Jean Dixson could hardly wait for the morrow. Janet, her older sister by one year, was to be married. The planned festivities were certain to be more fun than Jean had experienced all year. The elaborate food, the lively dancing and music, the crowds who would come to their home, Balvenie Castle, bringing all kinds of interesting people—her fingers tingled with excitement just picturing it all. She thought she might burst from the anticipation! Determined not to be forced into the boring task of last-minute sewing on her sister’s new gown, or tying together wreaths of flowers to hang on the tent poles, Jean skipped breakfast and took the back steps to a secondary passageway to avoid being seen by her mother in the Great Hall. Once she was safely past the busiest rooms of the keep, she fled down a hallway and snuck into the kitchen. She wanted to watch the feverish preparations for the lavish wedding feast. Surely her mother wouldn’t look for her where there was so much work to be done. Janet would contribute to her cause unknowingly, causing her customary fuss, demanding attention and complaining that her gown wasn’t quite right, keeping their mother occupied and unable to even consider where Jean was or why she wasn’t with them.
Positioning herself behind a table to get a good view of what was happening but staying clear of rotund and grouchy Annis Austin, the head rotisser who had little patience for her, she watched with awe as some kind of animal’s head emerged from the marzipan beneath the skilled fingers of Robert MacKeith, the patisser in charge of all the baking and sweets that came out of Balvenie’s kitchen. He smiled several times at Jean while he molded the paste, obviously unperturbed by her presence, and maybe just a little happy for the attention. He’d always been kind to her, never scolding her or making her feel like she should have said or done the complete opposite of what she’d just said or done.
“What’s it going to be?” Jean asked, fascinated by the detail of the animal’s muscular jaw and realistic ears.
“A roebuck.”
“From our crest? Where’s it going to be?”
“On top of the cake. I still need to fashion the strap and buckle.”
“It needs antlers to look right,” Jean said. “Right now it looks rather bald.”
He answered without taking his eyes from his work of art. “Aye, you’re right. I have them right here.” From out of the clutter on the table where all of his work supplies were he picked up a stick that looked remarkably like a miniature five-point antler.
“Perfect! It looks just like one.”
“Hopefully no one will think they’re edible and swallow one by accident.” He grinned and winked at her.
“Except maybe Alick,” she said. “It might keep him from bothering me too much about dancing with him.” She said it in a whisper shielding her mouth to keep from being seen by Annis, Alick’s mother.
“You don’t fancy him much?” Robert whispered back.
Jean made a face. “He wants it to be him and me next year having our own wedding.”
Robert pushed one of the antlers down into the head of the roebuck. “Ah, I see. And you’d rather give your love to another?”
“Nay, it’s not that. I just don’t want to get married yet. I’m only sixteen! I want to do something exciting first. If I marry him, before I know it I will be having bairns and never get to see a big city or experience the things I don’t even know exist yet. What is there that is exciting about running a household? I would just die of boredom. I want to see things, meet people, experience life! If we’re seen together, I’m afraid my mother might make an alliance with his mother to sway my da to promise my hand to him. If so, I think I may just have to run away.”
“That’s enough now,” Annis scolded from her table where she was preparing a swan to be roasted. “Let Robert alone. There’s plenty to do without you staying underfoot.”
Jean figured Annis probably just didn’t like the fact that she could not hear what they’d been talking about. If her head had been stretched any closer to eavesdrop while they whispered, her neck would have been longer than the dead bird on the giant platter in front of her.
Robert smiled and shrugged while he rolled some marzipan between his palms. “They’re setting up the pavilion in the bailey,” he said in his normal voice. “You might remain undetected from your mother a little while yet out there with Boyd. He won’t give away your hiding place.” He winked again then tossed the small ball of marzipan at Jean, who stretched tall and to her right with her mouth wide open, catching the ball with the skill she’d perfected by practicing the maneuver over and over. Many bites had gone all over the floor in her efforts to master the ability, much to Annis’ dismay, but she’d finally learned to catch what Robert threw at her nearly every time. Chewing the sweet soft glob of sugar and almond, she mouthed “thank you” and waved goodbye. Being careful not to go too close to Annis, she scooted between two long tables that went along the far wall of the kitchen, past the pots hanging from many hooks, and pranced out the door that went through the bake house and then out to the bailey.
Outside, the steward Boyd Harvey was directing the servants to set up the tents and trestle tables. Boyd was especially fond of Jean and so let her linger around the men as they worked, as long as she didn’t distract them with too many questions. Boyd’s men were always playful with her. Jean enjoyed the attention as long as no one tried to monopolize her with serious flirting.
Jean moved from man to man, watching what each did. One was digging a hole to sink a tent pole into the ground to hold up one corner of a canopy. Another worker already had his pole set and was pounding in stakes and attaching ropes to anchor it securely. Two other men were setting up trestles and laying planks across the tops to create rows of tables. As Jean watched each task, the men greeted her, saying, “Good day, Lady Jean,” or “Are you ready for some dancing, lass? I hope you’ll save a dance for me,” or “You’re looking pretty today,” and they’d often give a wink or a toothy grin.
Jean moved over a few steps to watch the next man building a small stage.
“It looks good,” Jean told Callum as she bent down and looked beneath it. “You’re doing a nice job. Looks really sturdy.”
Callum grinned at her. “Thank you, Lady Jean.” He went back to hammering a plank down.
Jean whirled around to go see if she could find her da and see what he was doing. Alick was standing right behind her.
She screamed and jumped. “Alick!” she gasped. “What are you doing there? Why are you—I didn’t know you were there. Do you have to stand so close?” He annoyed her by sneaking up on her like that.
His yellow linen shirt stretched tightly across his chest, clearly too small after his last growth spurt. The blue and green tartan kilted around his waist and draped up over his shoulder was frayed on the edges. Jean was close enough to see that it had several moth holes in it.
She stepped back to put some distance between them. His brooch was missing a gem and one of the leather cords holding up his sporran had several knots in it.
“Huh…huh…hello, Jean,” he said, smiling from ear to ear. His chopped off carrot-colored hair stood straight up from his flat head, like a field of orange wheat. Freckles speckled his entire face and even his big ears. He’d clearly had his monthly bath recently, as not only did his face look clean but his cheeks glowed beneath all the brown spots on his face like he’d just scrubbed it hard. Or maybe the red in his ruddy complexion simply was from him blushing.
“Did you need something?” Jean asked after he stood grinning at her without saying anything more than hello.
He shook his head. Then apparently changed his mind and nodded. He stammered twice—because he always did, never starting a sentence without tripping over the first word a couple of times—then he finally got out, “I…I…I wanted to ask you about dancing with me at the wedding. You…you never gave me an answer.”
Jean didn’t know what to say. She didn’t want to encourage him or make him think she was interested enough for him to get any ideas about courting her. But she didn’
t want to hurt his feelings. He was kind of sweet. Except the way he followed her around and popped up unexpectedly right on her heels. That part she could do without.
“I’m already dancing with a lot of people,” she said waving her hand toward all the men working on the pavilion. “I really don’t think there will be enough dances.” She couldn’t think of anything better to say than that, but once she’d answered, it sounded like she was a cruel person. Who wouldn’t have time for a dance at a wedding? After they ate, that’s all they’d be doing all evening long.
“Eve…even if we must wait for the last jig or we have to add one after everyone goes, we…we can still dance together.”
“It’s just, it’s just that, well, it’s going to be a long day. I’m probably going to go to bed before the party is over.”
His freckled brow furrowed and he looked sad.
“We’ll be in the circle at the same time. We don’t have to be partners. We’ll see each other and most certainly face off a few times, at least.”
“I wha…want you to dance just with me. With no one else.”
“But Alick, if we did that, people might start getting ideas about us. Especially our mothers.”
“That…that is okay with me. I wha…want people to get ideas. I have ideas.”
“Tz tz tz,” Jean said quickly, putting her hand up and almost touching his lips. “Nay. Stop. Don’t say anymore. I have ideas too, and I’m sure they aren’t the same as yours.” She turned to step away, but he caught her elbow.
“Wha…wait, Jean. Don’t treat me like I’m simple. Jus…just because I talk slow, it doesn’t mean I think slow.”
“I’ve never thought that!” Jean protested. “It has nothing to do with that. I like you. I do. We’ve been friends for as long as I remember. I realize that. There is just so much I want to do. I’ve never even been to Edinburgh.”
Boyd, the steward, interrupted them. “Alick, would you give me a hand here? Hold the post in this hole while I—” His head snapped up and his heavy brows furrowed deeply while he squinted to look through the open gate past the wall surrounding the castle.
“Jean, go inside. Quickly, lass. Now!” Then to Alick and the other men around him setting up the tents, “Bruce, go get Laird Dixson. Move! The rest of you, come with me to see to the gate!” Letting the tent poles fall where they may and the canopies flutter to the ground, the men ran across the yard like their kilts were on fire.
Because Boyd’s command was so fierce and the men moved so suddenly, at first Jean bolted toward the castle. But halfway to the entrance of the keep, she slowed down and turned back to see just what had made Boyd react so. The wrought iron yett was off its hinges for repair and the drawbridge was down, and through the opening she saw a mob of men charging hard. They carried the Gunn banner. The Keiths had been feuding with their clan since the Beauty of Braemore had been kidnapped on her wedding day over a hundred years before.
Boyd and four men were scrambling to raise the drawbridge, but its chains were detached from the winch. The rusted mechanism was disassembled to be oiled before the wedding, its pieces spread out in the grass. The yett was in the armory, the smithy forging new rivets for the grille which had two iron lattices loose. The Gunns’ speed would surely bring them nigh before the portal would be set and secured.
Jean’s father ran into the bailey with his claymore drawn, Bruce on his heels.
“Da, da,” she said as she ran toward him. “The yett is out and the drawbridge is down and cannot be lifted!”
Before the words were even out of her mouth, when her da saw that she was in the yard, his eyes opened wide, full of distress. Then he looked to the gate where she pointed and worse alarm swept across his face. “Jean Bean, into the chapel, run! And stay there!” The chapel was nearer to where they stood than the entrance to the keep. He grabbed her elbow and nearly knocked her down with the force of his shove.
Chastened by her father’s abrupt response, Jean knew to distract him no more. She ran to the chapel and slammed against the door to open it in a rush and get inside.
Their minister was straightening the rows of benches. The sounds of the panic outside were muffled and indistinct inside the cool, dim stone church. He looked up and smiled.
“Hello Lady—”
“We’re being attacked!” Jean spat out.
He paused only briefly to sweep his eyes around the chapel. “Quickly, follow me,” he said sprinting up to the chancel by the Eucharist table. He lifted up the heavy drape that covered the table’s legs and flowed onto the floor in thick ripples. “Whatever happens, don’t come out or make a noise until I tell you it’s clear.”
The drape fell after she’d crawled beneath the table, shutting out the light. Jean curled up and tried to silence her heavy breathing. She could hear the benches rumbling across the stone floor. It sounded like the minister had gone back to straightening the rows of benches, as though nothing was happening outside the chapel.
“Hello,” he said in a calm, pleasant voice. His next word was cut off and a different voice roared. Chaotic noises came through the thick drape, sounds of loud crashes. Objects clattered over the top of the table and banged onto the floor right next to her hiding place. The table wobbled but thankfully didn’t fall over. More noises rang like the metal cup and plate of the Eucharist had been swept onto the floor. Many more clangs rained down around her. What had to be feet thumping against the stones of the floor passed by and went up the steps into the chancel, fading then returning. More crashes came from all around her, loud thuds and whacks of wood smashing and splintering.
Jean trembled so violently, if anyone took a moment to look at the table curtain, they’d surely see it shaking. She squeezed her eyes shut. Her hands were in rigid fists and arms were locked around her knees, which were tucked up as close as they’d come to her chest. She tried to stop her shaking by holding her legs hard. In her thoughts, she cried out to God for help, to her Guardian Angel to save her and her family. Silently, she pleaded over and over, “Help us, help us, help us!”—even as the drape was ripped away from her hiding place.
CELESTIALS’ BATTLE
The Raid of Balvenie and the Maiden Who Survived Page 2