Sisters of The Bruce 1292-1314 (Abridged Version )

Sisters of The Bruce: Part 2; Chapter 3.6

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Orkney

October 1309

It was harvest time – when most Orcadians were caught up with age-old traditions. Some of these involved the gathering of grain for the harvest bannock. Standing by a low stone wall, Margaret Bruce watched in anticipation. A race occurred to the finish and a scythe was thrown at the young man making the last unfortunate cut. Now the last sheaf had been made homeless, punishment must be meted out. Hodlvis knew the sharp implement would fly in his direction. Somehow, he dodged injury. Carrying the special sheaf into his family's barn before the many observers, he collected the grain, which would be ground in a large quern stone and made into the harvest bannock. In some areas, the sheaf was rubbed on the bare buttocks of the unlucky offender. Fortunately for Hodlvis, this part of the ritual was uncommon at Skaill.

The ceremony was completed just in time. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Thick, charcoal clouds were building on the horizon. Jagged lightening spikes sparked an ominous light show within their shadowy, rolling mass. It was some way off yet, but Margaret scanned the dark, oily sea. She wondered how the local lads, the Hammerclett brothers included, fared. Late yesterday, they had taken a vessel out. The herring were running.

Sighting nought but white-crested waves, Margaret turned away and continued her solitary walk up along the shoreline. It had been a confusing year, she reflected, chewing her bottom lip. Mathilda's betrothal to Hugh Ross had seen her dispatched to far off Scotland and the small family group could do nought but mourn their loss. To all who would listen, Margaret espoused she would never accept the marriage. Since then, time had dulled her high emotions. Then some months back, Murchadh arrived with an urgent request for Floraidh to accompany him to Ross: Mathilda needed the midwife's sure hand at her birthing. This was understandable, but, without the reassuring presence of their wise woman, the remaining members of their group in Skaill felt adrift. Even the local farming families missed her healing hands as injuries happened so often by accident or neglect.

Margaret tried to fill the void though she lacked the healer's breadth of knowledge and experience. She did her best to keep up the supplies of potions based upon sea wrack and other herbs and even assisted at Marthoc's delivery of a bonny, fair-haired girlchild. She pondered upon it now for it had been quite an odd experience. Around the time of the birth, the local women began acting in a peculiar way.

When prodded, Flota, the babe's grandmother, gave this explanation. During birthing, a woman was at her most vulnerable. Fear pierced the heart of the community, for the trows –those sinister mound dwellers who brought only harm by their presence – desired above all else to mate with a mortal woman. Should the woman die in childbirth, it meant she had been taken to the nether regions. There, she would give the male trow the healthy child he desired and later help the trow women as any midwife would. A likeness might be left behind. Such was the community's terrible fear of death, they held to these unusual beliefs. To counter the menace, the family stuck a blade firmly above the door of the home, for all knew the trows to be fearfully afraid of metal.

To Margaret, the Hammercletts need have no such fear. Marthoc made enough noise to scare away the most powerful of the fairy folk. Like any new mother, she was given the best food and ale in the house and basked in the family's care, but the community of women were reluctant to leave mother and child unprotected and did as they always had done. For several nights after the birth, neighbours took it in turns to stand watch and rock the cradle. No babe could be stolen, nor changeling enter a home thus protected. Once mother and babe flourished, a number of celebrations took place when visitors came to congratulate the family. In time, a private feast was held by Marthoc's immediate family to mark her return to household duties.

Mathilda had also birthed a little girl, another dark-haired Marjorie. In light of so many dangers, Margaret wondered how they fared. Poignant thoughts arose for Robert's Marjorie. Now, she was lost to them; none knew where.

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As she peered out to sea once more, a frown took up residence between Margaret's fine hazel eyes. Visible upon the far horizon, the clouds continued to build. It was an oppressive day. Occasional heavy drops of rain fell upon the young woman's upturned face as she searched the heavens. On her journey back to the house, she noticed the birds were preternaturally quiet. Pausing in her deliberations, she lifted her long dark hair, rolled within its fine snood, away from the clammy dampness of her neck. So many things had changed for her here. Indeed, she helped with the harvest along with all the others. As the seasons followed each other, all were preoccupied with the basics of survival, which included feeding and clothing the families that lived around Skaill Bay. The old traditions provided protection. Now, they needed to be carried out with passion and greater attendance to detail, for the old ones warned the land was not as productive as it once had been. It was becoming colder and the growing season shorter, they said. Fear of starvation was a great motivator. It brought the community together.

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The evening sky darkened. A storm boomed overhead. At Skaill House, Seonaid comforted the younger children, whilst Ellen practised her letters on a slate at the kitchen table. Soon, it was time for bed. All toys and writing equipment were put away; the fire, stoked up. The adults listened to the great drama as it played out overhead. Flashes of lightening ripped through the darkened room. All shivered in apprehension, thinking of the vessel which had not yet returned home. In time, the storm abated and the women went to their beds.

Next morning, the sun rose incandescent in the sky. Leaves glinted silver-bright, like new minted coins. Thatch, weighed down with overnight rain, dripped incessantly. A crowd gathered by the shore. Mothers held shawls tight around their faces, eyes only for the empty horizon. Marthoc comforted her crying bairn. The day wore on and still they waited, to be joined later by the older menfolk. Anxious lines were etched on faces, worn now with fatigue. Someone noted a signal fire upon the headland. A boat had been sighted. It grew larger. Hearts rose and then, with cries of dismay, dipped; it was not a vessel from this bay. The galley drew in closer. A clear-sighted one screamed and fell to the ground. There on board were the missing men, grey-faced with exhaustion. Their journey had not gone well, but they were alive. Alive!

To their families, nought else mattered. A calf was slaughtered and a feast took place that night to celebrate the men's rescue from their capsized boat. It should have been a joyous occasion, but there was confusion aplenty. Several of the local women had heard a clicking sound some nights earlier. Another saw a raven on the roof of a hall. One heard the sound of a cock crowing at midnight. A bird was witnessed striking a windowpane and falling stone dead. All of these events were the known precursors of death. Perhaps the men given back from the sea were just doppelgangers – beings who had returned in place of the men. Though none spoke of it, a strange uneasiness settled upon the community.

The following evening, old Grutgar, while repairing storm damage, fell from the roof of his barn, and broke his neck. In unison, the wise women of the area breathed a sigh of relief. This they could understand. All gathered to help the family in the great human struggle: the cycle of life and death.