,” the pedlar laughed. “Call it twice the worsted and half the linens. It would be a shame to let the weather we’re having today fool you, lass.”

  “Do you ken every lass in Scotland, then?” Nhaimeth butted in. He’d seen that scared look in Morag’s eyes before. She hid her secrets behind them, but they were her own and he did not pry, or intend letting anyone else pry. Half of a pedlar’s trade came from the gossip he carried from hamlet to hamlet.

  “All yon lassies whau buy frae me are fond of something new, whether it be trinket, or ribbon.” His voice had a coaxing quality, well used, and Nhaimeth recognised the sly gleam in his eyes. “I travel the width and breadth o’ the land. Perhaps, I ken your hame. Where is it you come frae?”

  Nhaimeth was pleased to find Morag was nae so easy fooled. “Cragenlaw is my home now,” she said, “Far be it from me to leave you curious, but the days too braw to waste in gossip. Show me your wares. The seneschal will pay for my purchases.”

  Before he could add his snub to the brusque discussion, Nhaimeth felt a hand on his shoulder and heard Rob laugh. “It’s to be hoped you haven’t forgotten your little brother, Morag. I need new trews; mine have shrunk in the month we’ve been here.”

  Unaware they had just given the pedlar more fuel for the tales he dealt in, Morag smiled up at Rob, reaching up to tousle his mop of hay strewn curls. “I’ll swear you’ve grown two inches since we arrived. The good table Euan keeps has seen to that. You eat like the horses you look after. I’m sure the pedlar has something in his wagon that even you can’t wear out before it no longer fits you.”

  The man’s eyebrows quirked at the mention of Euan’s name, few at Cragenlaw called their chieftain b
y his given name. It was aye ‘the McArthur’.

  “Ach, I’m just a growing lad, like Nhaimeth here.” He jested with a nudge of his elbow that landed on Nhaimeth’s shoulder. “I’ll take anything as long as it’s not green, I can’t abide that colour.”

  “I’m not too fond of it myself, but I’ll see what the pedlar has to offer.” Morag assured her brother. “Now back to the stables with you. You don’t want folks to think you’re taking advantage of my position.”

  “And what position would that be?”

  Mr Nosey just couldn’t resist prying, thought Nhaimeth, then as if with one voice all three told the pedlar, “It’s none of your concern.”

  Turning to go, Rob bent to whisper in Nhaimeth’s ear. “Be sure to buy yourself some fripperies, my friend—perhaps some ribbons, or bells to replace the ones Morag cut off your tunic.” With a cheeky laugh and a wink, he took himself off to the stables. Rob knew Nhaimeth wouldn’t take offence.

  Alexander was a different story. He made Nhaimeth’s back teeth ache from all the tricks he thought to play, lording it over the Fool, as if the power of Nhaimeth’s brain matched the limitations of his body.

  If only he knew, Nhaimeth was his superior, in both birth and manners. Now that Astrid was gone, there were none who knew the truth of the matter. But, oh, he had to bite his tongue not to cut young Alexander down to his own size.

  They were over a morning’s ride away from the new site. Up at dawn, Euan, Graeme, and ten trained men-at-arms had set out eagerly on the road leading home. The air smelled of green and growing things after the rain. Curls of bracken poked out of long grass turning to seed and brambles grew in a prickly snarl amongst them all.

  He drew in a breath of sweet air and thought of Morag.

  It was after midday when the cateran—wild louts from the northwest—set upon them. Yelling at the top of their lungs, a war cry so hoarse and indistinctive it could have belonged to a beast, they came at them in a rush from the edge of the forest. Bare-chested warriors, skin painted blue, flew at them in a pelter. Brandishing axes and spears, they leapt at them with great gusto.