“My grandson will now tell his tale of Solway Moss, and why it took him so long to return to us.” Dugald Kerr sat down next to his granddaughter.
Fin stood upon one of the trestles in their midst so he might be seen. His deep, almost musical voice carried to all the tables. He told them of the battle, and how because a spy among the Scots had warned the English, the attack, which should have been successful, turned into a rout. He told them of how many of the king’s lords would not fight for James V. Too many of them remembered Flodden when so many of Scotland’s first families had lost all of their adult males.
“Many of these lords embrace the new Protestant faith,” Fin explained. “They felt the king went into England for the pope’s sake, not Scotland’s.”
There were some small murmurings among the trestles, but Maggie didn’t know if they were in ageement with the king or those who espoused the new faith. Times were changing in Scotland, and men preaching the new religion had come through the Aisir nam Breug ready to lead Scotland away from the Catholicism of its ancestors. While there were some things about the church that chafed at Maggie, she wasn’t certain she was quite willing to give up one faith for another. God was God, and Jesu, Jesu.
Fin continued telling them of the battle. He explained that when he had seen how things were going, and that there was no hope of the Scots’ prevailing, he had sent his own men away. “I remained for the sake of my kinsman, King James, may God assoil his soul. I fought on until I was injured.” He explained to all his fascinated listeners that the blow to his head had taken his memory from him, a condition worsened when he was struck a second time after having awakened to find scavengers stealing his boots, among other things.
He told them how he recalled nothing else until he found himself upon a stretcher, and an old woman shrieking for all who could hear that he was her son, Bobby. “Finally the officer in charge had them carry me to her cottage,” Fin said. “I suppose they thought I would die, so they let the old woman deal with it if she wanted me.”
Lord Stewart continued on with his tale. He told his listeners that while he could dredge up no memory of who he was, or where he had come from, he knew for certain he was not the old woman’s son, Bobby. But Old Mother—he never learned her Christian name—nursed him back to health over the next few weeks. The winter had now set in, and because he had no idea of who he was or where he belonged, he remained with her. Then his memory began returning in small bits and pieces. He dreamed of a man named Iver, and then of one called Archie.
“I had no idea who they were,” Fin told his wide-eyed audience, “but I realized I must find them. But then Old Mother grew ill. I remained to nurse her, and I buried her when she finally died.” At that point, he explained, she realized that he was not her son. Her son had gone off to war almost thirty years prior and died at Flodden among the English dead. More of his memory returned. He knew he owned a house in Edinburgh, and he realized he had to get there if he was to unravel the mystery of who he was.
“It was there I found him standing before the door of his house,” Archie broke in.
“Aye, he did,” Fin said. “And thanks to being with my old friend and retainer, the rest of my memory was restored over the next few days. When I finally remembered, Archie told me of the troubles here at Brae Aisir with the Hay. We rode for the Borders, arriving in the village a few days ago and driving the Hays from the keep. That is the tale of why it took me so long to return home and why no ransom demand came for me.”
“Ye didn’t rememberme?” Maggie was glaring at her husband, and a ripple of laughter arose from the clan folk around them.
“To my discredit, Maggie mine, I did not,” Fin admitted candidly.
She threw her silver goblet at him, but he ducked, avoiding another injury to his head. The clan folk roared with laughter as Fin leaped from the trestle, grabbing his wife, whom he turned over his knee. He smacked her bottom twice, then tipped her back onto her feet and kissed her long and passionately.
“Yer a fool, Fingal Stewart!” Maggie shouted at him, breaking away from his embrace and dashing off into the darkness.
He followed after her shouting, “Come back here, ye damned border vixen!”
Dugald Kerr smiled, watching them go. He wondered if they would return to the keep tonight or settle their silly differences in the heather. He drained his own goblet down; then turning to Clennon, Kerr said, “Take me in, man. The night air, for all ’tis summer, is making my old bones ache. I need my hearth.”
Fingal Stewart found his wife quickly, for she made no effort to hide as she crashed down the hillside in her temper. Catching up with her, he pulled her into his arms again. “If I promise never to forget ye again, will ye forgive me?” he asked, and he kissed her on the very tip of her nose.
Maggie didn’t struggle. Her outrage was gone as common sense had set in. Still, she would not allow him to believe he could wheedle her so easily. His arms felt wonderful about her—making her all warm and safe. “Yer a great fool,” she repeated. “How does a man forget a woman he says he loves? Have ye stopped loving me?”
“Nay, I love ye now more than I ever have, for I could have lost ye, Maggie mine. Had my memory not been restored to me, I would not have known where to come home,” he told her. He looked down into her face. “I loved ye yesterday. I love ye today. I’ll love ye tomorrow and forever,” he promised her. “I always knew something was missing,” he told her. “There was always something I was struggling to recall.”
“No more wars!” Maggie said sternly.
“No more wars,” Fin promised her. “James Stewart is dead, and my first loyalty is now to ye, to our bairns, to Brae Aisir. I’ll fight only in defense of these lands. The French queen knows little of me. She has a coterie of great lords squabbling to rule for her daughter. Marie de Guise is a strong woman. She’ll struggle with every bit of her being to see that the little queen is safe. Remember her powerful kin in France, her brothers, François, the duke de Guise, and Charles, the cardinal of Lorraine. And for all the reformers, Scotland is still a Catholic land. Our biggest worry must be the English king, for I heard in Edinburgh that he wants our little queen as a bride to his son and heir, Prince Edward. Many favor such a match.”
“I don’t want to talk politics tonight,” Maggie said boldly.
“Ye don’t?” he teased her softly.
“Let’s go home, my lord,” she invited him.
“Ye wouldn’t rather remain outside tonight?” he asked her.
“Nay,” Maggie replied. “While this should not be a night for raiders for the moon is dark, and most celebrate this night, I shouldn’t like to be caught outside my walls if someone decided to come calling uninvited.”
“Yer a practical woman,” he chuckled.
“Ye’ll like my bed better than a rocky hillside,” she promised him, taking his hand to lead him back up the hill. The Midsummer fire still blazed, but the trestles and benches were even now being carried back into the house as they walked slowly together across the drawbridge. The laird was nowhere to be seen.
“Let me make certain he is settled,” Maggie said as they climbed the stairs together. “Then I’ll come to ye.” Giving him a quick kiss, she turned to the door to Dugald Kerr’s bedchamber.
But Fingal Stewart reached out to draw his wife back to his side. “Listen,” he said softly. “I believe yer grandsire is well settled, Maggie mine.”
