Christmas in the Glen of Travercraig

by Fiona MacEwen

  “Aye, at times, memories are funny things. They can be your greatest comfort and your greatest sorrow. Ye know the story I suppose?” he said, looking at her.

  “I know that ye lost your poor wife these ten Christmases ago and that on that day ye shut the castle up and have never spoken to a soul since,” she said, “but I do not know how these past ten years have been spent. When I think of my own life and all the things I have done and people I have met in those ten years. I was but a bairn back then, though I remember the sorrow in the village, folk spoke so highly of ye and of your wife,” Nairne said.

  “And now they probably say the place is cursed. I know what folk are like. They do not trust a recluse, they say the place is cursed, they question why I should choose to live like this. Locked away from the world with only my memories. Well I am happy with my memories, they are what I live for. I … think of her,” he said, sounding almost defiant as he spoke.

  Nairne could not help but feel sorrow for him and his voice broke a little, as though the burdens of these past years were taking their toll or the fact that another person was now present to hear his lament had given him permission to open his heart. The sorrow which he must feel touched her heart, and she reached out her hand to him, seeking to comfort him.

  “It is alright, lass, I have grown used to it these past years. It is just … well, I have never spoken of my sorrow with another person. It seemed easier that way, there was less chance of further hurt. The walls of this castle have endured my angst, they have listened without response to the sorrows of my heart but now it seems another human soul has come to listen,” he said.

  “And I am happy to do so, it was why I came to see ye the other day. I wanted to thank ye for your kindness, but I wanted to help ye too,” Nairne said, looking at the Laird who seemed to be fighting back his emotions.

  “Ye are kind, but I have spent so long alone that I do not know how to respond to it,” he replied, rising from his chair.

  “Ye are able to offer kindness though,” she said, smiling. “Otherwise I would not be here, would I? I’d have been left for dead in the forest. Your heart is kind even if ye struggle to accept the kindness of others. I hope I can be kind to ye in return for what ye have done for me.”

  “Aye, ye can, ye are, it is … it is good to have ye here,” he said. “Anyway, I must go and gather what fuel I can find, I have a store for difficult times such as this in the cellars. Now seems as good a time as any to use it.”

  And with that he left her alone. Nairne lay and pondered his reaction, he seemed all too willing to offer kindness, yet his heart had been alone for so long that receiving it was almost an impossibility. How gentle and caring he had been towards her; he had saved her life and that fact alone could not help but spark feelings in Nairne which she knew were the beginnings of an affection for the kindly Laird who had so long denied himself the kindness of another.

  ***

  Andrew too felt drawn to Nairne and not simply because she was the first person with whom he had spent any meaningful time since that fateful night. She had shown herself to be a kind and gentle person, her coming to the castle just few days ago was enough to prove that. But Andrew felt guilty for entertaining such thoughts, his mind was always upon Lorna and it had been these ten years past. He descended from Nairne’s chamber to the great hall of the castle and sat in front of his dear wife’s portrait. The artist had captured her perfectly—this was no formal sitting but rather a moment of joy, the expression upon her face just as he remembered her. She was smiling and her eyes seemed as alive upon the canvas as he remembered them there before him.

  He would sit and stare at the painting for hours, his thoughts wandering through his memories until the well ran dry. It was then that he wept, knowing that no more memories would be created, and that it was only the sadness of the past ten years which remained, trapping him forever in thoughts of sorrow and melancholy.

  Today, as he sat before Lorna’s portrait, he wondered what she would say about his rescue of a young lass from the woods. Lorna would know just what to do to help her, she would know which herbs to use and how to treat Nairne’s wounds. She would offer her kindness and gentle ways and see to it that Nairne was well taken care of.

  “Ye have done your best,” Andrew said out loud, but the fears of his heart were almost overwhelming.

  He was terrified that Nairne would die and so close to Christmas to. He could not bear the loss of another whom he had, in just a few short days, come to care for. He had not realized just how lonely he had become, the isolation of the castle like the loneliness of his mind. Those solid, impenetrable walls were like those he had placed around his heart and soul to prevent any further tragedy from befalling him. Now they had been broken down by the simple of acts of kindness shown by a young village lassie who had not believed the rumors surrounding this sad and lonely place.

  “If ye had not shut this place away so then robbers would never have been upon the road,” he said to himself, turning away from Lorna as though the thought made him ashamed in her sight.

  Once upon a time the path near the castle was well traveled. Andrew and Lorna often entertained guests and not just at Christmas. At any time of the year the castle rang with joy and laughter as the Laird and his lady welcomed guests from near and far. But in the past ten years the path had become lonely and disused. It was no wonder that such men as those vile devils should be stalking it.

  Andrew sat with Lorna for some time, as was his custom. He used to speak with her as though she were there, but his words had sounded so empty and hopeless that he had given up such vain speech in fear that it might drive him to madness. There had been times over the years when his mind had played tricks to him, or the deprivation of sleep had given rise to idle fantasies. Once he had believed that Lorna was before him, returned to her rightful home and he had kneeled in thanksgiving to God. But the ecstasy had been short lived and the specter, a creation of his mind, had vanished leaving him alone and bereft.

  The arrival of Nairne had raised many of these old feelings and given Andrew cause to ponder on so much of his life since that sad Christmas Eve. It was no life, he had not lived, but simply existed. Waiting only for death, and the hope that he and Lorna might be reunited. Andrew had allowed nothing else, but now there was Nairne and her presence ignited in him feelings he had not experienced since Lorna’s death. She was a pretty lass, and make no mistake of that, but Andrew found himself drawn most particularly to her kindness and the clear fact that she placed others before herself. It was a trait which Lorna too had possessed and whilst the two women were as different in looks as could be imagined, though both in possession of considerable beauty, they shared much which was of the heart and mind.

  “Lorna, have ye sent me a companion? Someone to cheer me after all these years of self-imposed exile?” Andrew said, but the wind only howled louder and the mean fire in the hearth of the great hall spluttered as Andrew Douglas sat in sad lament of the past, a past he could not change, whilst ahead lay the future which could be whatever he made it.

  Chapter 8

  Captured!

  When Nairne had failed to return from her aunt and uncle’s croft the next day, her mother and father had assumed she had remained there due to the weather. They were used to Nairne being a free-spirited lass, one who would do as she wished whether others wished it or not. Even William Wilson agreed that her failure to return as planned was not unusual and so they waited until the next day before undue concern was raised.

  “She should have been back by now, surely?” her mother said, two days after Nairne had departed with her aunt and uncle’s Christmas gifts.

  The day was drawing in and snow was falling thickly upon the village, so much so that it had settled upon the ice which had formed upon the loch, creating a seamless sea of white stretching out across the water. William Wilson had been fishing, breaking through the thick ice to attempt a catch. He had just arrived into the home of the McBrydes’
bearing a large salmon, when Mary McBryde raised her concerns to her husband. And casting down the fish, he shook his head.

  “It would not be the first time that Nairne has been disobedient, and I warned her about the dangers of the forest. If something has happened to her, then she has only herself to blame,” he said, slumping down in front of the fire.

  “Have a little more compassion for the woman who is to be your wife, William,” Nairne’s father said, seating himself opposite as Mary took up the fish.

  “I have every compassion for the lassie, but she is disobedient and gets herself into trouble. Ye watch, she’ll return soon enough, and we shall hear a high tale of her being delayed by the weather and how we should not have worried for her. Mark my words,” he said.

  “I thought ye were full of tales of strangers in the forest, William? Mary said, shooting a worried glance at her husband. “Did ye not meet a mysterious man out there just the other day?”

  “Aye, Nairne claims it is the Laird of the Douglas’s that we saw but I say it is nothing but a troublemaker,” he replied, stretching out his feet to warm them by the fire.

  “A troublemaker who might well like to speak again to a lass such as Nairne, perhaps even spirit her away,” her father said, turning to him. “Ye are her betrothed and ye should be the one to go and look at her. Ye enjoy the hospitality of this croft enough, now do your duty to our daughter. There is still enough light for ye to go and search for her. Walk all the way to our cousin’s croft and if she is there, then so be it, ye can return in the morning.”

  William sighed, he had no desire to leave the warmth and comfort of the croft and set out in search for Nairne. He would show her the price of disobedience when he found her and make no mistake. Grudgingly he picked up his cloak and wrapped it around himself, stepping out into the blizzard currently engulfing the village. Slowly he set off into the forest, following the path which two days ago Nairne had taken. Fresh snow had fallen on the path and he trudged along, creating fresh footmark in the powder, which filled behind him almost as fast as he walked.

  “Curse ye, Nairne, foolish girl that ye are,” he said, pulling the cloak tightly about him and rubbing his hands together. “It is a favor I do for ye in agreeing to marry such a one as ye.”

  On he walked, the trees becoming denser and the snow fall lighter as the canopy above grew thicker. He was not far from the spot where they had gathered mushrooms and once again, he cursed the stranger who had interfered in his chastisement of the young lass. How dare anyone tell him how to act towards Nairne? It was bad enough that her father and mother had forced him out of the croft to seek her, well, she would feel his hand when he found her. That much was certain.

  There was no sign of Nairne along the path and he could see nothing of her approach ahead. The path twisted and turned here and as he rounded a corner he paused. The remnants of a fire lay in a hollow there, as though someone had camped there recently. William looked around him for traces of Nairne and he was about to walk on when he spied something half covered in snow, just off the edge of the path. Stooping down he pulled up a wet piece of material and on closer inspection he realized it was none other than Nairne’s shawl, discarded and torn at the side of the path.

  Now he looked more closely around him. The snow was not thick here, and the ground was marked as if by a scuffle. The snow was stained with mud in places and he now saw several of the gifts which Nairne had been carrying, lying discarded on the edges of the path. Footsteps led in this and that direction and as he stepped into the hollow, there was blood trailed into the snow.

  “What treachery is this,” William said, drawing his dagger as though the fate which befell Nairne was also to befall him.

  The prints in the snow led off to the right and as they emerged from the dense cover of the canopy above the path and the snow became thicker, the prints became deeper. As though whoever had made them had struggled through the snow bearing a weight of some sort. William followed the prints for a little while until it became clear just where they were leading. He was close now to the great overturned tree stump and there, rising above, were the walls of the castle, drifts of snow lying thick against them and the ivy spilling over the top.

  “Devil,” William said, a sense of fear running through him, for despite his bravado he was a coward at heart.

  Cautiously he picked his way towards the gatehouse and stood before the great wooden doors. A seemingly impenetrable barrier before him, he pushed at one, as if expecting it to open. But the door remained firmly closed, even when he heaved against it. William stood back, looking up at the castle above him. High up in the keep a solitary light burned from the uppermost window and he could only imagine the horrors being inflicted upon his betrothed by the wicked Laird who inhabited that sad place.

  William turned and, having no desire to confront Andrew alone, he rushed back towards the village. Muttering murderous threats against the reclusive Laird and his fiendish plans to make Nairne his hostage, as overhead the sky grew ever more overcast, and the snow began to fall thickly to the ground.

  ***

  “A prisoner?” Mary McBryde cried, as William recounted his story later that evening, “a prisoner of Andrew Douglas? But the Laird has been seen by no one these many years past, what makes ye so certain?”

  “Because of what I saw, I found her shawl lying by the path, all ripped and there was blood upon the path, the gifts strewn everywhere. The trail led back to the castle. He has her I tell ye and unless we do something, then she shall be his bride,” William said, having elaborated considerably upon the facts as they stood.

  He had not wished to appear a coward in front of Nairne’s parents, telling them that he had followed the trail to the castle and found a way into the courtyard, met by baying hounds and barred gates.

  “We must rescue her, burn the castle to the ground and see to it that the Laird is punished for his crime,” William said. “Nairne’s honor is at stake. This is what he has planned all these years, I am certain of it. He has planned to make a lassie from the village his wife, in place of the fair maiden he has mourned over. Nairne was an easy target, he must have watched her in the forest and his little act the other day was simply to ingratiate himself to her. When he waited for her on the path, she must have thought him a friend until he grabbed her and dragged her away,” William said, concluding his account with a flourish.

  “I thought ye didn’t believe it was the Laird whom ye saw?” her father said, shaking his head as if William’s tale was too incredible to have any truth in it.

  “At first, I did not believe it myself, but the truth is it must have been. Who else would have known the forest and known that Nairne would be walking there and the paths she would take? I say it is the Laird and that we must go in force to the castle and rescue her,” William said.

  “Look at the weather though, we cannae mount a raid upon the castle in this. We shall be frozen to death if we try,” her father replied, his voice shaking.

  “Do not fear, I shall gather men from the village. There’s many who say the Laird is not to be trusted and that shutting yourself away for all these years can only lead to one thing: madness. The man we once knew as Andrew Douglas is surely descended into lunacy,” William said. “There is no time, we must hurry.”

  “A madman? And my dear Nairne is at his mercy,” Mary McBryde said, weeping as she spoke.

  “Not for long,” William replied darkly, wrapping his cloak around him. “Fear not, I shall see to it that Nairne is returned to us and then perhaps she will learn some obedience too.” And he stepped out into the gathering darkness, striding purposefully towards the inn where the sounds of rabble rousing could be heard and William intended to gather his band of mercenaries and march upon the castle.

  ***

  “And what is it that young William Wilson wants tonight? Ale? Whisky? What is your poison lad?” the innkeeper said.

  Whilst the weather outside was closing in, the atmosphere in the v
illage inn was far from cold and most of the local men had gathered that evening to drink out the cold and exchange their stories. William pushed past several of them to get to the bar and ignoring the innkeeper he banged hard upon the wooden top.

  “Friends, good men of Travercraig,” he called, “listen to me for a moment, I have news that will disturb ye and all good men of this place when I tell ye of it.”

  There was a general mumbling and scraping of chairs, heads turning towards the bar. Most of the good folk of Travercraig disliked William Wilson. He was arrogant, snide and a back biter. Ready to tell a tale upon anyone if it would secure his own advancement. But there was one thing which everyone gathered in the bar could agree upon and that was that William Wilson’s betrothed was about the most delightful girl in the glen. A fact which caused much consternation amongst those men present who considered themselves to be of a far better disposition than he. And it was for her sake that they listened, imagining him to impart complaint or discord against them.

  “We are no friends of yours,” one whispered, sniggering as William called again for quiet.

  “It is because of Nairne, my betrothed, that I come here now to speak with ye. She has been captured, taken by the Laird of the Douglas Castle, none other than Andrew Douglas himself. The wicked man has snatched her from the path as she took gifts to her aunt and uncle for Christmas. Now he holds her in that crumbling castle, ye all must help me to rescue her, please,” he cried.

  There was a general murmuring around the inn and several of the men shook their heads.

  “What proof do ye have of this, William Wilson?” one man cried, pointing at William as further murmurings went around.

  “I found her shawl upon the path,” William said, holding up Nairne’s torn garment, “and I followed his tracks through the snow. They were deep, as though he were carrying something or someone. In the castle there was a solitary light burning high in a window above. I could not get through the doors for he has them shut fast. Come now, please, we must leave at once.”