Highland Storms

by Christina Courtenay

  With that parting shot, he sauntered off, leaving Marsaili simmering with rage. She wanted to tell him he was the last man on earth she’d be ‘nice’ to, but knew she was better off keeping her sentiments to herself.

  She’d just have to continue to stay out of his way.

  The plan Killian had come up with was for Brice to travel to Rosyth House under an assumed name at first, in order to see how matters stood.

  ‘That way, you’ll be able to see the true state of affairs and hopefully catch them unawares. Make an assessment of all the goods and equipment that’s needed in order to put the estate back on its feet, if indeed it’s as bad as the factor claims. Then you can go back to Edinburgh and order everything to take with you, along with the title deeds. If there really is something underhand going on, it’ll hopefully rattle the people responsible as well.’

  ‘What if they recognise me though?’ Brice had protested. ‘My second cousins or aunt Ailsa?’

  ‘I doubt it.’ Killian laughed. ‘You’re not exactly a scrawny twelve-year old any longer. From what I understand, Ailsa is an invalid so you might not see her at all, and the girls should be married and long gone by now. I sent over their tochers ages ago.’

  ‘Their what?’

  ‘Tochers, dowries. With five thousand merks each, I’m sure they were snapped up quickly, although strangely enough Seton never told me who they married.’ Killian shrugged. ‘Mind you, he never writes about anything other than estate matters and as I said, I haven’t heard from Ailsa for some time now. Anyway, with a bit of luck, you’ll find some things out before you’re unmasked. It’s worth a try.’

  Consequently, Brice left Edinburgh behind after only one day. The fact that he’d brought his own horse from Sweden and therefore didn’t need to hire one saved time. However, he was sure Starke would baulk at crossing the Firth of Forth by boat at South Queensferry, having just endured the North Sea for a week, so he took the longer route west by land. They were soon trotting happily through the countryside, past Linlithgow and almost as far as Stirling, before heading north in the direction of Drummond.

  At first, the landscape was fairly flat, with fertile farmland all around, spread out like a rippled quilt. Crops ripening in the sunshine, mostly golden oats or barley, interspersed with the dusty green of late-summer meadows. Once they’d crossed into Menteith though, low lying, rolling hills came into view, with higher mountains in the distance and copses of trees which sometimes turned into small woods. The area had a natural beauty that was undeniable and somehow it called to Brice, even though it was so different from the deep pine forests he was used to in Sweden.

  Although the landscape itself hadn’t changed, Brice immediately noticed that the country he was riding through was altered. He’d heard about the reprisals carried out throughout the Highlands during the summer and autumn of 1746, when the Government forces wreaked their terrible revenge on those who had dared to oppose them. There were horrifying tales told of people being shot out of hand, women raped, houses and crops burned, but Brice had thought they were probably exaggerations. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  Although nature had covered the tracks of the looters, there were still quite a few houses which were nothing but burned-out shells. And Brice saw overrun gardens and former orchards where every single tree was nothing but a stump. The main change, however, was in the faces of the people he met en route. Most of them looked downright miserable, there was no other word for it, especially the further north he travelled.

  Scotsmen in general and Highlanders in particular were a proud race, but polite and hospitable to a fault, as Brice well knew. Or they used to be. Now they seemed introverted and reluctant to talk to him. Whenever he stopped at an inn for some refreshment, he was regarded with suspicion, even when he addressed the landlord in Gaelic or Scots. It was as if they didn’t trust their own eyes and ears and thought him a spy of some sort, merely because he was better dressed and rode a fine horse.

  After a long day in the saddle, he stopped for the night at a traditional inn near Crieff. It didn’t look very inviting from the outside, being nothing more than a crude hut built in the Highland manner. This consisted of a low dry stone foundation, topped by a turf wall and a timber frame to hold up the roof beams. The roof itself was made up of turf as well, laid grass side down so the soil wouldn’t fall on anyone’s head, and covered with thatch of heather. The floor was nothing but beaten earth and there was no chimney, just a hole in the middle of the roof to allow the smoke to escape.

  Poor Starke had to be tethered outdoors as he was too tall to fit through the door of the nearby hut which served as a stable, but Brice made sure the horse had something to eat and plenty of water.

  ‘You’ll be all right, old boy, at least it doesn’t look like it’ll rain,’ Brice whispered to the big stallion, who only snorted in reply.

  Brice himself had to duck to enter the main room of the inn and immediately walked into a cloud of peat smoke. Belatedly, he remembered it was best to sit down quickly on one of the low stools that were the room’s only furnishings. The ‘reek’ as the smoke was called in Scots tended to rise, which left only the air nearer the ground fit for breathing.

  ‘Here ye are, guid sir, sit yersel doun. What’s yer will?’ The landlord was friendlier than most and indicated a vacant stool. Brice lowered himself onto it, while the ‘guidwife’ ignored him and continued to stir the contents of a huge cauldron, hanging over the central hearth by means of a thick iron chain coming down from the roof beams. When he tried to follow its length with his eyes, Brice saw instead several hens roosting in the rafters, which made him duck instinctively.

  ‘Some broth would be welcome,’ he said, not sure whether this was what the cauldron contained.

  ‘Aye, it’ll be ready the noo, and we’ve some bannocks to go wi’ it.’

  While they waited for the food to be served, the landlord sat next to Brice and offered him a cup of whisky, then filled one for himself. Brice had no doubt he’d have to pay for the both of them, but he didn’t mind. At least the man didn’t seem averse to talking to him.

  ‘Yer health, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, and yours,’ Brice countered politely.

  The man was more outspoken than most and regarded Brice with his head to one side. ‘Ye look like ye’re newly arrived, laddie,’ he said, as if taking pity on the newcomer. ‘Dinnae expect a friendly wealcome here if ye’re onything tae dae wi’ the ’cursed Redcoats.’ He spat on the floor for emphasis, causing his wife to mutter under her breath about his dangerous behaviour. ‘We’ll no’ ferget wha’ they’ve put us through.’

  Brice hastened to assure the man he was nothing to do with the English forces. ‘My father fought at Culloden,’ he confided in a low voice, in case there really were Sassenach spies around. ‘Won’t you please tell me more? I’ve been abroad, and it’s hard to separate fact from tall tales.’

  The landlord nodded, perhaps swayed by the sincerity in Brice’s voice and gaze. He accepted the offer to share a meal and some more whisky with Brice and moved his guest as far away from the smoking peat fire as possible once the food was served.

  ‘Weal,’ the man said, ‘onyone suspected o’ bein’ a Jacobite suffered terribly.’ The man shook his head sadly. ‘Them Redcoats treated everyone the same, e’en the bairns. They took all we had an’ more. Nae mercy, nae pity. It were an ootrage.’

  The man proceeded to regale him with several horror stories and Brice believed him. Killian had told him the Duke of Cumberland had been set on nothing but total humiliation. The threat to the crown had to be dealt with once and for all, the country and its people completely broken. It looked to Brice as if the hated man had succeeded only too well, apart from the odd spark of defiance.

  He couldn’t help but wonder what he’d find at Rosyth House. Although it hadn’t been sacked because no Jacobite connection could be proven, were the people there as dejected as the ones he’d met so far? He hoped not, for his sake and theirs.
It would make his task that much harder.

  Chapter Four

  ‘So what’s this I hear about you attacking Mr Seton with a broom, sister dear?’

  This question and the accompanying giggle almost made Marsaili miss her step and she had to put out a hand to steady herself against the thick stone wall of the stairwell. She was on her way up to Ailsa’s quarters for an afternoon session of sewing and hadn’t heard anyone come up behind her.

  ‘Kirsty, you gave me such a fright! And you shouldn’t call me sister, you know.’

  ‘Of course I should. It’s the truth and everyone knows it.’ Kirsty grinned, unrepentant.

  Marsaili didn’t reply. Kirsty was right in a way, but they were only half-sisters and Marsaili felt she had no claim to kinship really. Kirsty’s father Farquhar Kinross had seduced Janet Buchanan, his wife’s maidservant, and Marsaili was the result. She didn’t find this out until she’d turned fourteen, however, and her mother had died. Although Janet had been forced to stand on the stool of repentance in the kirk for three Sundays in a row, she’d always refused to reveal the name of her child’s father.

  Farquhar was long dead by then as well, but the local minister had taken it upon himself to inform the widow, Ailsa. Apparently he’d sworn that Farquhar admitted fathering the child just before he left Rosyth for the last time to go abroad, and he’d even signed a paper to this effect.

  ‘He wanted to make sure that if the bairn was a boy, he’d be taken in by the old laird,’ the minister explained. Marsaili had been given to understand her father had been obsessed with siring a son. She thought to herself it was just as well he never returned from his journey to find he had yet another daughter.

  She had an older half-sister too, Flora, who spent most of her time looking after Ailsa, and Marsaili knew there had been a third, younger daughter, Mairie, who’d died.

  Marsaili shook her head at Kirsty. ‘They might know it, but they’re also well aware that I was born out of wedlock. And kin or not, you’re as powerless as I am against Seton, so please don’t add to your mother’s worries by mentioning the incident with the broom to her. If he chooses to complain about it, fine, but I have a feeling he’d rather keep the altercation to himself.’

  Kirsty frowned. ‘Very well, but you must promise to come to me for help if he attempts to go too far. I heard what he tried to do to Liath and he had no right. He may think he’s the one running things around here, but even he would have to obey a direct order from my mother. I’m fairly sure I could persuade her to issue one should the need arise.’

  Marsaili wasn’t convinced, but nodded all the same. As the two of them entered the bedchamber cum sitting room in the north tower, occupied by the Kinross ladies, Marsaili was struck anew by the amazing kindness and forbearance Ailsa had shown. Not only had she accepted her husband’s infidelity with equanimity, but she’d taken the orphaned Marsaili in, fed and clothed her, and made sure she received some education. She would have done more, had Marsaili allowed it, but the latter felt that being treated as a daughter of the house was too much. Although Ailsa meant well, it would have felt like taking charity, which was something Marsaili could never contemplate.

  ‘I’d rather you give me a position of some sort, if possible, so I can work for my keep,’ she’d told Ailsa, which was how she came to be the housekeeper, responsible for the day to day running of the household. This suited them both, since Ailsa could never be bothered with such matters and neither of her daughters wanted to take on these tasks. Flora was too busy looking after her mother and Kirsty – well, she was hoping to get married, although as yet there had been no announcement.

  ‘Ah, there you are girls. Come in, come in. We’ve only just started.’ Ailsa was sitting at a round table by the window, together with Flora, working on a huge quilt which was spread out between them. It was made up of dozens of tiny squares of material, all scraps left over from other projects or cut up old garments. Since there was no money with which to buy new lengths of silk, they’d had to make do with whatever they could find. To Marsaili’s mind, this in no way detracted from the beauty of the quilt, which was a piece of art in itself. The ladies were now in the process of embellishing it even further by adding embroidery to some of the squares. They had decided on a theme of flowers, since this allowed for individuality yet a uniform appearance.

  She and Kirsty took their places at the table and picked up one side each, continuing with the motifs they’d been working on the previous day. Marsaili was creating a sprig of heather, the purple and lilac hues vivid against the pale cream square she’d chosen to embroider on. Kirsty had just started on a rose, the bright yellow of it making another splash of colour on her side of the quilt.

  ‘How are you today, madam?’ Marsaili asked the older woman politely. Ailsa had asked her to call her by her name, but somehow it didn’t feel right.

  ‘I’m very well, thank you, my dear. It’s such a lovely, sunny day. How can one not be in good spirits?’

  ‘Indeed.’ Marsaili smiled, but thought to herself that it would have done Ailsa the world of good to actually go outside and enjoy the sunshine and fresh air, rather than stay cooped up in her tower. Unlike Seton, Marsaili didn’t think Ailsa was ‘away with the fairies’, as he’d put it, but she was frail and nervous. Small and birdlike, she looked as though she’d blow away in a strong wind. Her face was remarkably unlined for a woman of her age and the ash blonde hair mixed with grey suited her, but some exercise might have put roses in her pale cheeks. Marsaili had a feeling Ailsa would be pretty with a bit of colour, but she refused even to come downstairs for meals.

  ‘How is your lovely hound? I thought I heard barking earlier?’

  Ailsa’s remark seemed innocuous, but Marsaili sometimes wondered if the woman knew more about what was going on at Rosyth House than she let on. Her pale blue gaze gave nothing away, however, so Marsaili replied with the lie she thought was required.

  ‘Fine, thank you. He was probably just answering some of the other dogs. You know how they love to make a racket.’

  Ailsa smiled. ‘Yes, of course. And has he acted as a deterrent to the determined suitor you were telling me about?’

  Marsaili had concocted a story about a love-sick groom, who she claimed was pestering her, in order to obtain the necessary consent to keep Liath with her at all times. Ailsa had been in favour of this and had given her permission.

  ‘So far, thank you. Liath is a wonderful guard dog.’

  Ailsa nodded. ‘Good, I’m glad.’ Then, as if her mind flitted from one thing to another, she changed the subject and began to talk about some gossip she’d heard from Flora. Marsaili breathed a sigh of relief. She had sensed many times that Ailsa was afraid of Seton, and after the woman’s many kindnesses to her, the last thing she wanted was to force her into a confrontation with the man.

  Stabbing her needle into the material with unwarranted viciousness, she swore she’d handle him herself. She just didn’t know how yet.

  ‘Wishin’ ye guid weather,’ the landlord called after Brice as he left the inn the following morning, feeling slightly bleary. Although the heather mattress he’d slept on was comfortable enough, the little inn hadn’t afforded much in the way of privacy and someone’s snores had kept him awake a good part of the night.

  ‘Thank you.’ He knew this strange farewell was a legacy from the old days when a man’s safety depended on the weather as he travelled through the Highlands, and it made him smile.

  He was soon riding along the military road built by the English General Wade in the 1730s. It was at least five yards wide, a lot better than most Highland tracks and properly constructed of stone and gravel. It headed north-west towards Glenalmond and here he’d reached the edge of the Highlands proper. The heather-covered hillsides, steeper than any he’d passed the day before, were a lovely sight to behold. Rich blossom in shades of mauve, lilac and purple spread out before him, and he breathed in their fresh scent. The tops of the hills were bare rock, whic
h for large parts of the year would be covered in snow, but were now dark and imposing.

  In the valley, the River Almond wended its way into the distance like a long glittering snake. At one point, a beautiful waterfall made its way down to join it and Brice stopped for a while to admire it. The sun was beating down, but flurries of wind danced around, keeping him cool. It was quite simply glorious.

  ‘Are you thirsty, Starke?’ He guided the horse towards the edge of the fast-flowing burn and they both drank their fill.

  Once through the long glen, Brice didn’t continue north to Aberfeldy. Instead he turned left onto a fairly wide, but rough, track constructed by his great-grandfather Kenelm. The old man had lived to a good age and as he’d wanted to travel in some comfort, he’d seen to it the journey to Rosyth could be done by carriage if need be.

  ‘Just as well for us, eh?’ Brice patted the neck of his horse and received the usual snort in reply. ‘You’re too big and heavy for the normal Highland paths.’ He reflected that he probably shouldn’t have brought the horse at all, but he’d hated the idea of leaving him behind again when he’d only just come back.

  Brice had fond memories of Rosyth House and now he was closer, excitement built inside him. Would it look the same? And how would he feel about it now he was older? He had his answer when he rounded the final hill and saw the strath – the wide, shallow valley – which surrounded the small Loch Rosyth. The big house was still intact. However, there were clear signs of neglect and dilapidation even from a distance.

  It was situated right next to the loch, dominating a peninsula that jutted out as if pointing towards a small island in the middle of the water. It was more like a keep of many towers than an ordinary manor house. Built of grey stone hewn from the surrounding hills, it looked forbidding, but Brice knew the interior was comfortable and welcoming. At least, it used to be, but perhaps things have changed? The loch’s surface was almost still today, reflecting the summer sky and the surrounding hills perfectly. Brice felt an unexpected jolt of pride as he gazed down at his new domain – as far as the eye could see was Rosyth land and it belonged to him now.