“Better ye learn to be a lady,” said Priscilla. “Better stay with me than pass yer time with village lasses—and lads.”
Shona lifted her head and stared into her stepmother’s hard eyes.
“Aye. Best I guide ye. Ye wear heathen blankets like a’ thae villagers. Only the lower orders wear them in Edinburgh.” The maids bobbed their agreement, then dipped their needles in and out of the cloth with the practised rhythm of oarsmen. “Ye must dress in a civilised way. Yer uncle is bringing mare clothes for ye, and ye’ll wear them. Ye’ll no shame ony o’ ma kin.”
Shona did not look forward to that.
Silence as long as time filled the room. A few richly coloured tapestries hid the smooth stone of Castle Muirn. Priscilla had arrived with a little furniture and bed curtains. She spent most of her time embellishing cushions and bed covers for her chamber. She’d said she required Shona’s help, but it was merely an excuse to keep Shona penned inside the tower house. The countryside could wash away in flood and storm and her stepmother wouldn’t notice, immured in her chamber.
“Ye pass overmuch time with low people,” said Priscilla. “Ye spend hours with that witchy woman. Ma Elspeth spies ye when she walks out. Ye’ll no dae that ony mair.” The servant looked at her with a tight smile.
“Morag’s no witch.” Shona had to find reasons to escape Priscilla’s company for a little time. “I learn herbs and simples from her.”
“Mind it’s tae care for the folk of the man ye marry. Nae for witchery!” Priscilla snatched Shona’s work from her. “Ye’re a feckless one. Yer stitches are tight, and see how ye’ve worried the linen. Pull them oot and start again.”
Shona heard shouting in the courtyard. “With your permission, madame?” Thank goodness for the interruption.
“Aye, go see what it is.”
She pushed her rebellious needle through the canvas and it finally obeyed, then calmly she walked to the spiral stair. As soon as she closed the door she dashed down, and almost ran into a boy. “Artair!”
“I’m sorry, Shona Iain Glas.”
“Why are you out of breath? Calm down.”
“The tànaiste is back! The regent is here.”
“Why is yon mannie shouting?” Priscilla said. “Ye’ve no idea how tae fashion good servants.”
Shona held her finger to her lips to quiet Artair.
“Your father’s brother has returned from Edinburgh,” he whispered in Gaelic.
She returned to the chamber. “My uncle is here, madame.” She couldn’t keep the joy out of her voice.
Priscilla sat very straight and said nothing for a time. Shona knew better than to suggest preparations for their guest. She’d ask his permission to go to the village more often to see her friends and her embroidery could rot unfinished.
The heavy steps of booted men, their dirk sheaths clunking against the stone wall, echoed in the stair tower. Her uncle, followed by his two clansmen, strode in. They looked foreign in jackets, short capes and baggy breeches. They removed wide black hats and bowed in the Lowland fashion. Although the quality of their cloth was better, they looked like the Lowland thieves at Sionaidh’s feast.
“Fàilte is furan! Welcome home, Myles,” said Shona.
When her uncle and his retinue bowed before her, she felt such relief. Blood of her blood, he would help her deal with Priscilla. He indicated that the two other men should carry a chest to the middle of the room.
“Ye’re welcome here, tae be sure.” Priscilla embroidered while her black dress rustled like a raven’s wings.
“The land looks prosperous, the people happy, always a good sign.” Myles gave his hat, cape and gloves to one of Priscilla’s maids.
Priscilla studied her embroidery.
“Do ye believe that, madame?” He widened his smile and showed his teeth.
“Dae I believe what?”
Her stepmother would ruin the homecoming with her bad mood.
“If the land is governed properly, there will be prosperity.”
Shona wasn’t sure Priscilla would take instruction from anyone. But whatever Priscilla did, he could leave her in her dark chamber and go home to Gleann Falach. Lucky Myles. “Uncle, please be seated.” Shona brought a chair and placed it by her stepmother. Her uncle sat and Shona was left standing.
“And these are your relations, madame?” The two maids smiled at him.
“Ach, no,” Priscilla said. “They’re ma maids.”
“Then they will stand.” The smiles faded.
Priscilla glared at him. He waited until she said, “Stand.” They completed their stitches, and put the embroidery frames to one side.
“So what news?” he said while he patted a vacated chair to indicate that Shona should sit. He flashed a wide smile at Priscilla.
“Naething,” she said. “It’s a’ goin’ on in Edinburgh.”
“You’re better off here, madame,” said Myles. “Difficult times in Edinburgh.”
“As ye say, sir.” Priscilla’s response was addressed to the hearthfire.
“It’s safer to wear Lowland gear in Edinburgh. And I knew it would please yourself if we wore it today.”
“Aye.”
“I understand there was some trouble here on the eve of Saint John’s Feast.”
“Some thieves stole ale and cakes,” she said. “But wild MacDonalds appeared from nowhere and stopped them. So Joan told me.”
“The MacDonalds saved our skins. With only one death—Niall Calum,” said Shona. She added in Gaelic, “Bloodshed marred the day.”
Her uncle looked at her, his face without expression. He said in Gaelic, “Blood spilt means more blood shed. What did Morag say?”
“Priscilla would prefer that I don’t see her.”
“While I’m alive, you may do as you please. You have more wisdom than all the young women of Baile Leacan. You won’t shame us.”
“Thank you, Uncle.”
He struck his hands on his knees. “Damn all the plotters in Edinburgh. We’re in it whether we want to be or not,” he said in Gaelic.
“Ye must speak in Inglishe!” Priscilla faced Myles and Shona for the first time. “It’s rude what ye do!”
“We’ll speak together again later,” Shona’s uncle murmured, and squeezed her hand gently. “You are quite right, madame. We forget ourselves. Lovely girl, my niece, well educated. My fault for excluding you,” he said.
“I have no set opinion o’ that lass’s worth.”
“Good to be home in my own country.” Myles strode to the window and looked down on the din in the courtyard.
“Nae ma country. I endure uncivilised folk, and wild country.” She shuddered. “Ye could be murdered in an instant and laid in a bog with nobody the wiser.”
Shona had heard that Edinburgh was the place for secret murders.
“We have gifts for you, madame. Come, Shona.” Myles steered Shona to the chest and whispered in Gaelic, “A sour conniver like the rest of her family. Why your father married this Fleschour woman is beyond me. I fear he’s involved in dark matters.”
What was her father doing? Why spend time in Edinburgh?
From the carved chest, he drew out a small box. Inside lay a gold ribbon pendant with rose-cut diamonds. “For you, Priscilla.”
Eyes wide, she lifted it as tenderly as a child. One of her maids approached her and fastened the necklace about her neck.
Myles returned to the chest. “No trick to winning over your stepmother. Jewels and money will do,” he whispered in Gaelic, but said loudly in Inglishe, “I have gifts for you all the way from Flanders—part of your dowry. Ready for marriage, my pretty one?”
“Aye, she is,” said Priscilla. “Her faither’s allowed her tae grow wild. Well, she’s tae be trimmed the noo.”
“She’ll have a generous dowry, madame. A harp and a game board, many gowns and kirtles, jewellery, plenty linen, plaids, silver tableware, and two hundred cattle. She’ll have her choice of many a man.”
; “She’ll marry according to oor interest. Her faither’s and mine.”
Myles’s voice was as hard as granite. “I am her guardian in my brother’s absence.”
Priscilla didn’t move. Her hands had gone white with gripping her jewel box.
“But surely her happiness and our interest will be in harmony.” Myles had slipped a velvet glove over his steel gauntlet.
Once again Shona was glad of his presence. She doubted that her choice of husband would ever agree with her stepmother’s.
“So what news from ma loving husband?” Priscilla’s fingers caressed the necklace.
“Occupied with the affairs of the great.” To Shona Myles brought a gown of sky blue, which shone in the candlelight. “He had an audience with the Privy Council.”
Shona fingered the rich fabric. “It’s beautiful.” The cloth was so fine, it had to be silk and linen.
“For your wedding—to the man of your choice.” Then he proclaimed, “And for visiting your father perhaps, I have more. Clothing for the Highlands and a suit of clothes grand enough for the king’s court in Edinburgh: bodice, skirt, shoes and stockings and ... a few other things required by women. That should please you, madame.”
“High time she dressed like a Christian and was married,” said Priscilla. “Looking proper and behaving proper is the key to a good marriage.”
However beautiful the cloth, she would hate wearing the boned bodice.
“Banish that frown, my dear. The new mode is fairly comfortable, so I’m told,” said Myles. “And no glittering glass or counterfeit gems for my niece. The earrings and necklace are set with pearls and diamonds.”
How many men would value Shona above the glittering jewels? Few. Surely her father would find her a good man, a Campbell gentleman.
Myles reached for another jewel box. “A double rope of pearls with a ruby and diamond pendant for you, madame.”
“Let me see.” Priscilla took the box and stroked the jewels like a lover. “God has rewarded yer faither in this world for his sanctity and good works.”
Shona wondered about the people God rewarded with wealth.
“My brother has considered some suitors,” said Myles.
“My own nephew will keep her from mischief. Times are changing. She must be settled before she’s abducted for some man’s vile purpose. She must marry according to our interests.”
“She’s safe here for now,” said Myles.
“Nests of evil men abound in this country.”
“Our families are united, madame, with the union of yourself and my brother. Strong in Highlands and Lowlands.”
“Not strong enough. I agreed to live in this barbaric country and she’ll marry the man best suited to our purpose. Ma nephew.”
“He may court her, but she may refuse him.”
“So ye’ve a suitor tae see ye soon,” said Priscilla. “A fine soldier back fra the Catholic Wars.”
Shona gasped. This must be the bad luck brought on by the bloodshed on Sionaidh's Day. This nephew of Priscilla’s. “I am ready to marry according to my family’s wishes.”
But not yours.
Something was afoot, Shona knew not what. From her window she could see the sea loch and the shore. Priscilla was moody, particularly after the banquet, but she had summoned Shona to attend her and embroider cushions. Shona hated the thought of being cooped up for hours. She didn’t care that embroidery was the main pursuit of gentlewomen. For her stepmother, it only confirmed Shona’s barbaric upbringing. Today Shona had a good excuse to avoid her.
The maid caught her in the spiral stair. “Yer stepmother’s expecting ye.”
“I’m off to the village. A woman has given birth and requires assistance. Please tell my stepmother I’ll be back soon.” She backed into the fieldstone wall, smoothed by the passage of many hands. The hard stone comforted her somehow.
Shona could only hope for a speedy marriage and babies for herself, because she had no idea what her position would be at Castle Muirn when her father returned. Priscilla might give him many sons and wield great power. Oh, for a quick marriage to a Campbell gentleman and then she could live a distance away without worrying about Priscilla.
People milled about the hall and the courtyard as she walked quietly among them. No one would miss her greatly. She waved to the guard at the gate and he waved back, smiling. In the gateway she gazed at the houses of the baile—she smelled the new thatch and kitchen fires. She made up her mind that, until she married, she would spend most of her time outside the castle.
Nearby pines and oaks still sheltered deer and wild goats. Her ancestors forbade the cutting of the grove, the sacred domain of the People of Peace. Neighbours worked in their gardens and dogs greeted her passage as they had all her life. Nothing had changed for them—only for herself.
Shona made her way down the familiar path to the house of Donnchadh Beag, where she found him repairing his wattle door. Inside, Sorcha, Una’s mother, stirred a cauldron hung over the fire in the centre of the kitchen. Shona had spent many days with them. In this house she had learned to bake bannocks for festivals, churn milk into butter, and grind corn. Yet, the proper way to stream the milk from the velvety udder of a cow escaped her. The memory of the powerful scent of fresh milk brought a smile to her lips. The smell of the smoked mutton and beef hanging from the rooftree over the fire meant a winter with food aplenty.
Snuffling sounds came from one of the box-beds. Sorcha brought her to the daughter who lay with her new baby. Sorcha was life and breath to six children, her husband, and widowed mother. And to Shona, the waif from the castle.
Theirs was the ceilidh house for the gatherings, and on some winter evenings, people filled the space between the central hearth and the walls. Today mostly women welcomed her to the fire.
“You’re welcome in this house as always. Eòghainn, give your stool to the daughter of Iain Glas.” And when her young son didn’t move fast enough, Sorcha prodded him between his shoulders. “Be polite now. On your feet.”
“Is Una about?” Shona had come hundreds of times to this house—why this time was Sorcha treating her like a newcomer?
“Milking the goat—for the new baby. She can’t drink Ros Anna’s milk. Spits it up. Can’t say what’s wrong with her.” Sorcha indicated the box-bed, one of two on each side of the central hearth. She turned to her son. “Eòghainn, go get Una.” The boy ran out without comment.
Shona smiled in the direction of the new mother. Wool plaids, the smell of heather, filled the house. Ros Anna didn’t respond.
“Will you look at the baby?” Sorcha rose to fetch it. She placed her hand on Ros Anna’s cheek and she turned toward her mother. “You sleeping? It’s Shona. She wants to see the child.”
Ros Anna had the baby cradled in her left hand, but when she placed her other hand on the infant’s belly, she cried out, “Where’s her pin? I can’t find the pin.”
“Don’t worry,” said Sorcha. “The People of Peace won’t put a changeling in her place during the day. We keep her pinned with iron at night.”
To protect the baby from the Sìthichean. A good thing—unless the baby was one of them. Shona saw the pin in the firelight, and thought it must have come unfastened and fallen off the bed. “Here it is.” She picked it up, but dropped it again. It stung her fingers. Iron. Shaking the sting from her hand, she realised she was more sensitive to it than ever. When she was young, she used to get a rash from necklaces or bracelets of the base metal. She should have known.
She herself was one of the People of Peace.
“I have it. Be still, little one.” Sorcha picked it up and carefully fastened it on the front of the baby’s linen. She kissed her grandchild and held her out to Shona. “There you are. Safe as churches.”
Shona crooned to the little one, who hardly filled her arms in her swaddling clothes. She still had the red, wrinkled face of the newborn and huge silver-grey eyes.
Una came in with a pail of milk.
“See if Shona can help her to drink.” Sorcha put the milk in a cow’s horn, tied lambskin over the point to form a teat and handed it to her.
The baby drank a small amount and refused more. A hot stone burnt Shona at her waist. She searched, but there was nothing but the iron pin. She held the infant close, but the burning pained her. “The pin is digging into me. Can you remove it for a moment or two?”
“Of course.” Sorcha took the pin and rolled it in her hand. Shona crooned to the little one and offered her the horn of goat’s milk again. The baby drank the horn dry.
“Haven’t you got a way with children,” said Una. “May you have many of your own and live to a good age.”
Sorcha had a slight frown. Shona thought she should be pleased that the baby had drunk enough to live another day. The infant drank another cup of milk without difficulty. The little one had ancient blood herself, because she was healthier without the iron pin. Sorcha might know already. Shona would make them gifts of carved wooden and bone dishes.
“You have the gift of healing like Morag,” said Una. “The baby’s quiet now. She whimpered so much. Nothing loud or annoying, but you could tell something wasn’t right.”
“She’d have sickened if you hadn’t fed her,” said Sorcha.
So many babies never lived long enough to be baptised. They all knew it and they didn’t name the child or talk about its future for fear of bringing it bad luck.
“I wish you’d become Morag’s apprentice,” said Una. “Then you’d be here all the time to help us with our babies.”
“I’d like that.” Shona loved to spend time with them, and hear their stories and laughter, but she had no idea where she’d be next year. She would not be Morag's apprentice.
“You’ll be too concerned with the affairs of the great to deal with the likes of us.” Una had such worry in her eyes.
“I’ll always think about you,” said Shona. “When I marry, I’ll come and visit and you can all show me your children and I’ll show you mine, and we’ll all grow fat on bannocks and butter.” She laughed and they smiled. This small house was more a home to her than the castle. Many times she prayed that the sun might halt in the sky and the moon hide for eternity. Or at least a week or two so that she could be with people who loved her. Whatever Shona did, she’d protect this family.
The Banshee of Castle Muirn Page 6