by Aileen Adams
“Alasdair,” his father had warned. “Yer on a dangerous path, a fool’s path.”
The Stuarts wouldn’t regain the throne; there was little support in England, and despite French vows of support, those promises had also fallen through. Nevertheless, the Jacobites had held off English troops at Falkirk. This past winter, they had pretty much hunkered down, many beginning to wonder about their Bonnie Prince, hearing rumors that he was upset and pouting over their previous retreat at Derby. With the arrival of spring came the Bonnie Prince’s desperate insistence on action rather than invasion.
It had culminated here, on the moors to the east of Inverness, where Alasdair now lay dying.
Alasdair lay still, fighting the pain, waiting for dusk and ensuing darkness, and then he would somehow make his way off the battlefield, tend to his wounds, and God willing, he would live to return to his farm and the simple, peaceful life that he so desired.
2
“Papa, no!” Beitris gasped, her voice strangled as she took in his words. “Please, Papa, ye can’t—”
Bruce Boyd erupted. “Dinna tell me what I can and cannot do, lass! Yer well past marriageable age, and even though yer dowry is small, it’s enough to entice him, and by the gods, ye will do as I say!”
“But Papa—”
“The farm is close to debt, and it’s time ye had a husband to take over the responsibility of feeding and caring for ye. Ye understand that, dinna ye?”
No! She didn’t understand it at all. Since her mother had died several years ago, she had done her best to fill the void, but it had grown increasingly clear to Beitris that her father wanted to be rid of her, once and for all. This wasn’t the first time he’d tried to marry her off, but it was the first time that a man had actually agreed to the contract. Well, not the actual man she was going to marry, but his—the prospective groom’s—father.
“Ye know the chances of finding ye a husband are growing slimmer every year. Yer nearly twenty and two years of age! It’s time.”
“But Papa, Alasdair Macintyre?”
Alasdair Macintyre.
She knew him—or knew of him, rather. They had grown up in the same small town near the border of the Highlands and the lowlands of west-central Scotland, their village located halfway between Loch Tay to the north and Loch Earn to the south. He was a fighter, always had been since they were children. She didn’t know what he looked like, but his voice was deep and gravelly. According to local gossip, Alasdair was always ready to fight, anytime, anywhere. From what she had heard, he’d left his farm and his father a little over a year ago to join the Jacobites in their rebellion. She shook her head. A fruitless endeavor, that, and one that cost thousands of Scotsmen’s lives to no avail.
“His father already agreed to the deal. He’ll inherit half our land—good land, mind ye—and half the cattle and sheep, and the old stone house up in the hills.”
Beitris sat stunned by the news. Who would want to marry a blind girl? Or nearly blind anyway. Her eyesight so bad she was only able to see some vague color, and only if that color was within inches of her face. Other than that, her sight was extremely limited to shadows and plays of light—grays and darker grays—so why had Alasdair’s father agreed to this? He knew about her, knew that she couldn’t see. What kind of wife would she make to any man? She would be nothing but a burden, like she was to her father. Despite her attempts to make herself useful around her own home, cooking and cleaning, her father had more than once hinted that she was his burden. She had heard him talking to one of the villagers more than once, asking around, wanting to know if any man of marital age would be interested in his daughter. Her beauty spoke for itself, he would remind them, and with which everyone was in agreement.
Beitris didn’t know what she looked like, so she supposed she had to take her father’s word for it. She had been told by Elspeth, her best friend and self-appointed companion, that her long hair was dark with a red tint in the sunshine, and she knew by feel that it was flighty, with light waves that bounced when she walked. She usually wore it bound behind her head to keep it out of the way. According to Elspeth, her complexion was milky white, and despite the smattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose and on each cheek, they evoked smiles rather than criticism. Her brown eyes were large and filled with curiosity, her nose dainty and well proportioned, her mouth plump and ripe for kissing.
She had scoffed at that. Since she could remember, she had been teased, taunted, and sometimes bullied because of her lack of sight. She did remember one time, a long time ago, when Alasdair had stepped in to break up a small group of boys that had grabbed the basket filled with eggs she’d taken into the village to sell for her mother. He had scolded them, shaming them for picking on not only a female, but a blind one at that.
So, despite his reputation as a troublemaker, a fighter, a rogue, she knew that, at least once, there had been some good in Alasdair. But by her thirteenth year, she rarely heard about him as he was seldom in town, always working his father’s farm. How old was he now? She counted on her fingers. Five years older than she, so that made him almost thirty years of age. Almost an old man!
She heard her father moving around in the main room of their small home and turned her face toward him. “When is this supposed to happen?” she asked quietly, resignation in her voice.
“Ye dinna have to make a sound as if yer going to a hanging,” he grumbled.
“Might as well be.” She sighed. “Has he returned from fighting? How do ye know he’s even alive?”
“He’s due back soon,” Bruce told her. “After the debacle at Culloden, where else is he going to go?” More footsteps as her father paced around her chair. “His father received a short note from him about a month ago.”
Beitris remained silent, a heavy knot of dread settling into her belly. Alasdair Macintyre. Truth be told, she didn’t know him from Adam, not anymore. The few interactions as children were nothing to base a potential marriage upon. What if he was cruel and mean? What if he decided she was nothing more than a burden? What would prevent him from beating her? From killing her just to get rid of her while still keeping the dowry? After all, following the marriage, he would have the land, the animals, the stone house. She had nothing to offer him besides her body, and the thought of that caused her to cringe, her heart to pound, and her hands to tremble. She folded them in her lap, hoping that her father didn’t notice.
He did.
“He needs a son, Beitris, to carry on the family line. Ye’ll be able to offer him that much, won’t ye?”
She gasped. “Father!”
“Well, it’s true, ain’t it?”
Was that the extent of her father’s interest for her? He wasn’t concerned about what type of marriage she would have, or what she would gain from it. Was she to be nothing more than a breeder? How could her father do this to her? How could he betray her well-being like this?
It was a silly question. It was the destiny of women in her village to be married off, not for love, but for benefits, dowries, and deals made behind closed doors between parents who gave more thought to what they would gain from the marriage than the happiness of their children. It had been that way for generations. Still, she vowed that if she ever had a child of her own, she would let the child make his or her own decisions about their future, about whom they married.
“Does he know?”
“He will soon enough,” her father said. “Now, enough questions! I’ve got work to do in the fields. Ye’ve got plenty to do around here today as well. There’s butter to be churned, bread to be made, and tomorrow, there’s the laundry…”
Footsteps retreating, the door opening and then closing softly behind him as her father left the house. Beitris sat still in the chair, unmoving except for a slight shaking of her head. Alasdair Macintyre. Well, at least he wasn’t ancient and wrinkled. Nevertheless, the thought of living with any man, being forced to… Her stomach roiled. Her future uncertain, Beitris sat for quite some
time, wishing she could find a way out of this, but she couldn’t. Maybe between the butter churning and the bread making she could walk into town, tell Elspeth the news.
Her longtime friend, Elspeth, was not only her friend and companion, but her confidante. They knew each other like the closest of sisters, and away from home or away from Elspeth’s small thatched cottage at the edge of town, her friend was also her eyes. They had been friends forever, and though they had not gone to school together, Elspeth had befriended her when they were but children, had promised to be her friend forever, and she had kept her promise.
Elspeth was a year older than Beitris and also unmarried, although Beitris found that hard to fathom. Elspeth was a confident young woman, diligent and industrious, caring for her aging parents until they had passed away the summer before. However, because she had no dowry, few suitors had approached Elspeth. Like Beitris, both had been destined to be put on the shelf, too old for marriage until Beitris had gotten the startling news. She shook her head again.
Alasdair Macintyre. She could already hear Elspeth’s growl of irritation. She sighed and decided she’d better get going on her chores, and then she could visit with Elspeth.
She knew her way down the cart path to Elspeth’s house, every curve, every dip, every clump of grass growing along the side of the path. In the spring and summer, Beitris knew exactly where the fields of lavender grew on either side of the path by the scent wafting through the air. She was able to identify many clumps of wildflowers, and because her other senses had grown so sensitive over the years, she could identify animals and birds, shrubs and trees. She could point out bird’s nests, identified by a myriad of calls, and even where animals dug their dens or bedded down for the night, if the breeze was just right. Even during the daytime, she could often pick up the scent of deer, and once, a wild boar.
For now, though, she had butter to churn. She rose just as her father approached the door, opened it, and by the sound of liquid sloshing in the bucket, she knew he’d finish milking their cow. Without a word, he tromped into the kitchen, placed the bucket on the floor, then retraced the steps, leaving the house silently.
With a sigh, Beitris moved into the kitchen. She knew every bit of this house, every board, every knothole, every nook and corner. She moved around easily, avoiding knocking her knees or bumping into their sparse furnishings, was able to cook, wash dishes, do the laundry and other household chores just like any other woman—as long as none of the furniture was moved.
As she set about her work, she couldn’t help but wonder what Alasdair Macintyre would think once he learned he was betrothed to the blind, isolated, introverted Beitris Boyd. Would he refuse her in spite of the agreement between their fathers? If not, how would he treat her? She didn’t hold out hope that she would ever have an equal relationship with any man, for no one but Elspeth truly understood her, not her father, nor anyone in town, so how could Alasdair? She couldn’t imagine the piece of land and the old stone house that her father had promised or even some sheep and cattle were enough to compel any man to marry her. There had to be something else, something her father wasn’t telling her. What could it be?
Beitris fully understood that she was different from other women and had been reminded of that since childhood. Because she had been made fun of so often in her growing years, she commonly eschewed contact and socializing. Even going to church on the occasional Sunday that her father allowed it was often difficult for Beitris. She didn’t have to see to feel the eyes on her. She supposed it was natural, to openly stare at someone who couldn’t stare back. During her childhood, Beitris had thought she was a freak of nature, but it was Elspeth’s friendship that had convinced her that she was not, that she had just had the misfortune to grow terribly ill when but a toddler and lose most of her eyesight. Other than that, she was just like any other woman. In fact, Elspeth had convinced her that she was special, that because of her near blindness, her other senses had compensated. Elspeth often bragged that Beitris had the best hearing of anyone in town, and that she had a gift of sensing changes in the weather merely by the scent of the air.
Her heart thumped with trepidation thinking about Elspeth. What would happen to Elspeth? Would Alasdair allow her best friend and companion to accompany her to the stone house? Would Alasdair want to live there, so very far from the village, or would they stay at the small house of his father? The thought of being without her companion for the first time in her life filled her with a sense of dread to the point where she felt sick to her stomach. What would become of Elspeth if Alasdair refused her?
She sighed.
Elspeth would be all right. She earned a few coins every month for sewing, and her small garden patch kept her well stocked with fresh as well as dried vegetables over the winter. One of the men from church, an older man by the name of Rory, often shared a measure of venison, rabbits, or pheasants with her after a successful hunt.
She should be worrying about herself, not Elspeth, and yet, she couldn’t help it. When it came right down to it, who would take care of her father, who could barely boil a pot of potatoes, let alone cook himself a meal? Who would do his laundry, mend his clothes, clean his house? A fit of pique swept through her, and she decided she didn’t care. If he wanted to get rid of her so badly he would make such a deal without even blinking an eye, he could fend for himself for all she cared.
The more she thought about it, the angrier she grew. She tried to focus on skimming the cream off the milk as it separated, knowing just how to handle the wooden spoon to pick up the cream that rose to the surface. That took a couple of hours by itself. She busied herself, clearing her mind of anything but the task at hand. However, after the cream had been skimmed off, she poured it into the churn her father had made, then snatched the dasher with holes drilled into it and lifted it up and down, her arm moving faster and harder the more she thought about this agreement her father had made, the idea that soon she would be wed to a complete stranger.
The harder she churned and pounded the dasher against the bottom of the churn, the more the liquid splashed. She stopped abruptly, remembering that she hadn’t put the lid on the churn. She did so, then resumed the churning, more calmly now, as she fought back tears.
Abandoned.
That’s how she felt. Brushed aside as if she mattered not one whit. Once again, she wondered what her father was getting out of this deal he had made. Was getting rid of her and her burden of care enough for him? Is that all he wanted? If so, then why not just take her into the woods and leave her there for the wild animals? Why marry her off to anyone? He was letting go of land, animals, and a house. Not that anyone was begging to buy that old stone house so far away from the village, but nevertheless, it was property.
While it appeared as if he’d bent over backward to literally sweeten the pot for Alasdair’s father—and Alasdair—with this deal, how indeed was her father benefiting?
3
It had taken nearly a month, a good three weeks longer than it normally would have, but Alasdair was almost home. This morning he’d begun to see more familiar landmarks, and with a growing sense of anticipation and relief, he guided his horse through one of the higher canyons overlooking the valleys of his homeland, looking forward to being home again, but at the same time worried.
He knew he would never be the same. He was not the man who had left a year ago. He had grown disillusioned, bitter, and angry. His physical appearance had changed as well, that he knew.
After the battle, after the cries of pain, the screams and the slaughter had concluded, he lay on the ground, the scent of blood hanging in the air from hundreds of dead and the stench of decaying bodies wafting into his nostrils. For hours, silence lay over the battleground as night fell and the stars came out and the moon rose. The usual night sounds absent, no owls hooting, no frogs croaking at the edges of the marsh, no crickets, no nothing.
Eventually, he had rolled over onto his back, keeping his movements small, infinitesimally sm
all so that if the enemy happened to be looking, searching for those yet alive, he wouldna be noticed. He spotted no torches, heard no laughter from the enemy. Just an eerie, encompassing silence. He blinked through the dried blood on his face to look up at the night sky, carpeted by millions of stars. A cloud drifted in front of the moon, casting the landscape into further darkness. His leg burned and throbbed. His face, even worse. Gingerly, he lifted his hand, thinking his skull had most certainly been cleaved, perhaps even parts of his brain exposed. His skull over his forehead felt swollen and tender, but he found the origin of the sword slash, followed it with his fingers down, heart thudding with horror as he gently felt its length as it descended from his hairline down to his forehead, slashing his highbrow but sparing his eye, thank God. The gash, as wide as his little finger, continued over his cheekbone, down his cheek, and across his jaw. His jaw had thwarted the angle of the sword’s trajectory, curving along toward the middle of his chin.
A horrible wound, not deadly, but one that would leave its mark forever. If he lived long enough for it to form a scar. He’d been lying in the dirt and muddy, cold marsh ground. He had to clean the wounds in his face and leg. He had seen fellow soldiers die days, weeks, or months after a nonfatal wound, had noticed that those wounds were dirty, their bandages also dirty and covered with yellowish pus, sometimes infested with maggots. Eventually, gangrene set in. Not a pleasant death.