A History Maker by Alasdair Gray

mad as his father,” she muttered, pressing her hand to her womb, “O I’ll have to ask about this.”
    She jumped out of bed and pulled on her dress. “Come back, Annie! Let’s have another wee cuddle. I’m all right again. I said I was sorry.”
    â€œI don’t want a mad baby, Wat.”
    â€œThere is no such thing as a mad baby.” She slipped on her shoes without looking at him. Wat said, “Done with me, have you?”
    â€œI’m too young to say, Wat. Bowerhope mennever come here now because twice Craig Douglas women got weans with diseased blood by Bowerhope — and the disease was curable. I don’t know if daftness is, and my mammy is your dad’s second cousin. The grannies will know what’s right. But O Wat,” she wailed, tears flowing down her cheeks again, “I liked you fine before this! I wanted a bairn by you!” He said, “Aye,” and got up and started dressing. She lingered by the door, drying her tears and watching.
    â€œI’ll be in the Warrior house if your grannies want to test my sanity,” he said abruptly, “They might want that before deciding you shouldnae carry our bairn. But I’ll no come back to Craig Douglas unless invited — tell everyone that. Tell Nan. Say goodbye to her for me. I never much liked the Warrior house but now it seems the one place where I’ll be welcome — though mibby no for much longer.”

THREE
WARRIOR WORK

    L IKE ALL WHO LOVED VISITORS Annie had a room with a door onto the veranda of her home, so Wat left Craig Douglas that morning almost unnoticed at first. Near the stables he heard musical jangling and shrill shouts of, “Fall down you’re dead!” — ” No I clonked you first!”
    In a sandpit by the path a jumble of colourful shelled creatures were hitting each other with tiny swords: infants in helmets and armour which pinged, twanged or clonked under different strengths of blow. They stood still as he drew level then the smallest ran to him and stuttered breathlessly, “When I grow up I’ll be a Amazon and kill men like you do cousin Wattie!”
    She was a very wee girl. Wat paused and saidpolitely, “Name and age?”
    â€œBetty. Four.”
    â€œSoldiers don’t fight to kill each other, Betty. We fight to win the respect due to courage.”
    â€œAye but killing men is still fun intit cousin Wattie?”
    He shook his head hopelessly and entered the stable.
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    Three twelve-year-old lads knelt on the floor playing jorries. They sprang up, led the dapple grey from her stall, saddled and bridled her.
    â€œAre you for the Warrior house Wat?” said one,
    â€œCan we come with ye?”
    â€œI’m for a quiet ride on my lonesome lone, men,” Wat told them sombrely, “I’m sorry your brothers got killed.”
    â€œBut they helped us draw with Northumbria,” said one gently as if offering consolation.
    â€œDon’t fool yourselves, men. Geneva will declare our draw a foul. I know because I was chief fouler. Open that door.”
    On the common he found his hands had healed enough to let him mount Sophia with dignity and after waving goodbye rode down to Yarrow. He suspected many eyes now watched him from the big house with the wood behind so did not look back. Wanting solitude he headed downstream toward Mountbenger along amossy track between tangled hedges which followed the line of an old motorway.
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    The air felt close and heavy this morning though little gusts of wind sometimes refreshed it. A dull sky looked full of rain which never fell. Yellow gorse on the hillside was the only vivid colour. A mile above Mountbenger he soaked his legs fording the river and rode up the glen behind White Law, avoiding the houses of Altrieve and Hartleap by keeping to the hillside, and ascending Altrieve burn to the saddle between Peat Law and the Wiss. Though still