The online me

There are many me's. (And fortunately, not one mini-me!)

When I try to introduce myself, I often struggle to decide which "me" to present. I feel like falling back on Frank Sinatra's song, "That's Life". I've been a pauper, a pirate, a poet, a prince, a pawn and a king. Right now, I'm a virtual entity, existing only as long as I remain logged on to LNF, vanishing when I log off only to rematerialize somewhere else in the LNF universe later.

All my life I have written. Twice, I have submitted short stories for publication in magazines and twice I have been published. Between working for a living and not wanting to ruin a winning streak, I've managed to intimidate myself into never seriously attempting to become an author. I want that to change!

I don't know what I'm doing; I don't know how to get there from here, but I'm on my way. I've started writing a historical novel set in Scotland in the sixteenth century.

My research of the period and population has proved amazing and interesting beyond what I had hoped, but there is one area of information that I have not been successful at tracking down: the speech patterns of 16th century Scotland. (Robert Burns wrote in the 18th century, by way of reference.) What I have learned about Gaelic, while facinating to me, is not readily useable in storytelling in modern English. I've tried to figure out how to represent a Scottish brogue in spelling but often go too far, use too much, or miss the "sound" I'm trying to capture. That has led me to search out other writers who write about Scots. It turns out that the 18th century is well represented, but very little seems to have been written about the 16th century (except, perhaps, Robin Hood -- which was set in England, not Scotland).

Fortunately, that research has helped me discover this delightful forum!

Now, I'll have even more reason to procrastinate from the actual task of writing my book! Ack!!! Or, maybe, I'll have more people encouraging me, egging me on to write and publish! (Now that would be cool!) And maybe, just maybe, I'll find someone here with the background and knowledge of Scotland and its tongue who will be able to offer me the kind of editing and balance that will capture the voices in my story!

Welcome to LitNet Kelly :)

I've just perused my brand new copy of Scotland: A History (2005), edited by Jenny Wormald, and there is a chapter by Roger Mason on 16th century. King's College, Aberdeen was founded in 1495, the same year the Education Act was passed, thus beginning a significant period of developement in cultural literacy.

While I've just quickly scanned it, mention is made of courtier-poet Sir David Lindsay "whose vernacular verse was increasingly characterised by a scathing Erasmian anti-clericalism.. in his brilliant Satyre of the Thrie Estaites (1552)." I'll post more if I come across any other writers/works from this time.

More on Lindsay, but maybe you already know of him .. http://www.slainte.org.uk/scotauth/lindddsw.htm

OK, Kelly, go for it! There are a lot of us who read and read but can't write. You can! So do so. And use us, me anyway, to bounce stuff off of. Don't try to "capture" that Scottish brogue. We've all read far too much to need that. Your readers don't need that. Really, Kelly. Send us a piece. You are so fortunate to have been gifted with the talent. Use US and develop IT. You are a very cool guy to even consider letting us know that you are a writer in addition to being a reader. Keep in touch, OK?

Suzie

No, I didn't know of him. Thank you! I'll begin digging to find some of his work, and not only his but Dunbar's as well.

Another author, of many, from the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography: Bannatyne, George (1545–1607/8), compiler of the Bannatyne Manuscript
"the most wide-ranging of the contemporary Scottish literary miscellanies", born in Edinburgh. If you want more just let me know.

dear kelly,

hey! welcome to the forum. i can so understand the difficulty of trying to introduce yourself---and which part of yourself, anyway???

well,
just saying hi!

amanda

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Suzieq47

OK, Kelly, go for it! There are a lot of us who read and read but can't write. You can! So do so. And use us, me anyway, to bounce stuff off of. Don't try to "capture" that Scottish brogue. We've all read far too much to need that. Your readers don't need that. Really, Kelly. Send us a piece. You are so fortunate to have been gifted with the talent. Use US and develop IT. You are a very cool guy to even consider letting us know that you are a writer in addition to being a reader. Keep in touch, OK?

Suzie

---

Preface

For his entire life, John MacDonald II, Lord of the Isles, had believed that it was his destiny to wrest the northern Isles from Scotland and mature his title to King of the Isles. John II was proud of his lineage, and rightfully so. He was descended from the legendary Somerled, the half-Norse/half-Gaelic, who became the first Lord of the Isles three hundred years earlier. He was a thoughtful man, given to reflection and meditation with a personality better suited to the clergy than to leading the often rough and unruly Highland clans. When he laid plans to claim his destiny, both Scotland and his loyal Highland clans alike were deceived.

John II’s plan was to sign a secret alliance with Edward IV, King of England, in 1464 to annex Scotland to England. His reward would have been a claim to all of the lands, both in the Isles and along the Western Coast of Scotland, north of the Forth. It would have been a good plan, too, but a civil war in England, part of the ongoing War of the Roses, put Edward IV on the defensive and prevented the alliance from being activated.

One of the largest and strongest of the lesser clans in the Isles that gave service to John II was the MacLeod clan. At the signing of the secret English alliance, William MacLeod of the Isle of Harris and burgh of Dunvegan on the Isle of Skye, turned against John II. William’s cousin, Roderick MacLeod of the Isle of Lewis, remained loyal. This led to a permanent division in the MacLeod clan.

In 1476, unaware of John II's alliance with England, James IV, King of Scots, made him a Lord of Parliament, in addition to being the Lord of the Isles. Fifteen years later, Scotland learned of the alliance. Considering it treason, James IV led an expedition into the western Isles where he subdued John II in 1494 and killed all four of his sons. John II was forced to forfeit the title Lord of the Isles to the King of Scots. To this day, it remains a title of royalty. (Currently, Charles, Prince of Wales, bears the title Lord of the Isles.) Following this defeat, John II retired to Paisley Abbey to be a monk. He died in 1498.

Upon his death, John’s brother Usted became the chief. Usted was old and frail and allowed his grandson, Grumach, which means “The Grim”, to become Donald Grumach, the new ruler of the Isles. In 1505, Grumach tried to reclaim the title Lord of the Isles, but James IV returned and subdued Grumach as he had subdued John eleven years earlier. Grumach was imprisoned in the dungeon beneath the Edinburgh Abbey in 1506.

Scotland suffered a humiliating defeat to England in the Battle of Branxton Moor in 1513 at Flodden Hill, where James IV died along with 12 Scottish Earls, his son Alexander, the Archbishop of St. Andrews, 15 lesser lords and clan chiefs, and thousands of his countrymen. This led to the weak reign of James V.

With most of the major clans of Scotland weakened, the MacDonald clan saw an opportunity to restore their previous authority and land holdings. Donald Grom “The Blue” MacDonald was at this time leading the MacDonald clan. While not officially the Clan Chief as long as his father, Grumach, was still alive in EdinBurgh Abbey’s dungeon, Grom was nevertheless the chief in all practical senses. Gradually he extended his power through favors, manipulations, alliances and sometimes deceit. Over the years, he came to be viewed as the most significant and powerful man in the Isles. The balmy and unusually warm fall of 1538 dulled an awareness of a restlessness stirring in Sleat on the Isle of Skye.

Chapter 1

GIRSHON’S PORTRAIT

A faint smell of salt lingered on the sea breeze that rustled the heather of the Scottish coast. Anne Mackenzie stood on the pebbled shore of Loch Duich. The breeze, sweetened with heather and salted by the sea, rustled her skirt and blew her waist-length hair across her back and around her waist. She reached up to draw it away from her face and tossed a few wayward strands back over her shoulder.

“M’lady, ye must stand still if I should accomplish all I am to do today,” said Girshon.

“Please forgive me,” she replied, but as she began to drop her hand, Girshon stopped her.

“Hold thee there, m’lady! ‘Tis a most elegant pose and one that I wish to capture!”

Anne froze her arm, the long fingers of her delicate hand just brushing over her ear. Girshon painted swiftly, with his finest brush, outlining her arm, hand, fingers and hair to capture it all before the breeze calmed or the lady’s arm tired. Behind her, across the shallow waters of the Loch, Eilean Donan stood, its massive stone walls and parapets reflecting in the mirrored inlet.

At length, Girshon was satisfied and with a smile of relief, Anne dropped her arm to her side. Her hair, already the color of red Mahogany, glowed with sunset tones as it caught the sunlight. She walked around behind Girshon to watch as he mixed the forest and moss greens he needed to complete her dress. The dress was high-necked with a tight bodice and narrow waist, then flaring at her hips to fall in loose fullness to the stones on the ground. The long sleeves were fitted until at wrist, they too flared, full and open. Anne felt a flush of embarrassment at the beauty of the creature staring back at her from the canvas.

“Methinks thou hast put too much art and not enough reality into the face on the canvas,” she said.

“Not so, m’lady. The canvas fails utterly to render the features of one so fair as thee.”

“Well, I’m sure that Kenneth will find it pleasing,” she replied as she patted the old man on the shoulder. “It is beautiful, Girshon. I trust my father will pay you well.”

“Lord Kenneth is more than generous, m’lady,” Girshon answered. “I shall finish the details tonight and the canvas will be dry enough to hang on the morra. Tell him I will unveil it in the Great Hall at that time.”

Anne MacKenzie stepped into the skiff to cross the shallow water to Islandoanne, the small island near the shore of Loch Duich upon which Eilean Donan stood. The castle’s name meant “Island of Anne.” The name referred to the lady for whom the castle had been built some 350 years earlier, from 1183 to 1187. More than the castle was named after Anne of Kinkaid, however, and her namesake sat demurely in the skiff now, leaving Girshon still working as the light began to fade.

As she entered the castle, she passed her father, Kenneth MacKenzie, and his bodyguard, Duncan MacRae, on their way out.

“M’lady,” Duncan nodded respectfully.

“Well, girl?” her father said. “How doth the portrait?”

“Faither; Duncan,” she replied, acknowledging each. “Girshon said to prepare for an unveiling on the morra. Dost thou hie away to the Ceilidh ?”

“Aye, lassie, that we be. Methought thou wast coming, too.” When Anne nodded, Kenneth turned to Duncan. “See to it, lad, that the lassie arrives safely,” he instructed. So saying, he turned and proceeded to leave the castle, leaving Anne in Duncan’s company and protection.

Duncan turned and fell into step with Anne as she walked the entry path into Eilean Donan. “What sayest thou truly of thy portrait?” he inquired.

Anne’s green eyes twinkled as she replied, “That knave, Girshon, uses his brush to lie skillfully! The woman in the painting is no more mine own likeness than the moon on Loch Duich is a likeness of the Goddess of the Night.”

“Yet,” Duncan caught Anne’s forearm to halt her as he pointed out across the loch at the sparkling reflection of the sun’s setting orb, “the likeness on the loch rarely captures the full radiance of beauty.” As he looked into her eyes, Anne wondered for the hundreth time if it was just girlish imagination or was there more in Duncan’s expression than mere loyalty, respect, and friendship? Duncan was twelve years older than Anne and at six foot six, nearly a foot taller. Although he was her protector and bodyguard, he and Anne were best of friends, too. In some ways, Duncan was closer than Anne’s nanny or personal maidservant. She knew she felt a growing fondness for him, not altogether platonic, and best kept concealed. She wondered, at times like this, if Duncan had similar feelings he could not reveal.

Upon entering Eilean Donan, the pair quickly ascended to the outer attendance room beyond which lay Anne’s private apartment. “Wait here, dear Duncan, for this gown I wear is much too faire for the Ceilidh. I shan’t be but a moment.”

“I dinna think it ‘twas,” he grinned. “I’ll not be a-going anywhere, lass, ye can count on that!”

While she changed, Duncan arranged for the skiff to be returned to the island and horses prepared on the shore. When she emerged in the more common garb of womenfolk, Duncan had returned and was waiting for her. They crossed the shallows and he escorted her to the horses. Although a skilled horsewoman, she allowed Duncan to hold her waist and boost her into the saddle, taking secret pleasure at his gentle touch.

The brief moonlit ride through the trees to the village of Dornie was made more torturous than usual by the forest shadows and gathering ocean mists. The horses were trustworthy steeds however, and soon the light from the great bonfire pierced the fog and led them to the gathering of villagers and kinfolk.

The sparks from the bonfire seemed to dance in swirls into the night sky in time with the rolling, staccato lilt of fiddles playing traditional Celtic songs and the flashing feet and laughter of the dancers. Crofter Ian’s wife, Mary, was well known for her skill at making strong Scottish whiskey, bittered with heather root. Tonight, she was ensuring that her reputation as the local brewmeistresss remained intact as she kept pints filled with the intoxicating, if slightly unpleasant, concoction.

As chief of the MacKenzie clan and local landowner, for whom all of the villagers and nearby lesser clans were tenants, Lord Kenneth had been generously supplied with the libation. He was, by now, well on his way to a loud and raucous inebriation, telling stories that were funnier the drunker his listeners became. Anne heard his voice before she saw him and a brief cloud passed over her face, unseen by all in the darkness, save Duncan. She worried that his foolishness and temper would soon get the best of him and felt a pang of panic that this night would once again bring dishonor to the Mackenzie name. His current tale was an immodest variation of a local folklore tale of the magical wee folk of the forest, and was being well received, judging by the drunken roars of laughter coming from the men. Anne knew him well enough to know that soon he would be bending over and flipping up his kilt to drive home “the wicked butt of the joke” as he called it. Duncan, too, knew what was coming and having witnessed Anne’s frown, tried but failed to stifle a snort of laughter himself. Anne drew her horse close to his and swatted his shoulder, to remind him, with a stern look, of her disapproval. Duncan quickly wiped his grin off his face.

(cont. next post)

Chapter 1, cont.

After tying their horses, Anne and Duncan joined in the festivities. For an hour or more, Lord Kenneth rowdied with “the boys” as he called his cronies. The Sheriff of Dornie and Lord Kenneth were closest, for Lord Kenneth gave the Sheriff his power, and the Sheriff gave Lord Kenneth his army. Daniel Miller the Elder was one of the wealthier merchants in town, for he owned the only gristmill in a 25-clan radius. The McCrist brothers were a couple of tough cattlemen who drove the MacKenzie’s primary source of wealth to Glasgow every fall. Then there was Brother Raimie. He was a traveling monk from Edinburgh Abbey, though a native of the western highlands. In truth, he was a “reformed” Druid cleric who submitted to the crown and wore the robes of a monk to avoid the stake and flames of the Church.

Near the fire, a small circle of children sat on the ground at the feet of a stranger. The stranger sat on a stump telling sgeuls. He was in the midst of the sqeul of pure-hearted Nan and the visit of Tom Sprite, king of the wee folk. Anne edged nearer and quietly took a seat on the ground with the children, spreading her skirts around her. The stranger looked at her and smiled without interrupting his sgeul.

“…That night,” he was saying, “the snow was falling ever so gently when Nan helped her seanmhair settle down for the night. Nan returned to the kitchen where she scraped the plates and stoked the fire before going to bed.

“Tom waited until he could hear the gentle snoring of seanmhair…” which elicited giggles from the children, “…and the soft, relaxed breathing of Nan as she slept. Silently, he opened the door and slipped inside. Some snow blew in with him, so he quickly set about to sweeping it up. When he was finished, with that, he looked about at the small cottage. In the corner by the door were seanmhair’s and Nan’s shoes. They were worn nearly clean through, so Tom pulled a sturdy piece of leather from his bag. He cut new soles and stitched them with the strong but tiny stitches that only the wee folk can make, then got out his cobbler’s hammer and tacked them with tiny silver nails.

“Next, Tom went over to the fire. Although Nan had stoked the coals so they would last ‘til morning, the cottage was getting cold from the storm outside, so Tom put some logs on. Soon it was burning brightly and warming the cottage again.”

“But Nan had already put the last piece of wood on the fire,” one child piped up, reminding the stranger of an earlier part of the sgeul Anne had missed.

“Yes, she had,” the sgeulaiche hurriedly replied, “but the wee folk know that people are often poor, so always bring as much as they can with them.” The sgeulaiche leaned closer to the circle of children and dropped his voice to a whisper, as if telling a great secret. “In fact, Tom had not only brought some wood in his sack, just in case, but he had also filled a wagon with wood before leaving the forest. He planned on stacking it by the door for Nan and her grandmother,” the stranger said. Anne realized the stranger had stumbled, but smiled at his quick recovery.

“OK,” the child said, satisfied. “Go on!”

“Well,” the sgeulaiche continued, “the next thing Tom did was to fill the fire pot with water and swing it over the fire on its big, iron hook. When the water was hot, he added meal to make porridge that bubbled and filled the little cottage with its aroma. Taking one last look around to see if he had done as much as he could, he scurried to the door before Nan and her grandmother awoke to find him there.

“Alas! When he tried to open the door, he found that the snow had piled up too deep! He rushed to the window and drew back the curtains. The snow was so deep it even covered the windows. At that moment, Nan awoke. Imagine her surprise and delight to discover not only that elves are real, and not only to have an elf in her house, but to have Tom Sprite, the king of the elves in her house!

“Tom tried to hide. Elves, you see, are afraid of us! They believe that humans want to capture them and keep them in cages as pets. Nan, of course, with her pure and loving heart, wanted to do no such thing. All she had ever wanted was to see an elf. When she saw the snow at the window, she realized Tom’s predicament. She went over to the door and tried to open it. With much effort, she managed to force it open a couple of inches. When Tom saw she was trying to help, he came out of his hiding spot and pushed too. Together, they managed to get the door open far enough that Tom could leave. He waved goodbye as he left. When he had disappeared into the forest, Nan closed the door and hurried in to wake her seanmhair and tell her about it.

“Seanmhair didn’t believe Nan, for no human has ever seen an elf. Nan showed her the porridge, but seanmhair said that anybody could have made porridge. Nan showed her how clean the cottage was, but seanmhair was not convinced. ‘You’ve just been dreaming,’ seanmhair said. Then Nan found the shoes and showed seanmhair how new and sturdy they looked now. Well, seanmhair couldn’t explain that, so she stopped arguing. The real surprise, though, came when Nan went to the door to show seanmhair the marks where Tom had climbed out over the snow. When she opened the door, it opened freely, and the walk to the well had been cleared. In addition, the wood from Tom’s wagon had been stacked neatly next to the door, and on the doorstep was a small leather purse with three gold coins in it!

“And that is how Nan became the only person who has ever seen an elf!”

The children clapped in glee and cried out, “Another! Tell us another sgeul!”

“In a little while, children,” he winked at them. To Anne he said, “Ye are a wee bit old for children’s sgeuls, aren’t ye, lass?”

“Any adult who has forgotten how to enjoy a good fairy sgeul is a sad adult, indeed!” she replied with a smile.

“’Tis true!” the stranger replied. “And who do I have the pleasure of telling my tales to?”

Duncan had been watching keenly off to the side and stepped forward now. “Ye be speaking to Lady Anne of Eilean Donan, strinjer. Who might ye be?”

The stranger doffed his bonnet and swept his arm low before him in a deep bow as he said, “M’lady! William MacLeod of Dunvegan, at your service!”

(cont. next post)

Chapter 1, continued

At mention of the name “MacLeod”, Lord Kenneth’s face darkened and he bellowed, “Who dared to let a MacLeod among us to defile this Ceilidh with his stench?” He lurched forward, stumbling a bit as he came, eyes bloodshot and face turning red with rage. The children fled in all directions.

Anne sprang to her feet and threw herself on his breast to stop him. “Faither!” she cried. “This man is not a MacLeod of Lewis, defender of the MacDonalds. He is a guest here, more than a night’s journey from home, we’ll welcome him, feed him, and sha him aul our hospitality.”

“Silence, girl!” Kenneth said, grabbing her by the shoulders and throwing her to one side. “A MacLeod is a MacLeod and I’ll not be having one sneaking about, spying on me for his own nefarious purposes!”

Anne grabbed her father by his upper arm. “Stop it, faither! This man has done no harm, unless entertaining the children can be called harmful! You’re drunk! Sit down before you fall in the fire.”

Someone laughed at that. Kenneth whirled in fury and struck Anne with his full strength, sending her flying backwards into the circle that had formed around them. Three people in addition to Anne fell. “Ye’ll not talk to me in such disrespect, lass!”

William MacLeod reached within his Tartan and withdrew his big hunting knife, known as a dirk. “Is that how mainland Highlanders treat their women?” he challenged Kenneth. “Do ye lack the courage to face a man?”

Before Kenneth could react or William cause injury, Duncan pulled his shirka from its hidden location and sprang between the two men. Menacing William with the small, black, and deadly dagger while holding back Kenneth with his other arm stiff against Kenneth’s chest, Duncan cried, “Hold! There’ll be nun ‘o this betweenst you or ye’ll both be contendin’ with me, and worse for the wear because of it!”

Kenneth shouted past Duncan, with blood lust in his eyes, “She’s not me woman, you dog! She’s me child and I’ll treat her as I see fit, with no interference from the likes of ye! As for ye a-being from Dunvegan, the rest of this rabble might think that makes ye a gentleman, but I’ll not be fooled. I’ll exile your head from your shoulders if ye’ll not be departing peacefully this very moment.”

William stood his ground but made no further advance, nor spoke any reply. Duncan lightly tossed the shirka from one hand to the other and now pointed it at Kenneth.

“M’Lord, I beg you, don’t do this. I’m sworn to protect you and that I shall, willingly and loyally, to my dying day. But I also swore to protect your daughter, and protect her I will, even if it is to protect her from you!” Duncan looked over at the little group of men Kenneth had left. “Sheriff! Brother Raimie! Come hie and take m’Lord yonder that he may sit, for the lady was right: he sways too much to be standing so close to the fire.”

The men approached. Satisfied that the danger was past, William MacLeod relaxed his vigilance and lowered his knife. As he glanced down to insert it into its sheath, Kenneth saw his chance and lunged forward against Duncan, shoving him as he unsheathed his own shirka and swung at William. Although the move was unexpected, Kenneth was too drunk to guide his movements with any skill and instead of cutting William’s throat, he managed only to slash his cheek from ear to jaw, before being overpowered by the Sheriff and the monk. Two other men meanwhile grabbed William’s shoulders, pinning his arms, before he could retaliate. Duncan again placed himself between the two men, giving no thought to his own safety, until he was convinced that both were restrained and the fight was over. He then turned to attend to Anne, who lay on the ground, crumpled and motionless.

Duncan knelt beside Anne and examined her. Her nose was bleeding, the blood running down her cheek and into her ear and hair, and she was unconscious. “Water!” he cried. Someone brought him a ladle. He cut a piece of his tartan with his shirka and dipping it into the ladle, wiped her face with it, first wiping the blood, then pressing the wadding against her nose to stop the bleeding. The cool water revived her and she began to moan. Duncan cradled her head in his lap and soothed her as best he could.

Brother Raimie meanwhile went to examine William’s wound. The slash was deep, but clean. “Whiskey!” he called. Someone put a goblet into his hand. He took a swig, gave William a swig, and poured the rest into the wound on William’s face. Reaching within his robes, Raimie withdrew his ever-present cleric’s trove and removed some cat gut and a small bone needle. “Hold him steady!” he commanded and two more men stepped forward. While one put his knee into William’s chest, the other interlocked both his forearms against William’s head in a grip normally used to break a man’s neck, but used this time to hold his head immobile as Raimie laced up William’s cheek as he would mend a torn raiment.

“Find me a broadcloth,” Raimie said. When someone brought one, Raimie again dipped into his trove and produced some crushed and dried herbs. Wrapping the herbs into the cloth and wrapping the bundle with more cat gut, he soaked it in the whiskey and pressed it against the wound. “Release him,” he said, finally. To William, he instructed, “take this compress and hold it tight against thy face under pressure until the bleeding stops. Once the bleeding stops, rinse it to wash the blood, then bind it to thy face once again to let the healing herbs within work their magic.”

As William got to his feet, he muttered, “I’ll not forget this night, MacKenzie.”

Brother Raimie walked with William to his horse and helped him mount so William could keep the bandage pressed against his wound. “Take care, my friend, that you also remember the kindness of the lady Anne on your behalf, and the people who defended you from m’Lord MacKenzie’s wrath! These are wild times and it would be well for the clans to not be dividing amongst themselves with petty quarrels at this time.” He leaned closer then and drew down on William’s tartan. William bent low and Brother Raimie whispered something in his ear. After a moment, William nodded, then dug his heels into the sides of his mount and rode into the night.

When Lord Kenneth had calmed down with another shot of Mary Crofter’s wicked Scotch, Duncan helped him onto Duncan’s own horse, then swung into the saddle behind him, holding him tightly so he wouldn’t fall off on the ride home. Anne moaned softly and cradled her nose and cheek. The brothers McCrist helped her to her feet and supported her, one on either side. They took her to the nearest cottage, there to spend the night, as she was too unsteady to ride or return to the castle.

The following morning Anne seemed fit enough, though her face was swollen and sore. “Wael, are ye nich a sight for sore eyes, with yer ane dubh eye and cheek like a bruised peach,” said the farmer’s wife as she gently helped Anne clean up.

“I wounna know,” Anne said with a feeble smile. “Me eye is too sore tae see the sight!”

After a breakfast, the farmer fetched Anne’s horse and helped her into the saddle. “Be well, m’Lady,” he said as she left.

Later that day, Girshon mounted the portrait on the wall of the Great Hall. He draped over it a silk tapestry. When all was ready, he sent word to Lord MacKenzie who ordered all present to assemble for the unveiling. At the appropriate moment, Lord MacKenzie nodded to Girshon who with a gentle tug drew the tapestry from the frame. The silk floated down in a billowing canopy as the painting came into view, revealing Anne, walking along the shore, ripples lapping at her feet, Eilean Donan in the background, and across the Loch, the Isle of Skye with a lowering sun casting long shadows across the water. The likeness to the young woman was remarkable and the rich green of her dress set off the rich red of her hair.

“A masterpiece, perhaps thy best ever,” Kenneth MacKenzie pronounced. He raised his glass and the assembled friends and soldiers did likewise. “A toast, to my beautiful daughter, Anne! May her beauty and her grace live forever!”

“Aye, nearly as beautiful as the child sitting beside thee,” said Anne, a note of irony and a touch of anger in her voice.

“Hear! Hear! To the lassie, Anne!” the men chorused.

One among them spoke more softly than the others. Although his words were proper, the tone in Duncan MacRae’s spoke of feeling beyond what the words themselves allowed. If his companions heard what was not spoken, they did not take heed, but one at the end of the room did, and she lowered her eyes lest they betray her. In her present state, with blackened eye and bruised cheek, the woman in the portrait was indeed lovelier than the woman upon whom she was modeled.

Chapter 2

The Grim

William MacLeod rode in a thick haze of pain, every footstep of his horse jarring through his body, up his spine, into his neck, through his jaw, hammering at his wounded face. He leaned forward onto the neck of his horse, trying to become horse instead of rider, trying to move with the horse’s movements to lessen the agony. He was also trying to hold on, getting weaker by the hour. He followed Orion as it set in the west. Just before daybreak, he entered Harris and the western ferry passage to the Isle of Skye.

William tried to dismount at the ferry. Although the poultice had worked its magic and stopped the bleeding, he had nevertheless lost quite a bit of blood. He found he was too weak to stand and he slowly sagged to the ground. The ferrymaster hurried over to help. When he saw William’s bloody face and clothes, he crossed himself, then hoisted William to his feet. Throwing William’s arm over his shoulder, he half-carried, half-dragged him up the incline away from the ferry and to the nearest cottage.

“Open! For the love o’ Gawd! Open!”

An old man peered out as the door opened a few inches. Behind him, an old woman peered over his shoulder.

“Aw, fer Gawd’s sake, Patrick, open th’ dorre. This man be ‘urt bad,” the ferryman said. Patrick opened the door and the ferryman stumbled in, dragging William.

“Oh, my!” Patrick’s wife said. “Best lay him here, by the fire and I’ll see what I can do to clean him up? D’ye know who he be?”

“Naugh, woman, I dinna get a chance to ask. ‘E fell off ‘is ‘orse. Lucky for ‘im I was there a’tall.”

After the ferryman left, Patrick stood studying the unconscious William as his wife cleaned his blood and removed the poultice. She was surprised to see the wound bounded and stitched and quickly covered it again in fear at such obvious evidence of the magic of what she believed must the work of wood elves. Patrick, more familiar with the healing arts than his wife, having been on the battlefield once or twice in his life, was surprised but not superstitious. Nor was it the angry wound that held his attention.

“Woman,” he asked presently. “Does this man remind you of anyone?”

The old woman stopped fussing with the poultice and looked at William carefully. “Aye,” she said slowly. “There does seem to be a likeness of a kind to Sean MacLeod. D’ye suppose he might be one o’ those scoundrel cousins of Sean from Dunvegan?”

Patrick nodded. “Truth, woman! I do suppose!” He turned to leave.

“Where ye be a-trottin’ off to, Patrick?” she asked.

Patrick stopped at the door and looked back at her. “Why, to Sean’s, of course. Ye don’t be supposing we should hide the lad, now do ye?”

The old woman wagged her bony finger at him. “Ye might as well tie him to his horse and drive the beast into the loch, Patrick MacGregor, as turn him over to Sean. Ye know well enough that Sean and his Harris kin harbor ill towards the MacLeods o’ Dunvegan!”

“His surviving isn’t any oof my concern, woman. Mine is!” With that, he opened the door and stepped into the misty morning. He returned minutes later followed by Sean.

Sean MacLeod merely glanced at the unconscious form lying on the hearth. “T’is MacLeod of Dunvegan, sure enough. He wears their hunting Tartan! Where did ye say he was found?”

“The ferryman brought him up. Said he fell off his horse as he approached him. Must have come from the north or the east, if I had to guess,” replied Patrick.

“If his face is a map, then he came from the east,” said Sean thoughtfully. “So, that devil, Kenneth must be about, stirring things up again.” He looked at William, studying him for a moment. “See if ye can bring him around. I’d like to find out what our friend, Kenneth, is up to.”

Patrick’s wife protested. “The lad has no strength! Ye kinna expect he’ll just sit up and talk, reminiscing aboot the auld days and chatting aboot the weather, like he hasn’t a care in the world! Leave him here, and let me build his strength!”

Sean thought about it and then nodded. “A day, Mary,” he said. “I’ll return on the morra for him.” He left the cottage, leaving William in the care of the old woman. She began preparing a thin chicken broth to have ready when William awoke.

Sometime later, the couple’s son returned from a night of fishing on Loch Alsh. He and the old woman spoke in quiet whispers in the far corner of the room, with worried glances and animated gestures toward William, lying unconscious on the hearth. From the rapid speech patterns and quick exchanges, it seemed evident that they had strongly differing opinions about the injured man. At length, the young man nodded three times in quick succession. He then kissed him mother on the forehead and left, returning to his boat to salt and pack his night’s catch.

It was past midday when William came to. Patrick sat in a corner by the fire, whittling. Mary had just finished sweeping and was now fussing about in the kitchen. William’s face had swollen so much that he couldn’t open his right eye. His throat burned with thirst and his face burned with fever. He tried to speak, to ask where he was, to ask for water, but all he could say was, “Wa’r!”

Patrick stabbed his knife hard into the wooden arm of his chair and stood up abruptly, spilling wood chips all over Mary’s freshly swept floor. He silently picked up his walking cane and shuffled to the door. After it closed behind him, the old woman said, “Don’t fret noone aboot ‘im. ‘E’s just a crabby old man!”

The old woman helped William sit up and she held him steady as she put a ladle of water to his lips. Much of it went down his neck and chest, but enough passed over his tongue to slake his thirst somewhat.

Patrick headed straight for Sean’s place which was both his home and his business, Bull’s Head Inn. He found Sean’s wife out in the garden turning the soil with a trident till, preparing it for seeding for the summer. “Whar might Sean be?” Patrick demanded.

She looked up and brushed a lock of hair away from her face with the back of her wrist. The action left a smear of dirt across her forehead. “He would be up there,” she nodded her head at the wooded slope behind the cottage, “fetching firewood.” She eyed Patrick crossly. “And ye needed be a-using that tone o’ voice wi’ me, Patrick MacGregor! I dinna do anything to earn ye’r displeasure.” She returned to her gardening and Patrick, grateful for the walking stick, began the ascent up the slope and into the woods.

Mary continued to care for William and watch over him through the day and into the evening. By nightfall he was able to sit upright and sip the broth by himself.

The shadows were long and the view of the sea through the trees revealed the pink tones of a waning sun reflected off the water when Patrick found Sean. “Sean!” the old man wheezed, clutching his walking stick and leaning on it as he caught his breath.

“Wye, Patrick,” said Sean, surprised to see the old man. “What say ye? Do ye bring news of the Dunvegan lad?”

“Nay!” puffed Patrick. “Well, aye, in a fashion,” he said.

“Which is it, man? Nay or aye?”

“The lad awoke and the first word oot of ‘is mouth was ‘War!’” Patrick said.

“War? What war?” asked Sean.

“I kinna tell thee, sire, for the woman bade him be silent and still till he regain his strength. I thought it best to find thee quickly, as ye can no doubt learn the details yerself,” Patrick said.

Sean nodded. “Ye did well, friend. Now, help me bind this load of wood to the sides of me horse and let us make our way quickly back the way we have come.”

After making sure William was as comfortable as she could provide, the old woman asked him, “What of this?” while pointing to his wound.

William struggled to form the words, and they were indistinct and difficult to understand, but he managed to relate the events of the night before at the Ceilidh and the unexpected attack from Kenneth.

“Surely, ye know, do ye not, of the enmity betwixt the MacLeods and the MacKenzies?”

“Some,” William replied, “but naught all.”

“They say,” the woman began, “that Kenneth’s father, Dougal MacKenzie, came to the aide of the King, James IV, in 1494 when he stripped the title of Lord of the Isles from John MacDonald.”

William nodded. He knew much of that battle, but did not know that the MacKenzies had been part of it. The Lords of the Isles had vexed the kings of Scotland for centuries, taxing the shipping lanes and rallying the Highland clans and failing to support the armies of the king in various border skirmishes against the English. In an effort to strengthen Scottish sea trade, King James IV had attacked the Lord of the Isles in Dunvegan itself, forcing John MacDonald to submit to the crown and renounce the famous title.

For the last four years of his life, John lived as a monk in the Abbey of Paisley, just outside Glasgow. His brother, Usted MacDonald of Sleat, had succeeded him as head of the clan and the seat of power had shifted from Dunvegan to Sleat.

The MacLeods supported the MacDonalds and were weakened and shamed by this loss. A rift in the MacLeod clan formed when the MacLeods of Dunvegan refused to acknowledge Usted or support him while the MacLeods of Harris continued their allegiance. After John MacDonald’s death in 1498, his grandson, Grumach, became the head of the clan, known as the Donald.

“Aye,” the woman continued, “but that warn’t all that Dougal MacKenzie did! It was he that sent word to the king aboot Donald Grumach’s reviving of the title. That piece ‘o treachery in 1505 cost Grumach ‘the Grim’ his freedom. He lies to this day in the dungeon beneath the castle of Edinburgh! The MacLeods vowed to ne’er trust a MacKenzie again.”

(Cont. next post)

Chapter 2, continued

It was clear to William why Kenneth MacKenzie had been so eager to slash his throat, if he had thought him to be a MacLeod of Harris. After all, the Harris MacLeods were still staunch soldiers of the MacDonalds, providing might and arms even now to Gorm MacDonald of Sleat. He had to wonder though, why the man was so opposed to the MacLeods of Dunvegan, for the MacLeods of Dunvegan did not recognize Gorm, and opposed his taking of the name Donald while Donald Grumach was still alive. This division of allegiance among the MacLeods is what made it so dangerous for William to now be so close to his cousin, Sean.

The old woman pointed again at William’s wound. “Ye have not told me all of that night. How came this?”

“I told ye,” replied William, “I received that at the blade of Lord MacKenzie himself.”

“Nie, not that, me lad, but of the binding.”

“Ah, the binding, ye say.” William paused, then began. “There waere a stranger there that night, a man of the cloth. He knew of mystical things; things of the auld order.”

“He did, now did he?” The old woman fell silent for a while. After looking into the fire for some time, she spoke again. “He waere a druid, then.” It was a statement, not a question.

William nodded. “Aye. He waere.”

“Did he prophesy afore he left?” she asked.

Her question made William ponder. “That’s an odd question,” he thought. William recalled that when he leaned over on his horse last night in Dornie, Brother Raimie had whispered in his ear, “Deal not harshly with MacKenzie. They saved your family once, and may yet again. The threat is renewed.”

“What say ye?” William whispered back.

“There be stirrings beneath the Abbey in Edinburgh, and I’ll not be meaning the sewer rats, either. Already the King’s men have hanged one caught trying seek access to the one they call The Grim,” the monk said.

“And why should this news cause me to scabbard my sword on MacKenzie’s behalf?” asked William, through clenched teeth.

“Should the next martyr be more successful,” replied Brother Raimie, “no doubt ye’ll be wantin’ the strong right arm of every Highlander who stands to gain by opposing the next Lord of the Isles….”

“Well?” the old woman prompted.

William’s reverie broke and he was brought back to the present moment. He looked around the strange cottage, remembering where he was and he knew he shouldn’t trust this woman. “Why do ye ask?” he asked, trying to dodge her question.

She smiled and her whole face wrinkled. “The Druid was not there by accident, laddy, and nie were ye. If he saw fit to bind ye up, he wouldna leave without makin’ a prophesy to ye. Ye came this way, though the more dangerous, for t’is shorter by far than to round the way of Kintail to Eilanreach.”

William was alarmed. “Wot know ye, old woman, about me danger?”

“I know ye be MacLeod of Dunvegan and I know ye be questioned on the morn by noone other than Sean MacLeod himself.”

William’s eyes darted about, searching the room for imagined foes. “I sense ye to be a Christian woman, with a good heart. Help me now! I must leave this place, and more quickly and silently than an arrow flies.”

“If I help thee, will thou tell me the prognostication? Are the winds that blow faire or foul?”

“Help me, and I’ll tell thee.”

The old woman nodded and helped William to his feet. Leading the way, they slipped out the door into the gloom of early evening. Leading him to the west, they were soon out of sight and descending a steep and rocky face to a small harbor. A fishing boat rocked by a pier.

“Me son, Steven, is a fisher. He leaves within the hour for a night of catching,” the woman explained as she hurried William onto the boat and hid him under the nets.
“Thank ye, good woman! May ye be blessed for this kindness, and not harmed. The monk told me this: Donald Grumach, the Grim, is plotting an escape. Surely, when he does, he comes here to claim him own!”

The woman threw the last net over him and hurried back up the narrow trail to her cottage. Minutes later, William felt the boat set sail.

Five minutes after Mary had returned to the cottage, Patrick and Sean burst through the front door. Sean stormed through the small cottage then returned to the central area.

“Where’s the lad, woman!” he shouted.

“He left, ‘e did,” she said.

“On his own accord?” Sean asked scornfully.

“Aye. ‘E asked me where his horse might be and begged his leave to take the ferry to Kyleagin before the sun set,” she lied.

“What did ‘e say?” demanded Sean.

“Aboot wat?” asked Mary.

Patrick exclaimed, “You old fox! Why are you pretending to be clever? You know perfectly aboot wat.”

“I do?” she asked, surprised.

Exasperated, Patrick said, “Aboot war! Wat did ‘e say aboot war?”

“He dinna say noot aboot war, you old fart! ‘E asked for water! If ye warn’t so deef, you’lda heard that, and if you warn’t so eager to skitter out of the house, you’lda figured it out.”

Sean had heard enough. Without so much as a “G’night!” he strode out of the house and down to the ferry.

William lay there beneath the nets for some time, listening to the water slapping the hull and the creak of the timbers. Presently, he felt the nets move as someone began pulling them off him, and a voice above him spoke in low tones.

“Come on, then, Laddie. We are far from shore. It’s safe to come out now.” The nets slid away and William found himself looking into a young, clean-shaved face.

“Ye must be Steven,” William said. He crawled out from under the rest of the netting and stood up somewhat shakily.

“Aye, that I be.” The young man caught his elbow and grasp his shoulder with the other hand. “Auch, steady as ye go, there, mate!” he said. He wasn’t sure if the injured man before him was swaying from the rocking of the boat or weakness. “How ye be feeling?” he asked. “Ye got your legs, there? Do ye need to sit for a season?”

William leaned forward, bending his knees slightly, one hand bracing himself against the mast pole and the other propping himself stiff-armed on his knee. “I’ll be fine,” he said, not sounding fine. “It was a bit of wooziness there, mostly, and a moving platform beneath my feet didn’t help.”

Steven guided William to a cleat wrapped with rope. “Sit here, mate,” he said. As William sat, the young man said, “It looks like someone decided to improve yer chances wi’ tha lassies!” That made William smile, then wince. The young man continued, “So tell me, mate. Whose artwork do ye carry?”

William briefly related the events at the Ceilidh. When he finished, Steven said, “Me mum said ‘t rescue thee from tha bully, Sean MacLeod. What grudge does Sean have with an enemy of his enemy, MacKenzie?”

William shrugged. “Bad blood. Old feud. Has naught to do with Lord MacKenzie.”

“Ye call him ‘Lord’. That’d be enough to put Sean on thy bad side, alone.”

“Tha be his title, no matter what,” William said.

“Aye, save Sean would take offense anyway,” Steven replied.

“Ye don’t abide the MacLeods much, do ye?” William asked.

“Sean is not a man you want to be rilin’, and that’s the truth. I know naugh of the others.”

Steven’s answer told William that he knew that he was a MacLeod, too. “Why would ye be helping me?” he asked.

Steven smiled ever so slightly. “Me mum asked me to,” he said, simply. “Now then, whar shall I be taking thee?”

“I need to return to Dunvegan, to my father’s house,” William said.

“Aye, but laddie, Dunvegan is more than a night’s journey around Skye. Might I suggest Trotternish instead? T’is a fair port and ye can stay safely there for a day or two whilst your strength returns.”

William nodded. “Trotternish is fine, my friend. T’is more than I could have asked, just to bring me safe to the Isle.”

Suddenly, a shrill scream floated over the water. Both men started at the sound and turned to look back over the black waters at the distant shore left behind. As they watched, an orange dot appeared, the glow spreading as the cottage on the shore burned brighter. The mists hovering over the water formed a halo of red around the inferno. The screams choked and died to ghostly silence, broken only by the crackle and hiss of the flames as they consumed the little cottage.

Steven slowly sank to his knees, then sat on the backs of his calves and heels. He held his head in his hands and rocked back and forth. His body shook with silent sobs.

William felt like the air was too thick, making it difficult to breathe. He watched the spectacle in horror, aghast that his life had cost the lives of the old man and woman. As the fire burned down and the mists thickened, the carnage on the shore took on a character of a spectre, until the ghostly images faded to the dull reddened black of embers.

Steven muttered an oath, a terrible curse of vengeance, barely audible. William answered by swearing allegiance and fidelity to Steven until revenge could be visited ten-fold on Sean MacLeod. Steven turned to William and laid his arm on his shoulder. “And to thee too, mate, until the scar on thy face be avenged.”

“Nay, my friend, the scar on me face shall not be avenged, for I swore an oath to protect the honor and grace of the maiden, who shewed me kindness.”

Couldn't quite fit chapter 2 into just two posts. Here are the last paragraphs:

“Then a bond to the death of Sean MacLeod it shall be then!” Steven replied, a gleam of hatred, a thirst for blood, glinting in his eyes. But there was a look of bewilderment, too, that William would not seek to repay for the terrible wound on his face.

“Steven,” William said, “me fodder used to say, ‘Boy? Wot makes a forest enchanted, but for ghostly shapes b’day and shapely ghosts b’nigh?’” He gingerly touched his face. “’And by far the most dangerous of the two would have to be the shapely ghosts b’nigh!’ Aye, me friend, we’ll make good on our vows this eve’n but we’ll do naught aboot the shapely ghosts!”

So the two sat in silence as the night chilled to wee morning, each lost in his own thoughts: of family and cruelty; of the drunken Lord MacKenzie and his beautiful daughter; and of vengeance. Thoughts of Grumach, the Grim and his blue-eyed son, Gorm were pushed away and forgotten.

I changed my faux Scottish in each of these segments. Beyond telling my you like or dislike or want more or got bored with my writing, I'd like to hear your thoughts on what you hear when you read it and what I should think about editing.

wow. OK, I'm in. I just got on and saw this, so give me some time to read, ruminate and respond. Looking forward to it. I'll get back to you tomorrow. Any others out there taking the bait??

Seriously, Kelly, this is going to be interesting.

Suzie

Also, Kelly, if you're serious about editing, can you send it to me as a Word document? I am into the Preface and it suddenly occurred to me that I was itching to edit a couple of obvious things you'd probably find on your next read through anyway. (I've done such editing before in another context altogether, and you can just accept or reject the Comments . . . .). Otherwise, I won't edit at all but will just give you impressions when I finish reading, OK?

Edit away, my dear! I fear no pen!

As for posting in Word, I tried but didn't see how it was done. (I'm still reading a lot here and comparing my experiences here experiences I've had and things I've done in other venues.)

OK. I'm still learning this site, too. I don't want to deprive any other erstwhile "editor" but send me what you've got in Word and I'll edit away. Different from giving you my impressions, right? send to [email protected]. And stay tuned . . .

BTW, Kelly, I lived in Denver for a very short year in the 70s, and passed through (or flew into) Denver during my skiing years in Brekenridge. Great town, Denver. You're a mile high, right? Should go a long way for a writer . . .

So...? Have you read enough to form an opinion yet?

Not yet. Hang on.

Kelly - I'm going to jump right in, OK?

First of all, you've hooked me into the story already. You are only pushing me away with your attempt at the brogue. Contemporary English-speakers' ears (and brains) can handle "'tis", "ye", "lass", "m'lady", "nay", "aye", "'til" and the like, but the smoothness of your writing that carries us along with a pace that accelerates appropriately with the events in the story, is oddly interrupted when you ask us to "hear" a word by simply changing the spelling, or when you are showing off by using a word whose meaning we have to guess. Even if we guess correctly, that's not what the experience is about. We want to be allowed the illusion of being able to participate in the story and its characters and time. But please respect us, your readers. For example, "Faither" is unnecessary, so are "wael", "aul", "whar" and "Gawd." We can "hear" what the characters are saying through the music of your writing, without your "helping" us by changing the spelling. That injects you, the writer, into the story. You (and your control) are no longer invisible. (Same effect when you have a child say "OK", by the way. The child didn't say "OK", you did.) Also, reconsider using words that we have to guess at, even though it's easy to guess their meaning, we must stop to guess, and are mildly annoyed when we realize you've simply used a 16th century word that doesn't materially affect the story, e.g., sgeuls, sgeulaiche, seanmhair, shirka.

I recall being aware that David Liss was using language that evoked 17th century Amsterdam or 18th century London without forcing us to listen with his ear, but rather by confining the storytelling and the spoken language of the characters to the vernacular of the relevant century. Sarah Dunant was able to do it with 16th century Venice, as well . . .

Whew. This is difficult to write about. It can't help but come off harsh. I'd rather have just circled certain words with my little red pen and let you get the idea. And the real reason I'd rather have done that is that I absolutely love the period, the characters and the story, to the extent that I've tasted them all so far. You have a huge talent. All you need is an editor.

It was an honor to get to read it at this point. Thank you. And stay with it.

Suzie

Thank you, so much, Suzie! That was exactly the kind of thing I needed to hear. I'm very, almost inexpressibly, grateful that you wrote this out instead of just circling certain words.

I knew in my gut that I was doing too much. I was just so afraid that I'd not be presenting the 16th century faithfully that I let myself get carried away with the brogue. That's why I asked specifically about the brogue when posting the story here. I wanted to know, before I had written any more of it, where the center of the road lay. I knew I wasn't writing the way I needed to be writing, but I just needed someone impartial to tell me what to do about it.

Thank you, again, Suzie. Don't think of yourself as harsh, please. Harsh would be: "This is awful. You need to quit writing and get a day job." You were honest, detailed, and making solid observations. I value what you've given me. Thank you.

Does anyone else have any comments or suggestions or critiques for me on this?