Charming the Shrew (2 page)

Early December, 1308, Highlands

T
AYG PULLED HIS
shaggy Highland pony to a halt and gazed down over Culrain, the glen of his childhood. He had delayed this return for nearly a year while he served with the Bruce, but he could no longer deny his fate.

Robbie was dead. Tayg did not wish to be chief, but he knew there was no other choice, for Robbie had made Tayg promise to fulfill his unfinished duty to the clan.

Now the time had come to face destiny, and he would do it as Robbie would have. He sat up straighter, arranged his cloak, and settled his mouth into the serious expression Robbie always wore.

He nudged the pony forward.

It carried him along a snow-edged trail that led into the heart of the village. As he passed the outermost cottages with no notice from the inhabitants, he was unaccountably relieved to escape the usual clamor when someone returned after a long absence.

But ’twas not to be. A dog barked. A child ran round the corner of another cottage and slid to a stop.

“Robbie?” the lad said, and Tayg looked behind him, half expecting to find his brother there. “Nay. Tayg! Da, ’tis Tayg!” he shouted, running to the cottage door and flinging it open. “’Tis Tayg!” he yelled again.

Doors flew open, and the lane was quickly flanked by Tayg’s kin, old and young alike, lining the way and shouting his name as if he were a great war hero—as they would have greeted Robbie.

Tayg waited for silence to descend again, but it didn’t. There were shouts and laughter and a lightness to the people’s faces he had not seen when last he was here, nearly a year ago when he had brought Robbie’s body home to be buried.

He stopped the pony in front of the largest structure in the village, the hallhouse. The three-storied stone building commanded the foot of the lane and was surrounded on three sides by a loop in the river, making it more defensible than any other place in the village. It served both as his parents’ home and as the central storage and social building for the clan. His mother, Sorcha Munro, stood at the top of the long, narrow stair rising to the only entrance. Her thin face looked older than he remembered, but her thick, braided hair was still a deep shade of sable, and there was a crackle in her eyes that told him she could still make sure her husband and her remaining son did as she wished them to.

Tayg offered her a smile and was pleased to see it returned. She had been overcome with grief when they had buried Robbie, and he had not thought to see a smile on her face ever again. He turned his smile into the cocky grin that had melted her anger when he was a youngling and prone to trouble. Her smile broadened, and she shook her head as she started down the stair.

His father, Angus Dubh, chief of Munro, stood at the bottom of the stair, his night-black hair beginning to show strands of silver at his temples and in his heavy beard, though the great bear of a man looked as strong and sturdy as ever he had.

Tayg dismounted and handed the reins to a young lad standing nearby with his mouth agape as if Tayg were a monster with horns instead of a warrior returned from war. Tayg winked at him, and a blush rushed over the lad’s cheeks. Tayg turned to his parents.

“Da. Mum.” He didn’t know what to do next, but his mum, as always, did. She moved forward and enfolded him in a fierce embrace. His father joined them, and Tayg felt much of the tension he had carried with him these many months drain away.

It was good to be home.

A
FEW HOURS
later, after much conversation with his mother over the well-being of his many cousins who also served with the Bruce and a good hot soak in a real tub, Tayg adjusted the pleats of a brand-new plaid his mum had brought him. The weaver had experimented with new dyes and patterns, and this was the best of what she had produced, saved for just this occasion.

Tayg admired the crimson crossed with the brightest green he had yet seen in a plaid and a watery blue with just the smallest line of brilliant yellow crossing through it all. ’Twas not a plaid he would wear when hunting, nor fighting, for ’twas bright of hue and would easily be seen, but ’twas an excellent change from the browns and grays he had worn so much of late. The colors seemed to lift his spirits, and he began to look forward to the evening spent among his friends and family.

Mum had said a bard was with them for the winter, a happy but unusual arrangement, as bards tended to winter over in the larger castles where there was more coin to be earned. This one was apparently wooing a lass in the village and had visited the clan often in recent months.

Tayg reached for his claymore, then remembered where he was. A sword would not be a necessary addition to his festive attire this evening. He did slide his dagger into its sheath and checked that his
sgian dhu
was in its place. Some things would not be left behind no matter where he was.

Satisfied that he was ready to face the clan, he left his chamber on the topmost floor of the hallhouse and descended the twisting narrow stair to the middle floor, which was given over almost entirely to a hall. Tonight it was filled with trestle tables groaning with food and people enough to make the large chamber feel crowded but somehow cozy. A fire roared on the hearth at one side of the room, and at the far end was a dais where a long table had been placed. Four chairs had been arranged near the center of the table facing those gathered in the hall.

Tayg could see his mother and father already seated there. Beside his mum was an empty chair, and next to that sat Duncan McCulloch, his cousin and best friend since they were wee lads. Duncan had left the fighting when he had been badly injured at Balnevie some seven months before. Tayg was glad to see that his friend appeared fully recovered and, from the way he was cutting into his food, there had been no lasting effect upon his sword arm. Relief poured through him though he had not been aware of holding more than a passing concern over Duncan. Duncan would be his champion when Tayg became chief, and he was counting on his friend’s level head to help him fill Robbie’s considerable brogues.

He made his way quickly to the table on the dais, nodded at his father, kissed his mother on the cheek, and took his place beside her. Duncan clapped him on the back and managed to grin while still chewing.

“You look well,” Tayg said as he helped himself to a platter heaped with thick slices of roasted beef. “Where is Mairi?”

Duncan grinned. “She is not feeling well.”

Tayg looked at his friend, puzzled by the grin.

“She is with child,” his mother said, passing him a tureen of braised turnips and leeks.

Tayg looked back at Duncan and couldn’t miss the pride in the other man’s face. “Congratulations! So you’re to be a da. How soon?”

“Another two months, though the midwife says it could be a bit more. Mairi is uncomfortable, but happy.”

Duncan filled a tankard with the dark ale Tayg had missed so much in his travels, and Tayg raised it.

“May you have a strong and healthy bairn,” he said, then took a long, slow draught.

For a time there was silence as they ate and Tayg mulled over the ramifications of Duncan’s impending fatherhood. He had not worried much when Duncan had announced that he and Mairi would be wed. That event had changed Tayg’s life little. Duncan had happily followed Tayg and Robbie off to war even though it meant leaving Mairi behind. But he had not rejoined them after his injury healed, and now Tayg knew why. Duncan had responsibilities that now went far beyond a pretty wife.

It seemed he and Duncan both had responsibilities they had not held a year previous.

After Tayg had devoured a second helping of everything, he refilled his tankard and looked about the hall. The bard had left his dinner and sat before the fire, quietly playing on his harp, stroking the strings with his long-fingered hands as a man tenderly strokes a woman’s cheek. ’Twas no wonder lasses tended to flock about bards, giggling and vying for their attentions, when the bards all but seduced them with their playing and singing.

He shook his head at the thought then turned his attention back to Duncan. For the next candlemark they traded tales of all the men they’d fought beside, even planning a foray to visit auld Gair who lived but a day’s ride from Culrain. As the conversation wound down, they sat companionably drinking their ale, each lost in memories of earlier days. Slowly Tayg realized that his name was being sung. ’Twas a song he had never heard before, a song that repeated his name again and again. He sat forward, concentrating on the lean bard and the words he sang with such fervor.

“That is utter nonsense,” Tayg said, looking to Duncan for agreement. “’Twas nothing like that when we faced Buchan at Balnevie.”

“True,” Duncan said, “but nevertheless, ’tis a most popular song.” He nodded in the direction of the bard. Tayg’s quick glance startled more than one lass out of making moon eyes at him. The lads were less circumspect, openly grinning at him. A granny even held his gaze for a moment, then nodded her head as if she had taken his measure and come to some conclusion.

There were groups of women, three here, five there, who bent their heads together in hushed conversation, then they would giggle and each would steal a look at him, then more giggling and more whispered talk.

“There will be trouble in this hall, mark my words,” Duncan said.

“What kind of trouble?” Tayg asked.

“The kind only you can create, my braw lad,” his mother replied from his other side. She had sat in silence, observing for a long time. “The lasses—and their mums—are plotting over you already.”

Tayg laughed. “That has never caused trouble—well, never much trouble—in the past.”

“Do not laugh, my darling boy. There is nary a lass within a day’s ride of Culrain who has not swooned over the stories of ‘brave Tayg’ in battle, ‘charming Tayg’ in the hall. Your time in service to the king has honed you like a fine sword. You are more handsome than even your brother was, bless his soul. You are returned from war a valiant warrior of the king, and you shall be chief after your father. Nay, ’tis nary a lass within
two
days’ ride of Culrain who has not dreamed that you would return and fall at her feet, begging her to wed you.”

He listened absently to the bard, watching the lasses and wondering if one of them would someday make him wish to marry. They seemed so…alike. He hadn’t been gone so long that he didn’t know every one of them, had since they were all wee lasses. There were pretty ones and plain ones, some were thin and others more plump. Some had auburn hair and others blond, but none of them stood apart from the others. None of them were truly different from the other lasses. Most were pleasant, and in that regard would be fair as a wife, but none of them stirred him. Well, some of them stirred him, but only in a physical way. None of them captured his mind and heart the way Mairi had Duncan’s or even the way his mother captured Da’s. Still, perhaps one of the lasses listening raptly to the bard sing about…

Tayg listened more carefully. Surely it wasn’t another song about him. He rested his head in his hand. This had to stop. The songs were absurd, elevating a simple warrior to the level of a hero.

The bard finished the song with a flourish on his harp, and applause erupted from the crowd. Several of the lasses tittered, then cast him knowing glances over their shoulders. Lasses were always fluttering around him like beautiful moths drawn to a flickering flame. “’Twould appear I am to enjoy myself,” he said, more to himself than to his companions.

“That you must not do,” Sorcha said, catching his full attention with her serious tone. “’Tis time we spoke of your future.”

He had made peace with his future, yet a chill ran down his spine at her words. The grimace that passed over his father’s face served to strengthen his unease.

He pushed his chair back and propped his feet upon the table, affecting an unconcerned pose. “Wish me well, Duncan. ’Tis my future we discuss.”

Duncan smiled. “Perhaps you shall like your future. It seems to me that you are ready for it.” He raised his cup to Tayg and drained the contents. “For me, I’m off to see to Mairi’s comfort.”

“Give her my greetings,” Tayg said, then turned his full attention to his parents. He didn’t see any sense in putting this off any longer than his year of fighting already had. “My future?”

Angus rose from his seat and paced the length of the dais. Sorcha watched him, but she would not meet Tayg’s eyes. His parents’ unusual behavior made the skin on his scalp prickle, not unlike the way it did just before the enemy surged into battle. He glanced from one parent to the other, waiting for one of them to speak.

At last Angus sighed and propped a hip on the table so that Tayg was trapped between his parents. A lively tune flowed from the bard, at odds with the serious looks on Angus’s and Sorcha’s faces.