Highlander’s Wrath by Adamina Young
Barclay Castle
Laird Hamish Barclay could not find his son, and the wee imp would not answer his calls.
Inwardly, the laird cursed his servants for teaching the boy how to play “I go hide, and you go seek” in the first place. It might have been the perfect game for a young, adventurous child to play when they had numerous other siblings, but little Colban had no brothers or sisters. His mother had died soon after childbirth, not even having the time or strength to cradle the wee bairn in her arms before her last breath.
Laird Hamish, not the most patient man at the best of times, had been forced to spend his precious time hiring a wet nurse and then, when the Barclay heir had grown too old for the confines of the nursery playroom, hire a succession of nannies and footmen to tend to his son’s needs. It was not an easy task finding competent staff to come and live at Barclay Castle. The last time the dark, dank barracks of a place had seen a spring cleaning had been back in his grandfather’s time. The stark stone edifice was the very embodiment of dour isolation: rising up like a proud giant from the surrounding heaths and denes in this particular part of the Highlands. At night, the only things that could be heard over the hiss and roar of waves crashing on the sharp rocks on the pebbled beach below came from nocturnal animals, beasts that made it their business to slip away in the shadows, leaving only the echo of howls behind them.
Staying indoors under the aegis of some flunky was not at all to Colban’s liking. He was growing to be as tall and strapping as his father had been at the same age; at the age of three, he was nearly the height of a shortbow, and by the time he had seen four summers come and go, Colban was almost strong enough to bend one.
“Ye’ll have to sally forth to London once more, me laird,” the steward had suggested that morning, noticing Laird Hamish’s glowering scowl after opening yet another letter informing him that no nurse, nanny, or governess could be found to fill the post as Colban’s combined nanny and teacher. “‘Tis high time the wee whelp was taken in hand and taught his letters. P’raps Father Abercromby could help?”
Laird Hamish’s old tutor had passed away some years ago. He had been buried with all due ceremony in the Barclay clan graveyard. The words Laird Hamish had caused to have engraved on the tombstone read: More of a father to Laird Hamish Barclay than his own ever was. The old tutor’s son was now head of the Barclay parish kirk, a post he filled as kindly and as competently as his father had done with his own.
Laird Hamish looked up at his steward’s words. “That’s a good idea, Marston. Ye ken I’ll no’ have me boy foisted off on a manservant when he’s still so young. It happened to me, and it won’ happen to Colban, so help me! For all his height and strength”—the two men left unsaid the words, “and misbehavior,” because it was an acknowledged fact that wee Colban could act like the devil’s own fiend when he was thwarted—“he’s still but a bairn, not yet five years old. I want him to experience the tender love of a motherly figure before he is ripped from the nursery and placed willy-nilly into the schoolroom.”
And so, Laird Hamish had set off to find his errant son before visiting Father Abercromby at the Barclay chapel. The chapel offered a prestigious living. Attending kirk on Sundays was the closest the local fishermen, net makers, and shepherds got to interacting with each other in a sociable way. On every quarter day in spring and summer, after hard-earned salaries had been placed in pockets and coins jingled enticingly in hidden pouches, the Barclay servants would be given three days off work and allowed to make their way to the nearest village. The day’s outing would coincide with the arrival of a village fair or traveling show, and much fun would be had by all. Laird Hamish Barclay would even provide carts to transport all of his servants back home, in case any had been cozened out of the last of their silver and copper by some enterprising fairling. No servant was ever foolish enough to miss their cart ride back to the castle. Laird Hamish was notorious for his short temper and woe betide the man or maid who imbibed too much ale and fell asleep under a hayrick.
While not as hell-bent as his father had been before him, Laird Hamish was still a formidable master. In complete contrast to the attractiveness his dark hair and rugged features promised local village maidens, Laird Hamish’s noble brow could crease into a ferocious scowl with a click of the fingers. The castle was far too remote for the laird to bother keeping up with southern fashions; he kept his black locks trimmed close to his head. When this brutal hairstyle grew too long, and Laird Hamish was too busy to bother trimming it back, the raven locks would tumble over his eyes as he strode down the empty castle corridors. He would clutch at them when his rage overtook his reason. His grey eyes would turn into slits of flint; his mouth a stern line of condemnation; his wide, muscular shoulders would seem to grow larger as he loomed over the person who had caused his ire to flare up.
But this anger had never been turned toward his son. The memory of how terrified he had felt when in his own father’s presence as a young lad was always fresh in his mind. He promised himself that Colban would never suffer as he had, and so far, he had been as good as his word.
While the Barclay heir was not exactly overindulged and cosseted, the wee rascal was most certainly permitted many liberties. He had still been in short petticoats when his father had bought him a pony, and every whim the small child voiced was given an ear. Maybe things would have been different if Laird Hamish himself had been the one forced to look after the scamp, but his duties as laird sometimes took him inland for many days of the month. Thus, Colban Barclay had been raised by those most inclined to give him whatever he wanted, so long as it kept him from crying.
“Colban! Colban?” Laird Hamish walked into the kitchen garden, his son’s favorite place to play or hide.
A gardener’s voice sounded from behind the yew hedge, “He’s here, me laird, busy helping me lay pebbles on the pathway.”
Laird Hamish stuck his head around the hedge and saw his little son busily laying smooth beach pebbles in a row. When he noticed his father, the small boy pointed to the little stones, saying, “One-two…”
“Three,” Laird Hamish suggested, helping his son along.
“One-two,” Colban replied firmly.
The gardener chuckled. “He’ll have it no other way, me laird.”
Hamish held out his hand to Colban. “Come. Leave yer one-two pebbles, and follow me. We’re off to visit Father Abercromby.”
Colban picked up a pebble and threw it at his father.
Laird Hamish ducked. “Hoots, ye wee hellion! It’s more than teaching ye need; it’s a good paddling to yer backside!”
Colban immediately looked contrite. “I beg pardon, Faither, but I imagined ye to be an ogre because that’s what the servants call ye.”
The gardener pretended he was deaf and made himself very busy amidst the weeds.
Laird Hamish laughed and swung his son up into the air. “Is that so, young man? Well, I can assure ye, I’m not—at least, not when it comes to ye! Now, let’s be off.”
He lifted Colban onto his shoulders, made sure the small child was perched comfortably, and then walked down to where the chapel was nestled next to the cliffside of the castle. Overhead, the seagulls cried and circled around, and Colban lifted up his hands to try and catch them.
Laird Hamish found Father Abercromby in the apse.
“Welcome, Hamish. How nice to see ye outside of the Sabbath,” Father Abercromby said.
“Aye, me own thanks to ye, Abercromby. ‘Twas a good sermon when last I was here. But that’s no’ the reason I’m visitin’ ye. I need another nanny for wee Colban here and was wondering if ye could point me in the direction of another good soul, someone well suited for the position.”
Father Abercromby gave the request some thought. He was well aware of Laird Hamish Barclay’s fearful reputation as a man whose temper had brought him to the edge of perilous action many a time. He marveled that a man who showed so much love and forbearance for his son should have so little of it for others.
“I have a cousin over in Pitloch Tay, me laird,” the Father replied, “and he has brought me to the attention of the Macanroy whisky makers—good men, all. In this way, I have entered into correspondence with the merchant in charge of disbursing the whisky down south: one Mister James McDonald. He is a vastly influential gentleman, well connected with all the great London households. If ye should care for it, I can send ye there with a letter of introduction...he would be a gracious host to the Laird of Barclay Castle and can give ye good counsel on the matter.”
Laird Hamish looked around the chapel just in time to catch his son trying to strike a flint off the tinderbox and light the candles next to the alms baskets.
“Er…I accept yer kind offer, Abercromby, and will make preparations to leave for London anon.”
Privately, Father Abercromby thought that the sooner the young Barclay heir got a strict disciplinarian to watch over him night and day, the better it would be for all involved.