The Falconer's Daughter, Book 1

Chapter 1 - Part 2

The chilly spring nights gradually warmed; each morning the slopes of the mountain seemed a deeper green, pockets of wildflowers splashing yellow, pink, and purple color across the verdant green. In the mornings, Kirk was at his most cheerful, tramping through the tall grasses, the child perched on his shoulder. He would hike up the mountain towards Nevis, naming the plants and birds, pointing out hidden foxholes, the timid rabbits, the nests in the granite crags.

Walking, he found his voice, his anger dissolving in the freshness of the crisp air and the exercise. He felt closer to freedom than he ever did; this was how it should have always been, instead of his years in Grampian and Aberdeen, the ignorant peasant struggling to placate his lord.

But Anne. It was she who had come to him, who revealed her world to him, the comparisons between the classes making him sick, his stomach a knot of bitterness and pain. He wanted her because she was beautiful but also because she was better than he...

He lost his head. He made the wrong decisions.

Kirk would never tell her, this daughter perched on his shoulder, of the shame he had left behind. Instead, he told her of legends and the great clans. The stories were always the same, as if to make up for silence and the loneliness, the misfortune of not having mother or nurse. He would make sure she'd grow up knowing something of her mother's family.

"To understand the strange Macleod ways," he said, his feet trampling the tender grass and scattering of miniature blue flowers, "you must first understand the strange Macleod clan."

"Macowd-" She repeated the clan name, struggling with the consonants.

He told her that Leod was originally of Norway, although others said Leod was Celtic. "Your grandfather claimed that Leod was one of Olave the Black's sons. Olave-remember-was the king of Man and the Isles. Leod lived some three hundred years ago, and after growing up, he married a daughter of the Macrailt clan. They had children and their children had more children, some becoming Island chieftains, all men eventually holding posts of honor in the Island of Skye's army."

Cordaella clasped his neck with one arm, the other hand grabbing at his rough jupon. She listened patiently, if not closely, content to let his voice wash over her, the words slipping in and out of her ear, and she'd hold onto one and then another, not particular about which word she'd cling to.

"One of the Macleods broke from the family, leaving Skye permanently, settling eventually in Aberdeen, the first of the Aberdeen Macleod chieftains. From this Rory Macleod came your grandfather, John, your mother, Anne, and yourself."

"Me." She patted his cheek with her hand. "You and me."

"You, not me." He swallowed painfully. "I am just a Buchanan. But you, Cordaella, you mustn't forget you are half-Macleod."

------

In summer, Kirk left the window unshuttered, the sweet air still mild late at night.After he put the child to bed, he'd sit outside the open door, pull out his whittling again, and work with whatever light the moon provided. As he leaned against the croft, the uneven stones gouged his back but he ignored the uncomfortable sensation, focusing on the pipe he was crafting.

He loved the girl. God knew he did.

But he wasn't happy. Time passed slowly, too slowly, and he did miss Anne, he missed her more than he would ever admit. It had been horrifying to lose her. They had never thought of that-the two of them in those early days. No, he would not have been able to imagine a world without her as she had been everything, as close to the sun and stars as he ever thought to reach. When she came to him two and a half years ago, when she begged him to take her away from Aberdeen, he had only felt hunger, a yearning for warmth, for peace, for her.

For Anne.

The night she died. That had been the worst. And he had to suffer it alone, had to hold her hand while she died, bury her the next day, hike with the sick infant to the town thirteen miles down the mountain to have word sent to her father, the Duke.

The babe had been born in November. Anne died in March. It had been ten months now since he lost his Anne.

Why couldn't he forget? Why couldn't he stop thinking about that last night?

Was it because of the unusual chill? The cold front that swept in from the western sea with wind that howled endlessly? She died shortly after midnight, and dawn took forever to arrive. At the first light, he went to the window, pushed open the shutter, and drank in the biting morning air. Wind still galloped across the meadow, the ragged mountain above him cast a vast purple shadow across the valley's floor. Anne.

But that was then, and this was now, and July was kinder than March. Tonight the air was sweet, fragrant with summer. There was no wind, either, to rustle the tall sunburned grasses.

Kirk lowered his whittling, his head turning towards the door to listen for Cordaella. There was only silence inside the dark croft, the fire banked for the night, and he sighed. The baby. Perhaps she was more like her mother than he thought. Cordaella was into everything and listened only when she was so inclined.

He drew the knife tip along the edge of the pipe bowl, pale slivers peeling as the tip wound its way around the small circle. Cordaella Anne Buchanan. Someday the girl would learn the significance-and shame-of her poor clan name. But until then, let her sleep, let her dream the dream of babes.

------

Kirk woke early and rose, dressing soundlessly by the cold ring of fire stones. He woke with an uneasy feeling, as if he had spent too much time thinking, his thoughts as heavy as the tattered jupon he pulled over his old undershirt.

Maybe it was time for a trip to the village in Glen Nevis. He could take the skins he had prepared to the village and trade for some woven cloth. The girl would need more than a shift come winter, and the autumn months never lasted long in the high mountains.

------

Where had the summer gone? By his calculations it must be late August-or was it September already?-and still the girl had met no one, seen nothing. She ought to meet people, just to know she wasn't alone, and if he didn't do it now, it'd be another eight months before he had the chance again.

Kirk opened the door and stepped outside with a yawn and lengthy stretch. He had put some weight on since the winter, food always more plentiful in the warmer seasons. And the goat, which he bought last spring, helped. It was she who provided the milk for Cordaella. This reminded him, as he turned to look back in the croft, the girl ought to be up now.

"Cordaella-" He called to her, then peeked in to make sure she heard him.Although not up, she was awake, lying silently on the blanket-wrapped straw, one fist in her mouth, her eyes on him as she twisted her legs in and around her coverlet.

"Good morrow," he said gruffly.

She blinked but said nothing as she pushed herself onto her hands and knees. He took a step back into the cottage, ducking his head to get through the doorway.

"Are you dirty?"Cordaella shook her head and clambered to her feet. She took longer than he did to wake in the morning and, after a moment's hesitation, she touched the swaddling on her bottom. Her baby hand patted her behind as she looked up at him.

"Do you have to go?" he asked and she nodded, the fist still in her mouth. Kirk crossed to her, unknotting the cloth from her legs. "Then go sit on the pot. Get on with you while I make us some breakfast."

Cordaella walked towards the corner and he bent to push her mattress against the wall. Breakfast was nothing more than a slice of flat dark bread and some soft goat cheese, but it was food, and the best he could do. Bread wasn't easy to make and he had struggled for months to learn how to produce even this modest loaf.

Suddenly the goat, tethered at the back of the croft, cried plaintively and Kirk looked away from the slicing of the bread to see twenty-month-old Cordaella attempting to suckle from one teat. "God in Heaven," he swore, his face contorting. What next? What didn't she do?

"Cory, no!" His sharp tone stopped her and she sat back heavily on her bare bottom, peeing all over the packed dirt floor. "Cordaella..."he groaned, dropping the loaf onto the rustic table. "What would the Macleods think of that?"