Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
The first festival fire was lit just before dusk.
Fergus watched Angus crouch low beside the stacked peat and kindling in the center of the clearing, his broad, calloused hand shielding the fragile spark from the sharp northern wind as the last slate-gray light of day slowly faded from the Highland sky.
Around them, the festival grounds stretched wide across the lower meadow beneath the massive shadow of the castle walls.
Heavy pine lanterns, pulled down from the armory, swung from thick poles hammered deep into the earth.
The long oak tables, brought out from the great hall, were already crowded with pewter trenchers, sloshing timber ale casks, and half-drunk clansmen leaning shoulder to shoulder to ward off the coming frost.
A collective roar erupted from the crowd when the kindling finally ignited.
The flames grew rapidly, eager for the oil.
Bright orange bursts shot upward against the deepening indigo of the evening sky, sending thousands of glowing sparks floating into the crisp mountain air like scattered, moving stars.
The clan responded to the light immediately.
Voices surged in a booming wave of rough Gaelic and laughter.
The bagpipes started somewhere near the dark southern edge of the field, the first sharp, squealing notes piercing through the ambient noise before the heavy deer-hide drum joined beneath them, steady and rhythmic like a resting heartbeat.
Fergus folded his arms tightly across his chest, his jaw locked, and looked out over the gathering from his vantage point by the pasture fence.
Dozens of children darted between swinging skirts and heavy mud-caked boots, their small hands sticky with sweet honey cakes.
Shaggy deerhounds circled the perimeters of the tables, their noses twitching as they searched for dropped mutton scraps.
Two young lads near the ale casks were already shouting directly into each other's faces over a game of dice that neither of them intended to lose honestly.
Thick, blue woodsmoke rolled in lazy columns through the meadow, carrying the rich, heavy scent of roasting venison, wild onions blackening in grease-slick iron pans, fresh barley bread, and the sharp, burning tang of spilled whisky.
Above the entire scene, MacKenzie Castle stood dark and unyielding against the mountain ridge, its narrow slit windows glowing gold one by one as the kitchen girls went through the rooms with the evening candles.
"Ye look as though ye're preparin' for a siege instead of a festival, Fergus." Alasdair stepped up beside him, his boots silent in the long grass, holding out two heavy horn cups. Fergus reached out and took one, his fingers wrapping around the cool horn.
"I've seen Jacobite skirmishes with less bloody noise," Fergus muttered, taking a small sip.
"Aye, perhaps," Alasdair agreed, his dark eyes scanning the crowd. "But fewer drunk grandmothers to contend with."
As if summoned by the very mention of her authority, a maid serving swept directly past them, her white apron catching the firelight as she carried a massive iron tray of steaming meat pies. She paused just long enough to bark at a grizzled clansman old enough to be her father.
"If ye drop another pewter cup tonight, Hamish MacPherson, I'll have ye scrubbin' the lower stable floors with the boys until Christ's mass comes around."
Hamish merely grinned into his foam, his teeth missing at the side. "Ye threaten me with that every year, woman."
"And one year I'll mean it," she snapped, her skirts swirling as she marched back toward the grease-troughs.
Alasdair watched her go with the deep, quiet respect of a fellow commander. "A terrifyin' woman, that one."
"Aye."
The music swelled louder, the fiddles joining the pipes as more families flooded into the lower meadow from the high road.
Fergus recognized nearly every face in the firelight now.
That fact still managed to strike him hard when he wasn't looking.
A year ago, half of these very people had looked at him like a foreign intruder.
A soldier wearing a stolen laird's name.
Tonight, they shouted greetings as they passed his post, their heads unshaded.
Beside him, Alasdair smirked into his horn cup. "They like ye, ye stubborn bastard."
"They tolerate the name," Fergus corrected.
A sudden movement near the eastern edge of the field caught his attention before his mind could construct a defense against looking.
Margaret.
She was standing beside Isobel near the largest firepit, her slender frame wrapped in a heavy tartan wool blanket against the wind. Little Lilly was cradled against her shoulder, a tiny bundle of pale wool.
The yellow firelight flickered across her face in shifting, liquid gold, and the dress beneath the blanket caught it differently from everything else in the meadow.
Deep, burning red. The color he had chosen in a room where he had been trying very hard not to let his face say anything, while the seamstress watched him.
The firelight suited it. He had known it would.
She was laughing at something Isobel had whispered. The bright sound of her laughter carried through the roaring crowd in brief, clear pieces, reaching his ears despite the scream of the pipes.
His fingers tightened around the horn cup until the bone groaned under the pressure.
Alasdair followed the line of his stare, his smile fading into something much quieter. "Ah," he said softly.
Fergus watched Margaret carefully pass Lilly into Maisie's waiting arms, her hands briefly lingering on the child's blanket to adjust the tuck against the wind.
Lilly immediately reached out her tiny, pale fist and grabbed a stubborn handful of Margaret's honey curls, tugging with all her little might.
Margaret winced, her shoulders hiking, but then she laughed again, leaning into the pull rather than pulling away.
Because apparently, physical pain did not discourage her.
"She shouldnae fit here this easily," Fergus said, the words slipping out past his teeth before he could stop them. "She's a Lowland girl from a soft house."
Alasdair nearly choked on his ale, a sharp cough escaping him. "God help ye, Fergus, ye sound jealous of yer own bloody clan."
"I am nae jealous."
"Aye, of course." Alasdair's mouth twitched with a dangerous smirk.
Fergus looked away sharply, his face burning hotter than the peat.
Unfortunately, turning his head required looking directly toward the center of the clearing where the dancing had begun.
Margaret had been dragged into the great circle now, pulled there by three older weavers who completely ignored her protests and her flour-stained reputation from the afternoon.
The musicians shifted into a quicker, wilder tune. A traditional MacKenzie reel. Heavy wool skirts flashed through the orange firelight. Thick leather boots pounded the flattened meadow grass in perfect, primeval rhythm with the deer-hide drums.
Margaret stumbled once on a tussock of grass. She laughed at herself immediately, her cheeks flushing. Then she adjusted her weight, her feet finding the cadence. By the second turn of the circle, she had the step. By the third, half the men nearby had stopped their drinking to watch her move.
Fergus became aware of each look, one by one, like arrows hitting a target.
The blacksmith's young son forgot his horn cup halfway to his mouth, the ale dripping into the grass.
Young Ewan MacPherson walked directly into the corner of an oak table because his head was turned entirely in the wrong direction.
Fergus lowered his cup slowly, his knuckles turning white.
"Do ye want to kill them all now," Alasdair asked mildly, his voice entirely too pleasant, "or shall we wait until after the meat pies are finished?"
"She's me wife."
"Aye."
"And they're starin' at her."
"Aye. They have eyes, Fergus."
Fergus looked at his oldest friend flatly, his jaw ticking.
Alasdair grinned back without a single ounce of apology. "Welcome to marriage, me Laird."
The pipes shrieked higher into the night, the sound mimicking a hawk's cry. The dancers spun faster around the roaring flames, the blue smoke curling through the cold air and carrying white sparks across the dark field.
Margaret turned with the others, breathless now, her face thoroughly flushed from the heat of the fire and the violent movement of the reel. For one sharp, terrible moment, her hazel eyes lifted across the crowded meadow and landed directly on him.
She faltered. Only slightly.
Her next step came half a beat late against the grass. Fergus felt his breath leave him, as if a heavy hand was closing around his throat from a distance. Then she quickly regained her footing, lifting her chin as she looked away first and slipping back into the spinning circle of tartan.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, his chest aching.
"Interestin'," Alasdair murmured into his cup.
"Say another word about her, Alasdair, and I'll throw ye into the middle of the peat fire."
"Aye, there's the Fergus I remember from the regiment."
The dance finally broke apart in a flurry of laughter and heavy applause. Margaret escaped the circle toward the long tables, fanning her neck with one hand while Isobel laughed beside her, handing her a fresh cup.
The night deepened around them, the cold mountain air settling in.
More fires were lit further down the lower meadow, twinkling like fallen stars against the dark ridge.
The music drifted between the groups in heavy layers now—wild pipes near the stone hill, the sweet scraping of fiddles somewhere lower down, and a group of older men singing poorly near the whisky barrels.
Fergus lost track of how many hours passed. At some point, Angus challenged three stable lads to a wrestling match and immediately regretted it when they tackled him together into the mud.