Highland Fling Episode 42

“You have to go over the bridge.” Eleanor gestured towards a worn wooden drawbridge that spanned the shallow moat. A huge yellow and red lion rampant flew from the other side. “It’s real all right.” Eleanor sounded weary. “It still looks like it did in the 15th Century, inside as well as out. Medieval Scotland was neither warm nor comfortable. Brace yourselves.”

On cue, the moan of bagpipes started somewhere in the interior.

“Oh god.” Eleanor sounded annoyed. “I forgot they did that.” “Did what?” Mirabelle inquired.

“Porridge. Bagpipes. Dead stags,” she said dismissively. The moat was mostly filled with mud that had frozen in patches. A few gloomy-looking puddles had freshly formed on the surface after the heavy rain. A long tartan pennant ran down one turret.

Eleanor led them through the archway and into a cobbled quad.

“The Dougals were Jacobites,” she said. “That’s how the story goes.”

Tash looked blank.

“It’s just one set of royalty fighting with another,” Eleanor clarified.

“Kings against kings. Anyway, the Jacobites are sainted, pretty much, though they lost. The story goes that Bonnie Prince Charlie spent three nights here on his retreat from Culloden. That’s where he lost,” she said, with a matter-of-fact air.

Before they reached the front door, it opened, and Willie Dougal appeared with two jaunty terriers at his heel. “Ladies!” he called. “What a lovely surprise. Welcome to Brochmor.”

They removed their coats in the hallway. Eleanor had not exaggerated. The hall rose over 30ft and was decorated with spears and pikes that had clearly been there for centuries.

Three tattered flags were nailed over a wide fireplace – two ropey-looking saltires and another lion rampant. On either side of the hearth, bashed-up suits of armour were displayed on stands and, above them, several stag heads mounted on dark wooden shields. Tash stared and then raised her eyes, transfixed by the wooden beams.

“It’s a great old place,” Willie said jovially. Mirabelle shivered. It might be a great old place, but Eleanor was right – it was cold.

“We popped by to visit Gwendolyn,” Eleanor announced.

An expression flickered across Willie’s face that betrayed the fact that this was unlikely in the usual run of things. “She’s in her chamber,” he said, and started to lead them upstairs, the dogs following obediently as the sound of the pipes receded.

The hallway was dark despite the brightness of the morning. The castle had small windows set into its thick walls and they glowed like diamonds against the dark stone. Mirabelle noted that the sills stretched three feet deep. “What’re the bagpipes for?” Tash asked. “The men always practise at this time of day,” Willie said.

“When we have guests, they’re woken by the pipes. It’s the best alarm clock. At Christmas we host a ceilidh and they play there too. You’d love it.”

The day room was at the end of the corridor. Behind the heavy oak door, several freestanding lamps blazed and the walls were lined with tapestries in yellow and burnt orange.

Gwendolyn was stationed at an oak writing desk by the fire, a cigarette burning in the ashtray beside her and her terrier at her feet. The room smelled of dried lavender and the faintest whiff of damp dog.

“Oh,” Gwendolyn said, “how lovely.” She rose and pulled sharply on a long piece of fabric that hung beside the mantel. “I’ll have them bring us tea.”

The terrier growled and Gwendolyn ignored him. She kissed Eleanor on the cheek, gave Tash a hug and held out her hand to Mirabelle.

“Will you be joining us, darling?” she asked her husband, who loitered uneasily in the doorway.

“No, no. You ladies enjoy yourselves,” he said.

As he left, the women arranged themselves in the old chairs around the fireplace.

On the mantel, several highly polished, silver-framed pictures contained photographs of the couple – Gwendolyn sticking a rosette on an enormous prize bull, Willie hunting with a gun over his forearm, and the two of them dressed for a Highland ball, a showy diamond brooch pinned to a tartan sash over Gwendolyn’s shoulder. Mirabelle shifted in her seat.

“To what do I owe this honour?” Gwendolyn asked.

“I thought Tash and Mirabelle might like to see the castle,” Eleanor replied.

“It is such an attraction, isn’t it?” Gwendolyn sounded smug. “Bonnie Prince Charlie stayed here for three nights on his retreat from Culloden and Queen Victoria and Prince Albert spent a night in the same bed in 1856.”

“I do hope it wasn’t exactly the same bed?” Tash giggled.

“Brochmor has a long and illustrious history,” Gwendolyn continued drily. “Willie’s family has owned everything for miles around for generations. He’s still the clan chief, though these days it’s more an honorary title. He’s just a simple farmer, really.”

The door opened and a maid in a traditional black and white uniform brought a tray laid with tea things.

Mirabelle noticed oat biscuits – just as Eleanor had predicted; four on the plate, which seemed a touch exacting. Mrs Gillies, for all her faults, doled out food lavishly.

Gwendolyn poured the tea, brushing off the maid as if the girl was an annoyance.

“I can show you around,” she offered. “Everybody says the view from the ramparts is extraordinary. Did you hear the piper? We live our traditions here.”

“It’s so important,” Eleanor said, her tone absolutely flat. Mirabelle thought it was game of her to play along because she definitely wasn’t enjoying herself.

“Yes,” Gwendolyn enthused, seemingly unaware. “It means the world up here because Scotland is essentially still tribal. Willie’s people, the tenants, I mean, appreciate his leadership.

“Tash dear, how are you coping? It must be a comfort now that your uncle, the baron, has arrived.”

The hallway was dark despite the brightness of the morning. The castle had small windows set into its thick walls

More tomorrow.

Copyright © Sara Sheridan 2020, extracted from Highland Fling, published by Constable, an imprint of Little, Brown Book Group, at £8.99