Christmas in the Glen of Travercraig Read online

  Christmas

  in the glen

  of travercraig

  Scottish historical Romance

  Fiona MacEwen

  Copyright © 2019 by Fiona MacEwen.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Contents

  Prologue Tragedy at Christmas

  Chapter 1 Winter’s Approach

  Chapter 2 All Safely Gathered in

  Chapter 3 The Castle Gate

  Chapter 4 A Prisoner at Home

  Chapter 5 The Road to Christmas

  Chapter 6 A Welcome Hearth

  Chapter 7 A Winter Prison

  Chapter 8 Captured!

  Chapter 9 Sweet Sorrow

  Chapter 10 The Eve of a Rescue

  Chapter 11 A Happy Christmas

  Prologue

  Tragedy at Christmas

  “My darling, Lorna,” the Laird cried, holding her in his arms, tears streaming down his face, “will someone not help me, will no one take this cruel fate away?”

  But Lorna was dead and with her the happiness of the Laird, whose life had been so dedicated to the woman who had made him the happiest man in the Glen.

  ***

  The castle of the Douglas Clan lay in the forests, around three miles from the village of Travercraig on the shores of Loch Geira. It was a happy place, always filled with laughter and joy, for its Laird was a man of considerable means, a true Highland gentleman, who treated his clan folk well.

  Andrew Douglas had married young, though no one was in any doubt that he had married well. The beautiful Lorna McColl, herself the daughter of a Highland Laird, was just eighteen when she accepted the proposal of that dashing twenty-year-old man. They were married on a beautiful spring day, and not a happier couple could be imagined, their hearts filled with dreams of wee bairns and a future happiness together amidst the mountains and glens of Scotland.

  Each day, Andrew Douglas would tell Lorna just how much he loved her, and she would say the same, the couple delighting in one another. And if Andrew ever had cause to be away from the castle, his heart would pine for Lorna and she for him.

  Each year the Laird would host a grand party at Christmas, to which all the clan folk would be invited. It was a feast which all looked forward to and the Douglas Clan would gather from far and wide to celebrate that joyous season with their Laird.

  The highlight of the season was the great yule feast on Christmas eve when the Laird would preside over the arrival of the yule log, cut from the forest and dragged into the Great Hall of the castle as a sign that darkness was overcome by light and that even in the depths of winter the hope of the new year to come could be celebrated.

  The tables were laden with good things to eat and the castle cooks had been busy preparing for that special day. A great stag had been hunted, and it roasted above the fire, whilst the tables were laden with all manner of good things: breads; sweet meats; dried fruits and nuts; whole sides of salmon, smoked and sliced; a boar, roasted and carved; and drinks in abundance, the Laird’s cellars having been emptied for he was a most generous man.

  As the Great Hall began to fill with guests, a piper began to play and the warmth and merriness of that place was enough to dispel the darkness of that winter night. Outside the snow lay thick upon the ground and the Loch was icy and frozen. The guests had traveled many miles and were glad of a place to warm themselves, the Laird’s hospitality greatly received.

  Andrew and Lorna watched as the Great Hall began to fill, greeting the guests who passed them, several of the children playing happily together with the dogs.

  “One day we shall be blessed with children, Andrew, and what a happy day that shall be,” Lorna said, taking hold of Andrew’s hand and smiling at him as he looked lovingly at her.

  “Aye, and Christmas shall be an even happier day than it is now, if that is possible, thanks be to the good Lord above for all his blessings,” Andrew replied, as the piper concluded his tune and the guests applauded vigorously.

  Now he was joined by two others and Andrew offered Lorna his hand, the two preparing to take their places at the high table, ready for the feast to begin.

  “Another happy Christmas with these good folk,” Andrew said, as he and his wife were piped in to the Great Hall and the guests stood respectfully for their Laird and his wife.

  Andrew Douglas was liked by all and never a bad word was said of the benevolent Laird who had done so much to care for his people. He was the only son of his parents and both had died tragically young, Andrew inheriting the title when he was just seventeen. But despite his youth, he had maturity to him which gave rise to a sense of fairness, kindness, and justice. Douglas was a good Laird and all there present agreed.

  “My dear friends,” he said, as he and Lorna took their places at the table, “it is so good to welcome ye here tonight and to once again celebrate Christmas together as a clan. This happy time of year is one during which we reflect on the good things the Lord has given us and look to the future too. Let us feast now and be merry and ask God’s blessings upon us for the coming year, a toast to ye all,” and he raised his glass to the clan who cheered and applauded.

  The serious business of the feast now began, and Andrew’s plate was soon piled high with all manner of good food and his glass ever full.

  “They have excelled themselves with the food, it is delicious,” Lorna said, leaning over to her husband.

  “Aye, and I am pleased so many could be here to share it with us, these are good folk and they work hard all year, the least we can do is show our thanks with victuals and meat,” he replied, smiling at her.

  As the evening drew on the guests became merrier and soon calls came for the yule log to be brought in and the fire to be stoked up. Songs would be sung, and tales of heroic deeds would be told as the clan toasted its ancestors and reminded itself of glorious victories.

  “Let the yule log be brought in,” Andrew cried, seeing that many of the clan were becoming restless, their glasses unfilled, as they awaited the arrival of that sacred tree.

  The doors to the Great Hall were flung open and snow-covered clansmen appeared, hauling the great log between them as the piper began to play. The clansmen cheered, and it was up the Andrew to make the toast.

  “Hail yule log, bringer of warmth amongst us, may the fire which comes from ye kindle in our hearts a light which will last all winter until together we see the joys of spring,” he said, raising his glass as the log was hauled onto the fire.

  The wood spluttered as it caught, filling the air with a fragrant smell of the forest as the flames licked up the chimney and illuminated the faces of the watching crowd. Andrew was mesmerized by the Yule log, ever since he was a child its arrival had signified the magic of Christmas and he recalled his father’s words that he who saw the Yule log burned would never have a heart grow cold, even if at a time the fires were low.

  “Look at that, Lorna,” he said, turning to his wife, “a symbol of light amidst the darkness.”

  B
ut his wife was not looking at the burning log, instead she was fumbling at her dress, loosening the folds around her neck as though struggling for air.

  “Andrew … I … I am not feeling well, a temperature all of a sudden,” she said, her eyes wide as though she were in pain, her hand clutching to her breast.

  Andrew put down his glass and kneeled at her side, as all around him the merrymaking continued. He placed his hand upon her brow and found it warm and clammy to the touch, as Lorna closed her eyes and let out a deep sigh.

  “Lorna, open your eyes, come now, ye just need some fresh air, help me here will ye,” Andrew said, lifting Lorna from her place.

  Others on the high table now noticed Lorna’s trouble, and they came to assist, lifting her with Andrew as she struggled feebly to stand.

  “Bring water, open the doors now, my wife needs the air,” Andrew cried, as Lorna’s legs gave way beneath her and she fell to the floor.

  Andrew carried her through the Great Hall, the guests now silent as they watched their Laird with his wife. Whisperings went around the room, asking what kind of devilry this was that would strike such a bonnie lassie on Christmas Eve, whilst all the while the Yule log burned brightly in the hearth.

  Andrew had Lorna in his arms, and he kept calling her name, begging her to open her eyes. The servants pulled back the doors of the Great Hall and Andrew, followed by several of the clansmen, carried his wife to the cooler air of the courtyard where the snow was falling heavily.

  “Lorna, come now, the fresh air will revive ye and then we shall get ye to bed, wake up Lorna,” Andrew said, beseeching her to open her eyes.

  The fever had struck so suddenly and feebly she struggled, revived a little by the cold air which now blew across her face, her eyes opening just a little to gaze upon him.

  “An … Andrew,” she said weakly.

  “I am here, darling Lorna, I have ye, ye are safe, we are safe together,” he said, kissing her forehead as she lay limp in his arms.

  “I … I love ye …” she said, her eyes closing.

  “I … I love ye, Lorna … no, dear God, no,” Andrew cried, as Lorna’s head cradled to one side and her eyes closed.

  He began to sob uncontrollably, tears running down his face as he held her to him, kissing her forehead and begging her to waken.

  “Lorna, no, my sweet, dear, good Lorna, what wickedness is this that takes ye from me,” he cried, turning to the others, his wife’s frail body clasped in his arms.

  “Will none of ye help me? Can no one help me?” he cried in desperation, as the snow fell mournfully upon him and tears ran down his face.

  ***

  That night the Christmas celebrations were swiftly cut short, the guests in the Great Hall were soon informed that a tragedy had befallen the wife of the Laird. The clansmen were shocked to hear that the bonnie young lassie, so radiant and full of life, had died so suddenly. Witchcraft was suspected, and rumors soon started circulating that the castle must be cursed. The clansmen began to leave, offering prayers, and paying their humble respects to their Laird who appeared as a broken man.

  He had placed Lorna’s body in the castle chapel before the altar, candles burning around it, and there he kneeled in sad lament for the lass he loved with all his heart. He could not bear to think that she had gone, and he wept openly as the full horror of that dreadful night fell upon him.

  Andrew Douglas was a broken man and all the happiness and joy of that most sacred night was gone. As the final guests left, he ran through the castle corridors in a stupor, banishing all and sundry, the servants and guards dismissed from their posts and sent out into the night.

  As the last of the castle’s occupants were hurried through the gates, they looked back to see the face of their Laird, twisted in agony as he closed the great door of the castle behind them. Now he was alone with Lorna, his sadness and sorrow overwhelming him, and from that day forth he allowed no one to pass through the castle gates.

  The Yule log burned low that night until eventually the last of the flames disappeared. There was no more merrymaking in the castle of Andrew Douglas, only sadness. And it was said that the Laird lived as a shadow of his old self, ever sorrowful that he could not save his darling wife, her portrait a sad reminder of the woman Andrew had lost on that fateful Christmas Eve.

  Chapter 1

  Winter’s Approach

  Nairne McBryde was gathering sticks amongst the trees, a task she found little joy in, though it was better than minding her wee brothers back home or running errands for her mother. Out here she could be alone with her thoughts, a precious few moments of peace and quiet. She had been about her work for an hour or so and was humming snatches of a ditty she remembered from childhood. It was mid-November, and in the forests surrounding Loch Geira a chill was in the air. The wind was blowing down from the north, sweeping across the mountains and bringing the first flurries of winter to the Glen. Soon the forests would be covered by snow, lying thick for the rest of the season as the crofters and villagers huddled inside, doing their best to keep warm.

  She bundled the wood together, tying it up in her shawl, which she placed over her back. A little wisp of snow settled on her tunic and she looked up at the graying skies above, the clouds hanging low over the far-off mountains. Shivering a little she stomped her feet and rubbed her hands together, tucking them inside her tunic as she prepared to walk home.

  The trees had lost their leaves now, and under foot she crunched over dry leaves, the smell of the damp, decaying forest filling the air. As she walked, she looked out for mushrooms growing amidst the rotting boughs of fallen trees. Her mother would be pleased if she could find some, and ever since she’d been a child, she had always enjoyed searching them out. They were mysterious things, appearing so suddenly. A treat from the forest which provided so much to sustain her family’s lives. She wandered from the path in search of them, looking under tree stumps and through the leaf litter. In the distance she could see a large fallen tree, its roots upturned in a great wall of dried mud. There were bound to be mushrooms there, she thought to herself, and hurrying through the trees she reached the great depression in the forest floor, where once the tree had grown tall and proud.

  Sure enough there were mushrooms growing at its base, enough to make a veritable feast for the family. And she gathered as many as she could, stuffing them into the pockets of her tunic. Satisfied by her haul, she climbed out of the hole left by the tree’s roots.

  Nairne had come quite some way off the familiar path in search of her prize and though she knew the forest well, the surrounding trees were unfamiliar. She was surprised to see before her a stone wall, lying just a short distance away to the left. It had been obscured by the tree roots and she had been so preoccupied in searching for the mushrooms that she had failed to see it.

  “Ye have strayed some way if ye are at this sorry place,” Nairne said, peering through the trees towards the wall.

  She knew where she was, though it was a place usually avoided by the villagers of Travercraig, a sad place, full of memories, which many said was cursed. Nairne had no such fears but remembered the stories of the handsome Laird who ten years ago had shut himself away there, following the death of his wife.

  Curiously she approached the wall, looking up at the great stone edifice above. The castle of the Douglas Clan rising over her, the walls growing thick with ivy, as though the forest were reclaiming it for itself.

  For a few moments she stood looking up, wondering if the Laird was at that very moment, inside. What was he like? she thought to herself. Was he terribly lonely? No one had set eyes upon him in years, though they said he would walk in the forest at times, weeping for his dear departed wife.

  Around her the snow began to fall more heavily and returning from her musings Nairne pulled her shawl around her and turned back towards the path. It was beginning to grow dark, and she hurried home, the dim lights of fires in the village crofts a welcome sight as she emerged from the forest.


  ***

  “Where have ye been, lass? her fiancée William Wilson said, as Nairne came through the door of the croft a short while later.

  He was a fisherman who lived a short distance away from Nairne’s parent’s croft, a man with a short temper and a shorter stature. His forthcoming marriage to Nairne was the result of necessity rather than genuine affection. There were few men in Travercraig, and of the few there were, none had the stability of income nor the force of personality possessed by William Wilson. He was a cruel man who kept Nairne under a close hand. His jealousy knew no bounds, and she was often on the receiving end of his wrath.

  It was a sad lot for Nairne, whom the entire village agreed was by far the prettiest maiden in the Glen. With her fair hair and deep blue eyes, her petite figure and gentle smile, there was not a man who passed through that place who did not pass a favorable comment upon her.

  But it was William Wilson to whom her father had promised her, and he would not allow any other man so much as to look at her. Now, as she returned to her parent’s croft, he eyed her with suspicion, a filleting knife in hand as he dealt with his latest catch.

  “Just in the forest,” she replied, “see, I have firewood and a haul of mushrooms, thy shall go nicely with the fish ye have caught.”

  “It is growing dark. Lassie’s that dally in the woods will find themselves at the mercy of all sorts of wickedness,” William replied darkly.

  “Old wives’ tales, ye don’t believe that nonsense,” she replied, laying down the bundle of wood by the smoky fire in the hearth.

  “Those woods are filled with dangers, Nairne, and I don’t mean only from spirits and devils, only last week a group of travelers were attacked up at the high pass down from the mountains. Stripped of everything they had and left for dead,” William said as Nairne’s mother came through from tending to the animals.