Charming the Shrew

by

Laurin Wittig

CHAPTER ONE

Early December, 1308, Highlands

Tayg pulled his shaggy Highland pony to a halt and gazed down over the glen of his childhood. He had delayed this return for nearly a year while he served with the Bruce, but he could no longer deny his fate.

Robbie was dead. Tayg did not wish to be chief but he knew there was no other choice. Robbie had made Tayg promise to fulfill his unfinished duty to the clan.

And now the time had come to face destiny and he would do it as Robbie would have. He sat up straighter, arranged his cloak and settled his mouth into the serious expression Robbie always wore.

He nudged the pony forward.

It carried him along a snow edged trail that led into the heart of the village. He passed the outermost cottages with no notice from the inhabitants. He was unaccountably relieved to escape the usual clamor when someone returned after long absence.

But 'twas not to be. A dog barked. A child ran round the corner of another cottage deeper in the village and slid to a stop.

"Robbie?" the lad said and Tayg looked behind him, half expecting to find his brother there. "Nay. Tayg! Da, 'tis Tayg!" he shouted running to the cottage door and flinging it open. "'Tis Tayg!" he yelled again.

Doors flew open and the lane the pony followed was quickly flanked by Tayg's kin, old and young alike, lining the way and shouting his name as if he were a great war hero; as they would have greeted Robbie.

Tayg waited for the silence to descend, but it didn't. There were shouts and laughter and a lightness to the people's faces he had not seen the last time he was home.

He stopped the pony in front of the largest structure in the village, the hallhouse. The three-storied stone building commanded the foot of the lane and was surrounded on three sides by a loop in the river making it more defensible than any other place in the village. It served both as his parents' home and as the central storage and social building for the clan. His mother, Sorcha Munro, stood at the top of the long narrow stair that led to the only entrance. Her thin face looked older than he remembered, but her thick, braided hair was still a deep shade of sable, and there was a crackle in her eyes that told him she could still make sure her husband and her remaining son did as she wished them to.

Tayg offered her a smile and was pleased to see it returned. She had been overcome with grief when they had buried Robbie and he had not thought to see a smile on her face ever again. He turned his smile into the cocky grin that had melted her anger when he was a youngling and prone to trouble. Her smile broadened and she shook her head as she started down the stair.

His father, Angus Dubh, chief of Munro, stood at the bottom of the stair, his night-black hair beginning to show strands of silver at his temples and in his heavy beard, though the great bear of a man looked as strong and sturdy as ever he had.

Tayg dismounted and handed the reins to a young lad standing nearby with his mouth open as if Tayg were a monster with horns instead of a warrior returned from war. Tayg winked at him and saw a blush rush over the lad's cheeks. He turned to his parents.

"Da. Mum." He wasn't sure what to do next but his mum, as always, did. She moved forward and enfolded him in a fierce embrace. His father joined them and Tayg felt much of the tension he had carried with him these many months drain away.

It was good to be home.

~ # ~

A few hours later, after much conversation with his mother over the well-being of his many cousins who also served with the Bruce and a good hot soak in a real tub, Tayg adjusted the pleats of a brand new plaid his mum had brought him. The weaver had been experimenting with new dies and new patterns and this was the best of the plaids she had produced, saved for just this occasion.

Tayg admired the crimson crossed with the brightest green he had yet seen in a plaid and a watery blue with just the smallest line of brilliant yellow crossing through it all. 'Twas not a plaid he would wear when hunting, nor fighting, for 'twas bright of hue and would easily be seen but 'twas an excellent change from the browns and greys he had worn so much of late. The colors seemed to lift his spirits and he began to look forward to the evening spent amongst his friends and family.

Mum had said a bard was with them for the winter, a happy but unusual arrangement as bards tended to winter over in the larger castles where there was more coin to be earned. This one was apparently wooing a lass in the village and had visited the clan often in recent months.

Tayg reached for his claymore, then remembered where he was. A sword would not be a necessary addition to his festive attire this evening. He did slide his dagger into its sheath and checked that his sgian dhu was in its place. Some things would not be left behind no matter where he was.

Satisfied that he was ready to face the clan, he left his chamber on the topmost floor of the hallhouse and descended the twisting narrow stair to the middle floor which was given over almost entirely to a hall. Tonight it was filled with trestle tables, groaning with food, and people enough to make the large chamber feel crowded but somehow cozy. A fire roared on the hearth at one side of the room and at the far end was a dais where a long table had been placed. Four chairs had been arranged near the center of the table facing those gathered in the hall.

Tayg could see his mother and father already seated there. Next to his mum was an empty chair and next to that sat Duncan, his friend since they were wee lads. Duncan had left the fighting when he had been badly injured at Balnevie some seven months before. Tayg was glad to see that his friend appeared fully recovered and, from the way he was cutting into his food, there had been no lasting effect upon his sword arm. Relief poured through him though he had not been aware of holding more than a passing concern over Duncan. Duncan would be his champion when Tayg became chief and he was counting on his friend's level head to help him fill Robbie's considerable brogues.

He made his way quickly to the table on the dais, kissed his mother on the cheek and took his place next to her. Duncan clapped him on the back and somehow managed to grin while still chewing.

"You look well," Tayg said while he helped himself to the platter of roasted beef sitting in front of him. "Where is Mairi?"

Duncan grinned. "She is not feeling well."

Tayg looked at his friend, puzzled by the grin.

"She is with child," his mother said, passing him a tureen of turnips and leeks.

Tayg looked back at Duncan and couldn't miss the pride in the other man's face. "Congratulations! So you're to be a da. How soon?"

"Another two months, though the midwife says it could be a bit more. Mairi is uncomfortable, but happy."

Duncan filled a tankard with the dark ale Tayg had missed so much in his travels and Tayg raised it.

"May you have a strong and healthy bairn," he said, then took a long slow draught.

For a time there was silence as they ate and Tayg mulled over what Duncan's impending fatherhood meant. He had not worried much when Duncan had announced that he and Mairi would be wed. That event had changed Tayg's life little. Duncan had happily followed him and Robbie off to war even though it meant leaving Mairi behind in the care of his family. But he had not returned after his injury healed and now Tayg knew why. Duncan had responsibilities that now went far beyond a pretty wife.

It seemed he and Duncan both had responsibilities they had not held a year previous.

After Tayg had devoured a second helping of everything, he refilled his tankard and looked about the hall. The bard had left his dinner and sat before the fire, quietly playing on his harp while the rest finished their meal. Soon the man would sing and tell stories. The lasses would swarm about him, though perhaps not as much as usual if there was one particular lass this bard was wooing.

He turned his attention back to Duncan and they traded tales of all the men they'd fought beside, even planning a foray to visit auld One-eyed Gair who lived but a day's ride from Culrain. As the conversation wound down they sat companionably drinking their ale and listening as the bard sang a song of valor in battle. Tayg was surprised to hear his name again and again in the verses. When the song was finished the bard launched into a tale of the battle of Belnevie and Tayg heard his name yet again.

Gradually he became aware of fleeting glances from a lass here, a lad there. A granny would hold his gaze and nod her head as if she had taken his measure and come to some conclusion. There were groups of women, three here, five there, who bent their heads together in hushed conversation, then they would giggle and each of them steal a look at him, then more giggling and more whispered talk.

"There will be trouble in this hall, mark my words," Duncan said.

"What kind of trouble?" Tayg asked.

"The kind only you can create my braw lad," his mother replied from his other side. She had sat in silence, observing for a long time. "The lasses -- and their mums -- are plotting over you already."

Tayg laughed. "That has never caused trouble -- well, never much trouble -- in the past."

"Do not laugh my darling boy. There is nary a lass within a day's ride of Culrain who has not swooned over the stories of brave Tayg in battle, charming Tayg in the hall. Your time in service to the king has honed you like a fine sword. You are more handsome than even your brother was, bless his soul. You are returned from war a valiant warrior of the king, and you shall be chief after your father. Nay, 'tis nary a lass within two days ride of Culrain who has not dreamed that you would return and fall at her feet, begging her to wed you."

He listened absently to the bard, watching the lasses and wondering if one of them would someday make him wish to marry. They seemed so...alike. He hadn't been gone so long that he didn't know every one of them, had since they were all wee lasses. There were pretty ones and plain ones, some were thin and others more plump. Some had auburn hair and others blond, but none of them stood apart from the others. None of them were truly different from the other lasses. Most were pleasant, and in that regard would be fair as a wife, but none of them stirred him. Well, some of them stirred him, but only in a physical way. None of them captured his mind and heart the way Mairi had Duncan's or even the way his mother captured Da's. Still, perhaps one of the lasses listening raptly to the bard sing about...

Tayg listened more carefully. Surely it wasn't another song about him. He rested his head in his hand. This had to stop. The songs were absurd, elevating a simple warrior to the level of a hero.

The bard finished the song with a flourish on his harp and applause erupted from the crowd. Several of the lasses tittered, then cast him knowing glances over their shoulders. Lasses were always fluttering around him like beautiful moths drawn to a flickering flame.

"'Twould appear I am to enjoy myself," he said, more to himself than to his companions.

"That you must not do," Sorcha said, catching his full attention with her serious tone. "'Tis time we spoke of your future."

He had made peace with his future yet a chill ran down his spine at words. The grimace that passed over his father's face served to strengthen his unease.

He pushed his chair back and propped his feet upon the table affecting an unconcerned pose. "Wish me well, Duncan. 'Tis my future we discuss."

Duncan smiled. "Perhaps you shall like your future. It seems to me that you are ready for it." He raised his cup to Tayg and drained the contents. "For me, I'm off to see to Mairi's comfort."

"Give her my greetings," Tayg said, then turned his full attention to his parents. He didn't see any sense in putting this off any longer than his year of fighting already had. "My future?"

Angus rose from his seat and paced the length of the dais. Sorcha watched him, but she would not meet Tayg's eyes. His parents' unusual behavior made the skin on his scalp prickle, not unlike the way it did just before the enemy surged into battle. He glanced from one parent to the other, waiting for one of them to speak.

At last Angus sighed and propped a hip on the table so that Tayg was trapped between his parents. A lively tune at odds with the serious looks on Angus and Sorcha's faces flowed from the bard.

"You ken you are to be chief, aye?"

"Aye."

"You have proved your mettle this year past. I believe you will serve the clan well."

Tayg forced himself to maintain his relaxed pose, watching and waiting as he had done so often in war. "I shall do my best. I promised Robbie 'twould be so."

Angus actually smiled. "I do not doubt it. Robbie would not allow his responsibilities to go unanswered. He was always very serious in that way."

"Aye, he was."

"As we would ask you to be," Sorcha said.

The prickling spread from his scalp down his back and he found himself braced for battle.

"Sorcha, I do not think 'tis the time now to speak of such things."

"Wheesht, Angus, 'tis past time for the lad to wed."

"Wed?" Tayg's feet thumped to the floor and he reached for his tankard. The growing gleam in his mother's blue eyes worried him and he realized 'twas too late to escape before she sprang whatever plan she had on him.

"If we are to avoid much turmoil within these walls we must see you wed immediately. 'Twill be a long and dismal winter if the lasses are at odds over you, especially with their mums pushing them all to it."

"I do not wish to wed."

"Few men do until confronted with it," Sorcha said. "There are plenty of willing lasses here in Culrain. You shall wed before the month is out and all will be well."

"Nay, 'twill not be well! Nay," he said again, stalling for time while his mind searched for just the right argument to stay his mother's plan. "I need a year at the very least, perhaps two."

Angus laughed quietly. "I would give you more than that lad, but I'm afraid your mother does have a point."

Tayg held out his tankard which Angus quickly refilled. He let his head drop back against the chair and he stared up at the smoke darkened ceiling. He was only just home, only now coming to terms with his new role in the clan, yet already Mum was pushing him further.

He knew he would be judged by his reaction but he could not take this task upon himself. 'Twas enough to step into Robbie's shoes and lead the clan. 'Twas his duty and he would fulfill it.

"I do not wish to marry...yet," he said, still staring at the ceiling where he would not have to see the stubborn gleam he knew to be in his mother's eyes.

"But -" Sorcha placed her hand upon his arm. He held up a hand to stop her words.

"If I am to take Robbie's place," he said, looking her in the eyes now, "then you must trust me to do what I deem best. Marrying hastily will do naught but bring strife to these good folk, and to me. Tell everyone - especially that bard - that I will choose a wife when I am ready to. If there is trouble I will do my best to defuse it. And tell him to stop singing those damn songs."

"See Sorcha, did I not say so?" Angus said, grinning as if Tayg had felled the biggest stag in the wood.

"Aye, you did but 'twill not be enough. While Tayg is here and unpromised there will be strife amongst the women."

"I will not be forced to wed one of these lasses. Were it not me, 'twould be someone else they bickered over. Besides," he said, looking over the young women enjoying the bard's entertainment. "I have known them all long enough to know there is none amongst them whom I wish to wed."

"Then we will arrange another--"

"Nay. I will find my own wife."

Sorcha looked at him, her gaze level and unwavering. "You are to be chief. It is your duty to do what is best for the clan. As long as you are here and not wed you will cause trouble amongst the women. 'Twill be good for no one."

Tayg sighed and prayed for strength against his mother's strong will. "Then I shall leave. I shall return to the king's service--"

"Wait lad. As it happens, I have a task needs doing that will serve to delay" -- he looked pointedly at Sorcha -- "what your mother fears will happen. 'Twill also give you the opportunity to meet other lasses who may ... appeal to you." He motioned Tayg to follow him into his private chamber.

"Angus." Sorcha's voice was low and her displeasure with his interference was clear.

"The lad is right, my love. He should not be forced to wed so hastily. I did not like that it was necessary for Robbie to wed a lass he did not fancy. The lad here is wise enough to see the folly in such a plan. We will buy Tayg and you some time." He leaned over and kissed his wife on the cheek. "Go. Spread the word that Tayg is leaving immediately on the king's business. Make sure that bard understands that if he wants to continue to enjoy the company of the Munro lass he fancies he will cooperate -- and he'll stop singing those songs."

"Or telling those tales," Tayg added.

Sorcha looked at first her husband and then her son. She rose and hugged Tayg. "I do not want to see you unhappy. There is enough of that in this life, but we must consider the clan-"

"Go now, love," Angus said and Tayg was surprised to hear the softness in his father's voice.

The two men watched her walk to the bard and draw him away from the circle of listeners, then Angus wrapped an arm around Tayg's shoulder and led him into the chief's private chamber. Tayg had always thought of this chamber as the bear's den, a dark little space where Da and Robbie would seclude themselves for hours, shutting out all others while they discussed who knew what. The small chamber was almost too warm after the drafty Hall so Tayg left the door open, allowing the heat to mingle with the cooler air as the somber mood of the room mingled with the lilting music of the bard.

His father stood at a battered wooden table that took up the center of the room. He tapped a parchment pinned to the table with bricks of peat with a thick finger.

"I received this just yesterday. The Earl of Ross, that daft bastard, could have had the bard tell me what he wished instead of sending this drivel" - he banged the table with his fist - "but he does so love to show off his writing."

"You ken he has someone write it for him, do you not?" Tayg asked.

"Aye, but he never hesitates to boast of the fact that he sends his messages in a written hand. Some fool notion of making sure his words are not mangled by the messenger. Fah. As if a bard would mangle any words. 'Tis a daft idea. Writing only leaves the message where others may find it. If 'tis truly important, it should never be set to parchment!"

Tayg just nodded as he scanned the jagged writing. He could read, but it wasn't a skill he used often, and like any skill, it grew rusty with disuse. After a few moments though he had recovered the knack of it and he began reading aloud: "Angus Dubh of Munro, my greetings." He ran his finger along the parchment just beneath the words as he deciphered them. "Be it known to you that Lord Robert, the illustrious King of Scotland, shall grace Dingwall Castle and its inhabitants with his most gracious presence on the third day before Hogmanay to witness the marriage of his sister, Lady Maude, to my son and heir, Hugh O'Beolan.

"He commands each of his loyal chiefs to attend him there so that he may know them and receive their fealty. Our King is particularly anxious to receive such from the MacDonells of Dun Donnell.

"'Tis your duty to see this message delivered to the MacDonell chief, and to each chief your servant may find between Culrain and Dun Donell."

It was signed with the Earl's mark and an ornate seal of red wax with a sprig of juniper pressed into it.

Tayg considered what he'd read for a moment, scanning the words once more to get the sense of them. He glanced up at his father who had a deep scowl on his face.

"Why would he not send his own man to the MacDonells?" Tayg asked.

"The better question is why did he bother to put such a task to parchment?" his father said, pacing in a circle about Tayg and the table.

"To make sure his words were not mistaken?"

"Nay, 'tis a simple message with little to complicate its delivery. There is more here, but I do not see it yet."

"'Tis nothing more here, Da."

"Ah, lad, there is," he growled. "Just as a voice can imply the true or false intent of the spoken word, so parchment and quill can tell you more than is strictly written."

Tayg leaned against the table and waited for his father to explain.

"You have been with the king. What do you know of this? Angus asked, gesturing at the missive.

Surprise coursed through him. His father was asking his opinion? Very well, another test. He had apparently passed the first.

"'Tis an uneasy alliance," he began, "between the King and the Earl of Ross, despite the impending marriage of the Earl's son to the King's sister. 'Tis no secret there is little trust between Ross and the King as of yet."

"Aye," his father said, stroking his black and silver beard, "So Ross needs to offer proof to the King that he is a loyal servant, and what better way than to have as many folk as possible attest to such after seeing or hearing of this document."

Tayg nodded and followed the line of reasoning. "He wants this conspicuous display taken to each chief, so that they too may attest to his loyalty when they greet the King at Dingwall."

Angus nodded and paced.

"But why have one of our kin carry it?" Tayg mused.

"Ah, 'tis simple that one. The Earl would not wish to send one of his own kinsmen into that stronghold. There is no love lost between the Earl of Ross and the MacDonells."

"So we, as loyal allies of the Earl's, but who have no argument with the MacDonells, are selected to trek into the bens at the start of winter."

"You see?" Angus said, grinning as if Tayg had surprised him once more. "There was more to the missive than the words written upon the parchment. Perhaps your time with the king has honed your mind as well as your sword arm."

Tayg tried to ignore the reference to his previous lack of interest in the politics swirling around the clan. Serving in the king's cause for more than a year taught a man many things besides the art of battle.

"'Twill not be an easy journey," Tayg said. "And Hogmanay is less than a month away."

"Aye, 'twill likely take a fortnight or more to complete the task, and then only if the snows hold off." Angus pulled a rolled parchment from a shelf below the table, spread it over the missive and began studying what appeared to be a map.

Tayg considered the task. A fortnight journeying through the Highlands. Dun Donell would not be an easy trip even in high summer when the days were long and the weather gentle. This would be a fortnight, all told, in the cold, traveling from village to village, castle to castle all alone. A fortnight might give him the time he needed to figure out how to avoid his mother's solution to the problem the bards had caused with the lasses or, if he must wed, at least he would have this time to choose from other lasses he might meet along his journey. His father's plan became clear.

"So I shall take this missive to the MacDonells," he said, "thereby serving the king, the Earl of Ross and escaping the clutches of both Mum and the other scheming women." He tried to suppress the smile that fought to spread itself over his face. "And perhaps I shall find a lass I might wish to wed -- one who is not enamored fo the bard's version of Tayg of Culrain." He glanced at the map.

Perhaps 'twas better in more ways than one for him to leave the comforts of his home for a while longer. Perhaps this bard would be gone by the time Tayg returned from his travels or at least his songs would have ceased. Or he would have moved on to another village where he would tell the same stories and sing the same songs and spread this drivel even further into the Highlands ... if others had not done so already.

He was daft if he thought escaping Culrain would solve this problem. The bards had no doubt spread these songs and tales across the Highlands already. Such things were meant to lift the spirits, and songs of bravery in war were always the first to spread. No wonder his mother claimed the lasses were scheming to marry him. With drivel like that to contemplate the lasses would be laying in wait for him, especially if word got out that he was journeying into the bens. Ballocks! 'Twould be an escape from his mum's scheme but no reprieve from marriage-minded lasses.

Applause drifted through the door and he heard the clear tenor voice of the bard beg the crowd's pardon while he took a wee break.

There was the life. A bard traveled freely, unencumbered by responsibilities. He had the attentions of the lasses but not the burden of their aspirations. He had all the good of life and very little of the bad. If only...

Of course! A simple bard could do what Tayg of Culrain could not. A bard could deliver the Earl of Ross's missive, make light with the lasses, and enjoy the hospitality of anyone he encountered on his journey. The only responsibilities he would have would be to entertain his hosts with songs and stories and the latest gossip. True, Tayg didn't sing all that well, but he told stories as well as any trained seanachaidh and he used to play the frame drum a bit when he was a lad. He knew gossip a-plenty from spending months in the king's army. How difficult could it be to pretend to be a bard - at least once he left the country where his face was known?

"I shall leave at first light." Tayg took the map his father handed him and quickly rolled it up with the Earl of Ross's parchment.

Angus actually chuckled. "Wise lad. I'll do what I can to dissuade your mum from finding you a lass herself. In truth I think she sees trouble where it is not or perhaps she simply pines for your bairns. See that you do not return too soon or we may see you wed too quickly yet."

Tayg had packing to do and a drum to find for he would be quit of these walls before sunrise. He gave a nod to his father and left the bear's den, happy in his prospects, at least for the present.

CHAPTER TWO

Copyright Laurin Wittig, April 22, 2005