What Price Freedom

By Catherine Johnson

Ailis Loganach lives a harsh life, but she’d never complain since she knows no other way.  Life in medieval Scotland is a ruthless battle for survival against the elements, disease and the whim of anyone more powerful than yourself.  It’s certainly not a comfortable world for a woman, but that doesn’t stop Ailis trying to make of it what she can.

Brom Suthurlan, Mormaer of Eilean nam Sian, Earl of the Isle of Storms, tries to be a fair and just ruler over the people that depend on him, but he’s hiding a terrible secret: the curse of a naive youth.  If his dark truth were to be revealed, he would lose not only his position, but his life.

Together there is a chance that they can bend destiny to their benefit, but they are separated by a vast chasm of rank, wealth and custom.  The civilisation they exist in makes any likelihood of a future impossible.  But the fates are watching, waiting, ready to cast the dice on this turn of the wheel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Catherine Johnson
• Release date: Sep 12, 2014
• ISBN: 9781502224262

Catherine Johnson

CATHERINE JOHNSON, Ph.D., is a writer specializing in neuropsychiatry and the brain. She cowrote Animals in Translation and served as a trustee of the National Alliance for Autism Research for seven years. She lives with her husband and three sons—two of whom have autism—in New York.

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Prologue

Dubh Deamhan.

The Black Demon.

The name whispered through the beast’s mind. It knew very well that the villagers spoke of it in hushed tones, that they had named it. It knew with all the intelligence of a human man that they considered it to be the incarnate of Lucifer on earth, a blight upon their village, a punishment for crimes as yet undiscovered. It knew it was no such thing. The only punishment to be delivered was upon the beast itself.

It roamed over the steep mountainsides and through the deep valleys, the full moon lighting its way as clearly as the brightest sunlight. It padded through heather and over moss, unmolested by predators. The only animals capable of troubling it were the wolf packs with which it shared the night time realm. The beast looked like one of them, a lone wolf, a black wolf with ice-bright blue eyes that seemed to be lit with an unholy gleam. The wolves were not fooled, though; they knew that the beast was not one of them. They knew to leave it well enough alone.

The beast moved silently through the silver-edged darkness, heading towards the herd of Highland cattle. It would renew the fury of the villagers if it were to kill one, and there was always a risk of serious injury when dealing with the stamping hooves and sharp horns; but the chase, the fight, would be worth it. To immerse itself in the scent of the animal throughout the chase, to push itself to its limits to catch it, to feel the burst of hot blood and the tear of muscle and the crack of bone as it took it down; yes it would be worth it.

The beast prowled around the herd, staying downwind, choosing its target carefully. A new aroma floated through the crisp air, distracting the beast. The odour of a human, of a man. If the beast had been inclined to make a sound, if it could have laughed, it would have. Only a fool or a villain would be roaming these slopes and valleys at this time of night, especially under the glow of the full moon. Curious, the beast changed its path, stalking the man rather than the animals. Aided by its excellent sense of smell, its superior night vision and the bright moonlight, it had no difficulty in locating and observing the imprudent human. Ah, a true prize this, a foolish villain. The man must be of simple mind to think he could steal one of the head of cattle acting on his own. He was stealthy, for a human, but it would not be enough to catch the herd unawares, and two legs would not be enough to chase them down.

The beast changed the target for its hunt. Taking one of the cattle would bring the wrath of the village; taking a poacher would bring little notice at all, especially since the remains of the body would not be found for several more moons. The beast positioned itself carefully. Of course it could outrun the man, but that was no excuse for sloppiness. It crept as close as possible, until the herd caught a waft of scent, or maybe just an innate notion of danger. The raised heads of the cattle alerted the poacher to a new threat, but by then it was too late. The beast made its charge, startling the cattle into a full stampede towards the opposite end of the valley. The thief had not seen the beast yet, could not possibly discern it from the shadows, but he followed the cattle all the same, trying to outrun a nameless danger.

The chase was over far too quickly for the beast’s liking, but the fight was shorter and less perilous. The rush of blood was as hot, the tear of flesh and muscle as juicy, the crack of bone as satisfying. Sure that its prey was dead, the beast began to drag it through the heather, over crags and shale, to a higher point on the slopes of the treacherous hills where other humans would be sure not to visit for some time. There was nothing for them in these bleak heights. The beast wedged its meal behind a large boulder to prevent it rolling back down to the valley below, and began to eat. The instinct of the beast overwhelmed the intelligence of the man. It did not see this flesh as one of it fellow brethren, only as sustenance, as fulfilment.

Its feast completed, the remnants abandoned, the beast howled into the night, giving voice to its animal pride. Around it, the gilded darkness was silent.

Chapter One

The day was breaking, streaking the grey sky with tones of gold and pink, as Ailis emerged from the gloom of the Loganach family home. She had already been up for some time, roused from slumber by the crowing of several cockerels announcing the merest hint of the sky lightening in the east. Wisps of smoke were twisting upwards from each of the thatched roofs in the village, signals that her neighbours were also up and about their business. Silence had long since given way to the stirrings of the day, and Ailis moved quickly to make way for her father and brothers as they followed her into the fresh dawn.

Following the early wakening, she had stumbled in the near darkness to the embers of the fire still glowing in the pit that dominated the main room of the house. From the dregs of the fire she had lit the rushlights which would provide the family some meagre illumination by which to start their day. She had splashed her face with icy water from the small bucket available for washing, braided her hair tightly and dressed quickly in her shift, stiff laced bodice, over dress and leather slippers before helping her mother Morag prepare the porridge for breakfast. The family couldn’t begin their work on empty stomachs.

Once their quick meal had been washed down with a mug of mead, they had started about their business. Filib, the youngest, had herded their pigs and goats from the screened area in the main room, out of the house and through the gatehouse which straddled the only access to Eilean nam Doineann, heading for the woods on the mainland where the animals could snuffle and graze for the day. Her father Donald, her eldest brother, named for his father, and her older brother Craig followed him, accompanied by several other men from the village and two heavy Shire horses hauling carts of equipment and supplies. It was the season to begin the ploughing and manuring of the fields, ready for the sowing which would take place in a week or so. Several young children skipped alongside the group, ready to be put to work clearing the small stones from the path of the ploughs so that their journey through the earth would be as smooth as possible.

Their home was named the Isle of the Storms with good reason. It wasn’t entirely an island, rather a small peninsula on the lonely eastern coast of Scotland, surrounded by the North Sea. Its connection to the mainland was a long, thin ridge of jagged rock, guarded at its connection with the island by the gatehouse. On one side of the ridge, the side that was slightly less steep, a path to the mainland had been hewn into the crags. On the other, a thinner, rougher trail led down to the ocean. For most of the year, the worst weather to be endured was a hard driving rain, but when the storms did come, they were fierce. It always seemed to Ailis as though they were some sort of punishment, as if some higher power was threatening to force their rock from the mainland and crumble it into the sea.

The air was cold, but not bitterly so. Spring had dulled the cutting edge of the wintery breezes. There was no time to dawdle, no time to appreciate the fresh, tangy salt air and the first golden light of what promised to be a clear day. There were plenty of tasks to fill her time. Water needed to be drawn from the well in the centre of the village, the buckets used as chamber pots and other refuse from the house needed to be emptied into the communal midden part way down the precarious sloping cliff on the east side of the island. The waste from the area occupied by the animals needed to be swept out onto the dung heap. The geese and chickens needed to be fed and the small garden in which they grew a variety of hardy vegetables needed to be tended.

More rushlights needed to be prepared by dipping reeds into melted animal fat, and as Ailis did this she noted to herself that she would soon need to collect more reeds. Wood needed to be chopped for the fire. Today her father and brothers would be eating the lunch of dark bread, cheese and mead that they had taken with them to the fields. However, the pottage, the vegetable stew that would usually be both lunch and supper for the family, had to be cooked in the large, black, iron cauldron slung over the fire pit. Morag was already working at her loom, weaving the wool from the few sheep that they owned into the brats, long lengths of fabric that they all wore, pinned at their shoulders and belted at their waists. The heavy material mainly acted as cloaks to keep the chill air at bay, but proved useful for carrying more than one pair of arms could hold.

As busy as her day was, Ailis was not lonely in her work. Her neighbours were equally as industrious, and the village was thrumming with the chatter of people and calls of livestock, underscored by the constant crashing of the waves against the cliffs of the isle. The gossip was good natured; Ailis never participated in any other sort. She had no time for the handful of ladies who thrived on the misfortune of others and the tearing down of reputations. The main topic of conversation was the forthcoming lambing and kidding season. As well as the work involved in ensuring the healthy delivery of the lambs and kids, it was also the opportunity to avail themselves of the supply of milk. In a few weeks the sounds of the village would be supplemented by the thump of the wooden churns as the women of each household endeavoured to turn the perishable milk into longer lasting cheese before it soured.

Traffic through the village was brisk. At the eastern edge stood the simple stone Church where the good brothers were as busy as any other inhabitant. The wattle and daube dwellings of the majority of the residents occupied the northern section of the isle. To the south were the stables, and to the west the forge and the towerhouse, occupied by Mormaer Suthurlan, the Earl of the isle and much of the mountainous region that spanned inland from the coast. It was a rare thing when a body’s daily regime did not involve several trips across the bustling space.

The sun was heading for its resting place behind the mountain ranges to the west of the isle, setting the clouds aflame, when the men began to return. Ailis and Morag turned their attentions to the home, gathering the geese and chickens, tidying away their tools of the day and ensuring that the rough table and benches were prepared for the evening meal. As their menfolk seated themselves and downed their first, quenching mug of mead, the women lit the rushlights and laid out the wooden spoons and steaming bowls of broth. As her father preferred, they ate in silence, but once the meal was finished the talk about the quality of the soil and the probability of a good harvest ensued whilst Ailis and her mother cleared the dishes and tossed the few remaining scraps of salted pork rind from the stew to the animals.

Apart from Sundays, when the household tasks were kept to a minimum in honour of the day of rest, the time following supper was generally the only time available for the family to sit and chat. Ailis listened attentively to the conversation about the crops to be planted and the plans for their care over the coming months, but she sensed that there was an undercurrent beneath the banal topic, a tension, as if a visitor was expected. It made her uneasy, but she knew that if her father wanted her to know something, that he would tell her. Her father was a stern man by nature, but not incapable of joviality. Ailis knew that his heart was full of love and pride for his family, even if it seemed buried under his stoic demeanour on occasion. Her brothers all took very much after their father, except perhaps for Filib, who, in his youth, was still quick to anger, although quicker to laugh.

Morag, Ailis’ mother, had married her husband at eighteen, the same age as Ailis herself was now. Her husband was a full eight summers older than she, but the marriage had remained true and strong. Morag was as quiet as her husband, but quicker to show affection to her children, even as she guided and raised them with a voice of iron and the assistance of the large wooden spoon used to stir the cauldron. The four children seated now at the table were all that were left of her brood; as many had died as had survived.

Donald, the eldest of twenty-six summers, was on the lookout for a wife for himself, ready to start his own family. He had been born within the first year of their parents’ marriage. He had been followed by Craig, who, for the moment, seemed perfectly content to remain with his parents and aid his father. There had been two more children: a girl who had never taken her first breath in the world, and a son who had died from an affliction which had struck the village during a particularly bitter winter that had taken many of the frail and young. Ailis had been born next, the very image of her mother, as many villagers kept telling her. She had been followed quickly by Filib, who had been followed by another son and then a daughter. The son had died within a month of his birth, and the daughter hadn’t survived a fall when she had strayed too close to the cliff edge chasing after a butterfly. There would be no more children now.

Ailis understood well that her role in the family was to do as she was bid, to aid her mother in the keeping of the house until she was told otherwise, but that didn’t mean that she didn’t feel the shackles of their life. Sometimes she would stare at the open ocean, the iron waves tipped with white foam, and wonder what lay on the other side, if anything. When she had business on the mainland, she would watch the eagles circling the mountain peaks and wonder if they were even aware of the freedom that they possessed so casually. Her chest would feel ready to burst with the sure knowledge that there was more to the world than the simple life that they led, yet her spirit would dip a little every time she reminded herself that such wonders were not for her to experience. Then her mother would call her, or a neighbour would ask for assistance, and she would push her frivolous thoughts aside and immerse herself in the life that she was sure of, the one that she was destined to lead.

The talk of crops and weather tailed off, but the tightness in the air remained, until her father spoke again. Ailis wasn’t expecting him to address her directly, so she jumped a little when she realised he was speaking to her.

Ailis. Lass. It’s about time we talked about your future.

Ailis stayed very still, as a rabbit caught unawares. She knew very well that her future involved only one outcome. To change it would mean leaving the village, and to do so was impossible. It would bring dishonour on her parents and brothers, with no guarantee of any actual change in her prospects. If she left, she would be a woman alone without family, education or protection. In all likelihood, she wouldn’t even make it to the other end of the valley in one piece.

Yes, father.

You’re of an age now. It’s time you married, had bairns of your own. Have you given any thought to that, daughter?

No, father. I’ve always been content here. As much as she yearned to experience life beyond the village, her statement was true enough. She did not hate the life she led.

Her father sighed heavily. Aye, I didn’t think that you had. I’ve never caught wind of you cavorting with a young buck like some of the girls your age.

Ailis remained silent, unsure how to respond to that. It wasn’t that she didn’t see the men in the village, but none of them had ever stirred her blood, ever made her think of a family and a home of her own. The other girls would flirt and dance at the seasonal festivals, trying to catch the eye of the most eligible man that they could, but Ailis had never been interested in playing games. Behind her disinterest was a deep-seated belief that if she was going to spend the rest of her life with someone, they should chase her as much as she chased them.

It’s your chance to say now, lass. Have you truly no preference for any man?

Ailis considered best how to answer this. The truth was that she didn’t have a preference, but if she was to be tied to someone it would be better that they have a full set of teeth and a strong back.

No, father. Only that I’ve always hoped to find someone who wouldn’t be lost in your shadow.

Her answer seemed to please everyone seated at the table; certainly her mother gave her a wry grin.

Daughter, if you’ve no wish to choose a man for yourself, it’s my duty to choose one for you. I won’t see you left to become an old maid, there’s too much life in you for that. I was sure that you hadn’t made a decision for yourself and it pleases me to hear that I was right in that.

Her father took a long drink of his mead, before continuing.

Ailis, you’re to be married to Tamhas Crannach in a month’s time or so.

Ailis took a while to consider her father’s choice. It certainly could have been worse, much worse. Tamhas was the village blacksmith. He towered over almost everyone, her father and two older brothers being two of the few exceptions. Days spent at the forge since he was a child had given him broad shoulders and thick arms. Unlike most other men, he kept his hair shaved close to his skull, a sensible precaution considering that he spent the majority of his time leaning over hot coals. Ailis knew him as well as anyone in the village, and she knew that there was kindness in him. He had a habit of making a small trinket for each child on the day of its birth and would often indulge the young ones when they begged to be swung up into the air by his strong arms on festival days when no one was busy with their work. The thought of actual marriage intruded on the edge of her mind like a dense fog, but that was an idea to be mulled over another time. Her father had made his decision, not unwisely in her opinion, so she would abide by it.

She had obviously been silent a moment too long. Her mother, most likely realising her trepidation, sought to console her a little.

I know it’s not much time for you to prepare, but it has to be before May Day. It’s poor luck to marry in May. If we left it much longer after that it would be harvest, and we wouldn’t want another lass snapping that fine man from us.

It’s a good choice. Thank you, father. I’m sure I’ll be happy with him, and there are certainly others you could have chosen that are not half so well-humoured. Does the Mormaer need to give his permission for the wedding to go ahead? Ailis was happy to see her family relax at her response. Given that Tamhas was possibly the best choice her father could have made for her, she shared her mother’s anxiety about the possibility of being denied such a reasonable match.

No, not exactly; but it would be wise for me to ask his blessing on the union. I wanted to gain yours, though, first, daughter. Tamhas is agreeable, but I’ll not force you into something that you have a strong objection to. I won’t assign you to such a life.

Ailis was moved that her father would show her such consideration; she knew there were many girls in the village her age that would not benefit from such thoughtfulness, and she told her father as much. Her father responded gruffly, as always a little uncomfortable with any gratitude.

Aye, well I’ll speak to his Lordship tomorrow. Save your chatter with your mother about dresses and decorations until your brothers and me are well out of hearing.

Buoyed by their good spirits, the family turned to preparations for sleep. Ailis waited until her parents had retired to the small, separate room in the house, which contained only their bed. Whilst her brothers undressed and made themselves comfortable on their mattresses of straw and coarse cloth, Ailis checked that the wooden shutters at the windows were all firmly closed. Once everyone was abed, she made her way carefully around the room, extinguishing the rushlights, until one remained by which she could undress and slip beneath her woollen quilt.

Sleep did not come quickly for Ailis, despite the rigours of the day. Her mind whirled with the unknown. Marriage would be the final barrier between her and the impossible dream of any kind of life beyond the village. With marriage would come children. She enjoyed the younglings that tottered and raced across the village green and she harboured desires for several strong