by Alisa Adams
Alastair nodded. On cue, he felt his world shrink into focus. It was what he had been trained for all of his life. He had experience but no way near as much as his father. The older man was a little over fifty years of age. He may be slower, but what he might lack in speed and maybe endurance, he made up for with experience and brute strength.
Then, the sound of two blades rasping out of their sheathing broke the silence. More quietness followed and ultimately, the clatter of scabbards on the floor.
Murtagh and Mungo swallowed down their nerves as if they had stones the size of apples stuck in their throats. They had both seen the Laird fight. At the Battle of Stanhope, he had fought off three English men-at-arms simultaneously. They were all dead now, leaving the clansman without even a scratch to show for their efforts. The man was a mountain of steel and muscle. Not a gram of fat bedecked his body despite his age. Many in the past had mistaken his barreled chest and the girth of his midriff as such. It had been a mistake on all counts.
Alastair stepped forward. His father sneered back at him. What Alastair saw was a lethal determination in the other man’s eyes. There was no emotion, just intent and the will to win. The Laird grinned a crooked smile, impressed by his son’s display of courage. He nodded curtly, indicating that the bout was about to begin. Opposite him, Alastair pressed his lips tighter as he sought out a way to get past the impenetrable wall that was his father.
“So, laddie, let’s see what ye can do,” said the Laird, appraising his son carefully.
The two men circled each other for a while, neither one of them wanting to make the first move. Then, the Laird came at Alastair with lightning speed. Alastair’s riposte was perfect, but the force of the Laird’s first strike jarred his arm up to his shoulder. The strength of the chieftain was phenomenal as he attacked four more times before taking a few steps back.
The Laird smiled evilly, his blue eyes, like those of his son, piercing blue. “Had enough, loon?”
“I haven’t even got started, Faîther,” answered Alastair haughtily.
The Laird grinned. “That’s the spirit, boy. Nothing like an English hoer to get yer blood up. What I can’t for the life of me understand is what ye see in her. She’s bonnie enough, but—”
His provocation worked. This time Alastair was the one who attacked first. However, the skill in which the Laird defended himself made Alastair gulp. His father was not even out of breath. He danced on his feet like a prancing dryad, belying the hulking size of the man.
There was a loud, hissing intake of air from Mungo and Murtagh. “Alastair bleeds; he’s finished if he can’t end it soon,” muttered Mungo.
In his fighting fever, Alastair had not noticed that the Laird’s sword had sliced a deep gash across his torso.
“Your first scar, lad,” said the Laird, smiling.
Seeing the blood soak his tunic, Alastair suddenly felt a stinging pain. He had to force back the tears that threatened to overwhelm him. For a moment, he seemed like a lost little boy in the Highlands. He looked at his friends and saw the pleading in their eyes. Alastair’s gaze then moved back to the Laird who was slowly moving in to strike once more.
“I have more than one scar, Da. This’ll only add to my allure. Maybe Mary will find it adds to my masculinity. Once I defeat ye, she will become my wife.”
“You’ll have to win first.”
In a flash, it happened. Fast as a mamba, the Laird threw all he had at Alastair without showing any of his earlier reserve. Alastair could barely see his blade as it clashed with his opponent’s. He reacted instinctively, time seemed to slow down, and suddenly, as if in slow motion, he saw an opening and butted his father on the head.
Surprised, the Laird cried out in pain, taking a step back. Already sweating heavily and leaving his father no time to recover, Alastair moved forward with speed and youthful agility. Stunned, all the Laird could do was trust his instincts. His defense, although uncoordinated, was efficient and the bout ended with yet another gash. This one too on Alastair’s person. A flow of blood slid down his arm, dropping onto the floor.
“Enough,” said the Laird. “I am not going to kill my last remaining son because of a bleedin’ woman.”
“No! You’ll have to kill me before I give up on her. I will stop if ye promise to free me from my betrothal to Aila and give Mary and I yer blessing,” responded Alastair.
The clan chief nodded. His son’s doggedness impressed him, reminding him of when he was his age. He knew then that his clan would be in good hands after his demise. For this reason, he would never let anything come in between Alastair’s destiny. And surely not a woman.
He tipped his head slightly. Before Alastair realized what was happening, he attacked once more. He came in a blur of steel and flesh, as he hammered onto Alastair’s sword, attempting to break him. The Laird felt that the lad was weakening due to the loss of blood. He could see the strain on his face, betraying the younger man’s fatigue. He also knew that despite his youth he had none of the endurance of a hardened veteran.
Forced back to the limits of the hall, Alastair stumbled and fell onto his back. The Laird immediately stopped his attack and gloated. “Ye fight for yer family, ye fight for honor, and ye fight for yer clan. That is all that matters – not the itch under yer kilt.” He moved his blade toward his son’s neck in an attempt to end the fight. The Laird was so certain in his victory that he, for a split-second, let his gaze wander.
It was all Alastair needed. With athletic agility, he jumped to his feet, and in a crouching motion, sliced his blade onto his father’s thigh. The man yelled in consternated pain as blood seeped down his bare leg. Alastair gave him no respite as he came at him with whirlwind ferocity, forcing the clansman back the entire length of the room he’d only recently gained.
With one last thrust of his blade, Alastair forced him onto his back. Thinking he’d won, he beamed at Murtagh and Mungo. He frowned when he saw the worry on their faces. He turned his head. He was not quick enough.
Used to the melee of battle, the Laird kicked the exhausted young man’s legs from under him, knocking him to the ground. Within moments he was on top of him and pressing his sword onto the boy’s neck. Alastair managed to roll away. He got as far as one of the large tables. He crawled under it. The pain in his abdomen and arm had started to pulse. He felt dizzy because of the loss of blood. He knew his father had no such ailments. The gash he had given him was superficial. Not enough to slow him down. The Laird walked toward the piece of furniture with the same steady stride as if he was walking the glens of the Highlands.
When Alastair emerged from the other side of the table, his father’s blade came crashing down in his direction…
The birds whistled, tooted and sung in the trees and beyond. Wheezy trills belonging to the black-headed Brambling competed with chichichichit of the Green Finch crossing the sky. The latter flew about above the church at Wavel Castle, sometimes circling, and occasionally diving in little pirouettes. A pinkish-brown blur descended from the heavens, landing on a branch, belonging to one of the large oaks lining the courtyard. The Jay started warbling from its perch in squeaky clunking notes. The Winchat joined in, fusing, creating a song, that combined with the other species, sounded like the rush of water over a cliff.
It was a fine late spring morning. The sun hung languidly in a clear blue sky. Occasional, small clouds floated lazily, not moving much, somehow deciding which way the near non-existent wind would take them. The temperature was agreeable; the fresh scent of flowers in the air was too, but not the occasion.
Mary felt like a prisoner. There was no escape. All around her, people from all over the land congregated to witness the marriage of the Earl of Wavel and the daughter of Lord Leighton. In order of their social standing and relation to the bride and groom, they advanced in a procession of humanity on toward the church. In front of them, walked a priest holding up a staff with a cross on the top.
Once Mary had descended into the tomb of marriage
with the earl, the festivities would continue. They had already started the night before when the guests had arrived in droves. There had been a large welcoming banquet held in their honor. This day, after the church, alcohol would flow in rivers, entertainment in the form of story-telling troubadours and performing acrobats would be provided. It could have been a fairy tale wedding if the couple were the right one. None of the extravagance had any effect on Mary who would have rather stood under a stand of trees with Alastair eating moldy bannocks full of weevils and drinking whiskey from a leather flask.
It was her third day at Wavel Castle. The podgy earl had not spoken a single word to her, preferring to devote his time to her father. She had been stuck with Elizabeth whom she had tried to avoid, sometimes successfully and other times not so. The staff had become her only solace – especially the cook and one of the chambermaids. This dependence allowed for her to see the prodigious effort they put into the impending celebrations.
The planning for the event had been phenomenal. For weeks, the aristocrat’s servants had slaved away, preparing everything from the accommodation for the over three hundred guests to making sure the residence was spotlessly clean. Stewards, maids, cooks, and squires acted like they were denizens in a nest of ants. Each one of them had their own particular task.
However, the greatest undertaking was in procuring the food. Six weeks before, the earl had given the order for over forty horsemen to obtain the necessary game, consisting of river birds and wild birds. The hunt had lasted until recently. The initial live catch had been kept in pens close to the kitchen in order to maintain freshness of the meat. About a week before the banquet, the birds had been slaughtered, plucked of their plumage, prepared and hung in the larder.
The quantities were massive. As the guests lodged for more than one day, there had to be enough food for the duration of their stay. Throughout the celebrations, two hundred kids and lambs, one hundred calves, two thousand poultry birds, over a thousand hares, four hundred oxen, four hundred pigs and two hundred boars were needed. For Friday, the day of arrival, fish in the form of salmon, pike, and perch were fished by the cartload.
Spices such as white and Mecca gingers, pepper, cinnamon and grains of paradise, which was of West African origin with properties between cardamom and pepper, were sourced from far and wide. There was nutmeg, cloves, coloring agents and decorative items. Added to this came the practical items such as wheat starch, as well as almonds, rice and candied fruits, pine nuts and dates.
The huge kitchen in the castle was a hive of activity. The servants worked late into the night. Mary had seen large sideboards lining the kitchen walls. Some of the arrivals had brought along their own cooks. Restorative and fortifying dishes had to be prepared for those people who suffered from some kind of ague. The logistics and preparations were monumental.
The visitors, domestics and late-night revelers required light. This came in the form of over one hundred torches, fifty pounds of wax candles and one hundred pounds of tallow candles. The storehouse was full to the brim with coal, and more than one thousand cartloads had passed the gatehouse, transporting firewood.
It was all for naught as Mary and the earl entered the church in the vanguard and right behind the priest. Her father and all of the other people followed behind them. The building was large. Big enough to serve as the parish church for the nearby village. The organ inside the church serenaded the congregation to their seats. The wedding party took their positions in the sanctuary close to a large stone slab. Mary walked on with her betrothed toward the altar.
They came to a halt. Gradually, the clergyman turned around to face them. He waited for all of the people to sit down in the stone building with magnificent mullioned windows within ornate frames. When he was satisfied, he made the sign of the cross before his person. His lifeless eyes bored into Mary, making her feel naked in her blue dress made of the finest silks and damask. He began to speak in a deep, monotonous tone. On cue, the assembly stood.
“O God, who consecrated the bond of Marriage
by so great a mystery
that in the wedding covenant you foreshadow
the Sacrament of Christ and his Church,
grant, we pray, to these your servants,
that what they receive in faith
they may live out in deeds.
Through our Lord Jesus Christ, your Son,
who lives and reigns with you in the unity of the Holy Spirit,
one God, forever and ever.
* * *
When he was finished, the organ took up note again, heralding the advent of the Gloria. The entire congregation joined in. Mary was in no mood for singing. Her mouth moved to the tune and words, but no sound came out of it. She was void of any emotion. Mary felt like an empty vessel angrily cast aside by some wayward traveler. Not even the memory of Alastair could assuage her melancholy. For all she knew, he was dead, and she consecrated to a life of purgatory.
The pipe organ played the final note. On cue, the over three hundred people in the church sat down and slipped onto their knees on the wooden supports in preparation for prayer. Next to Mary, the Earl of Wavel slumped down like a beached whale. He looked like an overripe prune in his dark red broadcloth tunic with slashing on the flanks and arms to reveal the luxuriant gold-colored silk lining. By the time he had attained a kneeling position, he was sweating profusely. Mary could smell the whiff of alcohol hanging on his breath like a foul rumor.
Once more, the priest’s drone filled the airwaves, enhanced by the halls excellent acoustics:
* * *
“Dear brothers and sisters,
as we call to mind the special gift of grace and charity
by which God has been pleased to crown and consecrate
the love of our sister and our brother,
let us commend them to the Lord.”
* * *
Mary found herself lost in the words. It should be Alastair next to her. Her mind screamed at her. Time merged into one moment that felt like it lasted forever. The sadness rushing over her stuck, turned and whirled until embossed on her soul. Feeling a tear threaten to seep out of her eye and roll off her dark lashes, she gritted her teeth. This blubbering wreck was not she. She had never been someone to give up and lose faith. Automatically, her mouth started moving, though it did not repeat the priest’s words – Mary prayed for Alastair – she prayed that she would see him again.
* * *
“Graciously pour out upon this husband and wife, O Lord,
the Spirit of your love,
to make them one heart and one soul,
so that nothing whatever may divide those you have joined
and no harm come to those you have filled with your blessing.
Through Christ our Lord – Amen.”
* * *
The ceremony carried on with many more risings, sittings, and kneeling. There were more psalms, readings, gospels, and homilies. Finally, it was so far. The address of statement and intentions and the exchange of consent were upon Mary.
“Dearly beloved, you have come together into this house of the Church so that in the presence of the Church’s minister and the community your intention to enter into Marriage may be strengthened by the Lord with a sacred seal…” He touched both Mary and the earl on the head with two outstretched fingers. “Jarvis Malcolm Henry Edward Tiberius Lancaster, Second Earl of Wavel and Mary Vesta Victoria Leighton, have you come here to enter into Marriage without coercion, freely and wholeheartedly?”
“I have,” said the earl without hesitation.
Silence.
As time oozed by like a crumb being dragged through molasses, the people in the church began to murmur. The scuffing of boots and shoes against the flagstones could be heard. The odd cough sounded cacophonous in the high-ceilinged structure. Mary felt a nudge to her ribs. It was the earl prodding a podgy finger onto her person. “Say it,” he hissed out through clenched teeth.
“No, I will not.” For th
e first time since arriving at Wavel Castle, Mary smiled. She could’ve laughed out loud. She knew then and there that she would never marry anyone but Alastair. The notion came to her in a rush of heady exuberance. She loved him, and he loved her. God would never allow for such a love to fall sullied. It was written in the stars – fate was inexorable. She would see him again.
“Say it, wench,” snarled out the earl.
Mary felt the point of a knife prick through the fabric of her gown. She snapped her head in his direction, glowering at him. The intention to do bodily harm was written on his face. Her resolve wavered. A voice in her head told her to grab his hand and force the cold steel into her body, ending her miserable life. Her hand shuddered. Her fingers trembled.
Heartbeats thumped angrily in her ribcage as fear overcame her. More time passed. The feel of death pierced her skin. More time and then an epiphany.
“I have,” tumbled out of her mouth.
The knife vanished quickly, disappearing into the folds of his attire.
No matter the admission, Mary smiled. This was not the end. This house of God had shown her the way. She must remain alive, for Alastair lived. Were she to die this day then she would commit an act of malevolence in the eyes of the Lord.
The minister exhaled a full rush of air. He promptly continued. “Are you prepared, as you follow the path of Marriage, to love and honor each other for as long as you both shall live?”
The bride and groom both said, “I am.”
“Are you prepared to accept children lovingly from God and to bring them up according to the law of Christ and his Church?”
The bride and groom both said, “I am.”
“Since it is your intention to enter the covenant of Holy Matrimony, join your right hands, and declare your consent before God and his Church.”
