The Night Side

by Melanie Jackson

  “You have heard of the fate of Michael Balfour,” Alasdair said abruptly, either abandoning his appeal for clan loyalty or else feeling he had said enough on the subject. MacLeods were not sentimentalists.

  “Indeed. The story is already legend. There are Balfours in the South and they can speak of little else.”

  “Thanks to this stupid war, this Balfour is survived by only two relatives. The lad’s name is Seoras.”

  Colin mentally translated: the boy was named George.

  “The other is the daughter of Michael, one Frances Balfour. She is the heiress of Noltland Castle and all its lands and monies. She’s a comely wench, too, even though she has the look and manner of the French about her.”

  Colin stared carefully at his cousin’s face, wishing that he could see it without the tricky wavering of the firelight. Alasdair’s tone and the use of the girl’s sassun name suggested that he was either very wary, very respectful, or very interested in this heiress. The fact that he had commented on her attractiveness was interesting. Heiresses could be missing limbs and teeth, as ugly as a Highland sheep with mange, and still be considered desirable. Consequently, their appearance was not often dwelled upon.

  “Aye?” he prompted, wishing more detail.

  “At present she is well enough protected by her father’s remaining men. Thank goodness the braggart was not so stupid as to leave the castle completely unguarded or the wolves would be upon her.” Alasdair shrugged, looking more annoyed than gratified in the dead laird’s foresight, in spite of his grudging words of praise. “However, if she does not choose a suitor soon, I fear that come winter some of her neighbors may attempt to take the castle and force her into marriage.”

  “Are any of them likely to gain her cousin’s consent to wed? Or the regent’s?” Colin asked carefully.

  “Seoras is but a boy. ‘Twould be an easy matter to get rid of him. And the regent…” Alasdair shrugged. “Well, Mary of Guise is very far from here. Busy as she is in the Lowlands defending herself from the sassuns, all could be accomplished before she was even aware of events.”

  “True. The regent is presently much occupied with things in the South.” Colin’s own tone was bland. He didn’t mention John Knox and the troublesome reformers who had begun to spread their militant religion over the land. It was not just witches who were burning.

  “Aye, she’s getting a rough wooing from the English and their cursed religion—a pox on them all!”

  Colin took another sip of sweet wine. “So, being that the regent is elsewhere occupied, out of the goodness of your heart you wish to offer the Balfours some protection?” he suggested.

  “Aye—protection.” Alasdair smiled happily at this tactful, though mostly untrue, summation. “The only thing that will make Noltland safe is for the girl to marry someone strong enough to hold the keep.”

  “And to keep Seoras safe until he is grown and can look after the keep himself?” Colin suggested.

  Alsdair shrugged again, but said, “Well, aye. Of course, if she wanted him kept. And if the Bokey hound does not claim him.”

  Colin blinked at the implied ruthlessness and then asked: “Bokey hound?”

  “Aye, a fiend, a hound of Hell that howls when the laird is to die. They say the beast has been lately seen abroad.” Alsdair actually looked a bit uneasy. He was a Christian, but only nominally, and his Viking roots were still firmly grounded in the world of vicious monsters and fearful alchemies.

  “And this hound is going to kill the boy?” Colin found this tale of a hound to be rather convenient, and suspected it was an invention designed to terrorize either the MacLeod or the youngest Balfour. If the former, he had to wonder who at Noltland Castle had invented the tale. If the latter…well, that matter needed further cogitation. And though suspicious, Colin himself did not dismiss this wild tale out of hand. He had yet to see an actual hellhound, but he had seen enough other things that he did not rule out the possibility of one’s existence.

  “Well, perhaps it shall. Who knows what devilish beasties may do? But what of it? The lass will have no need of him once she is married. He would only be in the way of her own children,” Alasdair pointed out with the ruthless logic for which he was famous.

  Colin blinked again, and wondered if Frances Balfour could be anywhere near as cold-blooded as Alasdair seemed to think her. “And you have approached the girl with your offer of protection?”

  “Aye—and the stubborn lass won’t have me! She says she is still mourning her father and brothers and isn’t prepared to wed anyone until the year is out.”

  “That is not unreasonable, surely,” Colin suggested. “She did lose thirty-one of her family after all.”

  “Aye—aye! But they were Balfours—just bags of prideful wind. How sad could she be?”

  Deciding to be direct, Colin asked: “And my role in this affair is to be what? An emissary to plead your case to Mistress Balfour?”

  “Nay. ‘Twould do no good. I’ve had emissaries aplenty there and gone myself. I even offered her the choice of my kinsmen who would take her to wife—though why she would want another when I am willing to wed her is beyond all kenning.”

  Colin, noted for his tact and delicate diplomacies, did not comment.

  “What I need, cousin,” the MacLeod went on. “Well, I need someone inside the castle. Someone who can earn her trust—someone to persuade her that the MacLeods are not greedy and cruel, and that she should trust me.”

  The irony of this request did not seem to present itself to the MacLeod, who doubtless considered himself to be only normally ambitious and merely firm in his dealings rather than merciless.

  “I see. And I am to be that person?” Colin asked. “But why? Surely there is some other who could do this.”

  Alasdair shook his head. “You are dark like her father and a Lowlander as well. Mayhap that will lead to some liking. She does not seem to care for blond men.” Alasdair did not appear concerned with the fact that his proposed bride did not favor his golden looks. “Also, you have skills as an intelligencer. You Mortlocks have always been subtle and sneaky.”

  That was true, though Colin rather thought of himself as being less devious than perceptive. “And MacLeods were always as stubborn and unbending as steel,” he muttered in the English tongue. He found that he was beginning to feel very sorry for this unknown Frances Balfour. A determined MacLeod was a pitiless thing indeed.

  “How do you suggest inserting me into the household?” he finally asked. “Or is this for me to plan?”

  “Well, cousin, there is the beauty of it. The girl has spent much of her time in the Lowlands and France, and she has acquired a taste for gowff. You are a Lowlander, too. It will serve in this instance.”

  Somehow this sounded vaguely insulting, but Colin let the matter pass. All Highlanders and islanders had low opinions of those who dwelt in the Borders and the sassun lands beyond.

  The rest of the plan, however, was too ridiculous to let go without comment. “Alasdair, this is a preposterous and unsensible notion. And dishonest,” Colin added scrupulously, though he knew the argument would fall on deaf ears. “What will she care about my being a sassun Lowlander? There are better ways to go about this wooing. Send her some tributes. Or let her go to the MacKays.”

  “Now, laddie, don’t say that! She is likely to be my future bride—if I can get rid of that MacDonnell wench my father plighted me to. I must keep her safe until she comes to her senses. I could lay siege to Noltland, but she would not like it—and the bloody MacKays would likely be there, too. And if there are MacKays, then there will soon be Gunns. This is a much better plan—much less wasteful. You will soon come to be friends with the girl, convince her that she and the boy need my protection. And later, if she remains stubborn about marriage, you can open the gates for me and let my men in.” The treacherous betrayal of his hostess was suggested casually.

  Colin reminded himself that, while he had been raised with the chivalric tales of love,
the Norse had no such romantic notions to hamper them. Expediency was the order of the day.

  For a moment he made no comment, choosing to sip his wine and reflect carefully. Finally he asked: “Are the MacKays and the Gunns still at war?”

  “Are the MacDonalds still the stinking spawn of the devil?” Alasdair asked rhetorically. “Of course the MacKays and Gunns are at war!”

  “And the Keiths?” Colin asked.

  “Still murderous bastards, every one of them,” his cousin declared with a touch of pride, reminding Colin of the fact that he was related to Keiths on his mother’s side.

  “Hm…You know that this may prove a tricky undertaking. Noltland, that is a tower fortress, yes? The most northerly one in Scotland, if I recall, and right upon the sea. It is also completely surrounded on land by MacKays and Gunns and Keiths. And the Bishop of Orkney also has an interest there, has he not? Besides that, you know it will be cold and boring—and worse come winter.”

  “Aye—but ‘tis not so ill a place for all that it is on the sea. I hear that they have wrights, carpenters, smiths, one damned clever armourer—even a magicked seannachie who plays strange songs upon the pipes. And there must be some fighting men left as well, as their pikes are seen up on the battlements, changing at regular hours. And there is also sport to be had—good otter-hunting—and there are some cattle to bleed in the cold season so none shall go hungry.”

  “Aye, and they also have constant war with their neighbors, and perishing damp and cold, and apparently a spectral hound—not to mention disease in the winter, for they have only cow blood to eat.”

  Alasdair waved a dismissive hand.

  “You fuss over nowt. There has been no real plague on Orkney for a goodish while.” Apparently war and cold were so commonplace as to not require comment.

  Colin wondered if he might actually like eating otter and blood pudding.

  A moment of reflection convinced him that he would rather not take the culinary risk. He was not that inured to hardship. If he went to Noltland, it would be with food.

  “You’ve not actually been in the castle then?” he asked absently.

  “Nay, she’ll have no one in while they are in mourning. Smart lass,” he added grudgingly. “If she allowed me inside, she’d have no way to rebuff the MacKays and Keiths and Gunns.”

  “I see.” Colin frowned a little. “It’s good that she is at least that sensible.”

  “In any event, you needn’t worry about an overland journey through MacKay country, for I shall send you by sea in the galley,” Alasdair coaxed, then added as inspiration struck: “‘Tis the fastest route. The safest, too. And I may send some tributes with you, since they would actually arrive. Some woolens, belike, to keep you warm. And if you are quick about it, you could be well away again before winter anyway.”

  “Tributes are good. And if we are taking the ship then you may also send some wine, some sheep, and a few more cattle as well.”

  “What! Cattle?” Alasdair glared while he ruminated. Apparently his desire for the heiress was stronger than his parsimony. “Very well, you may have a score of sheep and four head of cattle. And I’ll send all my wine along.”

  “Thank you. Your generosity will doubtless impress Mistress Balfour.” Colin gave his cousin a moment to think about this, and then said, “Now, about this idea of a game of gowff—”

  “Ah! I have anticipated you. I’ve had my bowmaker craft twoscore clubs of yew for you—bunkered clubs, butting clubs—and also fourscore boiled feather balls. Frances prefers them to wood or dung.”

  “I see.” Colin hunted for something complimentary to say before dashing his cousin’s hopes for this mad plan. “That was most farsighted of you. However, there is still a slight problem with this arrangement.”

  “You do play, don’t you?” Alasdair looked suddenly dismayed. “It is said that even the sassun king likes to play this Lowland game.”

  “Yes, I can play. But I do not think that my arriving at Noltland Castle in a galley requesting a game of gowff is perhaps the most likely method of gaining entrance,” he said patiently. “They have different manners in the Lowlands, it is true, but as she has already refused you entrance—”

  “But it is the best way! It is all arranged.”

  “It’s all arranged? Truly? But how?” Colin was more than slightly taken aback. The girl’s desire for golf must have reached a stage of mania if she was willing to risk the precarious balance that held her many unwanted suitors at bay.

  “Aye. You are Noltland’s new Master of the Gowff. And no one can object, as you are a sassun foreigner—and therefore likely to be stupid about the ways of the North.”

  “Master of the Gowff?” he repeated.

  “Aye. I told Frances that I would find her one, since it was the only thing she would have of me. I have taken care of your clothing and everything you shall need.”

  “My clothing?” Colin asked evenly.

  “Aye, laddie. We still wear the plaids up here.” He glanced at Colin’s attire and shuddered. Then he jerked a thumb at the corner of the room. Folded neatly on the end of the table were a length of garish red wool and a saffron-colored sark.

  Colin looked down at his handsome doublet and trunk hose. He did not see any cause for distress in his attire. He had deliberately avoided wearing the more bombastic codpieces presently favored at court and chosen to bring only those that posed the most modest and probable of erections.

  “I am more than happy to wear the tartan,” he lied. “But what is that thing?” He eyed askance the vivid fabric pile.

  “It’s your own tartan, laddie! The girl specified the design herself. Her Master of the Gowff is to have the proper uniform of office.”

  It was Colin’s turn to shudder. He would look an idiot—a popinjay! No one wore cloth tinctured red with blackthorn and deadly nightshade anymore. And as for the yellow shirt…it was hideous.

  “Why so strong a shade of red?” he asked plaintively. “It looks like battlefield gore.”

  “Well, it is that way so you might be plainly seen out upon the greensward, she said.” Alasdair tried to sound encouraging, but fell rather short of total approval. As a soldier and hunter, he would never wear any plaid that made him so conspicuous.

  Colin, also a hunter—though in a very different world—for once agreed completely.

  “Is there a greensward?” he asked hopefully. Greenswards and uniforms—however ugly—suggested pleasant amenities like herb gardens, music, and a propensity among the castle dwellers toward civilized activities like bathing and general castle cleanliness.

  “Well, not exactly a greensward. There is a goodly stretch of green thistle though, and a bit of heath and a tiny wood. And a great many rocks where there are hares. Among the boulders, they are a better chase than red deer.” Seeing Colin’s dubious expression Alasdair added: “Be reasonable. After all, lad, this is the coast they are living on, not the damned Borders.”

  Colin sighed. “I didn’t really expect that there would be shorn meadow to play on, but one does like to hope for something more than thistles and boulders. They shall shred the leather balls in a trice.”

  He rose and walked to the table. He fingered the vivid plaid. It was actually very finely made, if one overlooked the color. Mistress Balfour had even arranged that he should have a brooch with his own badge, a pair of sticks crossed over a gowff ball. The pin’s design lacked a little in inspiration and stature, having no fearsome beasts in its crest, and also looked to have been fashioned by an apprentice smith, but it was still a kindly thought.

  “Tell me: why all the secrecy here at the castle about this plan, cousin? It is surely more than mere shame at my clothing that has kept you from welcoming me home in the usual manner.”

  “Nay!” Alasdair denied. “I welcome you. ‘Tis just that I do not want anyone to know of my plans for you yet. Some might think that I was being too soft with the Balfours. Those idiot MacKays, for example. They have no appreciation for s
ubtlety. They would see this plan as the act of a weak man. Anyway, I do not want them to know that you are my cousin.”

  That was probably true; this plan was rather weak. It was also true that they would probably act immediately if they thought the MacLeod was preparing to take the castle by stealth, so for his own safety it was best that Colin’s identity remain hidden.

  “Why, my own stepbrother dared taunt me for not besieging Noltland immediately,” Alasdair complained aggrievedly. “And he threatened to go to the MacDonnells and tell them I was ready to beak my troth with the Glengarry’s daughter.”

  Colin turned and stared. “Torquil did this? And did you banish him?”

  “Aye. Banished him straight to Hell with an axe in his head. I had to,” Alasdair added pettishly. “I can’t have people carrying tales to the MacDonnells and questioning my judgment. Anyway, it wasn’t as if he was my true blood kin. Mother’s dead now, so there was no one to be bothered by his loss. Anyhow, I did the decent thing and cut out his heart to put in her grave before I gave him up to the sea.”

  “I see.” So it was Torquil’s ghost he’d met on the stairs. Colin tried to feel bad for him, but failed.

  “Four and twenty years is plenty long enough to have learned some sense,” Alasdair continued. “He should have been less stupid if he wanted to live.”

  “One would think so,” Colin agreed, both fascinated and horrified by this person who shared his blood. He wisely did not ask about how Alasdair intended to break his betrothal with Glengarry’s daughter. It would have to be something violent and beyond the usual degree of horribleness, he was sure, for Glengarry very much wanted this match.

  “So you’ll do it, cousin? You’ll go to Noltland and get the heiress for me?”

  Colin looked down at the ugly wool and found himself smiling. A master of the golf—forsooth! He had counterfeited many roles in his career, but never this one. It was a vastly amusing notion, given his rather poor style of play. Falconry and archery had received more diligent attention in recent years, and always there was the sword, but golf had been avoided like the Dutch plague. He would be lucky to recall which end of the club was used to hit the ball.