Page 87 of Laird of Secrets
“Aye,” Dougal grunted, pushing a shoulder into the huddle, watching his feet as the players kicked and shuffled. Like the rest, Dougal was looking for the elusive feather-stuffed leather ball that darted and rolled amid a forest of legs—like any of them, if he found it, he would kick it away and try to take possession.
He and Fergus hovered on the outer part of the great press of men and boys. Dozens crammed together in a great, wicked beast of a crowd, grunting, shoving, and sweating as they vied to find, snatch, and direct the ball between one goal and the next. North and South were huge teams both, the north glen claiming an old, crumbling stone wall on the hill below Kinloch House for a goal, while the south glen claimed the standing stones near the lochside road. No quarter was given. Each time the ball was sighted, every man went after it.
All were here, Dougal thought, glancing around. By now they were gathered in the middle of the glen floor toward the end of a very long day. The huge group of players had gone up the glenside and down the lochside, taking the slopes, moving in great herds through villages, splashing through burns and leaping over and around rocks, even darting in and out of houses and byres. Now they were back in the broad meadow near a long stretch of muddy bog.
To a man, they were exhausted after hours of shoving, pushing, running the ball in packs from one point to the next. They had endured pummelings and hardships for the sake of the ball, and were bruised, aching, and thirsty. But each player called up the energy to carry on, following up and down the glen. The ball, muddy and torn, had been stolen countless times from gripping hands, hidden under shirts, crammed under wads of turf, or sunk in a stream while others searched for it. Countless times it had been found, claimed, kicked, caught, and zigzagged around the glen with players in endless pursuit.
The day had begun in a civilized way, the two teams assembling at the midpoint of the glen. Dougal had opened the game by playing a tune on his bagpipes, and rousing cheers rose from the crowd assembled ready to watch and follow the players. Rob MacIan had brought carts loaded with ale and cheese and other food from his inn, and claimed the privilege of tossing the leather ball high up to begin the game.
No particular rules existed beyond a tacit agreement to do no deliberate harm. The only certainty was the presence of the two goals at opposite ends of the glen, and the willingness of every man there to do his damnedest to make a goal. The winning team would be decided either by nightfall or exhaustion, or both.
Scores of men—near a hundred this year, Dougal guessed—now clustered around the ball, chasing it along, not always certain where it was, simply going along in the wake of the shouts and scrambles. They pursued it through houses and byres, some even rushing through the schoolhouse after the renegade ball. They went shouting and shoving past and through houses and illicit stills too, pausing for a quick sip of peat reek or ale from casks opened for the purpose. By tradition, everything but direct harm was considered fair play, so whatever stood in the ball’s path was at the mercy of the game.
Stepping back from the press of players, Dougal watched as the ball popped free of the crowd. One fellow went fast after it and another hopped on his back, spinning together while yet another man snatched the ball away, only to be chased by a hooting pack of players.
Already that afternoon they had crossed the glen floor and reached the lochside road following the ball’s wayward path. Men had even thundered through Mary MacIan’s little house after the ball, tumbling over furniture and knocking her clock from the mantel. While Maggie barked wildly, Dougal had prevented both dog and mistress from being trampled, even as the players pounded onward.
Several men fell into one or another of the flowing burns that crisscrossed the glen. All knew that if the ball reached the cove it could be lost in the loch, while men might go splashing and swimming and nearly drown to find the thing. To avoid calamity, they drove their leathery prize inland again toward the central moor and played on.
Despite exhaustion, near-calamities and even danger, Dougal knew that all were enjoying the day. For a moment, he grinned at Fergus, then shouldered his way back into the shoving, shouting band of men. Lunatic and joyful, they were all brothers in the game of the ba’ when they played across the glen and back.
Soon enough, he would have to ease out of the crush and slip away with his uncles. Ducking to avoid a thrusting elbow, he saw the ball slip unnoticed between the feet of the men in front of him.
Bending, scooping it up, he crammed it under the muddy hem of his shirt and was away. The others turned in swift pursuit, but for a moment, with that bit of leather clutched cold against his skin, he felt the elation of possessing the prize. But logic prevailed—he needed to be elsewhere.
He approached the outskirts of the fray with men pulling at him, and tossed the ball high overhead to surrender it. Arms reached, shouts burst out, men leaped like salmon. The prize disappeared into the cluster, the players rounding after it.
Breath heaving, Dougal stood there for a moment, wiping his face. Then he turned to see Ranald and Hamish. “Let’s away,” he rasped.
Certain they would not be noticed, they slipped away from the ragged edge of the frenzied crowd. Glancing back, Dougal saw Fergus still in the thick of the play, swearing like a savage, not ready to give up the game no matter the plan.
“Have you seen the gaugers?” Dougal asked Hamish, who had stayed out of the playing to keep watch.
“Aye, they came here just as we thought. Some are watching. A few are in the game now.” He tilted his head toward the throng. “Patrick MacCarran is in there, and Tam’s son too. Tam and a couple of others are following the scramble with the crowd. They will not be thinking about what free traders might be doing tonight.”
“And they think we are in the thick of it with the rest,” Ranald said.
“Just so. Come ahead.” Dougal pointed away from the crowd.
The hour was later than he had thought, with twilight thickening to purple as Dougal and his uncles went down to the lochside road. With so many players and spectators scattered about the moor and hills, they did not look out of place. They might be catching their breath, or going down to the loch for some cool water.
The air felt fresh and cool beyond the close, sweaty throng. Dougal breathed deep, felt the relief of clean fluttering his tattered, dirty shirt and kilt and damp hair. He paused to tuck his shirt in best he could, straightening the swath of the plaid around him and over his shoulder.
For a moment he glanced about, hoping to see Fiona before he was off on the night’s mission. Here and there, he had seen her watching the game together with some of the other women. She had been standing with Mary MacIan and Lucy. Seeing the three together, each one so special to him, renewed his strength and resolve when he had been all but exhausted.
He had not seen her since then, and wondered if she had gone with Mary MacIan to the house to help right the mess here. He would offer to repair the damage and would bring the old woman a cask of her favorite whisky. But he could never make up to Fiona what fate, and his own misjudgment, had wrought.
No doubt she had decided to be done with the laird of Glen Kinloch, who preferred to muck about in a rough game, smuggle whisky, tend sheep, play the bagpipes, work in his distillery, and roam the hills rather than don a frock coat and complete his university education to become a true gentleman laird. Privately he savored more book learning, but he was not like the aristocratic gentlemen that Fiona MacCarran knew. He lacked the polish of men like Eldin. No matter the circumstance, the laird of Glen Kinloch would always be more suited to a plain existence in the Highlands. Could Fiona accept that, and leave her sophisticated life to live rustically? Deeply, desperately, he hoped so, and yet doubted it.
Tonight, though, he had more immediate matters to hand. Running down the hill to the lochside road in the purple gloaming, he sat on an old stone wall to wait for his uncles.
* * *
Tucking her shawl around her shoulders against a cool breeze, Fiona stood on a slope a little apart from the others, watching the ruckus of the game continue. Not far away, Lucy gathered flowers in the increasing darkness, humming to herself. Fiona smiled to see the girl happily occupied making a bouquet of yellow primroses and the bluebells that covered the hills in a blur of vivid color.
She had spent most of the day with the women of the glen, as well as the girls who attended her school. Lucy had been with them too, along with Maisie and Annabel, Jamie too. Walking the hills as the game ranged across the glen, Fiona had enjoyed watching. She had never seen anything quite like the game of the ba’—and she had not laughed so much in a long time. The quick glimpses of Dougal MacGregor in the thick of the game, sometimes the one controlling the ball, were more exciting and wonderful than she might have admitted to anyone.
She had found a chance to explore the lower hills, too, searching for rock samples, the children eager to help her. The afternoon was sunny and she had removed her straw bonnet, enjoying the breezes and the clear Highland air. Jamie had collected rocks and scouted for fossils, while the girls had gathered flowers. Lucy had a surprising knowledge of flowers useful in the whisky-making process—and Fiona, impressed, realized that the wee girl was already picking up some of what her uncles knew. Annabel, whose mother was known for her fine ale, had knowledge too. Shy Annabel had walked with them, singing a little in her sweet, beautiful voice. Fiona had smiled to herself, listening.
