The Legend of Lady MacLaoch

by Becky Banks

  “The Minorys, a long, long time ago, owned quite a bit o’ land in this area—outer isles and a significant part o’ the Isle of Skye, too.”

  “Back in the days of the Vikings, ye see,” Angus piped up.

  “And they were a fearsome sort. Depending on who ye talk tae, they were raping and pillaging, but I’ll tell ye, I’m no’ a historian. What Angus and I know has been passed down tae us through our father and his father and so on, Angus will agree, aye, Angus?”

  “Aye,” he said, sounding slightly noncommittal.

  “What we were told was that one of the most fearsome of the Minorys owned land on one o’ the outer isles, and he wanted tae take a wife o’ one o’ the Scots clans in the early times tae bring peace between them. Well, the Scots were none too happy about tha’, as they had wanted the Minory lands and were no’ so keen on keeping peace with him, so they said nae. Turns out the Minory was just making a formality of it because he swooped in and took himself a bride anyway. Well he’d no’ had her long and no’ married her before the clan moved across the water and killed him and brought back their clanswoman—as it turns out, against her will.”

  We drifted along, motor still low, the breeze off the ocean giving me the chills. I felt a strange sensation under the goose bumps. It was the same hum from my tea buzz earlier, only it now seemed to start from lower in my belly and tingle out along my skin. I took a deep breath as the boat rocked.

  “It was said,” continued Bernie, in a low voice, “the Scots woman, Lady MacLaoch—”

  Just then the motor quit all together and plunged us fully into the quiet of the water lapping at the bow.

  Bernie leaned to the side and nodded at Angus, who shrugged and pulled the starter cord. The motor chugged and died, again and again.

  “A’richt, Angus. We dinnae want tae be stranded out here. Ye keep daein’ that, and ye will flood it.”

  “Aye, well if ye know so much, why dinnae ye come back ’ere and fix it yerself?”

  Bernie glared at his brother before continuing with me. “Now, where was I? Ah yes, Lady MacLaoch. Now, lass, there is something ye need tae know about Lady MacLaoch.” The tone of Bernie’s voice had become stern, as if he were speaking of a woman he knew personally. “She was a fearsome lady, and she and the Minory were wild with love. She had planned her elopement with him, and she stole down tae the docks that day tae meet him and went willingly ontae his ship tae marry him. She loved him but knew that her father had intended her tae marry elsewhere. She had been promised tae another. Do ye see now? She had no other choice, and she could no’ live by that decision, so she fled with the man she loved.”

  “Nowadays,” Bernie continued, “ye can marry who ye like! But in those days, nae. Women like ye were property tae be sold and bartered with as such. Lady MacLaoch had been arranged tae marry a clansman in trade for more lands—more lands meant more power, aye?

  “Aye. Well, that day came when she went tae the harbor and pretended tae trade for goods for the castle and instead stowed away with the Minory. And she might have gone far, but her handmaid spied her and rushed back tae the castle tae tattle on her. Lady MacLaoch might have made it tae Minory lands where she couldn’t be touched, but the ship didnae make it. The MacLaochs slaughtered them all here in these waters.” Bernie finished somberly, the story seeming to catch up to him, even though he must have recited it a million times.

  Bernie turned his head back to me, his watery blue eyes looking at me as though to look within me. “It was at that isle to yer left, lass, that the Minory was laid over a boulder, arms tied tae the rock, and Lady MacLaoch made tae watch as they took his life. ’Tis said that he was so powerful that the ropes cut into the rock as he strained against them, full of rage at her having tae be made tae watch, and that those cuts are still there taeday.”

  I could see what Bernie meant me to understand. If the Minory was indeed my ancestor, I had a right to know what was done to him by the MacLaochs and what the MacLaochs had done to their own. I felt downright queasy.

  “Aye. Brutal. But time passed, and Lady MacLaoch lived tae marry the man to whom she was betrothed and bore him a child. It was in childbirth that she could see her life ending. Ye see, she never forgot what her father had done, and with her dying breath she cursed him.

  “She said, ‘I curse ye, Father, the ground under yer feet, the air ye breathe, the blood within yer veins, and the children ye put upon this earth. Ye will die having felt my pain, and only when a MacLaoch chieftain has felt my pain and shared in my anguish will they know peace. Until then, I will haunt ye and yers every eve and every dawn and all time in between, forever.’”

  Bernie fell silent, and we all sat quietly—not looking at each other, but at the low mound of the island where Bernie said the Minory had been tied and Lady MacLaoch made to watch. There seemed to be a presence in the boat, around us, and the humming within me seemed to settle, as if there were something to the story meant just for me.

  “But ye said yer family name was Minary, right?”

  “Right,” I answered Angus, feeling his voice pull me from a mental fog.

  Bernie cleared his throat. Angus tugged on the starter cord, and the engine sputtered back to life.

  “Well now. As we’re having a bit o’ trouble with the motor, we’d best turn back. Hate to be stuck out ’ere, aye?” Angus said, relatively jovial, but I got the feeling that he was worried.

  “That was just a bit o’ the tour,” he continued. “The only part ye didnae see was Castle Laoch. Right shame that is, but ye can have a close-up look at it from land. I’ll tell ye, though, that ye should be careful of the MacLaochs and asking questions. That lot is still a fearsome sort.”

  “Aye, that they are,” Angus agreed.

  “And it depends on who ye talk tae about the Lady MacLaoch curse. Some will wave ye off and tell ye tae never mind with such fairy tales. Believe me, it is a true curse. The MacLaochs have had nothing but bad luck as chieftains. They are either cheating or lying, and there isnae a one of them loving like they should, aye, Angus?”

  “Aye, none of them ha’ gone tae their deadbed with a wife at his side—”

  “Och! Wha’ about Old Dooney? He went tae his death with a wife at his side.”

  “Aye, that he did, his wife was holding the knife and his mistress the poison!”

  Bernie and Angus guffawed loudly at this, only to subside in eye wiping and snorting.

  “But ye see what we’re getting at, lass? There’s a darkness on the chieftain’s seat that befalls its owner.”

  “Including the one they have now. Thirty-fourth, is it?” Angus asked Bernie.

  “Aye,” Bernie responded, “that one has had the worst of it yet. Father abandoned him and his mother—mind ye, his mum was a MacLaoch, and she drank herself so deep she couldnae take care of the wee boy. His uncle, the thirty-third chieftain, scooped him up off his drunken mother and took care of him as his own.” He nodded at me to emphasize his point. “Now before ye go on and think highly of the thirty-third chieftain, understand that he couldnae keep a woman around long enough to make her his wife and have a son and an heir of his own. Seeing his opportunity with his drunken sister’s son, he took it upon himself and claimed his sister unfit and took the boy for his own self.”

  “Aye,” Angus agreed again. “Had her committed, too. She died right after the cell door shut behind her, is what we heard.”

  Bernie nodded solemnly. “God rest her soul,” he said, and crossed himself. “Three years ago, the thirty-third chieftain died from a cancer in his bones, and his nephew took up the thirty-fourth title. Doing no’ a bad job and no’ a good job, if ye ask me.”

  “But we didn’t ask ye, did we Bernie? Stick tae the facts, would ye?” Angus hollered forward, and then said in a low voice to me, “He’s just broken up over the legend, takes it seriously, ye see. He takes it as a personal offense that the clan MacLaoch did such wrong by the lady. He has an overprotective sense for women.” He winked
.

  “Oh, stow it, will ye?” Bernie hollered back. “I was saying, the thirty-fourth chieftain is a dark man, plagued, I think, with the worst of the curse.”

  “Aye,” Angus agreed solemnly.

  “We’ve heard many a thing about him, though we can say that with our own four eyes we have seen what a troubled man he is. He spent time in the Royal Air Force. The clan pulled him from duty when his uncle died. Rumor has it that he served on one of those special schemes while in the military, and it messed with him, they say.” Bernie tapped the side of his head.

  “Aye,” Angus agreed. “When ye see him, he’s nice enough, but ye can see the distance in his eyes, like he’s carrying a burden he cannae unload. Does quite a lot for the community, giving money tae the pipe band and sharing the history the clan has. Castle Laoch is considered home for all MacLaochs, and tours are free for clansmen who wants tae have a look inside,” he said and paused before continuing. “Though I’ll tell ye, I’d not want tae be on the other side of a battle from him. He’s got the look of a man who’s seen hell and come back to tell about it.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Face it, Rowan,” Eryka said, lounging on the settee behind the library desk near the window, like a lizard on a hot rock. “You need me.”

  Rowan gathered the list of book requests that the librarian had given him earlier that day. His annoyance ratcheted up at the husky, accented voice of the administrative assistant. At least the vibrations in his blood had subsided. Earlier at the library, the sensation had been intense.

  It was the stress of the Gathering and all associated with it, he told himself. Only it wasn’t debilitating, the way his nightmares were. The vibration had shaken him to his core, ringing like a bell he’d heard before, soft and comforting in its familiarity.

  “You need me,” Eryka said again. “Eventually you’ll need to get married, Rowan. You’ll need to produce an heir, and with your history, no one vill have you. I’m the only one who understands you and can look past your faults. No one vill ever love you like I can.”

  Rowan picked the last of the books up off the shelf, wanting nothing more than to push Eryka gently out the window.

  Eryka sauntered over to him. Her movements made her filmy shirt shimmy. “Rowan,” she pouted, letting her thin, cold hand slide down his back.

  Rowan stiffened at once. “Get your hand off me,” he said coolly.

  She leaned against him, the length of her body pressing against his, and whispered, “Or what, Rowan? You’ll kill me, too?”

  It was a game to her—to find his most vulnerable point and dig, to try and break him into small, manageable pieces.

  Rowan went ahead and gave her a small push. A wicked smile played across her face as she staggered backward and fell onto the settee.

  “Face it, Rowan, you need me to be there with you at the gala. You know I can help you.”

  “Help me, Eryka? Ye would rather suck the blood from me and this clan than help me. As I said before, I’ll no’ be taking a date, least of all ye,” he growled back at her.

  “Rowan, if not me, there will be no one. You will be alone for the rest of your life!” She bit back at him, her sultry nature gone and replaced with the ugliness that Rowan had seen before in people clawing for power.

  “So be it,” he said, and walked out.

  • • •

  At the cliff’s edge, Rowan picked up stone after stone, each one larger than the last. He whipped them out over the ocean, feeling the satisfying release of energy, and watched as their inevitable destiny took hold, dictated by gravity, plunging them into the ocean far below.

  Eryka’s words, You will be alone for the rest of your life, rang through his head. Every day he knew this, knew the effect the family history of the curse had upon him, and most days he was comfortable with this destiny. But today—today it was different.

  Rowan growled in frustration and picked up another rock and whipped it with all of his might.

  CHAPTER 8

  Having said our good-byes, I left the MacDonagh brothers in the harbor and headed toward Castle Laoch on foot. Not long into the journey, I stopped thinking about the MacLaoch and Minory legend. I was breathless from the mythical beauty of the coastline from land. Emerald cliffs rose massive and graceful from the frothing sea. Watery sunlight peeked out and hid again behind clouds, making the land and sea appear to move and shift like living things.

  I had already hiked several miles before I was forced to slide down a particularly steep section of the pebbly trail into a wide shoreline cove. Dusting off, I looked back up the narrow path and just couldn’t imagine Carol, much less Deloris, taking this path to Castle Laoch, and yet they’d both recommended the trek earlier that day, and this route was in the book of walks I’d found in my room at the B&B.

  Sheep relaxed on the large stone outcroppings that interrupted the grassy slopes. Deeper into the cove, water shimmered from its start in

  the cloud-wrapped mountains, cascading all the way down into a four-foot-wide stream, which surged on to meet the ocean before me. For just a moment I stood and breathed in the cool beauty surrounding me. I ached for once, to have someone to share this moment with, someone with whom I could reminisce with later—they’d know just the moment and place, the fresh sea air. Instead, I was sharing the peace and beauty with bored, grass-chewing sheep.

  The wind picked up suddenly off the ocean, blowing my hair back—out on the water, beyond the outer isles, an iron-gray sheet of angry rain was moving toward land. It would be a race—if I moved fast, I might be able to make it to the castle before the storm caught me

  Up the opposite hill of the cove, I fought the slip and slide of pebbly rocks on one turn and at the next, soggy mud. All the while it felt like I was climbing straight up Everest; the wind competed with the blood pumping in my ears for the title of the loudest howl. A gentle shiver moved down my spine.

  I looked down into the jagged cove below, decided up was still better than down, and kept going.

  Finally, grasping a rock at the cliff’s crest like a handle, I stepped precariously up onto two muck-covered boulders. With one more pull, I crested the ridge—and squeaked in surprise.

  I was not alone.

  A man, tall and lean, in a wool sweater and jeans, stood at the top of the cliff. He spun at the sound of my shriek. At the same time, my feet slipped out from under me.

  My belly dropped as it does when an elevator sinks suddenly, and I could see out of the corner of my eye the rocks, like open jaws, below. The wind rose in my ears, deafening all sound and matching the fever pitch of my own voice. I reached out for anything, but grasped only air.

  A hand—firm and strong, wrapping around my wrist—was the last thing I saw before the lights went out.

  CHAPTER 9

  My eyes flew open. I registered three things immediately: the feel of soft grass beneath my body, the smell of salt air, and the sense that I wanted to get up and fight.

  “There ye are.” The man who had been standing at the cliff was kneeling next to me.

  The brightness of the light behind him made my eyes hurt, and I squinted up at him. “Yeah, here I am. Now, don’t touch me again or you’ll lose that hand.” My cheek stung, and I just knew he had slapped me. I sat up quickly and regretted it instantly.

  Nausea hit me like a ton of bricks and a noise involuntarily came out the back of my throat. That firm hand came down again, this time to the back of my neck, and shoved my head between my knees. The nausea vanished, replaced by a humming under my skin, and black spots danced behind my eyelids.

  “Let go of me!” I hollered.

  The instant his skin left mine, my symptoms lessened. I took in a long and deep breath, letting the nausea and mood work themselves out of my system. My fingers gripped my knees. I still wasn’t sure what exactly was happening, but I did remember that just a few minutes ago, I had been perched to take a fatal tumble off the cliff. The least I could do was be grateful to this man, despite his
rough tactics.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  But instead of offering something gracious, something normal, in return, I heard him say, “Once ye get your wits about you, lass, I suggest ye explain to me how it is ye got to be ’ere.”

  Head still between my knees, I just breathed, ignoring the man hovering over me until I could capture my wits and restore them.

  “I’m waiting,” he said. His tone grated against my jangling nerves and before I knew what I was doing, I stood to give him a piece of my mind, my intentions no doubt clear on my face.

  Face-to-face with this man, I was a little more than a bit concerned that he didn’t even blink at me.

  His eyes—almond shaped, gunmetal blue and framed by dark lashes and brows—rested unwavering on mine. The rest of his face—high cheekbones, fair skin with a black five o’clock shadow—wore an expression that said he had stared down more wild and crazy things than me.

  “Well, for starters, I walked here,” I said, being purposefully smart-alecky, but I couldn’t maintain it. “And if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.” Why was I feeling flustered? I had lost most of my vehemence.

  “Ye’re going the wrong way,” the rolling Scots voice called. “Ye are on clan lands and unless ye have an invitation, I suggest ye stop now and go back the way ye came.”

  Jerk, I thought, but I stopped. Resting my hands on my hips, I glared into the distance, my mind running on a reel. It wasn’t making sense—I was on a public trail.

  “I don’t think you understand.” I turned to face him. He looked disarmingly sane and yet all he was saying wasn’t; one of us was confused. I pointed behind me and tried not to sound as frustrated as I was. The squall was still coming, and there was no way I was going back down that hill when the information on my ancestor I was looking for was around the bend. “The castle is right there, and that is where I’m going. Be it on clan lands or not this is a public trail,” I added, “and I promise I’m just hiking here, not going to poach any”—I paused to look around at the rock and grass pasture—“any of the sheep.”