Lord Stewart flung his cloak about his shoulders. Iver called to the men to come. Archie brought up the rear, and locked the house door behind him. He then climbed up onto his horse, taking the lead rein from the horse serving as a pack animal for them. The rain was falling steadily as they clattered down the lane and out onto the Royal Mile. The serving man hunched down. It was late summer, and while the rain wasn’t cold as it might have been in another season, it was still uncomfortable. He hoped the weather would turn for the better by nightfall or at least on the morrow. It didn’t.
They rode until it grew too dark to ride. There was no shelter but a grove of trees when they stopped. It was too wet to light a fire. They pulled oatcakes and dried meat from their pouches, washing them down with some of the contents from their flasks. The horses were left to browse in the nearby field while their riders huddled beneath the greenery with only their cloaks to keep the rain from them. The next day and night were no better. They avoided any villages along their way so as not to arouse curiosity.
“Yer captain has explained where we are going. A troop such as ours would cause chatter if we passed through them, or sheltered in them,” Lord Stewart explained to his men on the second night. “We don’t want the laird’s neighbors becoming inquisitive. We’ll reach Brae Aisir tomorrow sometime, if that is any comfort to you. It will be warm, and ye’ll get some hot food in ye then.”
They all held on to the thought that night, their backs against a rough stone wall, the thunder booming overhead, the lightning crackling about them. The horses had to be staked out and tied to prevent the frightened animals from fleeing. The rain poured down. The next morning, however, dawned bright and sunny. Lord Stewart instructed his men to change their shirts and stockings if they had the extra clothing. He was relieved that they all did. He wanted his men looking smart, not hangdog, when they entered Brae Aisir. The dry garments would help to raise their spirits.
Brae Aisir. He didn’t know what to expect, but with its dark stone, a moat, a drawbridge that was up, and obviously fortified, it certainly wasn’t what looked like a small keep upon a hillock. He wondered whether the king knew of this structure; perhaps he assumed that a prosperous border laird lived in a well-kept tower house or manor. Fingal Stewart was suddenly aware that the Aisir nam Breug was more important than just a traverse between England and Scotland. How had they managed to keep warring factions from using it? He obviously had a great deal to learn about his new responsibilities. He hoped old Dugald Kerr was up to teaching him. They had stopped to observe the keep.
Now Lord Stewart turned to Iver. “Send a man ahead to tell them I come for the laird on the king’s business. We’ll wait here until we are asked to proceed. I don’t want the village below put into a panic fearing that we are raiders.”
Iver gave a quick order, and a single man detached himself from the group, galloping down the hill, through the village, and up to the keep. He stopped before the raised drawbridge, and waited. Finally a wood shutter on a window to one side of the entry was flung back. A helmeted head appeared.
“What do ye want?” a voice shouted down to him.
“Messenger from Lord Stewart, who waits on the other side of the village. He comes to the laird bearing greetings and a message from King James. May he have permission to enter?”
“Wait!” the voice said, and the shutter slammed shut.
After several very long minutes the shutter banged open, and the voice called, “The laird bids your master come forth. He is welcome to Brae Aisir.”
“Thank ye,” the messenger said politely and, turning his mount, headed back down the hill, through the village, and up the hill on the other side. Behind him he heard the creaking of the drawbridge as it was being lowered. “Yer welcome to enter the keep, my lord,” he told Fingal Stewart when he had reached the place where his party of horsemen awaited his return. “They were lowering the drawbridge as I returned to ye.”
Lord Stewart turned to his men. “We will ride through the village sedately. These borderers are a prickly lot. I don’t want anyone, child or creature, trampled with our coming. We are welcomed, and ’tis not a race.” Then swinging about, he raised his hand and signaled his party forward.
Villagers going about their daily chores stopped to move from the road and stare at the riders. A fountain and well were in the center of the hamlet. Several women were there getting water. They turned to stare boldly at the strangers. One pretty young lass even smiled at the men-at-arms and was immediately smacked by an older woman, obviously her mother. There was a small chapel at the far end of the village that they passed as they began to ascend the far hill to the keep. A priest stood before the little church, watching them, unsmiling, as they passed him by.
Reaching the keep, they clattered across the wooden drawbridge. As they did, the iron portcullis was slowly raised so they might pass through into the keep’s yard. Fingal looked carefully about him, drawing his mount to a halt. Within the walls was a large stone house with two towers, a stable, a well, and a barn. The courtyard was not cobbled but had an earth floor still muddy with several large puddles from the past days’ rain. As he dismounted, a man hurried forth down the stairs from the house.
“My lord,” he said with a bow. “I am Busby, the laird’s majordomo. Ye are most welcome to Brae Aisir. The laird is waiting for ye in the hall. Yer men are welcome to enter as well. The hearths are blazing, for the day is cool despite the welcome sunshine. Summer is coming to an end, and I imagine yer travels have been wet.” He led the visitor briskly up the steps, into the house, and down a broad passage into the great hall. “My lord, Lord Stewart,” Busby said, bringing the visitor to his master.
Dugald Kerr stood up and held out his hand. The laird was tall, but not nearly as tall as the man before him. He had a full head of snow white hair, and his brown eyes carefully assessed Fingal Stewart. “Welcome to Brae Aisir, my lord. Sit down! Sit down!” He indicated a settle opposite his high-backed chair as he sat once more.
A servant hurried up, tray in hand, and offered a goblet of wine first to his master, then to his master’s companion.
The laird raised his goblet. “The king!” he said.
Lord Stewart reciprocated. “The king!” he responded.
The two men drank in silence.
Then the laird said to his guest, “Yer messenger said ye come from the king with a message for me, my lord. Yer James Stewart’s kinsman?”
“I am,” Fingal replied. He reached his hand into his jerkin, and drew out the small rolled parchment he had been given to bring to the laird, handing it to him.
“Do ye know what is in this?” Dugald Kerr asked candidly.
“I do, my lord,” Fingal replied.
Nodding, Dugald Kerr broke the dark wax seal on the parchment and unrolled it. His sharp eyes scanned the writing, and then he looked up. “How did the king learn of mydifficulties?” he asked.
“A man named Ewan Hay came to him with a story the king believed to be but a half-truth,” Fingal said. “But learning of the Aisir nam Breug, the king became concerned for yer safety, the safety of yer granddaughter, and the safety of this traverse, my lord.”
The laird nodded again. “And yer willing to wed my Maggie, my lord?”
“I do not believe that either of us has a choice in this matter,” Fingal replied, “but I swear to you, my lord, I shall treat yer granddaughter honorably and fairly.”
“Nay, neither ye nor I has a choice,” the laird said. “But Maggie will be a different story altogether, sir. I dinna envy ye yer courting.” And Dugald Kerr chuckled richly, his brown eyes dancing with amusement. “ ’Twill be a rough wooing, I fear.”
