Our brother Gordo, over at the Alternate Brain, presents some Celtic cultural pleasantries, such as the classic drinking song, “What the Scotsman Wore Under His Kilt.” It’s a cute ditty, sure to please in its breezy, relaxed and jovial look at life after the pubs close. But there is a darker side to the Highland race, and I take confused pride in the fact that I have some small touch of savage blood in my background – not much – just enough to disqualify me for eating with a knife and fork. The Highland Scot is unreconstructed and does not easily suffer the foolishness of the Sassenach and the mongrelized Anglo-Scots of the border, to say nothing of the Anglo-Irish, but that’s another story.

Historically, the Highland man is hard, battered and burned to oak and hard leather by the climate and poverty of the land he loves. But it is the women who are the hard cases. I ran across this bit years ago, written by a fine author whom I wish I’d met.

The Gordon Women

There is a story they tell in Breadalbane:

Gordon of Achruach was at feud with Campbell of Kentallan, who hired certain Gregora, landless men, who took the Gordon unawares while he was hunting in the Mamore. And they cut off his head and put it in a bag to show the Campbell that the work was done. That was the way of it.

And as they fared for Kentallan, the Gregora came by the Gordon’s door at Achruach, and went in, and the Gordon’s wife (little knowing she was a widow) bade them to table, as the custom is, and went out for the Athol brose. And while she was gone the Gregora winked at one another, and set the Gordon’s head on a dish, with an apple in the mouth, to see what the good wife would make of it. That is the Gregora for you, hell mend the black pack of them.

And the good wife came in, and saw her man’s head bloody on the board, but kept her countenance and never said a word, only smiled on the Gregora and bade them good cheer. The Gregora wondered at this. Had she not seen it? was in the mind of each of them. Still looked she never on the head, but said a word to her ghillie and sent him forth. And smiling on the Gregora, she told them a tale, never looking at the head, and held the spellbound, for she was great at the stories, and very fair besides. The Gregora wondered, has she not seen it yet? This is not canny, was in their minds, and they said they must be for the road, but she held them there by their tale and her presence, and so they bided whether they would or no. That was the way of it.

And still she spoke and looked not on the head, until the ghillie returned with her men of Achruach, who came in swift and sudden and stood behind the Gregora seated, one to one, and each Gordon with his dirk at a dirty Gregora neck. And she told on till she was done – aye, she was great at the stories – and then said she: “I see my man has come home, and has but an apple to eat. Give him to drink also, wine red and warm.” And at her word they slew the Gregora where they sat, and the red blood ran. That was the way of it.

And the ghillie said: “Oh, mistress, how did you keep your countenance this long while in the presence on yon fell thing, and beguile these stark men?” And she answered, “The day I cannot keep my countenance, and hold men in their place and work my will on them, that is a day you will never see.”

That was the way of it. That was a woman of the Gordons for you.