Tayg dismounted and handed the reins to a young lad standing nearby with his mouth agape as if Tayg were a monster with horns instead of a warrior returned from war. Tayg winked at him, and a blush rushed over the lad’s cheeks. Tayg turned to his parents.
“Da. Mum.” He didn’t know what to do next, but his mum, as always, did. She moved forward and enfolded him in a fierce embrace. His father joined them, and Tayg felt much of the tension he had carried with him these many months drain away.
It was good to be home.
A FEW HOURS later, after much conversation with his mother over the well-being of his many cousins who also served with the Bruce and a good hot soak in a real tub, Tayg adjusted the pleats of a brand-new plaid his mum had brought him. The weaver had experimented with new dyes and patterns, and this was the best of what she had produced, saved for just this occasion.
Tayg admired the crimson crossed with the brightest green he had yet seen in a plaid and a watery blue with just the smallest line of brilliant yellow crossing through it all. ’Twas not a plaid he would wear when hunting, nor fighting, for ’twas bright of hue and would easily be seen, but ’twas an excellent change from the browns and grays he had worn so much of late. The colors seemed to lift his spirits, and he began to look forward to the evening spent among his friends and family.
Mum had said a bard was with them for the winter, a happy but unusual arrangement, as bards tended to winter over in the larger castles where there was more coin to be earned. This one was apparently wooing a lass in the village and had visited the clan often in recent months.
Tayg reached for his claymore, then remembered where he was. A sword would not be a necessary addition to his festive attire this evening. He did slide his dagger into its sheath and checked that his sgian dhu was in its place. Some things would not be left behind no matter where he was.
Satisfied that he was ready to face the clan, he left his chamber on the topmost floor of the hallhouse and descended the twisting narrow stair to the middle floor, which was given over almost entirely to a hall. Tonight it was filled with trestle tables groaning with food and people enough to make the large chamber feel crowded but somehow cozy. A fire roared on the hearth at one side of the room, and at the far end was a dais where a long table had been placed. Four chairs had been arranged near the center of the table facing those gathered in the hall.
Tayg could see his mother and father already seated there. Beside his mum was an empty chair, and next to that sat Duncan McCulloch, his cousin and best friend since they were wee lads. Duncan had left the fighting when he had been badly injured at Balnevie some seven months before. Tayg was glad to see that his friend appeared fully recovered and, from the way he was cutting into his food, there had been no lasting effect upon his sword arm. Relief poured through him though he had not been aware of holding more than a passing concern over Duncan. Duncan would be his champion when Tayg became chief, and he was counting on his friend’s level head to help him fill Robbie’s considerable brogues.
He made his way quickly to the table on the dais, nodded at his father, kissed his mother on the cheek, and took his place beside her. Duncan clapped him on the back and managed to grin while still chewing.
“You look well,” Tayg said as he helped himself to a platter heaped with thick slices of roasted beef. “Where is Mairi?”
Duncan grinned. “She is not feeling well.”
Tayg looked at his friend, puzzled by the grin.
“She is with child,” his mother said, passing him a tureen of braised turnips and leeks.
Tayg looked back at Duncan and couldn’t miss the pride in the other man’s face. “Congratulations! So you’re to be a da. How soon?”
“Another two months, though the midwife says it could be a bit more. Mairi is uncomfortable, but happy.”
Duncan filled a tankard with the dark ale Tayg had missed so much in his travels, and Tayg raised it.
“May you have a strong and healthy bairn,” he said, then took a long, slow draught.
For a time there was silence as they ate and Tayg mulled over the ramifications of Duncan’s impending fatherhood. He had not worried much when Duncan had announced that he and Mairi would be wed. That event had changed Tayg’s life little. Duncan had happily followed Tayg and Robbie off to war even though it meant leaving Mairi behind. But he had not rejoined them after his injury healed, and now Tayg knew why. Duncan had responsibilities that now went far beyond a pretty wife.
It seemed he and Duncan both had responsibilities they had not held a year previous.
After Tayg had devoured a second helping of everything, he refilled his tankard and looked about the hall. The bard had left his dinner and sat before the fire, quietly playing on his harp, stroking the strings with his long-fingered hands as a man tenderly strokes a woman’s cheek. ’Twas no wonder lasses tended to flock about bards, giggling and vying for their attentions, when the bards all but seduced them with their playing and singing.
He shook his head at the thought then turned his attention back to Duncan. For the next candlemark they traded tales of all the men they’d fought beside, even planning a foray to visit auld Gair who lived but a day’s ride from Culrain. As the conversation wound down, they sat companionably drinking their ale, each lost in memories of earlier days. Slowly Tayg realized that his name was being sung. ’Twas a song he had never heard before, a song that repeated his name again and again. He sat forward, concentrating on the lean bard and the words he sang with such fervor.
Braw Tayg of Culrain slashed his way through the line,
But two hundred Sassenach more did he find.
So he took Buchan’s men with naught but his blade
Till none save he stood on that cold winter’s day.
“That is utter nonsense,” Tayg said, looking to Duncan for agreement. “’Twas nothing like that when we faced Buchan at Balnevie.”
“True,” Duncan said, “but nevertheless, ’tis a most popular song.” He nodded in the direction of the bard. Tayg’s quick glance startled more than one lass out of making moon eyes at him. The lads were less circumspect, openly grinning at him. A granny even held his gaze for a moment, then nodded her head as if she had taken his measure and come to some conclusion.
There were groups of women, three here, five there, who bent their heads together in hushed conversation, then they would giggle and each would steal a look at him, then more giggling and more whispered talk.
“There will be trouble in this hall, mark my words,” Duncan said.
“What kind of trouble?” Tayg asked.
“The kind only you can create, my braw lad,” his mother replied from his other side. She had sat in silence, observing for a long time. “The lasses—and their mums—are plotting over you already.”
Tayg laughed. “That has never caused trouble—well, never much trouble—in the past.”
“Do not laugh, my darling boy. There is nary a lass within a day’s ride of Culrain who has not swooned over the stories of ‘brave Tayg’ in battle, ‘charming Tayg’ in the hall. Your time in service to the king has honed you like a fine sword. You are more handsome than even your brother was, bless his soul. You are returned from war a valiant warrior of the king, and you shall be chief after your father. Nay, ’tis nary a lass within two days’ ride of Culrain who has not dreamed that you would return and fall at her feet, begging her to wed you.”
He listened absently to the bard, watching the lasses and wondering if one of them would someday make him wish to marry. They seemed so…alike. He hadn’t been gone so long that he didn’t know every one of them, had since they were all wee lasses. There were pretty ones and plain ones, some were thin and others more plump. Some had auburn hair and others blond, but none of them stood apart from the others. None of them were truly different from the other lasses. Most were pleasant, and in that regard would be fair as a wife, but none of them stirred him. Well, some of them stirred him, but only in a physical way. None o
f them captured his mind and heart the way Mairi had Duncan’s or even the way his mother captured Da’s. Still, perhaps one of the lasses listening raptly to the bard sing about…
Tayg listened more carefully. Surely it wasn’t another song about him. He rested his head in his hand. This had to stop. The songs were absurd, elevating a simple warrior to the level of a hero.
The bard finished the song with a flourish on his harp, and applause erupted from the crowd. Several of the lasses tittered, then cast him knowing glances over their shoulders. Lasses were always fluttering around him like beautiful moths drawn to a flickering flame. “’Twould appear I am to enjoy myself,” he said, more to himself than to his companions.
“That you must not do,” Sorcha said, catching his full attention with her serious tone. “’Tis time we spoke of your future.”
He had made peace with his future, yet a chill ran down his spine at her words. The grimace that passed over his father’s face served to strengthen his unease.
He pushed his chair back and propped his feet upon the table, affecting an unconcerned pose. “Wish me well, Duncan. ’Tis my future we discuss.”
Duncan smiled. “Perhaps you shall like your future. It seems to me that you are ready for it.” He raised his cup to Tayg and drained the contents. “For me, I’m off to see to Mairi’s comfort.”
“Give her my greetings,” Tayg said, then turned his full attention to his parents. He didn’t see any sense in putting this off any longer than his year of fighting already had. “My future?”
Angus rose from his seat and paced the length of the dais. Sorcha watched him, but she would not meet Tayg’s eyes. His parents’ unusual behavior made the skin on his scalp prickle, not unlike the way it did just before the enemy surged into battle. He glanced from one parent to the other, waiting for one of them to speak.
At last Angus sighed and propped a hip on the table so that Tayg was trapped between his parents. A lively tune flowed from the bard, at odds with the serious looks on Angus’s and Sorcha’s faces.
“You ken you are to be chief, aye?”
“Aye.”
“You have proved your mettle this year past. I believe you will serve the clan well.”
Tayg forced himself to maintain his relaxed pose, watching and waiting as he had done so often in war. “I shall do my best. I promised Robbie ’twould be so.”
Angus actually smiled. “I do not doubt it. Robbie would not allow his responsibilities to go unanswered. He was always very serious in that way.”
“Aye, he was.”
“As we would ask you to be,” Sorcha said.
The prickling spread from his scalp down his back, and he found himself braced for battle.
“Sorcha, I do not think ’tis the time now to speak of such things.”
“Wheesht, Angus, ’tis past time for the lad to wed.”
“Wed?” Tayg’s feet thumped to the floor, and he reached for his tankard. The growing gleam in his mother’s blue eyes worried him, and he realized ’twas too late to escape before she sprang whatever plan she had on him.
“If we are to avoid much turmoil within these walls, we must see you wed immediately. ’Twill be a long and dismal winter if the lasses are at odds over you, especially with their mums pushing them all to it.”
“I do not wish to wed.”
“Few men do until confronted with it,” Sorcha said. “There are plenty of willing lasses here in Culrain. You shall wed before the month is out, and all will be well.”
“Nay, ’twill not be well! Nay,” he said again, stalling for time while his mind searched for just the right argument to stay his mother’s plan. “I need a year at the very least, perhaps two.”
Angus laughed quietly. “I would give you more than that, lad, but I’m afraid your mother does have a point.”
Tayg held out his tankard, which Angus quickly refilled. He let his head drop back against the chair and stared up at the smoke-darkened ceiling. He was only just home, only now coming to terms with his new role in the clan, yet already Mum was pushing him further.
He knew he would be judged by his reaction, but he could not take this task upon himself. ’Twas enough to step into Robbie’s shoes and lead the clan. ’Twas his duty, and he would fulfill it. “I do not wish to marry…yet,” he said, still staring at the ceiling where he would not have to see the stubborn gleam he knew to be in his mother’s eyes.
“But—” Sorcha placed her hand upon his arm.
He held up a hand to stop her words.
“If I am to take Robbie’s place,” he said, finally facing her, “then you must trust me to do what I deem best. Marrying hastily will do naught but bring strife to these good folk, and to me. Tell everyone—especially that bard—that I will choose a wife when I am ready to. If there is trouble, I will do my best to defuse it. And tell him to stop singing those damn songs.”
“See, Sorcha, did I not say so?” Angus said, grinning as if Tayg had felled the biggest stag in the wood.
“Aye, you did, but ’twill not be enough.”
“I will not be forced to wed one of these lasses. Were it not me, ’twould be someone else they bickered over. Besides,” he said, looking over the young women enjoying the bard’s entertainment, “I have known them all long enough to know there is none amongst them whom I wish to wed.”
“Then we will arrange another—”
“Nay. I will find my own wife.”
Sorcha looked at him, her gaze level and unwavering. “You are to be chief. It is your duty to do what is best for the clan. As long as you are here and not wed, you will cause trouble amongst the women. ’Twill be good for no one.”
Tayg sighed and prayed for strength against his mother’s strong will. “Then I shall leave. I shall return to the king’s service—”
“Wait, lad,” Angus said. “As it happens, I have a task needs doing that will serve to delay—” he looked pointedly at Sorcha “—what your mother fears will happen. ’Twill also give you the opportunity to meet other lasses who may…appeal to you.” He motioned Tayg to follow him into his private chamber.
“Angus.” Sorcha’s voice was low, and her displeasure with his interference was clear.
“The lad is right, my love. He should not be forced to wed so hastily. I did not like that it was necessary for Robbie to wed a lass he did not fancy. The lad here is wise enough to see the folly in such a plan. We will buy Tayg and you some time.” He leaned over and kissed his wife on the cheek. “Go. Spread the word that Tayg is leaving immediately on the king’s business. Make sure that bard understands that if he wants to continue to enjoy the company of the Munro lass he fancies he will cooperate—and he’ll stop singing those songs.”
“Or telling those tales,” Tayg added.
Sorcha looked first at her husband and then her son. She rose and hugged Tayg. “I do not want to see you unhappy. There is enough of that in this life, but we must consider the clan—”
“Go now, love,” Angus said, and Tayg was surprised to hear the softness in his father’s voice.
The two men watched her walk to the bard and draw him away from the circle of listeners, then Angus wrapped an arm around Tayg’s shoulder and led him into the chief’s private chamber. Tayg had always thought of this chamber as the bear’s den, a dark little space where Da and Robbie would seclude themselves for hours, shutting out all others while they discussed who knew what. The small chamber was almost too warm after the drafty hall, so Tayg left the door open, allowing the heat to mingle with the cooler air as the room’s somber mood mingled with the bard’s lilting music.
His father stood at a battered wooden table that took up the center of the room. He tapped a parchment, pinned to the table with bricks of peat, with a thick finger.
“I received this just a day past. The Earl of Ross, that daft bastard, could have had the bard tell me what he wished instead of sending this drivel—” he banged the table with his fist “—but he does so love to show off hi
s writing.”
“You ken he has someone write it for him, do you not?” Tayg asked.
“Aye, but he never hesitates to boast of the fact that he sends his messages in a written hand. Some fool notion of making sure his words are not mangled by the messenger. Fah. As if a bard would mangle any words. ’Tis a daft idea. Writing only leaves the message where others may find it. If ’tis truly important, it should never be set to parchment!”
Tayg just nodded as he scanned the jagged writing. He could read, but it wasn’t a skill he used often, and like any skill, it grew rusty with disuse. After a few moments, though, he had recovered the knack of it and began reading aloud: “Angus Dubh of Munro, my greetings.”
He ran his finger along the parchment as he deciphered the rest of the words there:
Be it known to you that Lord Robert, the illustrious king of Scotland, shall grace Dingwall Castle and its inhabitants with his most gracious presence on the third day before Hogmanay to witness the marriage of his sister, Lady Maude, to my son and heir, Hugh O’Beolan.
He commands each of his loyal chiefs to attend him there so that he may know them and receive their fealty. Our king is particularly anxious to receive such from the MacDonells of Dun Donell.
’Tis your duty to see this message delivered to the MacDonell chief, and to each chief your servant may find between Culrain and Dun Donell.
It was signed with the earl’s mark and an ornate seal of red wax with a sprig of juniper pressed into it.
Tayg considered what he’d read for a moment, scanning the words once more to get the sense of them. He glanced up at his father, who wore a deep scowl.
“Why would he not send his own man to the MacDonells?” Tayg asked.
“The better question is why did he bother to put such a task to parchment?” his father said, pacing in a circle about Tayg and the table.
“To make sure his words were not mistaken?”
“Nay, ’tis a simple message with little to complicate its delivery. There is more here, but I do not see it yet.”
Charming the Shrew Page 2