The Chieftain Needs an Heir - a Highland ménage novella (Clan MacKrannan's Secret Traditions) (2 page)

Bouts of wenching
came from a need for a tup for naught but the fun of it, for that is what he sorely missed with his wife.  Bedplay with Sorcha had turned into a chore for procreation. 

H
is Spend was potent, as evidenced by the bairns he'd already sired.  Sorcha was fallow, and all knew it.  It was beginning to look as if his successor would be his brother's son instead of his own.  And it would be all Niall's own fault, for Sorcha was his choice to wife.

The Wisewoman's
honeymead reached full effect as the applewood logs sizzled and flamed.  Had he to make the choice today, in his heart he knew that choice would still be his bonnie Sorcha and the consequences be damned.  Each time he was distant from home his thoughts were of her only.  Each time he gathered his thoughts before battle, it was Sorcha's smiling face he envisioned before him as the symbol of victory.

Curious
… it took but a minute's peace at the fireside to see such a truth.  He should maybe make time for it more often.

"Chieftain,
I address ye further," said the Bard.  "We have taken a moment to join in reflecting what has been and what is now.  As ye'll know, all three Wisewomen have looked for symptom of what might be stopping yer seed to take, and have tried all their herbals and incantations to help it along.  Their usual success in such matters has not proved fruitful and so we have looked for a more radical remedy."

Niall sat up in his chair.  The
clan had better no' be thinking of harming Sorcha in any way…

"Chieftain, I
address ye again to tell ye what will be.  Upon the seven and twentieth moon with no heir, the Green Book of MacKrannan Fertility Traditions was opened for the first time in many generations. This Green Book gives a veritable host of remedies for situations of this ilk, and all three of the Wisewomen agree that one particular remedy is worth the try."

Oona fetched the book from under her
chair and passed it open at the page to her chieftain.

Niall, forgetting his duty of silence,
deciphered the first line of the ancient script aloud in disbelief.

"
REMEDIE FOR WYFES TOO TALLE – THE PUSHYNG IN OF SPEND…
what in hell's name do ye think I'm needing assistance with?  Ye were baith at my Coupling and witnessed the size o' my cockstand, aye?  And Sorcha only comes up to my chin!"

He was angry, he had to be angry upon reading such drivel, and yet he
nodded benignly as Oona placed a refilled goblet in his right hand.  A reviving gulp of mead was needed to whet his whistle, for by god he had plenty more to say.  That is, he felt as if he should have more to say, though he could not quite think of what it was at present.  His warrior instincts appeared to have deserted him along with clarity of thought.

As
Niall swigged the mead, a fresh applewood log was placed in his left hand by the Bard, which obligated him to place it on the dulling fire.  The book had somehow disappeared from Niall's lap when he moved to read the full details of the Remedie.  He lifted every fold of his great-kilt but could find it nowhere.

Silence reigned again, but for the new log's crackle as it caught alight to spread its
aromatic fumes, and a noise coming from Oona that was suspiciously like a giggle in suppression.

"My ancestors,
in consultation with the clan," said the Bard quietly, "have passed down to us the gift of their wisdom in these proud Traditions.  Ye have chosen to wed a lass as tall as one o' yer own ancestors, the great-great-great-grandmother from whom the height o' yer bloodline was further enhanced.  Oona will now explain the finer points in her womanly way."

Niall's eyes
narrowed as he beheld the fire and listened to the Grandam Wisewoman's words.

Oona's work here was for chieftain's own good, but she still had to give her
throat a right good clearing before she was composed enough to speak.  "Chieftain, I address ye as Grandam Wisewoman o' Clan MacKrannan…" she intoned, for a Grandam Wisewoman could not help but chant all her words.  "…Wife to The Bard o' Clan MacK…"

"Aye, aye," said Niall
, swigging blithely.  "I ken yer qualifications for the job, Oona.  Get on wi' it."

"…
MacKrannan.  The Tradition named the 'Pushyng In of Spend' was written many centuries ago and last needed for yer great-great-great-grandmother.  It will be done when Sorcha's womb will be at its maist receptive.  Baith o' ye will sleep alone until then, and the two Wisewomen Hilde and Cecily will watch over Sorcha.  Ye will not see Sorcha, nor speak to her, nor have message delivered to her."

Ha
h!  The mystery of the extra baggage solved.  He accepted more mead, trying to remember what he'd been annoyed about.

"
That's fine wi' me, Oona, but what are the terms o' this Tradition?"

"The clan will not be told.  There will be nine present.  That is all I can say."

"Seven watchers…?  Ach, come on!" he said jovially.  "Ye could just write out the instructions for Sorcha and myself to manage it atween us, surely?"

Oona's
cap moved slightly backwards as she smiled broadly. "The clan's Traditions are always witnessed."

And she arose from the fireside, followed by the Bard.  The Summons was complete and Niall had little of comfort to tell Sorcha – and he was barred from her anyway.
  He got to his feet, and regained his balance by holding onto the chairback.  Trickery had been afoot with the mead.

There was one hope left.

"A moment, if ye please!  Have ye consulted my father about this?"

"
Aye, we have," she answered.  "The Chief asked what took us so long."

"Cooped up in my bedchamber?"
cried Sorcha, "and you will not even tell me the purpose?  Nay, nay, NAY!"

The two Wisewomen
calmly unpacked their baggage.  A floorcloth with curious markings.  Oona's beeswax candles, a large pitcher of mead, and a clarsach.  And their own personal effects.  All herbal remedies, incantations, stargazing and divination tools having already been tried, their preparing of Sorcha would be a simple one.  Their agreement with Oona was this – what went into their mistress's mouth was none so important as that which stayed out of it.

"What's in that box?" Sorcha
yowled.  "I will have none of yer weasel's hind paws in vinegar and yer wild boar's powdered genitals in here!"

Hilde held the box open for her milady's inspection.  It contained a hair comb and some willow twigs for teethcleaning.  Her voice was at its most hypnotic
to soothe her mistress.

"Milady,
ye confuse us wi' others in yer employ for the task.  Such items of which ye speak have never been our ways.  We bring little of our craft.  The floorcloth of the heavens is for our own meditations, unless ye care to join us.  The clarsach is to keep ye entertained wi' music.  Cecily, play awhile for the mistress and I will fetch mead for us all."

Three full goblets and a selection of harmonic
harp melodies later, Sorcha couldn't remember why the Wisewomen were unwelcome to her.  A peace flowed through her that had been long absent.  The corners of her mouth tilted upwards when Cecily broke into a livelier tune.  Her slippers tapped to the rhythm on the wooden boards.  She saw the blur of Hilde swaying and birling with fingers extended in graceful poses, and gladly arose to join in the dance.

Sorcha let herself fly
around the bedchamber, and in her exertions breathed deeper the peculiar scent from the beeswax candles.  Such fun to be had in the company of women and music and mead!

The party was interrupted by a knocking at the door which, they realised, had been going on for
quite some time and got lost among the sounds of feet on floorboards.  Hilde and Cecily shut their mistress into the garderobe before going to answer.

"What
business have the two o' ye in here?  Where is Sorcha?"

The Wisewomen were affected no
ne by the snapping of Mirren, wife to the chieftain's younger brother.

"Milady…" the Wisewomen curtsied,
raising their skirts full wide to deny her entrance, determined as she was.

"We are sent by the Bard, milady," said Hilde.

"And by the Grandam Wisewoman, milady," said Cecily.

"We regret the chieftain's wife
receives no visitors," said Hilde.

"On the orders of the Bard and
the Grandam Wisewoman," said Cecily.

Mirren's head oscillated to and fro, listening to the Wisewomen's alternating speeches.

"But we shall pass her yer kind regards," said Hilde.

"And
we hope ye will no' take offence," said Cecily.

Anticipat
ing Hilde to take her turn again, Mirren discovered too late that her head had already moved sided to side as if in agreement with this last statement of Cecily's.

It wasn't like her to get caught out like that.  The Wisewomen were well-named, and their faces so devoid of guile that objections were futile.

"No indeed," she said.  "I shall visit again at a time more convenient.  When shall we say…?"

The two faces stared at her blankly.

Mirren tried again.  "…So, when should I return?"

"We shall send word to ye, milady," said Hilde
.

This reply pursed Mirren
's lips into the expression she was famed for in MacKrannan Castle, the one bearing impressive resemblance to the underneath of a cat's tail.

Cecily espied
the wee basket in Mirren's hand, covered in with a lace cloth and smelling of spices and eggs.  "Ye brought gift, milady… I shall see Mistress Sorcha receives yer generosity."

"Never mind it," said Mirren, but somehow the basket had already been taken
by Cecily into the chamber.

"We thank ye, milady.  Good day to ye," said Hilde
, with a final curtsy.

And Mirren found herself facing a closed door
whose key was being turned in its lock.  The impudence!

The Wisewomen fetched Sorcha from the garderobe
.  While readying her for dinner, Hilde casually asked if Mirren came to visit often.

"Every day," said Sorcha, fighting the slur in her speech.  "She's grand company, always has news to tell."

"Fancy that…" said Hilde as she cleaned the mead slops from her mistress's hands.  "And she's left ye a wee basket o' treats.  Does she bring them every day?"

"Oh aye,
fondants and seedcakes and the like."

"Lovely.  Ye must miss them when ye are away at court or visiting with yer family."

"Ye would think, but Mirren is so kindly that she gives me a basket to tide me o'er till my return."

"
Mmm-hmph," said Hilde.  "And ye have the cook make them for yerself at other times."

"
Nay, I never bother.  Mirren had been here and wed to Ruaridh a year and more by the time I wed into the clan, so she knew the cook already.  I supply the wine – from France, of course.  I have family there."

The conversation turned to vineyards and vintages and Hilde let the cake topic drop. 

A patterned series of knocks came upon the door.

"Here is Oona with our dinners now, milady."

The Grandam Wisewoman was admitted.  The offerings in her hamper were exceedingly sparse compared to the smells of roast pork and swan that the wind was wafting in the bedchamber window from the kitchens, but Sorcha at least saw hope of more mead and its euphoric effects when she espied the pitcher. 

"Yer mead was deliciou
s, Oona.  Is that more ye have fetched?"

Oona's head tilted as she replied, "
In a way.  What I have brought has the same flavor, and it will keep yer eyes dry o' tears, and have ye more alert."

Sorcha near spat it back out.  Honey-flavored springwater… what was this!

"
Brought from the Well on the Isle of May, milady.  It is said to be greatly efficacious to women in their supplying heirs, though a bit on the plain side without honey from mine own bees.  And here is yer dinner."