Bruar's Rest by Jess Smith

together to give her time to bond with big Rory. Gingerly she went over to his fire, and sat uncomfortably down on a large log. Now, for the first time, she was going to speak about her innermost thoughts and worries.
    ‘You know that now I’m sixteen, your lad and me will be wed?’ She was surprised at the loudness of her voice, and blushed red. This made him smile and he answered in soft tones.
    ‘Aye, lassie, that I am; and I’ll say this for you, I never thought you good enough for Bruar but there are ways in you that are strong and honest. You’ve a depth to yourself, I’ve seldom seen one so young with a spirit like yours. I’m sure the lad will do no better. His mother was a tinker you know, aye, just like you. Her folks came from the west coast, although I only knew her uncle. My Lassie—that’s what I called her—was abandoned into the care of the uncle after her parents were killed by a deluge that washed their camp site away. It was a blessing she had been playing on the hillside at the time. Poor thing, she used to wake up in the night screaming, I think she was remembering her drowned relatives. She had a heart that loved everybody. Even wee robin redbreasts with broken wings brought tears to her bonny eyes, and God she had the most beautiful eyes.’
    That was the first time he had taken her into his trust, she felt warmed with words she’d never thought to hear from this once drink-filled excuse for a man. His words brought a sense of pride. It felt right to be taking on his name, and within no time the pair were relaxed and comfortable as they chatted on.
    Yet there was a clearing to be done. The resentment he harboured towards the Macdonalds had bothered her—why did he feel so strongly? Before another word passed between them she had to know. His easy flow of conversation made her think that while in this mood she would be able to question him further.
    For a moment he dropped his head, ran a hand through his thick grey hair, and looked quite sheepishly at her. He said, ‘It’s not you. It’s a story I was raised on that was told by wandering tinker folk who used to come up to the far north, about the feuding MacIan Macdonalds—that was the proper clan name, you know, lass.’
    Yes, she did know.
    ‘Well, there’s an old tale was brought to our ears about the Glencoe massacre. Campbell of Glen Lyon, who had been given instructions by the English King William to kill all of the Glencoe Macdonalds, had been secretly having relations with a Macdonald lassie. She was already promised to her cousin Alister MacIan. Now to get rid of him, Campbell, along with a certain powerful Edinburgh man by the name of Dalrymple, accused the whole clan of ‘reiving’—cattle stealing.’
    Hearing her ancestral name being brought low wasn’t part of the answer she’d expected. She had her own version of history, had been reared on it, and her temper rose. She didn’t like his version of the story, and in no uncertain terms let him know! ‘Well, it just goes to show how much you know, big Rory Stewart. Dalrymple was William’s stooge. He hated everyone with a drop of Catholic blood. The Macdonalds supported your Prince Charlie during the ’45. Many died for him, for God’s sake. And here’s another wee bit fact of history for you to puff through your pipe—during the wild days of Robert the Bruce, the two clans Campbell and MacIan Macdonald were related. And another thing, what if it was true the lassie had a fling with the Campbell; surely it was her business? But if you think killing old men, women and children—and I heard tell over forty were slaughtered in the snow that fearful night—was because of a silly affair, then you have allowed the drink to take your brain along with your gut.’ She rose quickly to her feet, and with hands on hips, hissed, ‘That was at the end of the seventeenth century, why should you condemn every Macdonald to this day for it?’
    ‘Sit back down, lassie, and