Chapter 35
Three and a half months later, early September
They were all going to Cragenlaw, Rory, his mother, father and her—Ainsel—his intended bride. Aye, they were going there to be wed. It would be a joint celebration, one that had originally been intended as a gathering to commemorate the fortieth year of the McArthur and his wife Morag’s meeting. Calder and Gilda were already wed—within a week of arriving at Dun Bhuird. Such certainty. But then neither of them had experienced the pangs of guilt that had made Ainsel doubt herself—doubt that Rory could love someone so undeserving.
Considering her grandfather had been o’er three score years and ten when he died—a great age for a Norseman—she wondered why none of them had thought to honour his birth, and here they were about honour forty years of not-quite-marriage alongside a new not-quite-marriage.
From the outside, folk might look at her and Rory and think she had given in quickly. They probably thought she saw all the wealth at Dun Bhuird and changed her mind. She had seen wealth—a wealth of love and friendship and family. At Dun Bhuird she would never be lonely, for that was what she had seen ahead of her at Caithness—loneliness, even with Nils dead. Afore then he’d kept her isolated, made sure that all she had was her grandfather and now she didnae even have him—but she had Rory.
Aye she did. Rory and Axel and another bairn in her belly waiting to be born and loved.
Whau could ask for more?
Euan McArthur hadnae expected to host a gathering such as this again in his lifetime, after the time when he and Morag were wed but, once more, every skerrick of Cragenlaw was full to o’erflowing. So many folk were there that for once Euan could pass unnoticed in the crush of clansmen and guests in the passages and Great Hall.
It was nae use thinking he could go into the kitchen for a wee bit of peace, for even there the place was all abustle. Euan sniffed the air. He had to admit that the scents frae the cooking food made his mouth water, but he knew better than to sneak a pastry. As Rob had learnt when he was young, the cook always had eyes in the back of her head. The one in charge was the daughter of the cook running the kitchen when Morag and Rob arrived at Cragenlaw in that nightmarish storm.
The night Astrid died.
She hadnae deserved that. None of his first three wives had merited dying in childbirth, and he felt the need to take some responsibility for that, but in the eyes of the clan, as an only son, the onus for producing an heir had been on him because of his promise to his father.
The outcome might have been different had he known of Rob’s existence, but a generation later, they had learned frae Nhaimeth’s wee wife, Rowena that it was all part of a bigger plan and they were all involved. He was probably a heap more sceptical than the rest of his family, but they would all laugh if he said so, given that he had refused to marry Morag until she was past childbearing age because of the curse.
Gavyn Farquhar led the way across the spit of land joining Cragenlaw to the mainland for this celebration of his sister Morag and Euan McArthur’s first meeting—all in all, a momentous day for the Farquhar family. Gavyn had then had eighteen years under his belt, big, strong and heir to Baron Wolfsdale, ready to fight under his father’s banner. Morag had saved Euan’s life on the same Northumbrian battlefield where Gavyn’s younger brother Doughall had tried to rob Gavyn of his life but succeeded only in robbing him of his memory, so much so that for twelve years he had believed himself a Scot and had fought as a mercenary for Malcolm Canmore.
He might have been born in Wolfsdale, but so many of the turning points in his life had happened at Cragenlaw. Even now, as he rode up to the castle, he had only to look up to imagine Kalem, his brother’s catamite, hanging frae a gibbet above the gatehouse as a warning to Doughall—one he didnae heed, and it had cost him his life.
It wasnae till then that he discovered whau, in truth, he was.
Aye, Cragenlaw was the place where both his and Kathryn’s lives had been changed by violent deaths on the same day, his brother Doughall and her father, Erik the Bear—a commonality that had done naught to bring them together and nae one could accuse them of simply acquiescing to the marriage King Malcolm had arranged. He must have been scowling, for as they rode into the lower bailey he felt Kathryn’s hand on his thigh. “What is troubling ye, my love? Have ye had second thoughts about Rory and Ainsel getting married at Cragenlaw? Are ye remembering all the violence that seems to occur at the weddings held here?”
Kathryn looked up at him frae her chestnut palfrey as they walked the horses in the direction of the stables, waiting for an answer that she didnae necessarily need. “Ye have to admit that for all the fights and murders, once the vows have been made, every one of the marriages has taken well.”
“None as well as ours,” Gavyn said, for he knew it would make her happy. As he dismounted, he turned around to lift her out of the saddle, settling the matter with, “But then we were married at Dun Bhuird.”
Although he nae longer lived at Cragenlaw, it always felt for Jamie Ruthven as if he was coming home. Most of his youth had been spent here, a time shared with Rob and Nhaimeth while the McArthur taught them the craft of war—an essential art for any Scot.
His family connections went back farther than the day his father left him with the McArthur, since one of his sisters had been the McArthur’s second wife, and his youngest sister had married Graeme McArthur, Euan’s cousin, and lived with him and a bundle of bairns in a Keep to the southwest of the McArthur lands, with the McArthur’s permission to form their own clan sept. Nae doubt they too would be here today.
There had been four young lads in the beginning, for one couldnae ignore Nhaimeth and, wherever Rob went, Nhaimeth wouldnae be far behind. It had cut them all to the quick when Alexander Comlyn had been murdered by Kalem during the Moor’s abduction of Rob, especially since Alexander had just begun to stop behaving as if he was better than them. Comlyns had always had a high opinion of their worth, or so he’d been told. Thankfully that had changed with Gavyn in charge.
Jamie had to admit he had gone wild—heartsick and out for revenge—after Brodwyn Comlyn had taken a notion to teaching him all the ways a man could fuck a lassie then played him for a fool—had played them all for fools when she ran off with her cousin Harald to Caithness, dragging Kathryn and Lhilidh with them. After that, he determined ne’er to let a lassie hurt him like that again. For years he had slaked his needs with willing lassies, aye, and wives whau were nae better than they purported to be.
Then he met Evie and all that was forgotten in the arms of true love. Now they had a brood of three bairns, two lads and a lassie whau were auld enough to ride with their parents to Cragenlaw. Even his auld father, the Ruthven Chieftain had made shift to come with them to this grand celebration. Evie had said the festivities were about love and there were times he was inclined to agree with her. As for his bairns, all they had in mind was running wild with Rob’s, Gavyn’s and Nhaimeth’s children around Cragenlaw, the way he had when he was their age.
If anything bothered him about the gathering, it was the knowledge that Merida Comlyn would accompany her aunt and uncle. She reminded him so much of her mother and yon black days when Brodwyn had twisted his mind, his heart and his soul.
Jamie turned to look at Evie riding her bonnie white palfrey and the picture was enough to still his concerns. To him she symbolised love. When he thought of what they had gone through to reach this point, their wedding at Cragenlaw in the chapel and the murder of Evie’s uncle during the dinner. Violence begat violence and Hadron Buchan had boasted of killing not only Evie’s mother, but his as well. Needless to say, his death had ended the feud betwixt the Ruthven Clan and the Buchan Clan—a conclusion neither he nor his darling Evie looked back on with regret.
Aye, Cragenlaw had played a big part in his life, and because of that he would always look upon the castle with love and affection.
Rob watched on as Melinda fussed o’er Harry and Ralf, making sure they were dressed in their best Highland garb and ready to go downstairs with them, ready to greet the guests who were coming to stay for the gathering tomorrow. The lads were excited, and nae matter how much Melinda fussed, the lads would be looking as rough as cateran after racing frae the top to the bottom of the castle playing hide-and-go-seek with their cousins and friends. For himself, he would have chosen the stables, a favourite haunt of his and Nhaimeth’s when they were that age, or, rather, when he was. Nhaimeth had only looked young because of his size.
He was well aware his sons and Nhaimeth’s son Ghillie had been eagerly awaiting the arrival of Gavyn’s crew, especially Merida. They had only to be in the same place together for one to notice their closeness. Merida made him chuckle, she was as unlike her mother as could be, so earnest; she took her position as aunt to her older cousins Harry, Ralf and Ghillie seriously, and though he thought his lads sometimes took a lend of her—pretending to heed her advice—it was all in jest.
He and Melinda had what had once been the Chieftain’s chambers, the McArthur having added a whole new tower o’er looking the sea to the south. It was difficult not to be drawn into memories of the first time he saw Nhaimeth crouched outside the solar, weeping for the loss of his sister Astrid. He knew folks looked at the pair of them sideways with a lift of the brow. However, neither of them, neither he nor Nhaimeth, could be bothered taking offence—human nature being what it was—for their friendship had stuck. Nhaimeth had been with Rob through more adventures, aye and scares, than any other living being, including his mother and father. Rob only hoped that his sons would find the same kind of close kinship with Merida and Ghillie that he and Nhaimeth had shared.
Rob looked at Melinda. It was difficult to see her as the mother of seventeen-year-auld twins, for in his eyes, she had hardly changed frae the young lass he had fallen in love with while being held for ransom by her father, Henry La Mont—a Norman whau, coincidentally, lived in the manor of Wolfsdale that had replaced the auld wooden building where he had been born. Nae more than a trifle, ye might think, but there had been long-remembered secrets of Wolfsdale that had helped him steal away Melinda and the twins frae under La Mont’s nose.
The Norman had had the nerve to chase after them, even to enter Cragenlaw without invitation in the midst of Nhaimeth and Rowena’s nuptial blessings—another violent wedding, and not the reputation his father had ever sought, but then ye took what came yer way and made the best of it, tied a knot and moved on. Aye, there had been blood aplenty, and would have been more if he’d had his way. The trouble was the McArthur always seemed to be right. It wouldnae have done to kill his wife’s father, nae matter how bad a bastard he was. Best to ignore him and get on with their lives, which they had done.
The pity of it was, seventeen-year-auld lads were curious, starting to feel their oats and to let curiosity get the better of them, their heads filled with stories of the prophecy, thanks to Ghillie and his mother, Rowena. It was all he could do to keep them busy, training for war and learning what was required of a future chieftain, the way he had.
Harry would be chieftain after the McArthur and himself were nae more. Until then, he would do his best to temper the twins’ characters. Harry was the more stable of the two lads, but sometimes he caught a wicked gleam in Ralf’s eyes and a silent communication betwixt the two that made him wonder what lay ahead. One thing he was certain of: it wouldnae be boring.
As the four of them—Melinda, himself, and his twin lads—descended the worn granite stairs that led frae their side of the Keep into the Hall, he mused o’er his previous thoughts and laughed to himself. He didnae know what he was worrying about. There wasnae a living soul in Scotland whau could say Rob McArthur’s life had been boring, so it was up to his sons to keep up the tradition.
“Come on, Da. Hurry up. The twins and Merida will be waiting for us outside under Astrid’s bairn’s tree.” Nhaimeth let Ghillie pull him along to meet with the three, aulder members of his generation outside in the grassy square to the east side of the upper bailey.
They ducked through the brewery to get there, fortunate not to get rolled over by one the big barrels of ale needed outside for the crowds that would fill the lower bailey. Nhaimeth had already seen the spits erected and fires set, ready to roast whole beasts for the housecarls and clansmen whau the Great Hall just couldnae accommodate. He could imagine the scents that would fill the air: pork, mutton, beef and venison. Nae one would leave thinking the McArthur had stinted the occasion. The brewery had its own scents: hops and barley and yeast—a green medley and a fitting place the Green Lady to hide when she visited.
Outside, the tree flourished where he, Rob and Morag had buried the afterbirth frae Astrid’s stillborn bairn. It was in this tree they had all seen the Green Lady for the first time, saw her in truth in a way nae tales and legends of the auld gods could capture. Nhaimeth had known she approved of this gift they had given to the tree, and the gods and been on their side ever since. Whau else but the auld gods would have sent the ravens to lead them through the tunnel under the waterfall to rescue his half-sister, Kathryn. Or have sent the white deer to lead them away frae the Normans after King Malcolm and his heir were killed at the battle of Alnwick.
Not only led them away, but took Nhaimeth to his darlin’ Rowena and a love and a life he ne’er imagined a dwarf such as he could e’er live. Rowena was a seer, a gift she had passed down to Ghillie, the lad pulling at his sleeve, determined his wee father would make haste.
When they reached the tree, Merida was seated on a bench where Morag loved to sit on the days when the sun shone down on Cragenlaw. The twins had planted their backsides on the grass at her feet and, as he and Ghillie approached, she patted the space next her on the bench and said, “Sit here beside me Uncle Nhaimeth.”
Uncle—and him the shortest of the lot by at least a head and shoulder; but he was used to that, so he simply plonked his arse on the bench and asked, “What story is it to be today: the Green Lady, the ravens, or the white stag?”
As Heimdall flew down frae the top of the Keep and alighted on Ghillie’s shoulder, one pair of blue eyes and three identical sets of green, the same as his Rowena and her sister Melinda, the only guid thing they had e’er got frae Henry La Mont. When they spoke it was with one voice, clear and pure as crystal as it leapt up into the green leaves o’erhead.
“The prophecy,” they said, as if Nhaimeth hadnae already known they would.
Dhugal Robertson of Sgian and his wife, Maggie McArthur, counted themselves fortunate to have been allotted Maggie’s auld chamber, such a crush of folk as there was at Cragenlaw for the wedding of Rory and Ainsel as well as the anniversary of her father’s rescue by her mother all yon years ago when both had been young.
Dhugal looked at Maggie wearing a kirtle and feeding their son, looking rather less like the grand sword fighter he had met at Sgian while he was still a broken man. Motherhood had changed her—not, he decided, that he liked either of her life’s roles any better than the other. In fact, he had learned that whatever his sweet wife applied herself to, she always excelled. She had taken on him, and he felt a better man for it.
“Just think,” Maggie said, “my mother was years younger than I am when my father put Rob in her belly.” She giggled and looked down at Euan Robertson, their bairn of six weeks, guzzling at her breast. “We can be thankful that bairns are not born full grown, though this one is going to be a size if he keeps eating this way.”
Dhugal hunkered down at her side and smoothed his palm o’er Euan’s almost hairless scalp as he took the opportunity to kiss Maggie, then, with a smile on his face, he whispered in her ear, “Tell him to leave some for me.”
“Dinnae complain, he takes his love for food after his father.” She lifted one dark brow and sized him up. “There’s definitely a lot more of ye then there was when ye married me, but that’s understandable; ye needed a wife.”
“A wife and my land back,” he confirmed, grinning, for as if he had said something profound, wee Euan let go his mother’s nipple and stared up at him. Dhugal couldnae resist, he ran one fingertip round the nipple that his son appeared to have done with, and having done so stuck it in his mouth and sucked, noisily. “Naught wrong with that, the bairn must be full.”
“It’s me that’s going to have my hands full if he does take after his father,” she scolded as she lifted Euan on to her shoulder and patted his back. It was time they went down to the Great Hall anyway. The McArthur would expect them to do their duty by looking after the many guests.
A great stir appeared to be happening at the foot of the winding granite stairs and, standing on the third step frae the bottom, Dhugal recognised the man whau had given him back his land and his name, Robertson of Sgian, King Alexander. Nae wonder there was a stir, everyone trying to bow and nae room in such a wee space to perform the necessary sweep of the arm.
“Yer majesty,” Dhugal performed an elegant bow, head low and arm sweeping past his knees. Beside him, he felt Maggie curtsy and felt certain she did it to perfection, even with wee Euan in her arms; she had spent some time practising since Alexander attended their wedding, on the chance they should ever meet the king again. Standing on the stairs head and shoulders above the rest of the men grovelling in surprise at seeing their King, Dhugal caught Alexander’s eye, “This is a pleasurable surprise yer majesty. Has the McArthur been informed of yer arrival?”
Tall and handsome, King Alexander sent him a smile that looked to knock the others afore him on their collective arses. “Nae, Dhugal, I was about to send someone in search of him.”
One hand in Maggie’s, Dhugal made his way through the stunned servants and clansmen whau had been adding their mite to the preparations for the morrow, commanding, “Outside all of ye except anyone whau knows where the McArthur and Morag are. Ye can go and inform him of the King’s presence and fetch him to the Great Hall.” Finished issuing orders, he turned to the King. “Ye’ll remember my wife, Maggie McArthur?” And when Alexander dipped his head in her direction, Dhugal finished by suggesting, “If yer majesty will allow me and wife to conduct ye into the Great Hall, I’m sure we can find ye somewhere much more comfortable than this crowded entrance.”
And that’s what they did, acted hosts to the King and his coterie until the McArthur arrived to hear the King apologise. “Ye must excuse me, McArthur, for arriving without an invitation, but I heard tell there was another wedding about to happen at Cragenlaw as well as another celebration, and decided I couldnae miss it, though I trust the entertainment willnae be quite so bloody as the last time.”
The McArthur let out a loud bellow of laughter that only a chieftain of his age and stature could do afore a King. “I can assure only that there is naught planned, but then last time the entertainment hadnae been planned either. We’ll make sure yer well guarded.” He looked at Dhugal, saying “Mayhap we can have Dhugal sit opposite ye.”
The King shook his head and smiled at Dhugal. “Nae ye cannae expect yer daughter’s husband to risk his life to save me a second time.”
“Aye, yer right, yer majesty, he has a son to take care of now, as well as a wife,” remarked the McArthur, and the way he said it, Dhugal thought that his father-in-law might have survived the shock of his only daughter’s hasty wedding. Almost a wife and a widow on the same day, his Maggie, and although he was said to have saved the King’s life, Dhugal had always thought it was bad marksmanship that had put Alexander in danger, for it had been Dhugal the villain had intended to kill.
“Aye, a son. I can see he has been busy since the last time we met,” the King jested and of course they all laughed; he was the King after all. While Dhugal felt a wee bit bemused o’er his huge change in circumstances, the McArthur made plans for an appropriate place for the King to be quartered. It struck Dhugal then how different two brothers could be. King Edgar had robbed them of their clan lands; Alexander had restored them.
Rather than put his host to o’er much trouble, the King’s servants had brought the Royal tent for him to sleep in; all he needed was a small grassy place to have his servants put it up. Long afore time for the evening meal, King Alexander was settled in his handsome tent next to the bonnie tree growing among the patch of grass to the eastern side of the Keep. Later that night as he and Maggie settled down to sleep, she murmured, “I wonder how the Green Lady feels having a Christian King camped under her tree?”
Dhugal couldnae think of any answer suitable for the occasion.
Rory hadnae expected to have a King attend his wedding, and while he awaited his bride afore the priest with Calder, his groomsman, it struck him that if aught was needed to confirm the standing of the Comlyns and the McArthurs, it was today. King Alexander sat in the front row of the chapel, with his father and mother, holding Axel, as well as his Aunt Morag and the McArthur. If Olaf could look down frae Walhalla, Rory was certain he would be congratulating himself at giving Rory and his granddaughter a nudge at just the right time to set this day in motion.
Then all was forgotten as he turned to see Ainsel at the entrance to the chapel, escorted by Ghillie—minus Heimdall, thank the auld gods—and with them, Gilda, whau stood up for Ainsel. His cousin had insisted that his bloodlines had much of Ainsel’s in them and, since he had played a big part in this day ever coming to pass, he was within his rights.
Ghillie was a guid few years younger than either of them, but once again Rory was aware of his mother saying ‘an auld head on young shoulders’.
Rory took Ainsel’s hand to promise to love and honour his beautiful lass, and worship her with his body. And he would too, for all the days of his life. Soon the bonnie ring he’d had made was sliding onto her finger, and although he wasnae sure if a kiss was called for, he thought it only fitting, as did the congregation whau gave them a clap and a cheer.
Soon they were outside the chapel, hurrying towards the hall, being pelted with flowers and petals, and as bride and groom entered the Great Hall, with Ainsel brushing the wedding flower fragments off her bonnie kirtle, his wife—shield-maiden—laughed up at him, “Well, at least it isnae herring.”
“At least,” he nodded, dipping his head to sniff her neck and drop a kiss behind her ear, starting his marriage off by saying, “My wife smells of honey and thyme, my favourite perfume.”