Beloved Ruins, Book 1 Read online

  “Yet, now that she has disappeared, she is not yours to give either.” The jailer chuckled and then disappeared up the stairs.

  “‘Tis all you know about it,” Tam muttered as he sank back down to a sitting position on the cold, damp, stone floor. He shivered, pulled his arms out of his sleeves, and wrapped them around his chest under his shirt for warmth.

  CHAPTER 3

  LAIRD MICHAEL MACGREAGOR walked with a slight limp. An injury to the outside of his foot had long since healed, but it still ached occasionally, and it was most noticeable when a storm was brewing. Yet, being prepared for battle had served the MacGreagors well in the past, so pain or no pain, he and his men daily sharpened their skills, just as they had for generations.

  Michael was a reluctant laird. He favored a life that allowed him to joust with his friends, partake in horseraces, and carelessly flirt with any lass he fancied. Unfortunately, he was an only child and when his father passed not long after his mother died, Michael’s carefree life was no more. Instead, he found himself alone at night in a castle that had naught but empty rooms, all of which echoed the sound of his voice.

  His daily routine included climbing to the top of the north tower each morning to look through each of three windows at the vast MacGreagor land. In the lush green glen below and right on schedule, happy young women carried empty buckets down a path to do the morning milking. Coming from the opposite direction, and also right on schedule, an equal number of young men stopped, and gave out their best compliment, but the women simply walked right past them. That particular morning ritual had been happening for years and Michael missed being counted among the men. For a moment, he considered if any of the women would make a suitable laird’s wife, but he could never quite decide.

  Mothers were already heading to the river to wash out a few articles of clothing with the hope of having all day to dry them, providing it did not rain. In the part of the glen where the men daily practiced their warrior skills, the grass had been sufficiently trampled, dirt was beginning to show, and Michael considered moving them. He could decide that later.

  Through the trees, he could see part of the loch, a hillside filled with grazing sheep, and a newborn foal struggling to stand up straight. It made him smile. An unusually large black Stallion stood not far from the mother and foal. It appeared to be looking right at him, but Michael soon looked away. Various fenced in vegetable gardens dotted the other end of the glen, and as it always had, a road stretched from one end to the other, ending at the outer castle courtyard. Next, he looked to see if Lindsey was out and about yet. He spotted her outside her cottage, and that made him smile too.

  Every morning without fail, regardless of who was standing guard, the question was the same. “When we goin’ to build a bridge over the river?”

  Michael chuckled and put a hand on the shoulder of his faithful follower. “Soon.”

  “How soon?”

  “You know as well as I. We cannae build it until the lads gather enough stones, and is there not always somethin’ else needs buildin’ first?”

  The guard chuckled, “Aye, and my cottage was one of them.”

  “Besides, if we build it, the English can attack us from behind.”

  “We’ve not had a battle with the English in years.”

  “Perhaps they have forgotten about the Scots,” said Michael.

  The guard kept his smile long after he watched Michael head back down the stairs. After a time, he went back to the window to watch for danger.

  THE SECOND THING MICHAEL did each morning was to check on the elders. He walked out the castle door, started across the inner courtyard, and scooped a cat up on his way. “What are you doin’ here?” he asked, as he pet the cat. As soon as he exited the wide open outer doors, he set it down. Apparently, he chose a spot too close to one of the dogs, which made the cat arch its back, hiss, and then dash away.

  As he walked down path after path, chickens scattered, men nodded, women smiled, and children came to get their morning hug. Michael was always happy to see them too, swinging the little ones high in the air. This morning, he helped a boy learn how to hold his wooden sword just right, and then went off to check on Kester, the oldest of all the elders.

  Satisfied there were no major illnesses plaguing the clan, and that the elders had enough to eat, he joined his warriors in their daily training, and then went for a swim in the loch.

  Life was good and everyone agreed – the MacGreagor glen was a peaceful place to work, to play and to raise children.

  ONCE A WEEK, THE MACGREAGOR council met in the Great Hall to solve the clan’s problems and to make future plans. The Great Hall was a long, somewhat narrow room with a long oak table down the middle and enough matching chairs to seat several comfortably. At one end was a large hearth where a warm fire was kept burning year-round to keep out the cold and the dampness of the Scottish weather. Displayed on the walls were the usual assortment of tapestries and weapons, including a variety of shields, daggers, axes, and swords.

  As usual, Michael sat at the head of the table and listened to the four-man council’s seemingly endless complaints and speculations. To represent all three generations, he selected elder Diarmad, Owen, a man in his late twenties, and Brandon at just nineteen. The fourth member of the council was the sensible Rory, a strong fighter worthy to be his second in command. Each man was given a goblet of watered wine to drink, and slices of fresh bread lay on a platter in the middle of the table.

  At length, Michael ran his fingers through his dark brown hair and sighed. “King David is dead, a Stuart has taken the throne, and I see not what it matters who is king. Sooner or later, we shall again be asked to fight for the king and for Scotland.”

  “Not as long as the French keep the English well occupied.” Rory said. As tall as his laird, Rory kept his shoulder length, blond hair tied back with string, just as his father had before him. His was a bit of a slanted smile that he displayed often, especially when a woman by the name of Lindsey was around.

  “The French cannae keep the English busy enough for me,” said Brandon. At nineteen, he was always hungry and reached for another slice of bread. Newly married, his wife’s biggest complaint was keeping him fed.

  “And the French shall wisely ask us to fight with them,” said Owen. “If the English are attacked from the south and the north, the English will surely be defeated. I say we volunteer to fight with the French.”

  “Fight with the French? You have lost your wits,” said Michael. “Have we not seen enough of war?”

  “Aye,” the other three answered.

  “Remind me,” said Michael, “How many lads did we lose in the last battle?”

  The oldest male member of the clan, Diarmad did not have to speak loudly to be heard. “Nine.”

  “Aye, nine – leavin’ behind three widows and twice the number of children, all of whom needed clothes, shoes and a full belly.”

  “The children have all grown up now. Besides, you can afford that and more,” Owen muttered. A metalsmith, he worked on the bottom floor of the castle tower. His workroom had a small hearth in which to forge his wares, and lately his two-pronged forks were sought after by many. When he was young, his mother claimed he only had a hostile frown on his face when he was tired, but most knew better. When Owen was upset, all would do well to quickly get out of his way.

  Incredulous, Michael stared at his warrior. “You think me wealthy?”

  “Do we not pay enough in taxes to keep you in this castle, and...” Owen started.

  “Aye,” Michael shot back, raising his voice. “Taxes I spend carin’ for all those who cannae fend for themselves. Lasses once took pleasure in cookin’ and cleanin’ for the MacGreagor laird, but now I must pay them. I pay a lad to care for my horse, to man each of the towers, although we have not been attacked since my father was a laddie, and I buy the food we in the castle eat. When we celebrate, I pay for the feast. Do I not buy oil for my lanterns and an abundance of other goods fr
om the members of this clan? Furthermore, I send half the taxes to the king, to help pay the debt Scotland owes England – which is still well over twenty thousand pounds.”

  “That much?” Owen gasped.

  “Aye, that much. If it were possible, I would gladly...”

  “Dinna say it,” Elder Diarmad interrupted. “You are a good lad, the same as your father and his father before him. We shall have no other laird so long as I draw breath.”

  Michael took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “Forgive me, I dinna mean to shout.” Aside from presiding over the council meetings, Michael’s duties were many. He kept a record of births and deaths, crop rotations, and the price of nearly everything. As well, he regularly gave his advice on such things as how much a man, or a woman as the case might be, needed to sell to see them through the next year. All the men were required to take a turn standing guard in the night and the responsibility for the schedule also fell on Michael’s shoulders. Most importantly, it was up to him to keep the clan out of war, if at all possible.

  “We need better roads,” Brandon said breaking the odd silence. He would have liked another slice of bread, but there was only one left. Brandon was not real fond of watered down wine, but he drank his share anyway.

  “True,” Michael agreed.

  “I think to build a shop on the other side of the road to town,” Brandon added as he set his goblet down. “I have a wife now and lasses are costly.”

  “A shop?” Owen asked. “What sort of shop?”

  “One in which I can sell your forks, my oil for lanterns, my wife’s blankets and Lindsey’s pottery. I would even be willing to sell Rory’s belts. The better to sell them in a shop than to haul them all the way to Edinburgh each week.”

  “Tis a splendid notion,” said Rory. “I dread the time it takes to ride to the market and back again. I’ve more important things to do.”

  “Not if Lindsey is goin’, I wager,” Elder Diarmad snickered. “Why you dinna marry her is...”

  “Other clans have done it,” an excited Brandon interrupted.

  “Aye,” said Michael. “It begins with one shop, then a cottage to live in, and soon ‘tis a village.”

  “I see no harm in that,” said Rory. “We are spread out as it is.”

  “What shall we call this village,” Elder Diarmad thoughtfully asked.

  Michael chuckled. “I say we build it before we name it.”

  “Glenartair seems fittin’,” said Rory.

  “Aye, Glenartair it is,” Elder Diarmad announced as though he had the last word in the matter, which he normally did.

  “I thought the clan wanted a bridge across the river,” Michael reminded them.

  “Very well,” said Elder Diarmad, “we shall do both.”

  “If we dinna go to war again,” said Owen.

  Elder Diarmad frowned as he stroked his white mustache. “Perhaps we should simply leave Scotland.”

  “Leave Scotland?” Brandon asked.

  “Have you not heard,” Elder Diarmad said, “there be a whole world out there we have yet to see.”

  “And go where?” Michael asked.

  “Ireland would be my guess,” Elder Diarmad answered. “We constantly give our lads to war, and for what? To fight again next year and the year after?”

  “Does Ireland not go to war?” Owen asked.

  “Aye, and with the English,” said Brandon.

  “There, you see,” said Owen. “To save Ireland and ourselves, we needs be rid of the English once and for all.”

  Michael stood up, walked to the hearth at the other end of the room, and used an iron bar to stir the embers before he put another log on the fire. “Owen, you are a good fighter and I pity the lad who tries to kill you, but if fightin’ is what you want, I shall not forbid it. The king is always askin’ for more lads, and I shall recommend you, if ‘tis what you truly want.”

  Owen had his answer ready. “I shall think about it.”

  “Very well,” said Michael. “Lads, I’ve somethin’ else to say.”

  “Which is?” Rory asked.

  “‘Tis way past time we learned to speak English.”

  “English!” Owen nearly shouted as he half rose up out of his seat. “You’ll not see me sayin’ it. ‘Tis the language of the daft!”

  Michael pushed the log back a little further, made certain none of the embers had fallen on the floor, and then turned to face his men. “While we fight them on the one hand, we sell our goods to them on the other at a sound profit.” He came back to the table, picked up the pitcher and began to refill all their goblets. “For generations, the MacGreagor have used lads who understood the words to spy on the English, but this day the MacGreagors have no one. We have grown lazy.”

  “Aye, but...” Rory started.

  “Have we not always complained that we know not if English merchants cheat us?”

  “Aye, but...” Rory tried again.

  “At the market,” Michael interrupted, “we go to their tables to barter, and they speak to each other in English. Suppose they insult us and seein’ we dinna understand, raise the price?” Michael finished serving the men, set the pitcher down and then retook his seat. He directed his next comment at Rory. “You know they do it as well as I. ‘Tis time we put an end to it.”

  “He is right,” Diarmad softly muttered, “we have all seen it, but who will teach us?”

  “Tomorrow is market day. Rory shall go and seek a master willin’ to come. Perhaps we might learn to write it as well.”

  “Not me,” Owen again protested. “I’ll not speak it nor write it.”

  Michael defiantly folded his arms. “Have you found a wife yet, Owen?”

  “You know I have not.”

  “The English send their fetchin’ lasses to barter with us at the market. If one should take a likin’ to you, which is doubtful,” he teased, “dinna you wish to speak to her?”

  “Let her learn Gaelic,” Owen said. “I shall have a wife with the blood of the Scots runnin’ through her veins.”

  “Nevertheless, he has a point,” Rory said. “I care not what she is, so long as her blood is red.” He appreciated the chuckles he got from the others.

  “I hear Lindsey still will not have you, the color of her blood notwithstandin’,” said Elder Diarmad. “Perhaps I should...”

  “Perhaps you should not,” said Rory. “I can manage.”

  “Not so far,” Elder Diarmad muttered. When he looked, even the normally gruff Owen was smiling.

  “Well lads, what say you?” Michael asked. “If Rory can find a master, are you willin’ to learn English with me?”

  “You mean to learn it?” Brandon asked.

  “I do. I might prefer an English wife myself someday. ‘Tis settled then. Rory shall see if he can tempt a master to abide with us for a time.” He directed his next words to Rory. “Say I offer a fair wage and he may live in the castle.”

  Rory nodded. He was a stonemason by trade, but when there were no stones to chisel, he made leather belts to sell at the market in Edinburgh. Therefore, he normally went to the market each week anyway. Not only was it a way for him to make money, it meant spending time with Lindsey and that was something he greatly cherished.

  EVERY MEMBER OF THE MacGreagor clan was valuable, from the youngest to the oldest, but some had skills that were a touch more valuable. Lindsey MacGreagor loved making pottery, for she enjoyed the feeling of accomplishment. As well, her superior workmanship fetched a better price than most. The only MacGreagor potter, she did not seem to mind how difficult the work was. Large cooking pots took the longest to make but brought in the most money. Sometimes she put one small loophole handle on each side and three legs on the bottom. Other times she left the bottom flat and created one long, outstretched handle near the top so the cook could lift the pot with both hands.

  Lindsey’s was the last cottage on one of several paths that led to the river. The ground near the river provided the necessary clay and because
she needed a kiln to harden the pottery, the men dug a deep, square pit between her cottage and the river where very little could catch fire. In spring the river occasionally flooded, so even the cottages on the other side of the path had been torn down, leaving a wide open space for Lindsey’s worktable and fire pit.

  Laird Michael MacGreagor had an iron grating made to place over the top of the pit. Once the items were glazed and dry, Lindsey used a flat shovel with a long handle to place the items on the grating, where they remained until they cooled after the fire went out each night.

  Two things happened each morning. The handsome Murran came to build her fire and place the grating over it, because he was told to, and Rory, the man who wanted to marry her, came to see she had plenty of clay and a full bucket of water – because he wanted to.

  Normally, Murran was the first to arrive, bringing a hand cart filled with peat and wood for the fire in her pit. It was he she gloriously and excitedly loved, but so far he did not seem to notice her. Without fail, Lindsey was there to greet Murran and without fail, all he did was nod when he arrived and then nod before he left. Some mornings she thought to start a conversation, but the truth be told, she was far too shy around him and could not think of a thing to say. Therefore, he showed no regard for her one way or the other. That would change someday – she was certain of it.

  Rory came early too and often stayed to watch as she mixed the clay with water until she was satisfied with the consistency. On a wooden slab on her worktable, she firmly pressed the first glob of clay to form the bottom of the item, and then used a knife to trim the outside of the circle shape. Next, she rolled balls of clay into long tubes, added coils to the base, and then smoothed the sides until the clay began to take the form of a plate, a bowl, a cooking pot, a pitcher, or a candle holder, depending on her mood. Even more than molding the clay, she loved decorating the outside of each item with leaves and flowers with paints she kept in small, sealed jugs she’d made herself. By the end of the day, she usually had six or seven pieces made and set out to dry, with an equal number from the previous day ready to heat over the fire.