MacGregor Strong

Balquhidder, Scotland -- September 14, 1684

From a Highlander’s ax to a stillborn ox, she had lifted many things, but Catriona MacGregor had never considered in her nineteen years that the tiny Claddagh ring lodged foreignly on the fourth finger of her left hand would outweigh them all by great measure. She studied its traditional heart with clasped hands, extending her fingers. Pressing them together, the sides of the ring felt strangely large against her middle and last finger. She touched the ring’s cold texture with her thumb, and sucked in a deep breath; determined to hold onto her optimism.

“Thare’s mah freish wife,” boomed a masculine voice from behind her shoulder. Catroina jumped; startled by his sudden appearance. He laughed; a bit drunkenly. “Ah wis wonderin’ whaur ye were aff to.” His pale green eyes had a whisky glaze. When he spoke again, she couldn’t avoid his breath. “Tis a bonny feast,” he breathed over her shoulder.

Blootert lik’ an Irish teenager wi’ breath lik’ a dragon.

Flustered by his odor and drunkenness, Catriona timidly turned her face up to him for a moment and rummaged a convincing smile. “Aye. Tis bonny.” She glanced down again at the heart, clasped inside the hands on the ring, and then moved the palm to the thumping in her chest.

The light from the windows was waning, and her nerves were beginning to flutter in anticipation of her wifely duties. Around them, their clansmen drank whisky, ate the food of their hosts, and shouted loudly amongst themselves. Feasting was a usual part of her life, but she’d never been comfortable bearing the reason for the feast. Never short affairs, Scottish feasts lasted days, even up to a week; filled with drunkenness and a prepensity for lawlessness. Her wedding feast had lasted three full days already and would conclude after another day of celebration. She longed for its closing.

Catriona moved her hands down, clasping them in front of her. From a young age, her mother had taught her to to center herself in any situation in which she felt off balance. In truth, she wasn’t at all looking forward to a second encounter with her new husband. On the night of their wedding, Angus had been blessedly brief; however, the sudden episode had left her sore and decidedly unimpressed with consummation as required within wedlock.

A bellowing near the main hearth drew his attention, and Angus stumbled off with a nod. Relieved he’d gone, Catriona ducked down a few inches to make herself smaller, though there was nothing to hide behind, then stepped off the laird’s pedestal to skirt over to the serving table. She’d been displayed on that pedestal only a handful of times in her life, and each time, she’d felt the cold pressure from the stone walls of the main hall. She told herself the castle’s stage would less oppressive if she were to have cleverness to display or a talent to inspire the masses. Matters as they were, Catriona knew she was neither witty nor gifted in any way that was important to anyone. Attention stirred her anxieties like a leaf spinning within water.

Although she was small in stature, Catriona’s slim frame demanded acute volumes of food when she dealt with her overzealous nerves, and the delights on the table lured her. On the first night of the wedding feast, she caught herself drinking far too much to consider supper. Angus’d taken her to bed before she was able to devour even a Scotch broth with a crust of bread. She let her eyes feast on the cullen skink; the best there was for comfort food, and then on the bread basket beside the kettle. She reached for the bowl, raising her gaze to meet the eyes of the serving lass, but before she could request a serving, she felt a pinching hand clamp onto her shoulder and she was gently twirled around her right shoulder. Smiling in obligation, she bowed slightly her new mother in-law. “Aileen, greetings to ye. Dinnae ye look bonny th’nicht?” In her experience, nothing set others back better than flattery, and the dress the elder woman wore looked newly stitched.

Aileen flashed her straight teeth, and gave a proud little bow of her own. “Thank ye, Catriona. If a’m to sacrifice mah son to a land thief, ah wull wear freish skirts to do it.” She paused for a moment, scraped her eyes up and down Catriona’s appearance and then continued, “Bit, ah suppose fur a MacGregor, ye’r no’ so awfyl.”

No’ so awfyl?!

For a trice, she was caught up in her defense but then steadied herself. That woman was his mother, and confronting her during their wedding feast was no way to open nuptials.

Catriona set the smile firmly on her face, and then nodded towards her husband’s mother in practiced respect, preparing to thank her for the insult. “Thank ye, Mither. Huv a guid time at th’ weddin’ feast.” Picking up the skirts of her green and gray dress, she headed towards the great door of the hall, slipping out into the entrance hall.

In front of her loomed the great stairs, with a few familiar children, from the surrounding village, playing on the steps. She watched them, momentarily enjoying the sounds of their laughter, but knew she could not afford to stall too long before she’d be pulled in another direction. She headed behind the stairs and hurried down the hall to the last door on the right: her father’s study.

She eased open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside. Pulling it closed behind her she went to the fireplace, to stir up the flames. Fire meditation had always cleared her mind, helped her to make sense of what was strangling her ner. She tried to make some order of what to expect in her new life with Angus MacLaren.

If she were honest, she’d have to admit she knew very little about him still. Her father had insisted on the marriage for more reasons than she had confutation for, so against her wishes, but without complaint, she’d been wed the night before to a man twenty years her senior.

He was a Smythe and a leatherman, specializing in weapons and saddlery, though he sold kitchen tools and chainmail from time to time. He made a modest living, and kept a diminutive tower house, with a small servant staff, in northern Strathyre, about a half an hour’s ride from her family’s castle. He had been married before, and had a reputation around the town for swearing he would never remarry, and yet there he was, newlywed to a woman-child nearly half his age.

Physically, Angus was sturdy. Twenty-six years as a master in his trade and life’s constant daily labor had fashioned a body of lean muscle and a well-defined shape. A fine array of scar tissue littered his arms and torso, left there by flecks of steel and licks of flame; making him seem more jagged than he truly was. He was hairy, yet attractively so, almost striped in his appearance, given the grey colored hair had already advanced in his age, speckled evenly over the follicles on his body.

Unfortunately for Angus, his beard had not so evenly aged. Most of the hair on his head remained the ashy auburn he was born with, except a patch of coarse white beard hair growing about four fingers wide off the end of his chin. He wore it short; only a curly inch off his jaw line, but let the pattern grow in full to help cover his broad cheeks. His pale green eyes were small for the rest of his features, and sat wrinkled on high cheek bones, turned down inwardly, towards a thick, upturned nose. Angus wasn’t winning any awards for bonny lads, but he was strong and seemed to be in good health to Catriona’s father.

To her right, the door creaked open again, and she found her mother standing there, dressed in her best. A habitual smile crossed Catriona’s lips, and she clasped her hands in front of her again. “‘Ere ye’r,” Karensa MacGregor sung politely. “Ah brought ye a dram. Ah wantit mohr than yone durin’ mah oan bridal feast.” She extended a whiskey, swaying minutely as she held it out. Catriona gave a thin-lipped smile and took the dram. She swirled it for a moment, and then hastily took a gulp, throwing it back behind her tongue.

Golden whisky glazed over the unsuspecting walls of her empty stomach with its hot, fingered clutch, and immediately she began to regret the impulse drink. Her abdomen churned in objection to the hollow coating of the proud, country-born product. But Catriona was a fine and proper Scot, and fought off the nausea with barely a snarl.

Karensa giggled, and the happy sound brought a real smile to her daughter’s face. “Ah wis never th’ best at straight-face swallyin,” Catriona laughed, then sobered in expression. She took a shaky breath, carefully controlled the exhale, and then put the glass down on the wooden desk. “Mither, ah dinnae ken him. How wull ah ever love him?” Her stomach rocked with nerves and alcohol.

Ah merrit him fur Faither. Christ! Angus is auld enough to be mah faither. Ah cannae love a jimmy wha’s as auld as Da.

Karensa immediately put her own glass down on the desk and hurried over to embrace her daughter. She gave a tight, short hug then held her out at arm’s length. “Angus is a guid man. Ah didnae hope ah cuid learn to love yer faither ither, Catri. Bit ah did.”

Catriona took a deep breath of determination and looked at Karensa with admiration. Catriona did not perceive herself as even half the beauty her mother was. Indeed, she had always wanted to be more like her mother in more ways than one. Karensa, with her fair-skinned oval face, well-defined cheekbones, and large almond eyes, was quite a vibrant beauty. Catriona had the notion her mother had been given such sizable eyes to show off their cornflower blue color.

She’d watched her mother use those eyes to persuade her father to come aboard with her schemes many times growing up in this place. “Aye, Mither. Ah wid be jammy to huv fun’ a union lik’ yers,” she admitted, but she knew luck didn’t have much to do with their relationship. She’d watched them laugh and play together, but she’d witnessed them storm against one other also.

“Aye.” Karensa picked up her drink and handed Catriona hers. They both took a practiced breath, and Karensa went on, “A’richt noo. Lit us go back to th’ main hall. Yer faither is oan his third dram awready this efternoon an’ at this rate, he’ll be blootert in twa hours’ time.” They both chuckled softly and walked arm in arm out of the study and into the hallway.

When they reached the hall, Alasdair spotted them right away and heaved himself to a stand in order to make a toast. His belly rattled the plate in front of him, heavy with Haggis and grouse. He looked down and too slowly reached down to steady it with a chuckle. His normally bright eyes were hooded with dram and his lips pursed thoughtfully, while his clansmen chattered down to near silence at seeing him climb to his feet. “Honest men and bonnie lasses, Thank ye all fur comin’! A toast to mah daughter an’ mah freish son.” He took a swig from his whiskey, and went on, “To Angus, ah pray ye mony sons to carry yer name an’ that they dinnae ootnumber th’ times ye’r wi’ yer wife.” Roars of laughter followed, although Catriona frowned at the joke.

Och, Laird, na.

She hadn’t noticed Angus approaching to her right until he was right upon them. He was still chuckling some from the jests made by Catriona’s father. “Mah bonny bride. Come sit wi’ me fur th’ meal. Ah see ye’r swallyin afore eating again.” Karensa and Catriona met an amused gaze as she left, obediently trailing behind her husband, back up to the pedestal, where they were served collops and toasted bannocks spread with caboc spread and strawberry jam.

Acutely aware the clan’s eyes were always upon the castle’s stage, Catriona took smaller bites than she craved, eating slower than she normally would, so as not to draw attention. Nevertheless, she was grateful for the meal and savored each bite after the kick of whiskey. Slowly, the churning in her stomach subsided and she felt herself relax a little.

No sooner had she finished the toast and cheese when there was a whistling near the main hearth, and quickly the room quieted again in anticipation of the entertainment. A lute began to play, joined by another one, with a deeper strum, finally completed in harmony by a third one in the middle range.

Catriona had always appreciated the rare demonstration of music in her family home. She leaned back against Alasdair’s high-backed chair and closed her eyes. Catriona’s cousin had been commissioned to sing at the feast and Catri had been looking forward to the rare recital of music in her home.

Young Mary Helen MacGregor was clad in two layered skirts, bearing the MacGregor blood red and coal black tartan on the under skirt. The overskirt had once been vibrant crimson, though now having been passed down several generations was a muted ruby, blanched by decades of scrubbing and wear. Her chemise was white and freshly laundered, drawn up modestly just below her clavicle. The front laced bodice was black to match the tartan skirts she wore, and though her hair was the color of a dark apricot backed by a warm auburn, clashing just a bit with her garbs, she would never dream of wearing another tartan. Though barely fifteen, she was as loyal a clansman as any, MacGregor proud, despite the lingering danger of being MacGregor in a land in which being MacGregor could get a man killed.

It hadn’t been illegal for a person to be a MacGregor for nearly a quarter of a century, but the government had pushed the other Highland clans hard to hunt down and eradicate the entire clan; had even paid good coin for the heads of the best known among the reputedly lawless clan. King Charles had restored their name, but the nearly sixty-year campaign to destroy them had left a target on each of their backs, despite the royal restoration in. Not too many years before her birth, a baby MacGregor would have been put to blade at birth, or raised as a servant in the home of a rivaling clan, but Mary was among clansmen, thus without fear began her performance.

The melody was deliberate, and she sang in Gaelic, the language of their ancestors. It started low and slow, but as the song progressed, her voice began to float above her vocal break into skillfully developed falsetto. The lutes plucked along with her, but Catriona found that she was distracted by the lutes, and wished them to fall out. The falling rain outside the castle dampened the echo a little, but her talents prevailed over the noise dampening challenge of entertaining during a storm. Mary had a reputation in Balquhidder and the surrounding villages for her performance abilities, though she was modest and humble about her gift, and when complimented always gave the same response in saying, “God gives us all gefts so we kin glorify Him. A’m jammy ye’r blessed by His geft.”

She said the same when Catriona praised her after the concert had ended, to which Catriona replied, “Blessed ye weel, He did. Whin ah sing, no’ even th’ dugs urr blessed.” Mary’s laugh was as beautiful as she was. It was just as melodious as her performance had been, and for just a moment, Catriona clasped her hands in front of her, fighting back jealousy.

She couldn’t help but to smile genuinely at Mary, though. “Thank ye, Mistress MacLaren. Ah reckon th’ dugs urr blessed weel whin ye sing. Oar Guid Laird says everything alive kin praise His name.” Mary reached out and clasped Catriona’s shoulder to reinforce the statement. “Ah wish ye th’ best oan yer mairriage to Angus.”

“Thank ye, cousin. Huv a barry time at th’ feast.” Catriona turned away from Mary, feeling very insufficient in comparison. She desperately scanned the crowd for reinforcements, and finding none, she made her way to the rear of the hall and quickly ducked behind the great tapestry and through service entrance.

Securely behind the servant’s tapestry, she immediately felt the tension drain from her neck. The center of attention had not been a place she strived to be since the age of three. Nearly a week’s time on the stage was more pressure than she’d ever known before. During the feasting Catriona knew her closest friend would be horribly busy with the rest of the servants in the kitchen. She could not steal her away from her work, so she expertly dodged the servants moving about the scullery hall and quickly climbed the service stairs to leave the noise and chaos of the clan behind. She’d wait for Angus in her chambers and finish up her packing.

When Catriona reached the main hall for breakfast the next morning, she’d learned two more things about her new husband. Firstly, after drinking Scottish whiskey for more than three consecutive days, Angus lost the ability to perform. Secondly, subsequent to losing consciousness in such a stupor, he snored; like a beast. At first light, she’d risen from the straw stuffed mattress and silently pulled on her thick dressing gown.

With nineteen years practice she silently passed through the heavy oak door, and took the few steps down a split-level stair to the privy on the right. She relieved herself and then hearing the muffled activity commencing in the kitchen below, she stole down the service stairs and back into the main hall.

There were far fewer people in the hall so early and as she sat down at one of the prepared breakfast tables, she was approached immediately with a tray of dried fruits, roasted hazel cobs, and Dunlop cheese. She hungrily took a helping of each food filling the wooden plate in front of her. On the table were several baskets of fresh bannocks and she took one for her plate. Never forgetting her manners; beneath her breath she muttered, “Faither, thank ye fur this fairn. Bless mah fowk an’ mah enemies, an’ change me fur yer glory, Laird. Amen.” Finally, without the eyes of the whole of the clan on her, she ate hastily, with large bites, and grand gulps of freshly separated milk from the cows kept on her father’s land.

After filling her stomach, she sat on the bench for just a few minutes, enjoying the quiet. Her eyes traveled over the stone walls decorated with over a dozen tapestries, which served the dual purpose of decorating the cold rock walls and also absorbing the over-echoing noises of life in the massive room. They were enormous, brilliantly colored historical accounts of the MacGregor clan; their ancestors, battles waged, wars won or lost, Scottish royalty, and MacGregor lairds. She grieved that Auchtoo would no longer be her home, but now, on that morning; nearly ready to depart for Konricherie Keep, she had to admit that she felt a little feeling of excitement creeping in alongside the anxiety.

“Catri!” she heard from near the scullery entrance, and grinned at the hushed sound of her closest comrade’s voice.

She cheerfully abandoned her breakfast dishes at the table and scurried over to where Ainslee MacLeary was peeking out from behind the dividing tapestry. She was just a step short when Ainslee revealed that she had fetched Catriona’s chemise, bodice, and skirts for the day, a steel gray and blue. “Yer husband is kipping still in yer quarters. Wull dress ye in th’ lower quarters”, she directed her, referring to the servants’ barracks where she and the others were housed. Without questioning her, Catriona headed past her and across from the service stairs pushed open the heavy oak door leading to the rear yard. Several chickens clamored out of her way as she rushed through the crisp morning air along the wall and through the ally door on her left side. The ally hall, as the castle servants had always called it, had a door at each end, and only one other access point, into the servants’ barracks.

The dwelling was a 1503 rectangular add-on to the original keep, encompassing a sizable communal privy, a modest living area, a dining hall for those who worked at Auchtoo Tower, and three sub-divided sleeping chambers. The door led directly into the living area, and Catriona walked straight through the living area, to the far-right chamber, just across from the tiny dining hall. The chamber was modest, but welcoming. Ainslee and her mother had lived there as long as Catriona could recall, and she had spent many hours in this room, passing time and escaping the drama of her privileged family life. Ainslee entered behind her and pulled the cloth curtain in place behind them for privacy. As Ainslee draped the clothing over the end of the mattress, Catriona dropped her dressing gown without modesty. “How are ye feeling? Huv ye stoapped aching doon below?” Ainslee asked without formality.

“Slee!” Catriona exclaimed, flushing a bit then batting at her friend with a laugh, then shrugged the chemise over her head. She pulled her arms through and then let the gown drop down to her ankles.

“Whit?! A’m yer best mukker. If ye cannae tell yer best mukker, wha kin ye tell?” Ainslee cackled, dodging the half-hearted attempt to thump her. “An’ beside that, ye’r a merrit wummin noo. If ye are no’ aching juist a bawherr then yer jimmy isnae doin his jab richt.” Her frizzy curls wagged over the sides of her ears as she bit her bottom lip and wiggled her head in delighted laughter.

Ainslee had enjoyed embarrassing Catriona since she passed through early puberty and lost her virginity to one of the sons of the chief of the clan Graham. As a young woman of a lower cast than Catriona, and a victim of paternal abuse in her early years of development, her propriety had not been among her top priorities. When offered a chance to entice a man of a higher class, she took it. She didn’t hook the laird’s son, but did begin her education on the stronger sex and took great pleasure in learning the fine art of manipulating them.

“Aye. A’m in pain,” Catriona admitted as Ainslee fitted the corset under her breasts and began to lace it up her spine. “Ah dinnae ken how ony wife kin lik’ th’ chore.” She gasped as Ainslee tugged the laces tight and fastened them together with practiced expertise.

“Chore? Ye think tis a chore?!” The short blonde placed the under skirt on the floor and Catriona stepped into it. As she pulled the skirt up over Catriona’s hips, she tossed her head to the side and shrugged. “Ah suppose it mak’s sense. Th’ foremaist times urr no’ all that pleasurable.” She tied the skirt at the small of Catriona’s back. She reached back to the bed to pick up the gown portion; a divided overskirt joined with the bodice, which laced in the front. “It gits better, Catri.”

Ainslee held up the garment. Catriona threaded her arms into the sleeves, and pulled the two sides of the bodice to the front of her torso. The outer skirt did not meet except in the center of her abdomen, right below the rib line. “Ah dinnae waant to go, Slee,” Catriona whispered hoarsely. She looked to Ainslee for solutions as she laced the bodice.

“Catri, ah asked aroond in th’ village. Angus wis merrit afore. Th’ word is that he didnae beat his wife. Ah spoke to a baker wha said that his foremaist wife actually loved him,” the chambermaid disclosed, closing the laces with her strong hands. “This is a freish chapter. Ye kin either be pitiful or powerful. Ye cannae be both. Ye huv to pick, lass.”

Though only a year and six months apart, Catriona often got the notion Ainslee was much more seasoned than she. She offered a half-smile and then settled on the mattress propping up each foot to intercept a stocking, followed by her riding boots; made of leather with toggling on the exterior of each calf. “A’m MacGregor strong,” she conceded with a sigh. She took Ainslee’s hands and pulled herself up, taking a few steps and kneading the skirts down into place.

“Aye. Ye urr,” Ainslee agreed, meeting her doubtful eyes with courage. Then she clapped her hands together and headed towards the curtain. “A’richt. Th’ workers huv yer things awready packed. Ah huv to go noo. A’m late this mornin’ wi’ all th’ visitors.” She gave Catriona a rushed hug and then dashed away, out into the ally hall and down the hall to the main keep.

Feeling refreshed, Catriona also left the living area, but headed back the way she came in the ally hall, emerging into the rear yard again. The early sun was already freshening the morning air, but Catriona made a mental note to wear her thicker riding cloak during the journey to her new home. The mid-autumn morning air was crisp and the clouds in the northern sky were brooding still, a learned sign that the rain wasn’t finished yet. She closed her eyes again and contented herself in the soft clucks of the chickens and the fond smell of fresh hay mixed with damp earth. The walls of the yard were cobblestone, but the yard was large enough so that the sounds did not echo unpleasantly. The rear of the castle faced the north, and shared its east wall with the extensive two-story kennel run by her family for generations. The kennel was accessible through a double-doored entrance via the rear yard, but Catriona was certain the smaller entry would already stand open to give air to the kennel.

She headed across the yard, where a wide covered side ally led out to the front of the keep. There, a set of doors led through each end of the ally into the stable yard. Once out the exterior door, the smaller access point was just a hard pivot to the left and five paces back to the rear. She heard the activity of the kennels even before she reached the door. The servants were feeding the adults, and by the sound of things, it seemed they were nearly finished portioning out the scraps.

Her family bred corso hounds, and was well known in Argyll as the masters of the enormous Gregorhoond. At current, the kennel housed several of the foundation stock on the ground floor then above, in the quieter upper level of the dwelling there were several litters of pups with their dams in various stages of growth. Once the young pups reached about six weeks, they were moved downstairs and intense training began. She listened to the din of the dogs die down as the last few were presented with breakfast; once again took a mental imprint of the area, with its leaping shadows caused by a fire burning in a hearth in the northeast most corner of the room. The chimney stretched through the second story hearth to vent the smoke, in addition to ventilation openings at the top ridge of the skillion roof.

The stables were built on a diagonal to and separate from the main keep in 1501, but during the rough wooing in the 1540s a kennel was constructed not only to house Alasdiar’s new husbandry venture for profit, but also to provide an avenue of escape from the keep directly into the stables where a rapid escape could be made on horseback in the event that the castle were to be taken. Through the broad stone archway, she was drawn towards the sound of a voice. Catriona tucked her body behind the archway and allowed herself to eavesdrop before revealing her presence.

“...run thro’ by three o’ mah faither’s men afore he cuid pick up his bowl o’ alms.” It was a man-boy’s voice; one Catriona was familiar with. The boy chuckled, and a horse nickered in response to the poor tasted story.

She stepped boldly into the stable. “Red Rob, urr ye still closer to that horse than to th’ clansmen?” she teased him. He winced; a little embarrassed having been caught talking to his horse.

Catriona had not seen the son of the chief of the Glengyle branch in half a year and his season had come upon him suddenly. In the spring she had seen him at their cousin’s wedding, and he had been a gangling boy, but he had grown at least four fingers since then and his knobby body had begun to fill out. He’d left his boy face behind, and had acquired a man’s in its place. He’d earned his nick name from the mop of curly red hair perched on his head; nearly untamable beneath any bonnet. Having inherited his mother’s Scottish complexion, Rob usually wore a traditional bonnet to protect him from the sun like many of his peers. He was half a head taller than Catriona now, though he was six years younger. His body was harder than the last time she’d seen him. His nose was long, and thickening in his oncoming teenage years, though still thin with youthful shape. His eyes were large, and even at is young age, already carried baggage beneath them above emergent cheekbones. His jaw line was still soft in his youth, but Catriona could already see the sharp shadow of a strong bone coming in beneath his ears.

The boy of nearly fourteen glanced down at the earthen floor and scuffed a leather boot sole at some straw. “Ah’ament closer to Heaven than a’m to mah clansmen. Tis juist that she’s a better listener than maist clansmen,” he shared. He gave her a twitch of his thinner upper lip. For a trice they met eyes, and Catriona tried to swallow the fluttery feeling in her core. Despite the age gap, she’d fought feelings for him since her awakening. Rob and Catriona had grown up together not only as clansmen, but also as children of the clan leadership. Their fathers sat at the decision-making tables with the chief of the whole of the clan. As such, their lives had been both easier than the average highlander’s, and also vastly more dangerous.

“If she is sich a guid listener, then how come ye dinnae tell her better tales?” she frowned. Rob’s careless mindset regarding the village’s unfortunate was one of the only things that Catriona did not like about her friend.

Rob smirked with a corner of his mouth. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Catri. Ah didnae ken ye wur thare. Heaven haesbin fed noo, so a’m duin ‘ere.” He pat his mare’s neck and turned to face Catriona more squarely. “So whaur is yer husband this bonny mornin’? Ah thought ye wur aff soon.” As he left the stable, she naturally walked alongside him out into the crisp air.

“Angus...” she said with a forced smile. “Angus is still in kip.” Taking the shortest route back to the main keep, they walked closely, side by side. Quickly returning to her cheery juvenile demeanor, Catriona admitted, “Ah wull miss muckle.” Out of habit, she shouldered him gently, knocking him out of step.

He returned her gesture of familiarity with the gentle shove with his elbow. He looked down at her as they continued towards the side alley door. “Ye’r no’ gaun far. Tis ainlie an oor by a horseback.” He opened the ally door and she proceeded through.

“Aye, ah ken that. Bit ah dinnae waant to go,” she whined. They both chortled again emerging into the rear yard, and executed a long arched left-hand arc in tandem like a pair of well-practiced driving steeds. The rear yard had been the entrance of choice for over a century now, and most of the MacGregor children had toddled the worn path since they could walk.

As they approached the door, Rob hung back a step to allow Catriona to pass through just ahead of him, and she led the way back into the main hall. All the tables had been reset, and three of the four tables were now filling with clansman, waking with knocking splits from ear to ear and swollen, hooded eyes. She didn’t stop walking as Rob split off, but gave him a wave that promised to say good-bye before they left.

Since she did not see her sisters, she made her way to the main staircase by the same path she had taken the evening before. The family kept a sitting room upstairs that commonly served as a secondary gathering place for the immediate family; in times of feasting allowing them to take their meals in relative privacy there. The sitting room sat just above the servant’s quarters, so she took the main stairs up and to her left. Her mother’s and father’s quarters were on either side of the top of the stone stairs, divided by a ten-foot hallway. She reached the top of the stairs and then turned around the railing. Her sister’s quarters were past the railing to the south, but Catriona was interested in the stone archway at the end of the hall, just beyond the second-floor common privy. The sitting room remained open to the hall unless a tapestry was used to cover the entrance. During the milder months, the entrance to the terrace through the sitting room was left ajar, to allow the fresh breeze to furrow through the castle and banish the stale air. She rushed into the sitting room, surprised to find that its only occupant had just completed bussing a table of its dishes and with a stack in hand scurried out the back-hall access.

Catriona was about to turn around and return back to the lower floor, when she heard a little laugh out on the terrace. Curious, she took a few steps to see who was there. Expecting it was her youngest brother, Wallace, she gave a little whistle as she stepped into the warming daylight. She was let down when she saw it was Mary MacGregor alone, leaning over the terrace wall and smiling broadly. Mary looked her way and warmly greeted her, “Guid morning, Catriona! Tis a perfect day. Ye mist be excited to see yer freish hohm th’day wi’ yer freish husband? Ah hear he is guid an’ kind. An’ that he wurks locally. It’s best to huv yer husband nearby, if thare is trauchle.”

Ahlways aroond. Never a second aloon.

“A dinnae ken,” Catri sighed. “Ah think it wid be better to huv some time an’ space to be a better wife. If ah dinnae huv enough space to masell, ah git a bawherr crabbit,” she admitted. She clasped her hands again, annoyed by the persistent promotion of her husband’s suitable qualities since their joining; secondarily scunnered at herself for failing in the act of blushing bride.

Mary nodded in response and was about to answer, but a loud voice came from below. “Catriona, lass! Come doon ’ere noo. It’s aboot time to go.” Both ladies peered down into the yard to find Karensa looking up at them, shielding her eyes from the east sun with a cupped hand.

“Comin’, Mither!” Catriona called down. She met eyes with Mary. “Shall we go?” Mary nodded, and together they turned towards the terrace doors.

Once the good-byes were said and repeated hugs all given, Catriona had no other justification to keep her feet on family ground. She was hoisted up onto a horse; helpless to stop the next chapter of her life from beginning. As the rest of the caravan set out for Konricherie Keep, she held her mount back as long as she could without appearing disrespectful to Angus. With one last longing look at her family spread, she committed completely to the ride.

Some of her father’s men had been assigned to escort the newlyweds to Angus’ home. The dowry alone was a risk, but Catriona’s father insisted on a mounted guard to ensure his daughter’s safe arrival. Angus was at the head of the train, with the wagon just behind him, and Catriona filed behind the wagon on a chestnut horse he had brought. Her clansmen hung back as far as they dared, to provide privacy, but Catriona was glad for their presence. She kept a sharp watch on the horizon in every direction, though; life-long habit in the interest of preservation. For most of the ride, Catriona passively rode atop a horse she’d never ridden before; a red mare, with rich coloring. She was a good mount; docile. Catri was both saddened and relieved that Angus did not ride beside her.

He doesnae wantae donder wi’ me. He doesnae waant to be merrit to me.

She glumly thought of what Ainslee might say to her. Slee was a woman of action; one of Catriona’s favorite traits about her. She could not stop the broad grin that spread across her lips thinking how Ainslee had snatched the bonnet from Laird MacGregor’s head under the rouse there had been a bee when Catri was thirteen, creating a diversion so she could slip out of the castle through the front door without being seen. Catri knew her friend would’ve encouraged her to speak to her husband, so she clicked her tongue, signaled through her legs, and the horse responded with a lazy trot.

As she drew up beside Angus, she wondered what to say. It was awkward, not having spoken to him since the evening before. He didn’t look over at her so she rode quietly beside him for nearly a full minute before she spoke. “Tis a bonny day. A’m glad fur th’ air...an’ fur th’ escort.”

He glanced over briefly, as if stirred from thought. “Heppy fur th’ escort?”

Catriona nodded, raised with a surrounding awareness of the danger that lurked behind every tree. “MacGregors kin never be too canny,” she elaborated.

“Aye, bit ye’r no’ a MacGregor onymair,” he said factually. He furrowed his brow and stared at her for a few seconds before reinforcing the statement by continuing. “Ye’r a MacLaren noo. As lang as ah breathe ye’ll be a MacLaren.”

Surprised she had not arrived to this understanding herself, Catri briefly turned the corners of her mouth up in placid embarrassment. “Aye, ah suppose a’m.” Having been corrected, she fell silent and stayed that way through the remainder of their ride through the valley. She passed the rest of the time taking in the River Balvag to her right.

It was a slow-moving river that meandered its way across the countryside heading generally east from Balquhidder past Auchtoo then bent to the south, thumbing out in several flares deviating to the east. As they turned around the mountains and the river dropped towards the south and a stream jutted back towards the north at the tip of the first eastern flare. With the stream behind them and with the main river still on their right, the group headed almost directly south. For a good portion of the ride, the river mundanely arched out to the east and back to its general southerly course.

Up ahead, Catri could see it bear southeast again, dramatically hooking back northwest. When they rounded the bend in the river, all three horses began to pull on their reins and increase their paces, eager to get home to the familiarity of their dinner. She took in her new home as it loomed in the distance.

Konricherie Keep, as Catriona discovered, was less a keep and more a small tower house, surrounded by a tall stone perimeter. It’d been constructed by Angus’ father during times of peace, though kept well maintained, its defenses were lacking. It made Catriona leery, but she reminded herself that she was no longer in constant risk of death for breathing MacGregor air. They were within a ten-minute ride from the tower, and Angus pulled up his horse, waving the MacGregor men off. Catriona waved, too, but hers was a bidding farewell, while Angus’ was a wave of dismissal. The small group of men acknowledged with a raised hand and turned back towards home.

As the tower house loomed nearer, Catriona could barely see it stood facing the southwest overlooking a sharp turn in the river. Its stature was smaller than she had originally gauged.

This is how come th’ MacGregors teuk yer lands so easily.

The perimeter fencing enclosed a larger courtyard than she’d expected. Catriona suspected the additional outdoor space was to accommodate Angus’ trade. As they approached it, the reinforced wooden door slowly began to swing outward with a groan between two vacant vantage towers. A boy in his teenage years popped his black bonnet through first, followed by his youthful face. He quickly pushed the door open and held it open for the group to pass through. He looked down at the dirt as they plodded past him.

The inside of the stone fencing was just as dreary as the exterior. The walls were in dire need of a good scrubbing and the muddy ground likewise would have benefitted from maintenance. With the excessive rain that had fallen the summer just passed, every landowner had fought the wet lands, and it seemed this tower was losing the battle. The mare carried her expertly over the ground, however, long accustomed to the course, placing each hoof securely through the yard, drawing to a stop in front of a small stable to left side of the yard. The boy from the entrance scurried up beside the mare and gripped her rein, allowing Catriona to dismount easily. Angus spoke to the boy, “Lad, tak’ th’ lady’s things to her chambers then mynd th’ horses.”

“Aye, Mister Angus,” the boy mentioned in acknowledgement. He dropped the rein and then quickly trotted to the wagon and began to unload its contents.

Angus gestured towards the house, indicating Catriona should precede him. She felt hurried to go inside, wishing she had the opportunity to look around the yard first. She could hear the muted sounds of livestock on the other side of the tower house, and caught a glance of the bellows and anvil under an overhang in the southwest corner of the grounds as she was rushed into the home.

Upon stepping inside, she immediately found herself in a short, narrow entryway, mutely lit by the windows from beyond the area. The entry room spanned only a few paces, open on the right-hand side to a stone spiral staircase leading both up and down. Ahead of her was a small dining hall, with adequate room for one large rustic table paired with a set of long wooden benches. Two large windows sat on the northwest wall to her left letting in the sun and warming both the air and the appearance of the small hall.

She took a few more steps, emerging into the hall, instinctively following a scent she wasn’t sure she’d enjoyed before. “Laddie!” Angus called from behind her, “We wull tak’ mah Mistress to her chamber an’ then huv oor dinner straecht awa’.” He gestured with his arms and a slight bending of his whole body to Catriona to send her up the stairs. Catri heard a sound of acknowledgement behind her as she hiked up her skirts and went ahead of Angus. She reached the first-floor eave, positioned immediately above the entryway on the ground floor, but a huff from Angus pushed her up to the next floor.

The exit to the second floor faced the back of the house, instead of the northwest side, giving way to a hall with two doors, one more ornately carved than the other. “Ye’r oan th’ richt,” he indicated. She assumed this meant the door on the right -- the common one. She pushed open the door and went inside. It was petite and meagerly furnished, with a low-lying bed and a small table with a brass candleholder in its middle. The boy from the yard brushed past her and gently set an armful of luggage down next to the table and turned on his heel to scurry back into the hall and down the stairs to retrieve more of her belongings. She felt she had to turn around and acknowledge Angus behind her.

She slowly turned to face him. “Thank ye. Tis a bonny chamber.”

His expression was neutral as he replied, “Please, mak’ yirsel’ at hohm. Ah wull huv Jamia bring up a haund basin fur ye to freishen up.” He removed his bonnet, and tipped his head as he moved backwards out the open archway. She watched him point briefly to the door just outside. “Mah chambers urr juist thare.” Catriona sensed he wanted to add something, but he nodded instead and disappeared beyond the ornate master door.

She stepped towards the door to close it, but heard the boy clambering up the staircase. He still didn’t look at her, and Catriona suspected this was a habit he’d developed to keep out of trouble. She wondered what a poor master Angus really was, and her brow furrowed as she imagined what that might mean for her. She reached into her bosom and pulled out a small bolt of cloth, bright MacGregor red and black. She’d carried it with her from a very young age, when it had been gifted to her from her father when she’d matured enough to comprehend what it really meant to be MacGregor strong. It was just larger than her hand, and she kept it with her always.

Wance a MacGregor, furever MacGregor.

As if punctuating her inner thoughts, thunder resonated into her chamber and she felt a damp wind snake through from the splayed window. The air had cooled some since their ride from Auchtoo Tower, and Catriona allowed herself a gentle half-smile thinking of the autumn rain before the first freeze. Another brisk gust punched through her chamber croaking the door a pinch towards its jamb. She went to the window to pull wooden shutters closed just as the cold rain began. They were old but well-oiled and they fit snugly together.

Without the through breeze escorting the air from the chamber, the scent of deliciousness began seeping in, leading Catriona to take a deep breath. She began to feel her mouth moisten at the incredible smell, and took a step towards the doorway, only to yelp in surprise as a heavyset woman carrying a small wooden tray suddenly blocked her way.

Catri reeled back, straining to stay upright, only to step on her skirts and nearly topple over backwards onto the floor, but made a little twist and a series of little hops managing to recover without a spill. Finally, able to meet the woman’s gaze, she was startled by the harshness it held.

“Hot towel, Mistress,” the woman snarled without formality. She entered the room and went to the table, settling the tray in the center. The heavy woman picked up her skirts and bustled around Catriona; out the door sans another word, closing the heavy door behind her. It shut with a final thud, and she was left alone at last. She crossed the length of room and reached for the dampened steaming fabric, freshly removed from boiling water and wrung out. She used it to clean her hands and forearms surprised at how nice the heat felt. She pressed it to her face, and then down her cheeks, jaw, and neck, gently cleaning the travelling dirt from her exposed skin.

Tis no’ so ill. Ah kin wurk wi’ this.

Her mother always preached the power of thinking on the bright side, and she’d purposefully picked up the habit, finding optimism far more useful than pessimism. The MacGregor tartan meant digging in when things got tough. It stood for grit. It stood for fortitude; for strength.

With practiced deliberateness, Catriona resolved to stay positive in this new environment. She placed the towel back in the bowl and turned to the door to seek out the source of the enticing smell. Emerging into the hall, she found there was a door nearly directly across the hall from her chambers. It was slightly ajar, so she peeked inside and was pleased to find a privy. The foul odor of most privies was noticeably absent, and curious as to the reasoning, she leaned over the wasting hole.

“Tis a freish design.” The deep voice rumbled in the small privy room behind her. To Catriona’s embarrassment, she jumped at the sound of her husband’s voice for the second time in as many days. He stood behind her in the doorway. “A dinnae ken if tis enough fur ye, bit we do huv a few comforts.”

Catriona turned, discovering he was just a step away. She took in his tight-lipped smirk and the squinting sea-colored glare of his fierce eyes and for the second time in just a few moments, felt quite unwelcome in her new home. “Tis a bonny hohm.”

Angus offered an escape by backing out of the room. “Mah chef says supper is duin.”

For just the first time since her arrival, Catriona smiled without effort. “Whit’s that heavenly reek?”

Angus chuckled with ingenuity. “Arceneaux,” he answered, then jerked his head towards the circular stair. He walked ahead of her down the stairs.

“Arceneaux? What’s in Arceneaux and how is it made?” she asked, following him closely. His further laughter confounded her, until they sat down at the table in the middle of the dining hall, and a man danced out from behind a kitchen working space supported by the half wall dividing the kitchen and the eating space.

“An Arceneaux eez a me, Madamé,” he purred, offering her a rush basket filled with baguettes the length of Catriona’s hand. “What you smell eez Francais specialtay calléd bisq.” Catriona took a baguette and placed it on her plate. Meeting his gaze, she noticed again the lack of warmth of reception in his bagged eyes and hawk-like facial posturing. Another flicker of doubt set into her mind.

Juist bonny. They hate me awready.

“Thank ye. Bonnie to meet ye. Ah cannae wait to huv a go,” she replied, hoping it didn’t sound rehearsed. Then she added, “It howfs amazin’.” For a trice she thought she saw the curves of a smile, but he stifled it and went to the kitchen.

After a few heartbeats, Arceneaux returned with two large bowls, filled to the brim with a yellowish white stew-like substance with chunks of a red and white meat suspended in the thickened broth. She leaned over the bowl and took in a long sniff of heaven. Her mouth watered, and she swallowed to avoid drooling. She looked to Angus to see how he handled the blessing, and as she expected, he folded his hands in front of him. She did the same, expecting him to begin praying aloud; which he did. “Laird, oor Faither, bless this fairn to oor bodies as ye bless oor souls, in th’ name o’ Christ, amen.” He almost muttered it under his breath, rushing through it like he was avoiding the intimacy of it, but Catriona was pleased he was praying aloud at all.

As he finished, she echoed the “amen” then unfolded her hands and gripped the wooden spoon and brought it to her lips for a taste. As soon as it hit her taste buds, she wished she had taken a larger first bite. She thought to herself this must be what velvet would taste like if it were marinated in fresh cream. It was smooth and thick, and she wanted to hold it and let her tongue absorb it all. Finally swallowing, she was embarrassed to hear a moan slip out. “Arceneaux, this is th’ best fairn ah huv ever tasted.” Again, the cook did not answer her, but this time, gave her a nod and a tense-lipped smile. She took another bite and glanced at Angus. “Ye huv th’ maist amazin’ cook. Whaur did ye fin’ him?”

He did not look up from his bowl. “Th’ back alley, blootert an’ wi’oot a farthing.” Catriona waited for him to continue, but after some silence realized that was all he was offering. She felt it was a clear sign that he wanted to dine in reticence, so concentrated on her bisque and bread.

From watching Angus, she learned the most delicious way to eat the meal was to eat the bread, dipped in the creamy bisque. Once the bread was gone, she finished off the rest of the soup with a spoon. With a satisfied sigh, Catri decided she would make efforts to befriend the cook as soon as possible. She thought to ask what the meat inside had been, but then, she’d learned not to ask a question unless you truly wanted to know the answer. Instead she waited to see if Angus would speak.

He didn’t, so she rose from the table, determined to make the best of her new home life. “A’richt. A’m gaun up to mah room to scatter oot mah things.” She waited for him to disagree, but he remained quiet, still slowly eating his bisque. She turned to Arceneaux. “Twas a barry meal.” When he still ignored her, she turned on her heel and headed to the stairs by the front door.

When she had gone beyond her chamber entrance, Catriona closed the door behind her and sat down heavily on the straw mattress biting back angry tears. She knew her father had arranged the union to foster relations between the MacLarens and the MacGregors, but she had not foreseen this hostile reception to her new home. Since her arrival a short time ago, the sole friendly reception had been from the food. Lying down on the mattress, she closed her eyes to keep the tears at bay, and began to wonder how she would ever find a way to fit in.

Ah huvnae duin onythin’ wrong, an’ awready they disrespect me. Ah shuid never huv let Da do this!

The thought of her father’s handfasting scheme first brought on a wave of anger, followed by a surge of loneliness. Suddenly she was unable to stop a few tears from slipping out. Karensa had been a force in Catriona’s life, and she already missed her mother’s blanket of proximity.

Stoap it, Catri. Ye cannae wail lik’ a bairn ’cause ye miss yer mither.

Opening her eyes, she took in a deep breath and grimaced at the musty smell of the mattress. With teary determination, she resolved she would liven up this home, starting with her own personal chambers.

Catriona jerked awake to rapid banging on the door, and a woman’s flustered voice, “Mistress, please! Come doon to ate yer supper!” The battering came again. “Mistress!”

Catriona hadn’t meant to fall to sleep. But she cleared her throat and rose to answer the door, pulling it open to peer directly into Jamia’s upset stare. “Mah apologies. Ah wull come doon noo.”

“Na yone ignoors meal caws aroond ’ere,” the maid grunted, then spun around without further statement. Catriona followed, wishing she would have been more assertive when she’d answered the door. As she took the stone stairs, she silently berated herself.

Ye wudnae huv duin that at hohm. Bit, then at hohm, oor servants dinnae treat thair masters lik’ this.

As she emerged from the stairwell, she proceeded to her right into the dining area and sat directly down on her side of the bench. Angus was already seated at the table, eating a stew with more of the bread she had eaten during dinner. Her place was set with a bowl also, but the steam had stopped rising from the dish. She wondered how long Jamia was knocking on her door before she had stirred.

The stew was dark, filled with chunks of different types of tender meat. It married potatoes and slices of softened onion and carrots, with small bits of garlic and leeks. Catriona felt her mouth watering at the scent of the herbal broth and bowed her head to pray silently before taking her first bite. It thankfully wasn’t as cold as she had expected, and had a taste that complimented lukewarm well, especially with the thickness of it, which held the heat evenly. “Och, wow! This is barry,” she complimented the stew, looking for Arceneaux to ask what it was called. She could see this was going to be her favorite part of living in the little tower.

She didn’t see him, but Angus cleared his throat. “Tis baeckeoffe,” he said to his bowl, and took another bite of it.

“Its name is baeckeoffe?” she queried. He said nothing, but glanced up for a trice while chewing and gave a slight nod. “Tis gusty.”

He looked down at his food again. “Aye.” Catriona gave a half-smile even though he wasn’t looking at her. Certain now that she would get nothing more out of him, she let her own gaze fall to her baeckeoffe and bread. She ate hurriedly trying to make sure it was a warm as possible as she ate it.

Angus finished first and sat with both elbows propped on the table with his arms crossed together. A young servant she had not yet met before approached the table and took his empty dish and spoon. Catriona looked up at her; into a silent glowering face. This time she wasn’t startled by the hostile stare, but did find the courage to clear her throat at the mousy girl, who dropped her gaze to the floor and turned to retreat to the kitchen. Angus said nothing, but Catriona could feel him examining her, and tried not to look up from the last few bites of her meal. Despite her efforts, her eyes stole a rebellious peek up at her husband, regretting it immediately. He was intently staring at her, as if he wanted to say something. She kept quiet, waiting for him to begin. Anytime her father had looked at her mother that way, Karensa had patiently coaxed him out with silence.

He cleared his throat and she gave him an inquisitive look. “We didnae waant anither wife,” he grumbled.

An’ ’ere ah thought this cuidnae be worse.

She tried to keep her expression completely frozen, so he did not see that the comment had hurt her.

Angus grabbed the hair on his beard and squinted down at the table, and then looked back up at her. “A’m sawry. Ah’ament guid wi’ wurds. Whit ah mean is that mah foremaist wife wis...well, she wis weel cared fur in this hoose.” He looked down at the table again. “Ah loved her. WE loved her.”

Catriona suddenly understood all the scathing glares and the avoidant behavior. She opened her mouth to speak; closing it again when she realized she had nothing to say. Instead a guilty sigh escaped her lips.

Och, God.

“It wull tak’ some time fur thaim to come aroond,” he continued. “They urr guid fowk, Catriona.”

For the first time since their engagement, she met his eyes with confidence. “Ah ken. Ah didnae afore, bit ah do, noo.” She paused for a moment, and then swallowed. “An’, ye kin caw me Catri. Mah fowk caws me Catri.”