Rogue Highlander: Played Like a Fiddle

by Sondra Grey

  And he had other things he needed to think about.

  Still mulling over how he might gain entrance into the highland keeps in efforts to discover Angus Dubh, Brandon had decided to contemplate his plan while watching the acts practice. Music tended to center him, and he’d no doubt be gone within a few days and wouldn’t get to celebrate the King’s birthday with the rest of the court. While the thought of leaving the court filled him with an itching excitement, he was sad to lose the opportunity to see so many artists play. Music was the thing he’d missed most in his three years on Ruim, and the thing he enjoyed most about being at court.

  He’d wandered into the courtyard and come across the girl. He’d been intrigued by her playing, which was a light-fingered style developed for playing larger harps. She was singing to herself, almost inaudible over the sweet sounds of the harp, but what Brandon heard had drawn him over like a moth to a lamp.

  He’d taken notice when her troupe entered the gallery, and he leaned against the railing to watch, still cloaked in the shadow near the wall, invisible to the players below.

  The leader of the band was a shorter, older man with a balding pate and a neatly kept white beard. He was beating the intro on the drum before the harpist entered the piece. Her fingers quick and forceful against the strings, the sound of the harp echoing richly through the room. Brandon blinked in admiration. The girl could play!

  The other instruments joined in. The fiddler was a tall, good looking young man with lazy posture, the man on the pipes heavier set, but with a good ear. One rarely saw a woman play the flute, but the older woman played hers with a skill matched only by the harpist.

  Then the singer twirled onto the stage in the swatch of blue silk skirts that had seen better days, but made an impression none-the-less. As her voice opened into the rich, boisterous chorus of The Willow, Brandon leaned back in appreciation. The singer had a sort of sharp, country beauty, one that may have tempted Brandon to look twice, but he’d been put off during their earlier meeting by the hunger and intensity in her gaze. That was a woman who might eat you whole and spit out the bones. Brandon had known women like that. He preferred to stay away from them. Now, however, he was surprised at the skill her voice possessed. Perfect pitch, he thought to himself as she ran the scales of The Willow with admirable skill.

  He felt his fingers tapping against the wooden balustrade of their own accord. He saw one of the King’s event coordinators smiling. This troupe was good, he allowed. They were very good.

  When the last notes of Willow spun out and silence followed, Brandon joined the gallery in applause, and he noted one of the King’s men jotting down notes.

  “Tell us about yourselves,” commanded the man in yellow with impatience.

  “We hail from the highlands,” said the old man. Brandon was willing to believe him, even if he’d heard a bit of a lowland lilt in the harp player’s voice, as the drummer sounded like he’d arrived fresh from the Munro Hills. “We play the castles there and winter in Inverness. Usually, at this time we are touring through northern holdings, but we thought we’d come south to celebrate our sovereigns birth,”

  Brandon felt himself lean forward. These players toured the Northern castles? Of course. Of course that was what he would do. The only way to access a dozen highland keeps in six months’ time was to tour them with musicians. And he was good enough to play with this troupe. Hell, he was a fair sight better than that lazy-postured fiddler.

  He didn’t need to think further. This was a perfect plan. Straightening, he strode off, eager to speak to the old man and win himself a place amidst their ranks.

  “Who on Earth is my fool husband talking to?” muttered Babette, folding her arms across her amble bosom impatiently. I turned, hand half down my dress, fumbling to undo the sacks of flour Babette had stuffed in. I spotted Ned’s white hair (what was left of it) and bit my lip. It was the dark stranger from before.

  “Oh, him,” said Glenna, happily, dropping onto the bench beside me and nearly knocking me off it. “We met him earlier. Handsome, isn’t he Babette.”

  “Looks like a thug,” said Babette. “Like he’s’ seen a few too many fights.”

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” said Glenna, standing. “I’m going to go over there.” She didn’t invite me to go with her, but I didn’t expect her too. Glenna was possessive around all men. I watched her sweep over and rest her hands on Ned’s shoulder. From where Babette and I were sitting, we could hear what he was saying, but we could tell what Glenna was doing. She leaned in and laughed, and ran her fingers through her beautiful hair.

  How do men fall for that?” said Babette, shaking her head. “Meg, darling, I am daily surprised by the stupidity of the other sex!”

  “Ned’s all right,” I smiled at her. In fact, Ned and Babette had given me work when I might have starved. They had taken care of me since. They were both all right in my book.

  “I did manage to snatch myself a half decent fellow,” Babette allowed, her hard eyes softening, as they always did, on her husband. “How, I will never know.”

  They were a strange pair. Ned was small and kind, soft spoken until he had to put on a show. Babette was larger, loud, and brusque, but she was a musical genius, and music was Ned’s life.

  I let my eyes linger on the stranger, who was listening as Ned explained something to him. I saw Glenna’s eyes light hungrily on him, and I saw him gaze at her a few times, but, when Ned was through talking, the man didn’t linger. He nodded and left.

  “What did he want?” Babette demanded as Ned approached.

  “A job,” said Ned. “Says he plays the fiddle. I thought it might be wise to hear him out, since I don’t know how much longer Roger will be with us.”

  Babette glanced over at Roger, who was dozing against the wagon wheel. She rolled her eyes. “Well hear him play before you give him a job.”

  “I recommend trying to get the measure of him first,” I said, before I could stop myself. When Glenna, Babette, and Ned looked at me, I shrugged. “Roger plays fine. It’s his work ethic that’s terrible.”

  Ned shrugged but I knew he’d probably try to have another conversation with the stranger before offering him a job.

  The thought that the handsome man with the intense, black eyes might be joining our troupe, mad my heart quicken. I licked my lips and shook my head.

  “Robin,” said Ned, as the boy appeared over my shoulder. “I’m going to wander the castle grounds. Stay here and see if we get called for a slot.”

  He looked at us. “I recommend you see where you might take your rest. There’s no camping within the city grounds. You may have to spend your precious coin on a room. I doubt the king is equipped to house all his performers.”

  “Come along,” said Glenna, linking her arm through mine, and tugging me back towards town.

  “Meet back here two hours before nightfall!” called Ned.

  Chapter 6

  “I t sounds too good to be true,” said the King, skeptically.

  “I think it sounds like fate,” Argyll, grunted, eyeing Brandon with respect. “We know he’s left Lewis. There’s no way he’s hiding there. But there are Macleod strongholds all over the North West. If your players are travelling through Macleod lands, then they’ll cross through MacDonnell land as well.”

  James frowned and Brandon tried not to look eager. A rogue MacDonald would be hiding amongst the Macleods of Lewis kin – but if he wasn’t there, then the highland MacDonells, cousins to the MacDonalds, were the next best bet. Brandon was sure he’d find Angus Dubh on the Northwest Coast, trying to unite others to his cause.

  “What is it, then, you need of me?” James demanded.

  “The group I wish to travel with is called the Travelling Troupe. Allow them the honor of performing the first day. They will leave the city after, and I will leave with them,” said Brandon.

  James sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Fine,” he said, after a moment. He looked tired. Even Brandon had
to admit that the boundless energy that usually burned within him was beginning to decline. The impending wars were weighing on him. The constant effort to unite a warring clan system would wear anyone down.

  “Thank you, highness,” said Brandon, bowing low.

  “A moment, Cameron,” said Argyll, Brandon turned back around from where he’d begun to exit. Even James looked up at Argyll in surprise. Whatever Argyll had to say, he had not cleared it with James. James thought it interesting that Argyll would speak after the King had already dismissed him.

  “I’ve heard rumors, of course, but perhaps you can enlighten us on what really happened in Dalcross.”

  Brandon paused. Dalcross. Where he’d led the Campbells straight into the Cameron camp, resulting in the death of his brother Eudard.

  Brandon straightened. He had the king’s interest too and knew he needed to answer.

  “I’m surprised, my lord, that you do not know the tale. As your own kin were involved.”

  “It is not an incident my cousin will speak of,” said Argyll.

  Brandon rubbed his chin, ruefully. “I do not, then, know if it is a matter on which I should speak.”

  “Your king commands it,” said James, lightly, sitting back.

  Brandon shrugged. “Very well.” The last Cameron war he’d been a part of – before he was interred on Ruim – was the scuffle with the Campbells and the Grants in effort to take the land along Moray Firth. The Camerons had called upon the Macphersons to help, and the Grants had called the Campbells in as well. The war had lasted too long, with little gain for the Camerons. And Brandon had been sent to be of use to his brother Eudard, a twisted bastard with a love of bloodshed. “We were ninety days through December on the borders of Grant and Campbell land. The Campbells were at Cawdor castle, but one of the younger girls used to ride out to the village to help the sick. The Macpherson scouts spotted her first, and told Eudard, in case there was some tactical advantage to kidnapping.”

  Brandon took a breath. He did not like to think on what happened next. “Eudard was decided there was. He had the Macphersons watch for her, and when next she rode out, they kidnapped her, killed her guard, and brought her to Eudard.”

  Argyll’s eyes had gone cold. “Say her name,” he commanded. Brandon closed his eyes, remembering. “Sorcha,” he said. Argyll seemed satisfied and waited for Brandon to pick his story back up.

  “My brother was not happy with the kidnapping. He held Sorcha in his tent three days and…” Brandon bowed his head to the side, “used her. When he was through, he cast her out into the cold to fumble her way back east. There was no tactical advantage for my brother. No one knew where our camp was, and he was sure the girl would die on her way back to Cawdor.”

  “I did nothing when Eduard held her, but I could not let her die alone. And was too much a coward to face the Campbell’s myself. So, I rode to Cawdor and waylaid a perimeter guard, telling him what I knew of Sorcha’s path. The Campbells rescued her before the cold could set in. And she led them to the Camerons, straight to Eudard.”

  Argyll’s eyes burned into Brandon’s and Brandon spread his hands in supplication. “And so, I was responsible for the death of my brother. When Eudard’s actions were revealed to my father he did not slay me, nor did he let the others kill me. He sentenced me to Ruim – to keep me away from the Camerons, and to keep the Camerons away from me.

  “To keep the Cameron’s away from you?” murmured the King.

  “It wasn’t only Eudard who died because of my actions,” Brandon said. “I’ve the blood of a dozen men on my hands. And their families would have vengeance.”

  James nodded, taking in the story. Argyll looked interested, as if Brandon had revealed important information.

  “You are dismissed,” said King, finally, waving a hand. Brandon bowed and disappeared into the hall.

  Chapter 7

  “W ould you care to come with me?” asked Ned that evening over dinner. We’d returned to the castle to hear that we’d been chosen to play on opening day. “A great honor!” Ned had crowed. I felt ill. The entire court would be there for the first days of the King’s festivities. He told us when to be back at the castle, and let us know where he and Babette were staying.

  One of the guards had volunteered to take Glenna to dinner, and Glenna had agreed. Roger had not returned to the castle when he was supposed to, which meant either he’d up and left, or he was gambling somewhere, or whoring.

  “Where are you going?” I asked Ned. I knew he’d let me share his room at the inn if I asked. And I might yet ask. Glenna had no doubt brought her handsome guard back to the room we’d purchased together. I’d be lucky if she let me in to sleep.

  “Back to the castle, to see the fiddler play.”

  “You’re thinking of hiring him, then?” I said, wondering why my heart was catching at the news. He was handsome, but there was no need for me to go all gooey about it. Perhaps I was nearing my monthly flux.

  “I’m worried that Roger might not come back in time for our performance,” said Ned. “If the fiddler is any good, perhaps he can join without rehearsing much.”

  “I’d love to accompany you,” I said, knowing that I was saying yes because I wished to see the man again. Something about him had caught my attention. Since I’d set eyes on him I was trying to figure out what it was.

  “Let’s go then,” said Ned, standing. “Babette, love of my life, will you take care of our bill?”

  Babette muttered something at him, eyes on the performer playing near the bar. I slid a few coins for my dinner and followed Ned back out into the city.

  It was amazing to me that the city was still noisy at night. Someone had lit the lamps, and the streets were dimly lit in the pale glow of the overhead lights. We walked in the middle of the streets to avoid getting waste dumped on our heads. Though it was mostly in the alleys, some jokester thought it funny to dump his chamber pot out of the third story and onto the unsuspecting populace below. I’d only seen it happen once today, but once was enough.

  “He told me to meet him at the Thorny Rose,” said Ned, turning off high street and heading towards the university. The Thorny Rose was only a ten-minute walk, and when Ned and I arrived at the inn, we asked after a “Brandon Black” and were led into a small room, where Brandon sat in deep conversation with another young man who looked half drunk.”

  “Ned,” said Brandon, standing and holding his arms out in welcome. Then his eyes fell to me. “Ah. And the harpist,” he said. “I did not get your name.”

  “Meg,” I said.

  “I see you brought in your expert to assess my skill,” said Brandon. He’d been all quiet intensity when I first met him. Now he was jovial, warm, and charming. I had the distinct impression in was an act, but it was working on Ned, who sat down and pointed for Brandon to pick up his fiddle.

  Brandon obliged. He must have tuned the instrument already for he picked up a bow and, with a grand flourish, began to play The Willow. The same song we’d played for the King’s Men. He must have been listening.

  It was an effort to keep my expression neutral as he played. Where Roger played with lazy posture, and barely agile fingers, this man, Brandon, played with a practiced skill and a disciplined bow. But there were moments when the song seemed to own him, when he would bend with it, giving in to the demands of melody. I had difficulty taking my eyes off him. The strange control he exhibited over his music spoke to me. I wanted that control to snap, wanted to know what would happen if he lost himself to that music.

  Too soon it was over. Ned clapped heartily. “Well done, my boy! Well done! Bravo!” said Ned.

  Brandon bowed, accepting the praise as his due.

  “We’d be happy for you to join us,” said Ned. “I have been trying to get rid of our current fiddle player since shortly after he joined. Speaking of which,” Ned’s gaze grew assessing. “Do you have an aversion to work?”

  Brandon blinked and placed his fiddle back in its carrier. I want
ed him to pick up back up. To play something else. “Work?”

  “Life as a travelling musician is work. It’s setting up camp and taking it down. It’s negotiating pay and planning logistics. We work as an ensemble and when one of us doesn’t pull his weight…”

  “I understand,” said Brandon.

  “May I ask,” said Ned. “How you came to be in the city? Were you playing with another troupe?”

  Brandon shook his head. “I’m from the north, near Tor. I’ve been working as a stable hand in the castles and am eager to return North. I find I’ve no love for Edinburgh.”

  “So, you will not be with us long then?”

  Brandon shrugged. “I can’t say. I’ve no wish to travel without a destination, but you said you were heading to tour the Macleod lands after this. I lived not far from there. If I like the travelling musician life, perhaps I will maintain it. But if I choose to see my family again…”

  He trailed off.

  Ned nodded. “We play for the King tomorrow and leave from the castle the following morrow. You’ll meet us there at dawn if you wish to continue with us.”

  “Then I will meet you at Dawn,” said the man.

  “And where might I get a hold of you, sir, if I need you earlier,” said Ned. No doubt remembering, last minute, that there was a chance Roger might not show up.

  Brandon gave Ned directions for meeting him, and cast one more glance at me before bidding us farewell. I felt his eyes lingering on me as we left and wondered what life in the road with a man like that might be like. Best not to get my hopes up, I thought. When Glenna found out the stranger from the other day would be joining our troop, she’d lay claim.