The Gathering Storm (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 3)

by Julia Brannan

  “I said I’d carry those for ye!” he protested when he caught up with her.

  “Yes, well, I won’t get to build myself up if everyone insists on doing everything for me, will I?” she said through gritted teeth.

  “Beth, there’s nae reason to take on so,” he said placatingly, snatching at one bucket and succeeding in prising it from her fingers. “Ye canna help it that ye’re weak, ye’ve no’…”

  Whatever he’d been about to say was lost in a gasp as the contents of the other pail of water hit him full in the face.

  “Thank you for telling me the clan thinks I’m a feeble, exotic flower, about to expire at the slightest exertion,” she said. “I can, now you’ve explained it, understand why they might think so. You, however, have known me for over a year. You’ve seen me ride for three days at a time with hardly any sleep, drag Sir Anthony’s trunks full of clothes up and down stairs, and lug endless buckets of water upstairs for baths, since the only other help we have at home is Maggie. I thought you, at least, would have known better!” She glared at the empty bucket, and turned back to the river. “Leave the water there and go home,” she called back over her shoulder. “Make sure the stew doesn’t boil dry. I’ll be there in a few minutes, when I’ve calmed down.”

  He left the water there and went home, dripping, to be greeted by the amused grins of his brothers, which soon disappeared as he told them how he’d come to be drenched.

  “Ye could have put it a wee bit better,” Duncan said, revealing that he also agreed with Angus with regard to his sister-in-law’s physical state.

  “Aye, well, I’ve no’ got your gift for tact, man, and I didna think she’d take it so amiss. After all, she is tiny, is she no’?”

  Alex rubbed his hands through his hair.

  “She is. But she’s verra sensitive about it, too.”

  “I ken that, now,” said Angus dryly, dragging his sopping shirt over his head.

  “She’s spent her whole life no’ being taken seriously on account of she’s wee, being patted on the head and treated like a bairn by patronising men. She’d no’ appreciate thinking that the whole clan feels that way about her,” Alex said, not admitting his own doubts. “She wants to be accepted on equal terms.”

  “Will ye have a word wi’ her about it?” Duncan said.

  “No, not unless she raises the subject,” Alex replied.

  He was not being a coward. Now she knew, it would be interesting to see how she dealt with the problem herself.

  * * *

  Peigi MacGregor paused in her labours, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear before pressing her fingers into the base of her back. She remained like that for all of ten seconds, before diving across the room and out of the door to wrestle a large and wriggling worm from her son’s hand before he could succeed in his intention of putting it in his mouth.

  “Yeuch!” she cried, then softened her voice as the child’s face began to crumple. “Ye dinna want tae eat that, a leannan.” She picked the infant up for a moment, swinging him high in the air to take his mind off the tasty treat he’d just been deprived of. His twin, still sitting on the blanket, made a mew of complaint at the attention his brother was receiving and lifted his arms to her to be picked up. Peigi sighed. This was impossible. Normally Alasdair would look after the bairns, or someone else with nothing to do would. But today everyone was busy, and she had, insanely, thought she could make butter and keep an eye on her two normally placid babies, who today had become possessed by some demon and seemed intent on crawling off the blanket she’d placed them on and into as much mischief as possible.

  A shadow fell across her, and she squinted up to look into the smiling face of the chieftain’s wife.

  “Hello, Peigi, isn’t it? I was told you’re making butter, and I’ve come to see if I can be of any help.”

  Peigi put the baby down and admonished him to stay there in her sternest voice. Then she stood, and eyed her helpmate dubiously.

  “Aye, well, I was just about to drain off the buttermilk, when this wee loon decided tae eat a worm.” She went over to a pail of water and washed her hands briskly. “Ye can keep an eye on they two while I carry on, an ye want.”

  Without waiting for a reply, she went over to the churn and removed the plug, draining the buttermilk into a clean bucket. When this was done, she filled an identical bucket to the same level with water, and poured it into the churn.

  “I expected you to have a dash churn,” Beth said, eyeing the barrel-shaped churn on its metal cradle with approval. “We had one like that in Manchester, but I’ve never seen another.”

  “It was made for us by a cooper,” explained Peigi. “He’d been in America, and seen them there, but he was awfu’ homesick, and came back in the end. It’s still hard work, mind,” she added, as she saw that Beth had no intention of minding the twins, but had instead pushed her sleeves up and taken a hold of the crank.

  “I know,” Beth replied. “I used to make the butter at home. You have a rest. The twins’ll prefer their mother to look after them anyway. They don’t know me.”

  Peigi’s back was aching and she was tired. The twins were teething and fractious and had kept her awake for most of the previous night. A rest would be lovely.

  “All right, then, if you’re sure,” she said. “Let me know when ye get tired though, and I’ll take over.”

  She sat down on the blanket outside in the sunshine and waited for Beth to call her, in about fifteen minutes or so, she thought. The children, appeased by the undivided attention of their mother, crawled into her lap. The weather was lovely, wall-to-wall blue skies. Perfect harvesting weather. Alasdair and the other men had gone to see if the oats and barley were ready, and to fish for trout. A large bumble bee buzzed drowsily in a nearby patch of clover. Peigi closed her eyes, just for a moment.

  When she opened them the sun had declined considerably in the sky and the blanket was now in the shadow. The twins had fallen asleep on her knee, and one of her legs had gone to sleep. Remembering, she moved the babies off her lap onto the blanket, taking care not to wake them, and stumbled into the dairy shed, wincing at the pins and needles in her leg as the blood started to circulate again.

  Beth was at the table, working the last of the butter into pats with the grooved wooden ‘Scotch hands,’ used to expel the excess water after churning. She looked up and smiled.

  “You looked so peaceful there,” she said cheerfully. “I thought I’d let you sleep. Is this for sale, or are you storing it for winter?” She cast a glance at the pile of earthenware jars, freshly washed and ready to one side.

  Peigi stared at Beth with amazement. She showed not the slightest sign of fatigue, in spite of the fact that butter-churning was an exhausting task for even the brawniest of the women, and she had the slenderest arms Peigi had ever seen. Yet the butter was perfect; she could see that.

  “It’s to be stored,” she said. “We’ll have to leave it for a couple of hours, then roll it again. I’ll away off and put the bairns to bed, then come back and finish off. Thank you,” she added belatedly, stunned.

  “It was nice to do a bit of hard work for a change,” said Beth. “I’m ready for my meal now. I just hope Alex managed to catch some trout, that’s all.”

  She walked back to the house, smiling, while Peigi’s eyes followed her, watching for any sign of backache or soreness.

  While Angus cooked the trout, Alex massaged Beth’s aching arms and shoulders, working his fingers deep into the muscles and gently teasing out the knots. Duncan sat watching, but made no comment as Beth alternately winced and sighed with pleasure as the overworked muscles relaxed.

  “Do ye no’ think it was just a wee bit stupid, to churn all that butter yourself, without a rest?” Alex said after a few minutes. The smell of frying trout drifted from the kitchen, making Beth’s mouth water. She was starving.

  “No, I don’t,” she replied. “Like I said to Peigi, I used to do it at home.”

  “
On your own?” Alex said.

  “Well, no,” she admitted. “John used to help me. In fact, he used to do most of the churning. I don’t care, though. If it makes them stop treating me as if I was made of glass, it’ll be worth it.”

  “Ye’ll be sorry in the morning,” he said, finishing his ministrations by planting a kiss on her shoulder. “Ye’ll no’ be able to move.”

  “I haven’t got a lot to do,” she said. “Apart from fetching water without looking as though it hurts. Which I’ll do myself,” she added, as Angus walked in with a large plate on which were three expertly-cooked trout.

  “I’ve nae intention to help ye,” he said, putting it on the table. “No’ after the thanks I got last time. I’ll be out in the fields with everyone else, anyway.”

  “Why?” she asked, liberating a piece of fish from the plate and popping it into her mouth. “What’s happening tomorrow?”

  “The harvest,” said Alex. “The oats and barley are ready. Everyone helps. Except yourself. Ye’ll be in no fit state to.”

  The three brothers, along with much of the rest of the clan, kept an intermittent eye on the young woman with the pale gold hair who was wielding her sickle with dexterity and no sign of discomfort. The women sang a song to help them keep the rhythm, and their voices were sweet and melodious on the warm late summer air.

  “How the hell is she doing it?” said Duncan quietly to Alex, when there was no danger of them being overheard. “She must be in agony.”

  “Or an awfu’ lot stronger than we thought,” remarked Angus, his voice laced with admiration. He had seen her drag trunks up and down stairs, and lug buckets of water upstairs. But not for twelve hours at a stretch, for two days. After churning butter for several hours the day before that.

  “She’s in agony,” said Alex with certainty, although there was no sign of pain on his wife’s features as she laughed and joked with the other women. It was working, he had to give her that. The others had relaxed noticeably around her as they accepted there was more to her than met the eye. Only Alex knew that that ‘more’ was nothing to do with physical strength.

  “She’s no’ strong, she’s bloody-minded,” he said now to his brothers. “But dinna tell anyone I tellt ye that. Least of all her.”

  In the distance Beth paused for a minute, stretched her arms and rotated her shoulders a few times, then continued, quickly re-establishing the rhythm.

  “She is that,” agreed Duncan with due reverence. “But even the most bloody-minded man canna continue when his strength gives out. Are ye no’ going tae stop her, afore she injures herself?”

  “No’ today, no,” replied Alex. “It’s getting late, anyway, and she needs to prove herself. She’d never forgive me if I made her stop now in front of the whole clan, and she’d be right. But ye’re right, too. She canna continue like this for another day.”

  “She doesna need to, as far as I’m concerned,” Angus said.

  Judging by the general attitude, that was the view of the whole clan. Alex felt justified in what he was about to do.

  “What do you mean, I’m not allowed out of the house?” Beth said, hands on hips, glaring at her brother-in-law. Exhausted, but in pain, she had found it difficult to get to sleep and had consequently woken late, by which time Angus and Alex had already risen silently, breakfasted and gone.

  “They’ll be finished by noon, anyway,” Duncan reasoned. “There’s no’ much left to do.”

  “Fine,” she said. “Then I’ll be out there doing not much with them till noon.” She made a move and Duncan set his back to the door. They eyed each other for a moment.

  “He’s got no right to do this,” she said. “He can’t keep me here against my will.”

  At this point Angus would no doubt have told her that Alex was her husband and could therefore do anything he wished to her, short of murder. Duncan did not, which was why he had been chosen for this unenviable task.

  “Ye’ve proved yourself, lassie,” he said instead. “Ye dinna need to do more.”

  “But all the other women are out there reaping, aren’t they?” she said.

  He nodded.

  “Then I need to be out there with them, Duncan, or all my work’ll be for nothing! Let me go, please,” she pleaded.

  He did not move.

  “You cannot keep me here against my will!” she cried, almost in tears. Her muscles were cramped and sore. It had taken her ten minutes to dress, but if she didn’t put in an appearance now everyone would know she wasn’t as strong as the others.

  “Aye, I can,” he said logically. “But I dinna want to. Everyone kens ye churned butter all day, Peigi’s tellt them she fell asleep. There isna a woman out there who wouldna jump at the chance of a rest. Ye’ve done it. Did ye no’ ken that by the way they acted towards ye yestereve?”

  She did, and had rejoiced. Even so…

  “Has Alex told them that I’m too sore to work today?” she asked.

  “No. Give him some credit. Ye’re needed here tae make the bannocks and get things ready for tonight. So am I. We always have a wee feast to celebrate getting in the harvest. It’s normal, Beth. If it wasna me and you, someone else’d have tae do it.”

  It was clear he was not going to let her go, so she sat down. Even if she had full use of her arms, she couldn’t overpower him. As it was, she didn’t even know if she could manage to make the bread, she ached that much. Duncan moved away from the door and sat down opposite her.

  “They’ve accepted ye, Beth. They think ye’re accustomed to such work. If ye go out there today and collapse, they’ll ken that ye’ve overreached yourself, and why ye’ve done it. They’ll still admire ye, mind, but that’s no’ what ye want, is it?”

  “No,” she said. “I just want them to stop treating me differently, that’s all.”

  “Well, then,” he said. “Stop now, while ye’re ahead. And ye dinna need to pretend to me that ye’re no’ hurting. I’ll no’ tell a soul, and neither will Alex or Angus.” He smiled winningly, and she gave in. He was right.

  “I’m not sure I can even knead the bread dough,” she admitted in a small voice.

  “Dinna fash yourself,” he said, rolling up his sleeves. “I’m an expert. Away off back to your bed for a couple of hours. It’ll be a long night, if things go as normal, and ye’ll want to be awake to see the fruits of your labours.”

  * * *

  Once the harvest was in it rained for a few days and then the sun came out again. Everyone made the most of it; it was September by now, and was probably the last time they’d see the sun, or the warm sun at any rate, for some months. The grain had been ground, peat for the fires dug, the cattle brought down from the hills, and the knowledge that their diet would be supplemented by the generous provisions Alex had brought from England rendered the MacGregors carefree and relaxed. Whatever problems the winter brought this year, starvation would not be one of them.

  Today the clan was occupied in various leisure pursuits. Most of the children were swimming in the loch, their mothers watching and chatting, some of the men had gone hunting, and Alex, Duncan, Angus and Dougal, the lazy Robbie’s eldest brother, had gone off into the hills to practice fighting. Beth had asked if she could accompany them, as she had no children to watch, and had never seen Highland swordplay.

  Permission having been granted, Duncan, Alex and Beth were sitting on a large flat sun-warmed rock, observing Angus and Dougal as they went through their paces.

  “It seems awfully realistic,” Beth observed, as Angus ducked just in time to avoid being decapitated by Dougal’s broadsword. He drove his targe into the other man’s stomach, temporarily winding him, and then paused to allow Dougal to get his wind back.

  “There isna any point in holding back,” Alex explained. “If ye canna hold your own against one man who’ll give ye the time to recover yourself, ye’ll no’ last five minutes on the battlefield. Ye’re slipping, man,” he said to Dougal, who had regained his feet. “In a real fight Angus would h
a’ finished you off now.”

  “He’s improved since I last fought him,” Dougal acknowledged.

  The two men circled each other for a moment before closing in again, Dougal more wary now. They had stripped off their shirts and their muscles bulged and rippled as they thrust and counter-thrust at each other. Even Beth could see they were well-matched, in size and strength, at least. As far as technique went, she had no idea, but they both seemed pretty accomplished and ferocious to her.

  “He’s put on bulk,” Alex said, eyeing his youngest brother’s muscularity with admiration.

  “Aye, he’s a man now,” observed Duncan. “In the body, at least.”

  Beth sat between her husband and brother-in-law, watching closely. She had expected some sort of fencing competition with rules, not the free-for-all battering and gouging contest she was now witnessing. She waited with trepidation for the blood to spurt, and wished she’d thought to bring some bandages with her.

  “Do people often get injured in these play fights?” she asked.

  “Oh aye,” Duncan said nonchalantly. “But it’s no’ normally that serious.”

  Alex looked down at his hand.

  “That’s how I got yon wee scar there, that gave my identity away to ye,” he said.

  Beth looked at the ‘wee scar’, and wondered what a big one would look like.

  “Who were you fighting?” she asked.

  “Me,” replied Duncan. “We were eleven and thirteen, and thought we were men. So we borrowed da’s claymore, without telling him of course, and went away off tae play at soldiers. Keep your arm up, man, ye’re tiring!” he shouted suddenly to Angus, making Beth jump. Dougal’s sword smashed into the younger man’s targe with arm-numbing force, and Angus leapt nimbly backwards out of striking distance.