by Alisa Adams
Alastair nodded at Mary. “Go on, blossom.” He grunted cheerfulness. “We better make the most of it for it will be the only time that tight-fisted bastard will part with any of his treasures.”
Mungo hooted laughter.
His wife moved in on the huge man’s face. Her nose crinkled when she felt his bristling whiskers tickle her lips and nose. With a smile, she gave him a light peck on the lips.
“Sweet as a honeycomb, My Laird,” he said, bowing to Alastair. “I can see why you married this fine filly.” Mungo reached into his sporran and removed a golden torc and chucked it into the pot.
Soon more and more men moved forward to claim their kiss and hand over their donatives to the couple. Alick and Bruce were the treasurers – they counted the contents with Mungo watching over them closely. He had insisted they learn how to count. After speaking to the Laird, to the boys’ mortification, he had them both locked up in a room with a tutor four days of the week. Freya was eternally grateful to her new betrothed. She had loved Finlay before him. Yet no love was the same. Each one told its own special story that was birthed out of the personal legends two people created when they fell in love.
By the time Mary had jumped over the many other chanties on the dusty road, the sun had begun to set on the horizon. The deep orange, red and yellow orb kissed the rugged and magnificent Scottish countryside with sunbeam kisses. The whole atmosphere radiated happiness and good fortune, heralding a life of plenty and fertility for the happy couple.
The skilled musicians with many different sorts of pipe music serenaded the couple on toward the trestle tables bedecked with flowers, dishes, and cups. They filled the courtyard in front of the castle. It had been Mary’s wish to dine outside. At first, the Laird had protested, but Muireall had quashed any further gripes on his part with her customary force of will. He tried to insist that there be a table on a plinth, but that wish was denied him also – Mary and Alastair wanted to sit amongst the clansmen.
“Come on, groom,” grunted out Mungo before Alastair had a chance to sit down.
“What have you got planned now? I’d much rather spend the night with my bride than tied naked to a tree again,” said Alastair, lifting his hands to fend off his friend’s groping.
Mungo guffawed. “Quite a lot of fun that.”
“Not if you’re the one glued to a tree trunk.”
“Don’t worry, oh noble Laird. This time you have to dance for your wife.” Mungo stretched his hand out again. “Come on, Alastair. Let’s dance.” Already Murtagh and the other men behind him moved to the melodious tune.
“I’ll be right back, blossom,” yelled Alastair who was already being dragged to the dancing area between the tables.
Moments later, the men of the clan commenced a splendidly choreographed war dance with intricate weaving and pirouetting. In the center, Alastair moved with such grace and panache for such a big man. It had Mary staring on in total wonderment. He was so good that it was difficult to decide whether he was a man or an apparition. Alastair seemed to glide above the ground like a wraith rather than dance with his feet. When it looked as if he was about to disappear from everyone’s sight, the whole frenzied pageant stopped. The song died away, the music faded, and the dancing contingent froze suddenly and unexpectedly.
She had never seen him do that before. During the first feast she had attended in the Highlands, there had been tests of strength. This was so much more beautiful. Even more so was the fact that she had started to discover so many more things about her husband in the past weeks. This being one of them – who would have thought that men as broad-shouldered as Alastair, Murtagh, and Mungo could move with such grace.
“That was incredible, my love. You not only dance well between the covers but also out of them.” Mary sniggered impishly when her husband got back to her side.
“Aye, blossom. Been doing it since I was a laddie. Good rhythm and movement are essential for a warrior.” Alastair smiled. “They make all the difference when you are on the battlefield.”
Mary frowned. “Is that all you men can think about? War and killing.”
“Oh, no, lass. There’s that other thing that keeps us just as preoccupied.” He moved in and kissed her on the lips. Briefly, running his tongue on them before he entered her mouth.
Mary mewed as she ran her hand up his bare leg, letting it disappear under his kilt. “Mmm,” she whimpered when she felt him react to her. “When do I get something sweet on my wedding day?” she asked with a pout when their kiss ended.
“Soon, my bonnie lass. Soon.”
“A toast to my son and his new bride.” The laird’s voice overshadowed the cacophonous noise of the talking people and the music. “My dear wife and I are proud to have such a son. I must tell ye all, there have been times when I was not exactly pleased with his behavior…”
“Aye, like when he ran off with a Sassenach and bedded the woman on the third day,” yelled Murtagh. He was back in his old form again after having to remain serious throughout the religious ceremony. The buxom Caitlin caterwauled her mirth just as much as he did. They were the perfect match – both of them of firm build and with simple tastes.
“All right, all right, that’s enough from ye, Murtagh. I see you have made an honest woman out of Caitlin at last. Ye could have done that sooner rather than molesting the poor woman in my kitchen. Crivens, how often have I worried I’d find something insalubrious in my broth,” said the Laird.
The people burst out laughing.
“Your father’s quite the joker when he wants to,” said Mary, giggling.
“Aye, I ken. Murtagh has surely met his match with him. No one can beat him when it comes to wit. The man’s a prodigy.”
Mary smiled. It was so beautiful to see the love he harbored for his father. They had their differences, but no matter what, they would always make up. It made Mary think of her own family. What had become of them? She had often thought about writing them a letter, inviting them to the wedding. Yet, somehow, she could not bring herself to do it. The paper and quill still lay unused on the table in her chamber. She would one day contact them, she promised herself. This day was about her and Alastair. Seeing her father and her sister’s disapproval would have just spoiled the moment.
“Now that we have Murtagh back in place, I would like to continue talking about why we are here.”
“Food!”
“Ale and lasses!”
“We’re here for Alastair and Mary, ye dozy wallopers. Any man or woman who says otherwise will feel my wrath,” yelled Mungo.
“Aye,” concurred Murtagh.
“And if I am interrupted one more time, the person concerned will be thrown into the loch with an iron ball attached to his or her leg… As I was saying, this is a fine day. It is a day I welcome a daughter into my family.” The Laird looked to his wife. “I also speak for Muireall when I say, Alastair, ye couldn’t have chosen more wisely.”
Alastair got to his feet, raising his goblet. “I thank ye, Faîther, for yer kind words and yer love.”
“Son, ye will make that lass a fine husband and with her many bairns. By God, we need some to fill the castle.”
“Aye,” concurred the gathering.
“Good, ye all ken that I can talk the hind leg off an ass when the whiskey’s flowing…” He waited for the laughter to die down before continuing. “But this night, I will just say, slàinte, Mary and Alastair, and may yer marriage be a happy one.”
“Slàinte,” shouted the people.
It was then the party truly took a hold. On cue, the servants emerged from the kitchens carrying prodigious amounts of food. There was beef, freshly hunted boar, and fowl of all sorts, fish, hearty broths and bannocks. Unlike on other occasions such as this, the servants immediately sat down to join the festivities once the food had been served. It was how Alastair and Mary had wanted it. Everyone in the clan was to take part in this celebration of their love.
The feasting would last well into the following
day. However, not for the newlyweds. The members of the clan had a different plan for them.
After much hilarity, the flowing of copious amounts of alcohol, more dancing, but this time with the women and a hearty meal, Alastair held his woman in his arms. Behind him, the inhabitants of the borough pushed and shoved to get a better glimpse of the couple. Some of them held burning torches in their hands. Others elicited catcalls and made lewd suggestions about the upcoming consummation of the nuptials. One thing connected them all, they were eager to see their chieftain fully claim his bride and get back to the festivities.
“This night I carry ye home over the threshold and will protect ye from all the evil spirits living in the doorframe. Mary of the Clan of Macleod are ye ready to step into your new home?”
She giggled girlishly. Alastair’s elaborate show was so funny. His castle had been her home since her arrival at Diabaig. “You are such a performer sometimes,” she whispered for only him to hear. “Yes, Alastair, son of Roderick Henry, I am ready to be your wife in body, heart and soul,” she shouted for the others.
The gathering of people cheered. They hurled more libidinous remarks at the couple as they watched them disappear into their castle. When the heavy door closed, they turned and made their way back to the banquet.
Alastair carried her all the way up to their chamber. “You are in a hurry. Is there something on your mind, husband?” she asked coquettishly.
“Aye, blossom – ye.” He kicked the door open and ran to the bed. He placed her there gently. He immediately started to remove her clothing.
“My love, we have the rest of our lives. Slow down.”
“If ye had to put up with looking at the most beautiful woman the whole day, and yer were a bloke, you’d be as hasty as me right now.”
She giggled, letting him undress her fully. “You are not getting onto this bed with that on.” She pointed at his plaid.
He smirked and bowed dramatically. “I will let that one slide as we are alone. But dinnae think ye can order me about, lass.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. Now, come on. Get your clothes off,” she commanded. When he was naked, she patted on the spot beside her on the bed. “I have something to tell you.”
He frowned but did her bidding.
Mary played with the dense reddish curls on his chest once he was on his back, lying next to her. Her hands moved lower until they came to rest on the long scar on his abdomen. Mary ran her fingers along the length of it and back again. She frowned and forced away the pain of nearly losing him. “I am so happy you lived. I sometimes still feel the agony of nearly losing you.” She shifted her head that rested on his chest so that she could look into his eyes. “You have to be more careful from now on.”
“Aye, I will if I can, but why do ye look so concerned?”
“Because I have your child growing inside of me.”
Alastair rocked up and moved Mary onto her back gently. “Blossom, that’s wonderful news. We are to be a family,” he said looking at her tenderly. “I love you, blossom.”
Mary smiled at the man she loved above all things. It was the happiest day in her life – she had a new home and a family that loved her. “I love you too, Alastair.” She mewed when he kissed her. She promptly felt his ardor. She decided it was going to be a long night.
Epilogue
MÀTHAIR, TELL ME A STORY
* * *
Castle Diabaig, Scottish Highlands 1337
Rugged mountains that seemed infinite in their ascent to the sky tore through the land like the back of a massive sleeping dragon. Two inland lochs lay beneath them in placid harmony. A little further to the south was Loch Torrid on, an idyllic spot right by the inner Seas off the west coast of Scotland and called the Minch. On clear summer’s days such as this, some of the borough’s inhabitants imagined that they could see as far as the Isle of Lewis to the west. This was of course not true. The island was many leagues away and marked the boundary of the British Isles before the crashing waves of the Atlantic Ocean claimed the horizon as their own.
Loch Torridon added to the serene beauty of the landscape, softening it in ways that only a person from the Highlands could understand. Despite being a marine loch, it was sheltered and bounded on all sides by the land. However, to the west, there was an opening, which led out to the sea that could be rough and unforgiving in the winters.
It was like a separate world and far away from the turmoil that raged down south where the English forever tried to lay claim to this mysterious land. High above were blue skies on which fluffy white clouds paused in their journeys, telling a story of the rains that were soon to come. Dotting the grassy-green hills that met the raggedness of the mountains where green turned to gray, as heavy rocks took center stage, were foxgloves in abundant blooms, catching the late afternoon sun. The same light breeze that ruffled the water of the nearby lakes induced them into a sideways dance, bending the stems, making it appear that they might tip over and snap.
Near a stream that made its way amongst the rocks in a crystal-clear flow stood a castle like a jagged tooth in the land. It was the home of the Laird of the Clan MacLeod of Wallis. His name was Alastair William, the son of Roderick Henry, his father and the former head of the clan who died a few summers back. The name of Wallis was what distinguished them from the MacLeod’s of Lewis and of Harris. Whereas their namesakes ruled far greater lands and boasted larger castles, these cousins of the family were known for their ferocity in battle and their fiery red hair.
Another thing that defined them was their herds of cattle. For some reason, the combination of the soil in this part of Scotland in a perfect arrangement with the proximity of the sea provided for some of the finest bovine specimens in the land. Up and above the castle, on the hills, these great horned, shaggy beasts stood indolently, grazing on the lush green grass with hearty rips. Off and on, they nipped at the foxgloves as if these blooms were a more appealing prospect. Other animals lounged peacefully near a grassy hill on which grew a stand of trees, clothed in summer greens. It was a quaint and happy place, made more alluring by the daisies and other blossoms that throve there. What got people the most when they went up to this point was the perfect view down onto the loch and the shimmering blue sea beyond.
It was where Brice preferred to play with his two younger brothers, one six and the other eight. He was nearly ten summers old and had a fleece of red hair covering his head. Contrary to his family’s hereditary physiognomy, the bloodshot strands of curls were streaked and sometimes be-speckled with black. This trait was the reason his father, the current Laird of the clan, had decided to name him Brice – it meant speckled in his Gaelic tongue.
“Come along, Doogle, Callum, it is nearly time for supper. If we’re late, Màthair will have our hides,” yelled Brice to his brothers.
“Haud yer weesht, I am picking some flowers for Màithair. I only need a few more. I will be right over,” countered Doogle, the second oldest brother. He ran this way and that on his short, stocky legs between the large, healthy cows in search of the choicest specimens of blossom that consisted predominantly of foxgloves.
He was the brawny one of the three boys. Whereas Callum and Brice were slim and wiry lads, Doogle was like a small tree trunk, and he had a thick head to show for it too. One thing was for sure – when he got older, he would be a master caber tosser and the strongest man in the clan.
“Look there, Doogle. Thistles. Màthair will be happy if we bring her a few of those,” squealed Callum, the youngest of the trio.
“And yer gonna pick ‘em, are you?” Brice placed his hands on his hips in a challenging gesture, as he looked at the little boy with the freckles on his cheeks and the family’s archetypical red mane on his head.
“Aye, I’m gonna pick ‘em.” Callum looked at his older brother defiantly. To make his point, he bent over to start his gathering. It did not take long for him to cry out in pain as one of the sharp prickles pierced his skin. Fat bulbous tears welled up in his
eyes and threatened to tip over the lids and roll down his cheeks. The sight of his eldest brother coming closer made them disappear miraculously as if they had never even existed. He swallowed and was once again the happy youngest son of the Laird.
“Give it here, ye wee scunner. Yer never gonna get any like that.” Brice bent over to help his little brother. “Ye gotta be careful – look, like this.” With a mask of concentration etched onto his features, he cautiously sought out a spot on the stem that was not as riddled with thorns. Gradually, he managed to collect a small bouquet of the flowers with the proud lilac heads. Despite being careful, he had to concentrate not to appear weak in front of Callum because the pointy barbs already pricked his fingers and palms. Plucking thistles from a field sure was a painful process.
“Brice?”
“Uh-hum.”
“Tell me the story Faithair always tells us about the Norsemen?”
Brice chuckled softly at Callum’s mispronunciation of the Scandinavian warriors’ title. He often had to remind himself that his brother was only six. At times, he seemed at least two years older. “Callum, we’ve all heard that one at least a hundred times.”
“Aye, I know…” The little boy with the tuft of auburn hair that bordered on the rubicund grinned mischievously. “But, you tell it so much better than Da does.”
Brice ruffled his hair with his free hand until it traced lower down his cheek, which was covered in grime from their playing earlier.
“Alright, Callum, just this once.”
With a sigh, he lay back against the tree trunk to listen to the lowing cows for a few heartbeats. He took a deep breath and delighted in being under the shades of these majestic trees and amongst the sun-kissed highlights where some rocks lay resting peacefully. Further down, across the calm loch to Shildaig, stood a string of peaks that filled the stretch of the horizon. Behind him were the rolling hills where they had played Scottish raiders against the English invader all day. The day had turned out well after all, he decided. He sighed happily. He felt Callum wiggle up next to him, his small frame adding extra warmth to his already hot body.
