The Banshee of Castle Muirn

by Sheila Currie

She sipped the drink. “I’m fine. Just fine.” The honeyed whisky did help a bit.

  “I must away now.” As he left, Myles hesitated. “If only they were allies, what I had to say today would have been very different, believe me.”

  Shona might as well train for a banshee. She had no interest in the world.

  In the days that followed, she came to Morag’s house often. She knew she couldn’t learn in a few months what Morag had gleaned from a lifetime, but the old woman encouraged her to learn till her head ached.

  “I should have taught you the incantations when I showed you how to make herbal potions. Say it again.”

  Morag insisted she repeat the incantations until Shona could say them without hesitation. Almost every day for a month she had come to the little house at the edge of the village. “You must be able to say the incantations whether or not you are in fear of your life—indeed, they may save your life. Repeat.”

  Awed by the antiquity of Morag’s learning, Shona recited dutifully.

  Craobh nan ubhal, ubhal airgid,

  Chraobh nan ubhal, gu robh Dia leam,

  Gu robh Ghealach, gu robh Ghrian leam.

  Gu robh Gaoth an Ear ‘s an Iar leam,

  air sgàth maitheis.

  Tree of apples, silver apples,

  Tree of apples, God protect me,

  Moon and sun be with me,

  May the East and West Wind be with me,

  For goodness sake.

  “What do the apples mean?”

  “Our power comes from Abhalainn, the Land of Apples,” said Morag. “Others believe that the fruit is good for eating. We know it has other purposes. These words will help you find your way when you’re lost. After you say the words, throw the apple in front of you, and it will show you the way.”

  The apples had healing and calming powers, and even prevented the loss of teeth. Though that last was a bit hard to believe.

  Shona had to respect Morag, but she couldn’t think how or why she would use them. Still, she learned the incantations as best she could, though she knew Campbell country well. She’d never need the apple charms.

  She busied herself during the day and thought of Alasdair at night.

  Today she would visit the sick of the baile with Morag. “I’m glad to see you. Did your stepmother miss you?” Morag hugged her apprentice.

  “I had no difficulty with that. Catriona helps me and makes excuses for me. Or pretends she doesn’t understand.”

  “You’ve done well,” said Morag. “Today you meet your first client. Come. We’ve healing to do. This way.” Morag guided Shona to a substantial house of five rooms in the centre of the village. She strode in and greeted those inside—a woman and several wide-eyed children. A red-faced man lay wheezing on a box-bed. “Try the incantation for healing. He has something stuck in his throat.”

  Shona said the incantation and lifted her hands. The man’s breath was ragged as though he were breathing his last. She had no effect whatsoever. She shut her eyes and strained until her sight blurred.

  “Gently!” said Morag.

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Keep your eyes open. It is most difficult to use a small amount of power, and easy to overuse.” Morag placed her fingertips close to the man’s throat and pushed the air a tiny bit. A piece of meat popped out. Immediately the man sucked in vast quantities of air and his colour went from red to normal.

  The woman of the house circled around Morag deiseil, sunwise, three times to show respect. “Thank you, Wise One.”

  One of the children said, “What happened, Mammy?” His mother hushed him and produced a live chicken in payment of the service. Neither wife nor husband nor children said anything more when Shona followed Morag out of the house.

  “You’ve made progress learning the incantations,” said Morag. “You’ve learned many, but you must learn three hundred, and how to mix the herbs to go with them. You have to know what causes illness, natural or supernatural, to cure it. The most useful power we have is pushing.”

  “You pushed that little bit of meat out of that man’s throat? I couldn’t do that.”

  “Oh, you will, a ghràidh. You’ll learn. You must.”

  Chapter 8

  Head down, deep in thought, Shona wandered on the path near the sea with Una. The quiet beach provided a refuge from her stepmother, who insisted every day that she listen to the advice of a mature woman. Shona didn’t care if the suitor was a champion from the king or an angel from God. If Priscilla recommended him, Shona wouldn’t marry him.

  Myles had told her he’d sent Alasdair away to round up his cattle. She didn’t know if Alasdair had tried to see her before he left. She hoped so.

  She couldn’t ask or appear interested in a member of an enemy clan. But an empty husk was all that was left of her heart. She hardly knew him, but there was something in him that was strong and kind. No one knew she imagined a life with him. She savoured those dreams. Tasted them each night when she was alone in her box-bed.

  In the meantime she trained with Morag, not just in herbs and healing, but in how to use her powers.

  At the sound of an oar song, Shona scanned the waters of Loch Muirn, where the Campbell birlinn hove into view. Two of the crew lowered the square sail of the galley while the men of Clan Campbell rowed the vessel steadily toward Castle Muirn at the end of the sea loch. Despite the wind or their exertions, the rowers sang at their oars. The vessel shot forward with every stroke, past trees and bare crags, to the sandy shore at the sea loch’s end. A dozen people sauntered on the beach waiting for their kinsmen in the galley, who brought news and exotic wares from the south.

  Her father might be on board! She pointed out the birlinn to Una and shouted, “Come on!”

  Her companion trailed behind as Shona bounded through small bushes and bracken to the shore. How much better it would be with both father and uncle at home. She picked her way across the rocks on the western edge of the shore while Una panted behind her.

  Shona recognised the voice that shouted over the water—Ailean Lachlainn, a trusted messenger from her father. She heard another man speaking Inglishe, one she didn’t know. Excitement filled her like water in a pitcher. She wanted the galley at anchor and her father in sight of her two eyes. Everything would be back as it had been before he left. Fear about what was going on in Edinburgh worried her during the day and gave her nightmares in sleep. Now all that was at an end.

  “I’ve never been sae wet. My skin is raw with sea spray.” A weary voice.

  “Shut yer gob. Ye’ll soon put yer feet on dry land.” A hard reply.

  “Wait!” Una rushed to catch up. “Why are you so keen to run? We can walk and be there in plenty of time to meet the birlinn.”

  Despite the turbulent water, the galley’s crew moved swiftly to perform their chores, never once stumbling over their passengers or cargo. On the heaving deck, a tall, thin man dressed in a buff leather coat and red sash caught Shona’s eye. He didn’t smile, but stood on the shifting deck with a shorter man in black while half a dozen men in grey coats slumped over the gunwales. Their spew trailed down the side of the ship and disappeared when the prow crashed through the next wave. She’d soon find out who they were. Nothing remained secret in baile or castle.

  When they were scant yards from shore, the rowers back-oared. A sailor picked up the anchor stone in its wooden cage and threw it into the water, the rope tied to it following after into the sea. Although the galley’s draft was shallow, it would be too easily beached if they drew closer to land.

  Men jumping overboard gasped as the cold water reached their waists, while others slung large wicker baskets to those already in the sea. The sun glinted off glass bottles of wine as men carried baskets and chests to shore—every time her father returned, he brought more luxuries than a troop of chapmen. The steersman climbed onto the back of one of the sailors. Most of the crew waded to shore, shouting to their wives and children, who slipped out of the crowd to hug and k
iss them. The younger ones splashed in the surf in wet tangles of cloth and skin.

  Shona searched the rail for her father. Perhaps he was ill. She ran to a sailor. “Where is your chief?”

  The rower bowed to her. “He’s not with us, daughter of Iain Glas, but he’s sent many gifts.”

  She tried to remember the last time the birlinn had brought her father home, and her young brothers had romped on the sand. Since the deaths of her mother and brothers a year ago, she couldn’t remember a time of joy.

  “Your father’s still away.” Una put her arm around Shona. “Come stay with us a while.”

  Not even the promise of a good meal and kindly company could raise Shona’s spirits. Her happiness counted for nothing in the great world, but she had her duty. She had to give hospitality to guests at Castle Muirn.

  On the heaving deck, the gangling Lowlander folded in half to grip the rail. The rowers noticed his difficulty, but no one laughed.

  “Not used to ships, I think.” Shona heard no laughing or jokes despite his awkwardness. Had he been a Highlander, they would have teased him and given him a nickname on the first day of his journey.

  Three burly oarsmen, dressed only in long shirts and belts, jumped into the water and helped him climb onto the back of one man. The Lowlander folded and unfolded his arms and legs like a heron. On dry land he staggered while the rower steadied him. He had to be aware of how silly he looked.

  “Not so fast, ye great Hieland hallion. Gi'e ’s the poke.” The Lowlander wrenched his bag from another man who had carried it to land.

  Suddenly the rower tumbled into the water. He rose up like a dolphin, ready to fight, but others held his arms. He hurled a curse after the stranger. “Mo mhallachd ort!”

  Had the oarsman been pushed? Surely not. Shona warned the dripping oarsman, “He’s a guest in this country, whatever he does.” Still, it was a bad start for the newcomers.

  The Lowlander snatched his hat from the hands of yet another rower. Still wet with sea water, he looked around at the crowd of people as if surprised to see them. “Awa’ with ye!” he shouted at them in Inglishe, and waved his his arms at them. They trickled away like an ebb tide soon to flow back.

  “They have as much right to be here as yourself,” said Shona. Bad-tempered and no Gaelic in his head. He wouldn’t get along here.

  A man wearing a sash about his waist jumped into the waves and started wading to shore. “Come on, the rest o’ ye. Get off the ship.” A quiet but commanding voice. When he reached land, he walked to the man who had pushed his bearer into the sea. “Remember where ye are and behave, ye gowp. Stay for my baggage.”

  “Since you’re wet, Rutherford, ye can see tae our miserable men. Make sure they mind their manners!” shouted another tall Lowlander from the birlinn.

  “Aye, I’ll make them behave.” He began to shout to his men to gather their possessions and stay together on the beach. A large wave caught him and doused him.

  “Ye’r a wee bit wet noo, but never mind, ye’ll be your handsome self in no time.” A wide smile lifted his moustache. “See tae the baggage,” he shouted to one of his grey-coated men.

  “What are you waiting for?” asked the Lowlander on board. “You want a ride on the back of one of these heathens? Or will ye wade? Move!” The rest of the baggy-breeched men slithered into the water. As the galley bucked and plunged in a fresh wind, the last Lowlander aboard tightened the buckles on his sword. The rowers pointed out a crewman, almost waist deep in seawater, prepared to carry him to land.

  “No, thank ye. Stand ma horse—noo!”

  The crewman looked at each other without understanding.

  Shona could easily hear his voice from shore. “He wants you to allow his horse to stand,” she said.

  Finally a crewman loosened the ropes that held the horse’s head down and allowed the chestnut stallion to rise. Except for shaking his head, the horse moved little on deck while waiting for the crew to disembark him.

  The Lowlander shooed the crew away from his horse, then he mounted. The horse was calm. A warhorse.

  “Tip the boat.”

  Shona watched with the crowd. Without understanding his words, they knew what to do. They weren’t new at disembarking cattle or horses. But they hadn’t seen a mounted man leave the galley. Anything might happen. She could do nothing but watch.

  A half dozen men held the galley down on one side so that it listed with the gunwale just above the water. The horse leapt clear and high-stepped his way to shore while his rider held the reins with one hand and placed the other on his hip. His boots were hardly wet when he reached the sand. The crowd shouted their approval at the unexpected entertainment.

  The crowd stepped back, then guided Shona to the front.

  “You’re the one to greet him.”

  “Your duty, daughter of Iain Glas.”

  The Lowlander shouted, “Up, Ganymede!” The horse reared, his hooves slicing the air a few feet from her face. The salt spray flying from his legs and flanks spotted the front of her earasaid before she had time to step away. She tripped over a foot, but the crowd buoyed her up. His rider removed his plumed hat and waved it in the air while his horse capered and carved deep crescent moons in the sand. Did the fool on horseback not see her? He ensured that every one of his men was drenched at the shore while he pranced around on his horse. Rogue.

  “Good morning, good people. I am Sir Thomas Connington!” He gave them all a toothy grin and reined the horse backward. “Gentle lady, my pleasure tae see ye.” Connington dismounted and tossed the reins to one of his men. “Rutherford, a young and beautiful lass for our eyes to feast upon.”

  Towering over her and smelling of sea salt and sweat, he thrust his long face straight toward her. A large brown moustache covered his upper lip and muffled his words. Each tip waggled as he spoke.

  A great heaviness shrouded her. Her heart fluttered. She tried to breathe deeply, and backed away from him.

  “She speaks Inglishe,” said Rutherford.

  “I am Joan Campbell, the daughter of Sir John Campbell of Gleann Muirn,” she managed.

  “She’s civilised.” Connington ogled her. “My pleasure, fair lady. Thomas Connington, nephew of Priscilla Fleschour, wife to Sir John Campbell of Gleann Muirn.”

  Fear flickered in her belly. So this was Priscilla’s nephew—the suitor of suitors. Pull yourself together. She curtseyed. “You are a guest of my father, a chief of Clan Campbell.”

  “I’m known to ye, then.” He held his sword hilt with his left hand, removed his broad felt hat with his right, and bowed. A practised manoeuvre. “My lady, it’s ma pleasure tae see such beauty bloom in a barren land.”

  Barren land? His visit would not be pleasant. “My stepmother has mentioned you.”

  “She is a precious lady tae me, ma aunt.” His horse pranced about, but he controlled the stallion easily as he mounted it once again.

  Shona doubted anyone could value Priscilla. He was a flatterer.

  “My men require food and a warm fire. They may look like inferior clay, but they have their uses—especially my comrade in arms, Matthew Rutherford.” He indicated the other man wearing a sash.

  “This way to the great hall.” She led the way. “Your aunt awaits you.”

  “Let’s not keep that anxious branch of a mighty tree waiting,” said Connington. “Ye’r a queen of a woman. And comely.” He kneed the horse so that it stepped toward her.

  She turned quickly and obliged him to follow her to the keep. She was glad Una was with her. Two women might be safe from him.

  He laughed. “You’ve put a smokin’, burnin’ coal in ma heart, lass.” Then he shouted, “Come on, ma lads. Follow, follow!” He pretended to dry off one man’s face with his sleeve. The man wriggled out of his grasp. “Ye’ll dry off soon enough.”

  Una was laughing at the antics. Could she not see the cruelty in Connington’s treatment of his men? Perhaps Shona was making too much of it.

  Connington
looked handsome on his stallion. Her body tensed as if she readied for a race. She shouldn’t fear him after an acquaintance of only a few minutes, but she felt the darkness inside him. Her head told her, don’t be silly, but her gut said, beware.

  Connington pulled his man to him. “Please greet Rutherford, my trusting and trustworthy lieutenant. The Lady Joan.”

  Rutherford removed his dripping hat and attempted to bow.

  Connington, his eyes like a wild cat’s, drew out his words. “Dear lady, we hunger … for food. Will ye help us? We’re at your mercy.”

  “Stay with me,” she said to Una.

  “My pleasure. He’s so gallant … and comical!” Obviously Una felt nothing. No warning.

  Shona would have given anything to avoid her obligation to welcome Priscilla’s nephew. “Please, come this way.”

  She led him and his men to the castle, and showed them the stable, where a serving man took the reins of the chestnut stallion. She didn’t like Connington—especially the thought of his following her up the stair to the keep. She climbed as quickly as possible. It took forever to climb to the hall.

  In the hall, Myles was playing chess while Priscilla sat at the hearth fire. Her face betrayed annoyance. “The villagers are verra noisy.” She picked up her embroidery and ignored them all.

  Shona addressed her uncle. “Sir Thomas Connington, lately from Edinburgh.”

  Priscilla’s head snapped up and she dropped her frame. Myles left his attendant at the board game. “Grace and peace be unto you, sir.”

  Connington bowed in the Lowland way. “Indeed, I am glad to meet ye.”

  “Good news, madame. Your nephew—”

  Priscilla leapt up with more spirit than she had ever shown, and ran to welcome him. She was a sight—the skirt of her big Lowland gown bouncing from side to side as she danced around him. Her maids joined her, cooing with delight. “Thomas. Thomas Connington! How have ye fared? Come! Let me see ye.” He obliged and she clutched his hand like a woman drowning. She examined his face and his clothes. “Ye look sae bonnie. How joyful I am.”