“Tree of Knowledge, forbidden fruit . . . makes sense to me.”
She frowned at him and made a disgusted noise, then continued, “ Whereupon the fountain exploded in a monstrous gush of water and carried me off. The water from that fountain became a great river, and to this day that river flows to the sea.”
“They think you drowned on the sea?”
She laughed. “Aye. Imagine me, granddaughter of the sea–god Lir, drowned! So I turned myself into a salmon, ye see, and swam north until I came to Alba—Scotland, to you. Up the Sound of Sleat I came, to Loch Alsh. There I landed, and have lived among the Mathesons since, the Scottish Gaels having so little difference from the Irish. It’s the Lowland scum that—”
“So the Mathesons are sort of your pet mortals, eh?”
She frowned, and her slanted eyes narrowed to slits. “Not pets. Never pets. If ye cannae understand, question it not nevertheless. It’s more than likely beyond your grasp in any case, you being an outlander and all.”
Dylan grunted and fell silent, then chewed on the last of his supper.
After a silence, Sinann continued as if the talk had never quit. “It was a MacMhathain caught me in his net.”
“Oh, we’re still on the Escape to Alba story?”
She ignored the comment. “He caught me in his net, and when I came into his boat I was forced to turn back to myself and was nearly strangled in the net. Well, you can imagine the poor man’s reaction when he saw who he’d caught. He cut his net open, but I was near death. He hurried his boat to shore, and there made a conjure over me for healing. It saved my life, such as it was. When I was recovered, I gave him a new net and thereafter watched over him and his family, his sons and grandsons for generations, and followed the MacMhathain line that came to Glen Ciorram in retreat of the Vikings.”
“You’ve been here awhile.”
“I’ve known many generations of Mathesons, and MacMhathains before that. I . . .”
She fell silent as one old man started up a story and the talk around the fire soon became less chatter and more listening. The others quieted, and the gray-bearded man spoke Gaelic in a voice so strong and clear it belied his age. His face almost told a story by itself, with eyes that went wide or narrowed with the emotion of the story he told, a grin that displayed a very few teeth that were blackened, and a voice that expressed joy or tears with equal intensity. He spoke in a rhythm, almost like song.
Dylan whispered to Sinann, “What’s he saying?”
She sniffed and said to the air, “Oh, he wants something from me, now?”
He shut up, but she continued, unable to keep to herself what she knew, “He’s telling the story of how the castle got its name.”
“Don’t they all know the story?”
“The adults do, but they never tire of hearing it. And to the weans it’s all new. Half the joy of a story is telling it to those who havenae heard it.”
“So how did the castle get its name?”
Sinann cleared her throat and proceeded. “That is easily told. There was once a Laird of this castle called Cormac Matheson, who had an enormous white dog, so big he could break a cow’s leg bone in his jaws, but so gentle he could carry a lamb in his maw without a-frighting it. That dog followed the Laird everywhere, and nowhere was there a man who would harm Cormac when the dog was about, for he was a creature loyal to his master and would allow no other man to touch him nor even go near. The Laird was a wise and good man, who had the misfortune to fall in love with a neighbor lass of the MacDonell clan. But her father wouldnae let her go to the Mathesons, for a grievance even older than this story. Cormac was forced to kidnap his bride, and the two were married in the castle the very next day.
“When the MacDonells came to reclaim Cormac’s bride, the Laird and his men met them, bristling with arms, on this very spot.” Sinann pointed to the ground, and Dylan looked on reflex as if there would be something to see. He saw grass. She went on. “Cormac pleaded with his father-in-law to allow his young bride to stay, but MacDonell would have none of it. The two factions clashed, with claymores, dirks, and targes, and the MacDonells, being the angrier, laid waste to the men of Glen Ciorram who dinnae wish to fight at all. Every man in the glen of fighting age fell, and it was fortunate that Cormac’s young brother was in fosterage at the time for there was no other heir to the lairdship and if he had fought, the Ciorram Mathesons would have ended then and there.
“The white hound also fought, with as much courage as any of the men. But when the battle was over and the Mathesons beaten, Cormac was dead, and his white dog lay at his side, his throat cut with a dirk. MacDonell reclaimed his daughter and led his men toward their home.”
Dylan took some more ale and whispered, “So Cormac’s little brother named the castle after the brave dog?”
“The story isnae finished, and aren’t you just the impatient one. For, you see, MacDonell never made it back to his own lands. The rescue party made camp not far from here. Nobody knows exactly what happened, but sometime during that night the MacDonells were attacked by an animal of some sort, and every last soul in the camp had his throat torn from him, including Cormac’s bride. They say it was the dog killed the MacDonells. And to this day, you can sometimes see the white hound guarding the gate to the castle, with blood dripping from its mouth. The young Laird had nae choice in the naming of the castle, ye see. It’s what everyone hereabouts has called the place ever since.”
Dylan shuddered. “Do you think the story is true?”
She peered at him sideways, “You wouldnae suggest your kinsman was a liar now, would ye, lad?”
“If it’s just a story . . .”
“There’s nae such thing as just a story.”
Dylan began to wonder, and shuddered again, and when a lull came in the talk he spoke up to ask the bard, “Sir!” The side-chatter died in an instant, and Dylan had the distinct feeling his English tongue was not particularly welcome. But he continued, “Would you know the story of Roderick Matheson?”
The graybeard burst forth with his jack-o-lantern grin. “Och, tha! Aye, indeed I know that story well, for I was a lad at the time, don’t you know! Not that there’s all that much to tell, mind you.”
“Will you tell us what happened?”
“Gladly.” As the old man proceeded to tell the story in English, there was a low muttering in Gaelic among a couple of clusters of people. At first it seemed rude, until Dylan realized the speakers were translating the story for those whose English was not so fluent.
“During the reign of Charles II, first of the restored house of Stuart, in the Year of Our Lord sixteen hundred and sixty-six it was. Young Roderick Matheson, who at the time was but eighteen, ventured away from his home, which was Tigh a’ Mhadhaigh Bhàin. It was his first time to go with the drovers all the way to Edinburgh, and his mother, the beautiful and fair Sìla NicAngus, ever sweet of disposition, cried and said he was far too young to go. But his father, the mighty Fearghas Matheson, thought it would be all right for his youngest child to accompany the drovers, as he himself had gone on a creach at barely sixteen. And so the lad went. On the day he left, he bade his mother farewell, and his father, then walked along with the cattle and the drovers.” The graybeard’s shoulders slumped, then he said, “And that was the last his family or anyone else living ever saw of him.”
Dylan waited for the rest of the story, and it took a moment to realize the bard was finished. “That’s all? That’s the whole story?”
“The lad never returned from Edinburgh. Nobody ever learned why, though they searched for years and begged help from every authority. It was as if he’d vanished from the earth.”
Well, hell, no wonder everyone had been so surprised to hear him utter the name. Dylan shrugged. “Shoot, even I know more about what happened than that.” It was then he noticed every eye was on him and every ear perked to hear what he would say. He hesitated, then cleared his throat.
“All right, it was in the year . . .” he coughed and loo
ked around, then proceeded with the story he’d heard from his grandfather ten years before, “the Year of Our Lord sixteen hundred and sixty-six. He, um . . . Roderick Matheson was a young man, as you said, on his first trip to Edinburgh. While he was in that city, there was a demonstra . . . uh, a rising. A protest. Some Covenanters, who had lost power in the Restoration of the Crown in 1660 were protesting royal preference for the Episcopal Church. Roderick, young as he was, found himself curious about the crowds and went to see what was up . . . I mean, what was happening. He somehow ended up in a fight and, well, the other guy didn’t survive. Roderick was arrested and thrown in the Tolbooth, convicted of murder, and from there put on a ship bound for the New World under sentence of banishment and seven years’ indenture to a Virginia plantation. By the time he’d completed his service, he’d met his future wife and had found an opportunity to obtain some land.”
“And why did he nae write if he was alive?” Iain appeared personally offended by Roderick’s failure to contact his family, even though Iain wasn’t old enough to have known him.
Dylan shrugged. “I don’t know. I never asked. Could be he didn’t want his parents to know he’d committed a murder. As for his living past 1666, I’m proof that he did.” Which was a fact. He wasn’t Roderick’s son, but he certainly was a direct descendant and wouldn’t be alive if Roderick had died in Edinburgh.
“Does he yet live?” This from Malcolm, who appeared old enough to have been, maybe, ten or so at the time of the arrest.
Dylan did some quick math and calculated that in 1713 Roderick would have been sixty-five. He went with the odds and shook his head. “No, he died a few years ago.”
“Have you brothers or sisters?”
Dylan shook his head again. He didn’t have any, and had no idea how many children Roderick had fathered. He only knew there had been at least one son to have carried on the name, who was currently living somewhere south of the Mason–Dixon line. Dylan’s knowledge wasn’t complete enough to be sure just how far south and west Roderick’s progeny had progressed by now.
Malcolm looked like he had more questions, but barking dogs broke the silence and everyone looked to see what had the animals so excited. What they saw made the men stand and the women fade behind them, taking with them all the children they could reach. The kids made not even a peep, but were wide-eyed with terror.
Dylan stood and turned to look, and his pulse jumped to see a cluster of Redcoats on horseback enter the circle of light thrown by the fire. Though his specific historical knowledge of this area and this year was limited, he knew it would be nearly a century before the presence of an English soldier in these parts would be anything less than a deadly threat. He waited with the rest of the Mathesons to hear what the Captain wanted. Iain Mór stepped forward.
“Good evening,” the officer greeted him with a distracted air. Iain declined to reply. There was some muttering in Gaelic, but the Laird hushed it, also in Gaelic. The English officer with the blond queue and periwig went on with delicate diction in a voice that dripped breeding but conveyed no sincerity whatsoever, “I wish to express my condolences for the death of your cousin.”
Iain finally opened his mouth. “I expect you’re heartbroken over it. Will that be all? It’s a pity you cannae stay for a bite of supper, Captain Bedford.”
Dylan did a take at the name and his pulse jumped again, but he kept still and quiet.
The Captain looked around at the gathering, and his face screwed up with disgust. “Yes, a pity indeed. One thing, though, Ciorram,” he glanced at his well-armed, mounted men, “you should be a bit more careful about your relations with certain of your neighbors. If there is any more trouble, any rumors of subversive talk or dealing in stolen property, I shall be forced to more extreme measures than confiscating land. It would behoove you all to obey the Queen’s law and the Privy Council. I say this as keeper of the peace here.” There were snorts of laughter. The Captain’s jaw clenched. “Mark me, all of you. Her Majesty desires peace, but will not tolerate lawlessness.”
Iain gave no reply. There was a long silence as the men stared each other down. Finally Bedford sighed and ordered his men about to ride away at a stately walk.
Once the Redcoats were out of earshot, the Scotsmen sat back down by their fire, and mutterings in Gaelic riffled among them. Dylan found himself as angry as they. He looked to the trail the soldiers had taken, and knew what it meant to live in a country occupied by a foreign power and what it meant to hate that occupation.
CHAPTER 6
For weeks Dylan labored in Iain Matheson’s fields, hating the scarcity of food, the cold, and especially hating that damned faerie. No matter how he pleaded, Sinann refused to countenance the idea of sending him home. Over and over, he told her there would be no saving the Scottish from southern oppression. One man could not change history. But she would not believe it. All there was left to do was wait for Sinann to tire of her game, and meanwhile he needed money, food, and a place to sleep. He did his job, and hoarded the coins Malcolm gave him on paydays.
He had no clue how much he was being paid, and if he had he wouldn’t have known how much things cost in any case. The bits of silver didn’t even seem like money to him. Small and crudely struck, some with a queen for heads and a crowned “3” on the tails side, they were more like something a woman would dangle from a charm bracelet than like cash. All Dylan could tell was that these were worth three of something, and he took the queen to be Anne, who was currently on the English throne. The ones with a “1” on the back had a male profile, but Dylan was stumped as to which king this would be. Charles? William? Certainly not James. Too early for any of the Georges. He kept the tiny cache of coins in his sporran, tied tight inside the remainder of the linen napkin to keep them from jingling.
Not all of his pay came in coins. In kind he received a new shirt of unbleached linen and a sgian dubh of his own that he now carried in a sheath up under his left arm. The sheath also had come to him as pay. The black iron knife was small, only about eight or nine inches total, and the blade three inches of that, but the double-edged triangular blade was very sharp. The hilt had a tiny guard at the base, which amounted to little more than a ledge but made it unusual among Scottish dirks. He wondered why anyone would put a guard on such a short blade. There was no telling what might have motivated the maker of this dirk, and it was probably that very design flaw that had put the item in circulation as payment. On the plus side, its handle was of stag horn and the deep grooves made for a steady grip. Many of the knives he’d seen lately were little more than pointed iron rods stuck in wooden handles.
Malcolm said as he handed Dylan the weapon, “It might interest you, this dirk has a history.”
Dylan chuckled. “Everything in this place has a history. You can’t breathe for all the history in the air around here.”
That brought a smile, but Malcolm said, “Well, it’s a wee bit of notoriety this blade has. The story is complicated, but I can tell you that if you were to ever see Captain Bedford without his pants . . .” Dylan crinkled his nose in distaste, and Malcolm laughed out loud. “Aye, I can’t imagine the sight myself. But if you were to see it, ye’d also see above his knee a scar exactly the width of this here blade, put there by Iain’s father some years ago.”
“No kidding?” Dylan examined the blade as if for bloodstains, but found nothing out of the ordinary.
“Nae kidding, as ye say.” He chuckled again. “I think.”
Dylan was quite pleased to take this weapon in exchange for a few days’ work, and returned Malcolm’s knife to him.
The village raced the cold to get the harvest in, and each day the wind smelled more like snow. There was no more sweating now, and the men wound their plaids tightly around themselves for warmth. Dylan took to wearing both his shirts at once. Shaggy black cattle were brought in from high pasture to winter in the very peat huts occupied by the villagers, and the kitchen pens of the castle’s inner bailey swarmed with goats,
sheep, and pigs, adding their pungency to that of the horses already housed in the castle stable. More people had come down from the pastures, called shielings. The halls and corridors of the castle as well as the tracks of the glen bustled with more folks readying for winter. A holiday atmosphere was in the air, like Christmas at home, though it was only October.
A couple of Sundays passed, punctuating each week with one day of rest. Dylan hadn’t seen Sinann in a few days, and he began to wonder where she had gotten off to. Not that it wasn’t pleasant to escape her constant harassment, but he figured if she no longer wanted him to “save her people” she might give in and send him home.
He also kept an eye out for the pretty blond woman, who he learned was the Laird’s daughter, Caitrionagh. He never had occasion to talk to her, and didn’t dare in any case if Iain Mór’s reaction to him merely looking was an indication of how he would take an actual conversation. But in the evenings Dylan stole glances from across the Great Hall where the clan often gathered for talk, clustered together on stools and benches, sometimes sitting on the trestle tables if room was scarce. Occasionally, if the gatherings were well attended, there was music and dancing, particularly if teenagers were there, and sometimes there was but a small clutch of men in heated debate with heads close together before the hearth. Caitrionagh was there often, which pleased Dylan greatly.
One morning the entire clan gathered formally in the Great Hall, in subdued expectation. The mood of the gathering tensed as people were brought before the Laird. None of them looked very happy about being there. Dylan leaned against the wall by the bailey doors. He was out of the way but could still see almost everyone. Puzzled, he mumbled to the absent faerie as if she could hear him, “Yo, Tink, what’s going on here?”
She popped into view before him, a huge smile on her face as she hovered at eye level.
He blinked. “Tink. How long have you been here?”
“And who’s to say I ever left? I can see it’s a hard worker you are, and the picture of grace with a sickle. I was just admiring the view.”
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