“But what kept ye from us, Fin? Why did ye wait so long to return home?”
“Today is Midsummer’s Eve,” Fin said. “Let me tell my tale tonight as we all celebrate about the Midsummer fire. It is an amazing tale, Maggie mine.”
Father David rushed into the hall. “Praise be to God!” he shouted, clapping Fingal Stewart upon his broad back. “Welcome home, lad! Welcome home!”
Fin burst out laughing. “Ye have no idea how great a part God played in this, good Father, but I’ll be telling the tale tonight.”
“Where is that toad of a Hay priest?” Maggie wanted to know.
“They took him with them when they rode through the village,” Father David replied. “It was not a pleasant departure. The villagers threw the contents of their night jars on them as they went.”
The laird and Fin burst out laughing, and even Maggie was forced to giggle.
“I hope most of it hit the Hay,” she said.
“They did save the best for him, and for his priest,” Father David admitted. “I must remember to preach a sermon on charity this Sabbath.” But he was smiling as he said it, and a small chortle escaped him.
“Come,” Maggie said, taking her husband’s hand. “We must go into the village so they may see that ye are truly home again.”
“I should rather take ye to bed,” he whispered in her ear. “It has been close to a year since I’ve made love to ye, Maggie mine.”
She blushed, then smiled at him. “Aye, but I think our pleasure must wait until nightfall, for there is much we must do that our clan folk feel settled and safe again. Only ye and I can do it, my husband.”
“Change yer gown, for I would not go into the village with ye in that black crow’s garment,” he said.
“Ye must wait in the hall,” she said with a small smile. “Grizel, come with me.”
Maggie hurried from the great hall of the keep, and upstairs to her bedchamber. “What shall I wear for him?” she asked her tiring woman.
Grizel thought a moment. “Wear something simple. A skirt, a blouse, a bit of yer Kerr plaid. Tonight ye can wear the claret red velvet gown I made for ye last winter.”
Maggie quickly donned a dark green skirt and a white shirt that laced up the front; then she drew her green Kerr plaid shawl about her shoulders. She had pulled off her stockings and boots. She wanted to be the Mad Maggie of old, bare legged, and barefoot. She loosened her hair from its plait and tucked a small dagger in her wide brown leather belt. “I’m ready,” she said, running from the room and back down into the hall.
“I’m ready, Fingal Stewart. Are ye?” she called to him.
He turned from her grandfather, and saw the girl he had raced that day almost six years ago. He grinned. “Aye, Mad Maggie Kerr, I’m ready,” he said as he came to join her. Then together they walked from the keep, across the bridge, and down into the village where their clan folk waited.
They came forth from their cottages, smiling and greeting Maggie and Lord Stewart warmly. Maggie stood back, letting her husband play the primary role. He greeted men and women by name. He asked oldsters about their health and aching joints, sympathizing with an understanding nod of his head. He teased the young girls, who giggled and blushed with his compliments. He joined in a game with the men and boys that involved kicking a stuffed sheep’s bladder from one end of a field to another. The darkness had lifted with the exit of the Hay and the end of the storm.
It was traditionally the longest day of the year. Dugald Kerr came from the keep to join Maggie and Fin. The clan folk were relieved to see their old laird, for he had been virtually imprisoned in his keep for several months. Maggie left her men together and walked to the tollgate. A small party of merchants was preparing to exit. They were arguing with the gatekeeper. Maggie went to see what the difficulty was.
“I’m telling ye,” the gatekeeper said, “ye paid yer toll when ye entered the Aisir nam Breug. Now if ye were entering here, and not exiting ye would pay a toll. But one toll is all ye pay for one trip.”
“But,” the man in charge of the merchant train said, “when we came up from England in April, we paid at both ends.”
Maggie stepped forward. “It’s all right, Allen, I’ll handle this,” she said to the gatekeeper. “Sir, unfortunately while the old laird of Brae Aisir was recovering from a winter illness, and my husband was away, a dishonest man was put in charge here. When it was found out that he was forcing tolls from travelers come up from the south, he was dismissed. Can ye recall what ye paid when ye last traveled through the pass?”
The merchant named the charge.
Maggie turned to the gatekeeper. “Allen, give the gentleman the amount he has named,” she said. Then she spoke again to the merchant. “The Kerrs of Brae Aisir have held this pass with their English kin for centuries. We are honest folk. I am sorry ye were cheated. Here is yer toll returned to ye. It will not happen again. And when ye return south this time, yer trip will be free.”
“Thank ye, good lady,” the merchant said. “We could not bring our goods to Edinburgh and Perth were it not for this safe traverse. I should not want it said that I spoke treasonably, but King Henry is not a happy man right now.”
Maggie laughed. “I know,” she said with a small smile, “but somehow we shall all survive these monarchs and their quarrels, eh?”
The merchant nodded, and then, signaling, he was on his way again.
Maggie turned to her gatekeeper. “Refund any tolls charged when they should not have been,” she said. “Why didn’t ye come to me, Allen?”
