She indicated at the solid construction of the kirk and said, “I stand in admiration of yer handiwork, Ernest. At least the synod has done right by the villagers,” she sat down on one of the blocks of stone the masons had left behind after rebuilding the walls, “Davi is well, ye’ll be pleased to ken.”
Ernest sat down next to her on the stone, “I’m pleased to hear about Davi, and I can see ye’re happy too, Emer. The villagers often mention both o’ ye in their prayers. And that clan war we keep hearing about? What say ye to all that?”
Before she answered, Emer had to get her own thoughts in order about how she should describe the incessant antagonism coming from the Sutherlands. To her, it seemed inexplicable. She decided to answer the question with one of her own.
“What doyeken about it, Ernest?
Ernest stood up and held his hand out to her to help her off the stone block, “Our new clergyman kens more about the history of the situation than I. Come, I will introduce ye to him.”
Emer followed behind the sexton as he guided her toward a recently constructed manse.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Pastor, can we come in, please?”
A commanding voice spoke loudly from inside the manse study, “Of course ye can, me boy! Do I have a visitor?”
Ernest and Emer opened the door and went inside. An imposing-looking man sat behind a wide writing bureau that was pushed against the far side of the room, overlooking the garden.
“What can I do for ye, young lady,” the pastor said as he stood up from his writing stool and went to shake hands with Emer.
He was a typical Highlander, but one who had left his warrior days far behind him and chosen to lead a life abiding by the kinder rules of the church. The legs showing under his kilt were as thick as tree trunks and marked with many scars, but his handshake was gentle. After inviting both his visitors to sit down, he pulled the bell-rope that hung in one corner of the room, and when the housekeeper answered his summons, asked for tea.
“Or would ye prefer ale?” he asked Emer, “I can see ye’ve traveled quite a way,” he looked down at her mud splashed skirts and riding boots, “ye must be parched.”
Emer said tea would be fine, and the housekeeper left.
“So!” the pastor slapped his thigh and sat back on his writing stool, “What is it ye want of me?”
Emer turned to Ernest and hoped he had a respectable question to ask the man.
“Pastor,” Ernest began, “This here is Emer Wylie. Ye ken the auld Wylie family gravestones in the churchyard and the two names on the monument to those poor souls lost in the fire? That’s her faither’s side of the family, and the names carved in the monument stone were her parents.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, me dear,” the pastor replied, “And ye’ll be pleased to ken we’ve taken steps to install a functioning water pump in the well now. There’ll be nae more buckets and empty wells if the need for a plentiful supply of water ever happens in Nethy again. Is that why ye’ve come to visit?”
Emer was encouraged by the pastor’s forthright manner, decided to ask her questions herself, “Nae exactly, sir, y’see, I work down at Maclachlan keep now, and there’s been a nasty case of Sutherland clan acts of aggression. Nae outright, ye ken, just petty undercuts and trouble stirring. They have a spy up at the keep, and the spy was doing a very good job of things until the new Laird took over.”
The pastor said nothing, but Emer knew she had his attention.
“Now that the keep operates under stricter security measures, there has been less overt undermining, but there’s nae doubt in me mind the spy is simply biding their time.”
The pastor interjected here, “I hear the new Laird Maclachlan has things under control, and more than that, it didnae take him long to put things right.”
Emer thought back to how Caillen had handled his father’s duties with skill and dignity, all the while being able to crack a joke and take the time to care about her well-being. Her face softened into a smile, “Aye, sir, he surely did that, but it seems more like he was sticking his finger into a leaking dam wall – the minute one hole is blocked, the trickle of information tries to find another way out.”
The pastor sighed, saying, “Our tea should nearly be ready. Let’s adjourn to the parlor and partake of it there. It’s a long story, and we may as well have a nice view of the rose garden while I tell it.”
And he ushered his two visitors out to the passage leading to the parlor. When they were comfortably settled and each holding a cup of hot, sweetened tea, the pastor began his story.
“I was still an unproven youth back in the days when Cai Maclachlan an’ Donal Sutherland were nae yet Lairds. There was a fierce rivalry between them, even back then: racing their horses to see who rode the fastest; swimming in the lochs to see who could go out the furthest; fighting the tallest, strongest men in the region to prove they were the most aggressive. In the end, the ceaseless bickering and competitiveness twisted into antipathy, then into outright hatred. And then along came Enid.”
“That was the name of Laird Sutherland’s wife,” Ernest said.
“Aye, but let me finish,” the pastor said with a grim smile, “Enid’s dowry was a parcel o’ land down in Wales. But she dinnae need it – Enid Hughes was the most beautiful lady on this great island we call Britain. Her faither brought her up to Holyrood to see if he could find her a wealthy Laird, but rumors followed her...there was speculation as to why such a beautiful woman had not been snapped up by a man in Wales or even Whitehall.”
“Beauty is nae everything,” Ernest said wisely.
The pastor nodded, “There ye have it, lad. Enid Hughes was the most poisonous vixen behind all her fairness. Her only joy in life came from making men fall passionately in love with her and then spurning their love in as cruel a way as possible. Her idea of entertainment was nae bear-baiting or dog fighting – she reveled in watching men fight to the death over her fair favors, or better yet, pine away and die from misery. It was as though the spirit of Salome lived another life within her.”
