Page 11 of Highland Dove

“Did ye call him Angus?” Callum cocked his head, looking first at Angus and then Duncan. “And are ye Duncan? Are ye the MacLean brathairs?”

“Aye, ye ken us, Callum,” said Duncan as Callum eyed their torn and bedraggled clothes and their thin, dirty bodies.

“Nay, it canna be,” said the old man in a high and crackly voice. Callum was the oldest living man in all of Scotland, said to still be alive only because of the potent whisky called Mountain Magic that he brewed and sold.

“It’s us, Callum,” Duncan assured him. “We’re here for a meal and a bath and a place to spend the night. Can ye help us out?”

“Storm, get over here,” shouted Callum, cupping his hands and holding them up to his mouth, calling out for his grandson who was the chieftain of the MacKeefe Clan.

“What is it, Callum?” Storm walked over to join them. He was a big, burly man with long, blond hair that was now graying at the temples. Storm MacKeefe was a legend in the Highlands and known by everyone. He stopped in his tracks when he saw Duncan and Angus.

“These men claim to be Gilmer MacLean’s sons,” snorted Callum. “But ye ken as well as I that it canna be true. Just look at them. They are nothin’ but worthless beggars that I want ye to throw out of here on their arses.”

“What? Nay, that’s no’ true,” protested Angus, swallowing before shoving a third pie into his mouth. He handed one to Duncan, but Duncan shook his head and did not accept it. “Take it, Duncan. It’s bad luck to refuse a mince pie at Yuletide,” he said with a full mouth.

“It’s goin’ to be even worse luck to be thrown out of here for eatin’ up my profits,” spat Callum, now shaking his fist in the air. The old man was a wily one and not to be messed with.

“We’re no’ beggars. Ye ken us,” Duncan tried to explain.

“Everyone kens Duncan and Angus MacLean are dead,” stated Callum. Then when someone called him from the other side of the room, he looked up sharply and made a face. Bagpipe music split the air.

“Nay, no’ the bagpipes. They’re too noisy,” complained Callum, holding his hands over his ears. “Storm, throw these two out of here before I have to do it myself.” He hurried away, talking to himself.

“It really is ye,” said Storm, eyeing Duncan up and down. “I might have mistaken the two of ye if it wasna for Angus’ hearty appetite.” Storm pulled the tray of pies away from Angus and handed it to a serving wench.

“I could use a little Mountain Magic to wash these down,” said Angus, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Storm raised a finger in the air. “Bring Mountain Magic for three to my table,” he instructed a girl, leading the way across the room. He sat down at a table and Angus and Duncan joined him. A serving girl walked over with a bottle of whisky and three tankards. But before she could even put anything down, Angus snatched up the bottle, drinking directly from it. The girl shook her head, put down the drinking vessels and walked away scowling.

“Angus, ye’re actin’ like an animal,” snapped Duncan. “Now stop it.”

Angus watched him over the top of the bottle as he drank. “Och, sorry, Brathair. How rude of me. Here, have some. It’s some of the best whisky I’ve ever tasted.” He handed the bottle to Duncan. In return, Duncan poured a cup for Storm and Angus before pouring one for himself.

“We’re no’ dead, but would have been if we hadna escaped the Sassenachs,” Duncan told Storm after a big chug of whisky. Feeling the burning trail of liquid moving down to his stomach brought him back to life. It tasted like heaven!

“So, ye were taken prisoners even though the rest of yer men in that battle died?” asked Storm.

“Aye, and we havena eaten much in the last three weeks.” Angus eyed a server walking past with a bowl of pottage.

“Leave that here,” Storm instructed. Before the bowl even hit the table, Angus had picked up the spoon and was digging in.

“Mmmm, this is so guid, Brathair. Ye have to try it,” said Angus, sliding the bowl over to Duncan.

“No’ now,” said Duncan with a wave of his hand. “Storm, have ye any idea why my faither didna pay our ransom? It’s no’ like him to leave us in a Sassenach prison to rot.”

Storm’s face clouded over. “How would ye like some fresh baked bread?” He turned to look for some, but Duncan reached out and grabbed his arm.

“Is there somethin’ ye’re no’ tellin’ me?” he growled. “I need to ken.”

“Duncan, mayhap ye’d like to get some rest and talk about this in the mornin’. After all, it is Christmas Eve.” Storm flashed a forced smile.

“Even more reason to tell me now. I want to be home by Christmas.”

Storm shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry, but I heard that yer faither is dead.”

“What?” Angus’ head snapped up and he stopped chewing. “How? Why?”

“Eideard from yer clan told me the news,” Storm explained. “It seems yer faither died while searchin’ for ye two. I believe it was bandits along the road. Now Eideard has taken over as the clan’s chieftain.”