Kilted at the Altar

by Anna Markland

  She glanced along the table at her father and uncle, both beaming with pride as Ian sat. Her brother looked happier than she’d ever seen him. She smiled at him and applauded when he glanced her way.

  “Let the dancing begin,” her father yelled.

  Darroch grasped her hand and pulled her to her feet as men and women whooped and cheered and fiddlers and pipers launched into a reel.

  *

  Darroch hadn’t danced for many a year, but had no trouble falling into the cadence of the steps as he and Isabel whirled through reel after jig, jig after strathspey, strathspey after reel. The music filled his soul and carried him back to the more joyous days of his youth—before he’d selfishly torn many lives apart.

  Seeing Kyla dance with Ian, with her grandfather, and even with Rory brought a contentment he’d once thought never to know again.

  When his daughter was ready to drop from exhaustion, it was his father who offered to see she was put to bed. He was confident she’d insist her grandsire tell her the tale of Cú Chulainn.

  Isabel was surprisingly light on her feet, though that shouldn’t come as a shock. His wife excelled at everything.

  They danced until her face was beet red and her hair totally undone from the elaborate arrangement Coira had fashioned.

  “Now are ye ready for bed?” he asked as he escorted her back to her seat.

  “Aye,” she panted with a glint in her eye. “Did I tell ye I like the wild Darroch I glimpsed this night?”

  That was all it took. Afraid he might babble something incoherent if he tried to speak, he scooped her up and carried her to their chamber.

  *

  After six days of feasting, drinking, singing, dancing, and fierce but friendly competition, the MacKeegans—looking more disheveled and cheerful than when they’d arrived—gathered in the courtyard for the return journey to Dun Scaith.

  It did Isabel’s heart good to see her father and Stewart MacKeegan embrace as friends.

  “There was nay stinting o’ the generous wine that would o’ercome the hardiest of heroes,” Stewart quipped. “Twenty times drunk we were each day, but we didna rebel against it.”

  His clansmen shouted their loud agreement as they mounted their horses.

  Isabel bade her father, uncle and brother a tearful goodbye before joining Darroch who waited with Storm.

  “I ken ye’d like to stay longer,” he began.

  She touched her fingertips to his lips. “This has been a wonderful visit, but I realized as the days went on that I dinna think o’ Dungavin as my home anymore.”

  He took hold of her wrist and kissed her fingers. “Do ye mean it, Isabel?”

  The happiness in his eyes touched her heart. “Aye,” she replied truthfully.

  Epilogue

  Dun Scaith, Ten months later

  Emerging from a deep sleep, Darroch stretched and covered his eyes with his forearm. The sun was already up. He’d slept late again.

  “Awake at last, lazybones,” Isabel whispered.

  Her sultry voice was enough to turn the pleasant morning erection to granite. He turned onto his side to cuddle into her and opened one eye. As usual, two-month-old Stewart Rory MacKeegan lay on his mother’s chest, snoring softly. “How much longer?” he asked, feeling selfish the moment the words were out of his mouth. He’d posed the same needy question every day since his son’s birth.

  Isabel didn’t help matters by rubbing his leg with her foot. “Coira says a fortnight, Fanny a month.”

  Darroch groaned. “The auld woman just wants to see me suffer,” he complained.

  “’Tis hard for me too,” she replied. “I miss ye.”

  He twirled a finger in his son’s black curls. “I didna hear ye get up to feed him.”

  She chuckled. “’Tis no wonder—ye’re tired out every night. Yer father has no time for his duties now that he’s preoccupied teaching Kyla to ride, avoiding Fanny, and showing Stewart off to everyone.”

  He turned onto his back and stared into the rafters. “I ne’er thought to see the day he would entrust me with leadership o’ the clan.”

  “But ye’re enjoying it,” she teased.

  He mumbled his agreement, incapable of adequately expressing how much he relished the days spent learning to be chief, carrying out his father’s directives and introducing some improvements of his own to the castle. “The council and clanfolk seem to welcome my ideas,” he remarked.

  “After years of yer stern sire, who can be surprised?” she quipped. “They recognize the future looks brighter with ye at the helm.”

  He turned onto his side and patted his son’s bottom; his heart filled with optimism as the aroma of motherhood stole up his nostrils. “And this wee laddie will follow me.”

  The babe startled when Kyla burst into the chamber, followed by Blue.

  The hound slumped down at the foot of the bed with a groan.

  Darroch sat up, ready for his daughter to launch herself onto his lap. “Have I nay asked ye to knock?” he reminded her for the umpteenth time.

  “Sorry, Dadaidh,” she replied halfheartedly.

  “’Tis clear we’ll have to install a bar on the door,” he told Isabel with a wink. “Within a fortnight.”

  Kyla crawled into the space between him and his wife and stroked the babe’s head, cooing endearments and promising to tell him the tale of Cú Chulainn when he was old enough.

  Darroch let his eyes wander around the chamber he’d slept in since childhood. He’d never felt a sense of belonging there, until now. His wife had added furnishings, tapestries and rugs, and tactfully suggested some of the weapons and hunting trophies be moved to the hall. It was a much less masculine chamber, but he loved it nonetheless. If he could, he’d happily spend all day lying abed with his beloved and his bairns.

  The moment the thought occurred, he recognized it wasn’t strictly true. He itched to get busy improving the lives of his clan and building a mutually beneficial alliance with the MacRains. It was his destiny.

  *

  Isabel lingered abed after Margaret took Kyla off to get bathed and dressed, which her pouting daughter only agreed to if Boo came with them. “’Tis the same ritual every day,” she told Darroch.

  “I doot she’ll ever change,” he agreed, getting out of bed. “Stubborn.”

  “I wonder where she gets that from?”

  She watched her naked husband shrug as he walked across to the garderobe, a sight she never tired of.

  Stewart woke and fussed, so she sat up and let him suckle, which is what she was doing when Darroch emerged from the garderobe, rubbing red curls dry with a linen. He covered his maleness with the cloth as soon as he saw her and the babe. “Ye’re determined to make this more difficult for me,” he complained.

  “Aye,” she teased, though his obvious excitement had her wishing the next fortnight would pass quickly.

  He dressed with his back to her—as if she didn’t enjoy the play of the muscles of his broad back and the tempting sight as he leaned over to pull on his knee stockings.

  His kiss of farewell was chaste, as it had been since the babe’s birth. She looked forward to the return of the kisses that lit a fire in her womb, and other unmentionable parts of her body.

  She missed him intensely as soon as he left the chamber, but was resigned to her destiny. “We’ll always be obliged to share yer dadaidh with the clan,” she whispered to her babe. “They need him.”

  She chuckled when she realized Stewart had fallen back to sleep. Motherhood wasn’t what she’d expected, but then she didn’t really know what she’d expected. And who could have predicted her first child would turn out to be a seven-year-old lass?

  Despite the challenges, bearing a bairn had changed her in more ways than one. She had brought a new life into the world, a son she would nurture and protect to the best of her ability. Perhaps, God willing, the first of many healthy bairns.

  “Let’s ye and me enjoy these last few minutes of peace and quiet,” she
whispered, “before Coira and Ava come to help us dress.”

  Establishing herself as the Lady of Clan MacKeegan hadn’t been easy, and many older folk still resented her as a MacRain, though Stewart’s birth and her father-by-marriage’s support had changed attitudes.

  Nevertheless, she lived each day in the certainty that she was where she was meant to be, living the life she’d been destined to live, with the capable and loving man made just for her.

  She laughed out loud as she stroked her babe’s soft curls. “One day, I’ll tell ye the tale of how yer father jilted me,” she promised, “and he’ll insist ’twas me jilted him.”

  Historical Footnotes

  I based this Clash of the Tartans on the feud between the MacDonalds of Sleat and the MacLeods of Dunvegan and Harris. As mentioned in the story, many clan feuds were the result of royal grants of land to loyal supporters. The gift of MacDonald lands on the Trotternish Peninsula to the MacLeods reignited an ancient feud. The title Jilted at the Altar was originally inspired by a failed hand-fasting arrangement arrived at as a means to end the feud. Darroch and Isabel’s tale ends happily; the true story precipitated the War of the One-Eyed Woman during which Chief Rory MacLeod devastated the Trotternish Peninsula and the MacDonalds retaliated by attacking Harris. The war ended with a victory for the MacDonalds at the Battle of Coire Na Creiche, reportedly the last great clan battle fought on Scottish soil. Peace was finally celebrated with six days of feasting and drinking.

  DUNGAVIN is modeled on Dunvegan Castle, the magnificent MacLeod stronghold on Skye, which is still occupied by the MacLeod family today.

  The ruined bridge that connected DUN SCAITH’s rock to the mainland can still be seen on Skye’s Sleat Peninsula, though most of the castle is long gone.

  TUR CHLIAMAINN The church at Rodel (Roghadal) in Harris is dedicated to St Clement and is the second largest medieval church in the Hebrides. It was built in the 1520s by Alasdair (Crotach) MacLeod of Dunvegan, whose grandiose tomb occupies the southwest wall of the choir. The tomb is considered one of the finest medieval wall tombs in the world. It dominates the east end of the church and there are several other interesting gravestones in the north transept. Crotach is Gaelic for hunchback and it’s believed Alasdair’s shoulder was once broken by a blow from a weapon.

  BIRLINN There is an engraving of one of these galley-style boats on the walled tomb of Alasdair Crotach. Developed from the Viking longship, the craft was the basis of all power in the Hebrides for centuries. These open boats had sails and oars for propulsion and were very well suited to the waters of the area whether for military, piracy, trade or fishing uses.

  SLINGS, also known as shepherd’s slings were used as long ago as Neolithic times, and possibly even before that. It was a common weapon all over the world.

  BLACKHOUSES are an example of a long tradition of house building which goes back to Viking times or earlier where people and domestic animals shared the same buildings. Blackhouses are so named because they had no chimneys, the smoke escaping through the thatched roof. Such houses were usually built from stone and turf on a stone foundation and were lined with wood. Many ruins of these dwellings may be seen all over the Western Isles. The roofs were formed from driftwood or whalebone which rested on the inner wall. The roof was then covered with slatted planks. A layer of heather turf was put in place and finally the roof was thatched with straw or grass, and tied down with heather ropes weighted with stones. There was a living room/kitchen and a sleeping room with box-beds. A cooking pot or kettle was suspended over an open peat fire in the middle of the floor. The peat reek (smoke) acted as a disinfectant and deodorant, and the sooty thatch made good manure.

  BOX-BED If you search Google Images for Croft Box Bed you’ll see numerous examples of what I had in mind.

  HEBRIDES www.charles-tait.co.uk/guide/wisouv/2011pdf/04_historyculture_2012.pdf is a good source of information about the history and culture of the Hebrides, including articles on the famous Harris Tweed, the Gaelic language and crofting.

  BLUE After introducing a grey deerhound named Ruaidh (Red) in Kilty Secrets, I decided Isabel should also have a colorful dog. Danmhairgis is, of course, a Great Dane. Google Images has lots of pictures of the blue version of the breed.

  ASSASSINATION OF KING JAMES My novel, Pride of the Clan, tells of the Robertson Clan’s pursuit and capture of the men responsible for the murder of King James I in 1437.

  YWST Known today as North and South Uist, two of the islands that make up the Western Isles of the Outer Hebrides. They are separated by Benbecula, though a causeway now links the three islands. The Little Minch is the channel of the Sea of the Hebrides between the Western Isles and North Skye.

  WEAVING YouTube has several good video clips showing the operation of older style looms. (This story predates the invention of the Flying Shuttle). You’ll get an idea of the rhythmic clickety-clack an experienced weaver is capable of generating by skillful manipulation of the foot pedals.

  MACRAIN’S TABLES Legend has it that the chief of Clan MacLeod attended a banquet in Edinburgh as a guest of King James. He boasted he had a much grander table and later invited the king to the flat-topped hills on Skye and showed him “MacLeod’s Tables”.

  MACRAIN’S CONTROVERSY The title of the piece played at the beginning of the six-day celebration was MacLeod’s Controversy. It was composed and played by the clan’s hereditary piper, Donald MacCrimmon. More on this famous family of pipers can be found at en.wikipedia.org/wiki/MacCrimmon_(piping_family)

  MOUTH-SONGS are traditional pieces of music whose words are unimportant and often make no sense. It’s thought they were originally used for dancing on occasions when no musical instruments were available.

  TWENTY TIMES DRUNK These actual words were attributed to the MacDonald bard, Neil MacVurich, after the six days of feasting to celebrate the end of the feud.

  About Anna

  Thank you for reading Kilted At The Altar. If you’d like to leave a review where you purchased the book, and/or on Goodreads, I would appreciate it. Reviews contribute greatly to an author’s success.

  I’d love you to visit my website and my Facebook page, Anna Markland Novels.

  Tweet me @annamarkland, join me on Pinterest, or sign up for my newsletter. Follow me on Bookbub and be the first to know when I release a new book.

  I was born and brought up in England, but I’ve lived most of my life in Canada. I was an elementary school teacher for 25 years, a job I loved.

  After that I worked with my husband in the management of his businesses. He’s a born entrepreneur who likes to boast he’s never had a job!

  My final “career” was as Director of Administration of a global disaster relief organization.

  I then embarked on writing a romance, something I’d always wanted to do. I chose the medieval period because it’s my favorite to read.

  I have a keen interest in genealogy. This hobby has had a tremendous influence on my stories. My medieval romances are tales of family honor, ancestry, and roots. As an amateur genealogist, I cherished a dream of tracing my own English roots back to the Norman Conquest—most likely impossible since I am not descended from nobility! So I made up a family and my Montbryce stories follow its members through successive generations.

  I am a firm believer in love at first sight. My heroes and heroines may initially deny the attraction between them, but eventually the alchemy wins out. I want readers to feel happy that the heroes and heroines have found their soul mates and that the power of love has overcome every obstacle. For me, novels are an experience of another world and time. I lose myself in the characters’ lives, always knowing they will triumph in the end and find love. One of the things I enjoy most about writing historical romance is the in-depth research necessary to provide readers with an authentic medieval experience. I love ferreting out bits of historical trivia I never knew! I based the plot of my first novel, Conquering Passion, on a bizarre incident that actually happened to a Norman noblewoman.


  I hope you come to know and love my cast of characters as much as I do.