Ninth Inch
“On a Monday morning in late September the clans marched through the streets of Perth to the sound of the pibroch and armed with bows and arrows, swords, targes, knives and axes, to the western banks of the River Tay.”
Shona wished for an axe so she could bash her uncle on the head. Determined to keep the smile plastered on her face, she scanned the crowd, many of whom mouthed the same words, so well did they know the tale. In mid-chew, her auntie stared in disbelief at her brother.
Shona dug her fingernails deeper into Ewan’s thigh, not only to ease the tension she felt in his muscles, but to settle her own agitation. A celebration that had begun with great promise threatened to turn into a brawl if Kendric’s drunkenness led him to open up old wounds.
Another voice took up the tale. “They put up barriers on three sides o’ the island to keep spectators off the battlefield, with the Tay on the fourth side.”
Ewan’s leg began to twitch uncontrollably. She didn’t need to look at him to know his jaw was clenched, though she also sensed something had amused him.
“The Dominicans’ summerhouse was turned into a grandstand for the King and his entourage,” someone shouted.
The retelling of the tale had taken on a life of its own and Shona acknowledged with a heavy heart there’d be no stopping it.
“Aye, but then they discovered the Mackinlochs were short one man,” Kendric exclaimed.
“Twenty-nine, nay thirty as agreed,” many yelled.
“Coward deserted,” others accused.
Shona feared her nails might draw blood if she dug them any deeper, but Ewan remained in his seat even after this insult to his clan, though she suspected he burned to challenge the accusation.
“Just when it seemed that the battle would have to be abandoned, a volunteer stepped forward,” Kendric continued. “But only because the Mackinlochs offered him half a crown of French gold.”
Raucous derogatory laughter broke out, but came to an abrupt halt when Ewan pushed back his chair and stood.
Determined to demonstrate loyalty to her husband, Shona probably still looked like a happy bride. Inwardly, she prayed fervently that she wouldn’t be widowed on her wedding day.
*
Ewan recognized he faced a crisis. What he did next would perpetuate the feud or bring it to an end. The temptation to respond with his fists was powerful, but for the sake of both clans and for Shona and the bairns they would bring into the world, it had to end.
He scanned the crowd, then smiled. “Small in stature and a bandy-legged fellow he was, this braw mon, this volunteer.”
Mouths that had been on the verge of saying the very same thing fell open. He’d achieved his first goal and taken them unawares. If they thought only Clan MacCarron repeated this tale over and over, they were in for a surprise.
“Aye,” someone shouted. “Henry Smith.”
“Hal o’ the Wend,” Ewan replied.
He wasn’t sure, but he thought Shona swallowed a chuckle as the nickname was repeated in hushed tones; or mayhap she just coughed. He didn’t risk looking at her, but glanced at Kendric instead, taken aback when the laird winked at him.
He attributed it to the man’s state of health and inebriation, but then The Camron went on with the tale. “The king’s trumpeters sounded the charge.”
A few who’d evidently also overimbibed made trumpeting sounds, eliciting general titters.
Ewan’s hopes lifted. Perhaps he would get to spend his wedding night with his virgin wife after all. The prospect spurred him on. He braced his legs and tucked his thumbs into the waistband of his trews. “The pipes screamed, maddening the combatants who started forward, slowly first, then at the run.”
Somewhere at the back of the hall a piper began a lament.
Fynn got to his feet. “They met in the center o’ the field,” he recited, his husky voice raising the hair on Ewan’s nape, “crashing upon each other like a storm surge upon the rocks.”
“Blood flowed,” Ewan bellowed, warming to the task, “men groaned and screamed in pain and fury.”
Walter stood. “The furious wail of the bagpipes could still be heard above the tumult, urging the warriors on.”
As if inspired to play more boldly, the piper gave his instrument full rein.
“Then the pipes sounded a retreat,” Kendric yelled hoarsely above the din, brandishing one crutch.
Ewan was certain the laird would topple over, but Donald appeared out of nowhere and propped him up.
Evidently confused by the new instructions, the piper faltered.
David thrust his fist in the air. “Twenty men lay dead on the field,” he sang, his melodious voice adding poignancy to the bitter words of the age-old ballad.
“Arms and legs cleaved off,” a baritone voice intoned.
“Heads cleft to the chin,” David sang.
Ruadh howled.
Ewan was astonished. It was as if both clans had sung the same gruesome story for three hundred years. He didn’t consider himself a good singer, but nevertheless joined Fynn and David in the second to last verse.
The fray resumed,
but at the end
eleven Mackinlochs remained,
including Hal o’ the Wend.
They stayed silent when every male voice in the hall belted out the inevitable conclusion.
One MacCarron still lived
A terrible cost.
He surrendered victory.
The contest was lost.
It was sorely tempting to add that the last surviving MacCarron had actually jumped into the Tay and swum to safety on that fateful day, but…
The silence weighed heavily. If Ewan said the wrong thing at this crucial moment…
Flexing his fingers, he looked to Shona. The adoration in her eyes gave him courage, but Kendric forestalled him. “’Tis clear,” the chief declared solemnly without a trace of a slur, “both clans have sacrificed much for hundreds of years. Nay just at the Ninth Inch. And I say Enough!”
There was a murmur of agreement.
Ewan began to wonder if he was just imagining the laird’s mispronunciation. No one else reacted at all.
Kendric swallowed hard. “Ye all ken I ne’er wanted to be laird, but when Beathan died…”
He accepted a kerchief from Donald and blew his nose, then gestured to his niece. “Here sits the daughter of yer true laird, a mon cruelly murdered.”
Tears welled in many a female eye, including Shona’s.
Ruadh growled.
“By rights, Beathan’s flesh and blood should be yer laird. She’d do a better job of it than me.”
This notion made Shona blush and rendered many speechless. Ewan acknowledged she had the will and the ability, but a woman as laird?
“I see ye’re nay ready for that yet,” Kendric mumbled. “However, today she married a man who has demonstrated beyond a shadow of a doot he can lead.”
“Aye,” a few agreed.
“He rescued our Shona from her abductors.”
Cheers resounded.
“He saved the life of a wee bairn.”
Ewan’s attempts to give credit to Ruadh were drowned out by tankards banging on tables.
“He rooted out a viper in our midst and kilt it.”
The resulting aye was deafening. Everyone seemed to be overlooking the fact Mungo had fallen on his own weapon.
Kendric tapped a crutch against the slightly battered cast encasing his leg. “I intend someday to be rid o’ this and walk like a man again, but I’ll ne’er be as whole as I was. We need a strong leader and powerful allies. I therefore name Ewan Mackinloch as The Camron.”
*
Shona wished more cheering had greeted the proclamation, but at least no one voiced an objection.
If only her father had met Ewan. Beathan MacCarron would have recognized his worth. But that was impossible and heart wrenching to even think of.
Her husband remained on his feet, fists clenched, solemnly surveying the people of his new clan. She longed to touch him, but he was The Camron now.
What was he was thinking as he watched folk who were clearly uncertain how to greet the news?
She clutched the edge of the table when Walter strode to the front of the crowd, unsheathed his claymore and pointed it at Ewan. “This day,” he declared loudly, “in the presence of all my clan and kinfolk, I pledge loyalty and allegiance to Ewan Mackinloch, Laird of Clan MacCarron.”
“As do I,” Robbie shouted, provoking chuckles.
Shona startled when her uncle exclaimed, “Nay.”
Ewan stared at him, obviously sharing her concern that wine and the dwale had rendered him witless. His slip of the tongue in renaming the famous Battle of the North Inch had been the first indication of his rambling. At least no one seemed to have noticed that error.
Kendric shook his head. “He canna be laird until the morrow, when we have proof.”
“Proof?” Walter asked indignantly. “Of what? Ye already said…”
“Weel,” Kendric mused, “I expect Fynn and David will both be occupied come dawn on the morrow, so ’twill likely be ye, Walter, who’ll be hoisting sheets up yon flagpole.”
His pronouncement produced the loudest guffaws of the evening.
Walter grinned and slapped Ewan on the back.
Had Shona not been thoroughly embarrassed she might also have laughed out loud.
Jaw clenched, Ewan turned to face Kendric. “Ye’re saying I canna be The Camron until I’ve made Shona my wife in every way?”
Kendric winked.
She squealed with surprise when her husband scooped her up. “That’s a trial by combat I’ll willingly endure,” he boasted, eyebrows wiggling, his face split by a naughty grin that sent desire spiraling into her womb.
He carried her out of the hall amid loud whooping and cheering.
“Are ye ready for yer own nine inches?” he whispered hoarsely.
She didn’t understand the words, though he’d evidently noticed Kendric’s slip of the tongue. However, there was no mistaking the lusty intent in his eyes nor the heat of his nape ’neath her hands.