But Nairne cared not for William Wilson that afternoon and running off into the trees she headed in the direction of the castle. Over the years the forest, which had once been so alive with happiness, had grown up thick and dense. The trees grew close together and even in the daylight there was a gloom to the forest, despite the brightness of the snow.
Nairne had only had a small glimpse of the castle walls, obscured by the ivy which trailed down them. She knew nothing of the interior nor of the other side, only the thick walls which seemed almost impenetrable. She paused a moment to catch her breath, imagining that Andrew Douglas might appear from the trees and invite her to join him.
But the forest was still, the occasional fall of snow from a branch the only sound which broke the silence. Nairne was aware of the crunching of her shoes in the snow as she picked out her course through the trees. She paused for a moment, peering through the gloom ahead and looking around her lest anyone had followed. There was no sign of William or anyone else from the village, just the ever-falling snow and the trees stretching off as far as the eye could see.
How far the forest extended she did not know, her whole life having been spent in proximity to the loch. She was a simple girl and had never traveled further than the large village of Toborcraig, which lay at the base of the mountain pass some twelve miles further north.
It had seemed a strange place to her, a meeting spot for all manner of people and not a place she had wished to linger long in. She and her parents had traveled there for the visiting fair some years ago and she had seen the most unusual of people flocking from here and there to witness the entertainment.
Nairne had lived a sheltered life and her actions this day were somewhat bold for a lass who usually avoided any such excitement. But she could not rid herself of the stranger’s kindness and wished only to repay such kindness with thanks. She had always been a kind and gentle creature, a fact which many in the village remarked upon, along with her beauty.
“You’ve done well for yourself, William,” they would say as Nairne and her betrothed walked through the village.
William would nod and draw her close to himself, smiling broadly at the people who passed such kind comments. Nairne however felt broken by them and trapped by the arrangement which her father and William had come to.
“A husband is what you need, Nairne,” both her parents had said. “You could do worse than William Wilson, he is a respectable man.”
William Wilson was most certainly a respectable man if outwards appearances could be believed, but when they were alone, his demeanor changed dramatically and he was the cruel and unpleasant fisherman whom the stranger had witnessed yesterday afternoon. In that moment of anger, his true colors had revealed himself and another person had seen Nairne’s betrothed for who he really was.
It was for this reason that Nairne now found herself close to the castle, in search of the man who had seen the truth of William’s temper. She only wished to thank him, and if a kind word and smile so close to Christmas could alleviate some of the sorrow in Andrew Douglas’s heart then so much the better.
“It wasn’t Andrew Douglas, ye stupid lassie,” William’s words went around in Nairne’s mind and she dismissed them as idle speculation.
Who else would it be? She knew every man in the village and it seemed ridiculous to think that a stranger would just appear in the woods by the castle and then amble off so readily into the trees. Any stranger would have been seen by others for she was not the only lassie amongst the peasants to gather wood in the forest for winter.
The castle wall now rose up in front of her and she peered down into the hollow beneath the fallen tree for any signs of mushrooms. Today, however, there were none, and the roots were covered in thick snow, an icy pool of water having collected at the base of the roots. She turned her attentions to the wall, staring up at the ivy which trailed over the battlements above.
The dark gray skies blended almost seamlessly with the stonework, as though the castle walls stretched endlessly into the skies. The effect made her dizzy, and she stepped back turning her head to left and right looking for any sign of an entrance or gateway.
Her instinct told her to turn left, and she followed the wall around, picking her way through the foliage where nature was reclaiming the work of man. In happier days the forest must have been managed so that it did not reach the castle walls. Here, any number of young saplings were growing up, and thorns and briars crept across the remnants of a path.
He instincts proved wrong and Nairne found herself at the back of the castle, the wall still impregnable. But from here she could see the top of the keep nestled in the center of the courtyard, a long low room, which must be the Great Hall, stretching from its rear. No banner fluttered from the top and no sign of life could be seen or heard. There were no guards upon the battlements, no shouts or cries of men at arms practicing their battle skills, no whinnying of horses. Just the silence of a sleeping castle, its once happy life snuffed out by tragedy.
Nairne stared up at the keep and shook her head, imagining the poor Laird inside, so consumed by his grief. The way the village folk talked of him was cruel, as though he were some sort of wicked man for locking himself away, or as if his presence in this sad and lonely place only perpetuated the supposed curse upon it. She fought her way through the foliage, wet and covered in falling snow, the path becoming slippery and icy as she crossed a little brook which must have fed the castle well.
After much effort she came in sight of the gate house and standing before it she looked up at the grim edifice before her. The great wooden doors were closed shut and no doubt behind a sturdy portcullis barred the way. There would be no chance of scaling the walls, and once inside even the bravest of warriors would surely be faced with fresh obstacles to challenge him, Nairne reasoned to herself.
She had been foolish to think that she could simply march inside and knock upon the door, the Laird emerging to welcome her with open arms. But beneath Nairne’s shy exterior was a determination to succeed, and she stood staring up at the windows of the keep above, dark openings against the gray rock, eyes of sorrow for a castle so steeped in tragedy.
“Laird,” she called out quietly, and then louder, “Laird, my name is Nairne McBryde, I am from the village, ye and I met yesterday in the forest.”
Her words echoed around the walls, disappearing into the cold air as she glanced from window to window seeking a response. But there was no answer from the Laird, if indeed he heard her, if he was even there and all this had not been the fable which her mother and William imagined it to be.
“I wanted to thank ye,” she continued, undeterred by the lack of response, “to thank ye for your kindness to me yesterday in defending me against William Wilson, my betrothed. It was a brave thing to do and I am grateful for it. I wanted also to say that I am sorry for the loss of your wife and will say a prayer for ye and her this Christmas time, if I cannot thank ye in person for your kindness then a kind deed can at least be yours.”
She paused and looked again across the dark windows of the keep. The afternoon was drawing in and what little sun had risen behind the clouds that day was fast returning to the morning skies of far-off lands. But as she looked through the gloom and falling snow, she fancied she saw a face at one of the uppermost windows. It was only fleeting and may have been but a figment of her imagination but for just a moment Nairne was convinced that there, high above her, was the face of the man she had seen in the forest the day before. But as she raised her hand to wave the face disappeared, gone just as quickly as it had appeared and Nairne lowered her hand in disappointment.
“I only wanted to thank ye,” she whispered, turning away, but her feelings got the better of her and she turned once more to address the faceless castle.
“I wish ye a happy Christmas, Laird, with all my heart I do, and I promise that ye are on my thoughts. I shall be sure to remember ye and your dear wife and perhaps if we meet in the forest again I shall be able to
thank ye properly for your kindness to me.”
And with that she turned and hurried off into the forest, anxious to return home before darkness fell.
Chapter 4
A Prisoner at Home
Andrew Douglas listened to the words called by the lass down below. He had seen her from the window of his chambers high up in the keep, just as she had rounded the corner of the walls and come to the gatehouse. He had been startled by her appearance for it was rare these days for any person, let alone a lone lass, to find her way to the castle of Andrew Douglas.
Over the years the good folks of the village had forgotten his kindness and benevolence, instead they had come to see him as a recluse and rumors had even gone around that a sorcerer was in their midst. It had seemed pertinent to Andrew not to dissuade the local people of such thoughts if it meant he could be left alone, for that is just what he desired.
Ever since the death of Lorna nearly ten years ago he had found solace only in his memories of her. He could not imagine himself ever being happy again and in his grief and sorrow his only refuge was the castle where such happy memories of Lorna still lived.
The sight of the young lass was unnerving, though he recognized her as the one he had encountered in the woods the day before. Occasionally he would walk out in the immediate forests surrounding the castle. It was rare he met anyone, and he would gather firewood for the pitiful hearth he kept burning in the grate of his chambers. For food, Andrew Douglas ate the meagre supplies brought to him by one of his former servants, a recluse himself, who lived out in the forest in a croft some miles further north. The two rarely saw one another, the old man calling out the sound of the cuckoo when he left a parcel of food for the Laird.
In this manner Andrew Douglas had lived these ten years past. It was just by chance that yesterday he had decided to take a walk in the forest, storing up wood for he knew that soon he would be once again beset by Christmas melancholy. He had watched the couple for some time, watched as the man berated the lass and chastised her during their hunt for nuts and firewood.
Andrew had been about to return home, not wishing to show himself to any of the villagers, but it was when the man had raised his hand to the lass that he felt compelled to step in and help. No man such as that was going to hit a woman in front of Andrew Douglas who, despite his solitude, retained a strong sense of honor and chivalry.
He had not been able to see the lass properly as he watched the altercation through the trees, but as he stepped forward he had been struck by just how beautiful she was. Her fair standing out starkly against the snow, her face, though flushed with anger, still retained a gentle prettiness to it and as their eyes had met the merest hint of a smile had crossed her face.
Andrew would happily have fought the man, whom he vaguely recognized from the village many years before, but it seemed he was cowardly enough to be quelled by a few words. After the altercation the Laird had returned to the castle, entering by a side door hidden behind branches and foliage, the key for which he always kept about his person.
He had vowed never again to open the gates of the castle, not until happiness was there restored—and since his happiness could only be restored by the return of his darling Lorna, he knew that that day would never come. It came as quite a surprise to him when he heard the voice of a lass coming from before the gatehouse, and looking furtively from the window of his chambers he spied the lass from the forest yesterday, standing meekly looking up at the castle from down below.
“Kind words,” he whispered to himself, as he discovered her name was Nairne and she had come to thank him for his kindness yesterday in preventing her betrothed from hurting her and to offer her condolences to him at this sad time of year.
“Sweet lassie,” he sighed, and leaned just a little further around the window edge to get a glimpse of her.
It was just then that Nairne had spied him and for a moment he knew he had been seen, pulling his face away and flattening himself against the wall. He heard her call her farewell and waited several minutes before looking out again from the window. There, far below in front of the gatehouse, he could see her tracks, now leading back into the forest whence she had come.
Andrew sighed to himself and drew across the large curtain as a shield against the cold wind now biting across the glen. He strode over to the fire, warming himself on the pathetic little flame which danced before him. The Laird had no thought for home comforts or his own wellbeing. There were days when he would gladly have died upon his own sword for his grief, and days when he would simply sit and weep. A sad lament for Lorna, whose portrait leaned against the wall.
He turned now and looked at her, picturing once again that dreadful day upon which she died, rehearsing the final moments of happiness which they had shared. He could never reclaim such a moment and a tear ran down his face as he pictured her lying in his arms.
“Dear Lorna,” he said, shaking his head and sitting himself in front of the picture.
Here he remained as darkness fell, not even noticing the fire burning low until eventually it went out. Outside the snow fell thickly upon the castle and in the woods, owls hooted in the night, a sad lament for the ever-grieving Laird.
Chapter 5
The Road to Christmas
Nairne’s mother asked no questions of her when she returned later that evening and it turned out that William was in the tavern with his friends. She didn’t see him until the next morning, by which time he had forgotten about strangers in the forest and was telling her of his plans for their wedding, which would take place in the spring.
“Ye shall look a bonnie lass upon our wedding day and all the village shall see,” he declared as she met him by the loch where he was fishing.
“Aye,” she replied, idly skimming a stone across the ice and watching as it bounced over the frozen surface, coming to rest some hundred yards out.
“And there shall be a feast to follow, and ye and I shall dance to the piper’s tune, just like the old days,” he continued.
“Ye mean when the Laird and his wife would hold parties at the castle?” she said, taking up another stone to skim.
“Aye, but let us hope without the same sadness to follow. I do not want to have married a lass who falls down dead at Christmas time,” he said, laughing loudly.
Nairne turned away in disgust and walked off down the bank towards her home.
“Bring me something to eat later on,” he called after her, “and some whisky to warm me, don’t forget now.”
But Nairne wasn’t listening, and she strode off towards the crofts, wrapping her shawl around her tightly. There was no snow that day, but the ground was frozen solidly underfoot, and the mountains appeared dark and foreboding above.
“Ye gathered plenty of fuel yesterday, Nairne,” her mother said, as she entered the croft a few moments later. “Enough to see us into the Christmas season. Ye shall have to help me with the preparations if we are to have a handsome feast to celebrate.”
The crofters were poor, but at Christmas time Nairne’s mother and father liked to make their celebration of the Christ child’s birth a special one. A hearty meal was always prepared and Nairne’s mother ensured that each member of her family had a gift to unwrap on Christmas eve.
“Ye have been busy, Mother,” Nairne said, taking up a little parcel from the table by the fire.
“Gifts for your cousins through the woods. I would like ye to take them for me today. If ye leave soon then ye shall arrive there before nightfall. They will not begrudge ye a bed for the night, not if ye have brought gifts to cheer them and besides, your aunt loves to see ye, as do your cousins.”
Nairne’s aunt and her family lived some miles away through the woods, in a small clutch of crofts at the base of the mountain. They farmed the land there and her aunt would often walk through the forests to visit them and trade produce for fish caught from the loch. It was always the custom for the two families to exchange gifts at Christmas and Nairne was glad to be of h
elp to her mother, taking up the parcels immediately and making ready to depart.
“Ye will be alright, won’t ye, Nairne?” her mother asked a few moments later as Nairne wrapped herself in one of her father’s large cloaks and made ready to depart.
She looked out of the window to see a first flurry of snow beginning to fall, but turning to her mother she smiled.
“I can walk anywhere so long as I know there is a warm hearth at the other end of the path and with my aunt and uncle that much is certain,” she replied, just as the door banged open and William stood before her.
“I thought I told ye to bring …” he began. “Oh, Mrs. McBryde, Nairne had promised to bring some food down by the loch, I was worried something had happened to her.”
“Everything is fine, thank ye, William,” Mary McBryde said, shaking her head a little, “Nairne is to run an errand for me to her aunt’s house and will be away tonight.”
“Away? Through the forest?” he said, looking at Nairne with a thinly veiled expression of anger.
“Aye, through the forest and if I don’t go now, then I shall not make their house until after dark. I know the way perfectly well, do not worry about me,” Nairne replied, stepping past him and making for the door.
“Goodbye, Nairne,” her mother called after her, “give my love to your aunt and uncle and a kiss to the bairns.”
“Goodbye Mother, I will do,” Nairne called back, stepping outside as William followed her.
“What did I say about going off into the forest alone when there are strangers everywhere,” he hissed, catching her arm and causing her to turn, as thoughts of the wedding left him.
“I am going to my aunt’s, I know the way, get off me,” she said, shaking off his arm. “Ye would be no good against a stranger with a sword if ye were with me or not.”
Christmas in the Glen of Travercraig Page 3
