FLAME ACROSS THE HIGHLANDS

Katherine

Vickery

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Flame Across the
Highlands

by Katherine Vickery

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

                              Historical Romance

Copyright 1990
by Kathryn Kramer

Notice: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer
, paper print out, or any other method, constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

To my twin uncles—James Douglas Vickery and John Donald Vickery—who epitomize not only the kind of men who have added so much to our own century but the bold and daring men of previous centuries as well. This story is for them in token of the
MacQuarie blood we share and the many evenings we spent together when I was a child, telling stories and listening to the tales of those who came before us…..

And to Mary Margaret MacQuarry, my great-grandmother who came from
Scotland to the hills of Kentucky and even farther westward to Colorado. Her courage touched my heart.

“
Still the blood is strong, the heart if Highland,

And we, in dreams, behold the
Hebrides.”

                            --Composer Anoymous – A Canadian Boat Song

Author’s Note:

Scotland is a majestic land of islands, mountains, meadowed plains, narrow valleys, and wild moorlands; a land where sea lochs gouge deeply into the shoreline, icy streams tumble through green and wooded glens, and the ever-changing blue of the sky unfolds above like a banner.

During the Dark Ages Scotland, like the rest of
Britain, was a melting pot for the roving peoples of Europe—Angles, Picts, and Celts who had sailed from Ireland in the fifth century to settle in the Highlands. They had little in common except the newly learned Christianity and the fear of Norse raids. This fear united Picts and Scots under a single King—Alpin. The clans MacQuarie, MacDonald, MacKinnon, and MacGregor were among the branches of clan Alpin. MacQuarie (Guarai) was second son of Gregor, son of Alpin. Priding themselves in their nobility, they ignored the authority of the English and French-inspired feudal system and continued to fight for their lands and chieftains as their Celtic tradition dictated.

Until 1297, after Alexander III’s death and a fight between various claimants to the Scottish throne tore
Scotland asunder (culminating in Robert the Bruce coming to power), the MacQuaries were among seven families that held one-third of Scotland. They were in possession of the northwestern mainland and offshore northwestern isles. After that time they were pushed farther west by the Campbells who claimed the land by charters given to them by Robert the Bruce. The Campbells were granted their lands along with the titles of barons. The MacDonalds and MacQuaries, considering themselves true Scottish lairds, continued to fight the clan Campbell, more often than not ignoring the authority of the newly crowned king, Robert the Bruce.

The clan system was the basis of life in the
Highlands. All too frequent among men of untamed independence were clan feuds whose consequences were often tragic. Jealousies, atrocities, and endless raiding of goods, cattle, and women were commonplace. Complete loyalty to the clan chieftain was absolute. A man driven out of his clan lost his identity. Indeed, clan members claimed kinship from a common ancestor whose name they bore. The word
clan
comes from the Gaelic word
clann
which means “children.” Clans were first known by the badges worn in their bonnets and in later years by the tartans they wore. People today still wear the tartan of their clan to proclaim their pride in a world and time now past.

The clans lived by the sword and perished by the sword. Warriors were summoned into battle by messengers, carrying a cross of fire-blackened wood, who ran through the territory shouting the clan war cry. Fierce. Frightening. Yet they also had their times of peace and family tranquility. Each clan chief had his poet or bard to praise him and tell him stories on a long winter night. Gathering together, the men, women and children would listen to tales of long ago and relish the music of pipes, fiddles, and traditional songs, until the children fell asleep and were carried off to be tucked in their beds.

Sentiment and the primitive virtues of courage, loyalty, and strength mingled in the Highland character. The clansmen considered themselves to be of more noble birth than any Lowlander. It was their great pride which never died, even though in the eighteenth century the clan system was at last rendered powerless. These brave men, however, live on in the legends, myths, and stories of days long ago. Thus is the story of two lovers who would ne’er be parted. Their unquenchable passion became part of the beauty of the Highlands.

Note:
The island of Staffa, later to become known for the strange rock formation of Fingal’s Cave which inspired Mendelssohn to write the music for his immortal overture, was at this time owned by the MacQuarie clan. The original name for Fingal’s Cave was Gaelic—
An Uamh Ehinn
or “the musical cave”—and was derived from the sounds of the sea echoing through its depths..

PROLOGUE

Fog, thick and heavy, lay over the horizon.  A
Highland mist veiled the lochs and glens below like an unearthly shroud, hiding the men who slowly and stealthfully made their way over the land.  Only the faint glint of moonlight penetrated the eerie smoke-like veil, dancing on the shields and swords as if to give warning, a warning that was not detected.  Thus, unobserved the armed band pressed on relentlessly, guided by their chieftain.

"We will take them unaware,
" whispered one husky voice, "we can kill them in their beds."

"Nae,
Perth!" A deep rumbling voice was adamant.  "That is no' my way.  When we are upon them I will gi' them fair warning.  Duncan Campbell is no coward to cut down unarmed men, no matter what they might hae done.  I willna avenge my son in such a manner, by a bloody slaughter.  I will meet the MacQuarie clansmen face to face.  I will gi' them a chance to arm themselves, though they didna gi' same to my son Morgan."

The awesome man who answered was a black-bearded, shaggy-haired Scotsman warrior of immense strength and
girth, leader of the Campbell Clan.  His skill in fighting was not to be equaled in all of the Highlands, thus he was feared  all the way from the Hebrides to London. The right arm of
the Bruce
.  Such a fighter  too had been  his son, Morgan Campbell.  Perhaps that was why a coward had struck him from behind and left him on the hillside to die.  His attacker had not been man enough to fight, Duncan Campbell reasoned.  There could be no other explanation.  Duncan had found his son  upon the snowy crags and rocks, his blood seeping into the ground.  Though he had taken him back and had set his wife and daughters to carefully tend the lad, the wound had festered.  Slowly it had poisoned the once strong, youthful warrior, stealing his strength as each tortured day passed by.

"Who did this to ye?" 
Duncan had asked the question over and over  but only one mumbled word had passed the young man's lips.
MacQuarie!
  A name that had long harried the clansman's soul. MacQuarie.  Now they would pay for their treachery.

The MacQuaries had long been
Duncan's adversaries.  Traitorous curs that they were, they refused to bow their heads to the king. They had the effrontery to claim themselves as royal descendants from a long-ago king.  A quarrel over land had started the feuding, land granted to the Campbells in reward for fealty but claimed by the MacQuaries.  The MacQuaries insisted the land granted to Duncan's clan was
their
land, though Duncan angrily disputed such reasoning.  It was true that the MacQuarie clansmen had settled on the land for hundreds of years, but they held no written parchment from the king to assert their right. And they were yet to harken to the Bruce's banner to reap reward.  Thus the last five years had been particularly volatile.  But that was not why the Campbells were marching now.  Indeed it was because of Morgan's death.  The MacQuaries would pay dearly, Duncan vowed.

H
atred scorched Duncan's heart, corroding his mind, his soul, making him blind to reason or mercy.  He had summoned the clan to the rallying ground, with the fiery cross, shouting his hostile war cry.  Now, like a swarm of raging ants, the Campbells climbed the hill and marched across the boggy meadow, crossing to the MacQuarie land which bordered their own.  In their bonnets they wore a sprig of fur club moss to tell any who might wonder that they were a mighty clan, the Campbells!

"Now.  Gi' them a sound to strike terror to their hearts.  The bagpipes, mon!  The drums!
"   His voice was like thunder. Hurriedly  the warriors harkened to obey his order.

It was a droning, pounding, fiercesome sound, making no secret of the marchers' intent.  Had there been any misunderstanding the bloodcurdling war cry that sliced through the night soon announced what was to come.

The sound of pipes and drums did indeed carry across the glen, where, as it was meant to do.  It alerted a small group of men that their land was being invaded.  Scrutinizing eyes stared through the fog    at the threatening band, examining the garments they wore--the
leine-chroich
, the green tint of the
breacan
, and light woolen coverings worn up to the knee.  Friend or foe? As the army marched closer, the fluttering banners of black and tan proclaimed the identity of the approaching men.

"The
Campbells!" cried out a voice.  "They've crossed Loch Tuath.  They're coming this way!"

"How many?"  Lachlan
MacQuarie, a ruddy faced, red-haired man shouted out the question, knowing well the seriousness of the matter.  It was a disaster  to be taken unaware.  On such short notice the MacQuaries could only assemble a small group of clansmen, and he felt of a sudden certainty that they would be outnumbered.  The Campbells always swarmed in large numbers. "How many?" he bellowed again.

Cautiously
, the man at his side surveyed the scene from the parapet.  "From here I count at least
forty!"

Forty
warriors it was indeed.  They came in a grumbling, growling wave of ferocity that had yet to be equaled.  Swarming across the land, swords slashing, axes swinging, shields clanking, dirks striking out, they quickly swept any obstacle from their path in a vicious carnage of destruction.  The MacQuarie men came bravely to meet them for it could not be said that Lachlan MacQuarie was a coward, nor any of his brethren.  Desperately they stood in defense of their lands, their homes.

The battle wa
s bloodily brief.  The Campbells waged a relentless battle.  Having  substantially outnumbered their opponents, the outcome was one-sided and predetermined against the MacQuarie men, though they made a most noble attempt that even Duncan had to respect.  When at last the long blue shadows lay across the land and the fight ended, however, the MacQuarie fighters were most thoroughly conquered.  The glen was strewn with wounded and those who would never rise again.

"And so we have won,
Duncan.  Ye canna ask for more!"  whispered a raspy voiced man beside the chieftain.

"I can, Cameron, and I will!"  Pulling at his dark beard, Duncan
Campbell smiled triumphantly, a menacing grin that sent shivers up the other man's spine.  "My revenge is not yet complete.  The desire for it sours my belly and canna be quenched!"  So saying, he gestured for Cameron to follow him to the  now defenseless castle.  There he braced his muscled arm against the door, shoving with all his might until the wood shattered in a splintering crash.  Explosively the barrier was cast aside.

Emboldened by his victory he brazenly entered the hall, wandering from room to room, coming upon a chamber filled with the clans' women.  There seemed to be no men about to guard them.  The men were all on the battlefield.  

Seeing Duncan enter, the women  reacted with the wailing, piercing shrieks of a banshee as they dispersed. Scattering, they ran to and fro, fleeing the chamber in panic for their own lives.  When at last the room was in silence, Duncan  and Cameron cautiously looked around, lest they be taken unaware.  They had no desire to be ambushed by a swordsman hiding in a corner.

"Hmmmph...I see no men.  Proceed, Cameron."

The only light came from the embers of the hearth, but the reflection was bright enough to illuminate the tortured expression of the woman who lay on the bed.  MacQuarie's wife?  Duncan did not know for certain, but made that assumption from the grandeur of the room.  The chamber was large, but cluttered with all manner of objects--tables, stools, chests, benches and a large bed.  One basket held the freshly unswaddled form of two female babies, crying now that their reverie had been disturbed. Campbell moved forward for a closer view.

"Go away!  Ye dinna hae reason to be here.  How dare ye enter the laird's chamber."  An old toothless woman, dressed in dark brown stood at the bedside.  Coming out of the shadows
, she blocked the woman who lay upon the blankets from view with fierce protectiveness.  "Lachlan MacQuarie will hae yer heads for this!"

"As he did my son's life?" 
Duncan’s voice trembled with fury.  He took another step. "Is this then his wife?"

"Aye!"  Speaking hastily, the old woman regretted her outburst as she saw the wicked gleam in the dark-haired man's eyes.

"Then stand aside ye old harridan!"  With a mumbled growl he flung her out of his way, his intent to take with him the woman who lay upon the bed.  He would take MacQuarie's wife. Abduct her! Crouching down, he touched that woman, but the contorted expression on her face halted him.

"A baby!  Another bairn!  It is coming, Cara!" 
MacQuarie's wife gasped her pain as the baby's head forced its way through the already traveled passage.

In anger and awe Duncan and Cameron witnessed the birth of a third child.  Triplets!  An unsettling omen.  Watching as the midwife cut and tied the chord,
Duncan pushed forward to see the sex of the child. 
A son!
  MacQuarie's heir.  In that moment he knew well what he would do.  He would take MacQuarie's son in payment for his own.  Was it not written an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth?  Was it not right that he be repaid?  Was it not fair?  A child for a child.  A son for a son.

"Gi' me the babe, old woman!"  Before she could deny his request he swooped the newly birthed child from her hands.

"Och!  No!  Ye canna touch him.  Filthy Campell hands will foul this wee bairn!"  With gnarled hands she tried most valiantly to retrieve the babe, but when she could not she yelled, "Curses! Curses on ye!  Ye will be damned for all eternity if ye do this thing!  I swear that ye will!"  Her shrieking epitaphs only sealed her doom.  Duncan Campbell moved forward, angered by her  shouting.

"Silence, witch!"  In anger he brutally lashed out.

Mouth agape, eyes staring, hands and arms in a position to ward off his blows, she engaged in a scuffle, but was easily subdued.  Even s, she fought on, like a wild animal to protect the child.  Once again Duncan pushed her aside.  She fell to the ground, striking her head on the stone of the hearth and spoke no more.  Her outrage was quieted.

"What hae ye done?  Ye've killed her,
Duncan.  A woman.  'Tis no' our way."  Bending down beside the old woman, Cameron soon found his words to be true.  The midwife would breath no more the air of mortal life.  She was dead!

Duncan
reacted quickly.  "Take the bairn, wrap it in swaddling and come with me!  Hurry!  Before it is known what we hae done and we are intercepted.  I hae plans for the babe."

Cameron shook his head.  "Nae, ye canna think to take the bairn!  Ye canna,
Duncan.  Ye canna!  The child hae done ye no wrong.  We hae never waged war on children before.  Ye canna take him from his mother."

"I can and I
will
!"  Ignoring Cameron's outcries, Duncan MacDonald did indeed steal Lachlan MacQuarie's heir, saving his ultimate vengeance for another day to come.  Through the mists that had spawned them, the men left the MacQuarie land to return to their own.

"My child!  My bairn!"  Opening her eyes
, Iona MacQuarie realized what had happened but was too weak to follow in pursuit, though she tried.  All she could do was to cry, a heart-rending wail that echoed across the rolling hills, reverberating through the night like the keening of a bagpipe.  The sound of a broken heart.