High on a Mountain

by Tommie Lyn

  The two men circled one another, Latharn thrusting and slicing, again and again, each time being stopped by Ailean. Even though it was cold, both men were sweating now, and their breath hung in clouds in the cold air as they panted. Ailean knew Latharn was beginning to tire.

  Ailean grasped the hilt of his sword firmly with both hands, raised it over his head, and, as Latharn thrust toward Ailean’s stomach, Ailean brought his blade down with all his might and knocked the sword from Latharn’s hand.

  Latharn stood unmoving, staring at Ailean as if he was in shock at being disarmed. Before he could move, Ailean put the tip of his sword under Latharn’s clean-shaven chin and nicked the underside of it. Blood trickled down Latharn’s neck onto his tunic.

  “Your chin is bleeding,” Ailean said through clenched teeth. “Do you want me to move my blade lower and have your throat bleeding, too?”

  Latharn put his hands out and up in surrender. “No, no.”

  “Well, then, go! Go before I think better of it and slice you into pieces. I’ve had enough of you!” Ailean shouted, lowering his weapon.

  Latharn’s hand shot out to grab his sword from the ground, but Ailean kicked the side of Latharn’s head and knocked him down, rolling him away from his weapon. Ailean picked up Latharn’s sword with his left hand.

  “No, you’ll not be getting this back so easily. I may send it to you later. Or I may not.”

  Latharn’s men moved forward, brandishing their swords, and Ailean heard the unmistakable metallic rasp of unsheathing as Coinneach and Raghnall drew their own weapons from the scabbards. The Cambeuls stopped their advance and stood uncertainly, waiting for orders from Latharn.

  Latharn stood, giving Ailean a look of pure hatred.

  “You haven’t heard the last of this,” Latharn said as he rubbed the blood from his chin. He looked at it, then at Ailean. He held out his blood-streaked hand. “You’ll pay for this, MacLachlainn.”

  Latharn stalked to a nearby tree where his horse was tied. He loosed the reins, climbed into the saddle and started to ride away with his men following on foot. He stopped for a moment and looked back.

  “You’ll pay!” he shouted.

  Ailean threw Latharn’s sword on the ground and sheathed his own. He brushed his damp hair out of his face, adjusted his bonnet and took a long, deep breath, trembling and tired now that the fight was over.

  “Little brother, I think that man doesn’t like you,” Coinneach said, and the three men burst into relieved laughter.

  Coinneach picked up Latharn’s sword with one hand and took Ailean’s arm with the other.

  “Come, let’s get you to the church before the red-haired girl changes her mind,” he said with a smile.

  ____________

  The parson told everyone to bow their heads for a final prayer. He asked God to bless the newly married couple, to make their union a fruitful and happy one. At the final “amen,” Ailean opened his eyes and grinned at Mùirne.

  She’s finally mine, all mine. We’ll be happy together from now on.

  Mùirne smiled back at him, reddened and lowered her eyes. He took her hand and led her down the aisle and out the door.

  As the couple left the building, Aodh stood and looked around the church at the family and friends who had assembled for the wedding ceremony. “Brìghde and I invite you to our house for a bite of food and a dram of whisky to celebrate the marriage of Ailean and Mùirne.”

  The bride and groom led the procession to the croft. When they arrived, they completed the Celtic marriage rites. Ailean took Mùirne’s hand, and, following the age-old custom of their Celtic ancestors, they jumped over the broom which had been laid before them, signifying the leap from their separate lives into a new life together.

  Earlier, Aodh and the other men of the croft had cleared and cleaned the barn and set up long tables there in preparation for the festivities. The women helped Brìghde pile the tables high with roast mutton and chicken, bread, butter, cheese and assorted cakes, much of it gifts from neighbors. Some guests ate in the barn. Others carried their food to Aodh and Brìghde’s cottage and ate it there, where whisky would be served.

  After most guests had eaten, Raghnall and Niall rosined their bows, pulled them across the strings of their fiddles and soon had feet tapping and hands clapping to the spirited music.

  Ailean took Mùirne’s hand, and the lively dancing began. He smiled as he remembered the night of the ceilidh when he had wished for her to be here at his home, enjoying the party. While he and Mùirne were dancing, Coinneach beckoned to him. The dance ended and Ailean escorted Mùirne to her mother’s side. He went to see what his brother wanted.

  “It’s the groom’s duty to serve the whisky,” Coinneach said. “There’ll be plenty of opportunities later to dance with her.”

  Ailean followed Coinneach’s instructions. He went to his parents’ cottage and fulfilled his host duties by serving whisky to those guests with a thirst. All the celebrants stayed indoors out of the cold wind blowing off the loch, going for a while to the house for a drink, then back to the barn for the dancing.

  Ailean wondered if the day would ever end.

  Late in the evening, Coinneach handed Ailean a plate. “Time for the guests to give their gifts to the bride and groom.”

  Ailean frowned. Although it was a tradition for the groom to walk among the guests with a plate, collecting their coin gifts to the new couple, he didn’t want to do it. He felt as though he’d be begging, as though he wasn’t man enough to take care of his new family of two without help from other people.

  “Go on. And replace that scowl with a smile or you won’t find it very profitable,” Coinneach said, and Ailean reluctantly began his rounds through the crowd.

  The time finally came to put the couple to bed. Earlier, Brìghde and the other women had readied the new cottage for the young couple. They’d laid a peat fire on the hearth, and it was warm inside.

  Mùirne’s older sisters, Elasaid and Ceana, with much laughter and teasing, led Mùirne to her new home. They helped her undress and get into bed, then went outside to tell the groom’s men that Mùirne was ready.

  Coinneach, Raghnall and Tòmas MacLachlainn brought Ailean to the cottage and helped him prepare himself for his bride. And after all the traditional pranks had been played and all the teasing was finished, their attendants left and Ailean and Mùirne were alone.

  TWELVE

  Now that he had what he’d been wanting all these weeks, being alone with Mùirne, having her all to himself, Ailean felt shy and at a loss for words. He didn’t know what to say, what to do. They lay side by side without speaking for a few minutes, staring into the darkness overhead.

  Ailean turned his head toward Mùirne. As the peat fire on the hearth burned lower, it cast a flickering glow over Mùirne’s dainty features. Ailean’s gaze traveled from her hair, over her face, and he didn’t wonder any longer what he should do.

  He touched his lips to her forehead softly, as he had done on his last visit to her in the glen by Loch Lomond. His mouth traced a trail of little kisses across her brow, down her cheek, ending with a gentle touch to her lips. He caressed her lips with his again. And again.

  His kisses awakened Mùirne’s desire, and she returned them ardently, put her arms around his neck, holding him close in a fervent embrace. Her passion released him from the restraint he’d imposed upon himself during their courtship. It kindled a fire within him, blazing and intense. Ailean felt at one with her as they satisfied their physical craving for one another.

  Afterward, Mùirne cuddled close to him and laid her head on his shoulder, and he wrapped his arms protectively around her.

  “I love you, my sweet Mùirne,” he whispered.

  “I love you, too, my dear Ailean,” she replied, and raised her head to place a kiss on his cheek. Mùirne nestled into the safety of his arms again and fell asleep.

  Contentment and delight filled his soul and a vision of their future captured his imaginati
on. He saw the years stretching ahead of them, days brimming with love and happiness, nights suffused with ecstasy such as they had just shared. It was too wonderful to be real, and he wondered how he had merited such blessings from God.

  He kissed the top of her head, and Mùirne stirred but didn’t waken. She threw her arm across his waist and drew herself closer into his arms. He smiled as he drifted off to sleep.

  The next morning, they awakened early and a few kisses revived their passion. After their lovemaking, they snuggled together again for a time, until sounds outside told them others were awake.

  Mùirne sat up and smiled at him.

  “I love you, Ailean MacLachlainn. I love you with all my heart. My heart, my soul, and all that I am are yours.”

  Ailean pulled her hand to his lips, afraid that if he tried to speak, he might begin to cry, and it would not do for a warrior to cry like a little boy.

  When his emotions were under control, he answered, “You belong to me, and I belong to you. You have my heart, my life, in these sweet little hands.” And he kissed her hand again.

  Someone pounded on the door. “Wake up,” Coinneach called. “You have guests. Are you going to sleep the day away?”

  Ailean smiled and answered, “We’re just going to lie abed until you go away and leave us alone.”

  “But Mùirne’s mother is waiting out here in the cold,” Coinneach said.

  Ailean sat up, pecked Mùirne on the cheek and got out of bed.

  “I guess we’d better get up and get our clothes on,” he said.

  They dressed, and Ailean opened the door.

  ____________

  Dearshul entered and went to Mùirne, carrying a folded white cloth. She stood for a moment and examined her youngest daughter’s face, focused on her smiling lips and sparkling eyes. Dearshul had never expected to see Mùirne this happy. It was beyond anything she’d hoped for. She took a deep breath, fighting to hold back the tears of relief and gratitude and guilt which threatened to flow.

  She hadn’t taught Mùirne the things she needed to know about being a wife. Mùirne always wanted to be outside, to be alone. She was different from her sisters, odd, hard to understand and deal with. Dearshul trained her older daughters to cook and clean, to do all the things women were expected to do. But Mùirne didn’t want to learn those things. It had been easier to let her have her way, and now, she was unprepared for the life ahead of her.

  Dearshul swallowed the bitterness of her guilt. There was nothing she could do about her failure. She hoped the happiness she saw on her daughter’s face would be enough to carry Mùirne through the weeks of learning to be a wife, on her own, without her mother nearby to help her.

  Without a word, Dearshul draped the cloth over Mùirne’s red curls and tied the ends under her chin. Mùirne smiled at her mother, at Ailean. Her mother’s placing of the curtch on her head was the final rite of their marriage. She would wear a snowy white linen curtch from now on, to proclaim to the world she was a married woman.

  Dearshul bowed her head and said a short prayer offering thanks to God and asking for His blessings to rest on the couple. Then the three of them walked to the barn together, where everyone had gathered for breakfast. They went inside and were greeted warmly. Now that they were present, the morning meal could begin.

  ____________

  “Hello, the house,” a familiar voice called.

  “Open the door and let him in,” Latharn told Catriona, although he would rather have left Brandubh standing outside.

  “Hello, Latharn,” Brandubh Cambeul said in a condescending tone when he entered Latharn’s home.

  Latharn only grunted. He resented Brandubh intensely and was not inclined to be polite. He did not ask the man to sit, nor did he offer him hospitality of any sort. But he had to endure the man’s presence, since Brandubh was Ualraig Cambeul’s right hand man and frequently delivered messages for him. Ualraig was the Duke of Argyll’s estate manager to whom Eachann paid rent for the land he leased from the Duke.

  “I heard about your…ah…sword fight with the MacLachlainn boy,” Brandubh said with a smirk. “If one could call it a fight, that is.”

  Latharn said nothing.

  “The tales of it are all over Inveraray and beyond,” Brandubh continued. “Quite entertaining. Your grand exploits have provided many a laugh for your clansmen.”

  Latharn glared at Brandubh, whose smirk he wished he could pound into mush. But he controlled himself. “Why are you here?” he asked.

  “Ualraig wishes to see you. Right away. He asks for you to please accompany me to his home.”

  Latharn rose without a word and put on his bonnet.

  “Aren’t you going to strap on your sword? Oh, I remember. You don’t have a sword anymore. A boy took it away from you, didn’t he?” Brandubh said and snickered.

  Latharn’s muscles grew tight and rigid as he struggled to control his anger. He didn’t respond to the goading but went outside and ordered one of his cottars to saddle his horse. Brandubh followed him and continued making snide remarks. If any other person had made such comments to him, Latharn would not have tolerated it. And he would not tolerate these remarks, but Brandubh would not be the one who paid the price for them.

  It had to be Odhran or Dùghall who spread the story of the fight. When I find out which one did it, he’ll be sorry.

  The cottar brought the horse, and Latharn mounted. He rode out of the yard at a fast trot to stay ahead of Brandubh and out of earshot of the man’s insults.

  When they arrived at Ualraig’s home near Inveraray, Latharn was thankful that Brandubh didn’t accompany him inside. A servant showed him to a room where Ualraig sat in front of a fire.

  “Latharn,” Ualraig said. “Please take a seat.”

  After Latharn seated himself, Ualraig continued. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of such sad news, but I regret to inform you that your father has died in Edinburgh.”

  Latharn said nothing, absorbing Ualraig’s words. The anger caused by Brandubh’s goading receded, and the feeling of loss and bereavement he’d had since Mùirne’s marriage filled him, increasing in intensity with the news about his father. The raw pain consumed him, threatened to destroy his composure.

  “No one else knows yet. I thought it best to tell you first,” Ualraig said.

  “Thank you,” Latharn said. He stared at the floor, blinked his eyes rapidly to forestall the flow of tears and coughed, almost choked by the lump in his throat.

  “I asked you here to tell you myself, because I need to speak to you about a situation this sad event has brought about.”

  Latharn raised his eyes but remained silent.

  “Your father’s death leaves his tack available. I’ll have to fill the position. I need to find someone to take over the responsibility for his holdings.” Ualraig paused, allowing Latharn time to absorb the import of his words.

  “Would…” Latharn’s voice faltered, broke. When he regained control, he tried again. “Would you…would you consider letting me take it? I’ve been doing most of the work, anyway, of late, and I already know how to manage everything.”

  “Yes. As a matter of fact, that’s why I called you here. I wanted to see if you had an interest in assuming your father’s responsibilities,” Ualraig said. “So. It’s settled. We’ll discuss it further after you’ve mourned his passing.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You may go.”

  Latharn rose and took his leave. He exited the house and a servant brought his horse to him. He mounted it and rode, unhurried, to his home, filled with conflicting emotions and absorbed by his thoughts. His sorrow at losing his father was mitigated, if only a little, by the realization he now had total control of the tack and had to answer only to Ualraig Cambeul.

  THIRTEEN

  Ailean found married life was not what he expected. The nights of passion in Mùirne’s arms were all he had dreamed of, and more. But the daily demands of sharing a life in union with another
person sometimes frustrated him.

  The helplessness and fear Ailean saw in Mùirne when he first met her appealed to his protective instincts during their courtship. But her weaknesses were not touching and endearing when they interfered with daily life.

  And Mùirne didn’t know how to cook.

  The morning after the last day of wedding celebration, Ailean awakened early and contemplated the work ahead of him. He wanted to lie in bed beside Mùirne, but he needed to get an early start clearing the field that was his share, to have it ready for plowing by spring. He was determined to show Da that he was a man now, honorable, responsible and hard-working.

  He raised himself, leaned on an elbow and looked at his beloved, who was lying on her back, one arm flung above her head, the other across her chest. The curves and softness of her features were visible in the dim light cast by the banked embers of the fire.

  Ailean placed a quick kiss on her lips to wake her. She stirred and rolled onto her side, facing him, her eyes still closed.

  He kissed her cheek and said, “Wake up, my love. I’m hungry, and I want my breakfast.”

  Mùirne blinked herself awake. She stretched, yawned and rolled over to her other side.

  “You have to wake up and cook my porridge,” he said and kissed her shoulder.

  She turned to face him again, eyes open.

  “Doesn’t your mother cook the porridge?” she asked.

  He looked at her, puzzled. “She cooks porridge for her household. But I’m not part of her household anymore. I belong to you,” he said with a smile. “I’m part of your household now.”

  Mùirne’s eyes widened. “You…you want me to cook porridge for you?”