Highland Storms (5 page)

Stabbing her needle into the material with unwarranted viciousness, she swore she’d handle him herself. She just didn’t know how yet.

‘
Wishin’ ye guid weather,’ the landlord called after Brice as he left the inn the following morning, feeling slightly bleary. Although the heather mattress he’d slept on was comfortable enough, the little inn hadn’t afforded much in the way of privacy and someone’s snores had kept him awake a good part of the night.

‘
Thank you.’ He knew this strange farewell was a legacy from the old days when a man’s safety depended on the weather as he travelled through the Highlands, and it made him smile.

He was soon riding along the military road built by the English General Wade in the 1730s. It was at least five yards wide, a lot better than most Highland tracks and properly constructed of stone and gravel. It headed north-west towards Glenalmond and here he’d reached the edge of the Highlands proper. The heather-covered hillsides, steeper than any he’d passed the day before, were a lovely sight to behold. Rich blossom in shades of mauve, lilac and purple spread out before him, and he breathed in their fresh scent. The tops of the hills were bare rock, which for large parts of the year would be covered in snow, but were now dark and imposing.

In the valley, the River Almond wended its way into the distance like a long glittering snake. At one point, a beautiful waterfall made its way down to join it and Brice stopped for a while to admire it. The sun was beating down, but flurries of wind danced around, keeping him cool. It was quite simply glorious.

‘
Are you thirsty, Starke?’ He guided the horse towards the edge of the fast-flowing burn and they both drank their fill.

Once through the long glen, Brice didn’t continue north to Aberfeldy. Instead he turned left onto a fairly wide, but rough, track constructed by his great-grandfather Kenelm. The old man had lived to a good age and as he’d wanted to travel in some comfort, he’d seen to it the journey to Rosyth could be done by carriage if need be.

‘
Just as well for us, eh?’ Brice patted the neck of his horse and received the usual snort in reply. ‘You’re too big and heavy for the normal Highland paths.’ He reflected that he probably shouldn’t have brought the horse at all, but he’d hated the idea of leaving him behind again when he’d only just come back.

Brice had fond memories of Rosyth House and now he was closer, excitement built inside him. Would it look the same? And how would he feel about it now he was older? He had his answer when he rounded the final hill and saw the strath – the wide, shallow valley – which surrounded the small Loch Rosyth. The big house was still intact. However, there were clear signs of neglect and dilapidation even from a distance.

It was situated right next to the loch, dominating a peninsula that jutted out as if pointing towards a small island in the middle of the water. It was more like a keep of many towers than an ordinary manor house. Built of grey stone hewn from the surrounding hills, it looked forbidding, but Brice knew the interior was comfortable and welcoming.
At least, it used to be, but perhaps things have changed?
The loch’s surface was almost still today, reflecting the summer sky and the surrounding hills perfectly. Brice felt an unexpected jolt of pride as he gazed down at his new domain – as far as the eye could see was Rosyth land and it belonged to him now.

‘
I can’t quite take it in, Starke,’ he muttered. It felt slightly unreal.

He approached down a half-mile-long dirt road flanked by the twenty-odd rounded huts which made up Rosyth township. They had always been poorly constructed, but Brice couldn’t remember ever seeing them in such a dismal state before. They were all smaller versions of the inn he’d stayed at, made of timber, turf and stones, with turf- or heather-thatched roofs. From a distance, they blended in with the surroundings, except for the fact that there were little wisps of smoke escaping through the roofs.

It looked as though most had been patched and mended as best the owner could manage, although some had gaping holes. There was no regularity in the way they’d been set out, and what passed for gardens, divided by dry-stone walls, were all different sizes. Brice could see most contained patches of kale and a few other vegetables, but it didn’t seem to be enough to feed one person, let alone a family of ten or more, which was what some of the huts contained. He’d spent enough time in them as a child to remember how crowded they could be.

As he passed, he saw old men and women sitting in doorways, their faces dark and wrinkled, with skin like smoked herrings and eyes which could no longer see clearly, if at all. This was the legacy of years living round a peat fire, he knew. They gazed at him impassively, although he caught the occasional fearful glance. Children played in the dirt of the road, but even they seemed subdued. The only interest he received came from a group of girls walking along carrying farm implements. They were pretty, in a rough sort of way, but dirty and poorly dressed with bare feet.

‘
Good afternoon.’ Brice returned their sidelong glances with a bow, which sent them giggling into the nearest hut without replying to his greeting.

The door of every cottage was flanked by a stack of turf on one side and a midden on the other. The noxious odour of these made Brice hold his breath as he passed. A few huts had a lean-to at the back to shelter a cow or a goat, but most had a byre incorporated into one end of the house, divided from the human living quarters by a wattle wall. There was also a corn-drying kiln and a few barns which presumably contained the community’s grain and hay stores. These were in a sorry state as well.

Brice shook his head. ‘This isn’t how I remember it,’ he murmured, as Starke shied away from a dog that looked as though it hadn’t been fed in years.

Nearer the main house, there were a couple of slightly larger and more substantial dwellings, both built entirely of stone, apart from the roof. One was clearly the smithy, since the sounds of hammering on metal carried along the road. It was also distinctive because it had a slate roof, rather than thatch, in order to reduce the risk of fire. The other, Brice recalled, had traditionally always belonged to the estate manager. He assumed it still did, which meant it was where Colin Seton lived. The thought made him wonder again what sort of man he’d be dealing with. Hopefully he would soon find out.

Entering the courtyard of Rosyth House, he dismounted and looked about for someone to take his horse. Although several lads loitered in a corner, no one stepped forward or even greeted him. A swarthy, middle-aged man was the only one who cast him more than one glance and eventually he ambled forward, his steps slow and reluctant.

‘
Good day to you,’ he said, the words coming out in a grudging fashion as if he didn’t really want to utter them. There was no welcome in his dark hazel eyes.

Brice nodded. ‘Good afternoon, my name is Aaron. I’m travelling north and wondered if I could have a bed for the night, please? The inns around here aren’t exactly what you would call comfortable as I found to my cost last night.’ He lessened the sting of his criticism with a smile, so as
not to give offence, but the swarthy man didn’t smile back or acknowledge the comment either way. Brice added, ‘And my father knows the Kinross family so he said to stop by here.’

‘
I’ll inform the housekeeper,’ was all the man said. ‘The laird isn’t at home and the mistress is indisposed.’ He turned to shout in Gaelic at one of the loitering youths. ‘Ewan, take the man’s horse. You know what to do.’

A surly boy came forward and led Starke away without much enthusiasm. Brice decided he’d better go and check on the horse himself later, but for now he followed the taciturn man into the house.

A steep outside staircase led up to the main door, which in turn opened directly onto the great hall, situated on the first floor. Brice had spent many an evening in there, playing with his siblings and second cousins, and was pleased to be taken to this room first. He remembered it as vast, but warm and welcoming. That plainly wasn’t the case now.

The huge fireplace halfway along one wall had cobwebs hanging in the corners and a pile of old ash littered the hearth. All the wall hangings were faded, their once vibrant colours washed out and drab, not to mention dirty, and all the cushions on the furnishings were in the same sorry state. A few rugs were scattered over the stone-flagged floor, but nowhere near as many as Brice recalled and most of them looked threadbare and in need of replacing.

He frowned. His father was right, Rosyth House was not being looked after.

‘
If you’d wait here, I’ll send for someone,’ the swarthy man said, indicating one of the chairs by the hearth.

‘
Thank you, Mr …?’

‘
Seton.’

‘
Seton, that’s very kind.’

A curt nod was the only reply Brice received as Seton turned on his heel and left.

Brice sat down. ‘Well, this should be interesting …’

Marsaili hated washing days with a vengeance. Not because the work was hard and mind-numbingly boring, but for the reason that most of the male inhabitants of Rosyth House always seemed to find some pretext for coming to watch.

She wasn’t stupid, she could see why. With their skirts hiked up and their bare legs on display, she and the other girls were no doubt an enticing sight as they stood in the tubs up to their knees in washing, trampling it clean. Not to mention the way the steam from the hot water made their other garments cling to them and the rhythmic trudging jiggled certain parts of their anatomy. It was a wonder the men’s eyes didn’t grow stalks, Marsaili thought crossly.

She was now struggling across the back courtyard of Rosyth House with two heavy pails of hot water to add to yet another batch of dirty linen. Her arm and back muscles strained in an effort not to spill any. The day was warm and sultry, but the soft air didn’t soothe her raw knuckles. She tried to ignore the pain. The washing was nowhere near finished and sore hands were par for the course. She was used to it. And since Seton claimed there wasn’t enough money to pay more servants, Marsaili had no choice but to help out.

At the back of Rosyth House’s thick-walled towers, lower buildings had been added which contained stables and all manner of store-rooms. The washing didn’t take place indoors, however, but close to the edge of the loch, since it was more convenient for rinsing. Six young women, including Marsaili, shared three large tubs between them, singing as they worked. Marsaili headed for the nearest one to add the hot water, the steam from which was making her tawny hair curl even more than it usually did.

‘
Now there’s a pretty sight and no mistake.’

Marsaili turned too quickly and swore under her breath as some of the water sloshed out of the buckets. She glared at Seton, but didn’t dignify his remark with an answer. His attentions were becoming more marked by the day now, his whispered comments more pointed, but she knew as long as she kept out of his way after dark, he couldn’t hurt her. She wished he’d tire of this game and find someone else to hound, but it didn’t seem likely.

She put the pails down and stared him in the eye. ‘Was there something you wanted, Mr Seton?’

‘
Oh, aye,’ he said slowly, his gaze taking in every last part of her dishevelled appearance in the disconcerting fashion that made her skin crawl. Marsaili suppressed a shiver and was grateful she’d lowered her skirts for the moment.

‘
I’m in the middle of washing,’ she told him, ‘so if you wouldn’t mind coming to the point? I can’t stand around here all day. The water’s getting cold.’

His mouth tightened. ‘Hoity-toity,’ he said, then added, ‘We have a visitor. A Mr Aaron. You’ll need to find him somewhere to sleep and organise a meal. Nothing fancy though, if you know what I mean. Remember what I said last time someone stopped here.’

Marsaili frowned. ‘Another Sassenach, come to check on us?’ she asked. ‘Aren’t they satisfied yet? You’ve shown them enough of those letters from the laird in Sweden.’

Seton shrugged. ‘Most likely, yes. Some of our hospitality should see him on his way right quickly though. We don’t want the likes of him hanging around any longer than he has to.’

‘
Very well, I’ll see to it in a minute. Will you put him in the great hall?’

‘
Already have. He’s waiting.’

‘
Fine.’ She turned her back on Seton and continued to the loch.

‘
I’m sorry, but I’ll have to leave you to it for now,’ she told the other women working there. ‘Seems we have a visitor. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

She hurried back towards the house and into the kitchen. It was large, with a brick floor, and even warmer than the steam from the tubs. Cauldrons of water were being heated for the laundry in a never-ending stream and the cook, Greine Murray, looked hot and frazzled.

‘
You’ve only just been in here. This won’t boil for a wee while yet,’ Greine said.

‘
I know, I haven’t come for more water. Apparently we have a visitor. Are there any of those old barley bannocks left?’

Greine nodded towards the larder. ‘Aye, there’ll be some in there. And the wine that’s turned sour.’ The cook smiled wryly. ‘Another Sassenach visitor, eh? Don’t fash, I’ll fetch ’em and prepare a tray while you go and greet the guest.’

Marsaili returned the smile. ‘Thank you. The sooner he leaves, the better. But not the wine, give him watered-down ale instead.’

Chapter Five