‘I wouldn’t say you’re puny,’ Brice replied. ‘You may not be very tall yet, but you’re strong and tenacious, which counts for a lot. And you’ll soon grow, don’t worry. Not everyone does so at the same pace, you know.’
‘You think?’ There was hope in Archie’s voice and he glanced over his shoulder at Brice with big, trusting eyes.
‘I don’t just think, I know.’ Brice felt something shift inside him. He realised he could make a difference to this child’s life by being here. As laird of Rosyth, it would be his responsibility to make sure Archie and all the other children had enough to eat so they could grow the way they should. It put things in perspective somehow and although he knew it would be an uphill struggle for him to become accepted, he was suddenly filled with even more determination to succeed. He’d do it for Archie and all the people who were now his tenants.
And for himself.
‘I wasn’t born here though.’ Archie interrupted his thoughts.
‘No? Where then?’
‘At Bailliebroch.’ The child’s voice had taken on a very serious note and he sounded as if he had to force the words out.
Brice frowned. ‘Oh, so you came with the factor then?’ He’d been told that when Seton was given the position as manager, a few of his clansmen had followed him and settled on Rosyth land.
‘Not exactly. Auntie Greine took me in when … after the soldiers came.’
Brice saw Archie’s hands tighten on Starke’s mane. His grip was so hard the small knuckles went white and the boy’s head bent forward, the shaggy brown hair falling down to cover his face.
‘What are you saying?’ Brice asked gently. ‘The Redcoats ransacked your home, which was on Bailliebroch land? Because of Mr Seton’s brother fighting for the Jacobites?’
Archie nodded. When Brice tightened his hold around the boy’s waist to show his support, the whole tale came out in bursts. ‘I was only little, but I remember it. Th-they came to our hut, shouting. Said my dad was a traitor. S-said we were too. They … they grabbed Mother and she screamed at me to run. I didn’t know what to do, but … then I did what she said. I ran, fast as I could. Found a hiding place. Stayed there till they’d gone. They never found me, but M-Mother …’
Brice could guess the rest and it made his heart ache. No one so young should have to witness something like that. In fact, it ought not to happen to anyone. Red hot fury coursed through him and he cursed the Government forces for their unwarranted brutality. It was one thing to wage war on grown men who had chosen to take sides, but women and children? That was nothing short of an outrage.
‘It’s all right, Archie, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,’ he said.
Archie drew in a deep breath. ‘I want to, but I don’t remember much after that. I sat down next to Mother, but she never woke. Someone took me away and then I came here.’ He half turned to stare at Brice with anxious eyes. ‘Mr Seton said as how you were like those men, but you’re not, are you?’
Brice shook his head and silently damned Seton. ‘No, Archie, I’ll swear to you on my dirk I’m not.’ The boy managed a small smile at the reference to the oath he’d taken the first time they met. ‘Not all Englishmen are like that anyway, I’ve met some very nice ones during my travels. There are good and bad people in all countries. Either way, I don’t have a single drop of English blood in me, as far as I know. Even if I did, I would never behave like that. Do you believe me?’ He held Archie’s gaze and the boy nodded.
‘Aye. I knew he was wrong.’
‘He is wrong in many ways, but perhaps together you and I can do something about it. What do you say, will you help me?’
‘I’d like to, but how?’
‘Well, for a start, you can introduce me to everyone. Perhaps with you by my side they’ll talk to me more readily. If Mr Seton’s been telling them I’m their enemy, it’s no wonder I get some funny looks. We have to convince them I’m on their side. Can we do that, do you think?’
‘I’ll do my best.’
And Brice was sure the boy would. He may be small, but he was as full of determination as Brice himself.
Chapter Ten
They made their way up a well-trodden path to the lower hillside pasture, where the cattle were being watched over so they wouldn’t stray into the crops in the infields and wreak havoc. The animals had only recently been brought down from the shielings, the higher ground where they spent most of the summer, but where the sweet grass would now all be gone. To Archie’s delight, Brice made Starke jump the dry-stone wall which separated the pasture from the fields on lower ground. The horse cleared this obstacle easily and Brice made sure he was holding the boy in a secure grip so there was no danger.
‘Can we do that again on the way down?’ Archie asked eagerly.
Brice hid a smile at this childish request. ‘Of course, if you wish.’
Their ride proved to be the most enjoyable part of the day. Even with Archie as facilitator, Brice found it an uphill struggle talking to his tenants and clansmen. The men loitering around clearly thought he’d come to check on them and were surly and evasive. He had, but not in the way they thought.
During his previous visit he had seen the herd of cattle wasn’t as large as it ought to have been for an estate of
this size. Before the new stock was added, he wanted to know exactly how many there were so he could see if
the figure tallied with the ledgers Seton presumably kept. Since he couldn’t get a straight answer out of any of the herdsmen nearby, he and Archie counted the beasts for themselves.
‘I wish these damned cows would stand still,’ Brice muttered when he’d added them up for the third time and come to yet another different total.
Archie laughed. ‘Kyloes, not cows,’ he corrected, using the local word.
‘I know, but they’re cows to me if they produce milk and bullocks if they’re turned into meat in the autumn.’
In truth, the black shaggy creatures with long horns looked nothing like the cows Brice was used to. The Highland ones were small and obviously hardy though. With their long, wavy hair, he knew they could survive outdoors most of the year and they seemed to eat just about anything. Just as well, he thought, since they had to make do with whatever they could find half the time.
Mingled with the cattle were goats and a few sheep, although not as many as Brice had expected. White with black faces and curling horns, they too were tough and resilient, but he’d been told they needed a lot more grazing than the kyloes and therefore large herds couldn’t be sustained. He was still convinced there could have been quite a few more than he could see though.
When he was satisfied he’d counted all the sheep and cattle and had made a mental note of the number, he returned to the nearest cluster of men. One of them, who hadn’t been there earlier, stood up, and to his relief, Brice recognised him.
‘Mr Ross?’ he asked, the name surfacing the moment he caught sight of the man’s face, then added tentatively, ‘Sandy Mor?’ As a child, Brice had always heard him referred to in this way as ‘Big Sandy’ and most men in the Highlands had nicknames of this sort since so many of them had the same surname. As one of the tacksmen and a distant relative of Killian’s, Sandy would no doubt act as spokesman for the others, which was probably why he’d been fetched. Brice dismounted and held out his hand. He knew Scottish tenants genuinely believed themselves the equals of their chief since they all shared a common ancestry and they usually took the laird by the hand whenever they met.
Sandy took Brice’s hand after a slight hesitation. ‘MacCoinneach,’ he said with a nod. Brice frowned, confused at first, then another memory fell into place. Chiefs descended in a direct line from some illustrious ancestor were often addressed as ‘son of’ that man, even though there were countless generations in between. In Brice’s case, his most famous ancestor was one Coinneach, who’d apparently been a friend of Robert the Bruce. He smiled cautiously at Sandy.
‘So you remember me
then?’ he asked in Gaelic, to show he hadn’t forgotten his summers at Rosyth either.
‘Aye, I can still see the skinny lad who played with my Rob.’ Sandy glanced at one of the younger men standing nearby and Brice recognised his former playmate.
‘Well, good, at least you won’t take me for an impostor then,’ Brice said.
‘No.’
The clipped word told Brice that even if they didn’t, they weren’t prepared to accept him as laird straight off. Fair enough, he thought. ‘Sandy, I realise some of the men have to stay up here at all times, but those of you who can be spared for a while are welcome to come down to the house for supper this evening. The lad’s aunt,’ he nodded briefly at Archie, who was still perched on Starke’s back, ‘is preparing food enough for everyone. Will you send word to anyone within walking distance, please?’
He saw surprise in Sandy’s eyes, but it was quickly masked. ‘Very well,’ he said, but Brice could tell the man was reluctant. He sighed inwardly. It wasn’t that he’d expected to be liked or respected immediately, but he hadn’t realised quite how much enmity there would be. Surely these men must understand Killian had been unable to return to Scotland to run the estate? But perhaps they’d counted on Brice to come earlier in his stead?
He hid his thoughts, however, and nodded. ‘I hope to see you later then,’ was all he said.
As well as counting livestock, Brice decided it would also be useful to know how far his domains reached, how many people the land had to support and what was being grown where. In short, he needed to take stock of his possessions properly. He and Archie therefore took a long detour around the fields, leading Starke behind them at times as the big horse found the ground hard going. They checked on the various types of grain – oats and barley mostly, with some peas and also flax for making linen – before they returned to the township. Here Brice again dismounted and made a point of stopping at every hut along the road to introduce himself personally. There were mostly women around and although wary, in general they were slightly more welcoming than the menfolk. Archie did his best to break the ice and it also helped that some of the older women remembered Brice as a boy.
‘A harum-scarum little bantling you were, my lord,’ one of them said with a smile. She reminded him of her name, Bridie Ross, and the fact that she was the wife of Sandy, the tacksman he’d met earlier. As soon as she said it, he recalled being told off by her on several occasions.
Brice smiled back, shaking his head ruefully. ‘I know, I caused my mother a few grey hairs, I believe. Not as many as my brother though.’ It still hurt to even think about Jamie, but Brice knew he’d worked his charm on everyone at Rosyth even when he was young and they were likely to remember him. This proved to be the case.
‘Oh, aye, a right hellion he was, to be sure.’ But this was said with an indulgent smile, as so often was the case when people talked about Jamie. It made Brice want to grind his teeth and hit something, but he’d long ago accepted that Jamie could get away with murder and still be liked. Only not by his brother, not this time.
He buried the thought, however, and tried to emulate his brother’s charming manners. ‘I hope you’ll all honour me by joining us up at the house for a wee feast this evening,’ he said. ‘Mrs Murray will be sorely disappointed if you don’t come and sample the tasty dishes she’s working so hard on.’
It took him a while, but in the end he reckoned he had persuaded most of them to come. He exchanged a look with Archie and winked at the boy. ‘Right, we’d better get home then and make ourselves presentable. Although how we’re going to manage it with you, I’ve no idea. Some soap and water might help though. Ladies, we’ll see you later.’
Marsaili was proud of her abilities as housekeeper and the new laird’s criticism had stung, even though the state of the great hall wasn’t directly her fault. She therefore set to with a vengeance, determined to have the room spotless come evening. To that end, she rounded up as many women as she could find, even recruiting Kirsty.
‘I’ll be damned if I let the man find a single speck of dirt anywhere,’ Marsaili muttered to her half-sister.
Kirsty sent her one of her teasing glances. ‘Oh, aye? Want to impress him, do you? I wonder why.’
Marsaili gave Kirsty what she hoped was a withering look. ‘That’s the last thing I want to do, but I’ll not have anyone say I’m incompetent, because I’m not. This is all Seton’s fault and I’m not going to take the blame. I want to stay here.’
Kirsty smiled. ‘I doubt Brice would dismiss you. He’s much too nice for that. Now if it had been his brother … well, anything could have happened. But Brice was always the level-headed one.’
‘That’s not what you were saying this morning when he beat up your beloved Iain.’
Kirsty’s expression darkened. ‘The dolt deserved it. Honestly, you’d think he’d have learned by now. Why would I stay true to him for so long if there was any likelihood I’d prefer someone else?’ She shook her head. ‘I hope Brice knocked some sense into him.’
‘We’ll see, won’t we. In the meantime, take out your anger on these hangings, if you don’t mind. They could do with a good beating.’
Brice was secretly impressed to find the great hall much improved by supper time. The last of the sunlight shimmered in through newly cleaned windows. The hearth had been swept clean of cobwebs and ash, and both furniture and wainscoting gleamed with a polished sheen. There wasn’t a speck of dust to be found anywhere and someone had even gathered bunches of heather and put it in makeshift vases on the window ledges.
The fresh smell of flowers and beeswax mingled with the mouth-watering aromas from the long table, where an array of succulent dishes had been set out. Joints of mutton and beef, large sides of salmon, pots of broth and plates of onions and cheese, together with fresh bannocks. Interspersed with these were bottles of claret, pitchers of ale and some whisky. It seemed like a feast fit for a king and Brice was very pleased.
Meanwhile, what seemed like an enormous group of people milled around aimlessly, looking out of place and ill at ease. They brought with them the smell of peat smoke and wool, but these odours were quickly masked by the other clean scents. Brice decided he’d better take charge before they all thought better of it and bolted. By banging a silver spoon against the pewter tankard which had been set out for him, he achieved silence. ‘Welcome, everyone, and thank you for coming,’ he said as loudly as he could. ‘Please be seated according to custom.’
Killian had told him everyone would know their place and, surprisingly, this turned out to be the case. He was just about to take the seat at the head of the table, as was his due, when an exclamation of surprise hissed through the diners and everyone turned to stare at the door leading into the northerly part of the house. There stood a tiny, middle-aged woman with rather mousy hair and pale features. She looked incredibly frail, but nevertheless walked into the room with purposeful steps and her head held high. Brice left his chair and went to meet her halfway.
‘Aunt Ailsa,’ he said, smiling at her and bending to kiss her porcelain cheek. ‘I was told you were resting earlier and you weren’t to be disturbed, so I thought I’d visit you later. And Flora, how lovely to see you too.’ He greeted his cousin who hovered behind her mother, adjusting the older woman’s shawl and generally fussing over her.
‘And you, Brice. Welcome back to Rosyth.’
Brice had always liked Flora, who was kind and gentle, but since she was six years older than him they had never played together. She’d acted more in the role of mother hen to him and his siblings, although usually without much success as the Kinross brood ran wild. He was pleased to see she was still passably pretty, with strawberry blonde hair, the same pale blue eyes as Kirsty and a neat figure. Unfortunately though, her face was marred by pock-marks and he wondered when that had happened. Some time during the ten years since he’d last seen her, poor girl.
‘Thank you,’ he said, and took Ailsa’s arm to lead her to the table. He
seated her on his right, with Flora next to her, and Kirsty took the chair opposite her mother. Everyone else adjusted their seating accordingly. Brice looked around and noticed Seton was about to sit down by Kirsty. As the highest ranking member of the household after family members, this would have been his due except for one fact. Brice hid a smile and called out to Iain, who was much further down the table.
‘Iain, you’re in the wrong seat, man. I hear you’re to be part of the family so your place is next to Kirsty.’
Iain only hesitated for a fraction of a second. Brice guessed the man in no way wanted to be beholden to the new laird, especially after their altercation that morning. But on the other hand he’d never pass up a chance to sit next to his beloved. Brice caught the look of annoyance which flickered across Seton’s features, but since this was an honour for his son at the same time, he couldn’t very well say anything.
When everyone was finally in place, Brice stood up and they all fell silent without being told this time. ‘Thank you again for coming this evening,’ he began. ‘I’ll only keep you from your food for a moment while I thank Mrs Murray and Miss Buchanan for their sterling efforts today. Organising this so quickly was a tall order, but they managed it, so thank you both and all your helpers.’ He saw Marsaili look down while a blush of pleasure spread over her cheeks. ‘I want to apologise on behalf of myself and my father for leaving you to fend for yourselves for so long. Circumstances made it impossible for us to reside here, as I’m sure you all know. But I’m back now and it is my intention to improve the estate, not just for my own gain, but for all of you. I hope you’ll help me in this endeavour so that from now on, no one need go hungry or cold at Rosyth. I promise I will do my very best if you do the same. Now, let’s eat!’
His words were greeted with quiet murmuring and some sceptical glances, but no exclamations of appreciation. He hadn’t expected universal approval straight away, but couldn’t help but feel disappointed at such a lukewarm reception. Still, he had to start somewhere and he’d prove his words soon enough. With a jolt, he realised he really did feel responsible for these people already and he was determined to make sure they never went hungry again. They were his people, his clan.
Highland Storms Page 9