MacKinnons' Hope: A Highland Christmas Carol (4 page)

Iain couldn’t resist a bit of ribbing. “What the bloody hell lies north o’ ye?”

Aidan’s smile tightened. “Only Moray, but ’tis precisely the way I like it.”

Iain laughed, clapping Aidan fully on the back. “Welcome, friend,” he said. “Welcome. No matter how many years go by, I am no less pleased to see you.”

Both men sobered over that, for far too many years had passed, and both were now sporting a bit more silver in their manes—Iain a bit more than most.

“I would have brought you more,” Aidan said by way of apology, speaking of his men and the supplies they’d brought, “but the rest were needed in the vale.”

Dark times lay ahead, but it needn’t be said. In fact, the less it were spoken, the more one could hope to be spared.

There were whispers of war in the air. By all accounts David of Scotia was taking stock of his armies and his allies. Henry of England was in Normandy, fighting to secure his holdings, and ’twas said his daughter’s rebellions were taking a toll on his health.

“We are eternally grateful for all ye ha’e provided,” Iain said. “Tis a generous offering, no less.”

“And how is your wife?”

“Page is verra well. And Lìli?”

Aidan smiled. “We’ve a brand new bairn. ’Tis why she did not come.”

The keep was bustling with folk dashing about. The men were assembling tables in the hall and the women scrambled to find victuals enough to feed so many hungry mouths. Knowing Page as well as he did, Iain did not add feeding the masses to his list of concerns. His wife could make a fine soup from a pile of stones.

At the rear end of the hall, they climbed the stairs, with Iain leading the way. The sound of their footfalls echoed behind them.

“I hear tell Henry has called his liegemen to France.”

Aidan let the announcement hang in the air, leaving Iain to mull over all the possible reasons why—as though he did not already have enough to worry over. And yet, he realized Aidan would not have mentioned it unless the news somehow affected them.

“Do you know why?” Iain asked, peering curiously back at Aidan.

Aidan shook his head, though he arched a brow. “Jaime Steorling has gone to Edinburgh to meet with David. He took my brother and Cameron with him. I believe that he means to offer them a position with his newly formed guard.”
He
, meaning King David, Iain surmised. “As for Henry, your guess is as good as mine.”

Displeased with the news, Iain clenched his jaw. “I suppose this means we’ll not have the pleasure of my nephew’s company any day soon.”

Cameron had left them years ago to serve Broc Ceannfhionn, returning only once in ten years time. In his absence, his sister Constance had grown into a woman—somewhat of a wildling at that. At fourteen, Iain dreaded the day she would come to him with a bairn in her belly and no husband to provide for her. Thank God, thus far, she’d kept her knees shut.

“Only time will tell,” Aidan allowed. “But something is amiss. Henry’s barons were also summoned unexpectedly and David’s council may or may not be connected to that. I hear tell he’s had a time with the Kingdom of Moray as well.

The Kingdom of Moray was the last resort of the Gaels. Back in the day, like many of the tribal kings, the chieftains of Moray all styled themselves
Ri
, meaning king—somewhat of a problem for men like David, who hoped to unite all the clans as one.

The very last to style himself
Ri
had been King Macbeth, and Macbeth’s successor Óengus only styled himself
mormaer
, which meant great steward. But five years ago, David brought down the Mormaerdom, giving the Kingdom of Moray to a number of Henry’s Flemish counts, and stripping the sons of Óengus of their birthrights.

Some claimed that, with Henry pre-occupied in France, the sons of Óengus planned to restore the Mormaerdom.

Aidan said, “If there is something more at stake—if Henry has changed his alliances with the Flemish counts, then I cannot speculate what it means for Moray or for Scotia.”

“So then, perhaps David means to send this new guard to fortify de Moray?” De Moray, meaning Henry’s Flemish counts, who could not directly claim the Moray bloodline, and so they’d styled themselves
de
Moray instead—
of
Moray, but not Moray.

“That would be my guess.”

In much the same way Aidan dún Scoti represented the last of the blood of the Pechts, the sons of Óengus were the last of the Mormaerdom. Their tribes were a threat to David—no matter what David of Scotia claimed, and Iain knew Aidan could not be pleased that his brother would embroil himself in such a mess. Despite that David might have something to gain by an alliance with Aidan’s tribe, it was bound to be bad news for Keane. It was tantamount to sending a wolf into a lion’s den, quite literally, for the sons of Óengus would only see him as a contender as well as an enemy from David’s camp, and the de Moray counts would no doubt view him as a wild card, despite the fact that Aidan’s dún Scoti tribe had never claimed any kingship.

Add to this the skirmishes in Normandy, where Henry’s daughter had openly supported the rebels, and there was little good to come of it all.

“What of your brother?” Iain asked.

Aidan fell silent as they climbed the tower stairs. “None of it pleases me,” he confessed. “But so long as he keeps it out of my vale, I will not intervene. Keane is a mon with his own mind.”

It was for this reason Iain kept out of politiks entirely. It gave him a bellyache. Thank God his own bloodline was much removed from his MacAlpin roots. He could no longer be seen as a threat to David’s reign—at least not directly.

“Well, I thank you for the news,” Iain said. “Likewise, I shall leave Cameron to his own devices. But as for you and your men, you will sleep beneath my roof tonight, even if we must all pile in three deep.”

Aidan grinned, his teeth a blinding white. “Better three men deep than all alone on nights like these, eh? Never fear, if I can sleep on rocks, keeping watch o’er my sheep, I can sleep anywhere, auld friend.”

Iain chuckled. “I have spent a few of those nights myself. Damned sheep complain all night long, not unlike cauld men.”

Aidan’s laughter escaped like a bark. “Aye, though ye’ll ne’er hear my men complain for whatever they can get. We are not come to bring you more grief.”

Iain clapped Aidan on the back again. “Ye canna know how much that means to us. Come now,” he said. “Let me show ye where to settle your things.”

He led the dún Scoti chieftain into the solar, where there were already more than a few pallets laid upon the floor. “This is where you can bunk your men.”

And then he took Aidan to a tower room—the one he’d used for himself years ago. For a time, after the death of his first wife, he’d kept the chamber locked and the windows boarded up, but those burdensome memories were long gone. Mairi’s ghost lingered here no more—in fact, Iain did not believe in ghosts.

“This is a greater kindness than I would have hoped for,” Aidan said, upon inspecting the scarcely furnished room, and it struck Iain, not for the first time, that the dún Scoti chief was as humble a man as he’d ever known.

“If you would but send a messenger to the Brodies,” Aidan continued, but he barely got the words out of his mouth when Catrìona Brodie appeared in the doorway. Iain realized he was about to ask for a messenger to his sister, but Catrìona had been here now for days, helping alongside the Brodie men.

“Aidan!”

Aidan spun about, the smile on his face all the more genuine at the sound of his sister’s voice. His arms flew wide, beckoning her into an embrace and the lass fairly flew across the room, leaping like a wee girl into her brother’s arms.

Behind her came Iain’s daughter Liana. At ten years old, she was the very image of her mother. “Papa!” she said, excitedly. “More wagons have come! Mama says to tell you that they bear Dunloppe’s standard!”

A smile to match the dún Scoti’s erupted on the MacKinnon’s lips, for this now was his oldest and dearest friend, Broc Ceannfhionn.

I
t was
the eve before the winter solstice, the time of the longest night and the shortest day, when the days descended into darkness and the nights grew cold and long.

Tonight’s bonfire, like the night before, was a tribute to Cailleach Bhuer, the blue-faced mother of winter, who was reborn every All Hallow’s Eve to herald in the winter snows. ’Twas said she was the one who froze the ground with every tap of her ash-wood staff, but she was also the one who guarded the realms of men, protecting them from the winter winds. They honored her in hopes that she would continue to stave away the winter snows until the reconstruction was complete. The huts now had foundations, but they still had a ways to go.

Iain inspected the pit, making certain it was constructed to his specifications. It was a very good pit, he decided, rimmed by hefty boulders. The surrounding grass was already mostly charred. Even so, all debris within a stone’s throw had been removed, so as to lessen any further risk of fire. In spite of recent events, his kinsmen would take comfort in the night’s fire, for even in the darkest heart of winter, it was a keen reminder that, from the darkest womb of night, the light again would be reborn.

Even with a rising chill in the air, and a shortage of cloaks and blankets, there were hugs aplenty, followed by smiles and laughter. It was a heartfelt reunion, despite that the cause for the gathering was hardly a cause for celebration.

With so many folks already in attendance, Iain had considered sending word to the MacLeans and the Montgomeries, asking them to join, but it was hardly appropriate to invite a man to sup and then ask him to bring his own victuals. Fortunately, however, the sentiment was moot, because Gavin Mac Brodie slipped away to raid his pantry—yet again—and to retrieve his brothers.

Until this evening the two absent Brodies had been otherwise occupied, Leith with the labor and birth of his sixth bairn—aye sixth—and Colin with the mending of their storehouse roof. After a previous raid, Colin had discovered a leak in the ceiling that managed to soak and rot a few too many bags of grain. Once the job was complete, he’d sent his wife to rally his sister’s clan and together the Brodies and Montgomeries arrived with a number of arses overladen with supplies.

For clansmen who’d once lived amidst bitter feuding, the neighbors’ unflagging generosity brought a bit of moisture to his eyes. As it was, his voice was thick with emotion as he greeted all his guests with eager claps on the back and fierce embraces. Once hellos were said, they put a hog in the pit and set a table replete with foodstuffs that would put a king’s feast to shame. Then whilst they waited for the hog to cook, the members of all four clans congregated before a raging bonfire.

Iain watched his guests with a genuine affection in his heart. The last time they’d had so many people all together in one place, they were gathered together to raise Dunloppe from the ground—a gift to Broc Ceannfhionn from David of Scotia, in return for his fealty.

Auld Angus, with one black eye delivered by Catrìona’s knee, played his reed—a doleful sound. But the children scurried to and fro, laughter quick to touch their lips.

The sound of a few lone hammers rang in the distance, the tinny sound a strange accompaniment to Angus’ song.

For the fourth or perhaps fifth time—who was counting?—Iain embraced his friend. “Ye canna fathom how pleased I am to see you.”

Broc hugged him back, unashamed to linger in the embrace. “Och, mon, di’ ye believe we would leave ye to fend for yourselves? Nay, my friend, whatever is mine is yours to have,” he said.

Iain feared his eyes would remain hopelessly moist. He swallowed hard as he extracted himself from the massive hug with which Broc had nearly crippled him.

“God’s teeth, ’tis a wonder ye’ve anything left to give with so many bairns to feed,” Iain joked. “Ye’ve been a busy mon since ye left!”

Broc crossed his burly arms and gave him a wink. “Ye must be envious?” he suggested.

“Nay, but ye’re a randy bastard, to be sure.”

Broc chuckled, his gaze drawn toward Aidan dún Scoti, who was now standing on the opposite side of the pit, speaking at length with his bonny sister, Cat. “I see ye’ve lured
his majesty
from the vale? However di’ ye manage?”

“He came of his own accord, Broc. Ye ken I would never ask.”

“Aye, well, he has yet to meet my gaze even once since I’ve arrived—despite that his sister Lael is pleased enough with her husband. I dinna believe that oaf will ever forgive me for putting Lael in harm’s way.”

Iain crossed his arms. “He will in time. Aidan is a good mon, Broc. In truth, were it my own sister ye put to risk, even with our many years together, I may have had some trouble forgiving ye as well.”

Inadvertently, Broc was the reason Lael dún Scoti and Jaime Steorling were now wed. Had he never asked her to join his fight for Keppenach, his birthplace, they would never have found themselves at King David’s mercy. Broc nodded, if reluctantly.

“Look at it this way. He’s not yet strangled ye, so I’d say ’tis progress, and ye’re both warming your soft arses ’round the same bonny fire.”

Broc grumbled low. “I dinna ken how much progress that is. Ye’ve gone and built the biggest damned fire I ever did see. The man could be warming his arse all night long and never see me once.”

Iain barked with laughter as Page came wending her way through the crowd, swiping her long, lean hands on her stained and dirty skirts. “Broc Ceannfhionn!” she exclaimed. “Welcome! Welcome! ’Tis glad I am tae see ye.”

Broc threw open his arms at once. “Och, lass, is that a bit of a brogue I hear? At long last?”

Page laughed. “After all this time I suppose it is.” Her cheeks filled with rosy color as she reached out to give Broc a long-overdue hug.

Broc drew his former lady into a gentle embrace.

“You’re so verra welcome,” Page said again. “although I do hope ye’ve come without your fleas,” she teased.

“Och, my lady, will ye ne’er let me live that down?”

“Never!” Page swore, laughing. “But I promise never to tell your children.”

All three laughed at the memory of Page’s first task upon arriving at
Chreagach Mhor
. Having found Broc and his company full of biting fleas, Page set out to bathe them all, including Broc and his dog—God rest the poor beast.

“Where is Elizabet?” Page asked.

“Dressing the wee ones a little warmer,” Broc said. “She’ll be down soon. She’s eager to see ye.”

“As I am to see her,” Page allowed. “’Tis been far too long.” She peered around, searching the crowd. “There are so many here! I have yet to greet them at all.”

Iain smiled down at his wife, reaching out to flip a lock of hair behind her back. “There are far worse complaints, my dear.”

“Indeed, there are,” Page agreed, looking back at Broc. “I am certain the children have grown so much I shall hardly know them!”

“Like weeds,” Broc confessed. “Although none so much as that knuckle lad o’er there.” His gaze shifted toward the gangly group of youths laughing by the fire—all save one.

Malcom MacKinnon stood near Constance and Aidan’s son Kellen, reacquainting themselves. But Malcom, off to one side, seemed to be brooding, lost amidst his own thoughts, while Constance made goo-goo eyes at their newly arrived young guest.

With hair the color of his mother’s, and eyes as dark as freshly tilled soil, Kellen dún Scoti was on the verge of becoming his own man.

All three fell silent, watching the pack of youths, until Iain sucked in a weary sigh. “I dinna ken how to reach him anymore,” he said.

Page moved away from Broc and into her husband’s embrace. “We’ll find a way,” she said softly.

“He looks well enough,” Broc suggested. “What bedevils him?”

The MacKinnon’s eyes never left his son. Worry lines etched his brow. Next in line to lead the MacKinnon clan, Malcom was full of ire and full of fear.

“An old wound, let us say.”

A
s the bonfire
dwindled into the wee hours, the sound of hammering persisted. Malcom MacKinnon stood apart from his friends, staring into the dying flames.

How many bonfires had they built in his lifetime? Two thousand? Mayhap three?

Not once had they ever failed to contain the flames. One year it had been so dry that crops withered on the vines, yet fire had never once threatened their homes. Not once had it decimated stores or crops. Not once had his kinsmen ever been so careless. In all his seventeen years this was the first such wildfire he could recall.

While everyone else laughed and celebrated the company of friends, Malcom couldn’t help but feel alone. At least it seemed he was alone in his trepidation.

Who would benefit from such a heinous act?

Most of his life he’d had an affinity for sensing danger—mayhap, in truth because of what had happened to him as a boy. (His own uncle abducted him from his bed and then bartered him to the English.) But far more likely to be, Glenna, the midwife, always said Malcom, like his grandmother, had a knowing. He felt it now deep in his bones…

His gaze skidded from one face to another, most of them familiar, trying to determine why he felt so ill at ease.

There was Catrìona Brodie, who seemed to adore her husband more than she did herself, doting on him as he did her. It was embarrassing to watch. Even now the two were huddled together, feeding each other morsels of food.

And then there was Piers de Montgomerie, who was getting fat and happy—at least no longer quite so fit, with arms that seemed wider than his thighs. Nay. But he seemed pleased enough with his lot in life, chasing after a passel of kids. For Malcom’s part, he saw those children as simply more to lose—more bait to lure the wicked into perfidy.

And here was Broc … who now had his own demesne. If there was one man Malcom doubted would ever betray his Da, it was Broc Ceannfhionn. The man had generously brought along with him half his grain, and every last piece of unused cloth he’d had in his possession—along with his dutiful wife, who was already promising to sew everyone new clothes.

Old friends and new were congregated about the bonfire, sharing the antics of their children, comparing details about the past year’s crops and discussing at length the unfortunate circumstances of a lass left to her own devices. This last discourse was no doubt about Malcom’s cousin Constance, who by the by, appeared to be smitten with the dún Scoti’s black-haired son.

Of course, once again, Malcom’s grandfather was nowhere to be found. The rumor was that Old Man Maclean was on his deathbed now, and it must be true, because Leith Mac Brodie had arrived without his aunt Alison—who must surely be keeping vigil over her father’s bed. Malcom didn’t like to think of himself in Alison’s position—keeping vigil over a dying father, but that day must surely come.

For his part, he did not wish to see the day arrive, but he was bored beyond being, without a purpose in his life, save to look for danger in the shadows.

He thought about his mother’s father—a man who rarely opened his hearth and home to strangers. Did he truly wish to end like that?

The answer was nay, but he could not ignore this sense of knowing he’d been gifted with. Mayhap his kinsmen all simply thought him a boy who cried wolf, but more times than not he’d had good cause to be alarmed.

There was the time he’d told his Da he’d spied the Weeper wailing by the burn, washing out a bloodstained tunic. According to folks, she only appeared when someone was about to die. And later that day, Kermichil choked on a wishbone and died.

And then there was the time he’d spied the Sassenach hiding in their barn, up in the loft. But Malcom had been young then—no more than eight—and ran away to tell his Da. Unfortunately, they never found the man, but mayhap his watchfulness had prevented an attack that day. Couldn’t it be, despite his being young, he’d scared the man away?

The sky was dark this eve, with a gloomy new moon, but the night seemed perfectly clear—without a hint of snow. Angus’ reed had long since quieted. And little by little, the laughter subsided as kinsmen took to their blankets beneath the stars.

The darkness was nearly impenetrable now, but Malcom could still hear a few stubborn kinsmen rapping at their nails.

He settled against a fat log outside the glow of the fire, where none could spy him too clearly—all the better to keep his vigil by—and cast his cousin a worried glance.

For her part, Constance didn’t even realize he was there, watching over her—making certain she didn’t get herself into trouble. Thankfully, his lovely young cousin was no longer quite so inclined to be shed her clothes. Still, Malcom remained close, watching as she flirted with Kellen dún Scoti.

Barely two years his junior, Kellen was nevertheless a stranger to their clan. It mattered not who his Da was. Everyone was suspect to Malcom’s way of thought.

“Tell me more about Dubhtolargg,” he heard Constance whisper, and Kellen scooted closer.

Malcom frowned as the dún Scoti lad waved his hand along an imaginary landscape, embellishing for the benefit of a girl. “Our vale is surrounded by mountains, and ringed with beautiful rowan trees—almost as beautiful as your hair.”

Malcom rolled his eyes and tried not to laugh.

“My father’s house sits upon a loch.”

“In the water?” Constance asked, aghast.

“On stilts. ’Tis called a
crannóg
,” the lad enlightened.

“D’ ye never get wet? What about when it storms? Does the water never rise into your beds?”

“Never,” he said. “This is the way my ancestors have lived for many, many years.”

“What a sight! I would dearly love to see it someday.”

“Perhaps you will?” Kellen rested a hand upon her knee and Malcom cleared his throat, very loudly. Kellen started, spotting him at once, and withdrew. Constance never bothered peering about, and Malcom crossed his arms.

“What about your kinsmen?” she asked, completely enthralled. “Do they all sleep beneath the same roof? How very large your
crannóg
must be!”

Once again, Malcom rolled his eyes, quite sure Kellen would take it as a point of male pride—yet so long as it was only his
crannóg
they were discussing, Malcom couldn’t be bothered to care.