The Banshee of Castle Muirn

by Sheila Currie

  The Banshee of Castle Muirn

  The Banshee Series 1

  Sheila Currie

  AM BOTHAN PRESS

  Copyright © 2018 by Sheila Currie

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-9994918-2-6

  Print ISBN: 978-1-9994918-1-9

  Audio ISBN: 978-1-9994918-0-2

  The Banshee of Castle Muirn is a work of fiction. The story is loosely based on historical events, but names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination.

  Cover design by Steven Novak

  Neart nan tonn leat truime trèine!

  Bho 'Taladh Dhòmhnaill Ghuirm', gun urra

  Might of the waves be with you, of the highest and strongest!

  From 'The Lullaby of Noble Donald', anonymous

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Author Notes

  Glossary

  Dedication

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Singed by gunfire as she flew over the foreign warriors among the oaks and beeches, Crow dived though the smoke hole of the first house in the village. She flew only at night to escape notice, but they had spotted her and opened fire. The strangers were hiding near Castle Muirn. She had learned that the news from the south was not good when she had agreed to deliver a message to Morag the Wise.

  The scent of fragrant heather mingled with the smell of soot in the thatch and the herbs drying in the rafters. All seemed well, but Crow knew otherwise. The bird took a few moments to warm herself on a large stone radiating heat from the banked fire in the central hearth while she examined the burnt tips of her feathers. Nothing serious.

  No sign of Morag—she must be asleep behind the oaken doors of her box bed. She prospered as ever. Her clothes chest brimmed with linen and plaids, her food kist with oatmeal and barley. Four low chairs waited at the fire for her clients.

  No doubt Morag preferred to stay abed under a quilt on a cold night to keep her old bones warm. “Morag, get up. It’s time to go, lazy one! You have business.” Crow flapped outside the doors of the box-bed and pecked the wood repeatedly. A few black feathers scattered in the air.

  Crow heard a grunt, and the doors swung open.

  “So I’m still alive in the world.” Morag swung her legs out of bed. The firelight shone in her eyes, two wells of youth in a face ridged with age. “Dòlas! Blast!”

  “You’ve to warn them tonight.” Crow ignored her anger and hovered out of reach.

  As the wind rattled the stones anchoring her roof, Morag looked toward the rafters as though bad omens might bring down her house. “So one of them will change sooner than we thought.”

  “Yes, one will die at sunrise. Didn’t you see that yourself?”

  “Not clearly. Your Sight is better.”

  Strong visions of what might happen didn’t come to the bird either, but she took pleasure in the compliment. “Best hurry.”

  “One death in an ocean of life.” Morag the Wise unbound her hair and pulled her fingers through it to separate the strands of black and grey. She rubbed her hands, swollen with the joint sickness. “But there are many in this glen who will die before their time.”

  Poor woman. Her old bones made her short-tempered, but with the Crow’s help she’d prepare herself for her night’s work. From her kist, she scooped up a handful of fine oatmeal to powder her hair white. She put a bleached sheepskin mask to her face and tied it at the back of her head. Then she cut her hand with a small knife and darkened the mask’s lips with her own blood. She winced as she bandaged her hand and massaged her knuckles afterward.

  The bird had a more important task—to find out if Morag had secured her apprentice. Only one other of Morag’s kind lived in the district—Shona, the chief’s daughter. Both women had silver-grey eyes, a sure sign.

  Crow nibbled the seeds spilled on the kist. “Keep your mind on your business, old dear.”

  Morag put on a worn linen shift and an earasaid, a mantle of grey and white, and belted them with a sash of green silk, the emblem of her calling.

  “You’re dragging your tail feathers.” The bird jumped from chair to stool to chest.

  “You’d know more about that than I.”

  “Someone’s outside. Stay here. I’ll go see.” The bird flew out the smoke hole, and found a young man with his arm about a girl by the garden wall. They thought birds had no power to understand human speech, and they’d ignore her. Then she saw dark shapes moving beyond the church. The ones who had fired at her. Must be. She rushed back to Morag’s and landed sideways on the chain holding her old bronze cauldron over the fire.

  “A young man. And the men in dark coats and breeches nearby. Too bad the young one will be caught up in this. But this death is the beginning of change in Gleann Muirn. I saw it.”

  Morag pinned her garment with a silver brooch so big that the bird could have built a nest on it.

  “Let’s go,” Crow squawked. “It is destiny. Let’s get it over with.”

  “Hush, rude bird. You’ll wake the dead.”

  “They’ll want to meet all the new people joining them this year.”

  “I know. I’m ready.”

  Crow enabled the old woman to keep her nocturnal walks a secret. Morag skirted the edge of the village. She had to appear from the west, the direction of the Otherworld, and the bird flew overhead to make sure no one encountered her while she was working. In all the years the old woman had done her job, the villagers had remained ignorant of who among them predicted death.

  The people of Baile Leacan knew Morag only for her knowledge of herbs and simples. And so they should. Now Crow’s duty was to help her find a replacement. “Only one silver-eyed woman has the copper in her blood. Only one person sickens with iron.”

  “You’re nagging.” The old woman, her hand on her back, straightened and groaned.

  “My people have seen what may come. A generation of blood and death—unless we do something.”

  Morag’s shoulders sagged again. “I knew evil was gathering.”

  “Did you take something for the pain?”

  “I did.”

  Only a sliver of moonlight cast light on the path. Although Morag knew the way, she stumbled and muttered a curse. Her bad leg had collapsed under her.

  “You must ask Shona. With her father away, there’s a chance she may agree.”

  “You think I haven’t thought about it?” Morag picked herself up and rubbed earth and tiny pebbles from her hands. “Her father won’t allow it. He wants her married.” She leaned on the wall of a house.

  Crow hovered above. “You’ll think of something.”

  “So I will.” Morag smoothed her earasaid. “I’m all right for a few years. Just do your part.” A tinge of anger coloured her words.

  “I’ll help you when I can.” Crow wondered how long Morag would last. She lighted on the woman’s shoulder and nuzzled her neck.

  “Blessings on you, kindly Crow.”

  “Go now, dear one. Perform your sad task.”

  After a short rest, Morag straightened, her hand on her back, and walked to the house where one soul had less than a day of life.

  From inside the house a woman sobbed and, at his door
, a man uttered a stream of invective. Quick as a ferret, he darted out before Crow had time to warn Morag. He almost hurtled into her. “Woman, what are you doing out here in the dark?”

  Morag’s white hair hung unbound below her shoulder blades. By the light of the moon, Crow saw her turn her pallid face slowly toward the man. She said nothing. Clever woman. She let the man speak.

  “It’s you! It’s me you’re warning? Someone in my house? A guest?” He dropped to his knees. “A little more time. Just a bit. To make things right.”

  Morag’s face shone white in the moonlight. She stared at the man.

  He covered his face and wept. “I’ll never argue or shout again. Let us be and I’ll be a good man to my wife. The best. Please give my family more time.”

  “Too late.” Morag raised her palms and pushed the air. The man flew up and landed on his back; then he lifted his head and shook it. Fear warped his face. “Go home,” she said.

  Above her Crow screeched, and the man scuttled away on all fours. He never stood until he reached the safety of his threshold. Silly man. Fear would keep them shut tightly in their little houses, but those tiny wattle doors wouldn’t protect them from what the bird saw. Not now. Not ever.

  From the direction of the setting sun, Morag the Banshee trudged between the houses and cried a warning of death to the living.

  Chapter 1

  Scottish Highlands 1638

  “Not wise. Not wise at all, Alasdair Dubh. We shouldn’t be here.” The old man scanned the crowd and the wide bay round them.

  “I see no danger at all.” Alasdair saw people of all ages, but most youths and children stood close to the water while the older adults sat talking quietly on plaids. Alasdair could still see faces clearly even though it was close to midnight on the feast of Saint John, the longest day of the year. He saw girls playing a counting game. The girls laughed and squealed, but the adults nearby hushed them.

  “It’s what I can’t see worries me.” Ruari had been his tutor and had followed him as a soldier to the Low Countries to fight for Spain.

  Alasdair pressed his lips together. Ruari was cautious and that’s why he’d reached a great age. Better to pay attention. “What do you mean?”

  “No fighting men.”

  Alasdair looked for men of his own age, but could see nothing but women, children and older men. “So the rumour is true. The young men are all away in the south.”

  “Or waiting for us in the trees or behind the church wall.”

  “If they are truly away, we may have a chance to bring our cattle through at little cost for each beast.” Maybe this was a mad foray into enemy territory, and maybe it wasn’t. “If we pass through Campbell country, we save ourselves a couple of weeks on the road.”

  The crowd talked in low voices and people hunched down as they went from group to group. As if something large and predatory were about to come out of the sea.

  “We could have stayed safe at home.” Ruari used the voice of instruction Alasdair knew from his youth.

  He did not look at the older man. “And we’ll see another starving year. I’d rather do something about that. And if you’re here at my back, so do you.”

  “Most of the time, Alasdair Dubh, but they don’t look happy.” The other man shook his head and said no more. From all directions, hosts of people crept slowly to the white shore of the Tràigh Bhàn. Alasdair and his tutor stood on a ridge of sand built up by centuries of coastal tides.

  Two rocky headlands defined the curve of sand beach, with the graveyard on the east side and the castle in the west. The wind strengthened and the waves drowned the speech of the crowd closest to the water.

  At midsummer the sun, a disk of red crystal, hung low in the western sky, softening the hills to the curve of a woman’s back, the marram grass waving like the fringe of her plaid. The midsummer festival was the best time for the MacDonalds to come among the Campbells, when they would neither expect nor give injury. Twilight on the longest day of the year.

  He drew a long breath to calm himself. Nothing will happen.

  A file of women approached from the village and parted the crowd. The leader, her grey-streaked hair loose on her shoulders, processed to the sea, followed by young women. They wore what women wear: linen shift, red wool kirtle and the earasaid, a mantle of three loom-widths. But their belts and brooches glinted with precious stones while most of the women wore a simple pin and a plain belt over the earasaid. Two women carried cloth-wrapped bundles.

  A light-headed cousin had tried to persuade him that the Campbells might look like ordinary people, but they shape-shifted into black boars with bloody tusks at the full of the moon. Few MacDonalds were willing to believe they were that accursed. Alasdair had fought in the Wars of Flanders, and in his opinion men were much alike and the good ones weren’t all on one side. It was unlikely that the Campbells had horns, tusks or tails. Despite that, Ruari was one of only five men to join him on his quest.

  They’d left their claymores with the other members of their band, who waited beyond the western headland. He and Ruari had come to the shore without sprigs of heather in their bonnets, which would identify them as MacDonalds even in poor light. If Ruari and Alasdair lost their lives, the four men and six boys who waited beyond the headland could do nothing but avenge their deaths.

  Alasdair half expected the Campbell men near him to shout “To arms!” as though they could recognise MacDonalds from their shape or scent. To his surprise, people nodded and praised the day. Of course. He passed for a Campbell gentleman because of the fine stuff of the féileadh wrapped round him, his carved belt and jewelled brooch. He stood straight in his supple shoes, while many went barefoot on the warm sand. He was indeed a gentleman, although he didn’t have a title from the king like a few of the Campbell gentry. Still, he was a MacDonald, descended from the kings of Ireland, while the Campbells were a people arrived yesterday from nowhere. Or so the seanchaidh said.

  “Éistibh! Listen!” A woman put her finger across her mouth. Others repeated the gesture till all were silent.

  “They’re starting!” A man’s voice. “Finally.”

  The woman wrapped her arms round her chest. “High time. What a dark thing it was for the banshee to cry the evening before the midsummer festival. However beautiful her song, she brings sorrow.” She addressed Alasdair. “At least you know she didn’t lament for you. You won’t die. You’re not from this glen.”

  Several people hushed her.

  “No. I’m sorry for your trouble.” Mac an Donais! Damn! He hadn’t chosen a good time to come through Campbell country after all. He had bought cattle with the money he’d earned in the wars and raised them on good grass. He’d get a high price for them in the Lowland cattle markets, but Campbell country lay between himself and his goal.

  “We don’t yet know who among us must prepare to bury a loved one.” The woman shivered and blessed herself.

  “Will you not listen?” The man placed his arm around the woman’s shoulders. They must be a married couple.

  “You’re welcome here, stranger. But it’s a sad time when it should be happy.” She said that pleasantly, then glowered at her husband.

  “Thank you. Perhaps the ritual will bring fortune for the rest of the year.” Fond hope. The spirits of the place were angry at something. The MacDonalds had been luckless for over a hundred years and didn’t need more bad times.

  The Campbells looked like his own people in their bonnets and plaids, and they sounded the same, most kindly, a few impatient. It was easy to pity them the loss to come.

  When the crowd surged forward behind the celebrants, Alasdair and his tutor followed. The grey-haired leader raised her arm, and the crowd made room for her. She stepped up on a flat rock while five young women made a line at the water’s edge. One of them stooped, then held out a tall silver cup to her elder. Alasdair caught his breath. While the old one poured ale, the beautiful one stared in his direction, her face shining and her hair gold-blond
in the light of the red sun. She might notice him, a head above most men, as she surveyed the crowd. Unlikely. She’d be too busy with the ritual. The wind blew tendrils of hair across her face; she pushed them back and faced the water.

  A Dhia. Dear God.

  Who was this fairy queen at the mouth of the sea? A sìtheach must have used shape magic to transform her from a swan or a mermaid. She must be a Campbell woman, so there was no question of befriending her … or anything more. That would not go down well with the Campbells or his own people. But he wanted to see her again. Studying her lovely form wouldn’t hurt anyone, and it would make him very happy indeed. When the crowd shifted, he made his way through.

  “You’ll excuse him,” Ruari said to a heavy woman who complained at his rough passage. “An impetuous young man for sure. That lad has boundless energy when most of us want our beds. Be careful, lad. Someone may be offended by your swift movement.”

  “I was careless indeed. I apologise.” How thoughtless of him, the so-called leader of a new enterprise that would save the MacDonalds of Duacha. But he discerned no resentment—they were as gracious as if they were all under a spell. Ever on the alert, Ruari scanned the fields beyond the beach and the church walls. Since Alasdair’s seventh year, Ruari had stood at his back to defend him.

  “Who is the lass with the silver cup?” Alasdair stared at her in the distance.

  “I hardly knew her myself,” a man replied. “She has become round and ripe in the last year. Very sweet to look at.”