Shona wanted to say a few words to the corpse, but couldn’t in front of the others. Myles had died, leaving a widow and young children. It meant deep sorrow for them, but was hard for her, too. He had defended her right to choose her husband. Now who would fend off Connington? Only her father.
A bad winter was coming, so the farmers said. It would be doubly difficult inside Castle Muirn.
No matter if Priscilla shouted and waved her arms about, Shona told the servants to prepare food for the mourners. And they must bring up all the ale, wine and whisky from the cellar below the great hall. Myles had been a gentleman, the scion of an ancient house, and his funeral would show the magnitude of his loss. His widow had arrived from Gleann Falach in the west, and she would share the solar chamber with Priscilla and sleep in the other bed. It was the grandest room in the house, as befitted the widow of the chief’s brother. Shona must confront Priscilla about that this evening and tell her that she would be sharing her chamber.
The servants offered a large cuach of whisky to everyone who came through the door. Everyone took a sip and passed it to another guest. A piper played small pipes at one end of the great hall and at the other a seanchaidh narrated the adventures of Fionn MacCumhaill and Diarmaid Donn, their ancestor.
More Lowlanders with baggy breeches entered the great hall with the mourners. Menacing. Where had they come from? Were they different men or were they the ones from the shore? Shona couldn’t say, but she had to offer them hospitality. She saw her stepmother and Connington come into the great hall with their servants, and take up positions in the best chairs by the south-facing window. Shona started trembling.
Shona saw Priscilla scrutinise what she called the heathenish blanket.
“This house has been touched again by the cold hand of death,” said Priscilla. “Ye’r not lucky.”
“She has no worry about her next meal or a good roof over her head,” said Connington.
“Ye have much tae be grateful for,” said Priscilla. “Look at ye—yer face ruined with weeping. Ye’ve no idea what great sorrow is. Ye’r too young. The widow with children has the right tae weep.”
Shona did not remind her of her mother’s early death.
Three women, sitting in the window seats, laughed at something in their shared conversation.
“Look at them. Have they no respect?” asked Priscilla.
How respectful was murder? Constantly thinking about the murder had dulled her anger. She had no difficulty controlling it. She smoothed the folds of her earasaid. “They’ve remembered something about my uncle.”
“A sad funeral can be a long and dreary affair, dear auntie,” said Connington.
There was no feeling in the man. Shona suspected he was wanting something.
The piper moved to the middle of the room and played a lively tune. The widow danced, still weeping, while others stood up and joined her.
“Can we stop that caterwauling?” asked Priscilla. “Weeping and dancing. And all that singing. Never heard the like.”
“It’s our custom,” said Shona.
“When can we bury the man and send them away, Thomas?”
“Tomorrow,” said Connington.
Shona gasped. “He’s a great man in this country. He must be mourned for five days at least.” People had to be shown that the clan was still strong, with the ability to feed and protect their people.
“We can’t afford that,” said Priscilla.”A’ thae food they’ve stuffed in their bellies.”
“The lass is concerned for the reputation of the Campbells,” said Connington.
“The food and drink in this room would feed a gentle family for a year,” said Priscilla. “Who will pay for it?”
“My family is paying for it!” In her father’s absence, Shona had to fight for her dead uncle’s rights. Her nightmare was relentless.
“Yer family is represented by your stepmother and she says that she won’t pay,” said Connington.
“You must give my father time to come home.” Things weren’t right in the world.
“Yer father is concerned with oor interests in Edinburgh.”
“What could be more important than his brother’s funeral?”
“Not yer affair. That flock of hungry gannets goes away tomorrow so that we may give your uncle a decent funeral,” said Priscilla.
“A decent funeral?”
“The household alone. Thomas has a minister coming tae marry ye. And if he fails tae come, Thomas can say a few words over the body like he did in the wars against the Catholic empire.”
Connington bowed. “Alas, I have much experience with death.”
“And he can recite great verses o’ the Bible.”
“Behold the amazing gift o’ love the Faither hath bestowed on us, the sinful sons o' men, tae call us sons o’ God.”
He paraphrased the Bible to support his lies. How impressive. Maybe he’d killed some of those poor bodies himself. “What must I do?” Shona asked.
“Ye must accept ma proposal of marriage.”
How could she put him off? She chewed her bottom lip. Despite the fires in the hall, she was chilled her to the bone. “Accept you?”
“Ye hae two weeks tae prepare and then we marry.”
Stall him. “You must send a messenger to my father and ask his permission.” A message had to arrive in time.
“Ye’re the weed that’s grown wild,” said her stepmother. “Ye’ll be a fair flower in Thomas’ garden.”
“My greatest pleasure. Trimming.” His eyes raked her up and down, polluting her.
“If I agree, you’ll let them bury my uncle according to our customs?”
“Of course,” said Thomas. “Ye hae ma word.”
“And I have two weeks to prepare?”
“A fortnight.”
Shona joined the crowd dancing to the piper. The mourners would think that her tears were for her uncle, but some were for her own fate. If her uncle was to be treated with respect, then it seemed she had to agree to a unwanted union. Her life would be easier if she gave up and married Thomas Connington without a fuss. But he had trapped her, and she resented that.
She’d already sent a messenger to her father’s townhouse in Edinburgh asking him for permission to marry whomever she pleased, and begging him to return.
Connington allowed the funeral to go on for three more days, and Shona spent her time avoiding him. After tending Alasdair with Morag during the day, she passed the nights in the hall with the other mourners. She had to tolerate Connington’s presence for now.
She had time to plan.
Chapter 13
At the castle, Shona arranged the details of the funeral. She organised food, greeted mourners, and filled her mind with her tasks. In unguarded moments, vivid images of water and blood surfaced from the dark corners of her memory. Then she returned to Morag’s house, and stayed up to tend to Alasdair. Morag told Ruari what do for the sick man while she and Shona went to the funeral. Morag looked haggard. The wise woman left her hair free of its linen cap, so it hung down in long grey and black tendrils to her waist. She wrapped a black and white earasaid over her shift, and went out barefoot into the autumn wind and rain.
People were milling around the main gate when they arrived. Four mourning women, mnathan tuiream, dressed as wildly as Morag, joined them, then they all passed easily through a multitude awed by their appearance, and entered the castle.
The light of a bleak day and four large candlesticks illuminated Myles on his bier in the hall. No fire burned in the hearth. Heart-stopping grief seeped into her from the hidden places it had lived since her mother died. Shona wanted to spend as much time as she could with her uncle, but at the same time she wanted the funeral over. How was it possible to hurt so much? The throng outside filtered into the hall while Shona stood with twenty others who guarded the corpse, and sang the lament.
Shiubhail thu, shiubhail thu!
Shiubhail is cha d’fhuirich thu!
Chan fha
ic sinn tuilleadh thu,
A Mhaoileis Mhòr nan Tùr.
You are gone, you are gone!
You have gone and not stayed!
We’ll never see you again,
Great Myles of the Towers.
Morag put a wooden plate on his chest, another mourning woman placed salt on it and a third, earth. “Salt is the spirit and soul, and earth the corruptible body.” Then the six of them stood around his head and at his sides to proclaim the grief of his widow and three children, who sat close by the bier.
The source of their protection and strength was laid low.
Who will bring them corn?
Fish from the stream and deer from the hill?
Who will keep the roof over their heads in the long winters to come?
Who indeed. Who would keep them all from harm?
What if it were Alasdair’s body lying on the staves? Shona was relieved that he lived, even while her murdered clansman lay in front of her. The physical sensations she experienced in tending Alasdair swelled in her and made her squirm. In the presence of death, she wanted to make love. She imagined dashing out of the hall, down the stair and through the baile to Morag’s house where he lay. She quashed the impulse. Foolish woman. The man to whom she wanted to make love was still unconscious. Foolish, selfish woman.
At the end of the funeral, Shona caught Connington’s eye and looked away. He looked as serene as a minister, surrounded by four grey-coated men. If he had murdered Myles, as Alasdair said, she should rain curses on him from all the mountain tops, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Curses let loose might go where they weren’t deserved. None of the Campbells had done anything evil. Yet she was cursed with Connington. But one thing she decided—she wouldn’t live in a house with her uncle’s murderer.
She went up the stair to Priscilla's chamber to pay her respects.
Her stepmother read her psalter at the hearth. “Ye’r overlong comin' tae see me,” she said without looking up.
“I helped prepare my uncle. And nurse the MacDonald.”
“Yer uncle must be respected, but not that MacDonald.” She turned a page. “Ye must mind the company ye keep.”
Shona already followed that advice. She avoided Connington as much as she could. “Isn’t healing part of a woman’s duty?”
“Ye saw tae the wrong man. His soldiers brought in ma nephew.”
Shona imagined an injured Connington and herself ministering to him. His care would be wanting. “I saw him. He appeared uninjured.”
Priscilla frowned. “Fortunately, he’s hale and hearty. Ye can give him yer good wishes at supper—in ma chamber. The body of yer uncle and every other body between here and Perth has plugged the hall.”
“I don’t feel hungry in the least.”
“Sir Thomas is oor guest and ye’r expected tae sup wi’ him.”
Priscilla might have known about the murder. Maybe not.
“Ye say ‘no’ tae any man who comes by, but ma Thomas is a patient man.”
Her stepmother’s prattling irritated her like gnats at twilight—always there, always plaguing her. Alasdair was lying injured at Morag’s house. She wanted to see him, to make sure that his chest rose and fell and a pulse beat in his neck. To minister to him. She crossed her arms to keep herself in her chair, to prevent herself from bolting for the door.
“He’s a good man, weel mostly—and ye need a good man tae stand by ye.” Priscilla stabbed her finger in Shona’s direction to emphasise her point. “And remember, yer family has the infirmity of being Hielanders. No civilised person trusts ye. Ye cannae be difficult in oor time of troubles.”
A good man? In any way? Doubtful. “Troubles?” The troubles might be the reason for Connington’s presence at Castle Muirn. Shona wanted to ask her if her father and the fighting men of Clan Campbell were in the middle of unrest. In prison? Injured? She had thought that troubles in Edinburgh wouldn’t affect the people of Gleann Muirn. The world was an unsafe place, where people died too soon.
Priscilla was about to reply, but pressed her lips firmly together, and returned to her reading.
Perhaps she regretted telling Shona anything. “Is my father in danger? I heard about a riot in Edinburgh—against the king’s prayer book.” Not another death.
“Tae many taxes and imposts,” said Priscilla. “And he’s pushing his Inglishe ways on us.”
“But the king is anointed by God. Has he not—”
“Enough! I’ll have my Thomas talk sense tae ye.”
“Did Thomas have a hand in the riot?”
“Thomas will tell ye what ye need tae know.”
Was there a connection between the riot in Edinburgh and Connington’s arrival?
She had barely finished the thought when Connington himself entered the chamber.
“Ye’r wanted doon the stair. Dae something wi’ the gannets diving intae oor food and drink.”
“Sit ye doon, Thomas, ma dearie.”
Connington made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Joan, get doon the stair and sort the food!”
“Please stay a while yourself, Thomas my dear.” Priscilla indicated the most comfortable chair in the room.
Shona didn’t need to be told to leave twice. She stepped out into the stair, but stopped outside the chamber to listen and learn.
“Ye dae naething tae help ma cause. Ye’re sae stupid—ye’ve the brain of a butterfly. Ye can’t see what’s happening. Ye’ve no idea why ye’re here.”
Priscilla snuffled and began to weep. A chair scraped the floor and Shona heard her footsteps coming toward the spiral stair. Shona descended a few steps. How could Connington be angry at the aunt who fawned on him?
“Sit doon! I’m no finished wi’ ye. I need that Campbell woman’s dowry.” He breathed heavily. Shona crept back up.
“I need more than that. I want the Campbell treasury. What did ye think aboot that? I’m no closer tae wedding or silver than when I came.”
Shona was wanted for her dowry. And whatever wealth the Campbells had. She had suspected as much.
“I’ve a new plan and ye’r not needed.”
The weeping stopped. “I can return tae Edinburgh.”
“No, ye can’t. Yer husband won’t have ye.”
The weeping began anew.
“Fer God’s sake, woman, stop yer bubblin’ afore I batter ye. Ye stay in yer chamber, ye useless auld fool.”
For the first time, Shona truly pitied her stepmother. The Lowland woman had to live among strangers and now her own nephew had insulted her. Shona wanted to stay with Priscilla and comfort her, but likely an offer of sympathy wouldn’t be welcome.
Besides, she had to tend Alasdair.
When she entered Morag’s house, she saw the old woman looked tired. It was more than the fatigue of a day’s work—or even a week. It was a lifetime’s hoard of fatigue. “Morag, sleep. I’ll see to him.”
The old woman went to her box-bed and crawled in with hardly a word. “The poultice on his arm. See to that.” She closed her doors.
That Morag trusted her with nursing a man so seriously injured pleased her. She slowly pulled the poultice from his broken arm. His eyes remained closed and he did not move. After inspecting it to see that it had been thoroughly cleaned, and smelling it for decay, she checked his face. His eyes were still closed; the poppy flower held him in sleep. She placed a new cloth with a goodly amount of the all-healing and the king’s plant on his arm, and slowly lifted the arm and wrapped it in clean linen. She lifted his head enough to remove his bandages. His stitches held and the wounds were closed. Good. His chest bandage she left for now until she’d someone to help lift him into a sitting position. He looked as placid as an angel, his face smoothed of all care.
She wondered at the feeling that coursed through her—a fierce sdetermination to protect him from his enemies. She bent over his chest and kissed his forehead. She gathered his soiled dressings and when she returned, she found his quiet blue eyes gazing at her.
Neither said a word. They just stared at each other. Perhaps he couldn’t speak. Or worse.
She placed her hand on his uninjured arm. “You’re all right. You’re at Morag’s house.” She waited for a response. He moved his head and sighed. He was still alive. “Would you like a drink? Watered whisky. The best thing to get you moving again.”
“You kissed me?”
“I did. I’m sorry.” What must he think? Morag would think her too bold by half.
His words were slow and formed with great care. “I feel safe here … want to stay here forever … with you.”
“I'll get a little whisky for you.”
“Am I dreaming? Are you a sìtheach? A fairy queen. First time I saw you that’s what I thought.”
She drew in a breath and held it, hoping that would slow the pounding of her heart. She couldn’t answer him—he was too close to the truth. She rose stiffly and filled a horn cup with warm water and whisky, and brought it to him. Her breathing was nearly normal.
“Don’t talk. Save your strength.” And don’t ask any more questions. She lifted his head and poured just a little into his mouth. His lips gave way to the pressure of her hand. For a hard warrior, he had such soft skin.
“Thank you. Enough.”
She busied herself with checking the crùisgean lamps and banking the fire.
“Shona.” He said her name.
A flood of longing seized her. A flood so powerful and elemental it threatened to shrink the whole world into this little house where only two people and their love existed—the only currency in this world—the highest value was on insistent, demanding love.
“Please come to me.”
She knelt beside his pallet. Obedient. Connington and his aunt would have paid a fortune in silver for such compliance. He reached for her face and drew her toward him.
The Banshee of Castle Muirn Page 15