The gun exploded with a sharp report.
Suddenly the parliamentary leader, who an hour before had been contentedly driving down a country Highland road singing along with his car’s cassette player, found himself sprinting across a flat grassy field in a madcap effort to keep up with the rest of the runners and not embarrass himself too badly. They dipped slightly downward for some two hundred yards, then came up the gradual slope of the opposite side. Suddenly Andrew realized that their course was bound straight for a monstrous hill looming ahead across the valley floor!
Already the lead runners were onto its slopes. Within another few seconds, Andrew realized he had bitten off more than he had bargained for! What had he been thinking? He was in the Highlands . . . this hill was steep!
When he crossed the line nineteen minutes and forty seconds after the gun in a surprising third-place finish, he felt as though his lungs were about to explode. But he was nevertheless unable to prevent an exhausted smile—not because of the well-placed race he had run, but from the exhilaration of what he had so spontaneously done.
Bent over, hands on knees, trying desperately to get his breath and chastising himself for allowing himself to get so out of shape, Andrew heard a cheery feminine voice approach beside him.
“Congratulations!” it said with heavy Scottish accent.
Still unable to bring himself fully to a standing position, Andrew did his best to glance around toward the sound.
“Ye took third place—I’m t’ take yer name t’ the judges.”
Slowly he stood, still gasping for air, and turned to see a young woman standing before him. Scot was written over every inch of her ruddy, chiseled face and determined expression, even had the thick accompanying brogue not announced that these Highlands could be no other than her lifelong home.
He smiled and laughed in the midst of the pain.
“The way I feel right now, I don’t consider myself deserving of a prize,” he said. “To tell you the truth, I may be about to get sick. I haven’t run that far since I was at university.”
He bent down and again clasped his knees for support.
“Weel, university or no, sick or no, ye won third place. So . . . what’s yer name?”
“First tell me yours,” rejoined Andrew, standing again and gradually coming to himself. His face, however, remained pale. “Then I won’t feel like such a stranger here.”
“Ye’re no a stranger, whoe’er ye be, though ye be a mite stubborn aboot givin’ oot yer name when it’s asked fer. But there are nae strangers here at the Gordon Games. In this country, all’s kin an’ all’s weelcome.”
“The Gordon Games?” repeated Andrew, half in question, half astonishment.
“And why not? Isna the Gordon name as guid as ony ither?”
“Of course . . . it’s only that I was surprised. I’m sure you have noticed from my speech that I’m not from this country.”
“I maun admit I detected a slight somethin’ t’ gie ye awa,” said the young woman.
Though she could not have been more than an inch or two over five feet or weighed more than seven and a half stone, a bouncy vitality gave her appearance a stature that, in the right circumstances, might prove equal to any man’s. Her smile was as full as her green eyes were large, with teeth white and glistening. From beneath the ribboned tartan of her Glengarry bonnet tumbled out the most notable and undiluted example of bright red hair Andrew had ever seen.
Now that his wits began to gather themselves more firmly, in fact, he realized what an altogether picturesque Highland image the young woman presented. She wore a kilt skirt, as did most of the other women he had observed, with a white cotton blouse. A plaid to match skirt and cap—blue and green interlaced with wide-spaced thin yellow bands—draped over one shoulder and diagonally across both back and front, meeting just below the waist, where the two ends were pinned together by a great silver-and-feathered brooch. Even the two shaggy terriers that accompanied her—and were now busily sniffing his heels—added to the picturesque effect. He judged the spunky young woman as being somewhere in her late twenties or early thirties.
“But . . . ye still haena told me yer name,” she insisted.
“Because you have not told me yours,” rejoined Andrew, now managing a smile of his own as he bent over to greet the little dogs.
“Gien ye aren’t a stubborn one for an Englishman!”
Andrew laughed outright. Seeing the fun in his expression, she could not help joining him.
“All right, gien ye will hae it . . . it’s Leigh Gordon—there! And these lads here”—she indicated the little dogs—”are Faing an’ Fyfe.”
“All right, then,” said Andrew, extending his hand. “I’m Andy Trent. And I am pleased to make the acquaintance of all three of you.”
It was the first time he had actually spoken the pseudonym he had been using on lodging registers throughout his travels, and he didn’t know quite what to make of the feel of the words as they left his lips.
“Then come wi’ me, Andy Trent,” she said, shaking the hand vigorously, then turning and bounding off. “Come an’ collect yer prize, an’ be a weelcome guest o’ the Gordons o’ Lochnagar.”
Eight
The next three hours passed more quickly than Andrew could have believed possible.
As the only nonlocal present at the annual village celebration, he had enjoyed more lavish Scottish hospitality than he had experienced during the whole of his travels.
He had participated in two more races—a fifty-yard sprint and a two-hundred-yard lap around the grassy perimeter of the field, reminiscent of Eric Liddell’s booted sprint around the grass in Chariots of Fire. Having seen Chariots three times, he was amazed to find himself engaged in such Liddellesque activity.
In neither of the races had he come close to winning a prize, however, though he was nonetheless applauded and congratulated by the crowd for his good-natured efforts. And he had thoroughly embarrassed himself—going up against the most burly of the local he-men—in the caber toss, nearly allowing the nineteen-foot-nineteen-inch, 132-pound pole to crash down upon his head!
Weariness and near concussion notwithstanding, however, he had had the time of his life. By the time a light afternoon’s snack was laid out, he was thoroughly caught up in the festive local atmosphere and warmed by the way the inhabitants embraced and welcomed him into their midst—even while knowing nothing of his own Gordon ancestry.
The Gordon clan apparently stretched all the way from Strathbogie down to the region of Cliffrose. Now he had stumbled upon a cluster of Gordons in the center of the Grampian Highlands—a friendly, boisterous, fun-loving, kindly, hospitable community of men and women who still, this late in the twentieth century, showed such deference to their leader that a few of them called him chief.
What could it all mean?
Had he been caught in a time warp? Had he driven over a hill and suddenly discovered himself in the early 1700s, before such Highland display had been outlawed by the English Crown? He felt almost as if he’d slipped into Brigadoon. Kilts and tartans, dirks and sgian-dubhs, bagpipes and Highland flings, sheep shearing and an outdoor bonfire of peat at the edge of the small valley—for effect, apparently, and not for heat, since the day had grown into a warm one, although there also appeared to be preparations under way for some kind of food associated with the fire. On the adjacent hillsides grazed longhaired bulls and curl-horned, black-faced sheep. The Highland clan heritage here seemed as close and personal and vibrant as if the twentieth and twenty-first centuries had never come to this place at all!
His thoughts drifted back to Sandy and Culodina. If he closed his eyes he could just imagine—
“Another glass o’ stout fer ye, young Trent?”
Andrew glanced up to see the kilt-clad, gray-bearded man they called chief—the very man with whom Burslem had been arguing—striding toward where he sat. He grasped a tall foaming glass in his left hand for the guest in whom he had taken a personal in
terest, while he sipped at the one he held in his right as he walked.
“I’m afraid this must be my last!” laughed Andrew. “I’m no more accustomed to this ale you people drink than I am to your Games.”
As he sat, he had been watching the young girls in the sword-dance competition, sweat standing on his face, trousers splotched from a fall or two he had taken, shirt sleeves rolled up, and messy blond hair going in a hundred directions.
“Weel,” rejoined Finlaggan Gordon, slapping Andrew on the shoulders with his hand as soon as he had delivered him of its contents, “ye’ve handled yerself right weel today, fer a Lowlander. We Highlanders admire a man wi’ grit, an’ ye’ve shown ye got yer share by gettin’ in there wi’ oor ain brawly lads an’ doin’ yer best t’ beat ’em at their ain game.”
Andrew laughed. “Thank you very much, laird,” he said. “Coming from you I take that as a compliment of high praise. Although I must say I didn’t handle the colors of my own country all that well.”
“What! What mean ye, lad . . . yer ain country? Ye’re among the Gordons noo. It doesna tak us mair’n a day t’ mak a Scotsman o’ a man wha’s willin’ in hert an’ limb! Ye’re a Scot now, lad, ye hear!”
Again Andrew laughed heartily. If only Duncan MacRanald could be listening to the conversation. His old friend back home had been trying to make a Scotsman of him for years, and now this Gordon Highlander was doing his best to complete the project!
The afternoon’s activities had taken Andrew’s mind completely off the reason he had stopped here in the first place. Talking now with the chief reminded him of it.
“I couldn’t help noticing you talking with a man in a suit when I arrived,” said Andrew. “You appeared to be arguing . . . there’s nothing the matter, I hope.”
“Only a Sassenach tryin’ t’ git his clutches on what disna belong t’ him,” rejoined the chief.
“A Sassenach?” repeated Andrew.
“An Englishman.”
Andrew laughed. “But I’m English, as I’m sure you can tell. Yet you invite me to drink ale with you.”
“There’s Sassenach an’ there’s Sassenach,” said the old man. “When we use the term, we mean an Englishman wha’s tryin’ t’ use the Scots fer his ain gain. Honest English are as weelcome under my roof as honest Welshmen or honest Scots or honest men o’ ony ither kith an’ kin or clan.”
“Even a Campbell?” suggested Andrew with a twinkle of fun.
“A guid one, that! Ha, ha!” laughed the chief. “Ye aye ken yer Scots history, lad! I’ll hae t’ think twice hoo t’ answer ye. Not that the Gordons harbor the same spite o’ the Campbells as the sons o’ Donald. But they slaughtered oor fathers at Culloden too, jist like Glenlyon did MacIain’s at the wee glen. So ye may be right—the Campbells may be worse than the Sassenach. Though one o’ my best friends is a Campbell, so I’ll hae t’ consider the matter further. But ye’re no Campbell, I ken that weel enouch, and ye’d be weelcome under my roof whate’er the sound o’ yer tongue.”
“You are a kind man, laird,” said Andrew, “and I thank you very much.”
They tipped glasses, then followed with a long swallow of the frothy cold brew.
“Papa!” called a voice. Both men turned to see the diminutive redhead whom Andrew had met earlier—and whom he had learned to be the eldest daughter of the chief—bounding toward them with the little dogs still at her heels. “Ye’re wanted at the judgin’ tent.”
“What for, Ginny?” replied the laird, whose hefty size and robust carriage would give no immediate indication that the two were related. “Canna ye see I’m enjoyin’ a pint wi’ oor guest?”
“’Tis time for the final awards, Papa, an’ nane but the laird’ll be able t’ name the final prizes.”
“Then keep oor guest happy,” said Gordon, rising to his feet. “An’ mind, Ginny, that my stout’s here when I come back.”
The moment he turned his back, with a naughty expression of fun, she took a sip from his glass, though she followed it with a grimace of displeasure.
“I canna weel stand the stuff,” she remarked with a laugh, “but I like to tease Papa. He still treats me like I’m fifteen.”
“A common ailment among parents,” said Andrew, laughing lightly.
“Do yours do the same?” she asked.
“Not so much now,” replied Andrew, taking a slow, thoughtful sip from his glass. “But I’m thirty-seven, so they’ve had plenty of time to get used to my being an adult.”
“I’m thirty-two,” she rejoined, “but gettin’ used t’ it hasna helped Papa. Mummy’s better, but Papa’s still tryin’ to make me into his son wha’ll be laird after him,” she added, laughing.
Andrew thought of his sister Lindsay and his own similar, though opposite, struggle with his mother’s expectations.
“Do you have brothers and sisters?”
“Ay—a yoonger o’ each.”
“Are they here?”
“My brither’s aboot someplace—my sister’s married an’ bides in Glasgow.”
“Tell me—what’s the Ginny for?” asked Andrew.
“My middle name—Ginevra. But folks call me Ginny.”
Andrew’s heart leapt. Had he heard right? Ginevra!
“Ye’re luikin’ at me like ye seen a wee ghostie!” she exclaimed in response to his wide-eyed stare. “Did I say something t’ flaucht ye?”
“No . . . no, sorry,” replied Andrew. “It’s just that hearing your name startled me.”
“Why for that? Isna Leigh Ginevra Gordon as guid a name as any ither?”
“Yes, of course. It is a beautiful name—majestic, just like the mountains and hills all around. Do you know of the maiden of Glencoe?”
“Ay, I’ve heard the tale. But I doobt many o’ the wives o’ the village—or the men for that maitter!—I doobt they’ll be thinkin’ o’ Ginny Gordon as majestic!”
She laughed at the very thought.
“Majestic,” she added, “is the place we like oor sma’ clan t’ be known by—Lochnagar there yonder.”
She pointed vaguely toward the hills to the northeast.
“But the laird’s daughter,” she went on, “the maist o’ them’ll be callin’ her a wee-shankit quean wha canna right grow up ’til a lady like she ought.”
Andrew laughed. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I don’t understand you.”
“I said they a’ call me a short-legged girl wha’ll never grow up t’ be a lady.”
“I see,” smiled Andrew. “Is your father really a chief?”
“Not o’ a’ the Gordons! Na, na . . . there’s a heap o’ Gordons all o’er the world. An’ they got a Gordon in Aboyne, jist doon the Dee, that dresses up in fancy kilts wi’ silver bits an’ buttons all aboot ’im an’ sits fer his picture t’ be taen—an’ him they call the chief o’ the whole lot. But this wee corner o’ the Gordons came doon here back in the last century an’ made their hame around the great mountain an’ then spread oot doon Glen Clunie an’ Glen Shee. My father’s great-great-gran’papa cam down frae Strathbogie—his older brother was made ninth marquis o’ Huntly when the fifth duke died, an’ was known then as the chief o’ the clan. An’ since then his gran’papa, an’ noo my ain papa—they hae all been called the lairds and chiefs o’ this region. But Papa says nobody holds by all that nowadays.”
“But you are related by blood to the titular head of the whole clan?”
Ginny nodded. “Ay. But Papa doesna keep touch wi’ ony o’ the important folks ’cept at Aboyne Castle. I dinna doobt nane o’ them in Strathbogie or Haddo Hoose in Aberdeen or them that’s in Gight an’ Canada ken the wee clan Gordon o’ Lochnagar exists at a.’”
“Are you by any chance related to the Gordons of Cliffrose?”
“Ye’ll hae t’ ask Papa. I’m no aware o’ any connections mysel.’”
Fascinated, Andrew took the information in without further comment.
“Weel, the laird’s made his decision!” boomed a voice behind them.<
br />
The two looked up to see Ginny’s father walking briskly back toward them.
“Who won the gran’ prize, Papa?”
“Alastair again, jist like last year,” answered the laird. “A braw young man,” he added, turning to Andrew. “Him it was wha tossed the caber oot there sae far, an’ whas heels ye was luikin’ at yersel’ on the way back doon the ben there yonder.”
“I remember him now!” sighed Andrew. “A fine athlete.”
“Ay . . . an’ one wha’s got his eye on my daughter here, doesna he noo, Ginny lass?”
“Everyone in Ballochallater kens weel enouch, Papa,” replied Ginny, with more annoyance than embarrassment. She did not seem capable of embarrassment.
The conversation soon ended with the necessity of the laird’s presence for the Games’ award presentation and the final piobaireachd1, or piping, competition. With Ginny accompanying him, Andrew started to walk toward the gathering crowd. But they were interrupted as they walked by a breathless middle-aged woman in Wellingtons who laid a big hand on Ginny’s shoulder and pulled her around.
“I’ve aye been tryin’ to catch up with ye’ fer maist of the day,” she blurted out, then stopped briefly to catch her breath. “I wanted to tell ye’ little Nellie’s much better this mornin.’ Fair wolfed doon her brakfast and was askin’ fer mair.”
“Weel, that I’m right glad t’ hear’t,” replied Andrew’s companion with a smile. “An’ will ye be bringin’ the little darlin’ to see me next week?”
“Ay. We’ll baith be aluikin’ forward t’ it. Ye ken yer Nellie’s favorite.”
“She’s a darlin’,” commented Ginny as she and Andrew continued on their way.
“I take it you like children?” Andrew said.
Ginny glanced at him, puzzled. “Weel, ay, but . . .”
He gestured back toward the woman, who was weaving her way through the crowd away from them. “I mean Nellie. The little girl.”
The confusion on Ginny’s face now vanished in a hearty gale of laughter. “Ach, oor little Nellie!” she said. “She’s a fine’un, that’s fer sure, but she’s hairdly a wee bairn. Mr. Trent, Nellie’s a potbellied pig!”
An Ancient Strife Page 20
