The Keith Muster
The Muster Yard
The muster was no brief affair. It lasted the whole day and bled into night, a ritual as much as preparation. Wick itself seemed to thrum with the noise: the tramp of boots, the thud of targes, the hiss of musket fire. The harbour echoed with gulls driven from their roosts by the horn's blast. Dogs barked until they were hoarse. Children peeked from doorways, wide-eyed, whispering "They march against Gunn. Against the kelp folk."
Keith's men were not all of one kind. Some were hardened blades, faces lined by years of war and exile. Others were farmers turned fighters, still smelling of peat and dung. A few were mercenaries, lured by coin rather than clan, with eyes that darted like foxes.
The Men and Their Weapons
The yard filled not just with numbers but with faces and steel.
Davie Kerr, scarred across the cheek, carried an old broadsword polished until it gleamed. He had been a cattle thief before Culloden, then a soldier, now a man who fought only because there was nothing else left. He muttered to his blade in Gaelic, calling it by name—Beanntan, "mountains."
Murdoch the Bow-Legged, a farmer until his land was burned, swung a heavy Lochaber axe with calloused hands. "This cuts thistles same as skulls," he told a lad who stared too long.
Alasdair Og, barely sixteen, clutched a battered musket taller than he was. His powder-horn rattled empty. He had no shoes, only rag-wrapped feet. Still, he shouted louder than any when Keith barked for the war cry.
Weapons filled the yard like a grim marketplace:
Claymores two-handed and single-gripped, edges polished with oil, nicks from past battles still visible. Some bore notches that told their own history—each one a skull cracked, a pike shaft sundered.
Targes, wooden, faced with hide and rimmed in iron, studs catching the pale light. Many were painted with clan symbols, crude yet fierce—stags, knots, crosses.
Muskets, long and heavy, mostly old government issue from before Culloden, many patched and repaired. Their locks clicked unevenly, but with powder and faith, they would fire.
Dirks, carried by all. Some plain, others ornate, hilts carved with knotwork or brass rings. These were the true Highlanders' blades, for when the claymore stuck in bone and the musket was spent.
Each man held his weapon with a different relationship—some with reverence, some with fear, some with casual disdain.
The Priest's Blessing and the Old Ways
The priest shuffled among them, cassock torn at the hem, eyes shadowed by age. He sprinkled holy water with a sprig of heather, murmuring in Latin: "In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti."
Before the drills, Keith ordered the weapons laid out in a line along the yard. The priest murmured Latin, sprinkling holy water, but the older warriors muttered older words, half-pagan, half-Christian.
Davie Kerr whispered to his broadsword: "Beanntan, beannaich mi." (Mountains, bless me.) Kerr spat into his palm, rubbed it along the flat of his broadsword, and whispered:"Cuidichidh na sìthichean mi."(The spirits will aid me.)
Murdoch rubbed kelp ash into his axe edge, saying, "Gun tilleadh an fhuil." (May the blood return.) Murdoch tied a sprig of rowan to his axe haft with red wool. "This keeps the ball from finding my heart," he said.
Alasdair Og, barely sixteen, tied a lock of his sweetheart's hair to his musket and whispered, "Keep me alive."
Keith let them mutter. He knew such things steadied hands more than any sermon. "Faith's a blade too," he growled once, "and sharper than many."
but some of the older men muttered older prayers still.
Keith did not mock them. He only nodded. "Better a man who fears than a man who thinks himself fearless. Fear keeps your eyes open."
The Drills
The drills were merciless.
"Form the line!" Keith barked in Gaelic. "Cairt na loidhne!"
Men shuffled into ranks, targes overlapping, muskets braced.
"Raise targes! Tog na targaidean! Fire!"
The volley cracked ragged, smoke rolling thick. Keith snarled, "Again! You think Gunn will stand still while you fumble?"
Reload, ramrod, prime, fire. The second volley came truer. Smoke stung eyes, ears rang, powder scorched fingers.
Then the Highland charge. Muskets fired, dropped on slings. Claymores came free with a hiss. Targes slammed forward. The men roared and stamped until the ground trembled.
"Louder!" Keith roared. "Make the hills shake, make the Gunn piss himself before you touch him!"
And they did roar, Gaelic cries tearing from their throats:
"Buaidh no Bàs!" (Victory or death!)
"Airson Clann Chiad!" (For Clan Keith!)
Even Rory shouted, though his voice cracked. Even mercenaries shouted, caught up in the storm.
They drilled until breath steamed in clouds and hands shook from powder burns. Keith made them form the line, fire muskets, drop them, and surge with targes and blades. The ground shook as boots thundered, the men roaring Gaelic cries:
"Buaidh no Bàs!" (Victory or Death!)
"Airson Chiad!" (For the Keiths!)
The roar rolled out into Wick's narrow streets, rattling shutters and sending housewives hurrying to bolt their doors.
Keith walked the line as they stood panting. "Remember this roar. It's not for your ears, it's for theirs. Gunn will hear it, and he'll know you're not sheep but wolves."
Doubts and Whispers
But when the drills ended and men collapsed in knots, their talk soured.
Rory whispered to Alasdair Og, "He won't die. Gunn. I saw him bleeding like a stuck boar, and still he fought. He's cursed."
Alasdair puffed his chest, though his hands shook. "Cursed or not, he bleeds. My musket'll prove it."
Murdoch growled, overhearing. "Better cursed Gunn than cursed Sinclairs. At least Gunn fights for his folk. What do we fight for?"
Davie Kerr spat. "We fight for feud. Feud's older than kings. A Keith without feud is no Keith."
The words rang hollow, but no one spoke against him.
Margaret Among the Ranks
Margaret moved among them like fire in heather. Her cloak swirled, her hair glowed. Men's eyes followed her, some with awe, others with unease. She spoke softly, just enough for the chosen to hear.
To Bain she pressed a coin. "Save your shot. One bullet, one heart."
To a farmer she promised, "Bring me her head, and your children will never hunger."
To a young mercenary, she brushed his arm, whispering, "Fight well, and I'll see you rewarded beyond silver."
Her silver wove through the ranks like threads of poison, unseen by most but felt.
Keith saw her once, her hand brushing Bain's arm, and his jaw clenched hard. He said nothing—yet.
The War Feast
At dusk, Robert called for a feast to bind the muster. The fire-cross still smouldered in the ground, smoke drifting like a signal. Keith lifted his horn and blew long and deep. The note rolled across Wick, echoing off the sea, shaking the gulls from the roofs.
Ale flowed from barrels, bread and salted herring passed hand to hand. The smell of mutton stew filled the air, rich and greasy.
Songs rose—Gaelic war-songs, bawdy tavern tunes. Men stamped feet on the boards, fists banging tables.
Davie Kerr sang an old feud song:
"Cha till MacGunn, cha till e tuilleadh,
Fo claidheamh Clann Chiad thuit e."
(Gunn will not return, he will not return,
Under the Keith sword he fell.)
Some cheered. Others glanced uneasily, for Gunn had returned, and he walked still.
Bain boasted of blades he had dulled in Gunn blood. Rory stayed silent, eyes haunted. Murdoch drank deep and muttered, "This feast tastes like a wake."
Margaret raised a cup, smiling. "To victory. And to the end of the kelp-witch."
Keith did not drink. He stood at the head, eyes scanning the men. "Drink, aye. Sing, aye. But remember—the Gunn sharpens his blade even as you drink. Remember what we muster for."
Every man roared, stamping, targes raised, blades flashing. It was not unity—too many whispers, too much silver—but it was noise enough to seem like unity.
Keith lowered the horn and spoke, voice like stone:
"Tomorrow we march. Gunn will bleed. Craik will burn. And when the smoke clears, the Keiths will stand where they always have—over the bones of our enemies."
The men roared again, but under it some muttered: "Or under them."
So the muster ended. The weapons were blessed, the fire-cross smoked, the horn still echoed. Keith's men stood ready, at least to outward eye. But beneath the surface, loyalty was frayed, poisoned by Margaret's whispers and cracked by fear of a man who should have died long ago.
Keith knew it, though he would not speak it aloud: he had an army that looked like wolves but might scatter like sheep when the blood started flowing.
And still, he would march, the Crann Tara had been raised. The last campaign had begun.