are asked to proceed. I don’t want the village below put into a panic fearing that we are raiders.”
Iver gave a quick order, and a single man detached himself from the group, galloping down the hill, through the village, and up to the keep. He stopped before the raised drawbridge, and waited. Finally a wood shutter on a window to one side of the entry was flung back. A helmeted head appeared.
“What do ye want?” a voice shouted down to him.
“Messenger from Lord Stewart, who waits on the other side of the village. He comes to the laird bearing greetings and a message from King James. May he have permission to enter?”
“Wait!” the voice said, and the shutter slammed shut.
After several very long minutes the shutter banged open, and the voice called, “The laird bids your master come forth. He is welcome to Brae Aisir.”
“Thank ye,” the messenger said politely and, turning his mount, headed back down the hill, through the village, and up the hill on the other side. Behind him he heard the creaking of the drawbridge as it was being lowered. “Yer welcome to enter the keep, my lord,” he told Fingal Stewart when he had reached the place where his party of horsemen awaited his return. “They were lowering the drawbridge as I returned to ye.”
Lord Stewart turned to his men. “We will ride through the village sedately. These borderers are a prickly lot. I don’t want anyone, child or creature, trampled with our coming. We are welcomed, and ’tis not a race.” Then swinging about, he raised his hand and signaled his party forward.
Villagers going about their daily chores stopped to move from the road and stare at the riders. A fountain and well were in the center of the hamlet. Several women were there getting water. They turned to stare boldly at the strangers. One pretty young lass even smiled at the men-at-arms and was immediately smacked by an older woman, obviously her mother. There was a small chapel at the far end of the village that they passed as they began to ascend the far hill to the keep. A priest stood before the little church, watching them, unsmiling, as they passed him by.
Reaching the keep, they clattered across the wooden drawbridge. As they did, the iron portcullis was slowly raised so they might pass through into the keep’s yard. Fingal looked carefully about him, drawing his mount to a halt. Within the walls was a large stone house with two towers, a stable, a well, and a barn. The courtyard was not cobbled but had an earth floor still muddy with several large puddles from the past days’ rain. As he dismounted, a man hurried forth down the stairs from the house.
“My lord,” he said with a bow. “I am Busby, the laird’s majordomo. Ye are most welcome to Brae Aisir. The laird is waiting for ye in the hall. Yer men are welcome to enter as well. The hearths are blazing, for the day is cool despite the welcome sunshine. Summer is coming to an end, and I imagine yer travels have been wet.” He led the visitor briskly up the steps, into the house, and down a broad passage into the great hall. “My lord, Lord Stewart,” Busby said, bringing the visitor to his master.
Dugald Kerr stood up and held out his hand. The laird was tall, but not nearly as tall as the man before him. He had a full head of snow white hair, and his brown eyes carefully assessed Fingal Stewart. “Welcome to Brae Aisir, my lord. Sit down! Sit down!” He indicated a settle opposite his high-backed chair as he sat once more.
A servant hurried up, tray in hand, and offered a goblet of wine first to his master, then to his master’s companion.
The laird raised his goblet. “The king!” he said.
Lord Stewart reciprocated. “The king!” he responded.
The two men drank in silence.
Then the laird said to his guest, “Yer messenger said ye come from the king with a message for me, my lord. Yer James Stewart’s kinsman?”
“I am,” Fingal replied. He reached his hand into his jerkin, and
Iver gave a quick order, and a single man detached himself from the group, galloping down the hill, through the village, and up to the keep. He stopped before the raised drawbridge, and waited. Finally a wood shutter on a window to one side of the entry was flung back. A helmeted head appeared.
“What do ye want?” a voice shouted down to him.
“Messenger from Lord Stewart, who waits on the other side of the village. He comes to the laird bearing greetings and a message from King James. May he have permission to enter?”
“Wait!” the voice said, and the shutter slammed shut.
After several very long minutes the shutter banged open, and the voice called, “The laird bids your master come forth. He is welcome to Brae Aisir.”
“Thank ye,” the messenger said politely and, turning his mount, headed back down the hill, through the village, and up the hill on the other side. Behind him he heard the creaking of the drawbridge as it was being lowered. “Yer welcome to enter the keep, my lord,” he told Fingal Stewart when he had reached the place where his party of horsemen awaited his return. “They were lowering the drawbridge as I returned to ye.”
Lord Stewart turned to his men. “We will ride through the village sedately. These borderers are a prickly lot. I don’t want anyone, child or creature, trampled with our coming. We are welcomed, and ’tis not a race.” Then swinging about, he raised his hand and signaled his party forward.
Villagers going about their daily chores stopped to move from the road and stare at the riders. A fountain and well were in the center of the hamlet. Several women were there getting water. They turned to stare boldly at the strangers. One pretty young lass even smiled at the men-at-arms and was immediately smacked by an older woman, obviously her mother. There was a small chapel at the far end of the village that they passed as they began to ascend the far hill to the keep. A priest stood before the little church, watching them, unsmiling, as they passed him by.
Reaching the keep, they clattered across the wooden drawbridge. As they did, the iron portcullis was slowly raised so they might pass through into the keep’s yard. Fingal looked carefully about him, drawing his mount to a halt. Within the walls was a large stone house with two towers, a stable, a well, and a barn. The courtyard was not cobbled but had an earth floor still muddy with several large puddles from the past days’ rain. As he dismounted, a man hurried forth down the stairs from the house.
“My lord,” he said with a bow. “I am Busby, the laird’s majordomo. Ye are most welcome to Brae Aisir. The laird is waiting for ye in the hall. Yer men are welcome to enter as well. The hearths are blazing, for the day is cool despite the welcome sunshine. Summer is coming to an end, and I imagine yer travels have been wet.” He led the visitor briskly up the steps, into the house, and down a broad passage into the great hall. “My lord, Lord Stewart,” Busby said, bringing the visitor to his master.
Dugald Kerr stood up and held out his hand. The laird was tall, but not nearly as tall as the man before him. He had a full head of snow white hair, and his brown eyes carefully assessed Fingal Stewart. “Welcome to Brae Aisir, my lord. Sit down! Sit down!” He indicated a settle opposite his high-backed chair as he sat once more.
A servant hurried up, tray in hand, and offered a goblet of wine first to his master, then to his master’s companion.
The laird raised his goblet. “The king!” he said.
Lord Stewart reciprocated. “The king!” he responded.
The two men drank in silence.
Then the laird said to his guest, “Yer messenger said ye come from the king with a message for me, my lord. Yer James Stewart’s kinsman?”
“I am,” Fingal replied. He reached his hand into his jerkin, and
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