The Banshee of Castle Muirn

by Sheila Currie

  He laughed. “We are puir and hungry men. A’ this lovely food.” He crunched a large bite from an apple with the few teeth that he possessed. “Aren't ye a pretty piece. Mmm.” The leader bent down to her, licked his lips and laughed again.

  Shona recoiled from him. “If you had waited, we’d have shared what we have.”

  The leader wiped his fingers on the breast of his greyed shirt. “Weel, it’s done and there’s no much ye can dae, a wee lass like ye. We need it a’.” He put his knife between her and the food in his left hand.

  She had never been threatened with a blade in her life. Her chest froze and her breath stopped in her throat. Suddenly she realised what she had done. She was a woman against a ring of armed men. She felt dizzy. About to faint.

  She refused to let herself swoon.

  “Bad luck for us and for you.” When she needed a voice like a lion, she squeaked. The man shrugged and resumed eating enough to feed four men.

  “Hey! Bring this lassie along wi’ us.” He kicked two men toward her. “Go get her.”

  “I won’t go with you.” No one appeared from the castle. Most of the crowd had run out of the churchyard and hidden behind the wall. “You will regret this.” Her words rang hollow, without strength.

  The two men approached her slowly. “Calm yerself, dearie. We might treat ye kindly.” They grinned widely.

  She couldn't control these men. She knew it.

  “Smells nice, does she no?” The strangers thrust their arms out to grab her.

  Shona felt herself grow cold, then warm and a tingling crept up her spine. Her arms pulsed with weird power.

  As they approached her, she lifted her arms, palms outward. “Stop there!” As if that would stop them. But the men fell backward as if struck by an invisible force. Shona didn’t understand what had happened, but she intended to make good use of the time it took the two men to stand up. Desperate, she ran to the church wall. She’d have no time to jump it before they reached her.

  When she was a few feet from the wall, she faced them. “Come no closer!” She raised her arms and pushed the air. Would it work a second time?

  Suddenly the two men flew back ten feet. Dazed, they lifted their heads and looked round them.

  No time to think. She glimpsed other strangers by the wall of the ruined church. One of them she remembered from the shore. They must belong to a branch of Clan Campbell unknown to her. Shona ran to them. “Please help us.”

  “Not our concern, Alasdair Dubh. Come away.” An older man spoke to the tall one.

  Alasdair. Not a common name among her people. Perhaps they weren’t Campbells. These two could be in league with the strangers. She studied the younger one, and his eyes, beneath wide brows, bespoke kindness. Please help me.

  The old man spoke over the younger man’s shoulder. “We can’t interfere.”

  “We’ll help,” said Alasdair. “If we leave now, we leave with their curses. We stay.”

  “Too dangerous for us,” said the other man. “You are blinded—” He put his back to her as he tried to persuade the younger man.

  Ignore him. Please ignore him.

  “Some fool may kill a man unless we intervene,” said Alasdair. “And bring bad luck to this glen. And beyond.”

  “We may finish by fighting them all. Not good odds at all.”

  “Not for the first time, old warrior.”

  Enemies. But not Lowlanders. They were dressed in féileadhean, bonnets and good linen shirts, like her own people. “Any violent death on Sionaidh's Day is an ill omen for all of us who live by the sea. Yourselves as well. I beg you. Stop them.” She couldn’t read the tall stranger’s face, but his nearness disturbed her. “In the name of my father, Iain Glas, I say no harm will come to you from any Campbell of Gleann Muirn from tomorrow till—”

  “You’d best be careful what you promise.” The tall man held up his hand. He said to his clansman, “Bring the others. Hurry!”

  “Do you know them?” She indicated the intruders.

  “I know the type of man with the sash and the endless capacity to fill his stomach—their headman.” The leader’s eating and laughter caused his belly to shake, and his dangling sporran to dance. “As a drover, I’ve met many strange men.” A table overturned, catching his attention. “And heard many strange things about soldiers returning from the Wars of Flanders. They have no money and no food. They’re used to taking what they need.”

  The strangers’ leader threw the remains of a bannock to the ground, unsheathed an old dented sword, and held it up to the night sky. “Show some steel to these Campbell men!”

  “Excuse me.” The Lowlanders turned round, and Alasdair threw two of them over the wall of the church enclosure. He fought three men one after the other; he tapped their heads hard enough to put them out but not to bloody them. He seemed comfortable in the middle of the skirmish.

  A true warrior. Hope grew in Shona’s heart for a bloodless end to the fight.

  A Campbell picked up a broken knife and glanced at her. When she shook her head and mouthed, stad, he threw the knife over the church wall away from the fighters. Alasdair prevented a Campbell being attacked from the rear.

  Then a Lowlander plunged his knife into the neck of Niall Calum. The spurting blood sheeted over Shona. She screamed and fell to her knees. The blood pressed against her face and chest and heart like a drowning sea.

  “Ruari, see to him!” shouted Alasdair. Then, suddenly close to her, he said, “Listen to me. You’re all right.” He wiped her face with his sleeve.

  She gulped air. And tears came and she wept.

  “Can you stand?”

  She croaked, “I can.”

  Strong arms raised her slowly to her feet. She could barely see through a haze of blood and tears. Frantically she wiped her eyes. Was she safe? Grunting men surrounded her. “What’s happening?”

  Alasdair guided her away from the fighting. “We’ll find out. My men are here to help.”

  New voices.

  “We should leave before anyone blames us.” She heard irritation in one of the new voices. “We should never have come here. I knew today was a bad day when I rose. I shall never prosper and get land.”

  “If I say fight, you fight!” said the old man. “If you’re pricked by one of those rusty blades, you’ll die of lockjaw, and we’ll all benefit from a period of calm.”

  Alasdair’s voice sounded over her. “I’ll lift you and take you to the old church.”

  “I’m fine.” She felt ill. “The man who was stabbed. Niall. How is he?” She was so tired she wanted to lie down on the spot.

  “You don’t look well just now. But I’ll find out. First I’ll carry you to safety. Ready?”

  She staggered and he caught her. “Blood spilt on Sionaidh's Day—blood of a poet who makes poems to praise the Ancient One. We will be cursed and doubly cursed.”

  He lifted her and then all went quiet and dark.

  Alasdair lowered Shona to the grass by the enclosure wall, and the old woman from the shore joined them. “I am Morag, the wise woman of Baile Leacan.”

  “There’s a man injured with a knife. A poet.”

  The old woman drew back, and closed her eyes. “The man has died. Be careful what you say. People are angry and wanting revenge.” The luck of the place would change with the blood.

  Morag had a small wooden bowl and dipped a cloth into it. She cleaned Shona’s face gently as though she were a child. “Nothing more you can do here. Join your men.”

  He shouted at his clansmen, “To me!”

  They filtered out of the crowd, two with arrows fitted to their bows, and others with swords. “No arrows,” he said. “Sheath your claymores and batter their knees and heads!” He charged into the fray and struck the knees of a running man, then whirled to face more tattered men who dropped their weapons at the sight of him. “Chicken-hearted men!”

  While his men swung their weapons at the ragged men, the Campbells picked up the discard
ed clubs and staves to help subdue the intruders with fight in them. Soon a score of ragged men sprawled on the sand with Campbells and MacDonalds standing over them.

  “Bring the torches closer.” Old men brought them, and women with children crept up behind the torchbearers. Alasdair conquered his battle lust—he had a job to finish. He bent over the leader and wrenched his sword from him. He waggled the old blade, then shattered it on a stone. “Steel, you said! Soft as cheese.”

  A tall Campbell man said, “So you wanted to drink ale from our casks. You would have had your fill if you had asked for hospitality. If we see you again, you’ll be thrown into the sea for your drink.”

  The Lowlanders had no idea what the Campbells were saying, but they knew they were being insulted. They lay still and said nothing .

  Another Campbell said, “You wanted bannocks and salmon without asking. You’ll get stones from me.”

  “You were stuffing your bellies before the women finished. Shame!”

  “Shame!”

  While they berated the grey-coated strangers, the Campbells seemed to accept Alasdair’s presence. He asked the Lowland leader, “Who are you? Why are you here? So many of you.”

  The leader stood up cautiously eyeing him all the while. “Yer the one wha’ disna belong, aren’t ye? Yer a stranger too. Who are ye?”

  A number of Campbells looked at Alasdair and his men. The tall Campbell said, “We are grateful for your help. Will you tell us who you are?”

  “I am Alasdair Ailean MacDòmhnaill from—”

  Gasps all round. “MacDonalds! MacDonalds among us.”

  At that moment Shona reappeared at the gate to the churchyard. The crowd immediately sensed her presence as they had before and they hushed. The top of her earasaid had fallen off her shoulders. Her léine was darkened with blood. Alasdair couldn’t read her face in the growing darkness, but she was weary and ill. “We are very pleased to welcome the MacDonalds,” she said, “and very grateful they have come among us. Alasdair Ailean, this is Cailean Liath, our blacksmith.”

  All the Campbells waited for the old blacksmith’s response. The MacDonalds might yet battle the Campbells.

  The smith’s face worked while he thought. “We are fortunate indeed that you were here with us today.”

  Shona gave him a quiet smile. “Then let us be rid of these grey-coated devils and return to the feast.”

  Alasdair grasped the Lowland leader by the front of his shirt, which tore with the strain. He turned the man away from the shore and pushed him along. The man tripped and almost fell. The Campbells and MacDonalds pulled the other Lowlanders to their feet and herded them out of the churchyard.

  The leader staggered away while smoothing down the tatters of his shirt. “A MacDonald such as yerself kens wha’ dirty work is.”

  Alasdair ignored the reactions of those around him. “Just what do you know about us?”

  “Yer traitors. Ye made a deal wi’ the English.”

  Grumbling behind him told Alasdair he still was not completely accepted as a guest.

  “The treaty with the English king? That was nearly two hundred years ago, when our chiefs were kings.” Mac an Donais! The Lowlander might ruin his chances of a peaceful passage through Campbell lands. “You’ve not said what you are doing in Campbell country.”

  “Yer the ones shouldna be here. Nae Campbell wad trust ye wi’ ony business.” Alasdair took a step toward him and the Lowlander backed up.

  “I suppose they’d trust you! The quality of your linen suggests that your trustworthy enterprises have not met with success.” Alasdair flipped the shirt shreds. Campbells and MacDonalds snorted. “You can’t clothe your own men. You can’t feed them. What mischief are you up to?”

  “No yer business, MacDonald!”

  Shona stepped forward. “Enough. You’ll get no hospitality in Gleann Muirn. You will leave.”

  Whatever she felt, she looked every inch a queen. Alasdair prevented himself from staring at her. Look at her only when she speaks to you. Otherwise people might notice his interest in this woman.

  “We are puir men as ye see. Gi’e us a bite o’ food, and we’ll go and leave ye a blessing.” His voice quavered.

  “You’ve lost the right to any food,” said Shona. “Your blessing would be hollow. Go.”

  The MacDonalds strapped on their sheathed swords and picked up their bows and quivers. Alasdair noticed the skirt of Shona’s earasaid shaking. He willed her to stand, but readied himself to catch her.

  “We are indebted to you for your help,” she said to him. Behind her, the Lowland leader evaded his guards and approached her. He pranced about, puckering his lips and kissing the air. The shreds of his linen flapped in the air.

  Standing tall, arms at her sides, Shona ordered the two Campbells to take him away. She was still shaking, but her voice was steady. Not many women would stand up to armed men, however pitiful their weapons. Whatever the meaning of the sea ceremony, her fears were very human, and he found himself wanting to protect this Campbell woman. A novel idea for a MacDonald.

  Another woman appeared. Dark-haired, slender and small.

  Shona smiled and held out her arm. “This is Una Campbell, my good friend and cousin.”

  Alasdair bowed to her. Pretty enough, but a brown wren of a woman compared to Shona.

  “You must return to the castle.” Una pulled Shona’s arm in the direction of home.

  “I must, truly.” To Alasdair she said, “Please stay and eat with our people. Cailean Liath will introduce you and your men.”

  “Thank you.” He tried to speak formally as a guest. He followed her movements like a moth to flames. He had to stop or certainly he’d be burnt.

  “You’re welcome at Castle Muirn. You and your men will enjoy the best of what we have.”

  “Your stepmother will find you gone.” Una looked toward the castle as if she expected her to appear. “Come!”

  He wished Shona had no stepmother. He wished Una would find her own friend for the night, and leave Shona with him. Dreamer. He couldn’t help it.

  “I’m sorry. I must go. I wish you well,” said Shona. “Campbells and MacDonalds at peace. A welcome change.”

  Ruari watched the two women walk up the road. “Won’t last.”

  Chapter 3

  Shona’s room was chilly when she woke. She sat up, confused and unhappy in the darkness of her box-bed. Something had happened. Images of fire and blood had flitted through her dreams like seaware on a wind-blown shore. Perhaps she’d only dreamt of blood and Lowlanders in baggy breeches. Don’t be foolish. Bloodshed there had been, and she would have to visit the injured that day. Morag had likely seen to their injuries while Shona was as faint as a delicate English lady.

  Then she remembered what Morag had said.

  When she washed the blood from Shona’s face, Morag said she had something important to say. By herself, Shona had thrown the Lowlanders on their backs. She must never raise her hands in anger until she learned control, as the power in her was a deep well. So Morag said.

  If she had this power, she should have wiped the blood from her eyes and carried on. Men must do the same in battle. But she could not. Perhaps her weakness had something to do with the Ancient One. She had no idea how to appease him, and neither did Morag.

  At least the Lowlanders were gone, thanks to Alasdair MacDonald. She'd think about him and put away gruesome thoughts about blood. She'd think about that black-haired man until thoughts of him danced round her head. Silly fool she was. She hardly knew him. A MacDonald!

  So strange to be at the mercy of her clan’s traditional enemy. People said the MacDonalds were vengeful and they’d fight any Campbell for their lands. Pitiless they were. But that was not what she felt when Alasdair had carried her over to the church wall. Warm and safe she felt in his arms. She’d trusted him to protect her. She truly did. But that feeling might disappear when she saw him again in the hard light of day.

  She closed her eyes, trying
to drift off to sleep again behind the sturdy oak walls of her boxbed, putting off the moment when she had to get up. When she had to be a loyal daughter to her house and perform her duties.

  That meant dealing with her stepmother. Her father’s new wife spoke no Gaelic and was miserable in Gleann Muirn. Once she met a few people and learned a few words of the Highland language, she’d be fine. For her father’s sake, Shona was determined to double her efforts to make her stepmother happy in her new home.

  The doors creaked open in the adjoining bed, and she heard Catriona, her serving woman, laying a fire in the hearth. She opened Shona’s doors. “Good morning, a ghràidh.”

  As soon as the doors of her bedbox opened, obligation flooded in. For someone unmarried and childless, Shona was weighted with worries, but she tried to match Catriona’s smile. Normally her sunny greeting would banish Shona's dark moods, but she had a headache from thinking about the events of the previous day.

  “Let’s stay abed for a while.”

  Catriona sat beside her. “I heard about Niall Calum’s death. Now it’s a feast for a funeral and not a festival. Such a sad time.”

  Shona was obligated to supervise the preparations for the funeral. Time to get to work.

  “Your stepmother didn’t ask for you while you were out. She must have gone to bed early and her two servants with her. It was quiet here last night. No weeping and wailing about her fate in the wild Highlands.”

  “Catriona!” Her serving woman was also her distant cousin and spoke frankly. She always did so.

  “I don’t know what she says, but it’s clear she not happy to live among ourselves. Come on. Might as well dress and face the day.”

  Catriona gave her a clean léine and draped a plaid over her shoulders. “Keep yourself warm and I’ll get the foreign clothes for you.”

  Catriona opened one of two chests in the room, a very grand one with carvings of leaves and tendrils all over it. Her mother’s legacy, which her father said had come from Italy. “Come, a ghràidh, you don’t have to spend forever with her. Right?” Her cousin nudged Shona into a better humour. “Wearing the Lowland clothing when you visit her will improve her mood.”