by Evie North
THE CASTLE ON THE LOCH
A Scottish tale of Beauty and the Beast
Evie North
1266 AD, Kintail, Scotland
The light was fading, and soon it would be night, but for now there was a sense of magic in the air. As if anything might be possible.
Maire had tried to make a fire but the wood was damp and she had given up. It was chilly rather than cold, and her woollen arisaid was of fine quality, keeping her warm enough when she wrapped the blue and lavender coloured plaid about herself.
For the past three nights she had slept like this, alone, dozing off and on, her thoughts returning again and again to her reason for being here.
The Viking raiders had arrived a week past. Violent, savage men in their long boats, rampaging through the villages along the western shores—
even attacking the Mackenzie strongholds. Her own village hadn't been spared, and although Maire had hoped to make a stand, the Norsemen were too practised in the art of war. Once the first blow was struck—their finest young man killed by an axe wielded by a creature from a nightmare—her people had fled, up into the mountains to hide in the caves only they knew. Maire had led the way as they left behind their homes and crops, promising that soon they would return.
But the Vikings had stayed on, making merry in the village and the house Maire had been born in and from which her father, and now she, ruled this land under the lordship of the Mackenzies.
There was no help to be had from other nearby villages. Those that hadn't been raided themselves were all too frightened to interfere in case the same thing happened to them. Maire knew in her heart that her people were no match for these outlanders, not if it came to a face to face fight. They had lost everything and, when the winter came, they would lose their lives.
After endless fruitless discussions, huddled around their campfires, a name had been spoken. Tentatively at first, and then louder and more frequently. It was a name more of legend than reality.
"Someone must fetch the Knights from the Loch," Farquhar, her steward, had finally declared. "They are our only hope now."
Such a proposal should never be considered unless it was the very last resort. And even then . . . There were frightened glances. Maire met her steward's eyes and opened her mouth to say 'No, there must be another way,' and closed it again.
Because there was no other way. Their landlords, the Mackenzies, were busy defending their own, and could not respond to their calls for help. They had run out of options if they were to survive the Viking raid and ever return to their homes again.
"But if we ask the Knights for help then we must give them something in return. A sacrifice." The whisper caused heads to nod and some of the older people exchanged fearful glances.
Everyone knew of the story. Long ago, and far to the south, there was another village where there had been a calamity. Strangers from the islands to the north had come and taken all the fish, and the people were starving. Somehow they survived to the next season, only to see it happening all over again. In their desperation they sent for the Knights. This was perhaps more than a hundred years in the past, but the story had been told and retold, and everyone knew it.
Maire felt her heart sink a little. She knew there must be a supplicant sent to Castle Samhanach to beg for the Knights' assistance—a woman chosen for her beauty and her brains. And most importantly, this woman must be untouched by a man.
Now that they had decided to ask the Knights for help, the matter of who to send began to be discussed in earnest. This woman needed to be someone who could persuade the knights that their request was of the utmost importance. Someone of looks and intelligence, but brave too.
Inevitably, they decided upon her.
Maire was unmarried. Her father had held the village for the Mackenzies his entire life, and Maire was his only child. When he died Maire had stepped into his shoes and no one had questioned her ability to do so. She had been meant to marry, but her intended had drowned years ago in a storm, and for various reasons she had never found another man who was to her taste.
It wasn't as if her life was empty, for she had much to do. Her days were full and she was content. At thirty she was still lovely, but now her beauty was stately and calm rather than the fresh vivaciousness she had had as a younger woman.
"I am too old," she told Farquhar.
He shook his head, hope and sadness warring in his eyes. "You are as bonny as ever, lady, and you are a virgin. That is all the Knights demand. Besides . . ." He stopped, his gaze slipping away, but she knew what he was thinking.
Besides they are monsters and why should monsters be finicky?
"The choice is yours, lady," he said instead.
But what choice did she have? These were her people and her village, and if she had the means to save them then she must use it.
"I will go," Maire had said.
And she had spent the past three days walking toward her fate.
Now her thoughts scattered as a flock of geese rose from the loch.
She peered through the copse of trees in which she had taken shelter, gazing out toward the shore and the water, which was darkening as the evening waned. She had a little food remaining but she wanted to save it until the morning. Tomorrow should take her to her destination, Castle Samhanach, and whatever awaited her there.
Something splashed in the loch. A fish, she supposed, but then she realised she could see a shadow making its way out of the water and onto the narrow stretch of beach. The night was closing in but there was still enough light to make out that it was a man.
Maire stared. She could see that he was tall and broad shouldered, much bigger than the men from her village. His wet hair was slicked to his head in a dark cap, and as he moved toward her she kept very still. With the Vikings about, it was dangerous for a woman alone, and she was not about to test this stranger's good nature. She was grateful that the soft colours of her arisaid made her almost invisible in the gloaming. And then her eyes widened, because she realised he was naked.
She had seen naked men before but it had always been a fleeting glimpse, a momentary thing, where she might catch sight of a man when she was visiting his wife in his home—which usually resulted in much hilarity—or swimming in the sea, and there were of course the wee boys who ran about bare in the summer. It had never been like this, and to her surprise she found there was great beauty in a man's body.
The dying light turned his skin to bronze and as he moved she could sense the leashed power in his hard muscles and long legs. Something hot curled inside her, a need she had not felt for a very long time, and she had to consciously push it aside and remind herself to take care, that she may well be in danger.
The man had found a pile of clothing by the bank above the beach that led from the loch, and now he pulled on breeches, so tight they fit his thighs and hips like a second skin. He quickly laced them up and then bent to tug on his boots. Maire expected him to cloth his naked chest in a tunic but instead he rose again to his full height and stood, staring out over the water.
That was when she heard him sigh.
It was a deep sigh, and seemed to come from the depths of his being.
Maire's heart quickened, for she had sighed like that, and she thought she understood it very well. He was lonely and he had the weight of many other souls upon him. Oh yes, it was the sigh of someone whom others turned to for help and who must always put themselves last.
She closed her eyes, just for a moment, feeling her own pain and apprehension about her quest. When she opened them again he was gone. She rose to her feet, looking cautiously about, but he really was nowhere to be found, and she was all alone by the loch.
Later, as Maire tried to sleep, she
wondered if in fact it had all been a dream, or even a trick of the light. Had he been a ghost, freed from the realm of the dead, and allowed to wander the earth in those brief moments between day and night? But come the morning, when she went to the shore to stand where the man had stood, she found the sand in disarray. It was as if the tide had swept over it, waves crashing, and yet she knew no such thing had happened. Then, at the very edge of the beach where it rose up to the stony bank, she spotted the footstep.
Not a dream then.
She'd slept longer than she meant to, and she knew she must hurry. And yet for a moment she stood, thinking of the stranger, and gazing across the loch. Without realising it Maire sighed in the same way as the man. She knew there was no going back. She had sworn to make this sacrifice, and failure was not a situation she could contemplate.
Straightening her back, Maire set off around the loch.
***
She was swaying with exhaustion. Her feet in their once fine boots were sopping, and her skirts clung to her slim legs, while her long dark hair was like seaweed, so wet and tangled was it. She pulled her arisaid more closely about her, although it had long ceased to give her any warmth. Narrowing her blue eyes, she stared down from her vantage point.
The castle sat dark against the loch, brooding upon its rocky island and surrounded by grey water. Smoke trickled from the keep but other than that there was no movement. On the horizon the sun was setting in pale pinks and soon it would be night once more.
Castle Samhanach was aptly named, for legend would have it that there were monsters within its walls. Monsters masquerading as men.
And Maire had come here to ask for their help.
She started down the hill, her feet slipping on the small stones and gravel that would be covered in snow come the winter. The castle seemed to grow more grim the closer she got to it. She gazed toward the ramparts and beyond them, to the brooding stone keep that speared into the sky. It was very quiet, eerily so. Not even a bird sang its song, and no fish jumped in the loch beside her. The bridge across to the island was narrow and treacherous and she took care with her steps, but at last she reached the gates.
There was a bell to ring, and when she had heaved on the chain attached to it, the deep tolling rolled ominously across the water. Terror crept up from the very depths of her being, like icy fingers clawing at her skin. With a shiver she wrapped her arisaid even closer, as if for protection, and waited.
For a time no one came and then the wicket gate began to open.
Maire's heart was pounding. She was expecting some hideous creature to poke out its beak and shriek at her, so what happened next almost made her laugh. A woman appeared in the doorway. She was incredibly old, with a wizened face and white hair straggling about her shoulders, and her eyes were a pale clear grey—the colour of the loch.
"What do you want, girl?" she demanded in a voice that was splintery with age.
Maire decided it was some time since she had been called 'girl' but then to this ancient crone she must seem young.
"I am the Lady Maire and I have come to beg a favour from the Knights, mother," she said, and was glad her voice was strong. It would not do to appear cowardly from the onset. There would, she thought wryly, be time enough for that.
The crone swept her a glance. "Have you indeed? It is a long time since anyone came to beg favours at Castle Samhanach." Her mouth curled over her toothless gums. "You know the rules, lady. Are you a virgin untouched by mortal man?"
"Indeed I am," Maire said, lifting her chin.
The crone nodded thoughtfully. "And you are proud and bonny, too." She drew a deep breath, as if making a difficult decision. "I think Murchadh will like you."
At the sound of the name, her heart began to tap inside her breast like a frightened bird, but Maire did not shift her gaze from those pale eyes. "Will he help my village to drive off the Norsemen, lady?" she asked. "Will he save my people and restore to them their homes and their land? If he can do that then I will gladly agree to whatever he asks of me."
The woman eyed her a little longer, as if seeking the truth behind her words, and then she nodded with resolve. "Very well, lady, come with me," and it was more an order than a request. "He is waking, and he will be hungry."
Maire shivered and her eyes grew big. Hungry seemed to suggest she might be the meal for this Murchadh. Was that what was in store for her, was this the sacrifice she must make to save her people? Would she become a feast for the Knights? She knew she didn't want to die. Abruptly it occurred to her that despite her busy days as leader of the village, her life had been a lonely one. Her betrothed had drowned before they could marry, and all her dreams of being a wife and a mother had faded with his memory. Then, with her father's passing, she had been left with the care of the land and its people, and the years had quickly slipped by. Before she knew it she was a spinster past her prime, and now it seemed she would end as something to fill this Murchadh's belly. But, she told herself resolutely, she must find comfort in the thought that her sacrifice would save many lives.
Maire drew her skirts aside and stepped through the wicket gate and into the castle bailey. It was empty and silent, and the light was fast fading as night swept in across the lonely loch and its island castle. She followed the shuffling figure of the crone, up some stone steps, to a stout wooden door banded with iron. The door opened to the old woman's hand and they were inside the gloomy keep.
The shadows were even longer here, and the only light was that thrown by candles and flaming torches set around the walls. Tapestries were hung to keep out the drafts, and high above her the beams of the ceiling looked down on her white face. Maire could see that the narrow windows were all shuttered to prevent the light from entering.
One of the stories she had heard told about the Knights was that they could not abide the light of the sun. They were creatures only of the night. While ordinary folk were tucked up safe in their beds, the monsters held their revels. Was it true? Maire had never met anyone who claimed to have been to their great hall, only heard the stories passed down.
Unwilling her thoughts turned again to the role she would play.
Fear prickled her skin but she kept her chin high and her back straight. She must not think about what she would lose here tonight; she must think instead of what she would gain for her people. Surely any sacrifice would be worth it, knowing they were safe?
Be brave, she instructed herself, and pray that the end will be swift.
"Wait here, lady." The crone left her standing in the middle of the great room, and Maire listened to her muttering to herself—"It is time, surely it is time."—as she hurried off. She climbed some wooden stairs, awkwardly because of her old bones, and vanished through yet another door. Alone in the shadows, with the silence broken only by the faint hiss of the burning torches, Maire waited.
There was another tale she had heard and now it came to her despite her efforts to keep it at bay.
The Knights were supposed to be creatures from a time long ago, ancient ones who had survived the centuries, and now took shelter in their castle on the loch. They clung to life in their stronghold, granting the occasional favour in order to repay some sort of debt, the details of which no one could now remember. They were not immortals but near enough. Certainly they were not human . . .
"Girl! Come!"
Maire jumped and looked up.
The crone was standing at the top of the stairs, and when Maire hesitated she beckoned impatiently for her to hurry. Too late now. There was nothing for it but to do as she was bid.
The room she was shown into was small, a sort of anti-chamber, and there was yet another door leading into yet another room, but this door was shut. Thankfully, Maire thought, because she could hear heavy footsteps behind the thick wooden panels. As if something big was stirring.
Could this be Murchadh waking?
She shivered again and then started when the old woman took her arm in sharp bony fingers. Her grey eyes examine
d Maire's pale, determined face and she nodded. "Aye, you are brave," she muttered. "'Tis good, lady. Murchadh is ready to hear your favour."
Her teeth were chattering but she bit down hard, clenching her hands in the woven wool of her arisaid, and telling herself it would be over soon. And what did it matter what happened to her, when her people would be saved? She supposed she would live on in tale and legend, just like that other woman from the village to the south, who had vanished a hundred or more years ago. They would talk and sing of Lady Maire, and in that way she would live forever.
The door opened.
There was a chair drawn up to the hearth, where logs burnt brightly, but she could only see the tall back of it. Ornate carvings covered the dark wooden frame, strange beasts with dragon heads and cresting waves, reminding her of the Viking long ships. The warmth was stifling but Maire was cold and she felt her body begin to thaw and at the same time a strange lassitude came over her. And then her unseen host spoke in a deep, strangely accented voice.
"Come to me, Damsel."
Suddenly her legs seemed to be made of water. She took a steadying breath and then another, and then she stepped forward, cautiously circling the chair. And there was Murchadh.
She couldn't help a little gasp of surprise. It was the man from the loch! Surely she wasn't mistaken? And yet for a moment her head spun as she also realised that if this was Murchadh, then he was not an awful monster, but a man, just like any other.
As soon as the thought entered her head she pushed it aside. Because he wasn't like any other. Murchadh was no ordinary man. He sat in his chair, naked from the waist up, his chest broad and powerful, the muscles on his upper arms bulging even at ease. His hair was dark and hung to his shoulders, and when she looked into his face she saw that he was at once handsome and manly. And his eyes . . . her own gaze was caught and held by eyes as dark as a moonless night.
For a moment she could not move. He seemed to be delving inside her head, reading her thoughts, and swiftly she dropped her own gaze to his boots, afraid he might know she had watched him in secret. And yet she could not seem to curb her curiosity. His legs were encased in close fitting breeches, and the hand that rested on the arm of the chair closest to her was broad and scarred, as if from many battles.