Chapter 8 Searching for the Midwife
Moy Castle
The Isle of Mull
“THAT’S MY BOAT, and ye know it!” The fisherman jabbed a gnarled finger at the man standing opposite. “Ye stole her from where I moored her at Craignure!”
“I did no such thing!” His rival shot back, his already florid face flushing deep red. “I found her adrift. She’d broken loose from her moorings. If ye’d tied her properly, she’d still be yers!”
“Thief!”
Craeg listened from where he sat in the laird’s chair—his chair now—at the head of Moy’s hall, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached.
The two fishermen’s argument was escalating.
Dougal and Tavish’s voices echoed off the stone walls, grating on his nerves.
Behind them, a handful of witnesses shifted uncomfortably, clearly wishing they were anywhere else.
He wished he were too.
Actually, what he wanted to do was bash the skulls of these two clodheads together. Hopefully, it would knock some sense into them.
This was the glamorous life of a chieftain.
Settling petty disputes while other men fought for Scotland’s freedom.
While Greig and Ailean rode with Murray, striking at the English, making a difference.
On the mainland, battles were being fought.
Enemies defeated. Men were proving themselves against steel and blood, not squabbling fishermen.
But that wasn’t to be Craeg’s destiny.
His fingers drummed restlessly against the arm of the chair.
“Enough!” His voice cracked like a whip through the bickering. Both men fell silent, turning to him with startled expressions. Their responses brought him a little, albeit grim, satisfaction. “Dougal, ye say the boat is yers. Do ye have proof?”
“Aye! I carved my mark into the bow … three notches, like so.” He demonstrated with his fingers.
“And Tavish … ye found the boat adrift, ye say?”
“Aye, Maclean. Just floating in the Sound. No sign of Dougal anywhere.”
Craeg’s fingers continued their impatient rhythm. He could settle this with his eyes closed. It was tedious—mind-numbing administrative drudgery.
“Dougal,” he said, his tone sharpening once more. “If ye’d properly secured yer boat, it wouldn’t have drifted away. That’s carelessness on yer part.”
The fisherman’s face fell.
“However,” Craeg continued, “the boat is still yers. Tavish, ye will return it to Dougal by sunset today.”
Tavish scowled. “But I spent half a day rowing it back here.”
“And Dougal will pay ye for yer trouble. Two silver pennies for yer time and effort in recovering his property.” He didn’t wait for their gratitude. “Agreed?”
Both men started muttering under their breath.
“Are we agreed?” He cut them off sharply.
“Aye, Maclean,” they mumbled.
“Right.” He waved them away. “Now get yer arses out of my hall before I lose my patience.”
The fishermen departed hastily, not doubting him.
He watched them go, a memory tugging at him.
His father, knocking one of his tenant farmers to the ground in this hall many years earlier during an audience.
He couldn’t remember how the man had transgressed, only that he’d left the hall missing his two front teeth.
Something cold and oily slithered through Craeg’s gut then.
His old man hadn’t liked dealing with petty disputes either.
They had that in common.
Shaking off the thought, Craeg rose from his chair.
His muscles coiled with pent-up energy. He felt like a warhorse trapped in a paddock—bred for battle, condemned to leisure.
His mother would have handled this with ease, might even have found satisfaction in the orderly resolution of conflict.
But she wasn’t here anymore. She, Alec, and Lena had moved to Laggan a week earlier, leaving Moy entirely in his hands.
He nodded curtly to the witnesses. “We’re done for the morning. Tell anyone waiting that I’ll see them on Tuesday.”
“Aye, Maclean.”
He strode from the hall. Crossing the barmkin, he took the steps to the walls two at a time, desperate for air.
For something other than these suffocating stone walls.
He’d been on edge of late, as it was. His encounter with Hazel at market had left him feeling oddly unsettled, and his wedding to Isla loomed like a storm cloud on the horizon. But more than that, he felt trapped.
At least on the battlefield, if the darkness in his blood surfaced—if he proved himself his father’s son after all—it would serve a purpose. Cruelty, rage, and violence were all virtues in war. All weapons against England’s invaders.
But here, they were just liabilities. Dangers he had to constantly guard against.
The sun hit his face as he reached the western ramparts, but it did little to ease the frustration coiling in his gut. He gripped the stone parapet, knuckles white, and stared out over his lands.
Fields ready for harvest. Sheep and cattle grazing on green hills. Smoke rising from chimneys in Lochbuie village.
Peaceful and prosperous. Exactly what a chieftain should want.
It made him want to punch something.
Aye, Greig and Ailean were making history.
They were once again proving themselves warriors, and he was proving himself as what?
An adequate steward? This wasn’t what he’d trained for.
He’d spent years honing his skill with a blade.
He’d escorted the king to safety, for Christ’s sake.
When he’d stepped into this role, he’d told himself he’d accept his fate—there were far worse ones, after all—but he was struggling.
“Maclean.” A young man with curly black hair and earnest green eyes approached. Nathair Black, newly appointed Captain of the Moy Guard, his hand resting on his sword hilt.
Craeg forced himself to soften his expression. “Nat. Anything to report?”
“All is well.” Nat paused, then added with barely concealed pride, “I’ve implemented the new rotation schedule as ye suggested. The men seem to prefer it.”
“Well done.” The words came out clipped, and Craeg checked himself. None of this was his captain’s fault.
Nat’s gaze searched his face. “Busy morning?”
Craeg snorted. “Fishing boat dispute.”
“Ah. Dougal’s been complaining about that wee creel boat for days.” Nat moved beside him at the wall, his expression turning serious. “At least yer problems are confined to Moy. My brother writes that things are reaching boiling point on the mainland.”
Every muscle in Craeg’s body went taut. “Rory’s with Murray?”
“Aye.” Pride and envy warred in Nat’s voice—envy that Craeg felt like a knife between his ribs. “Word is that Murray’s still holding Dumbarton Castle … using it as his base. He’s convinced he can drive Balliol back across the border by winter if enough clans rally to the cause.”
“And are they rallying?” Longing clenched once more deep in Craeg’s chest.
“Some.” Nat’s mouth twisted. “Others are hedging their bets. Ye can’t blame them. Balliol’s weak, but there’s English steel behind him. Going against Edward means risking everything.”
Craeg’s jaw worked. Aye, he understood their dilemma. Edward the Third was young—barely two and twenty—but already more dangerous than his weak father had ever been. This king was shrewd. Ambitious and ruthless.
The kind of enemy that required brutal men to defeat him.
“It’s frustrating,” he bit out, fingers clenching around the rampart’s edge. “Being stuck here while others fight.”
“I suppose we are helping … in our own way,” Nat said, though he sounded like he was trying to convince himself. “Watching over our clan, growing food … training warriors. It’s all important work.”
Important … but tedious and safe. “Aye,” he said flatly. “That’s the spirit.”
Their gazes met. “At least ye’ve already earned yerself some glory,” Nat offered. “Escorting the king to safety. That’s more than most of us will ever do.”
Craeg harrumphed. He’d had that.
“What was it like?” Nat asked, gaze glinting with curiosity.
“Risky. We were looking over our shoulders all the way to Dumbarton. Hearts pounding … thinking that every sound could be the enemy.” His hands flexed, remembering the weight of his sword, the thunder of hoofbeats, the sharp clarity of mortal danger. “But I felt … alive.”
“The English never caught up with ye?”
Craeg shook his head, even as restlessness clawed at him again.
“A day after we left Berwick, we discovered a band following us … but once we left the road, we lost the bastards.” He flashed his captain a hard grin then, remembering the winding path Greig had led them on.
The clan-chief’s son was a skilled tracker and hunter and knew just how to throw their pursuers off the scent.
“No one knows how to disappear into the heather like we Scots.”
A few furlongs west of Lochbuie village …
The birlinn’s keel scraped against the shingle beach with a grinding rasp.
Leaping from the bow, Archie Macquarie splashed through the shallow water, rope in hand. Behind him, four warriors followed, their boots crunching on the stones. The single-masted galley rocked gently in the waves, its dark hull slick with seawater.
“Ye two stay with the boat,” Archie commanded, gesturing to the youngest pair. “Keep watch. We’ll be back before nightfall.”
The three other men turned inland, toward where smoke rose from Lochbuie’s cottages over a thicket of sycamore and oak to the east. Salt spray hung heavy in the air, and the rumble of surf filled their ears.
Climbing the path from the beach, Archie and his companions passed stands of wind-bent hawthorn and patches of yellow gorse.
Its sweet scent tickled his nose. The afternoon sun beat down on his shoulders, warm despite the sea breeze.
This summer was proving to be the hottest in years.
Ahead, the village spread along the coast—a scattering of thatch-roofed bothies.
Archie cast his companions a sidelong look. “Do ye remember where the midwife’s cottage was?”
“Aye,” Ross grunted. “North edge of the village.”
“I doubt the old woman has moved,” the second warrior, Ian, replied, flashing him a grin.
Archie snorted. “Lying old ronyon.”
Barely two months earlier, they’d visited Lochbuie.
After asking around, they’d tracked down Esme, the village midwife.
They’d then questioned her about a woman who would have given birth thirty-one years earlier—a tall lass with long black hair and startling blue eyes. A young woman without a husband.
At first, the old woman had jeered at them. Thirty years? Did they expect her to have such a sharp memory? But then, when Archie had described the lass, her face had blanched.
Aye, she’d remembered her.
Esme hadn’t wanted to divulge any details; it was only when Archie whipped out his dirk and held it to her neck that she’d spilled her secret.
The lass’s name was Rhona. But she’d died during the birth, taking the bairn with her. It was a tragedy. The whole village had mourned her.
Pleased to have settled the matter so swiftly—for his next task had been to track down mother and daughter and slit both their throats—Archie had returned to the Macquarie holding on Ulva and told his chieftain what he’d learned.
He’d thought that was the end of it. Until a day ago, when the Macquarie had stormed into the guardhouse and backhanded him across the face.
The first words out of his mouth were, “Ye gowk! She lied!”
As he remembered, the midwife’s dwelling sat slightly apart from the others. A rambling garden surrounded a stone bothy with a thatch roof that looked in need of repair.
Archie strode up the path, pushing aside mint and nettles, and rapped his knuckles on the door frame. Twice. Hard.
Footsteps followed, and then the door opened to reveal a young woman, perhaps twenty summers, with mousy brown hair and wary eyes.
“Aye?”
The three men exchanged glances. This wasn’t the crone they’d been expecting.
“We’re looking for Esme,” Archie greeted her bluntly. “Where is she?”
The young woman’s expression shuttered. “My aunt died a fortnight past.”
Lucifer’s turds. Archie’s jaw clenched tight. So much for getting the truth out of her this time.
“Our condolences,” he said, though he felt none. “Did she leave any records? Papers about the births she attended?”
“No.” The lass’s hand tightened on the door. “She didn’t know her letters … and neither do I. Now, if ye’ll excuse me.”
“Wait.” Archie placed his boot against the threshold. “There was a birth. Thirty-one years ago. A woman named Rhona Maclean, who died afterward. Do ye know if the bairn lived?”
The lass’s gaze narrowed. “I wasn’t born then.”
“No … but ye’ll have heard old tales over the years, I’m sure.”
The woman stared back at him. “I know nothing of my aunt’s work from those times.”
Archie studied her, searching for a flicker of a lie in her eyes. There was none.
She tried to close the door, but he wedged his boot in. “If ye remember anything … anything at all … there’s coin in it for ye.”
“I told ye. I know nothing.” Her voice rose slightly. “Now leave … or I’ll call for the smith.”
Stepping back, Archie removed his boot, letting the door slam shut. He stood there a moment, staring at the weathered wood, then turned to his companions.
Ross grimaced, while next to him, Ian wore a scowl. “The ale house,” Archie muttered.
“Right.” Ian’s scowl disappeared, a smile creasing his face instead. “I could do with a tankard or two.”
“Ye aren’t here to drink,” Archie snapped. “We’ve got questions to ask.”
“Aye,” Ross replied, glancing back at the closed door, his brow furrowed. “Someone in this village must know what happened to that bairn.”
The three warriors turned and walked back up the path. Moments later, they were striding back toward the center of Lochbuie, boots raising small clouds of dust from the sunbaked road.