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Alexander raised an eyebrow. He’d heard great ballads before, of course, but he’d also heard many terrible ones. The story of how
he’d found his love, how he’d reunited with his people, was precious. He was anxious that this bard, like so many others, would twist it for fanciful effect.
But as soon as the music started, the light strumming of the lute and the background pan pipes, Alexander knew he shouldn’t have worried. The man sang with a Scottish twang mixed with his northern accent, creating an almost otherworldly effect as he spun the tale to the gathered crowd.
Still half a lad, the boy comes to be
The Laird o’ a Clan, an’ a’ he can see,
His only advisor, a well-hidden snake
Spreadin’ his poison, awaitin’ its take,
His people forget him, his face fades from sight
His soul dwells in darkness, he forgets the light.
Alexander felt a rush of sadness, remembering the pain he’d been in for so many years without even realizing how much it had hurt. He glanced at Cicilia, who was listening, enraptured, and suddenly he realized what she’d done.
His brave, clever, chaotic wife had somehow made a deal with the bard. She’d told him the story, all of it, knowing that the people gathered at the fair would listen. After all, there was still suspicion about him in the clan—suspicion that Alexander had garnered upon himself. He needed to regain the Clan’s trust.
And Cicilia was helping him.
He caught her eye, and she simply winked as the bard went on.
But then comes the farm-girl, a secret she holds,
Bicker though they may, fortune favors the bold,
She comes to the castle an’ brings wi’ her light,
Nae kennin’ just yet that she’s solvin’ his plight
An’ the Laird o’ the Castle is savin’ her to,
Above an’ beyond what a leader should do.
Alexander caught Cicilia’s hand and pulled her close, his other hand on her waist. They danced together in time to the music, swaying in a small circle as though the rest of the massive crowd had vanished.
He loves his people though he doesn’ae ken,
How to show outwardly, to his women an’ men,
So he saves them in secret, nae care for his fame,
A false veil o’ harshness has sullied his name
The song went on, surprisingly complimentary—to the point where Alexander found himself blushing at points—and even more remarkably accurate. It revealed some of the works he had undertaken in secret, some that he hadn’t even known anyone had noticed.
Once the story was done, the bard put down his lute. There was silence for a long moment, then the crowd broke into a crashing wave of applause.
“The winner!” Alexander announced, stepping up onto the platform. He handed the bard the silver pin and held his arm up in the air in triumph.
The bard smiled and thanked him while the crowd cheered. And then the most shocking thing of all happened.
Someone—Alexander would never know who—called out his name from the back of the crowd.
“To Alexander MacKinnon, Laird o’ Gallagher!”
