Seven
The earl’s factor called on Darroch MacDonnuill one day when the twins were nearly a year of age. The serious expression on the man’s face struck a cold dread in the poor father’s soul. Timidly Darroch listened while the factor explained that an error of long past and untraceable date had been discovered. It was with great regret that he had the duty to inform MacDonnuill that the rent on his cottage—
Poor Darroch was by this time trembling for what must be about to come.
The rent had been found excessively high, the factor went on, and was, therefore, as of this quarter year, reduced to an amount which he went on to specify. On the earl’s behalf, regret and apologies were suitably expressed. In exchange for the error, the factor further had the duty to inform him that there would be no payments whatever required for the next six quarters, after which time, payment of the proper, and lower, amount would commence.
MacDonnuill stood as one stunned, still trembling, though now with disbelief, as the dust from the hooves of the factor’s mount retreated in the distance. How was it possible for so much grace to arrive at the doorstep of one man in such a short time! Nara was right. Truly had Isaac’s blessing fallen upon him from the hand of God, and he had been given freely of both heaven’s manna and the abundance of the earth.
The sense of blessing increased as the twins grew. By the age of seven, the two boys were sturdy, cheerful lads, devoted to one another, and able to assist their older brother and sister with many of the tasks about the place. Darroch and Nara watched their family grow with grateful hearts.
Eight
When David I, son of Malcolm Canmore and Queen Margaret, had come to Edinburgh in 1124 to assume the throne after his years in England and France, he had distributed large grants of land among many Anglo-Normans who had been his friends in the south. He bestowed upon them rank and privilege, introducing names into Scotland that would play pivotal roles in its future. An enormous flood of Norman nobility surged into Scotland during the twenty-nine years of David’s reign.
Much of Scotland’s land changed hands during that time. In the very year of his coronation, the new King’s friend Robert de Brus was granted a charter for the lands of Annandale, across the Solway from Carlisle. Through David’s gifts the families Bailleul, Comyn, Gordon, Fraser, Boswell, Seton, fitzAlan (who would become the King’s hereditary high stewards), and many others, already landowners in England, were given charters for huge tracts throughout the north.
Scotland’s clans, meanwhile—which in former years had occupied nearly all the land north of the Solway-Tweed line—seeing domains that had been theirs for centuries taken away and given into the hands of a French-speaking aristocracy, retreated into the Highlands where they might hope to make a living while preserving their language and their way of life.
But though the ancient Celtic way of life was gradually being swept away, the dynamism of Celtic energy and individuality entered silently and invisibly into the hearts and bloodlines of the newcomers and changed their essential personality. If the Norman newcomers were not of pure Celtic extraction, they came ultimately to behave in strangely similar ways, becoming less English and less Norman the longer they remained in the north . . . and more Scot.
As these changes occurred, loyalties within Scotland’s nobility became increasingly divided. Many landholders were bound in loyalty pledges to both England’s and Scotland’s kings, for they held estates both north and south of the Solway and Tweed. Conflict became inevitable, for in the feudal system there could be but a single King who was owner of all lands and to whom all were bound. Malcolm’s homage to William the Conqueror opened to dispute the question of who was ultimately lord over the northlands—the King of Scotland . . . or the King of England?
Relations between the south and the north remained generally friendly—for there was much intermingling of noble and royal families—until David I’s second grandson, William, came to the Scottish throne in 1165, seventy-two years after old Malcolm Canmore’s death.
The spirit of his great-grandfather now rose up within the heart of the new King, called “the Lion.” Many might have thought William the Lion was a reincarnation of the Canmore himself. For in temperament and thirst for territorial conquest there could be no mistaking that he was of old Malcolm’s lineage.
This new King first negotiated a formal treaty with France, which would later be called the Auld Alliance. Then, nine years after being crowned on the Stone of Scone, William the Lion proceeded to invade England to retrieve lands that had been taken from Scotland during the recent reign of his brother.
William the Lion was obviously of the opinion that no Scottish King was vassal to an English crown.
But William’s invasion of England was of short duration. The Scottish King was taken prisoner at Alnwick, where his great-grandfather had been stabbed in the eye with the point of a traitor’s lance. He was then taken to Falaise, where in 1174 he performed the greatest homage of all.
With his life at stake, William swore to hold all Scotland as Henry’s vassal. He thus declared every person in Scotland the feudal servant of the English King Henry II and all Scotland Henry’s fiefdom.
Whatever ambiguity might have existed in Malcolm’s act of homage, that of William the Lion was mortifyingly clear. With good reason was it called the humiliation of Falaise. For the next fifteen years, Henry II lorded it over William at every opportunity, making him feel the weight of his sovereign overlordship.
Nine
In 1180, six years after the reduction of his rents, Darroch MacDonnuill discovered that the hand of blessing was of much nearer origin than the heavens to which he had first attributed his changing fortunes.
He was well aware that his lord Duncan had gone to fight the English with the King called the Lion. Though Darroch heard that the King’s army had been defeated, he knew little about the situation other than that the laird had since returned and that English troops occasionally passed by on their way to Duncan’s castle. Certainly he had never heard of the Treaty of Falaise or the fact that, as a result, many of Scotland’s castles were now in English hands.
When Darroch saw the earl’s carriage again approaching his dwelling, no fear rose this time within his breast. He was happy to see the earl healthy and well after a war in which many Scottish knights and lords had lost their lives. A rent payment was due, but the fact was no cause for alarm these days. That the earl should come for it himself was unusual, but then since the birth of his boys everything about MacDonnuill’s tenancy on the earl’s land had been out of the ordinary.
MacDonnuill put down his tools and walked from the field where he had been working toward the carriage that had drawn up beside his cottage. Stepping out, Earl Duncan greeted him warmly, then asked if he might have a few words.
The poor man hesitated, then invited the earl into the cottage. Only Nara, his wife, was inside.
“I come to you with an opportunity, MacDonnuill,” said the earl, moving straight to the point. “I know times are difficult for men in your position.”
“Your generosity in the matter of the rent has been of great help, sir,” said Darroch.
“Indeed,” rejoined the earl, “that is precisely why I have come—to offer you an opportunity to continue things as they are.”
“To continue—”
“Yes, so that I do not find it necessary to raise your yearly obligation back to what it was before.”
“I . . . I understood there had been an error . . . that I now pay the correct amount.”
“Tut, tut, MacDonnuill. That was merely my factor’s way of explaining it. I thought you understood that I had purposely lowered your rent and given you a year and a half for free on top of it.”
“I . . . it . . . it was most generous of you, sir,” stammered Darroch. He was uncertain of the earl’s meaning, but he felt an approaching discomfort. He looked over to his wife and felt an even deeper unease at the expression on her face—as though she had been s
eized by a premonition of doom.
“I told you when I visited before that I would do what I could to make things easier for you, on account of your twins.”
“You have been most kind, my lord.”
“Ah, yes, of course—but you see, now we must evaluate matters again.”
The earl paused briefly, then added, “How are the boys?”
“The twins?”
“Of course—yes, the twins.”
“Very well, sir—healthy and growing and strong.”
“Good, I am delighted to hear it—and the eldest, what is his name?”
“Gachan.”
“Yes, of course—Gachan, a fine lad. What would you say, MacDonnuill, if I told you I was prepared to make a gentleman of young Gachan?”
“I . . . I don’t know . . . but how would—”
“It is my wish to take your son into my household, MacDonnuill,” interrupted the earl. “I could make use of a bright, hardworking lad. He would be my servant at first, of course. But if he shows himself to be a good learner and hard worker, there is no reason why he should not in time be given advantages.”
“But . . . but why would you do this . . . for us?”
“I have always fancied twins. I told you I am one myself. I took a liking to your lads straightaway. I would like company as well for my younger son, David, who is seven. His brothers are considerably older.”
The earl paused and waited.
“It is . . . certainly,” hesitated Darroch after a moment, “an opportunity for the boy. But . . . but I do not see, sir, how we could do without him. Your offer is most kind, sir. But I think my wife and I would prefer that he remain with us.”
“I see,” nodded the earl. “But if your rent were to go up to the previous amount . . . or should circumstances force me to raise it higher—I am certain you see that this is an opportunity not only for your son, but also for your family . . . to continue without the burdens some others on my land have to carry. Times have changed, you see. The English thumb is heavy upon us these days after Falaise.”
Darroch MacDonnuill was not a brilliant man, but slowly the earl’s meaning became clear.
“The cow . . . the chickens?” he asked at length.
“Yes, yes—it was my doing,” replied the earl. “I thought you knew, MacDonnuill. I told you I would see to your sons. I said that same day that I would find an opportunity to help them. I thought my intent was unmistakable. Unfortunately, at this time I only have need for one of the boys.”
Darroch had hardly paid attention to the earl’s words at the time. Now he recalled them, and they stung with sudden new import.
In truth, the earl of Fife was not a cruel man. He was indeed a generous landlord by the standards of the day. What he had done in easing MacDonnuill’s burden and what he now expected in return carried no intent of duplicity, but was born out of a compassionate heart. If he could improve the boy’s station and give the family a decent life in the process, what else would they be but grateful?
At the same time, if the man was obstinate, the earl was sufficiently a man of his times that he was not above employing the force of his position to get what he wanted. And he had spoken truthfully about the changing times. English soldiers, in fact, were at that moment garrisoned at his very castle.
“But . . . but if I decline your offer?” Darroch now said timidly to the earl.
“Then I fear times may become difficult for you, MacDonnuill,” replied the earl, eyeing the peasant keenly.
Nothing more was said. The earl rose and left the cottage.
Four days later, the notice arrived for Gachan to be ready, with whatever possessions he desired to bring with him, in seven days. Personal clothing, other than what he wore, would be unnecessary. He would be provided for.
A carriage, the communiqué concluded, would arrive for him at precisely twelve o’clock noon.
Ten
On the night prior to his son’s departure, a father whose heart was full left his cottage and wandered out alone into fields that he and others like him worked to feed their families. His was not a life that fostered introspection, but now he knew he must find a place to be alone.
Darroch MacDonnuill held no bitterness for the difficulty of his existence. Life was arduous for everyone except lords and earls who owned the land—that was simply the order of life. Men of his station expected no different. So Darroch did not think himself ill used, even though his heart wrenched at the thought of sending his son away. All things considered, Lord Fife was a reasonably generous and tolerant man, and he seemed sincere in his desire to help Gachan.
MacDonnuill’s thoughts turned to his four children.
The birth of the twin boys had indeed brought blessing, even though at the time he had misunderstood its implication. He had secretly harbored the thought ever since that perhaps they might do great things, that one or both of his sons might rise high, perhaps even become a knight, maybe even fight at the King’s side.
And now—who could tell? Might not this opportunity for Gachan to enter the earl’s household be the fulfillment of that very dream? Only a fool would ignore the possibility. Such chances came to peasants like him only once in a lifetime . . . and then only to the most fortunate.
Gachan would go far, mused Darroch, if the earl truly gave him the chance—if he was not merely desirous of adding a boy servant to his household.
And what of Beath, the father reflected. What would the future hold for him? Was it not possible that Gachan could reach a position where he could help his brother as well?
As Darroch MacDonnuill walked on alone, gradually the heritage of the Celt stirred his heart to quicker pulse. The passion of past holy men rose up within him, and suddenly the entreaty burst forth from his lips:
“God . . . take care of my sons!”
They were the only words of spontaneous prayer Darroch had ever uttered in his life, except for what he repeated by his wife’s side at Mass. The sound of his own voice almost frightened him with the boldness of his request—that he, humble Darroch MacDonnuill, might presume to address God himself and make petition on his own behalf.
Yet the words had been spoken. He could not take them back. And the brief prayer seemed to alleviate the anxiety of his soul.
He turned back toward his home. He must speak with the boys. But first there was something else he had to do.
He ducked into the cottage, sought out the small box where he and his wife kept what few items they considered valuable, removed the item he wanted, then went in search of tools. He needed only a hammer and a sharp blade.
A short time later, father and twin sons walked along the same ground the father’s steps had recently trod. The twins were yet young. How could they fully understand the import of such a moment? Yet they would reflect upon this evening many times in later years and recall to mind their father’s solemn injunctions.
In the cottage, Nara now walked to the door to gaze after the three retreating figures—her tall husband and the two boys on either side of him. She would like to hear the words passing between them. But she knew that the injunctions of this night were those a father alone must pass on. Her mother’s heart would say good-bye in its own way. But this occasion belonged to the men—her husband and his sons. As she watched, her heart swelled in gratitude that the man she loved cared about preserving the heritage from which they had both come.
“This is a historic land, my two sons,” MacDonnuill began. “We come of stock that has dwelt upon it longer than the memories of men are able to see clearly. My father, and my grandfather before him, told of those in our lineage who came before and of the land they tamed—before the English, before the French, even before the Norsemen. It is now time I tell you again what was passed on to me. I want you to know of your pedigree so that you will feel what blood flows in your veins and so that never will love for Caledonia’s past leave you. The King on the throne—William, the man they call the Lion—is but part Scot, and in h
is heart he’s more of a Norman than a Scot. What is to become of old Caledonia—who can tell? That is why you must know, so that you may preserve the old ways and the old legends and tell them to your sons and your daughters.”
“Why do you tell us now, Papa?”
“Because tomorrow your brother leaves us, Beath,” replied Darroch. “We may not be together, the three of us, like this again.”
With tears already beginning to well up in their eyes at the shocking words, they sat down. Gently the father sat down with them and explained. He answered their questions to the best of his ability—where Gachan would live, what he would do while there at the earl’s estate, when he would visit. Finally, when the questions had dwindled into troubled silence, he began to tell them stories. He recounted every old tale he could remember from his own father and grandfather—of Dallais and Breathran, and of Donnchadh who had met his death at the hands of the Vikings. Then, gazing more distantly back, he told them of their links to the first King of Scotland, still further back to the times of Columba and Maelchon, and finally, though by now the mists were overlaid with mere legend, to fragmentary accounts of ancient Cruithne himself.
The twins listened for two hours.
It was not the first time they had heard the ancient legends. On this occasion, however, they listened with heightened interest. Never had they heard it all recounted together, as one connected narrative, which, in spite of many fragments and personalities and the distinct directions of its many offshoots, was in reality a single epic stretching across thousands of years. Nor had they before heard their father speak with such eloquence. On this evening they hardly recognized his voice. A spirit seemed to have come over him from another time. He spoke as with the power of the bard, even with the authority of a King.
“And now, my sons,” Darroch concluded, laying his hands on both the boys’ heads, “as your father, I bless you both. May your lives be full of the blessing of this land. Yours is an inheritance of no earthly kingdom. It is not one of wealth or possession or rank. Such has not been allotted to the house of Darroch MacDonnuill. Yours is an inheritance more permanent. It is a legacy no one can take from you. Never forget your birthright. In you flows blood strong, thick, and rich as the brown waters which trickle down from the Highlands. It gives the descendents of Caledonia something no other people on earth possess.”
An Ancient Strife Page 42
