The Banshee of Castle Muirn

by Sheila Currie

  Catriona put her hand to Shona’s forehead and studied her face. “You feel hot.”

  “Hot but well.”

  “She’ll look like death’s handmaiden when the strangers come,” said Morag. “I’ll concoct a sick smell.”

  When the mixture was made, Shona drank that as well.

  They heard Connington and his men coming through the baile.

  Morag peeked out her door. “He’s opening the door of every house and looking in. Not very polite in his manner either. My neighbours are pointing in this direction.” Morag closed the door and went to the central fire to stir the cauldron. “No time for any other charms.”

  If the stench-charm sickened Shona, it’d convince the Lowlander for sure.

  Shona lay back and pulled blankets around her. Connington opened the door with such strength that he tore off one of its old leather hinges. He stuck his big nose into the house and pulled back, assaulted by the foul odour. He took a deep breath and entered, hunched over to avoid the drying herbs and strips of beef that hung above. At the fire he stood up and glanced around. On the other side of the fire Shona hunched up on her side on a pallet, closed her eyes, and moaned.

  “Is not good,” said Morag in Inglishe.

  “I can see that. I’m not blind.” Connington went over to Shona and pulled her onto her back. She moaned again and then started to cough. He jumped back quickly. “Ye make sure she gets well, ye auld besom.”

  Connington didn’t dawdle. From her place by the fire, Shona could hear him talking to one of his men outside, and then their footsteps faded away.

  “Smell works wonders—in love and war,” said Morag.

  Shona lay awake for hours. Soon she’d leave her home. A few short months ago, she thought she’d have another year here in Gleann Muirn and then she’d marry the son of a gentleman in the next glen or across the loch. But now the home of her childhood was a cold heap of stones, with strangers living where crowds of people had once sung and told stories. At last she fell asleep.

  In the half darkness of early dawn, Morag placed her finger on Shona’s lips and woke her. “Hush!” She rose quickly and washed herself in a bowl of hot water. “Get your things together while I look about outside.” Morag took a water pail and went out. She replaced the torn door upright at the threshold to hide Shona while she changed into the boy’s clothing. In minutes Morag returned. “Looks like he’s left only one man. He must truly believe you’re ill with something dreadful.”

  “Clever Morag!” Shona put on her léine, drawers and short trews.

  “One more thing. You must cut your hair.” Morag picked up a fine strand of it. “You’ll never pass for a boy with hair to your waist.”

  In her other hand she held the shears.

  Suddenly Shona realised the enormity of what she was doing. She had no breath as though someone had sat on her chest and poured terrible images into her mind: the race, the drowning, Alasdair bloodied and Connington’s sneering face above it all.

  Morag sat her down gently as though she were a nervous horse. She slowly cut off a strand and waited. Then she cut more until Shona’s hair reached her shoulders and little more. She was a boy to all the world.

  “Move yourself! The fingers of dawn spread quickly.”

  With Morag’s help Shona wrapped her fèileadh around her body and put a large belt around her middle and a bone pin to hold the top on her left shoulder. Then the old woman placed a large wool bonnet on her head. “That’ll keep the rain off you.”

  Shona placed her coins in her sporan, and packed her clothing, food, and herbs in a large leather pouch. Morag stirred the cauldron and loudly sang a ditty that insulted their guard’s ancestry. “Your singing should keep him away from the door.”

  Morag pretended to frown, then sang to the finish.

  Shona picked up her pouch and went to the old woman and hugged her. She could feel the tears on Morag’s cheeks. She hummed and pointed to the roof where the thatch was loose; in case of fire, the inhabitants could escape out the door or out the lower edge of the roof. Morag had a great respect for fire and had long ago told Shona what was to be done in an emergency.

  “You’ll say good-bye to my friends for me?”

  "You know that I can't."

  "I know."

  Shona removed the thatch, then picked up her pouch and crawled out over the wall into the darkness. Connington’s guard was silhouetted in the growing light of the eastern sky. She straightened her back and walked westward to the camp of the MacDonalds.

  Shona hadn’t ever visited the MacDonald camp, although they had been in the district for two weeks. She walked past the cattle and a herd boy called to her. He wore a léine and thin fèileadh of a few yards of cloth.

  “What do you want?” He stood between her and the cattle, a wooden staff across his body to fend off wolves and Campbells. He might be fourteen years old.

  “I have no weapons but this knife,” she said. “I mean you no harm.”

  “You should carry them.” He looked her up and down. Not very polite. Not very friendly.

  Shona prevented herself from smiling. She was sure that he thought her another boy.

  “Cò leis sibh? Who are you with?” asked a smaller boy as he approached. “I’m Finlay. Finlay Beag because I’m so small. Just you wait, I’ll grow bigger than any of the rest.”

  She almost smiled. “I am a Campbell,” she said. “I have urgent business with Alasdair Dubh.”

  “Listen to him! As if he were a person of some importance,” said the first boy.

  “Look at him, Uisdean. He has shoes and a bonnet,” said the small one, who likely had no such things even when the snow hag threw her cloak on the land. “And lots of yardage in his fèileadh.”

  “You are wearing trews. Only the drovers can afford to pay a tailor for the tight trousers.”

  Obviously she had impressed them, she lifted her head proudly. “Take me to him now. You’ll regret it if you don’t.”

  The two herd boys studied her and then the little one said, “I’ll take him to the tents.”

  The older herd boy remained on guard while Shona and her escort walked around the cattle fold.

  “What’s your business?” He sounded curious and friendly. “What have you in your bag?”

  “A second plaid and shirt. A few other things for the journey.”

  “You have wealth indeed,” he said. “You’re coming with us?”

  “That’s for Alasdair Dubh to know.” That silenced the boy. Shona felt she was a little hard on him. But she couldn’t say she was a girl who wanted to go with a large number of cattle and a dozen men and boys, enemies of her clan, on a long journey to Edinburgh.

  The tents were only three wool plaids strung between trees to keep heavy rain off the drovers and herd boys as they slept. Two men extinguished the small fire at the edge of each tent. Other men spoke quietly as each put on his fèileadh and packed his gear. The breaking dawn revealed more herd boys who folded the tenting.

  Shona couldn’t see Alasdair, but she saw Ruari and walked right up to him. “If you please, can you tell me where I may find Alasdair Dubh?” she said in her strongest voice. She was certain she chirped like a titmouse.

  “Who are—” The man stopped talking and looked hard at her. “It’s you! Yours is a bad business, young—” He looked around and indicated that she should follow him to the last tent next to the cattle herd.

  “Alasdair told some of you?” asked Shona.

  “Only me. Don’t want the young lads to be spooked. We want them looking carefree as they leave.”

  “Very wise,” she said.

  “Not wise for us to take you away.” Ruari seemed less friendly than he had been in earlier days.

  “Fortunately for me, Alasdair disagrees with you.”

  Two young boys came up to Ruari. “Away with you. I’ll talk to you later.” The old man glared at them and they scuttled away.

  “He told me something of what that Conni
ngton man did. Saw his like in the Wars of Flanders. Come.” Ruari shook his mane of white hair, but he led her to Alasdair, who slept despite the bustle around him.

  “We’re packing up as quietly as we can. Then we’ll wake him.”

  “He’s had a potion?”

  “Indeed. We could all sing in chorus and not rouse him.”

  “Shall I stay with him?”

  “You shall not. You’re a herd boy now and you’ll be expected to work with the others.” He beckoned to a tall, thin young man. “That’s Gillesbic, our oldest herd boy. He could be a drover at his age, but he has neither horse nor cattle to invest in the enterprise. So a herd boy he remains.” The old man called to the younger, “Gillesbic, a new herd boy for you to train up in the knowledge of the cattle trade.”

  “Where would you find a new herd boy?” Gillesbic looked closely at her. “He’s a Campbell! He looks like them! Why are we—”

  “Not quite sure. The—lad—has lost a parent. He has family in the Lowlands who’ll take him.”

  “I know how that goes. But a Campbell?”

  “Alasdair has promised he will protect him.”

  “Not my obligation.”

  “It’s Alasdair’s obligation, it’s our duty,” said Ruari. “We’ll get him where he’s going and there’s an end to it.”

  “And will he work?”

  Nasty voice. The journey looked impossibly long. “Of course.”

  “Come, you little rogue.” Gillesbic walked toward the cattle without checking whether Shona followed.

  Shona consoled herself with the thought that the drove would be better than staying home and basking in Connington’s attentions. Had to be. And Alasdair would tell Gillesbic to treat her with respect.

  The oldest herd boy showed her how to take down the ropes and temporary heather enclosure that kept the herd together. “The fences don’t do much. The dogs make them mind.”

  Shona set about her task and watched everything and everyone to learn what she could. When everything was packed but Alasdair’s tent, Ruari and two drovers woke him up. He rose to his feet slowly. Ruari helped him dress and when he left the tent he looked around for her. He spoke briefly to a young herd boy, who came to her.

  “You’re to see Alasdair. Now!” And off he went to attend to his own tasks. Shona walked slowly over to Alasdair while his possessions were packed onto a pony. A shaggy grey dog sat up as she approached. Alasdair looked weary and her heart softened in her chest.

  “So you’ve come,” he said. His voice was grave. The shaggy hound plopped down beside him.

  “And Ruari put me to work.”

  “Rightly so. You’ll stay hidden longer if you work and convince anyone looking on that you are indeed a herd boy.” His voice banished her misgivings. “No one knows but Ruari, but they may find out eventually. When you don’t act like a man—or boy—should. We’ll face that when we come to it. But no one here will betray you.”

  “My name is Seathan,” said Shona.

  “Seathan it is then. Listen carefully.” He dropped his head close to hers. “Drovers such as myself go on horseback, and you, a herd boy, go on foot. We don’t carry any gear for you. One pack pony carries a cauldron, some rope, a few extra plaids and the tents; the other two carry hides and hawks for trade. It’s unchancy to make this drove so close to Samhainn and the dark season, but we need the money and the Lowlanders want the beef. If a stranger comes near, stand with the herd boys. They’ll protect you.”

  “I understand.”

  “Still want to go with us? You could take a galley to Glasgow and go overland. I’ll take you to whomever you wish.”

  Her heart sank to her heels. “I need to go to my father in Edinburgh. I don’t know who else to trust.”

  “I’m pleased you want to come. You can trust me. I swear as long as wind blows and water runs, I’ll protect you with my life. All right—what have you got in that big bag? You weren’t supposed to bring half the castle!” He pulled her possessions out of her pouch onto a plaid and laughed. “What’s all this?”

  “Two plaids, spare shirts and trews. Two day gowns for Edinburgh, stockings, shoes.”

  “You don’t need all that. One extra fèileadh and one léine. What are these?”

  “Trencher, bowl and cup, spoon and knife. And a few pieces of silver plate.”

  “Iosa is Muire Mhàthair, Jesus and Mary Mother! Carry that much with you and people will think you’re a chapman. The horn cup and spoon you can take.” He rummaged in the heap of her goods. “The coins as well.” He pulled out a small bundle of linen. “What’s this?”

  “Herbs. They might be useful if someone is sick or hurt.” She tried to match his tone, but could hear a little quiver of fear in her voice.

  If he heard, he gave no sign. “All right. They take up little room.”

  “I’ve some waxed cloth to keep them dry as well as your oatmeal and peas.” Was this the same man who had laughed with her? Was this the same man who had been so ill in her care a short time ago? Perhaps this was difficult for him. He was trying to think of her as a herd boy, not as a woman.

  “Here, you’ll need a good knife.” He gave her a sheathed knife about eight inches long. “Tie it to your belt like this.” He showed her his own dirk.

  “I have a horn knife inset with obsidian.” She searched her goods and found it.

  “This one is better.”

  “I can’t wear it.”

  “Why?”

  “Morag says I can’t. It’s a geas—forbidden to me.” Was that a dart of fear shooting through his eyes?

  He picked up a bundle of cloth knotted at the top. “What’s this?”

  “My gown and skirt and jewels—the best I have. My uncle brought it from Edinburgh. I must look like a gentlewoman when I arrive.”

  “Show me.” She undid the knot and opened the four corners of the bundle and the silk gown spilled out like water. His eyes widened at the sight of it. She held it up to her body. He closed his eyes and opened them. “You’ll carry this yourself. I’ll give you some waterproof cloth to wrap it in.” He placed the bag over her shoulder. His touch was as gentle and soft as down feathers. “Now that bag won’t will make you stand out. You can only take a very few things.”

  She settled it on her hip.

  “Now it lies flat on you. And you can cover it when you bring the féileadh over your head and shoulders.” He bundled up what he considered unnecessary. “I’ll send these back to Morag.”

  Occasionally his hound looked at him. When she spoke strongly, the dog stopped wagging its tail, jumped to its feet and faced her, ready to spring on command.

  Alasdair said, “That’s Luath. The dogs save us a lot of work.”

  She recoiled from the dog. There had been few dogs in the castle since her brothers died and her father had gone to Edinburgh.

  “Be firm in your voice with him and when you stroke him. He knows that I like you and he likes whomever I like. And I do like you, a ghràidh. And I would like to kiss you. But with all the coming and going, it’s not wise.”

  She stroked the dog firmly and patted his sides. “Aren’t you pretty!”

  “How I wish I were that dog.”

  Alasdair went to get his pony, which was held by a herd boy out of earshot. Alasdair chatted to the boy and gave him her things. He didn’t even look her way, but trotted back to the village with her bundle. By the time Alasdair was back, Shona and the dog were comfortable with each other. The dog rubbed up against her legs with complete acceptance.

  “He’ll howl unless he’s with someone he likes.”

  “We managed.”

  When the dog started to follow his master, Alasdair turned and told him to stay and he did—right beside her. “He accepts you. He’ll guard you with his life. You’re one of us now.”

  “Do you want to introduce Gillesbic to me in the same manner?”

  “What—”

  “Not so friendly,” she said.

  “He’l
l thaw,” said Alasdair. “So will they all.”

  She looked into his eyes and she saw the truth in them. “I know.”

  “It’ll be different on the road. We’ll make time to be together. Be strong.” He gripped her arm. “Cut yourself a switch for encouraging the stray cattle to return to the herd. Ruari will show you what position to take at the back of the herd with the other boys.”

  She was ready. She’d be strong. Stronger than he expected. She’d face whatever was in front of her. Alasdair went out and she followed. They would travel together and warn her father in Edinburgh. All would be well. She’d be safe with him. She’d always be safe with him.

  After stuffing her second fèileadh into a leather bag attached to his saddle, he put on his blue bonnet and mounted the broad back of his pony. He made a signal with his hand and the drovers and herd boys shouted at the cattle. Suddenly the campsite filled with noise. The dogs barked and the cattle bellowed; the hawks screeched and the horses snorted—and the whole mass moved forward down the road eastward.

  Chapter 17

  On the day the MacDonalds left, Rutherford smelled the herd before he saw it. The air was rank with animal odours mixed with the scent of earth in a land not raided or burnt. The shouts of men and barking dogs made him deaf to the birdsong he usually heard in the morning. He went to the wall of the castle and studied the spectacle. Connington and a half dozen of their men joined him.

  Two drovers led the herd on the road out in front, looking for the best route—they signalled the other drovers by hand movements. Behind them plodded the herd, strung out in a long, winding line. Although most of the cattle were calm, a few in the rear wandered off, but barefoot boys ran to retrieve them. The strays were probably local cattle trying to return home. The village people stood in groups at the edge of the village as the cattle shambled by.