Charming the Shrew

by Laurin Wittig

  “Do you not think a sister would know her brother’s name?”

  “Tayg,” he said, and she saw him wince as if he had not meant to tell her.

  Surprised, she asked, “Like brave Tayg of Culrain?”

  He turned and began walking again. “’Tis a common name among Clan Munro.”

  “Then you are of that clan?” She loped along behind him, trying to catch up with his long strides despite her fatigue. “Is that why you were angry last night? Are you rivals, perhaps?”

  “Save your breath, lass,” he said. “The sun is nearly set. If we are to chance this, I would reach our destination before full dark.”

  Catriona followed him, trying out his name in her mind. Tayg. It summoned to mind images of a man in battle, the king’s banner flying over his head, sword drawn, a battle cry upon his lips. But this Tayg was a bard, not a warrior. She tried to adjust the image to one of a bard, seated in a hall, but she could not. Now there was a face on the warrior, and it belonged to this Tayg. She shook her head at the nonsense. ’Twas an uncommon name, to be sure, yet it connected him to his clan. ’Twas a good name—for a bard or a warrior.

  “HELLO!” TAYG CALLED as they entered a village just as the last light was about to fade from the sky. Heads poked out of cottage doors, but no one spoke to them. “’Tis a bard I am, in search of a warm meal and a place to sleep out of the cold for me and my sister,” he said loudly.

  “Welcome, bard,” a booming voice called from a larger building set at the far end of the small village.

  Tayg and Catriona walked past a dozen small stone cottages thatched with heather. The earthy smell of burning peat hung low over the settlement. The blanket of new snow was broken in dirty trails leading from each dwelling to the main path on which they now trod through the center of the village. ’Twas not so different from every other Highland village Tayg had ever seen, including his own.

  When they reached the foot of the trail, a barrel-chested man greeted them from the doorway of a house that was easily twice as big as the others they had passed.

  “I am Farlan, chief of the Mackenzies of Fionn. I welcome you to our village.”

  “I am—” Tayg hesitated. He did not wish to give their true names. “I am Duncan, and this is my sister Mairi.”

  “We have been long without the merriment of a bard, good man. If you will entertain us, we will be happy to provide a warm meal and a place by the fire for the night.”

  Tayg grinned. “Aye, that would be a fine trade, Farlan.”

  “What brings you wandering in such weather, and with your sister?”

  “Ah, well now, there’s a complicated tale,” he said, stalling. What was wrong with him? ’Twas stupid not to have thought of these questions before. The lass had his mind running in circles instead of attending to their survival. “I am escorting my sister to her new family. She is to wed.” ’Twas not so far from the truth.

  “And this groom could not come to claim her?”

  “Nay.” Tayg glanced at her and shook his head slightly. He should have devised a plausible story with her before they entered the village so they would not betray one another, but he had not been able to think of aught except to hide her loveliness. And then the wide-eyed look of wonder on her face at his touch had nearly undone him. He had come so close to tasting her…

  Farlan cleared his throat.

  Tayg shook his head and tried to rid himself of the distracting memory and focus on the tale he must weave to keep them safe. He hated it, but he had to trust her to go along with the tale he was concocting.

  “Her betrothed had an accident hunting and has broken his leg. ’Tis impossible for him to travel now, yet they are anxious to begin their married bliss.”

  He slanted a leering grin at Catriona, who, to her credit, did not respond to his jibe with anything except a narrowing of her eyes and a pursing of her lovely lips. ’Twas silly to bait her, and yet he found he could not help himself.

  “She is nearly an old woman and does not wish to give the lad a chance to change his mind.”

  The chief guffawed. “If she is old, then I am young, but then time is different when you are in love.” He chucked Catriona under the chin, and Tayg prayed she would not bite the man. To his relief she did not.

  “’Tis not every day a perfect match presents itself,” she said, her head dipped demurely, though her glare was aimed firmly at Tayg. “Should you not explain your other purpose to our host, my brother?”

  Tayg started, then realized she could not be speaking of the plot against the king. “What other purpose?”

  “The bride search, of course.” She looked at Farlan. “You’ll have to forgive him. The cold has addled his brain.”

  “’Twill do that, aye, but what’s this of a bride search?”

  Catriona stepped closer to Farlan and looped her arm around his as if taking him into a great confidence. Tayg wondered what she was up to.

  “Have you not heard that the king seeks to marry off his loyal followers’ sons?” she said.

  Farlan shook his head. “That news did not reach us.”

  “My brother has been sent to spy out the bonniest lasses in the Highlands to present to the king as prospective brides.”

  Tayg scowled at her, but she just flashed a cheeky grin at him.

  “Surely you have some bonny lasses here,” she continued.

  “We do. We do indeed,” he said, his eyes lighting with delight. “My own daughter would make a grand match for any lad.”

  “Do you have any sons?”

  Farlan blinked at her.

  “Oh, not for me. I have heard that a clan near to the sea has a bonny daughter ready to wed. I merely thought…”

  “’Tis a fine thought, lass, but my sons are all long wed. Did the king bid you find eligible sons to go with those brides?”

  “Nay, I simply wish all lasses could be as blessed as I to be wed to a brave, braw lad.”

  She batted her eyes at the chief, and Tayg struggled not to burst out laughing at her performance. She was far better at this than he would have thought.

  Farlan chuckled. “Well, ’tis only a daughter I have left to settle, lass. But come, you are both cold, no doubt. Let us continue this conversation inside. Give your horse to Ian here.” He shoved a lad who had been lurking nearby toward them. “He will see ’tis well tended.”

  “Our thanks,” Tayg said, pleased to change the subject. “If we can warm ourselves and sup, I would be happy to entertain your kinsmen this night.”

  Farlan ushered them into the building, followed by most of the villagers, it seemed. He ordered several people off to gather food and drink, then led Tayg and Catriona to a table near a roaring fire at the end of the hall. A platter of mutton and one of roasted onions and turnips were quickly placed before them, along with a pitcher of ale. Trenchers were laid out with a horn spoon set upon them and wooden cups set next to the pitcher.

  The hot food was delicious, and they ate quickly. Tayg was pleased to see the color return to Catriona’s smudged cheeks. The lass could rest here while he tried to be a bard again. He would follow the course he had followed at Dun Donell, depending more upon his storytelling ability and less upon his dubious talent as a musician.

  Farlan joined them, a ginger-haired lass at his elbow. “Good bard, this is my daughter, Sweet Dolag.”

  Tayg looked up at a lovely lass of perhaps ten and seven. Her copper hair framed a heart-shaped face with a riot of curls, but her eyes were cast down so that he could not tell their color. She was bonny, but not as bonny as Catriona. Tayg held his breath a moment, appalled at the thought. He must remember his purpose for traveling with Catriona and not let her beauty distract him. He needed to remember that she was a shrew and a hostage. Determined to redirect his troublesome thoughts, he rose and gave a nod of his head, like a small bow.

  “’Tis pleased I am to make your acquaintance.”

  The lass colored prettily. She sat beside her sire on the bench direct
ly across from Tayg and Catriona, who set her spoon and knife aside and watched the father and daughter.

  “What news have you?” Farlan asked.

  Tayg chewed for a moment, then said, “’Tis not much news this time of year. The MacDonells are well.” Catriona muttered something, but he could not make it out. “Though the Beatons raid their livestock. The MacLeods of Assynt are as ever—” he glanced at Catriona “—arguing amongst themselves.”

  He winced as Catriona ground her heel on his toes under the table while smiling across the table at their host. Tayg jerked his foot from beneath hers, quickly moving all of his toes out of her reach.

  “What news have you?” Catriona asked Farlan.

  “Ah, there is little to tell. The snows have been deep in our glen though ’tis but December. ’Twill be a long, cold winter I fear.”

  Tayg nodded. “There was little snow to the south when I traveled there a sennight past, but here ’twould appear winter has settled in long since.”

  There was a silence and Tayg tried to ignore the palpable expectations rolling off of Farlan.

  The man grinned at Tayg and patted his daughter’s arm. “My Sweet Dolag will make a fine wife. She is kind and sweet and demure. She is well-trained in the running of a hall or a castle. She cooks and sews and is good with the wee ones.”

  Tayg squirmed at the man’s listing of his daughter’s qualifications. ’Twas like listening to a man speak of his favorite hunting hound. He was suddenly struck with the realization that he really should use this opportunity, and his anonymity, to see if he could find a lass he could be happily wedded to. If he did not find one before he reached the king, his mother would do the choosing for him. A shiver ran down his spine. That would never do. And what better way to audition a wife than this?

  “Does she have a sense of humor?” Tayg asked, a grin on his face to disguise his serious question. Whoever he ended up bound to had best be able to laugh at his jokes.

  Farlan frowned. “What use is that in a wife?”

  Tayg laughed as if he’d been funny on purpose. “Aye, just so.” Did the lass never speak for herself? “And what of you, Sweet Dolag? What do you wish for from a husband?”

  At last she glanced up at him. “Wish for?”

  Tayg nodded at her, and she glanced at her father, as if asking him for her own opinion.

  “I…I do not know. I suppose I wish for a husband who will care for me and our bairns, provide enough to eat, a home. What else should I wish for?” she asked, a very serious look upon her face.

  “Do you not wish for love?” he asked.

  “Of course. Doesn’t every lass? But ’tis seldom found.” This was certainly true in Tayg’s experience. “I do not expect it. If I am lucky, I will grow to love whomever I marry.”

  “’Tis a sad way to approach marriage,” Tayg said. He had heard enough from this lass. She was sweet, no doubt, and biddable, but he could not see himself spending a long winter’s night with her. Nay, she was too shy and sober for his liking, despite the apparent promise of her ginger curls.

  He drained his ale cup and reached for the sack containing his drum. “I think ’tis time to make merry,” he said. He pulled out the drum and ran his hands over the stretched skin, warming it slowly as he had seen bards do many times. He searched his memory for other things he had seen bards do, other than flirting with the lasses. Of that he had no need for practice.

  Pulling an empty bench near the fire, he settled himself so his feet could be warmed while he played. As before, the crowd gathered around him, some pulling benches close, others standing, and the children all perched at his feet. He began with the same slow ballad he had played at Dun Donell, only this time he managed to get the beat right. He started in on the words, careful to keep the beat of the drum even and the tone of his voice melancholy.

  When he was finished the crowd applauded, and he asked what kind of story they would like to hear. While he told the tale of the mad chief again, he noticed Catriona moved to the edge of the circle and stood across from him, watching him like a cat about to pounce on a fat mouse.

  The applause sounded again at the end of the story, and he reached for his cup, slurping down the contents.

  “Sing us another song, bard,” someone yelled from the edge of the crowd.

  “Aye, sing us a love song, something sweet and romantic.”

  He looked over the rim of his mug into the deep-blue eyes of the speaker, Catriona.

  “I have another tale to tell—”

  “But brother, we want a song. A lovely song. You know ‘The Maiden’s Choice.’ Sing it for us.”

  Tayg glared at Catriona.

  “Ah, lasses,” she said, raising her voice, “my brother needs a bit of enticement. ’Twould seem a full belly has him in a melancholy mood, and a man’s no good to anyone in a mood like that, now is he?” She had the audacity to wink at him while the lasses giggled and the men guffawed.

  “I do not need your help in that arena, my dear sister,” he said, raising his voice to be heard above the laughter.

  “Nay, ’tis not my help you’ll be needing, mayhap…” She threaded her way into the circle and made her way around it. “Mayhap you need a bit of inspiration? You should sing a song to a lass…this lass,” she said, pulling Dolag into the middle of the circle. “She may rouse you to better than you have sung so far.”

  Tayg scowled at Catriona but managed to smile a split second later when Dolag glanced shyly at him.

  “Ah, Dolag,” he said, deciding to play along with Catriona and best her at her own game.

  “’Tis Sweet Dolag,” Farlan said from across the circle.

  Tayg nodded. If he did this right, he could please Farlan and pay Catriona back for putting him in this difficult position. She would regret both grinding his toes and meddling with his performance. He narrowed his eyes and concentrated on Dolag, Sweet Dolag, he reminded himself.

  “Ah, Sweet Dolag of Fionn.” He flashed her his cheekiest grin and winked at her, making sure Catriona also saw that wink. He watched as Dolag’s cheeks flushed pink just from that little bit of flirting. Here was a lass unused to the attentions of a man. She would be easy to flatter. He began a simple beat upon his drum.

  “Sweet Dolag of Fionn, a sweet thing she is. Her hair is like fire, her face like a p—” he stumbled over the beat as he tried not to say the first rhyme he thought of: pig.

  The crowd howled, but Farlan did not look happy and Dolag’s lower lip trembled.

  “My apologies,” Tayg said quickly. “I do not usually make up songs so hastily,” he added. “Let me try again, for such a pretty lass deserves a pretty song.”

  Farlan’s head bobbed in agreement, and the pink deepened on Dolag’s cheeks.

  “Let me help you, brother,” Catriona said as she stood by Dolag’s side.

  “Nay, you have helped enough.”

  Again the crowd laughed loudly.

  Tayg started the beat upon his drum again. “Fair Dolag of Fionn, fine of face and of form. She shines like a flower on a bonny spring morn.”

  “Och, that’s better, lad,” Farlan shouted.

  “She is never a shrew, a hen or a brat. She never dissents.” He looked at Catriona so he could be sure she understood his point. “Never talks back.”

  Tayg let the beat flow for a moment while he thought of something else to sing.

  “Fair Dolag of Fionn has grace like a cat. She sings like an angel—”

  The crowd hooted, and Dolag ducked her head, staring at her feet. “’Tis clear he has not heard her sing, then!” someone shouted from the crowd.

  Tayg smiled. “And—”

  “Is blind as a bat!” another voice shouted from the other side of the circle.

  Tayg tried not to smile. “You are unfair to lovely Dolag,” he called out, hoping to win a smile from the embarrassed lass. But she just hunched her shoulders and stood there. “She is fair and fine and bonny and true,” he sang. “Unlike my own sister, who i
s ever a shrew!” he finished with a flourish.

  Raucous applause greeted his effort, with back slaps from those near him and hearty guffaws from all gathered around. Tayg glanced at the two women standing before him. One look at Dolag told him she had had enough of his attentions. One look at Catriona told him his jibes had hit home. Where Dolag was crimson and ducked her head as if to hide, Catriona stood, her fists on her shapely hips, her chin set and her skin flushed with anger.

  “I have a fine idea,” he said, still beating the drum, but looking Catriona straight in the eyes.

  “I’ll sing a song we all know. You can all join in and give Sweet Dolag,” he gave the lass his best you’re-a-rare-lass look, “a respite from your ribbing.”

  This did win him a small, shy smile, which he answered with another grin and a wink. Once more the lass turned crimson. She was demure, to be sure, but too much. She was so meek he feared her own bairns would mistreat her. Tayg could not see himself wed to someone who would take such teasing not only to heart, but would not stand up for herself.

  He sighed and launched into a well-known, slightly bawdy song that, to his relief, the crowd eagerly joined in on. Catriona glared at him as she forced her way through the circle of Mackenzies and stormed from the hall.

  CATRIONA STOMPED OUT of the crowded hall and into the cold night air. Clouds scudded across a pale sliver of moon as if in a hurry to be on their way. Which is what she should do. Be on her way. She paced along a well-worn path through the snow. That arrogant, irritating, exasperating bard! He had poked at her pride, prodded her temper, all the time knowing that if she had not held onto her tongue they would both be in deeper trouble than they cared to even contemplate. And then he had called her that most hated word: shrew.

  Only the thought of forever being bound to that ruffian had given her the strength to keep silent. How dare he call her those things in front of these people! He was as bad as her brothers. As stupid as her father. As insufferable as…as…she couldn’t think of anything as insufferable as His Bardship. If he was a bard, for he sang like a dying toad.

  Catriona pulled her cloak close about her. She had reached the far end of the village, so she turned and paced back toward the hall.