CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The farm was small but well-kept, John noted when they rode up to it in the late afternoon as the shadows were growing long. The cott and barn sat on the edge of a field at the base of a hill, away from the main track. A cow regarded their arrival placidly from her byre.
The crofter came out onto the step, and three half-grown, rosy-cheeked bairns came with him. The man cast his eyes over Gillian, and the big men who surrounded her.
“Feasgar math. Good afternoon.”
“We’re hoping for a night’s shelter for our mistress and ourselves,” Callum said. “We’ve more meat than we can eat, and it would please us to share it.”
The bairns were already crowding around the fine deer slung over the packhorse and gazing at Gillian. “A’bhean bhoideach,” one lass said, “a beautiful woman.” Gillian blushed and smiled shyly at the child.
“You’re welcome here,” the farmer said. He laid his work-roughened hand on the top of one on the children’s heads. “Go fetch your mam, tell her we have visitors. We can give the lass a bed inside, and the rest of ye can sleep in the barn, if that suits ye.”
“One of us will sleep inside if there’s space, to be near the lass,” Callum said mildly, but his meaning was clear. They were there to protect her. The farmer nodded.
The farmer’s wife appeared with another babe on her hip. “This is my wife, Annag. I’m Jock MacCulloch.”
Callum introduced the MacLeods, including Gillian, and John.
John watched the woman’s face light up at the sight of the venison. She handed the babe to one of the older children and came forward. “We’d best get this on to cook so it’s ready for supper. Gair, go and pick some herbs and some wild garlic.”
Gillian handed her the pouch of blaeberries. “May I help in the kitchen?”
“Aye, I’d be glad of the chance to chat as well,” Annag said. “Jock, show the men where they can wash, and Fin, ye’ll help see to the garrons.”
With all organized, she led Gillian inside, chattering as happily as if they were old friends.
* * *
The venison was served with barley porridge, bannock, and the blaeberries. There was ale and a wee jar of whisky to share out around the crowded table, and everyone was merry. Gillian stayed shyly quiet during the meal, though she smiled often and ate with a good appetite.
“A wedding!” Annag MacCulloch gushed when Callum explained the reason for their journey. “How wonderful!”
Her husband raised his cup. “A toast to the bonny bride,” he said, looking at Gillian, and drank deeply. Everyone else followed suit. Then Jock MacCulloch looked around the table at the men and settled on John. “Are ye the groom?”
The MacLeods roared with laughter. “Nay—he’s a Sassenach. Our laird would never allow such a match,” Keir MacLeod said.
Annag’s smile was replaced by a look of horror. “A Sassenach!” She looked at him as if the old wives’ tales were true, that Englishmen had horns and cloven hooves and tails. She sidled closer to her husband, put her hand on his arm. John sent her a charming smile, but before he could speak, Callum MacLeod did.
“Nay, there’s no cause to fear, Annag—John Erly’s a good man, and Chief Sinclair’s captain of the guard. He can wield a claymore like a Highlander.”
John felt like an idiot as the farm wife sighed with relief, and her husband regarded him soberly. “If he isn’t here to pillage and maraud and rape, then he’s as welcome as the rest of ye,” he said in Gaelic, speaking to the other men.
“I’m just here for supper,” John replied in Gaelic, and they stared at him as if he were a trained bear, able to dance on command.
He did what he always did when he was in mistrustful company. He took out his flute. He began to play a soft tune. Silence fell around the table.
“Another one!” one of the bairns cried when that song ended, and John looked at Gillian. For her, he played a Scottish tune. The words told the tale of a shepherd on a moonlit night who dreams of spying on a fairy maiden bathing in a pool made of starlight. Night after night he watches, until he’s not sure if itisa dream, or if she’s as real as he is. By day he pines for his love until one night, much to his surprise, the lass rises from the pool and walks toward him, silver moonlight cascading from her body. And when she takes his hand and leads him to a fragrant bower of heather, he knows it isn’t a dream, but true love . . . Yet when he wakes with the dawn, he’s alone with his flock, and his fairy lover is gone forever.
The bairns curled up against their mother, their sleepy eyelids drooping. The adults listened with rapt attention, but John was playing for only one person, for Gillian.
He closed his eyes as he played the notes, remembering Gillian by moonlight, masked and mysterious, her lips softly parted as he drew her into his arms and brought his mouth to hers. He opened his eyes to find her watching him.
Softly, she began to sing the words, her voice pure, sweet and high. The room disappeared, and he was lost in her eyes, deep in the heather with her in his arms, as bewitched as the shepherd. When the song ended, and the last notes died away, Annag sighed, and one of the MacLeods sniffled. Even burly Jock wiped away a sentimental tear, finished his ale, and got to his feet.
“Thank ye for that, and for the pleasure of good company, but we’ve chores at dawn,” he said. He looked at Gillian. “You’ll sleep in the loft with our lasses, mistress, if that suits ye.”
“Very well, thank you,” Gillian said. She rose to help Annag clear the cups and dishes from the table.
