Son of the Sword

by J. Ardian Lee

  “Malcolm is a Taggart, and a Matheson only through the female line. The clan would never accept him.”

  Malcolm finally spoke, his voice sounding hollow inside the arrow loop, “Also, I’m an old man. You, Dylan, are not.”

  There was a long silence while Dylan chewed on this, then he said slowly, “If I took over, Artair and Coll would both come after me.”

  “Oh, aye, they will,” said Iain.

  “But you are not weak.” Malcolm said it as if it were something Dylan should have thought of. “When you marry Cait, and become Iain’s right hand, you will almost surely be seen as his preferred heir. You are strong enough to hold the clan together. Then, on your passing, the lairdship will go to your son, who will also be Cait’s son. Iain’s grandson.”

  “You think the clan will accept a stranger?”

  A look crossed Iain’s face that told Dylan this was indeed the weak spot in the plan. But the Laird said, “I’m not dead yet, young Dylan, nor am I going anywhere soon. There is time, and in time the clan will accept you if I encourage it.”

  Dylan couldn’t help but glance at the silver-hilt sword on the desk before him, and Iain said, “That sword comes down from my great-grandfather. Our great-grandfather. It’s English, made by Clemens Horn for King James VI of Scotland after he’d become James I of England. It was presented by the King to our ancestor for service to the Crown, and has been handed down from father to son for a hundred years. I wish for it to go to a man who is worthy of it.”

  The world as Dylan understood it did a complete turnaround. “This morning you wanted to kill me.”

  Iain’s anger rose again. “I still want to kill you, and will do it gladly if you give me any more trouble.” Then he continued in a tone of frustration, “You took something very precious to me, and thwarted a well-laid plan in the bargain. Nae for a moment should you think this willnae cost me.” He looked over at Malcolm again, then continued more calmly, “But now, having had time to think on the possibilities, I can see that your caring for Cait might be a gift from God. A recompense for the young sons I lost as children, and an opportunity to pass the clan leadership to someone who won’t lose it to those who would harm the clan.”

  Dylan took a deep breath and his mind raced. In the space of just a few minutes he’d gone from resigning himself to death, to entertaining the possibility of inheriting Iain Mór’s lands and title. But now as he thought it through, he realized both Artair and Coll would have him dead before they would accept what Iain proposed. Furthermore, aligning himself politically with Iain Mór would put him within the notice of the Crown and the Privy Council as a Jacobite, only a year and a half before the next doomed uprising.

  He came full circle and once again knew his days were numbered.

  CHAPTER 14

  The meeting ended, Dylan was told to move his belongings to a room in the North Tower, as he was no longer charged with guarding Cait. When he went to pick up his things from the trunk in his alcove, he took her hands and murmured into her ear what had transpired between him and her father. “Not only are we to be married with his blessing,” he said, and he squeezed her hands in his, “but he’s talking about making me his heir.”

  For a moment her face went slack with astonishment, then she squealed with joy and hugged him, which almost swept away his confusion. His life was changing, morphing into something unrecognizable, but the one thing that mattered, Cait, was unchanged. She loved him as much as he loved her, which was considerable. She said as much, over and over, chattering on about how wonderful it was all going to be.

  When she calmed enough for him to get another word in he said, “But I’ve got to move into the North Tower.” He let her go and kissed her hand, then saw she wore his ring. He kissed it, a joyful chuckle rising as he did so, then turned and knelt to collect his things from the trunk.

  She set a fist on her hip. “Of course you’ve got to leave. It wouldnae do to have you sleeping outside my door. Something unseemly might happen.” The sarcasm in her voice tickled him, and he grinned up at her. All that waiting was probably now wasted. The entire glen certainly thought they’d been sleeping together for months.

  He shrugged and laid his spare kilt on his bunk, folded in quarters, then his spare sarks and the poetry book on top of it to roll them together. Then, with his sgian dubh strapped under his arm, Brigid in his legging, his baldric and sword slung across his chest, his sporran on his belt, and his coat over it all, he tucked the rolled kilt under his arm and leaned down to give her a kiss.

  “Dinnae be silly, it’s not goodbye,” she said. “I can walk with you to your room.”

  He smiled and shook his head. “Bad idea. We’ve given them enough to gossip about; they don’t need more. I’ll see you at supper.”

  She frowned. “But Dylan—”

  “Don’t be arguing with me, my love. Not on this. I’ll see you at supper.” He kissed her, and he left the West Tower for good.

  When he arrived at his new quarters in the North Tower, he found Malcolm in the alcove outside his door, squatted on his heels against the wall. He stood as Dylan approached. “Congratulations, young Dylan.”

  Dylan stood for a moment, assessing Malcolm and deciding how much to give away of what he’d inferred from the afternoon. Finally, he said, “Thank you, Malcolm. But why did you do it?”

  The older man shrugged and glanced around at nothing, wanting to be honest, but still careful. “It’s a sad thing my cousin has no sons living. He would have raised a chief to hold the clan together in these times of disaffection and overwhelming attack from Lowland scum and Sassunach laws. Neither Artair nor Coll was raised to the responsibility, and all they see is the wealth that comes with the property. They neither of them truly understand what it means to manage and protect people when there are too many of them for the land to support.” He shifted his weight and glanced down the stairwell as if concerned with eavesdroppers. “You, on the other hand, are smart enough and caring enough to do right by the clan, and strong enough to not let those other two tear it apart. Iain dinnae see that at first, and now he does. That’s the long and the short of it.”

  Dylan had one more question. “Why have you never doubted I’m Roderick’s son?”

  Malcolm smiled, as if this were an easy question. “Two reasons. Firstly, I’ve seen how you treat people lower than yourself. You respect them, and you respect yourself as well as your superiors. I want you to be Roderick’s son so that the Ciorram Mathesons will have a strong leader once Iain and myself are gone, and will continue to have them in your sons and grandsons. And secondly,” he chuckled, “like Sigurd, I know a Matheson when I see one.” He slapped Dylan on the shoulder and went on up the stairs toward his own chamber. “I’ll see you at supper.”

  Dylan had a queer feeling that he was being railroaded, but when all was said and done, he figured he was on a track he wanted to follow.

  His new room was huge by the standards to which he’d lately become accustomed. And it had the luxury of privacy—a door he could actually close. Though it was directly below Malcolm’s chamber, it had arrow loops for windows instead of glass, but if he leaned into one and put his face right up to the narrow opening, he could see almost the entire loch and granite mountains beyond. Someone had lit a fire in the hearth, which took the chill off the large room. He dumped his clothing on the bed, which was similar to Malcolm’s but had a frame for bed curtains. No curtains, just the frame. And instead of an armoire there was a trunk the size of a large coffee table at the foot of his bed.

  He looked at it and wondered if he would ever have enough things to need a trunk that big. His sword and clothing went into it, then his coat, sporran, leggings, dirks, and shoes. Then he looked at that mighty inviting bed, unbuckled his kilt, and put it in as well before dropping the lid. Then he collapsed on top of the wool blanket and drifted off to sleep. It had been a long, eventful night and an equally eventful morning.

  He was awakened by Sinann’s urgent an
d frightened voice. “Dylan! Wake up, lad! Hurry! Get up! Get up!” He leapt from the bed without fully waking and reached for Brigid but she wasn’t there. He couldn’t remember where he was. He spun a circle in the middle of the room, irritated, and growled, “Tinkerbell! What do you want?”

  She laughed. “To see you fall over your feet. Aye, there’s an obliging laddie.” Her giggling was musical and irritated him to the bone.

  He focused on her and made a disgusted noise. But he reached into the trunk for Brigid before crawling face-down onto his bed again with the knife under his pillow where she belonged. “I suppose you’re here to gloat.”

  “Gloat? I’m here to give you something. For what do I need gloating?”

  He turned on his side. “You’ve won. I’m going to fight the English. In a year and a half I’ll probably be dead. If Artair and Coll don’t get me first. Thanks, Tink.” He threw her a sarcastic salute.

  Sinann was tugging on the lid of his trunk. “I’m nae gloating, lad. I know your predicament.” Her wings beat frantically as she tried to lift the lid.

  Dylan sat up on his bed and reached over to help. “What are you looking for?”

  She ducked her head into the trunk, and came up with his sporran. A short flight, and she settled at the top of the curtain frame.

  “Hey!”

  “I’m not after your money, ye sumph. Where’s that brooch you had the day you came?”

  “It’s in there. What do you want with it?”

  She found it, held it aloft, then tossed the sporran to the mattress below where it gave a loud clink of his money. Dylan leaned back on his elbows to watch as she held the brooch in both hands and bowed her head.

  “What—”

  “Shhh!” She held the brooch above her head and began murmuring to herself. There was a long moment, then the steel in her hands began to glow. The light increased until Dylan had to shield his eyes from the unaccustomed brightness. When it died down, Sinann dropped to the mattress beside Dylan and held her hands out to him.

  “What did you just do, Tink?” Dylan didn’t trust anything she did, especially if it involved magic.

  “It’s now a talisman. The thing means something to you. It represents the clan, does it not?”

  Dylan nodded.

  “The clan is your protection. None can live without support of family.”

  Again, Dylan agreed. “So, what have you done to my pin?”

  “It will protect you in the way the clan does. When you wear it, you cannae be seen by those who would harm you.”

  Dylan took the brooch. “Not seen? Like, invisible?”

  “Completely invisible. As long as you keep still.”

  He knew there would be a catch. “I guess that lets out sneaking up on people, then.”

  “It does, indeed. Like the clan, its protection works only if you stay in one place.”

  Dylan chuckled. “Oh. A hint. I guess I’ll be sticking around for a while.”

  Sinann laughed with joy and spread her arms as her wings lifted her into the air. “Oh, yes!” she cried to nobody in particular. “He’s come to lead the Mathesons to victory over the English!”

  Dylan groaned and rolled over to bury his face in his arms.

  At supper he sat with Cait, and though the entire castle stared he couldn’t wipe the grin of happiness from his face. No matter how he tried to control it, he couldn’t keep his mouth from curling at the corners. Cait’s sunny smile lit up the room for him, and it was all he could see. Or cared to see.

  The céilidh that evening, with Mathesons gathered from all over the glen, turned formal when Iain Mór stood to make the announcement everyone seemed to know was coming. Dylan sat, straddling a bench, with Cait settled on it between his knees. She leaned back in his arms with her head on his shoulder and their hands twined against her belly. As she relaxed into him, it became almost as if he couldn’t tell where he ended and she began.

  By the hearth, holding his silver flagon bearing an etched image of a bear, Iain cleared his throat and composed himself. Cait squeezed Dylan’s hand, and he squeezed back but didn’t look at her. This could go smoothly or turn ugly. He caught a glimpse of white overhead, and looked up to see Sinann’s smiling face. She hovered over them all like a guardian angel.

  “It has come to my attention,” intoned Iain, “that my daughter and a certain young man have taken a liking to each other.” Everyone in the room turned to gawk at the pair, and Dylan kept his eyes on Iain, who continued, “Tonight I consider myself a fortunate man in that I can heartily approve of my daughter’s choice.” A wry smile crossed his face and his voice took on a conspiratorial tone. “For we all know that Cait does what she likes and would marry him regardless, even were he a beggar.” There was a ripple of laughter in the room. “Therefore it is with joy I am announcing the betrothal of my daughter to our kinsman who was born in Virginia across the sea but is a Scot just the same, Dylan Robert Matheson.” A luxuriant roll was given to both R’s in “Robert.” Then he turned to Dylan and Cait, and raised his flagon. “Tha mo beannachd-sa agaibh.” With that blessing, he drank.

  The room erupted in talk, some surprised, some pleased, and some not so pleased. Dylan glanced over at Artair and Coll, who, not surprisingly, were red-faced and muttering to each other.

  Sarah leapt from her seat and ran the length of the Great Hall to disappear into the corridor to the towers. Dylan watched her go, then looked up at Sinann for an explanation. But Sinann didn’t seem to have noticed the retreat.

  Iain called for silence, and when the hubbub had died down he said, “The wedding will take place after three Sundays when we will be graced by the company of Father Buchanan. If there be nae impediment,” and here his eyes narrowed briefly at Dylan, “the priest will join the two, and the lad will take his place as my new son.”

  A curse was heard from the direction of Artair and Coll.

  Iain ignored it, and continued, “Young Dylan, needless to say, will nae longer be safeguarding my daughter’s virtue.” Again there was laughter. “Rather, he will have charge of the castle guard, and responsibility for the security of the premises.” Translated into modern terms, Dylan understood he was to be the “sergeant” of Iain’s small clutch of men retained to guard the castle, Dylan’s nine former bunkmates. Iain raised his left hand in an awkward knife-edge and said, “And perhaps he would be so kind as to teach our men of that strange sort of fighting he does.”

  Dylan chuckled. Once again he was blessed with kung fu students.

  There was much singing that night, many sweet songs of love won and lost. Sarah’s oldest son, Eóin, displaced Cait in Dylan’s lap to spend the evening chattering to him and Cait of his surviving brother, who was four years old. Dylan happily carried his third of the conversation in Gaelic, and it gave him intense pleasure to think that he and Cait would surely have children of their own one day. A dozen or so, he hoped.

  The next morning Iain sent word around to Dylan, Malcolm, Artair, and Coll that their presence was requested for a hunt.

  Dylan, who had gone to his room for his sword, said to Sinann, “Short notice for a trip like this, isn’t it? I’m told we’re supposed to be gone for a few days.” Provisions were being prepared and he had just come from borrowing Robin’s bow and quiver of arrows again.

  She sat cross-legged on the bed and shrugged. “You’ve upset every relationship in the castle. There’s not a man in the glen who willnae be affected by your marriage to Cait because you’re now closer to the Laird than you were. Iain Mór will want to see how you get along with his closest relatives while on this new footing. It’s a test, lad.”

  Dylan sighed. Coming up through the rankings in martial art was nothing compared to this.

  The snows were retreating, but the landscape was still cold and soggy. The hunting party descended to a lower glen where woods were a bit thicker and deer would be found. The walk was long, and at midday they stopped to eat. After a hard rain in the early morning, through wh
ich they slogged without stopping, the sun came out and the air bordered on muggy as the landscape and their clothing dried. The men sat on a stretch of exposed rock that had dried and was now warming. Iain struck up conversation with Malcolm while they ate.

  “Next month we’re to move the MacDonell spréidhe south to Glenfinnan. Ramsay has agreed to take them on to Edinburgh. The English will buy them, and then he can obtain other kine to be brought north.”

  Dylan glanced over at Sinann, who was listening in, but she only shrugged. She didn’t know who Ramsay was, either.

  Malcolm said, “Will he be coming here?”

  Iain shook his head. “Nae. And a good thing, if you ask me.”

  “You havenae told him, then?”

  “When the time comes. When I must.”

  “When it’s done, ye mean.”

  Dylan interrupted, since they were making no effort at keeping the conversation to themselves. He figured if they were going to talk in front of him he should know what was going on. “Who’s Ramsay?”

  Iain opened his mouth to reply, but Artair said, “Iain. Do you think it wise?”

  The Laird glared at his younger half brother. “I’ll ask you, do you think it wise for a gillie such as you to question me? Get some hair on yer balls, and then tell me what’s wise and what isnae.”

  Artair shut up.

  Iain turned to Dylan and said, “Connor Ramsay does business with us, and sometimes does special errands. Though he’s close to some on the Privy Council and publicly a Whig, he’s secretly a supporter of James.”

  Dylan frowned. “Publicly a Whig? Can you trust him?”

  Malcolm sniggered into his bannock and threw Iain a look.

  Iain shrugged. “He’s not betrayed us yet, and were the Crown to learn of his trafficking in intelligence and arms, he would be hung for a traitor.”

  Artair said, “And were he to betray us, he would be shot for a traitor. Worse, perhaps, if the wrong man found him out.” Artair’s tone made it clear he would be the man to do worse than shooting to a traitor.