Modern Hogmanay– Edinburgh on New Year’s Eve

One of the joys of writing historical romance is the research. In my latest novel, Desire in Tartan, I found myself researching winter holiday customs in the far northwest Highlands. I created a clan that had Norse roots, so they celebrated the Yule rather than Christmas but, like many Scots, celebrated Hogmanay, not New Year’s Eve.

The word “Hogmanay” has roots that extend in to Nordic or Celtic history. According to Wikipedia, its first recorded use was in the 17th Century, and it refers to the last day of the year. The celebration would last until January first or even the second, which in Scotland is still a “bank holiday.”  The extra day was probably so folks could gt over their hangovers. Hogmanay is still celebrated in wild fashion, as the illustration to the left shows.

In Desire in Tartan, which follows the romance between Dugald Kilburn and governess Alice Derwent, Clan Kilburn fills the days between Yule and Hogmanay with revelry, music, drinking, dancing and sex.

From Chapter Fourteen, Desire in Tartan:

Life had not treated Hamish Gwynn well, or, rather, he had not treated his life well. Since his ill-fated attempt to destroy Clan Kilburn, Laird Kieran had demanded tribute, as was his right, and Hamish, as an honorable laird, paid. Vast swaths of Gwynn forest were felled so Gwynn clansmen could rebuild Kilburn crofts while the homes of Hamish’s people went unrepaired. He also forked over a tenth of that autumn’s crop and did the same for the next five years, fattening Kilburn’s larder.

Worse, his French wife, Jacqueline, complained incessantly of the shame he’d brought onto the clan. She’d always been a restless, dissatisfied soul, and inside her mind, she seemed to have created a rivalry with Lady Lydia of Clan Kilburn.

So when an unexpected blizzard trapped Hamish and a few of his men hunting near Kilburn lands but far from his home, he resented that his best choice was to seek refuge at Kilburn Castle. He was by no means certain of his welcome.

Highland hospitality required that any person asking for shelter and food be given what he needed, but the Kilburns werenae like most Highlanders. Their traditions werenae Scots but pagan. Though they now called themselves Kilburn rather than Kilborn, Hamish had no doubt that they persisted in their savage ways.

But he had no choice. He and three of his men struggled through heavy, wet snow toward Kilburn Castle, wondering what kind of reception they’d receive.

When they arrived, night had long fallen but, oddly, the great gate was open and the drawbridge down. Light and laughter issued from

Desire in Tartan by Suz deMello

the gatehouse and the bailey within the massive double walls that had protected generations of Kilburns.

“Twas the Yule, Hamish realized. These pagans didnae celebrate Christ’s birth as would be proper, with quiet prayer and contemplation, but instead noted the shortest day of the year with a cèilidh, song and drink. “Well, at least they’ll be in a good temper,” he said to Fergus MacReiver.

Fergus grunted. “I doona want to go there. They’re heathens and baobhan-sith.”

“They may be heathen, but vampires?” Hamish laughed, a sharp, bitter bark. “You’ll nae find me believing in that foolishness again.” Listening to his priest’s maunderings about unholy blood-drinking creatures had led him to launch that daft raid against Clan Kilburn twelve years before. He wouldnae make the same mistake twice. “De ye wish to die oot here, in the snow and sleet? We havenae choice. Follow me and keep yer venom to yerself.”

Hamish, with his escort struggling behind, threaded his way between quiet crofts toward the drawbridge, then over. At the gatehouse, they were hailed by a clearly drunken guard. After leaving their weapons, the Gwynn party was allowed to pass through.

The courtyard had been cleared of snow. Crackling bonfires flared toward the sky surrounded by rings of dancing Kilburns. Pipers played off-key, and Hamish suspected they’d imbibed. Light spilled into the bailey from the open doors of two big towers, and Hamish averted his glance from the third keep. The Dark Tower “twas called, and “twas indeed dark, black with blood and brimful of the damned souls that had perished there twelve years before”¦ Hamish’s own men, he remembered with unease.

But now, everywhere else was revelry, fire, light and joy. The tempting aroma of roasting meat came from one set of doors, and though Hamish wasnae familiar with the castle’s layout, he guessed that the Kilburn Great Hall was inside. He reckoned that he had the best chance of finding Kieran Kilburn there.

A massive hand clamped down onto his shoulder. “Laird Hamish! A cantie Yule to ye!” Kieran Kilburn laughed, drank from a bottle held in one enormous paw then extended the bottle to Hamish. “And what brings ye here on such a raw winter night?”

Hamish took the bottle thinking, What the hell, Jacqueline’s not here, and drank. He wiped his wrist across his mouth and belched.

Kilburn laughed some more, looped an arm around Hamish’s shoulder and fair dragged him toward the open doors in the direction of the enticing smells. “Come see the wife! We’ve a new bairn to show ye.”

His men straggling behind, Hamish didn’t resist, for he was being taken to where he wanted to go””toward warmth and food.

Inside the Great Hall, more Bedlam. Hamish, who’d never been within the seat of Clan Kilburn, was astonished. He’d always supposed that the martial clan did naught but train, hunt and fight. But “twas clear that the well-managed clan lived well and thought nothing of clearing out the winter larder when other, less fortunate clans (like Clan Gwynn) scrimped and saved over the long chilly months, paring mold off cheese, baking pies from withered apples and measuring every drop and dram of whisky.

Jealousy set a giant hand in Hamish’s bowels and squeezed. He instantly forced back the unworthy feeling and quoted the tenth commandment to himself. Taking a deep breath, he was assailed by a variety of scents: whisky from Laird Kilburn, roasted boar, unwashed bodies, tallow candles, evergreen boughs and woodsmoke from the huge Yule log that crackled and blazed in the massive hearth.

Suz deMello

The entire clan seemed to be crammed into the castle. Bairns chortled and older children sang while their elders applauded. He even glimpsed Dugald Kilburn, who Hamish had thought a somber and serious warrior, dancing on a table with a slender woman clasped in his arms. He capered with light feet over and between the blades of two crossed swords, an accomplishment to be sure, especially holding the girl, who flung back her head and laughed, a silvery peal of sheer joy.

Hamish took off his plaidie and his boots, set them near the fireplace to dry, relaxed and joined in the revelry.

***

Fergus MacReiver did not. After warming himself by one of the courtyard’s bonfires and partaking of the Kilburn food and drink, he tucked himself into a shadowy corner of the bailey to listen to the gossip and conversation. What he heard of Clan Kilburn’s plans interested him mightily, but he wasnae certain that his new laird would use the information. More likely that Laird Hamish, a coward unto his soul, would brush off Fergus’ scheme for revenge.

***

Dugald jumped off the table and whirled. In his arms, Alice shrieked and laughed. Hairpins flew and her long mane whipped out behind her as he continued to dance her out the room, out the tower and into the next. Snow had started to fall, and as they entered the Laird’s Tower, icy flakes began to melt on her face, cool and tingling.

He kissed her with chilly lips and set her on her feet. Hand in hand, they raced up the stairs into their room. He slammed the door behind them and tumbled her onto the bed in a flurry of quilted petticoats…

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