Tying the Scot

by Jennifer Trethewey

  Peter led the horses to the far side of the trail, leaving them to munch on sweet green grasses. Dancing at Alex’s feet, Denny and Raphe sensed their time for business was at hand.

  “What’s to do now, sir?” Peter asked.

  “Denny and Raphe will herd the sheep to this gate.” He opened a narrow wooden gate set into the stone fence. “It’s wide enough for one sheep to pass through at a time. As they go through, we count them.”

  Peter bowed his head and kicked at a few loose stones.

  “Do you know your numbers, Peter?”

  He shook his head.

  Many people living and working at Balforss didn’t know how to read, but most, out of necessity, knew the basics of mathematics. Without that fundamental knowledge, one could easily be cheated.

  “Right then. Time to learn your numbers.”

  Peter jerked his head up, alert.

  “Find yourself a stick, man.”

  The boy ran off toward a stand of trees. He returned with a length of branch the width of Alex’s thumb.

  “We’ll do this the way my da taught me,” he said. The trouble in Peter’s expression eased. “Every time I call out hep, you make one scratch mark in the dirt.” Peter made an experimental mark in the well-packed mud. “The counting will go quickly, so be ready.”

  “Aye, sir.” He braced himself with the determination one might have when preparing to push a boulder up a steep incline.

  “At ease, soldier. You’ll be called into action soon. You can watch for a bit, aye.”

  Alex stepped over the stone fence, followed by two leaping dogs. “Are ye ready lads? Walk on.”

  The dogs took off at breakneck speed toward the flock. Alex executed a series of whistle commands. Between shepherd and dogs, the sheep were skillfully escorted toward the gate, bleating their agitation. “Get ready, Peter.”

  “Ready, sir,” Peter called breathlessly.

  “Hep! Hep! Hep!”

  In no time at all, the sheep were in the holding field, and the counting was done. Alex spent some time examining the sheep for disease and injury. Satisfied all was well, he executed another series of short whistles and commands. The dogs herded the flock back through the gate, the sheep looking at Alex as if to say, What was that all about?

  “That’ll do,” Alex called. The dogs raced back to his side. He lavished them with pats and scratches and “Good lads.” Their final reward, chunks of dried beef, which they chewed enthusiastically.

  “Let’s see how you’ve done, Peter. Shall we count your marks together?”

  Peter gathered himself for the task, looking as pale as a soldier before his first battle.

  Alex kept a straight face, not wanting to make the lad feel small. He held up both hands, fingers splayed, wiggling each one as he counted, “One, two, three…”

  The boy held up his hands counting along, looking at his fingers as if seeing them for the first time.

  By the time they reached twenty-two, Peter had the right of it. He continued hesitantly on his own with only an occasional prompting, all the way to twenty-eight.

  “Well done, lad.” He tousled his pupil’s dirty blond hair. “Well done, indeed. It took me ages to learn my numbers, but you’ve conquered them in one day.”

  Peter blushed at the compliment. An irrepressible smile formed on the boy’s face. Alex caught a glimpse of the tooth that would replace his missing milk tooth, peeking out from the gum.

  “Time to celebrate.” He retrieved the food Mrs. Swenson had packed for them along with an earthenware bottle of good ale. The two sat on the stone wall, eating their potato and meat-filled pastries, enjoying each bite with the satisfaction of a job well done.

  They passed the bottle of ale back and forth wordlessly until it was finished, then spent some time impressing each other with how well they could belch. While they had a piss behind the bushes on the far side of the road, Peter glanced at Alex’s member and back at his own with what seemed to be dismay.

  “Dinnae fash,” Alex said. “It grows along wi’ the rest of you.”

  After they had stowed themselves inside their trousers and adjusted for comfort, Peter asked, “When does the hair on your parts start to grow?”

  “How old are you now?”

  “Dinnae ken.” Peter shrugged.

  “I’d say you’re about ten, maybe eleven,” he said, appraising the boy. “It’ll start to grow in the next three years.”

  “Robby calls me a baby. Says I willnae be a man until the hair grows on my parts.”

  “Robby’s lived in his father’s house his entire life. He’s never had to live on his wits like you. Your body may be that of a boy’s, but your spirit and courage are that of a man.”

  “You think so, sir?”

  Alex feigned indignation over Peter doubting his word. “I wouldnae take less than a man wi’ me to do a man’s work.”

  Peter smiled at him with adoration, the gap in his teeth making him look fragile. It came to Alex that this boy had never been loved. Alex felt as if he’d swallowed something too large and it would not go down. “Are you happy here at Balforss?” he asked, the words coming out with difficulty.

  “Oh yes, sir.”

  “Do you feel safe?”

  “I do.”

  “Good. I’m happy you are here. I consider you a good friend. One I can always count on.”

  Peter deepened his voice and puffed out his scrawny chest. “My word of honor, sir, I will lay down my life in your service, should you ask me.”

  Alex remembered the oath he’d made to the duke when he was the same age as Peter, how desperately he had wanted to be a man, how important it had been to him that his oath be taken seriously. He put a hand on Peter’s shoulder just as the duke had done. “Thank you, Peter. I accept your solemn oath. You are a Balforss man now.”

  Tears filled the boy’s eyes in contrast to his face-splitting grin.

  …

  Lucy lowered the broche, a long stick strung with candlewicks, into a vat of melted bee’s wax. She drew it out, let it drain, then repeated the process two more times before hanging the broche on a rack to harden. She selected another broche ready for a second dipping and began the process again.

  She had hoped the work would distract her, would ease the worry she’d been plagued with all morning. Some was worry over Langley’s letter, but the majority was worry over Alex’s reaction to the letter.

  Langley was here in Scotland. In the Highlands. Nearby. How did he intend to contact her? Did he know his life would be in danger if he were to come to Balforss? And what would she do if he did? What if he were to show up tomorrow and ask for her hand? What then? Even if Alex didn’t kill him as he had threatened, would she accept his proposal? Leave Balforss? Leave Alex?

  Until Langley’s letter had arrived, Lucy had only one choice, which, of course, was no choice at all. Now she had a choice. Marry Alex, a union foisted upon her by her father, or marry Langley, and realize her dream of becoming a viscountess. Her decision should be easy.

  Then why was she struggling? Why had her peace of mind been shattered by the letter?

  Lucy finished dipping the broche and reached for another.

  After only a few days at Balforss, she had come to like the pace at which life bumped and tripped along in the Highlands. She liked Mother Flora. Liked collecting honey and making candles. She had purpose here. What was there for her in London? Even if she returned as Langley’s bride, she knew very well a title would not stop those wicked wagging tongues.

  And then there was Alex. Yes, he was irritating, impulsive, childish, and uncouth. But he was also handsome, brave, kind, and passionate. He had even given her daisies. Langley had never given her daisies, and he didn’t kiss like Alex kissed. He never made Lucy feel like she wanted to curl up on his lap like a cat. Alex may not have a title to offer her, but she preferred the Scot.

  The proper thing to do would be to write to Langley, politely decline his offer, and ask that he never c
ontact her again. Why then did she want to see him? The answer shamed her. The answer was as wicked and vindictive as Lucy felt. She wanted to see his face when she spurned him. She wanted to witness his pain, the same pain she had experienced when he had abandoned her.

  Lucy selected another broche of candlewicks and began the dipping process.

  She imagined several scenarios involving her chance meeting with Langley. Each featured a moment where Langley went down on his knees before her and begged her to marry him. Each time, she would state with noble sympathy that she could not marry him. Her heart belonged to Alex Sinclair, her handsome, brave Highland warrior.

  Unfortunately, all the scenarios careened out of her control, ending in unhappiness. In one, Langley killed Alex, and she lived alone for the rest of her life, a martyr to love. In another, Alex killed Langley and was promptly hanged for the offense. The worst was the most probable scenario. Alex discovered Lucy and Langley talking, said he could never trust an inconstant wife, and sent her home shamed and heartbroken.

  The broche slipped from her grasp and the rod with the six half-finished candles fell into the vat of hot beeswax. She reached reflexively to retrieve it.

  “No,” cried Flora, too late. Lucy stuck her hand halfway into the wax before jerking it out.

  “Merde!”

  A quarter of an hour later, Lucy lay on her bed, a damp cloth on her forehead, her right hand submerged in a bowl of cool water sitting on a stand next to her bed. Hot beeswax, Mother Flora had told her, caused no lasting injury. “By tomorrow morning, you’ll be right as rain.”

  The incident had, however, left her with a beastly burning sensation that throbbed, making any movement of her fingers painful. The accident had been entirely her fault. Flora had warned her to remain attentive at all times, but she’d let her mind drift and so had paid the price.

  Perhaps it was God’s punishment for being prideful. For wanting to personally deliver her rejection instead of writing a polite letter. For wanting to restore her pride after Langley had failed to return her affections. For wanting ‘a piece of her own’ as John Sinclair would put it. That’s spiteful and petty. She didn’t see herself as a spiteful person. Yet, that’s what she was. How had she become so utterly wretched?

  A sudden commotion echoed in the entry. Who was shouting? Footsteps thundered up the staircase.

  “Lucy! Lucy!”

  Her bedchamber door flew open, and Alex launched himself to her bedside, dropping to his knees, out of breath, fear tightening his features.

  “Ma said you burnt your hand. Are you all right, lass?”

  Overwhelming remorse snuck up on her. “I’m sorreeee,” she keened. Tears rolled down her cheeks like rain. She covered her face with her good hand to hide from Alex.

  “Hush, lass. It was an accident.”

  The bed dipped. She felt the comforting warmth of his body next to her. He removed the damp cloth and caressed her forehead with his lips.

  Lucy sniffed, took a few gulping breaths, and tried to speak. “It was my fault. Everything is my fault. I’m sorry about the letter, Alex. I don’t want to marry Langley. I want to marry you, but I don’t want you to kill him.” She fell apart again, blubbering, sobbing so hard her shoulders shook with the effort.

  “Wheesht, now. Wheesht. Dinnae fash. I willnae kill him.”

  “How can you want to marry me? I’m awful. I’m spoiled, and prideful, and nasty to you.” She considered her appearance and wailed, “And I look terrible.”

  Alex chuckled.

  “Don’t laugh at me,” she blurted. Even as she said it, she knew he wasn’t laughing at her so much as her histrionics. She was being dramatic, as her father would say. Exactly as she had as a child. She wiped her eyes and nose on the bed linens, then struggled to a sitting position and made herself stop crying.

  “Better now?” Alex asked.

  She nodded and sniffed.

  “Listen to me. You are not awful. You’re a bonnie, braw, and canny young lass. And I want to marry you for all those reasons.”

  “What do you mean?” An unladylike hiccup escaped.

  “You’re bonnie because you’re spoiled, but you came to Balforss, rolled up your sleeves, and learned to make honey and candles wi’ my ma. You’re braw because you’re prideful. You’re full of dignity and courage, and you willnae compromise what’s most important to you. You’re canny because you’re nasty to me. No one else dares.” He smiled, teasing her now. “You challenge me. You stand up to me.” He looked abashed and lowered his voice. “And you point out when I’m wrong. When I’m being an ass.” Alex softened and touched her cheek. “And you dinnae look terrible. You look like a woman who has toiled all day for her family. That’s a beautiful and noble thing, aye. You’re a true Highland beauty.”

  She stared at him with her mouth half open. Did he really see her faults as assets?

  “Show me your hurt hand,” he said.

  She placed it on his outstretched palm, wet and looking small by comparison.

  He bent and pressed his lips to the top of her hand where it wasn’t red. “I’ll take my daily ration now, if you please.” He placed a soft kiss on her mouth. “I’ll see you at supper.”

  …

  Alex bid Lucy good night straight after supper. His poor wee lass was tired as a lamb after the incident with the hot wax. Thankfully, Lucy had said the pain in her hand had passed. She would sleep well tonight.

  He and his father retired to the library, where they took a dram of whisky and talked of plans for purchasing another two hundred cheviots, sheep prized for their excellent wool. Listening to his father speak of Balforss’s domestic future soothed Alex. His father was preparing him for the role of laird he would one day assume, slowly easing the mantle of responsibility down upon his shoulders. Still, Alex wondered if he would ever acquire the strength and wisdom necessary to bear that weight.

  A knock on the library door interrupted their peaceful discussion.

  “Come,” his father called out.

  Uncle Fergus entered, his face an angry red.

  “What troubles you, bràthair-cèile?” his father asked, using the Gaelic for brother-in-law.

  “There’s a lad outside would have a word with you.”

  “About?”

  “Patrick Sellar.” Uncle Fergus spit out the name like a bad taste.

  His father set his whisky down and slipped on his waistcoat. “Bring him in.”

  Moments later, Fergus coaxed the lad through the library door. The boy’s eyes darted about the room then widened when they landed on Laird John’s imposing figure. Soot covered the lad’s clothing and ringed his face near his nose and mouth. He held his hat in hands wrapped in filthy bandages.

  “What’s your name, son?” John asked.

  “Callum Mackay, sir.”

  “He walked here from Rosal Village,” Fergus said. “Took him three days. Tell the laird what you saw, lad.”

  “Aye, sir.” On the brink of manhood, his voice faltered from low to high and back again. Alex estimated he was no older than fifteen. “Last week Mr. Sellar telt my grannie her croft was to be fired. She could leave it or burn wi’ it. He didnae care.”

  In a low voice, Fergus inserted, “His granny’s Margaret Mackay. Lives near Strathnaver about twenty miles west.”

  “When Mr. Sellar and his men come three days ago, Granny wouldnae leave and…well…”

  “Ah, Jesus. They didn’t.” The muscles in his father’s jaw jumped and flexed, a sure sign he was enraged.

  “Aye, they did. My ma and me come to help her move and found her croft afire just as the men rode awa’. We pulled her free of the croft in time, but I dinnae ken she’ll live. She’s awful bad.”

  “Has a doctor come?”

  “There’s a healer with her now, doing what she can.” The boy stepped closer to John, hands fisted, his birdlike frame shaking with anger. “Mr. Sellar’s men barred the door, wedged a log against it, set fire to the croft, then rode away
laughing. It was pure luck we were there. They meant to kill her, sir,” he said, his voice breaking. “I come to you because folk say you’re the only laird brave enough to go against the Sutherland and get justice for my Granny Mackay.”

  John placed a hand on the lad’s shoulder. “You did right coming to me. First thing tomorrow you’ll take us to your granny, aye. Mr. Munro will show you to the kitchen. After you’ve eaten, he’ll find a place for you to sleep.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Fergus, have Mrs. Swenson look at the boy’s hands, as well.”

  Fergus led the boy away.

  Alex said, “By the looks of him, he hasnae eaten a good meal in a long while.”

  His father made no response, just paced in front of the fire, one hand propped on his hip, the other rubbing his forehead.

  “Da, you know what we must do,” he said. “This is the proof we need to stop that bastard, Sellar.”

  John continued his pacing. He freed his queue and swiped a hand through his hair.

  “We cannae let this stand,” he said with more vehemence. Again, no answer from his father. “If you willnae do something, then I—”

  “Enough.” John held up a hand.

  Alex stilled under his father’s heated gaze. He knew instantly he’d misread him. He’d misread calculation for indecision. John Sinclair would never let this injustice stand.

  “Go tell the men we ride to Strathnaver tomorrow before dawn. Then ask Mrs. Swenson to have provisions set aside for us. We’ll be gone two, maybe three days.” Before Alex headed off, his father said, “You know what this means, son. When we bring charges against Sellar, we make ourselves a target. I dinnae ken what the man will do, but you can believe Sellar will fight back.”

  Alex stopped himself from smiling. He welcomed a chance to go head-to-head with Sellar and his men. The rat-faced bastard had threatened his woman. Sellar was a man who needed killing, and he wanted to deliver the fatal blow.

  “We’ll be ready, Da.”

  Chapter Ten

  The next morning, a Saturday, Alex sat atop Goliath, head bent and leaning into gale force wind. An early winter storm blew in from the North Sea, making conditions for travel less than ideal. The men, heads hooded with plaids to shield against the sleet, made decent progress along the coastal trail, despite the weather. By sunrise, they crossed into Sutherland and took the bridge at Bighouse over Strath Halladale waters. They wound their way around Melvich, passing through Strathy around noon.