The Caledonians , livre ebook

The Caledonians
Mr Petrie's Apprentice
Yvonne Ridley
Austin Macauley Publishers
2020-01-31
The Caledonians About The Author Dedication Copyright Information © Acknowledgement Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26
About The Author
British journalist Yvonne Ridley has had a successful career in the media spanning four decades. The former Fleet Street reporter has written several books, but this is her first departure into the world of fiction.
Inspired by the dramatic scenery and surroundings of her remote Scottish farm and the rich but often violent history of the Borders, she created The Caledonians.
Dedication
To those heroic people of Scotland, past and present, who have provided an eternal fountain of inspiration through courage, dignity, sorrow and hardship; all of which have been endured because of an overriding determination to be free.
Copyright Information ©
Yvonne Ridley (2020)
The right of Yvonne Ridley to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781528926669 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781528964777 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2020)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Acknowledgement
I’d like to thank my historical consultant, Andro Sillar, whose knowledge of Scottish history, culture and attention to detail were invaluable. A true Caledonian, he has proved to be as inspiring and mysterious as the erudite Mr Petrie, prompting me to wonder if our paths crossing were more than a happy coincidence. Great appreciation goes to the Lataoui children: Lamis, Lina, Yumna and Youssef, who spent a wonderful day with me immersing themselves in the world of Sweetheart and Mr Petrie, emerging from piles of paper with helpful feedback when it was most needed. Of course, family always plays a major role and influence, and I’m indebted to mine, especially my daughter, Daisy Jane, who injected a bit of technology and 21st-century thinking while my beloved husband, Samir, sat and listened patiently as the story of the Caledonians unfolded. His butter to my bread was the gentle words of encouragement he spread during periods of literary doldrums.
Chapter 1
“Spero Meliora! Spero Meliora! Spero Meliora!” raged the angry man in front of the assembled crowd. He beat the left side of his chest with a clenched fist held so tightly, his knuckles across his right hand were bleached white.
Again he roared the Moffat motto, this time in English: “For greater things.” The hundreds of men who had gathered in the Lowland clan’s building answered his cry, shouting back: “Greater things, great things!” The atmosphere in the vast barn was incendiary.
The barn usually held celebratory gatherings but tonight there were only tears of rage flowing for their murdered chief, Robert Moffat. This was probably the closest thing to a council of war and the clan was in crisis, so the most significant and powerful landowners of the Moffat family rallied to discuss who would become the next chieftain and what revenge would be taken.
The year was 1557 and the Moffat Clan was one of the most influential families in Dumfriesshire with a rich history punctuated by battle honours, royal and church support since the 13 th century. The family gathering at the vast complex which included a stone tower, barmkin, animal pens, blacksmith’s and brewery was the talk of the Annandale district.
A fire roared behind Fraser Moffat but the crackling noise of the tinder dry kindle hitting the flames was drowned out as he continued to rage, hissing and spitting his own fiery words. He carefully adjusted his leather jerkin before dramatically ripping off his cloak and throwing it by his feet to reveal his sword.
“I can almost hear the final words of our great father and leader, Robert, before he was laid to waste by the murdering, godless creatures who sought to cut his life so short. He may be gone and while his widow and children weep, I swear here and now to avenge his death on behalf of all the Moffats from the union of the Norse daughter of Andlaw and William de Movat Alto to those who fought so bravely at Bannockburn to the men who stand before me today.”
The wife of the dead clan chief held her head high as she rocked the sleeping babe in her arms while her two young daughters sought to hide among the folds of her long woollen skirt. Aged seven and five, Helen and Marion were scared of the raw anger in the air and knew not why there was so much shouting.
Fraser had brought the widow of his brother and their children in to the room to add to the emotion of the occasion. Lost without their loving father, the girls couldn’t understand where he was, since this was obviously an important meeting and he was always at the centre of any gathering.
But now their uncle was centre stage and they were frightened as he talked about blood sacrifices and death and destruction of the Johnstones. The historic significance bypassed the dead chieftain’s daughters for they were unaware why the great and the good from this powerful clan had come together in their hundreds. They had yet to be told their father was dead.
Little did anyone know that this would be the last time for centuries that so many Moffats would be assembled under one roof. Among the generations were the greying elders, battle-scarred, weakened and weary from a lifetime of conflict standing alongside the swaggering young callants. Fraser Moffat held their admiring, youthful gaze and with each call to arms, their chests seemed to heave, swell and expand a little more.
Fraser was swarthy looking, nearly 6 ft. tall and appeared to be just as wide with powerful, muscular arms and legs that were the envy of most men who met him. His dark brown, curly hair was framed by loosely tied braids on either side of his strong, square face which was partially covered by an overgrown, red-tinged beard.
The smouldering, raging atmosphere had an almost hypnotic effect with most eyes focussed on the passionate speaker. His guttural brogue drowned out all other noises, making it easy for a group of strangers to move stealthily forward, unseen, down the several narrow paths leading through the courtyard to the barn.
A sealed entrance had been secretly left opened through some pre-arranged bribe which allowed the Johnstones….. in by the animal pens and blacksmith’s corner. All were members of the most notorious of the Border Reivers, the Johnstones, and were certainly not invited or welcomed in these parts. The dried blood of the Moffat chief still clung to their dark weave cloaks and their very presence would have ignited the fury of the rival Moffats inside the barn.
It was an audacious raid and the element of surprise caught off guard a handful of men who were supposed to be on the lookout for trouble. The truth is none suspected such a brazened attack right in the Moffat heartlands and so focussed more on the plentiful drink which had just been brewed and served in a giant cauldron for after the meeting. As they talked and swigged the warm mead from the cauldron, they suspected nothing.
The Johnstones ambushed and overpowered the unsuspecting men by two to one, slashing their throats; the sickening gurgle and spluttering sounds they made as they bled out disturbed no one. It was full three minutes before the last breath of life left the corpses and it would be a few minutes more before they stopped twitching and finally lay still, drained of their lifeblood.
Carrying flaming torches more than a dozen of the shadowy figures crept around the building waiting for a signal to unleash their terror. The Johnstones were not seeking a truce or reconciliation for deeds done, and it was clear from the shouts inside the barn that neither were the Moffats. Tonight would end the centuries’ old feuding once and for all, but the stakes were high and only one clan could emerge victorious.
Two of the raiders went to the large stone tower where the women and children had assembled. Quietly they sealed the entrances with several hayricks. Inside, a couple of older women toiled as they roasted a fatted calf over a hand turned spit. Red-faced from the heat, their corned-beef complexions were exaggerated by crisp white bonnets and high-laced, cotton blouses.
The woollen shawls tied loosely around their waists over long, heavy bum-rolled skirts exaggerated the size of their hips. One of the women nudged the other, pointing upwards to the thatched roof, as she went to pile more wood on the fire.
Watching them were the other clan women. Some of the widows openly wept for the murdered chief while the bewildered children looked on. Young maiden teenage girls who usually talked about the clan’s potential suitors for possible future unions were sad and subdued and comforted each other.
Meanwhile, outside, cold sweat illuminated the brows of the Johnstones as a clear, cloudless sky carrying a full moon revealed their presence, but the only witness to the prelude of a massacre and the death of the gurgling guards was a short-eared owl. The silent predator perched in a nearby tree was ready to swoop on his next meal, a vole, but the tiny creature darted le