Chapter 8 is Ready to be Stationed.

 I'm stationing the chapters as they are written. They are not completed yet, and they will not be completed until they are canonized and I have the opportunity to go through each page one by one, each paragraph one by one, and each and every line, one by...OK, I may skip a few of those because if I was that bad I wouldn't finish the book at all. I would be in constant rewriting mode. I have to give it up at some point.

Here is Chapter 8 for your reading pleasure. It is a FILLER chapter, as will be a few of the chapters. They are shorter, about 1800-2000 words and they are usually there to give you a bit of history and fun rather than a really in-depth understanding of the book itself. This chapter has our fine warrior-type man of the hour Antoin Broonfood, aka Tony Broonford, as he is introduced to Keely Marie Elizabet Buchanan, aka Kiersten Broonford in real life.  There will be more said about Keely in other chapters regarding her queenliness and her ability to wrap the man around her fingers without any trouble whatsoever. From the minute she saw him she knew, but she wasn't sure he did. From the minute he saw her he knew, but he wasn't quite sure how to let her know. We find out later in the book. For now, here is the 8th Chapter of a book that will probably not be called "Of Kilted Pleasure" but for now it is. OF COURSE, if you find something incorrect with the history please let me know by emailing me at: jude.stringfellow@gmail.com the comments for the blogs have been disabled. I will check with experts on any and all historical points before publication. 

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Of Kilted Pleasure

Chapter Eight

 

            Antoin Broonford’s way of living left very little to the imagination of anyone who could be blessed to say they had cast their eyes upon the man. His was a stronger and sturdier composure than the average mythological tale of the Nordic Vikings who chose to ravage their way through these islands.  Tall, robust in stature; bravery merely oozed from his ever pore, and yet there was something quite relatable in terms of reducing the man to that of a human man by way of realizing that he was fallible to the act of falling in love; the fate of many men just like him.  Where it could be said that Broonford was a man among men, the leader and the scout of a pack of soldiers who may find themselves searching for rivals among their numbers, Broonford was equally apt to be seen roaming openly through the streets of Old Town Edinburgh, pointing to the tops of the highest stacked tenement, directing the gaze of his companions to see through the nooks and crannies of every close that lined the incredibly winding roads of the city. His was the amusement and pleasure to be not only an escort to visitors who may never have stepped foot into his fair city before, but to those who walked its cobbled streets on a daily basis not taking the time or the energy to see what was directly in front of their faces, under their own noses for centuries before they were born.

            Lifting his hand from the hilt of his sward to point upward gesturing his suggestion for others to take notice; the citizen soldier emphasized the importance of remembering that history has a way of creeping back into our existence if we choose to forget it. “This very spot”, he injected with authority, “tis the spot where old man George Henderson of Fordell once owned the passage, the close, but seeing how he didn’t find it to be to his liking he sold it off to Henry Paisley in the year of our Lord, 1711; just not for what he wanted to get for it, mind you. Look at it, mind you again that this type of stacked clay won’t hold forever. It may only be my opinion, but one day the whole building could collapse and fall right on top of us!”  This Broonford said as he reached up to grasp hold of a stone he knew to be loosened in the close so that for dramatic effect he could pretend to shudder and shake, his face curling in pretend agony as he continued to convulse and shake until he was fully collapsed before his small audience of four.  The ladies screamed with genuine fright, thinking perhaps there was a shake in the ground beneath them. Startled and dismayed each of them removed their gaze from their conductor and up toward the western side of the small and narrow close; were the bricks so loose to give way this very day, they imagined, could this be the end?  With glee in his heart for having delivered his intended emotion to them all, Antoin leaped to his feet in such a jovial manner that no one could continue a grudge for having been played the fool.

            Though he was in the company of four immaculately dressed and prim ladies from and about the city area of Glasgow, their accents much stronger than the ladies Antoin was likely to come across in the more northern regions; he was only fair interested in the opinions and favor of one such lass, that person being the daughter of Evelyn Buchanan Baye; Keely Mhairi Elizabet Buchanan. Keely being born after the death of her warrior and hero father in the years 1715 at the Battle of Preston, not so very far from the place she and her mother and cousins now stood, had conveyed upon the ear of her potential suitor Antoin that she would very much like to visit the area if not the very spot if they could be inclined to find where it was that her gritty and undaunting father would have stood his last before expiring into what would become only memories and tales of who the man was. Her request was immediately taken up as a command to the heart of one who had been captivated by her grace the instance he saw her. To hear Antoin speak of his new interest would keen bring a blush to any face.

            Blond and petite, Keely Buchanan could have the world if she requested it. Nothing was beyond question if she were only to ask for it. To the love-stricken man before her now, Keely’s lips, he would say, carry upon them the ability to command without one feeling the need to surrender, but only to fulfill her every wish. Her height though much less than his own was taller than anyone else her same size as she carried herself with immense refinement and poise as to lend the impression or flatly give it, that she was a woman of wealth and education. Hers was not the mind of an idiot or common woman in a lowly hamlet without the fortitude to challenge herself to read, study, or make herself aware of her surroundings as well as events both current and past. She found the prearranged tour which was certainly given privately for herself and her family to be entertaining and full of interest due mostly to the man presenting himself as their guide. Could this one, a man seeming a bit older and wiser than her playmates or close kin be around the age of his mid-thirties and yet unmarried? She questioned, was his a wink cast in her direction, or was there something about him that could cause him to flirt with everyone for whom he would walk the streets? Keely hoped that she was not mistaken as she believed the man was thinking of speaking to her directly soon. She cleared her throat in case this turn took place sooner than later.

            The tour from one point of the main street they traversed, locally known as High Street, stretched from one end of a long trek to another with the western end showcasing the vast and immovable Castle itself. To the east, and certainly not to be mistaken for anything less royal as the Castle, stood the Palace of Holyroodhouse, the very former home of Mary Queen of Scots and to all other monarchs of Great Britain who would live inside its grand interior upon making their way through Scotland for business or for pleasure. Between the two points on the south side of the streets perhaps about one-third of the way down from the Castle toward the end of the cobbled way stood the old Parliament House which houses both the various courts of law given and the Parliament of Scotland before the Act of Union of 1707 ended the need for such a place.  Used mainly for other government needs Antoin found it unnecessary to traverse into the buildings themselves or to disturb any official business of administration lest he is possibly questioned as to why he was then roaming the streets as a seemingly overly zealous bodyguard to one and a companion friend to three finely dressed women of good posture and conversation. Next then, as they made their way further down the hilly street, their conductor pointed out the steeples of no less than three glorious kirks which themselves had been the very subject of controversy, trouble, and mayhem. St. Giles being the oldest, having been built in sections ranging from the 12^th to the 16^th century, the building itself had been both a Catholic place of worship and a Protestant one; having its main charge of duty with the outspoken renown minister of John Knox and of course others. St. Giles a Parish Church of Scotland is located near the eastern edge of the city of Edinburgh. Antoin pointed out that by the time of the formation of what is called the King's Wall in the mid-15th century, the area was now a fully funded and decreed burgh that had been allowed to expand with the Kirk as its central point of interest. Literally situated across the street from a tall brownstone building with turrets and small ascending windows, Broonford pointed out that until just a few decades before there were many public executions within the view of anyone standing where they were standing now.  The Tolbooth building he commented, was also a building of higher administration and governmental practices and was not one to be visited but one to be given notice of.

            Fitful and shadowy storms began to encase the small party as they made haste to find shelter within a close near to them. For the three who were not otherwise engaged in making eye contact with each other, and who were less interested in hanging on every word which was uttered by their host, they soon gave their excuses verbally as well as intimating that with the coming of the storm, they felt it best to return to their inn as quickly as possible. Evelyn Baye, whose motherly instincts could not have misinterpreted the cooing and obvious courting taking place between her only daughter and a man she felt was more than capable of keeping good watch, felt the most comfortable of the three who would soon be racing through the wet streets to find more permanent shelter. As they parted, leaving Keely in the secure care of Antoin Broonford, a mother’s warning was given to be understood that she would see her daughter at the Pleasance Inn no later than upon the stroke of another hour of that Tolbooth clock. The time was currently a bit after two o’clock in the afternoon. The smile etching across the jubilant and whiskered face of her docent could not have been more broad as he was given a full nod from Mrs. Baye to be the caregiver and escorted safeguard to her most precious possession.

            With his arm extended in gratitude, a rather forward hug rather than a mere clasping of the hands ensued. Taken only a bit off her heel, Evelyn Baye commented as the ladies made their way back through the winding herringbone streets of Edinburgh that she hadn’t been held that closely to a man other than her own husband since the day she had last seen and held her first husband, Brandon Buchanan only weeks before he was to give the final sacrifice to his country, his lord, and his God.  Her confidence in Broonford could only be compared with her own; she knew within seconds of his embrace that he would one day be considered a member of their family. Her departing glance only solidified the feeling in her breast, as her own daughter’s arms were now clasped through those of this gentle giant with the soul of a seraphim.

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