by Alisa Adams
His little brother had to control himself not to jump up and down with glee. The slight ruse he had played on Brice had worked a treat. There was no way that his eldest brother told the story better than Father. To him, Da was the best storyteller in the whole of Scotland, but he was gone now, and Brice would have to do. Father was in England where he fought the English who once more tried to lay claim to the lands north of the Firth of Forth. Callum never worried about his father. He always came back to tell another one of his tales that never succeeded in putting him to sleep at night. Once the familiar deep baritone of his voice would die down, he always found himself begging his father to tell more, but he never did.
He was a monumental figure in his life – for all of the boys to be truthful. Callum wanted nothing more than to be like his father. It was a sentiment Brice and Doogle shared with him. He steeled his eyes on his brother as he let his attention be captured by the older boy’s voice. He had to concentrate. Brice would notice that he was not paying him his full attention and immediately stop with his telling. Callum forced his busy mind to still, letting his older brother’s words serenade him. He had come to the part that was the most interesting. Gradually, the little boy settled down, leaning back against the thick tree trunk in the center of the small hillock, pressing his small body against his brother’s.
“The Scottish thistle is not only our national flower, but it saved our ancestors on more than one occasion,” said Brice, repeating their father’s words, although exaggerating a little with his intonation more than he would.
Callum smiled happily, imagining that it was his father’s deep voice telling him the tale that was now told to every Scottish child. He did not mind his brother’s immature voice. He loved him dearly, like he did Doogle. He drifted back further to a time when the tall Scandinavian men still threatened their homeland with dreams of a kingdom in the west. Before that, as Vikings, they had been a plague on the British Isles for more than two hundred years. Only thanks to Alfred the Great’s efforts did the tide gradually change in the Britons favor until they were expelled from the island forever after an over one hundred-year struggle. Callum remembered his father once mentioning that it could be the same with the English – maybe they would fight for even longer than the Norsemen.
Brice continued the story he knew by heart since the day he could speak.
“Some eighty years ago, the night before the Battle of Largs, the Norsemen came ashore from their longboats, planning a surprise attack on the sleeping Scottish clansmen camped nearby. Scanning their surroundings, they realized that the best way to win the fight was to attack the Scottish at once and in silence. One of the more astute Nordic warriors suggested they remove their boots before advancing, keeping their intentions a secret and allowing for maximum carnage when they reached the enemy. His suggestion was eagerly accepted by his mates, and the battle began…”
Brice swiveled his head to the left and right, rolling his eyes theatrically. He breathed in deeply in an attempt to increase the tension. By now Doogle had stopped his flower picking and had joined them. He sat right across from Brice and Callum on the thick grass.
“I ken the story, brother. Do get on with it,” he said with a snort.
“Haud yer weesht, and let me carry on. Ye ken nothing but farting downwind and killing the wildlife,” said Brice.
Callum giggled. “Aye, I don’t know aebody who can rip wind like ye can, brother.”
“Alright, alright… Now, can we get on with it?” complained Doogle.
Both brothers nodded. Within moments, the pitch of Brice’s voice lowered until he could imitate his father’s as best he could.
“Unbeknown to the Norsemen, there was something in the way – something that separated the two armies. What was it, Callum?”
“Thistles,” yelled the little boy far too loudly. His entire frame shivered with excitement.
Before him, Doogle rolled his eyes.
“Aye, a prickly patch of purple thistles grew between the two armies. In their ignorance, the Norsemen continued their advance until one of their warriors cried out in pain when he stepped onto one with his bare foot. Soon, other soldiers took up his shouts, as they too, stepped on the thistles. The men’s cries warned the sleeping Scots that there was an enemy nearby. They rose up and grabbed their claymores, axes, and shields. Like a wave in the loch during a stormy night, they ran across the field and defeated the Norsemen. And all of it thanks to this beloved flower that Scotland was saved from invasion.” Brice lifted the bunch of flowers to the side of his head and wiggled them.
“Aye, but they won’t be enough to save us if we don’t get back hame now.”
Doogle got to his feet with a spritely jump. “Last one hame is a rotten egg.” Without waiting for the others, he started down the hill toward the castle by the lake.
“Hey, that’s not fair. You have a head start,” protested Callum.
“Come on, wee brother, we’ll catch the mingin welly and wallop some manners into him.”
Brice grabbed Callum with his free hand and followed Doogle down the hill at the fastest pace he could go with the little boy.
The boy’s run took them over the lush, verdant fields, which seamlessly transformed into meadows that were planted with oats and barley. These turfs lead all the way up to the boundary of the small borough of Diabaig. On the edge of the settlement, there was a windmill where the grain for the bread and other victuals were ground. As the lads passed it, with Doogle still in the lead, they encountered various animal enclosures where there were more cows, some mules, and a few packhorses. In the center of the village, an impressive church’s spire rose up to the heavens. It was a recent addition and a gift from the boy’s father to the parish. Other than that, it was the archetypical Scottish medieval town with a well for drinking water, stables for horses, a stream and a loch in which to fish, a blacksmith, a carpenter’s house, beehives on the outskirts, and the all-important inn where the inhabitants indulged in a whisky or an ale too many.
Since the last fifty years, stone buildings had replaced several of the wooden ones in the village center. The main thoroughfare remained a muddy rut when it rained, but the structures lining it had taken on a different tone. They were still fairly basic with their thatched roofs, glass windows, and bare floors, but the walls were made of stone, and that was what mattered. In comparison, many of the town’s houses on the outskirts were timber framed with walls made using a technique called wattle and daub, which was basically covering twigs with mud and straw.
Crossing a stone bridge, the brothers ran the last few paces to the castle that rose up on a small island in the middle of the loch. It was ideally situated for protection purposes. The only way to reach it was by using the bridge or by boat. The structure itself was relatively simple compared to some of the castles in France and England. It was a square edifice with crenelated battlements on all sides. At the front, there was a single tower containing the gatehouse. It comprised the openings used for spewing hot oil on any would-be attacker. There was one other tower a little further down. It was a recent addition for defensive purposes, and it also provided more living space for the soldiers.
“Come on, you two. You are the rotten eggs,” yelled Doogle as he passed under the arched main entrance and disappeared from view.
“Lads, ye better get a move on; yer mother’s a looking for ye,” said one of the clansmen guarding the gate.
“Aye, I know that, Murray. There was just so much to do,” said Brice.
The brawny man guffawed. “Aye, there always is. I suggest the two of ye head for the kitchen and ask cook for some hot water to wash yer faces. Ye both look like a pair of ragamuffins.”
Brice and Callum did not have time to answer. Following Murray’s advice, they headed straight past him and into the large courtyard in front of the keep. Without a heartbeat’s hesitation, they aimed for the side door that would take them to the kitchen located on the lower floor. They could already smell it bef
ore they got there. The inviting scent of roasting beef hit their nostrils, reminding the lads just how hungry they were. With a final spurt of effort, they burst through the rounded door into the sizeable room beyond where groups of women busied themselves over pots, platters, and buckets.
Inside, there was a central hearth and several fireplaces to the sides where the meat could be spitted. When there was need, cauldrons would sway aloft above the flames in the other inglenooks when stewing was the order of the day. Currently, the main hearth was in use for the massive shank of beef that hung on a rotisserie, roasting it gently in its own juices. There was a small doorway to the side that led to a little scullery outside where utensils were washed. Poultry and animals for slaughter were trussed and tethered nearby. It had everything a kitchen needed and was even big enough for when the Laird held a feast. In the bailey near the kitchen, the castle garden was planted with fruit trees and vines at one end, and plots of herbs, and flowers – roses, lilies, heliotropes, violets, poppies, daffodils, iris, gladiola; just to name the important few. Fresh fish came directly from the loch.
“Oi, leave me alone,” protested Doogle.
Cook had caught him. Currently, she held him in her chubby arms and pressed his head to her ample bosom while she rubbed his face with a wet cloth.
“Dinnae stan aroun’ like stookies and get yer wee arses over here,” said cook when she saw Brice and Callum gawking at her manhandling their brother as if he were a slab of meat. When she was finished, she pushed him away. With a speed that belied her bulk, she grabbed a squealing Callum and soon thereafter, she repeated the process once more with Brice moments later.
After the cook’s torture, the boys fled the kitchen in search of their mother. They ran through the Great Hall where feasts took place and their father, when he was in residence, would receive his tenants. It was the most impressive chamber in the castle. It was a large rectangular room that was three times as long as it was wide. The ceiling arched up, culminating in vaulted wooden beams that arced from the thick stone walls on the sides. On one side of the hall, enormous mullioned windows with beautifully decorated frames lined the flanks. On the other, magnificent wall tapestries bedecked the stone.
In the far reaches of the chamber, there was a dais where the most important personages in the clan would sit. On it, stood a large teak table upon which heavily wrought silver candelabras reared. By the entrance, there was a minstrel’s gallery for the musicians. A huge fireplace in which a man could stand stood in the center and provided light and warmth. Along the walls, on a ledge, hundreds of candles cast their light when it was dark. Everything in the great room denoted the clan’s rise to fortune in the past one hundred years. They had played pivotal roles in the previous uprisings, and their efforts could be seen in everything around the homestead.
Climbing some steps that led up to a wooden gallery that lined the upper echelons of the hall, the boys finally reached the entrance to the solar. With a gulp, Brice pushed open the heavy door that creaked in protest. The three of them stumbled in.
“Well, it is about time you got here. I was starting to worry,” said a woman with cherry-red hair. The tone of her voice was melodious and her accent completely different to that of her sons. In these parts, she sounded almost foreign.
She was magnificent. Even the boys thought so. Never once did their mother’s perfectly pale countenance tire them. The structure of her face was flawless. The only imperfection, if one could call it such, was a small hollow on her chin. She had brown doe-like eyes that effused sweetness and a certain degree of strong will. It was a trait the lads had seen her employ on their father when she wanted something done – Màthair invariably won most arguments.
“So, my boys, what have you been up to today?” She laughed sweetly when all three of them starting talking at once. “I suggest we start with Callum.” She raised her hand to forestall Brice’s protest because he was the eldest.
As Callum told his mother of the day’s events, he held out the bouquet of flowers proudly, making his mother cry out with pleasure. At the same time, Doogle gave her his offering, inviting equal glee from his mother.
In the meantime, Brice looked at his surroundings. The principal item of furniture in the solar was a great bed with a heavy wooden frame and springs made of interlaced ropes and strips of leather, overlaid with a feather mattress, sheets, quilts, fur coverlets, and pillows. The bed could be dismantled and taken along on the frequent trips the great Laird made to his hunting lodge further to the north or visits to his aldermen. The bed was curtained, with linen hangings that were currently pulled back as it was still daytime. At night, they’d be closed to give privacy as well as protection from drafts.
At the foot of the bed was a trundle bed for the personal servant that slept there when his father was not around. Chests for garments, a few perches and wooden pegs for clothes, and a few stools, chairs and a large table made up the remainder of the furnishings. Further back, a small anteroom called the wardrobe adjoined the chamber – a storeroom where cloth, jewels, spices, and plates were stored in chests, and where the dressmaking was done.
Brice’s roaming eyes focused on his mother once more. He started to listen to her more carefully. Every time his brothers spoke, he became even more aware of the difference in their accents. This was not a new phenomenon to him, he just never thought to ask about it, until today that is. “Ma, why do you sound so different to us and Da?”
His mother looked up and smiled at her eldest son fondly.
“That’s because I am English, Brice.”
There was a deep intake of air from all of the boys. It was the first time they had ever heard of it. They exchanged incredulous looks with one another. Brice was the first to recover. “But how is that even possible; you are married to a Scottish Laird. Sassenachs don’t marry clansmen… do they? They are the enemy.” The last words passed his lips in a whisper.
His mother chuckled.
“No, they don’t. You are right there, Brice. And especially not one who is as accomplished as your father.”
She had a twinkle in her chestnut-brown eyes.
“Well then, my boys, I think it is about time I told you about how that came to pass… Would you like to hear it?”
The three brothers nodded their heads eagerly. “Aye, Màthair. More than anything.”
“Good, then let us wait for Mrs. Munroe to serve the food, and I will regale you with the tale of how your mother got to be a Scottish Lady of the Clan MacLeod,” she said when she saw the servant standing in the doorway.
Once everyone was settled at the table with their plates full of freshly grilled beef, dripping in its own juices, the lady of the castle started her tale. As she spoke, the boys couldn’t help dipping their bread on their plates and stuffing their little mouths with the meat.
“It was the year of our Lord, 1327, and it was a very cold winter…”
THE END
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(After reading the Extended Epilogue, turn the page to read the first chapters from “Highland Rebirth”, my latest best selling novel which I co-authored with Adamina Young!)
Marooned
Shona loved the loch, especially in its wilder moods. It was in a particularly foul mood tonight, whipping crests onto the waves as they raced inshore. The white ridges looked like the manes of galloping horses, and that was what they called them – white horses.
Instead of bowing her head against the furious gale, she tilted it back so that her dark hair streamed back from her pretty, heart-shaped face with its huge green eyes, which she closed against the wind. She was freezing, but she didn't care. She had lived by Loch Ness all her life, but she never tired of it, even though she had never seen the monster! She loved everything about this place – its mystery, the gray water where the
monster was rumored to lurk, even the dark, threatening clouds over the hills. It took hardy people to live here, and she was one of them, with her work-roughened hands and tanned skin.
She took a deep breath and looked further along the loch till she saw in the distance the dark bulk of Castle Urquhart. Then she remembered that it was time to go back and help Ma and Da with the dinner. Sunday was the night they had meat, usually mutton stew, and her mouth watered at the thought. It would soon be harvest season – when Da went to Inverness to the market and brought back some strawberries, which she carefully rationed so that she could make hers last longer. Once he had brought home honey, and she had never eaten anything so delicious. She thought that if she ever went to heaven when she died, it would be full of strawberries and honey, and she would eat them for all eternity.
She laughed – she was almost twenty, and she hoped that she would live at least another hundred years. She had no intention of dying just yet – there were too many cows to milk, sheep to shear, and eggs to collect, and far too many dreams to dream. She was realistic – she would probably live on a croft and be a farmer's daughter for the rest of her life, but in her dreams, she was a lady with fine gowns, jewels, and honey to eat every day. And, of course, her husband would be the most handsome man in the Highlands and fabulously rich! And the best thing about dreams was that nobody could ever take them away, and they could be as fabulous as she liked.
She turned around regretfully to go home, then her eyes fell on something further along the shore. There was a dark, ragged shape there, and as she drew nearer, she could see that it was the body of a man.
