A Wife for Twopence
The clans gathered in the fields the next morning for the official start of the celebration. It was painfully obvious the MacKeegans and the MacRains weren’t yet willing to fraternize with each other. Isabel was relieved to stand on the middle ground with both chiefs, her husband, brother and stepdaughter.
It was expected the first contest—the tug-o-war—would kick off with a rousing pibroch. Her father’s piper stepped forward and announced he would play a new composition entitled MacRain’s Controversy.
Muttered grumblings from the MacKeegans soon ceased as the poignant lament struck a chord in many a heart. Donald MacCrummen’s pipes sang of the grief of loss on both sides.
When he was done, birds chirped, leaves rustled in the wind and sheep bleated somewhere in the distance, but nary a man spoke.
“I hope they are making a solemn oath to themselves that their bairns willna see the same enmity and bloodshed they’ve endured,” Isabel whispered to Darroch.
He squeezed her hand. “We must pray ’tis so.”
Isabel’s uncle called for the teams to take up their positions at each end of the stout rope. Darroch anchored the MacKeegan team. Boyd explained the rules of the competition in great detail, but it was all for naught once the pulling began. As the marker moved back and forth, each team soon had at least fifteen men instead of the regulation eight. The early morning dew helped churn the earth, coating warriors with mud as they slipped and fell. Ian and Kyla laughed at the raucous antics.
In the end, the MacKeegans triumphed and the team was rewarded with a wee dram. Every woman in the audience turned away as participants from both clans stripped off and ran whooping like bairns into the loch. Isabel covered Kyla’s eyes when the lass seemed determined to watch.
When they emerged, shivering, but clean, she was pleased to see Darroch wasn’t the only MacKeegan engaged in friendly banter with a MacRain. Womenfolk tittered and giggled as the crowd of naked men hurriedly donned shirts and leggings. Isabel saw only one—the man who made her go weak at the knees whenever she set eyes on him. Her husband.
Much as she’d looked forward to the day of celebration and competition, she hoped it went by quickly.
*
Darroch wasn’t a piper, which gave him a chance to relax and enjoy the afternoon’s piping contests with his wife and daughter. Ian and Blue tagged along and he was happy the serious lad wanted to spend time with the older sister he barely knew. His wife’s joy filled him with contentment.
“Will ye enter the bard contest?” Ian asked him.
Darroch winked at his wife. “Nay. The only person I’ll be whispering sweet nothings to is yer sister.”
Isabel elbowed him in the ribs, though he could tell she was trying not to laugh.
The meaning of his jest evidently escaped Ian who explained, “I’ll enter when I’m old enough.”
“Do ye compose poetry?” Isabel asked, wide-eyed.
“Nay, but he sings,” Kyla interjected, causing Ian to blush.
“Then ye should enter,” Isabel insisted. “There’s no rule about a bard’s age, as far as I ken.”
She looked to Darroch for guidance. He shrugged. “Ye’re probably right.”
“Dadaidh will likely disapprove,” Ian said softly.
Isabel took her brother’s hand. “He willna say nay when I remind him our mother had the sweetest voice. ’Twas one of the things he loved about her.”
Ian smiled. “I didna ken that.”
“Come on,” Isabel said. “Let’s go find him.”
*
Food was plentiful and wine and ale flowed freely at the banquet in the late afternoon of the first day. Seated at the head table in the Great Hall, Isabel leaned close to Darroch’s ear. “I’m getting the feeling my father does, indeed, intend to impart the message the MacRains are the wealthier clan.”
“Mayhap,” he agreed, “but my sire seems more than content to eat and drink his fill, and most of my fellow clansmen have followed his lead.”
“I’ve ne’er seen him so happy,” Isabel replied, aware of how glad her husband must be to see his father enjoy life.
Isabel ate till she could eat no more, but sipped only watered ale. So far, she hadn’t been plagued by the morning sickness many women suffered, and didn’t want to jeopardize her good fortune.
When the last of the platters had been cleared away, and inebriated men tried to outshout each other with boasts about the day’s contests, Darroch put his arm around her shoulders. “Is it getting too noisy for ye?” he asked.
She clasped his hand and smiled. “Nay.”
“Too hot?”
She turned to look at his face and saw the familiar glint of desire in his green eyes. “I ken ye want to take me to bed, Darroch MacKeegan, but let’s enjoy the festivities for a while.”
He nuzzled her neck. “If ye’re certain, but be forewarned I’ll expect ye to dance with yer husband once the music starts.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Ye dance?”
He rolled his eyes. “Did I nay tell ye o’ the wild youth I used to be?”
Her foot started tapping of its own volition as the prospect of dancing with him filled her with excitement. However, her father had struggled to his feet, with some help from Boyd, and was calling for quiet.
It was clear to Isabel as her sire announced the winners of the various contests that he’d over-imbibed. He swayed on his feet and slurred his words. Raucous laughter greeted many of his hoarse mispronunciations. Men cheered and banged tankards and fists on tables to congratulate the winners. Her heart soared. This was the Rory MacRain she remembered, the rough-and-ready, whisky-loving chieftain. Many men would have been angry and bitter after losing an arm. Ghalla’s spell had been broken.
Suddenly, the grin disappeared from his red face. “Before we begin the music and dancing, I hafta make mention of a competitor who didna win the contest he entered.”
Men frowned, looked at each other in puzzlement and peered into tankards as if the answer lay there.
“Turns out,” he rasped, “Ian MacRain has inherited his mother’s singing talents.”
“He certainly didna get them from ye,” someone yelled.
Rory laughed along with everybody else, but it was clear to Isabel he was choking back tears, as was she.
“So, to kick off the evening’s entertainment, I give ye my son, Ian MacRain.”
Isabel was relieved when her wee brother stood confidently. At least his father had forewarned him.
The curious murmurs ceased and mouths fell open the moment Ian began the mouth-song performed by the great King Malcolm Canmore after his victory at the battle of Dunsinane more than five hundred years before.
Gille Calum dà pheighinn
Gille Calum dà pheighinn
Dà pheighinn, dà pheighinn
Gille Calum bonn-a-sia
Isabel’s heart swelled with pride as his voice rang out clear and steady. He seemed to gather confidence as others recognized the song and joined in the refrain.
Gheibhinn bean air dà pheighinn
Gheibhinn bean air dà pheighinn
Gheibhinn bean air dà pheighinn
’S tagha is rogha air bonn-a-sia.
Predictably, men roared with laughter at the notion that for two pennies a mon could buy a wife, but for sixpence he could have a selection.
“’Tisna a suitable song for a bairn to sing,” Isabel complained to Darroch, who was laughing and slapping his thigh along with everyone else.
“Be proud and let the lad have his moment,” he replied. “When he becomes chief, this will be part of the folklore told about him.”
She glanced along the table at her father and uncle, both beaming with pride as Ian sat. Her brother looked happier than she’d ever seen him. She smiled at him and applauded when he glanced her way.
“Let the dancing begin,” her father yelled.
Darroch grasped her hand and pulled her to her feet as men and women whooped and cheered and fiddlers and pipers launched into a reel.
*
Darroch hadn’t danced for many a year, but had no trouble falling into the cadence of the steps as he and Isabel whirled through reel after jig, jig after strathspey, strathspey after reel. The music filled his soul and carried him back to the more joyous days of his youth—before he’d selfishly torn many lives apart.
Seeing Kyla dance with Ian, with her grandfather, and even with Rory brought a contentment he’d once thought never to know again.
When his daughter was ready to drop from exhaustion, it was his father who offered to see she was put to bed. He was confident she’d insist her grandsire tell her the tale of Cú Chulainn.
Isabel was surprisingly light on her feet, though that shouldn’t come as a shock. His wife excelled at everything.
They danced until her face was beet red and her hair totally undone from the elaborate arrangement Coira had fashioned.
“Now are ye ready for bed?” he asked as he escorted her back to her seat.
“Aye,” she panted with a glint in her eye. “Did I tell ye I like the wild Darroch I glimpsed this night?”
That was all it took. Afraid he might babble something incoherent if he tried to speak, he scooped her up and carried her to their chamber.
*
After six days of feasting, drinking, singing, dancing, and fierce but friendly competition, the MacKeegans—looking more disheveled and cheerful than when they’d arrived—gathered in the courtyard for the return journey to Dun Scaith.
It did Isabel’s heart good to see her father and Stewart MacKeegan embrace as friends.
“There was nay stinting o’ the generous wine that would o’ercome the hardiest of heroes,” Stewart quipped. “Twenty times drunk we were each day, but we didna rebel against it.”
His clansmen shouted their loud agreement as they mounted their horses.
Isabel bade her father, uncle and brother a tearful goodbye before joining Darroch who waited with Storm.
“I ken ye’d like to stay longer,” he began.
She touched her fingertips to his lips. “This has been a wonderful visit, but I realized as the days went on that I dinna think o’ Dungavin as my home anymore.”
He took hold of her wrist and kissed her fingers. “Do ye mean it, Isabel?”
The happiness in his eyes touched her heart. “Aye,” she replied truthfully.