by Faris, Fiona
Moments later, a portal cracked open on the second floor.
“Duncan? Duncan Comyn? Is that you, man?” a voice said.
“Aye, ’tis me,” he replied. “‘The silver darlings are gathering in the bay.’”
Satisfied by the password, the occupants of the house let down a ladder from the portal. Duncan clutched it firmly and climbed up. The lashed wooden frame creaked and groaned under the weight of him.
“Welcome, Duncan, man.” A short, grizzled man of about forty-five years grasped his hand in greeting. “We were beginning to think you werena coming.”
Duncan peered into the dimly lit room and saw five other men of various statures and ages gathered around a wooden table which stood in the center of the floor. An elderly woman – Tamas Boghan’s wife, presumably – stood by the fireplace. She was stirring a pot above the peats. By the back wall, a small clutch of bairns – three tousle-headed bairns in soiled smocks, their bare feet and legs clarty with filth – played hide-and-seek with the curtains that were drawn across the sleeping benches.
“I mistook the way in the dark,” Duncan explained.
“Whit dark?” One of the other men, a wiry powerful-looking chiel, snorted. “Wi’ the moon, it’s as bricht as day oot.”
“Och wheesht, Farquharson,” Boghan, the grizzled man and master of the house, scolded. “Duncan’s no’ frae round these pairts. Auchmacoy can be the devil to find at the best o’ times, as you weel ken. That’s why we’re meeting here, after all.”
Farquharson sat down at the table, grumbling to himself.
“Anyhow,” Boghan continued, rubbing his hands together, “come away in, Duncan, and tak’ a dram to chase away the chill. You’re here now, and that’s all that matters.”
He took Duncan’s arm and steered him towards the table in the middle of the floor. The men all seated themselves and Boghan filled a lugged quaich from a stone jug that sat in the center of the board.
“Let us drink to the success of our venture,” he proposed, widening his eyes in excitement. “To Edward Balliol.” He raised the quaich in a toast. “The rightful king.”
He took a sip, screwed up his eyes, shook his head, and passed the quaich to the man on his left.
“John Graham,” he announced to Duncan.
Graham raised the quaich.
“To Henry Beaumont, husband of Alice Comyn and rightful Earl of Buchan.”
He passed the quaich to his left.
“William Farquharson,” Boghan announced.
“To the memory of John Comyn, Lord of Badenoch and Lord of Lochaber, also known as the Red Comyn, who was so treacherously murdered by the pretender, Bruce, before the altar of the church of the Greyfriars.”
“Alexander Forbes.”
“To the memory of my father, John, who was put to the sword by Bruce and Hay during the Rape of Buchan.”
“Fergus Mackay.”
“To the memory of my wife, Brighde, and my bairns, Curstaidh and Guaidre, who perished in the flames when my farmhouse was put to the torch by Bruce and Hay.”
“Luthais Sinclair.”
“To my sons, Lachlann and Muireach, who are over the water. May their arms be strong in the righting of the wrongs we have suffered.”
At last, the quaich came full circle to Duncan. There was but a dribble left of the uisge beatha with which Boghan had charged it.
“To our success, gentlemen,” he said, and he sucked what remained of the liquid through his lips.
“Moira!” Boghan cried. “Bring over some cups for the company.”
Moira put down her ladle and fetched a half-dozen wooden beakers across to the table. Each man drew one towards him.
“Aha!” Boghan growled. He snatched up the wooden bottle stopper and cast it into the fire. “Now, there; I’ve lost the stopper. We maun finish the bottle.”
His companions, all except Duncan, roared their approval and banged their beakers on the table. The bottle was passed around, and they each filled their cup with a generous measure.
“You’ll take a drink, man,” Boghan told Duncan, slopping whiskey into his cup. “I’ll no’ ha’e ye spurning my hospitality.”
Duncan smiled uncertainly and raised his beaker in a silent toast.
“Your good health.” Boghan returned the courtesy and knocked his draught straight back.
Duncan cautiously took a sip. It burned his throat fiercely and brought tears to his eyes.
The other men laughed, their faces turning red with mirth.
“Aye, Auchmacoy distills the real stuff,” Mackay observed. “It will put hair on your chest, lad, if it doesn’t blow the top of your head off first.”
“Gentlemen,” Duncan said, raising his voice to assert some authority over the company.
The men struggled to settle their faces into a semblance of seriousness and gave him their full, if wavering, attention. They had clearly been drinking before Duncan’s arrival, Duncan observed.
“Gentlemen, as you know, I have been commissioned by Henry Beaumont to return to Formartine to rally support for the great cause of the Comyns, whose titles and estates were unjustly forfeited to the pretender, Bruce, following the defeat at Bannockburn. The Earldom was granted to the Hays, who supported the Bruce in his treachery throughout the war, who now lord it over us from Slains Castle, the seat of the Comyn clan, as it will be again.”
“Hear, hear!”
“Earl Henry’s plan is to restore the Scottish crown to Edward Balliol…”
“What?” Farquharson interrupted. “Balliol? Why Balliol? Why not the Comyns? The Comyns have the rightful claim on the throne.”
“Peace, Willie.” Boghan flapped a hand at him. “Let Duncan continue.”
Duncan fixed Farquharson’s eye with an unwavering stare.
“I will answer that,” he said slowly and deliberately. “Edward of England believes that the Balliol’s have a stronger claim. That was his grandfather’s decision when we asked him to adjudicate the rival claims after King Alexander broke his neck on the cliffs at Aberdour and his only surviving direct heir, his granddaughter, the Maid of Norway, drowned on the voyage homeward to assume the throne. To overthrow Robert Bruce, we need the help of an English army. King Edward won’t supply that army in support of the Comyn cause, but he might in support of the Balliols. The first thing is to dislodge the Bruce; once he is gone, we can start to think about getting rid of the Balliols ourselves.”
A murmur of assent rumbled around the table.
“The plan is,” Duncan continued, “that Balliol will invade with an army of the Disinherited – those liegemen and kinsmen whose lands and titles were stolen by Bruce – with the support of Edward of England. At the same time, there will be an uprising in Galloway by Balliol’s people there and in Formartine by our people here. Bruce and his allies will be swept from power and the rightful king will be restored, as will all the lands and titles that were taken from the Balliols and Comyns.”
Duncan paused and glanced slowly around the company for dramatic effect.
“Our part, gentlemen, is to organize the uprising in Formartine.”
Forbes gave a loud belch. He surprised himself so much that the elbow on which he had been resting his head slipped from the table and he almost banged his chin on the surface.
The others shifted uncomfortably in their chairs and looked everywhere except at Duncan’s eyes.
“Oh, I don’t know, Duncan, lad,” Boghan slurred uncertainly, swaying in his seat. “There are no’ mony of us left. The Bruce did a fine job o’ the Harrying. Maist o’ Comyn’s folk were burned out o’ their farms or put to the sword, man, woman, and child. Thaim that escaped are either scattered throughout the country or in exile in France and Flanders wi’ Balliol himself. There is barely enough o’ us here to hold a ceilidh, let alone a rising.”
Mackay raised his head from where it had sunk onto his arms on the table. His cheeks were fiery from the uisge beatha and crisscrossed by a network of broken veins.<
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“That’s right,” he confirmed. “The anes that are left are mainly broken auld men like oorsels…” He picked up the bottle and shook it. “… mair fond o’ the bottle than wha rules in Edinburgh. Balliol, Comyn, Bruce… What does it maitter when we’re that hard put to feed our wives an’ families?”
“Aye,” Graham agreed. “It’s peace we want and no’ another bloody war.”
“And the plagues ha’e ta’en a wheen o’ us and all,” Boghan added. “It’s been a sair fight these past ten years, right enough. The country’s tired, man, exhausted. Bruce might no’ be the rightful king, but… Christ ha’e mercy on our souls!”
Sinclair stood to the task of refilling his cup yet again, not trusting his ability to accomplish the feat sitting down.
“If the past ten years has taught me anything at all, it is this,” he said. “That what is right and what is wrang is determined by the length o’ your sword, and Bruce’s sword is the longest. I say we maun buckle doon and mak’ the best o’ it that we can. We’ve oats to grow and beasts to fatten – let that be the whole of the law.”
Duncan slammed his fist down on the table, making everyone jump. The bairns at the back of the house froze and fell silent. Moira clutched her ladle in both hands out in front of her like a crucifix, broth running down the handle and dripping onto the floor.
“You drunken auld blellums!” he shouted. “Is that the measure o’ a Formartine man today, that you would sell your inheritance for a bottle and a quiet life? Think o’ your bairns, man! Think o’ your wives! Would you no’ stand up for the honor of your clan? Are you no’ ashamed to be seen by your laddies, cringing and cowering before a tyrant who has usurped the throne, before a wee lowland lairdie who squats like a toad in Slains? Fie on you! I came here expecting to find men, and no’ a gaggle o’ frightened auld women.”
The men hung their heads, but their defiance simmered.
“Thon ‘wee lowland lairdie,’” Farquharson rumbled. “You seem well in with the daughter o’ yon ‘wee lowland lairdie’.”
Duncan’s blood ran cold with fury.
“What are you saying, man? What daughter?”
“Thon wee slip o’ a red-headed lass that you’ve been trysting with in Cullen’s cottage down in Cruden Bay and in the woods above the cliffs.”
Farquharson swayed to his feet and leaned his fists unsteadily on the table, skewering Duncan with a thunderous look.
“So, don’t you be giving us any sermons about tyrants and their toadies,” he concluded, slamming the wood with the flat of his palm.
“What do you mean, ‘daughter’? The lass is but a servant, a lady’s maid.”
“From what I hear, she’s a dirty wee whore whom Hay has taken as a favorite.”
“Willie…” Boghan cautioned.
Duncan sprang to his feet. His chair clattered over onto its back, and the table legs scraped the floor. His dirk was in his hand.
“You will take that back, you foul-mouthed swine,” he said through gritted teeth. “You will not dishonor that lassie’s name.”
“He’s made himself her legal guardian,” Farquharson pressed on. “She’s as much his daughter as his laddie is his son.”
Duncan threw himself across the table at the burly farmer. Farquharson lurched to the side, his own eyes gleaming with fury in the candlelight, his own blade flashing in his hand.
Sinclair and Forbes grabbed an arm each, hauling Farquharson clear by the shoulders as Duncan careened across the smooth wooden surface, knocking bottle and beakers aside, and tumbled onto the floor. The bairns began to scream and howl in panic and vanished quickly behind the bed curtains.
Duncan immediately sprang to his feet and made to lunge at his adversary. However, he was grabbed in the same manner as Farquharson by Mackay and Graham, while Boghan stepped between them and placed a hand on both men’s chests.
“I will have no brawling in my house,” he shouted. “Willie! Sit on your arse! Comyn,” he added, swinging round on Duncan, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave. Good night to you, sir.”
Duncan took his leave, still seething at the slight to Elizabeth’s honor. He climbed down the ladder into the moonlit night, and it was quickly drawn up after him.
He stamped off into the night, determined to get at the truth of the mystery that was Elizabeth Bryce.
Chapter Nine
The Road from Auchmacoy to Cruden Bay
Later the same night
Duncan set out along the moonlit track towards Cruden Bay. It was a nine-mile trek, and it would take him the best part of three hours to get there.
He was still simmering with frustration and anger. He had gone to Auchmacoy expecting to find a committed band of zealous patriots, straining at the leash to exact revenge on those who had caused them such great suffering. During the Harrying of Buchan, Bruce and his small guerrilla army had laid waste to their lands, burning their homesteads, stealing their beasts and crops, slaughtering as many of their kin as they could lay their hands on. It was a clearance and a cleansing on a grand scale, destroying the support base of the Comyns, and together with the brutal assassination of the Red Comyn himself, removing them as a contender in the struggle for the Scottish throne. He had expected the remnants of the clan to have been up and ready for a fight; instead, he had found a rabble of drunken bonnet lairds, wallowing in self-pity.
He had his work cut out, right enough, in rallying support for a rising in Formartine. He wondered if his cousin was faring any better in Galloway. At least the Balliols in Galloway had not suffered to the same degree that the Comyns had in the northeast.
His thoughts then turned to the revelations he had received concerning Elizabeth Bryce. He did not know what to think. If Farquharson’s words were true, Elizabeth was a creature of his sworn enemies, the Hays, who had not only taken a leading part in the Harrying but had also been its chief beneficiaries. As a reward for their loyal and unstinting devotion to the Bruce cause during the war, and especially when its fortunes were at their lowest ebb, the Hays had been gifted the Comyns’ lands and titles after the victory at Bannockburn, which has secured the Bruce’s grip on the throne. Gilbert Hay had also been appointed High Constable of Scotland, which made him one of the most powerful men in the realm. Now, he and his family were installed in Slains Castle, Duncan’s clan’s ancestral seat. If Elizabeth was a member of that family, and not just a servant as Duncan had assumed, there could be no possibility of friendship between them.
This last thought caused a spasm of anguish to shoot through Duncan’s heart. The roots of a fondness had established themselves there. Her very shyness and modesty he found disarming, the way her fair skin colored whenever she spoke to him, her low, uncertain voice, her quick, nervous manner. She was like a little bird that he wanted to cup in his hands, to shelter and protect. He also liked the grim determination that underlay that shyness, that lack of confidence, the strength with which she had clung to the rocks despite the overwhelming power of the waves that would have torn her into its deathly embrace. There was, he reflected, a core of mettle, spirit, and bravery beneath that vulnerable exterior, which he found himself admiring and – yes – longing to cling to in the uncertainties of his own life as a disinherited exile and soldier of fortune.
But if she was a Hay, or of that ilk… well, that changed everything.
But surely it could not be true; Farquharson’s words had surely been malicious, the words of a disappointed and bitter man who knew no more about Elizabeth’s situation than, Duncan reflected, he did himself. For what did he know? In their conversations, Elizabeth had actually revealed very little about herself, only that she had some position in the Hay household. Even Mairi Cullen had confessed to knowing next to nothing about the lass; and if Mairi Cullen knew little, there was little to be known abroad.
No, he concluded; Elizabeth Bryce was an enigma, a delicious enigma, but one that he was determined to solve.
A delicious and pretty enigma, Duncan a
dded to himself. He pictured again the long loose curls of her glossy red hair, her fair skin, her sharp regular features, the faint constellation of freckles that lay across the bridge of her nose, and her dark brown long-lashed eyes. He remembered the girlish curve of her small bosom and the lines of her slim legs beneath the fabric of her fine woolen gown. She was small but neatly made, with a vulnerability that made him want to sweep her up into his arms and protect her as he would a fragile thing.
But… if she were a daughter of the Hays… again, that would change everything.