The Banshee of Castle Muirn

by Sheila Currie

  “Then answer me when I question ye. I’ll brook no games.” His voice was gentle with threat, but the men relaxed. “Truce then?”

  She’d didn’t trust him, but welcomed a period of calm before the next storm. “Truce. Our neighbours are MacPharlans and Combanaich. The Combanaich have a charter for their land and the MacPharlans don’t. They must make a living however to pay the rental of the land.”

  “How? Stealing.”

  “They reive cattle according to ancient custom. They only take a portion of a wealthy person’s stock to live on, not enough to impoverish them.”

  “The Hielands harbour packs of thieves. Who else lives hard by?”

  “MacDonalds—an ancient clan in the districts to the northwest.” She surveyed the land in that direction in case he saw her sympathy.

  “The cattle drovers.”

  “Yes.”

  He sneered and licked his lips.

  The sun stole into the sky and lightened the green in the trees and the blue in the loch. Connington and his men said nothing for the rest of the journey. He had tried to scare her and she had made him stop. She considered the exchange a small victory.

  Before she saw the house, she heard a rhythmic thudding and smiled.

  “It sounds like drums and shouting. A fight,” said Connington.

  The compelling rhythm of women singing a labour song, interspersed with yells, filled the air. “No, they are women.” She enjoyed his discomfort, and urged her pony to trot closer for the singing.

  A dozen women sat on the ground in front of wattles, pounding wool cloth with their feet and singing. Connington’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped. “They’re mad.”

  “They’re happy—it’s a luadhadh. They are waulking cloth and fulling it. Everyone in their baile—”

  “Enough. They’re a’ daft!”

  He frowned and jerked his horse away from the group as though the women were wild wolves who threatened him. Connington seemed nervous about something. Perhaps he didn’t like being amongst so many women. A weakness.

  The MacPharlan longhouse coursed with people. Besides the women waulking the cloth, four men rethatched the roof while two women stamped clothes in a washtub and several others tended a kailyard. As the tune finished, another woman began to sing and the rest joined in the chorus.

  Baile Leacan used to be like this—before Connington and his strangers came.

  Beyond the workers, she saw Lowlanders. No mistaking their baggy breeches and dull colours. Highlanders they weren’t. She thought she saw a few of the ragged men who fought at the shore on Sionaidh's Day.

  “So this chief appears well served.”

  His comment brought her attention back to him. “He has done what he can to survive.”

  “He thieves.”

  “How did you survive the wars against the Catholic empire?” She knew he’d stolen food, but also gold and jewellery. She wasn’t sure how she knew, but she had images in her mind of his thefts. A banshee power?

  “Mark my words, I’ve known hunger. The world is changing, and I intend to survive—in comfort.”

  She saw an image of him starving and searching for food. Impossible to feel sorry for him. Her whirling thoughts overwhelmed her, and she saw no more. He had a way of lulling her, making her forget his evil. She’d have to watch that.

  “Help her, Rutherford!” he shouted. “Dear lady, ye must forgive ma poor servant his manners.”

  Connington’s lieutenant slid from his mount and offered his hand to her. He said nothing as he knelt and she stepped onto his cupped hands. She thought him kind, the wrong sort to be among Connington’s soldiers. She thanked him and he nodded quickly. She could tell he appreciated the comment. Must be hard to work with Connington. Why did he stay on with such a harsh man?

  They made for the room with the fire, at the middle of a long, narrow house.

  Stately as a king, the chief of the MacPharlans, a man with a white beard flowing to his chest, emerged from his house. When she introduced Connington, she saw that the old man only bowed—Connington thought the custom of bowing and circling deiseil was ridiculous. The MacPharlan knew how to behave among Lowlanders. He'd had dealings with them before.

  The old chief indicated the door with a flourish of his arm, and they entered the house at its middle. Inside the chief’s wife stirred stew in a large bronze cauldron hung on a chain over the central fire. Her two daughters baked bannocks on a wide hearthstone.

  “Ye speak Inglishe, d’ye?” said Connington to the chief.

  “Just a bit.”

  “Your work. A dangerous business.” Connington faced Shona. “Translate that for him.”

  Shona recognised the impatience in Connington’s voice, and did so.

  MacPharlan continued unhurried. “The way of the world. I arrange the return of beasts lifted by desperate men. But you're wanting a bite to eat. We’ll talk in the chamber. This way. Many of the unfortunate men, bereft of their cattle, are Lowlanders, and they don’t think much of me.”

  “And they trust ye, do they?”

  “Sir, I am a gentleman.” MacPharlan answered mildly despite the insult.

  Shona told him what the old man said.

  In the chamber the chief rubbed his hands over a brasier as he spoke. He sat on a low chair with carved arms and back, but jumped up again. “The cuach! I’m a poor host if I can’t offer you a drink.” He looked at Shona and waited for her to translate.

  His wife heard the comments and fetched a large wooden drinking cup with chased silver on the rim.

  “We have matters to discuss.” Connington smiled in his most charming way. “Make sure ye get this right,” he said to Shona. He pulled her toward the chamber.

  She wanted to overturn the cauldron on his head. Patience. “I'll translate for you.” Perhaps she'd find out what he planned. She followed him and MacPharlan into the best room. Connington changed with the wind, from choleric to charming. She had to think of a way to defeat him, but her head emptied of ideas.

  “Here’s what I need done,” Connington murmured as he and the chief settled in the best room. “Ye wull keep another fifty of ma men in addition to the fifty who now live on yer lands.”

  MacPharlan would billet one hundred Lowland soldiers! And the Lowlanders from the shore were here. They were Connington's men. No surprise.

  “Our resources will be truly exhausted by one hundred warriors. It will require much more silver.”

  “Ye wull have one silver penny for every twelve soldiers, as before.”

  “We require one silver penny and one copper for shelter and food for every twelve soldiers. Tell him that.”

  The MacPharlans would do almost anything for silver.

  “Hieland rogue! He gets the same as he got before. Tell him that.”

  “Why do you keep these men here?”

  “No yer business. Tell him he gets what he got before and his son will guide us tae Edinburgh in a month’s time.”

  Alasdair was taking his cattle to Edinburgh. The MacDonalds knew that soldiers were heading for the burgh after fighting against the Catholic Empire, and Highland cattle would be used to feed soldiers like Connington’s. But why? What drew soldiers to Edinburgh?

  A short time later the barking of dogs and neighing of ponies startled her. She recognised one voice amid shouts and laughter. Alasdair. She followed the women who rushed out to greet him. The sun lit his face like a saint’s image. He should be abed—not on a horse.

  “Welcome, Alasdair Dubh,” said the chief’s wife.

  Birdsong was not as sweet as his voice.

  Alasdair gave his horse into the care of a young MacPharlan boy. “Tapadh leat, a bhalaich. Thanks, boy.” To MacPharlan’s wife he said, “A while since I’ve seen yourself and MacPharlan.”

  “Welcome to you, welcome at any time.” said MacPharlan’s wife. “You’ll want to see my man.” She looked back into the house, then said in a low voice, “He’s got a Lowlander and Shona Campbell wi
th him. Up to no good. But my man won’t believe any bad opinion of him. He’s got his eyes on the silver. But look at you.”

  “I’ve not been well.”

  “Poor man! Come in! Come in! Take a seat on the bench by the fire while I butter oatcakes for you. You have men outside who need to be fed?” She led him back inside her house.

  MacPharlan’s wife sent her two daughters out with food for his men. How pretty they looked as they went out. All seemed as it should be.

  The sun and moon of his life appeared at the threshold of the best room.

  “You’re much better, I see,” said Shona. “I’m here to get more drink for the negotiators: Connington and MacPharlan.”

  “Much. I’m glad to see you in good health.” The sight of her gave him a lift.

  He looked around to see who was listening, but the chief’s wife had returned to the fire and was clattering a large wooden spoon on the edge of the cauldron.

  “Why are you here? Connington doesn’t know how much time I spent with you—when you were ill. I don’t think your status as a guest would protect you if he knew.”

  “I’m here now. Please join me.” He patted a spot on the bench. “Oatcakes will be ready soon.”

  She sat beside him. He wanted to touch her, but he kept his hands in his lap. Studying the softness of her skin was all right for now. A few months ago he’d thought that all he needed in this life was money from selling cattle to make a decent life for his clan. Buy back a bit of land. Gain the respect of neighbouring clans. But now it wasn’t enough. He had a hole, a huge gap in his heart, and only she could fill it.

  A young girl brought Alasdair cakes fresh from the griddle, covered in new butter, then took a trencher full to the best room.

  “Why are you here? You should keep to your bed.”

  “I needed air and exercise.” He hesitated. “Besides, Morag was concerned about you.”

  “She could have sent a village boy. Though you look much better.” She raised her hands as though she wanted to touch him.

  “She could have, indeed,” said Alasdair. “But she had a dream about Connington. No good omens concerning that man.”

  “How did you find us?” Shona stood in the sunlight pouring through the door.

  “Not difficult to find that black-coated man in this bright land.” Alasdair nibbled the oatcake. “Wonderfully good. Morag said that he wants to marry you. And she wants you for her apprentice.” Laughter broke through from the chamber.

  “I don’t care to be her apprentice, and I refuse to marry Connington. Never will I change my mind about him. I do want to marry, to be of service to my people. But things have gone down a different road than I expected.”

  “I appreciate your ability heal and will recommend you to all.”

  “I do enjoy learning about plants and the earth, and the stars from Morag. And herbs. And how to nurse the sick back to health— including you.”

  And for that he was profoundly grateful. But he wanted more than that. He wanted Shona, a life with her. He had to make sure that she would agree. Clan loyalty might yet prevent her from loving him enough to live with him.

  “Connington isn’t pleased about that.” She smiled and leaned over till their shoulders touched. When she heard the chief’s wife returning, she quickly sat up straight.

  “Are you ready to join the other gentlemen?” Her brows were furrowed and her mouth moved as if she wanted to say something more. “This way.”

  “Indeed I am.” Before Shona rose to go, he whispered to her, “Be careful. If you have trouble with him, I’m here to help.” She didn’t look reassured. More frightened, if anything. He held her back. “What is it? You can trust me.”

  Shona whispered, “Can you send a messenger to my father and tell him Connington is conspiring against the king? Can’t say any more just now.”

  Conspiracy against the king! He had underestimated Connington. “Right. I will.” He wanted to reassure her by taking her into his arms, but did not. Too many people moving about. He followed them to the chamber.

  Connington, the MacPharlan chief, and Duncan MacPharlan, his eldest son, studied him as he joined them.

  “Welcome to the house,” said the MacPharlan chief to Alasdair. “We don’t see much of you.”

  “You have so few cattle for us to take to market.” Alasdair spoke to the MacPharlan, but looked at Connington. The man sat calmly as a saint without sin or stain.

  “Not just now. Perhaps soon,” said the MacPharlan.

  “Ye’r well, it seems,” said Connington. “I was inquiring after ye in yer camp, but couldn’t find ye at all.”

  “Here I am. Safe and well.” Alasdair opened his arms wide. He saw an odd reaction on Connington’s face—he was surprised to see him whole.

  “I may want to relieve ye of some of yer cattle.”

  “Buy some?” asked Alasdair. “Most of them are promised to cattle dealers at Crieff.”

  “The Campbell beasts are mine to dispose of,” said Connington.

  Shona said, “They’re not!” Brave woman. “My uncle gave permission to the MacDonalds to take them to market. His word stands.”

  Connington glared at her. Somehow that Lowlander would make her pay for her defiance. But not here. No one moved.

  The MacPharlan chief came to life. “Am I not a poor host!” And he called to his wife for drams and she brought a leather jug of whisky to them. The MacPharlan poured a generous amount into the cuach, his only possession of worth in sight. He lifted it with shaky hands and hesitated. He seemed undecided about who should drink first as the more honoured guest. He gave it to Alasdair, who accepted it and lifted it, his eyes looking right at Shona by the fire. He saluted her and drank.

  He turned to Connington and said, “I understand you’re to be married.”

  Connington ignored him.

  “To beauty and love.” Alasdair drank again before giving the cuach back to MacPharlan, who gulped a drowning amount before passing it to Connington, who also drank deeply, his eyes narrow above the cup. “Ye’r dead curious about ma business.”

  “Curiously alive,” said Alasdair.

  “A wise man tends tae his own business and stays safe.”

  “You are quite certain of your position in this glen.” There was no answer.

  MacPharlan’s hands shook as he took his next dram.

  “Looking for a safe haven from the difficulties in the south?” Alasdair cheerfully ignored Connington’s silence and said in Gàidhlig, “And Duncan here. What have you been up to?”

  “Nothing. A bit of cattle breeding here and there.” Duncan looked at his father and then Connington for answers, but none came.

  “Any of your men or boys need employment?” asked Alasdair.

  The MacPharlan shifted in his chair. “Not just now, thank you.”

  Not now. Connington must have hired them. Alasdair’s little excursion had paid off. He knew whom he couldn’t trust.

  Connington’s grip on the cuach tightened almost imperceptibly. He said no more.

  When they drained the cup dry in successive rounds, Connington made his farewells and indicated with a movement of his head that Shona should follow him out.

  Her eyes pleaded with Alasdair to come with them. Her hostess and her daughters had no smiles for Connington as they left. Alasdair thought they’d be happy to see the backs of guests who insulted each other without their understanding.

  Alasdair pulled aside one of the MacPharlan sons. He had no clear idea what business Connington had with the MacPharlan chief, but it was nothing good. “Listen, Ailean. Warn your father that Connington man means you harm. He will stop at nothing to get what he wants. He killed—”

  The young man took Alasdair’s hand off his arm. “My father must keep a large family alive and he knows best how to do that.”

  “You may regret your words.”

  Alasdair went to say farewell to his hostess and warn her.

  “A ghràidh, surely you are ima
gining things. You had a bad blow to the head, did you?”

  No one would listen. The MacPharlans may have billeted some of the soldiers who ruined the feast at the shore. But he doubted the clan had anything to do with Myles’s death. They didn’t think themselves in any danger. Perhaps they planned to reive MacDonald cattle? The MacDonalds would have to be doubly watchful.

  Connington was weaving a wide web which might catch too many people Alasdair cared about.

  Chapter 15

  “Time we were returning.” Connington seized Shona’s other arm and turned her round to the west, the direction of Castle Muirn. Her new prison. “Now ye behave or ye get hard treatment.”

  The rough handling must look like lovers’ play to the MacPharlans. The sun blinded her, but she started to walk as Connington held her arm behind her, regulating their pace to appear unhurried and happy. He released her as their horses were brought round.

  “I and my bride tae be offer thanks tae ye for yer hospitality.” He bowed deeply to the MacPharlans in the Lowland way. The MacPharlan folded over in response. No one circled him deiseil in the Gaelic manner.

  Shona resisted the desire to rub her sore arms and mounted up with the help of one of the MacPharlan sons. She galloped off. He didn’t overtake her, but worried her heels like a vicious dog.

  At Castle Muirn, Shona ran past the guardroom. A guard hung his head out the door, but she rushed for the spiral stair like a hare for its burrow, hoping the guards would stop the hunter. She ran up the steps into the hall. She could stay with the mourners or go up to her chamber. She couldn’t face them. She headed for the stair at the other side of the hall. She had to find Catriona. She couldn’t see well in the darkness, lit only by the fading light of a loop window round the next turn of the stair.

  Suddenly she could smell his damp clothes and rotten teeth. He caught her by the waist and swung her around. She thought she would fall and break her back on the stone stair, but he caught her easily and as she fell against him, he laughed harshly. He threw her against the outer wall, where her head cracked on the stones. She was so weak, she couldn’t stand.