The Banshee of Castle Muirn

by Sheila Currie

  “None. Here we rarely see the men wearing the baggy breeches from one year to the next.” He seemed interested in what she had to say. Maybe he didn’t consider her silly. But maybe he was spying for his clan. No, she didn’t believe that. His face was open and relaxed. Spies would be nervous, likely. They’d frown. They’d behave more like the thin MacDonald who was always complaining.

  “Do you not?”

  “Lowlanders came here because my father has married a woman from Edinburgh. They’ve gone, leaving my stepmother and her maids. My father and uncle have Lowland clothing for visits to the south. We're expecting a nephew of my stepmother’s.”

  “You are obliged to wear Lowland clothing?”

  “It’s horribly uncomfortable. I’d rather wear the earasaid.”

  “You’d look beautiful in any dress—red tartan or the bleakest colours of the southrons.”

  “Thank you.” That was kind, but he’d likely said it out of politeness. “I’m so glad you came. You and your men.” What would he make of that? She opened her arms to the food. “Please, forgive me my chatter and eat.” The MacDonalds smiled and started to share the food in front of them.

  She hummed a light tune as she returned to the high table. As more people crowded into the hall, the maor showed them to benches at the tables. Shona went and greeted Calum Athairne, the ollamh, a master poet, and brought him to the high table on the dais. A sympathetic murmur followed the older man. They all knew he was here for his son, who had been killed at the shore. He sat in a tall oak chair with arms, the best in the castle.

  “We are sorry for your trouble. There are at least ten people guarding his body day and night. He is washed and wrapped in a new léine.”

  “That is much appreciated.”

  “A bit more wine?” She signalled for the maor and organised drink and food after his journey from his house.

  “Come sit by me a bit.”

  She would do everything she could to please him. He might yet curse her house for causing the loss of his favourite son.

  Calum Athairne said in her ear, “Do you have information about my son’s death? What might explain the presence of Lowlanders?”

  “I have no idea, but I’ll send a messenger to you if I learn anything.”

  “I hear there is unrest in the south. I wonder if it has to do with the fight here. I too will keep you informed.”

  The candles in the hall seemed dimmer and the laughter less heartfelt.

  Shona wanted to talk about what was happening in the Lowlands, but that would be difficult with a castle full of guests. Every corner would be occupied. Even the garden on a cold night. She couldn’t go outside the curtain wall, not at night. The guards would object.

  “You’ve shown my son great courtesy and I am in your debt for it. We shall do what we can to protect the countries of our clans.”

  Shona looked about the hall. Everyone had calmed down. All was as it should be, with a man reciting a poem to the accompaniment of the harp. As she greeted people, she heard whispers about the MacDonalds. Not completely at ease, then.

  “How do we know they won’t murder us in our beds?”

  “Maybe they helped us in daylight and they’ll turn on us at night.”

  “How do we know they are not in league with the Lowland men at the sea?”

  The MacDonalds had helped send off the Lowlanders, but now all the bad blood between the two clans flowed back into Campbell minds. “Hush! Be polite!” she whispered in several ears. They quieted, and soon the talking started again. Friendlier chat, she hoped.

  And so it was. Conversation ebbed and flowed and laughter broke out now and again. Shona relaxed and returned to the dais for her meal, and conversation with the poet.

  Several people faced the spiral stair. Their mouths gaped open. She heard someone say, “Will you look at that?”

  “Have you ever seen the like?”

  “It’s the stepmother.”

  Shona whirled to observe Priscilla, who slowly entered the hall, followed by her two women. She bobbed along in a black and silver gown from the Lowlands: padded sleeves, a huge stomacher and a skirt puffed up as though she carried bladders of water under it. In her Lowland finery, she was twice as wide as Shona. A starched ruff as big as a millstone framed Priscilla’s face, death’s-head white. She held a large fan of strange white feathers, which shivered with her movements, a shield between herself and the others in the room.

  Shona put a smile on her face and stood. “Our guests have arrived. All are gentry, madame. Quite suitable for our hospitality.” Shona stood still, waiting for a response to the file of servants carrying platters heaped with food. She wouldn’t tell her stepmother about the people being fed in the courtyard and outside the walls of the castle. All round them the company stared. “Please join me at the high table.”

  Priscilla didn’t move. “A’ these vittles—?”

  “We must entertain our guests.” Shona spoke Inglishe and widened her smile.

  “How lang d’ye intend tae feed them?” Priscilla had a way of speaking in a quiet but threatening manner.

  Shona hoped no one within earshot could understand her. “We feed them and they feed us when we travel.” She prayed her stepmother would be wise and not argue in front of guests. “Three days.”

  “For naething.” Priscilla looked at her maids, whose faces showed their disapproval. “I’ll no eat, and I’ll no speak tae barbarians.”

  “Surely you’ll want fellowship and news,” said Shona. “The old gentleman is Calum Athairne, a poet with fifteen years training in the schools of Ireland. He knows three hundred tales of—” The poet, seated at the other end of the high table, turned to them at the mention of his name. “And he speaks Inglishe.”

  “A teller of tales and lies!” said Priscilla.

  The poet seemed not to understand her, and studied his goblet. Maybe he was too far away to hear.

  “You’re doubly welcome in our home,” said Shona to the poet in Gaelic. He nodded and turned back to his kinsmen, who sat below him on the right side of the hall.

  “When you learn Gaelic, you’ll—”

  “Never will I learn yer heathen tongue!”

  Why did Priscilla think Gaelic a heathen language when the Gaels had become Christian over a thousand years before?

  Priscilla shook her finger. “Ye’ve ordered the food cooked, but the remains will be chilled and kept for oor meals. An’ ye’ll no gainsay ma orders again!”

  Anger tightened Shona’s throat. If she were quiet and polite, her stepmother might calm down. She smoothed her face and curtseyed with her head down. “Madame, we must—”

  “Never again, ye feckless bairn. D’ ye hear me?”

  As Priscilla’s voice rose, Shona looked up. Priscilla’s hands were curled into fists and she looked as though she might strike her stepdaughter. The breath left Shona’s body. Priscilla could not strike her. She’d never be accepted in the glen. Shona had to stop her stepmother from making a fool of herself.

  “Madame!” Shona spoke in her firmest voice.

  Priscilla stopped and her meaty hand dropped to her side. Shona heard gasps all round.

  “Madame, ye cannot strike a woman of noble blood. It is forbidden.”

  “Noble! Ye’r nae noble. Ye’re jumped-up pretenders. All o’ ye! I won’t hit ye, but ye’ll obey me the noo.”

  “As you wish, madame.” Shona couldn’t see Alasdair or any of the MacDonalds. Her jaw tightened. What a position Priscilla had put her in. Alasdair would have a great tale to take home to the MacDonalds of Duacha.

  Shona drew deep breaths. She had never in her life seen or heard such a rude person. Yet Priscilla must think she was behaving in a civilised manner. Before that moment Shona had thought her stepmother an unsuitable wife for a Highland chief. Now she realised the woman was utterly ignorant of Highland ways and had no interest in learning anything about her new husband’s clan. Why had she married Shona’s father?

  Her
stepmother was livid and breathing hard.

  She lifted her head. “Madame, will you require some time to collect your … thoughts?”

  “Now tell them to stop bringing vittles frae the cook house.” Priscilla grabbed a heaping dish of salmon from a serving man. “Give me that, ye gowp!”

  Her stepmother had gone mad.

  She leaned toward Shona and said in a quiet, deadly way, “Tell them!”

  Shona spoke to the servers. “My stepmother isn’t well. Please continue to serve.” Then she turned back to Priscilla and said the words she must say. “Madame, if you speak in such a way, I’ll ask the guards to remove you.”

  Priscilla turned redder and slammed the dish on a table.

  “Guards!” Shona called.

  “Ye’ll regret this. I’ll mind it and yer faither will hear of yer wickedness.”

  Shona fought tears, but she’d not cry in front of Priscilla and their guests. “I can’t believe that my father would be pleased to hear you speak thus.” She held her shaking hands behind her back and lifted her head. All around she heard comments.

  “The new wife is mad!”

  “First time I saw her, I wondered about her.”

  “No wonder she stays walled up in her chamber.”

  “How does Shona do it?”

  Shona did not dare look at the MacDonalds.

  “She looks so calm.”

  Shona was rigid with anger.

  Those farthest away began to chat again. They glanced furtively toward the high table and then talked to each other. They must be discussing the disgrace to the Campbells of Gleann Muirn.

  Two guards advanced between the two rows of tables and stopped in front of Shona and Priscilla. The guards looked fierce, but they didn’t touch Priscilla. In Gaelic they said, “What shall we do, Shona Iain Glas?”

  Priscilla looked up at the guards and shrank inside her big dress and gown. She stood a while longer with her maids behind her. “Keep them aff me. I’ll sit noo. Ye can serve the food, but dinnae think this is done, ma lass.” No doubt about the threat in the last words.

  Like a galley in full sail, she filled the space between the tables as she walked; then she stepped up on the dais and approached a sturdy chair. She smacked the cushion several times with her fan. To soften it? Then she sat and filled the chair. She grasped the arms and leaned forward and said to Shona, “Well, I’m stayin’ tae eat. They can serve me. Tell them.”

  Shona bottled her tears and thanked Brìghde, her favourite saint, for calming her stepmother. To those close by she said, “We mustn’t be upset. Bring more dishes.”

  Catriona stood behind her and made soothing noises.

  To those about her Shona said, “We have an ollamh here. A poet of the highest order. We’d be honoured to hear his poems.”

  The reciter looked at Shona and nodded to the harper. The instrument supported his recitation of a poem for the lovers Deirdre and Naoise. The harper’s fingers plucked and his palms hushed the strings in turn, and the poet’s lament stirred some to tears. Finally Shona allowed herself to weep.

  When she opened her eyes, Alasdair gazed straight into them. Her throat constricted.

  “You enjoyed the music?” Shona asked her stepmother.

  “I didnae. Who’s yon black-haired man starin’ at ye?”

  Alasdair. The memory of their first meeting came to her. She didn’t want to share anything about him, but she must. “That’s the man who saved us at the shore.”

  “What dae ye mean?”

  “The people of the village celebrate the fertility of the land and hope they’ll get good crops in the year to come.”

  “A heathenish rite!”

  “Strangers came and ate from the tables during the ceremony. They fought our men.”

  “Yer menfolk are wild and wicket.”

  Alasdair said, “Campbell men fought men in grey coats and breeches, madame.”

  Don’t tell her more. Anything might annoy her. “We are pleased to offer our hospitality to the gentlemen of Clan Donald.”

  “MacDonald gentlemen!” She gave him no time to answer. “Ye have nae land. How can ye call yerself a gentleman?”

  Alasdair stiffened and his men looked at him and then each other. “What did she say?” asked Ruari. “Are we safe here?”

  Alasdair said quietly, “We’ll speak later. Don’t say anything just now.”

  Shona said, “And this MacDonald rushed in like a lion—so Una said.”

  Priscilla lifted a fistful of meat to her mouth. “Then he’s the only one who’s worked for his feed.”

  Shona spoke in Inglishe. “Sir, this is Priscilla Fleschour, my stepmother. She will be pleased to speak with you, as there are so few here who speak her language.”

  “I am pleased to meet the chatelaine of this fair castle.” Alasdair looked at Shona for guidance.

  She nodded. The right approach. “It is difficult to leave one’s own folk and travel such a great distance.”

  “I am Alexander MacDonald, madame,” he said in Inglishe. “I’m a cattle drover here to do business with Iain Glas, chief of the Campbells of Gleann Muirn.”

  “Sir John Campbell tae ye. So ye speak Inglishe. What wickedness dae ye plan?”

  A woman of no subtlety. Even if Alasdair were not the most handsome man she’d ever seen, Shona would defend his honour in the face of such rudeness.

  He said to Priscilla, “We are not landless, madame. It’s true that no MacDonald is Lord of the Isles today, and our chiefs pay rent to the overlords who rule Argyll and the Western Isles. Still, we live and farm the lands of our former lordship. And my father’s birlinn still rows among the Western Isles.”

  “So ye thrive as ever? How many warriors dae ye have? How dae we ken we’ll be safe in oor beds?”

  Shona said in Gaelic, “Please, be not offended. She is a stranger to the Highlands and doesn’t understand our ways.”

  “We’re not offended in the least.”

  Before she could answer, the Campbells near them spoke up.

  “She’s difficult.”

  “Hates living here.”

  “Always says the wrong thing.”

  Alasdair smiled. “Don’t worry. I’ll not jump to my feet and show her a naked blade Not even my little sgian.”

  They laughed. Shona ordered more wine, and soon the whole table was drinking and talking.

  Alasdair stood and offered a toast. “The Campbells have given us hospitality. We offer any of them the same should they visit the MacDonalds of Duacha.”

  The Campbells would be safe among his clan, but Shona doubted he’d offer Priscilla’s people the same hospitality.

  Shona kept her eyes on Priscilla but noticed the crowd seated near them were wary and watchful. They had become used to the MacDonalds, who were not much different from themselves, but were likely uncomfortable in the Lowland woman's presence. She wasn’t happy here and her marriage was not a success. Not unusual for an arranged marriage among the aristocracy. Or between the aristocracy and wealthy burgesses.

  “Ye say ye’re drovers. I thocht ye were more about lifting other folks’ beasts.”

  Shona’s eyes widened and she looked quickly at Alasdair. “Surely those days are long gone. These men are guests.”

  “Ye don’t want tae bring vipers intae oor nest, young Joan.”

  Alasdair said, “I assure you, our intentions are good. We’ll share your hospitality and move off with no Campbell the worse for dealing with us. And that’s my oath.”

  “Deeds speak louder than words, laddie.” Priscilla chewed her beef strongly. “Aye, see that ye keep yer word.”

  Shona looked away. Not a careful thinker, that woman. But she had spent time with the MacDonald. She could tolerate more slights from her stepmother.

  Shona met his eyes and smiled. She saw his eyes—blue in the candle flame like the sky in summer at twilight. And he answered her smile with his own.

  “Just what are ye thinkin’, ma lass?”
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  Shona straightened and looked her stepmother in the eye. What should she say? What would keep a peaceful conversation going? “I am pleased to see you among our people, madame.”

  Priscilla studied her and her gaze was not friendly. She leaned toward Shona and said, “Ye watch yerself, Joan Campbell. I aim tae show ye I am mistress in this hoose, and I will bide nae meddling from ye!”

  Chapter 5

  In the days following Saint John’s Day, Priscilla spoke sharply to everyone. If anyone who understood Inglishe took offense, they chose not to cause difficulties. Still, the honour of Clan Campbell was threatened. And because she was the daughter of the chief, people complained to Shona. Why did her stepmother stay in her chamber? Should she not be visiting and introducing herself? Why didn’t she pay her respects to Niall Calum, who had been killed at the shore? What could Shona have done to provoke her stepmother? These were questions for which Shona had no answer. Normally she eagerly anticipated an evening of songs, harp music and laughter, but dreaded the thought of another feast with Priscilla.

  For all her failings, Shona imposed a penance on herself—she embroidered in her stepmother’s chamber. As though nothing had happened. As though Priscilla hadn’t shouted at her or threatened her.

  Shona’s eyes streamed tears from a new fire’s smoke as she attempted to focus on the framed linen. She made a better fire than her stepmother’s maids, but Priscilla said the task was beneath the dignity of a gentlewoman. Priscilla, the burgess’s daughter, taught Shona, the descendant of kings, how to be a gentlewoman.

  Shona stretched and drew in a large breath. Priscilla sat straight as a mast, her skirts billowing around her.

  “Ply yer needle,” said Priscilla.

  Shona pushed the iron needle through the linen. As though it were alive, it wiggled in her hand and stung her fingers. When she pulled the yarn, the needle made her hand spasm, and her stitches finished tight and tangled.

  Until a suitable husband was found for her, Shona would do the right thing—respect her stepmother and live in harmony with her. She’d try. After her marriage, she’d leave Castle Muirn to her stepmother. Too bad Alasdair was a MacDonald. She smiled as she remembered speaking to him on Sionaidh's Day.