MacLeod's Table

By Chris Dauten

"What a vulgar display of wealth," Alistair snorted as he was escorted through the halls of Edinburgh Castle. The page that led him said nothing. Alistair lurched along behind him, his twisted spine, which had earned him the nickname "Crouchback," not impeding his movement or his speed. The page stopped before a huge set of ornately carved doors, guarded on either side by a soldier of the palace guard.

"I will announce you," the page instructed. "You will bow to His Highness, understood?"

"Aye."

The page signaled for one of the soldiers to draw the doors open, revealing the interior of the King's audience chamber. He then motioned for Alistair to enter. Walking into the chamber, Alistair noted the fancy, Lowland nobles staring at him. He held his head perhaps a little higher than usual while in their presence. The page, just behind him announced in a loud, bellowing voice, "Alistair MacLeod of Dunvegan."

Alistair, Chief of the Clan MacLeod, then stepped forward and bowed low to the man seated on the raised throne. "My Lord of Dunvegan," said the King of Scots, "how pleased I am to see a representative of one of my dear Highland Clans."

"The pleasure is all Mine, Highness," MacLeod replied, bowing slightly, with no attempt to sound even slightly sincere. For James V to refer to the Highlanders as "dear" was, Alistair felt, an insult. The King's policy had been to suppress the Highland Chiefs, to steal their authority for his own. That authority they were given by the love of their own people. The King sought to hold that authority by royal decree and by force, rather than have it freely given.

"We still await other arrivals," the King explained. "You are free to mingle with the other nobles here present, or you may entertain yourself about the castle. My home is open to you." With that, James stood and was escorted out of the room.

Alistair took a look around the room. He was the only Highland noble present at the King's annual council. That was not surprising, given the state of relations between the Highland Chiefs and the King of Scots. Determined that his own clan would not suffer the fate of so many others, MacLeod had traveled many days from his home on the Isle of Skye to speak his mind at the council. Seeing the looks he was being given by the Lowland dandies, he wasn't sure his words would be taken seriously. They, clothed in silk and lace, looked upon his rough Highland attire with amusement, if not outright derision. "I'll have more than my fill of this lot," he thought, "at the council." Turning on his heel, he left the chamber to wander about the castle.

Examining paintings, sculptures and other pieces of priceless art, Alistair thought of his own home. Dunvegan, situated on the cliffs overlooking the sea, was a grand sight. Of course, it did not possess the finery of Edinburgh Castle, or even, he would wager, a Lowland noble's guesthouse. Still, it had the Isle of Skye surrounding it, and the good clansmen of the MacLeods, and that was worth more to Alistair's heart than anything he had so far seen here.

Wandering into a large room, Alistair found himself in a dining hall. The table was absolutely huge, spanning the entire length of the room. MacLeod reached out and picked up one of the many candlesticks that adorned the giant table. He examined it. It was fine silver. He shook his head and put it back in its place on the table.

"For a moment I thought you were about to steal that."

Alistair whirled. There behind him, in the doorway was one of the Lowland gentry he had seen in the audience chamber. "You would do well to mind your words," MacLeod replied.

"Oh, come now," the dandy said, laughing lightly as he entered the dining hall. "You mistake my humor, MacLeod."

"Do I?"

The Lowlander's smile faded. "Yes." He indicated the candlestick MacLeod had been looking at. "You admire the candlesticks, do you?"

Alistair shrugged. "The craftsmanship is fine, no doubt."

"Yes," replied the Lowlander. "You don't find such fine work in the Islands, do you?"

MacLeod bristled at the implication. He was well aware that the Lowlanders thought Highlanders and Isle men to be barbarians, simple savages. "Indeed," he replied, "the candlesticks on my own table are every bit as fine as these. If anything, they are even more valuable."

Casting a look of skepticism at MacLeod, the Lowlander played along. "And this table? Surely nothing of its size or grandeur exists in the remote regions of your land."

"True," Alistair said. "The one at Dunvegan is a good deal bigger."

"Of course." The Lowland dandy walked around the table, obviously thinking of another way to insult MacLeod. He looked up at the ceiling, covered in beautiful frescoes. "This is quite extraordinary," he commented.

Looking up, Alistair agreed. "Aye, that it is."

"But let me guess. Yours is no doubt even more beautiful."

"That's true," Alistair said, nodding.

"One would get the idea," the Lowlander accused, "that you are a wealthier man than even our good King James."

"One would be correct." MacLeod replied.

A new voice interjected itself into the conversation. "If all you have claimed is true," the King said, having been listening from the door at the opposite end of the room, "then next year we should have to hold our council at Dunvegan, so we might all have the pleasure of seeing these marvels."

The Lowlander chuckled. "Indeed, His Highness is right. I, for one, am anxious to behold these sights."

Alistair bowed to the King. "I would be honored to have you as my guest…all of you."

"Then it's settled," King James said with finality. "Next year, we hold council at Dunvegan."

The sun was just beginning to set as Alistair watched the royal barge making its way through the sea gate, the only entrance to Dunvegan. The wind blew his long hair, and the salt spray of the sea glinted in his beard. "Is everything prepared?" he asked.

"Aye, it is," replied Roderick MacAskill, the swordsman of the Clan.

MacLeod nodded. He took one last look over the battlements as the barge slipped into the cave and out of sight. "Let's go." He and Roderick went inside and descended to the main floor. A large trap door stood open in the floor. They walked down the circular stone staircase, lit by torches, until they reached the rock platform. The barge was just pulling up and being tied off.

The Lowland gentry began exiting the craft, examining their dark, damp surroundings with obvious displeasure. Alistair greeted each one individually. He was careful to be extra polite, and to treat each one as an honored guest. When the King finally stepped off onto the platform, MacLeod bowed extravagantly. "Welcome to Dunvegan, Highness."

"Thank you, MacLeod." He was not as obvious in his dislike as were the others, but it was still plain that he was unused to an environment of such simplicity and practicality. "I hope you've set your magnificent table. We're famished."

"Indeed I have, Highness. If you will all allow me to lead you, we shall dine very soon."

"Lead on, then," the King said with a smile.

The Chief of the Clan MacLeod turned to his swordsman and muttered a few words in Gaelic. Roderick nodded and motioned to a group of clansmen who were waiting in boats. These rowed the rough galleys up to the platform.

"My Lords," Alistair said, gesturing toward the boats. "If you would be so kind."

"What are you playing at MacLeod?" demanded the Lowlander who had confronted Alistair in the dining hall of Edinburgh Castle a year before.

"I regret the inconvenience," MacLeod responded in the friendliest fashion he could manage. "But, please believe me, you will find it worth your while."

With much grumbling and moaning, the King and the nobles piled into the boats. Once they were all settled, Alistair gave the order to cast off. Out the sea gate they went, crossing the bay. It was but a short trip to the other side, and when they arrived, it was to find a large group of MacLeod clansmen waiting with just as many ponies.

There was one large horse for the King, the nobles all mounting ponies. The clansmen led the ponies and they began their ascent to the top of a large, flat-topped hill that stood directly across from Dunvegan. Alistair chuckled to himself, anticipating the reaction he would get upon reaching the top.

It was much as he expected. The nobles gasped when they saw the vast meal that had been spread out across the entire, flat top of the hill. It was, literally, a feast fit for a King. MacLeod swordsmen stood in a circle, surrounding the feast and holding blazing torches aloft to light the scene. Above them, the moon shone through the black, star-studded canvas of the night sky.

King James dismounted and patted Alistair on the back. "A grand feast it is, MacLeod, but we were to see the dining hall of Dunvegan."

"And so you are seeing it, Highness." Alistair spread his hands out, encompassing the hilltop. "This is my table, which I believe you will agree is much larger than your own."

James hesitated. "And the candlesticks of which you spoke? I see no silver here."

"These are my candlesticks," Alistair explained, indicating the torch-bearing clansmen. "And they are more valuable to me than any silver."

"There is value in loyal men," the King allowed. "And your ceiling?"

MacLeod laughed. He pointed up to the sky. "Painted by the hand of God, himself."

The King looked up and then back at Alistair. He smiled. "Alistair MacLeod," he said, "you are, indeed, a richer man than myself."

The hill that stands across from Dunvegan castle is still, to this day, known as MacLeod's Table.