“Spero Meliora! Spero Meliora! Spero Meliora!” raged the angry man in front of the assembled crowd. He beat the left side of his chest with a clenched fist held so tightly, his knuckles across his right hand were bleached white.
Again he roared the Moffat motto, this time in English: “For greater things.” The hundreds of men who had gathered in the Lowland clan’s building answered his cry, shouting back: “Greater things, great things!” The atmosphere in the vast barn was incendiary.
The barn usually held celebratory gatherings but tonight there were only tears of rage flowing for their murdered chief, Robert Moffat. This was probably the closest thing to a council of war and the clan was in crisis, so the most significant and powerful landowners of the Moffat family rallied to discuss who would become the next chieftain and what revenge would be taken.
The year was 1557 and the Moffat Clan was one of the most influential families in Dumfriesshire with a rich history punctuated by battle honours, royal and church support since the 13th century. The family gathering at the vast complex which included a stone tower, barmkin, animal pens, blacksmith’s and brewery was the talk of the Annandale district.
A fire roared behind Fraser Moffat but the crackling noise of the tinder dry kindle hitting the flames was drowned out as he continued to rage, hissing and spitting his own fiery words. He carefully adjusted his leather jerkin before dramatically ripping off his cloak and throwing it by his feet to reveal his sword.
“I can almost hear the final words of our great father and leader, Robert, before he was laid to waste by the murdering, godless creatures who sought to cut his life so short. He may be gone and while his widow and children weep, I swear here and now to avenge his death on behalf of all the Moffats from the union of the Norse daughter of Andlaw and William de Movat Alto to those who fought so bravely at Bannockburn to the men who stand before me today.”
The wife of the dead clan chief held her head high as she rocked the sleeping babe in her arms while her two young daughters sought to hide among the folds of her long woollen skirt. Aged seven and five, Helen and Marion were scared of the raw anger in the air and knew not why there was so much shouting.
Fraser had brought the widow of his brother and their children in to the room to add to the emotion of the occasion. Lost without their loving father, the girls couldn’t understand where he was, since this was obviously an important meeting and he was always at the centre of any gathering.
But now their uncle was centre stage and they were frightened as he talked about blood sacrifices and death and destruction of the Johnstones. The historic significance bypassed the dead chieftain’s daughters for they were unaware why the great and the good from this powerful clan had come together in their hundreds. They had yet to be told their father was dead.
Little did anyone know that this would be the last time for centuries that so many Moffats would be assembled under one roof. Among the generations were the greying elders, battle-scarred, weakened and weary from a lifetime of conflict standing alongside the swaggering young callants. Fraser Moffat held their admiring, youthful gaze and with each call to arms, their chests seemed to heave, swell and expand a little more.
Fraser was swarthy looking, nearly 6 ft. tall and appeared to be just as wide with powerful, muscular arms and legs that were the envy of most men who met him. His dark brown, curly hair was framed by loosely tied braids on either side of his strong, square face which was partially covered by an overgrown, red-tinged beard.
The smouldering, raging atmosphere had an almost hypnotic effect with most eyes focussed on the passionate speaker. His guttural brogue drowned out all other noises, making it easy for a group of strangers to move stealthily forward, unseen, down the several narrow paths leading through the courtyard to the barn.
A sealed entrance had been secretly left opened through some pre-arranged bribe which allowed the Johnstones….. in by the animal pens and blacksmith’s corner. All were members of the most notorious of the Border Reivers, the Johnstones, and were certainly not invited or welcomed in these parts. The dried blood of the Moffat chief still clung to their dark weave cloaks and their very presence would have ignited the fury of the rival Moffats inside the barn.
It was an audacious raid and the element of surprise caught off guard a handful of men who were supposed to be on the lookout for trouble. The truth is none suspected such a brazened attack right in the Moffat heartlands and so focussed more on the plentiful drink which had just been brewed and served in a giant cauldron for after the meeting. As they talked and swigged the warm mead from the cauldron, they suspected nothing.
The Johnstones ambushed and overpowered the unsuspecting men by two to one, slashing their throats; the sickening gurgle and spluttering sounds they made as they bled out disturbed no one. It was full three minutes before the last breath of life left the corpses and it would be a few minutes more before they stopped twitching and finally lay still, drained of their lifeblood.
Carrying flaming torches more than a dozen of the shadowy figures crept around the building waiting for a signal to unleash their terror. The Johnstones were not seeking a truce or reconciliation for deeds done, and it was clear from the shouts inside the barn that neither were the Moffats. Tonight would end the centuries’ old feuding once and for all, but the stakes were high and only one clan could emerge victorious.
Two of the raiders went to the large stone tower where the women and children had assembled. Quietly they sealed the entrances with several hayricks. Inside, a couple of older women toiled as they roasted a fatted calf over a hand turned spit. Red-faced from the heat, their corned-beef complexions were exaggerated by crisp white bonnets and high-laced, cotton blouses.
The woollen shawls tied loosely around their waists over long, heavy bum-rolled skirts exaggerated the size of their hips. One of the women nudged the other, pointing upwards to the thatched roof, as she went to pile more wood on the fire.
Watching them were the other clan women. Some of the widows openly wept for the murdered chief while the bewildered children looked on. Young maiden teenage girls who usually talked about the clan’s potential suitors for possible future unions were sad and subdued and comforted each other.
Meanwhile, outside, cold sweat illuminated the brows of the Johnstones as a clear, cloudless sky carrying a full moon revealed their presence, but the only witness to the prelude of a massacre and the death of the gurgling guards was a short-eared owl. The silent predator perched in a nearby tree was ready to swoop on his next meal, a vole, but the tiny creature darted left and then right before bolting down a hole having being startled when the strangers overpowered the guards.
Unruffled at losing his next meal, the patient, unblinking, wide-eyed bird swivelled its head as if preparing to absorb and savour the whole ghastly spectacle which was about to unfold in the complex.
Back inside the barn, Fraser was making his final bid to become the chieftain by reminding those present of their glorious past and the future ahead. “Since the times of our forefathers, our people have made their mark and it will take a lot more than the bloody Johnstones to end our line; this is our border country which is why I’ve called you all here tonight, to bear true witness and testimony that we will not rest until the earth has been purged of such filth.”
As if to emphasise his rage, Fraser threw back his head and gave a rasping, throaty sound which produced a glob of phlegm. He promptly spat out the thick mucus mass and as the gluey spittle landed by a couple of young boys, squatting underneath the table on which he stood, they recoiled in wonderment as the slimy spectacle gathered some loose dust before gluing itself to the earthen floor.
"Us Moffats have a proud history, drawn from all corners of the Lowlands. Our family is linked to brave and daring deeds. Anyone of us could step up and be a leader, for the blood which runs through our veins is that of fighting men born to lead.
“Robert was cruelly cut down, nay assassinated before his son has even come of age. The bairn is here tonight, swaddled in blankets unaware of the great destiny that awaits. Until he is old enough to pick up a sword, we must choose among us someone who can follow in the steps of his father and then we will take our revenge.” With that, Fraser drew his sword and waved it wildly in the air, roaring once again: “Spero Meliora! Spero Meliora! Spero Meliora.”
The rest of the clan began to echo his words in an ever-increasing crescendo when Fraser threw his head back for a final, dramatic roar and a call to arms but suddenly the whole spectacle was brought to a screeching halt as his eyes looked heavenwards and he became momentarily distracted.
A pall of black smoke was billowing in the open rafters and a couple of sparks dropped from the thatched straw roof. “Quick, get Robert’s widow and bairns out, now!” he shouted and suddenly, in a heartbeat, the angry chanting had turned to unbridled panic as the words of revenge morphed into “fire, fire, fire!”
Within seconds, the flames could be seen more clearly and clumps of burning straw began dropping, but the choking descending smoke presented more of a danger as the overhead blaze sucked the oxygen out of the air.
On hearing the screams of “fire, fire!” the women and children ran to the doors of the stone tower but they refused to open blocked by the hayricks which had also been set alight. The intruders on the outside had made sure they were locked in tight and even the heaving mass of bodies pressing against them could not burst them open.
Suffocating smoke now filled both buildings and began to choke the already breathless occupants. Mass hysteria ensued as the frail were trampled underfoot and children left crying, detached from their mothers.
Fraser by this time had leapt down from his table and furiously punched and kicked a wooden side panel until it splintered and gave way to his aggression, revealing a jagged hole just large enough to save his dead brother’s children.
He grabbed his screaming nieces, thrusting them through the gap but there was no relief or escape for little Marion and Helen as they hit the night air and ran. Cold steel sliced through Marion’s waving arms as she tried to flee from the fire. She was no match for the powerful blows of the Johnstone swords – there was no mercy that night, not for the Moffat children, not for any of them.
“Can’t we not just leave the bairns?” cried one young man as his sword hung over the head of a squealing seven-year-old Helen. An older man grabbed the sword from his hand and plunged it into the child’s chest, hoisting her into the air like a chicken on a spit roast. “Little Moffats grow into big Moffats; the only good Moffat is a dead Moffat. Never ever forget that son.”
When death finally came to flame-haired Helen, her little blonde sister Marion and the other fleeing youngsters, it was a relief. All had died in an orgy of blood and guts and a terror beyond their wildest imaginations.
The ground was so wet and clotted with the blood and guts of the families that some of the Johnstones slipped and fell as they wielded their swords, leaving their own flesh smeared in a ghastly cocktail of warm, sticky gore and mud.
Few Moffats escaped that night and those that did were left bereft and emotionally scarred as members of a headless family. It would be a full 426 years before they assembled again in 1983 to declare a new clan leader. Overnight, one of the most potent powerhouses in the Lowlands had been ethnically cleansed by their merciless enemies.
Mr Petrie’s beady eyes twinkled and shone through his bushy salt and pepper brows as he scanned his open-mouthed, young audience, adding with relish: “Scotland’s history, like its soil, is caked in the blood of innocents, especially in the Borders where the raiders and reivers slaughtered and murdered without mercy.”
The history master’s throaty brogue had rinsed out every syllable until it was bone dry, to maximise the dramatic effect to his attentive history class. As the last slide of the Moffat coat of arms disappeared, Petrie shouted: “Lights, McLeish!” and a pupil emerged from the back of the class to flick a switch transporting the third formers of Sweetheart Abbey boarding school back to the present day.
"Next week we’ll be looking at the ballads that reflect the most active era of the Border reivers when robbery, horse theft, death and revenge were the orders of the day. For some light reading in preparation, may I suggest the history of the Battle of Otterburn and research on Sir Walter Scott’s Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border?
“There’s still thirty minutes to go before the bell, so I suggest you start right now. Clarkson, you’re form head and so I’m putting you in charge and I expect you to report any unworthy behaviour and the miscreants to me,” added Mr Petrie before he swept out of the classroom.
The Scottish History master was feeling rather pleased with himself. The demise of the Moffat clan was one of his favourite lessons because his class always paid attention to every minute, gut-wrenching detail. As he made his way to the car park, he was whistling to the strains of the Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond.
“Finishing early, Mr Petrie?” enquired Dr Geraint Jones, the choirmaster, as the two passed in the staff car park. He looked up, slightly irritated and replied: “I have some pressing business in Stirling, a gifted scholarship candidate who has come to my attention. I used to teach his guardian and it seems the boy shows a lot of promise.”
The Welshman’s face illuminated as he asked: “Can the boy sing? I’m always looking for new talent for the choir.” Mr Petrie shook his head vigorously in the negative, even though he had no idea if Duncan Dewar had an aptitude for music. He was extremely territorial and viewed the choir with some disdain as, apart from St Andrew’s Day and Burns celebratory evenings, it was rarely pressed into service over matters Scottish.
With that, Mr Petrie jumped in to his pride and joy, an old black Austin Cambridge a former pupil had gifted him brand new. As he drove down the gravel drive, he looked anxiously at his watch and realised he might be a little late for his lunchtime meeting in Stirling.
***