Sisters of The Bruce 1292-1314 (Abridged Version )

Sisters of The Bruce: Part 2; Chapter7.3

                                                                                         III

Orkney

September 1313

Using a large shell, Seonaid dug into the girnel of oatmeal, packed hard to prevent the wriggling of mites. She planned to make oatcakes and the iron griddle would soon be hot enough. Outside the wind howled; a sound that rarely seemed to leave them. Thick, icy raindrops battered the windows. Around the walls, fish hung drying, pegged to ropes. It made for a pungent life, but they were used to it now. The kitchen felt cosy and peaceful, and the soft faded colours, smudged brown over the years by peat smoke, spoke only of warmth and comfort. Humming a quiet tune, Ellen practised her letters on a slate. Meg put her rag doll to bed, pulling up a tiny, patched quilt within the small cradle near the hearth.

Beside her, Camran hovered with his spinning top. It spun close to the fire. To retrieve it, he leaned forward. The thin sleeve of his kirtle caught on the edge of a glowing peat. An innocent spiral of smoke curled upwards. Instinctively, the child shook his arm. A shriek rent the air as the garment erupted. Seonaid twisted around, registering with horror the smell of burning flesh. Colour drained from her face and the floury mixture fell from her fingers, scattering across the stone flags. In her haste to reach Camran, she slipped, sprawling onto her knees. Ellen and Meg wailed and shrank back from the writhing form on the floor. From the next room, Floraidh rushed to gather the child in her arms; his back, arched now, stiff with pain. From some inner well, she found the strength to stagger outside and hold him up to the sky as if in offering to the gods. The healer knew enough to know rain would not only put out the fire, but the severity of the burns might also be lessened. Tears and rain streamed down her face as she comforted the bairn, fraught as he was with pain and terror. In time, she struggled back inside, the child whimpering in her arms. Removing the blackened clothing, she plastered a salve upon his charred skin. By the time Margaret returned from Kirkwall, both Camran and Floraidh were abed, shivering from shock and fever.

Leaving her babe with Askell's family, Marthoc took turns with Margaret to tend both patients. Seonaid was too shocked to be of much help. For much of the time, Floraidh shook with rigors and screamed if anyone touched her blistered arms. With burns across his body, as well as the sickness, the boy began to wane. As the days wore on, Camran became as limp as Meg's doll, unable to even lift his head. It pained him to swallow. On the fourth day, he breathed his last. Drustan rode over from Kirkwall to attend the lad's burial in the small cemetery beside the barn. His soft words fell like meaningless dross upon their ears. The smallness of the mound was mute testament to a child's life, ended by fate.

Camran's death ripped and tore at the heart of these good folk. Haggard with exhaustion, Marthoc attacked the women at the ceremony, wailing that her sister had stolen her son from her and the healer failed in her duty to save him. For all at Skaill House, it was a bleak, unholy time. It fractured the community and forced alliances to form where there had been none. Normally, the villagers would have attributed such a death to an external force, but Marthoc's influence was strong in her new family. She held no truck with trows and the like, and thrust the blame onto Seonaid and Floraidh. For the two women, daily life was now affected; they were shunned by the Hammerclett family. It was a grievous blow.