" Not I!", says he, "That's Woman's work! I'd rather muck out the stables" says he.

The Laird looked into the stables, but they had been mucked out that very morn.

" You'll do as your told, Laddie, or you'll be leaving the castle anonce!" said the Laird, sternly.

" Aye! I WILL!" said the young lord, and with a baleful expression, "..and yet we will meet anon on the battlefield of Calloden and I will have thy head on a PIKE!"

" LEAVE MY SIGHT! ...or I will have thy guts for garters", bellowed the Laird.

With a disdainful look, the young lord wheeled and left the room, only to come back a few moments later with all his belongings in tow.

"You'll not be rid of me so easily, Olde Fool" he sneered, "for I shall use thy cellar...errr dungeon for my abode." ...and he proceeded to tromp loudly down the cellar...I mean dungeon stairs.

" Begone with ye, ye spawn of Satan! Go to thy subjects, the spiders and waterbugs and rats." bellowed the Laird after him, slamming the dungeon door so forcibly it fair fell off it's great iron hinges, the castle itself shuddering with the injury being done to it.

In the ensuing hours, the young lord could be heard scurrying around in the dungeon arming his battlements for the long siege that lay ahead. In an hour or so a knock was heard on the dungeon door and the young lord stood there glaring. A hasty truce was arrainged whereby the lord was allowed into the castle to use the 'facilities', lest the dungeon sink woulds't be plugged in short order.

" I'm done with ye, Tyrant!" bellowed the young lord as he slunk down the dungeon stairs shortly thereafter, " If thou should gather thy courage to face me, I will be on the battlements of my fortress." Again the large oaken planks caused the castle to shudder in terror.

Opening the door a crack, and seeing his son disappearing into the gloom, the Laird asked pleasantly,

"Seein' as you're down there anyway, wouldst thou throw the dirty clothes in the Washer? ....ummmm, Moat?"

" NEVER!!!" screamed the lord in outrage, "WOMAN'S WORK!" and slunk off to plot with his subjects, the spiders, the overthrow of the castle.

Hours passed...I mean Eons passed. Finally the Queen returned from stocking the castle larder, and the Laird tells her what has occurred. She shakes her head sadly and makes her way down to the dungeon. Long moments pass before her light footstep is heard on the dungeon stair again.

"Lord", she states, "Thy son doth require provisions, he fare swoons in hunger, and his subjects doth look at him askance, wondering if they would be grist for his mill."

" Provision mine enemies?? Are ye daft woman? NEVER!" bellowed the Lord.

" But Lord, thine enemy has agreed to throw the dirty clothes in the moat, if only thy will relent and send down potato crisps" she stated.

"Aye," said the Lord, "if he wouldst throw the dirty clothes in the moat, I shall provide him with the crisps." And it was done.

The sun gradually set, the dungeon battlements glowed faintly with the torches set out, barely keeping the evils in the darkness away. The young lord stalked his battlements incessantly, muttering to himself, and to the subjects that remained, most being off hunting on their own.

Finally, in the dark of the moon, the accord was reached. A faint knocking was heard on the dungeon door, and it opened on creaky hinges to reveal the gaunt face of the young lord.

"Father", he said quietly, " My subjects, the treasonous louts, have fair eaten my provisions, wouldst thou share thine?"

" Aye, Laddie" said the Lord quietly as not to disturb the Queen, "Thou may take thy fill of the larder, with one proviso-thou must partake of my provisions on yon dishes still caked with muck from thy breaking fast lo these many hours ago, or scrubbeth them clean, it's your decision" To clean or not to clean, that was the question.