The Highlander's Return. Marguerite Kaye

her mother had more reason than most to be relieved by Lord Munro’s death, for it had by no means been a happy marriage. How could it have been, with the laird expecting unquestioning obedience, and his lady forced to forsake all others for him? Even her own children. If his death was a welcome relief, Lady Munro was doing her celebrating in private. ‘Whatever it is she’s feeling, she’s keeping to herself as usual,’ Ailsa muttered to her reflection. ‘I swear it is ice and not blood which runs through Mother’s veins.’

      She gave the neckline of her dress a final twitch. Like all her clothes, it was an expensive garment, something her mother had insisted on since she had turned sixteen.

      ‘I’m going to have to take you in hand, Ailsa,’ Lady Munro had said firmly. ‘You’re not a child any more. It’s time you started dressing, and behaving as befits your position as a Highland laird’s daughter.’

      Lady Munro had insisted on stays and lacings and stockings and all the other trappings of wealth and status, too. Not that Ailsa had anything against pretty clothes, but she felt constrained in them. Sometimes she yearned for the feel of her bare foot on sand, the sun on her neck, the freedom from corsets and lacing without having to face the recriminations that inevitably followed such minor aberrations.

      Today’s toilette was an open robe made of silk woven in the Munro colours over a dark blue petticoat. As was the fashion, the bodice was tightly laced, showing off the curve of her bosom and the contrasting tiny span of her waist. Voluptuous, is how most men would describe her, but in this one respect Ailsa would have preferred to resemble her mother’s slimmer, less curvaceous figure. She was rather self-conscious about her body and despised the way it drew men’s attentions. The arisaidh, a traditional plaid shawl of blue-striped silk, which today she wore belted and pinned, went some way to disguise it.

      Her indifference to the fulsome compliments she attracted and her rejection of all attempts to make love to her seemed, perplexingly, to encourage her admirers to try all the harder. Intimacy of that sort left Ailsa cold. Her handsome dowry and position as the rich laird’s only daughter ensured she had no lack of suitors, but despite the sheer volume of them, none had ever come close to touching her heart. Not in the way that …

      Automatically, Ailsa put a sharp brake on that strain of thought. What was the saying? Once bitten, twice shy. She was in no need of a second lesson. Not that love entered into the equation, in any case. She existed for the sole purpose of making a good match—her father had made that abundantly clear six years ago.

      The slow tolling of the bell in the castle tower began, rousing Ailsa from her reverie, its low peal reverberating out across the flat fertile Munro lands, bouncing off the mountains that bordered Errin Mhor to echo eerily in the still of the morning. The bell warded off the evil spirits that everyone knew lurked at a wake, ready to take advantage when people’s defences where down. It also marked the beginnings of the funeral rites.

      It was time. Pulling her arisaidh up to cover her hair, Ailsa quit her chamber and made her way quickly down the stairs.

      In the great hall her brother Calumn, cutting an imposing figure in full ceremonial Highland dress, readied the chief mourners for his father’s last journey. The low drone of the bagpipes being inflated was the signal for all to assemble in good order. The new Laird of Errin Mhor kissed his wife lingeringly on the lips. Madeleine, who was expecting their first child, would stay behind to be Lady Munro’s chief comforter—not that the newly-made widow would accept comfort from anyone, but it was the custom. As it was the custom that Ailsa, too, should remain with her mother while others formed the funeral procession, but in this Ailsa had been adamant. She would pay her last respects with the men, not sit meekly at home with Lady Munro’s chosen group of gentry women.

      The dead laird’s piper struck up the mournful lament of the pibroch. Ailsa took the black cushion bearing her father’s gauntlets and hat from Calumn and made her way outside. The dead man’s champion, Hamish Sinclair, waited, astride a horse with a black-velvet cover, to lead the procession. Lord Munro’s own horse, similarly draped in black, was pawing nervously at the ground. Saddle-less, it was a stark symbol of the laird’s absence.

      Four long poles were inserted under the coffin. By tradition, the first eight bearers were the deceased’s closest kin. Calumn and his half-brother Rory Macleod took the lead, a decision that had caused some controversy since Rory was not a blood relation of the dead laird, being the product of Lady Munro’s first marriage. Lord Munro had insisted his wife surrender her first born upon their own marriage. Lady Munro and Rory had been estranged ever since, but Calumn had insisted that his brother have his place at the funeral regardless.

      The coffin was hoisted up from the bier. The pipes wailed. The bearers walked slowly down the front steps of the castle, keeping their eyes firmly focused ahead and concentrating on the task at hand, for it was a precarious job, balancing the heavy coffin on four thin poles.

      Ailsa stood at the head of the mourners. Behind her, the long winding line of men and women fell in, ranked in order from the clan chiefs and their women to the castle servants, the laird’s tenants and serfs, crofters and cotters, drovers and fishermen. She knew most of them, if not personally then by reputation. Almost without exception the men wore the two plaids, the filleadh beg and the filleadh mòr, in defiance of the law that banned Highland dress for any but the aristocracy. Most of the women wore their best Sabbath blacks. Expressions were suitably sombre. The two horses, one mounted, one riderless, led the way.

      The procession wended down the castle’s imposing driveway, through the heavy wrought-iron gates emblazoned with the Munro coat of arms, to the village of Errin Mhor where the first change of bearers took place. ‘Twas customary for this to happen while the procession continued, so the new bearers stood ahead in formation, two lines of four men performing the transfer of weight in pairs. Since dropping a pole was believed to signify the death of the bearer, each was very careful to effect a perfect handover. Villagers, bairns and even dogs stood silent, heads bowed respectfully as the procession passed on its way. The Munro siblings remained at the front of the mourners, a striking threesome with their golden hair and tall figures, that drew the eye of every onlooker and raised a sigh in the breasts of several.

      ‘Twas also tradition that refreshment in the form of uisge beathe, the water of life, otherwise known as whisky, was meted out in generous drams en route, for following a wake was thirsty work. Neither of the Munro brothers partook, but many others did. So much so that two hours later when they finally reached the lonely graveyard in a remote corner of the Munro land that was the traditional burial place of the lairds, the uisge beathe, combined with the steepness of the incline, the narrowness of the coffin track, and the suppressed anticipation of a long-awaited event finally coming to pass, a weariness had set in on the procession. The ordered train had become ragged. Red faces, sweaty brows and a general air of relief replaced the solemn expressions with which they had started the journey. The old laird was no lightweight.

      Ailsa stepped aside at the gate, the eulogy and interment being strictly a male province. Not even she was brave enough to break that rule. She was joined by the other women. Tired and dusty, glad to have the long hike over without mishap, they stood around in little groups, by and large ignoring the ceremony at the graveside, occupying themselves with a little light gossip and a little idle speculation, murmuring together in the low, musical lilt of the Gaelic that they continued to favour over the use of English decreed by the new law.

      Ailsa roamed from one clique to another, accepting the politely offered platitudes and condolences from those ladies she knew her mother would insist be given precedence, before joining a huddle of Errin Mhor tenants, the wives and daughters of local villagers. At the centre of the group was Shona MacBrayne, the fey wife, with whom Ailsa spent some of her days, gathering herbs and mixing potions, assisting her in tending to the sick and helping out at the occasional birth.

      ‘I’ll no insult you by saying I’m sorry, Ailsa,’ Shona said in a voice too low for the others to hear. ‘Your father had his time and plenty more besides. I can only pray that the journey he is taking now is up the way, and not down.’

      ‘Whichever direction it is, you can be in no doubt that it is of my father’s