Chapter 3 Upon the Walls
“I HOPE YE realize what an honor Lady Kylie has bestowed upon ye.” The cook’s voice drifted down the long table.
Swallowing the mouthful of bread and cheese she’d been chewing, Fiona met the older woman’s eye.
Essie Maclean was a tall, spare woman who looked like she never sampled any of the food she prepared. The cook had a small army of assistants and serving lasses and lads who scurried after her, terrified of her wrath.
Seated next to Carrie in Dounarwyse’s large kitchen, Fiona had been enjoying a supper with the servants.
However, upon listening to the conversation that moved around the table, she quickly understood that Essie ruled her domain with a rod of iron.
It was important to pay attention to such matters.
A castle like this was a small community with its own pecking order. Much like a village.
There were those ye could trust. Those ye had to be wary of.
Essie’s direct question and the challenge in her voice made her tense. “Of course, I do,” she replied, her voice low and firm. “And I intend to ensure that my work gives her no call for complaint.”
“And yer conduct too,” answered Essie with a snort. “I don’t know how free ye were in Craignure, but here in Dounarwyse, we have standards.”
Irritation quickened in Fiona’s belly. This woman could turn out to be a thorn in her arse. “I come from a fishing village, not a brothel,” she replied, unable to keep the acerbity out of her voice.
This comment brought sniggers from around the table. One of those seated, a bairn, started giggling. However, his mirth cut off when Essie cast him a sharp look. “Ye mind yerself, Stu.”
“Aye, Mistress Essie,” he said, swallowing his delight.
He was the only bairn here, a thin, birdlike lad with bright eyes and a cap of glossy black hair.
Shifting her attention from Stu, Fiona cast a gaze over the faces of the men and women who kept this castle running smoothly and wondered how many friends she’d find here.
Clearly unimpressed by her answer, Essie snorted.
She helped herself to a sliver of cheese from a large round at her end of the table.
“Lady Kylie,” she went on, “is a generous soul, but she isn’t from Mull and sometimes forgets the way things are done here.
She would have been better off choosing an older weaver with an established reputation for such an important job. ”
“Enough of that, Essie,” Carrie cut in, her sweet face tightening with annoyance. “Fiona has as much right to be here as any of us.”
Essie sniffed, her gaze drilling into Fiona. “And what’s yer father’s trade?”
Fiona raised her chin, refusing to let the hatchet-faced woman cow her.
Nonetheless, a tiny part of her quailed.
Lady Kylie had done something quite audacious in hiring her, but Fiona hadn’t questioned it.
Instead, she’d been delighted to have the chance to make something of herself, to move up in the world.
“He’s a carpenter,” she replied, her tone calm. “The best on Mull.”
This claim caused a smattering of laughter. Fiona didn’t like the way some of those around her were smirking. Only Stu appeared impressed. He was gazing at her now, his large grey eyes full of questions.
“That’s quite a claim, lass,” an older grizzled man replied, cutting her a narrow-eyed look.
His name was Tay. He was the castle’s rat-catcher, a stocky man with a greying, stubbled jaw, followed everywhere by a small pointy-nosed terrier named Midge.
The wee dog sat under the table, waiting for scraps.
“It’s not one I made up,” she replied, meeting his gaze. “Ask anyone who the finest carpenter on Mull is, and they will say it is Bryce Mackinnon of Craignure.”
“Mackinnon, aye?” Tay scowled at her. “Time was, anyone with that name would have been cast from this castle.”
“Fortunately, those days are behind us now,” Carrie answered him brightly. “Captain Jack wed a Mackinnon … as did Lady Kylie’s sister.”
Fiona stilled. She hadn’t known that. Suddenly, she felt even more warmly toward the fire-haired woman she’d been introduced to earlier.
Tay snorted, casting Carrie an irritated glance. “That’s because ye are too young to remember back that far.” He glanced back at Fiona, his brow furrowing. “I hear ye are going to depict the Battle of Dounarwyse. Ye weren’t even alive when it took place.”
Fiona’s pulse quickened. Another direct challenge.
“No, I wasn’t,” she admitted, anxiety fluttering up.
“But I will make sure to learn about it.” She paused then.
It was better not to lock horns with these people, but to try to get alongside them.
The likes of Tay needed to be her ally, not her enemy. “Were ye here then?”
The rat-catcher puffed out his barrel chest. “I was. I was inside these very walls as the Mackinnons laid siege to us.” His eyes grew slightly glazed as his mind traveled back.
“I remember standing on the ramparts and watching as a great battle took place upon the water out there on the Sound. Ye have never seen such a sight. Arrows flying. The air was thick with smoke.”
Fiona nodded. The churning in her belly turned into excitement. She was looking forward to working on the tapestry. “Well, I think I should have a chat to ye over an ale one evening,” she said with a smile. “I wish to hear about the battle. To see it through yer eyes.”
That pleased the rat-catcher. The pugnacious expression on his face and the challenge in his eyes both softened. He nodded. “Aye, lass. Perhaps.”
The tension around the table lessened slightly. Fiona reached for her cup of ale and drained the remnants.
“Are ye ready for me to finish that tour?” Carrie asked, flashing her a smile.
Fiona smiled back. “I am.”
Fiona followed Carrie out into the warm evening light. It was one of those glorious spring evenings when the whole world seemed gilded.
Now that supper had ended, the barmkin was a flurry of activity as servants finished their chores.
Two lasses hauled water, lads wheeled barrows of muck from the stables, and on the walls, men changed shifts.
Wee Stu had ventured outdoors too and was shooing the fowl back into their coop so that they could be safely locked away overnight.
“Is Stu Essie’s?” Fiona asked Carrie as they walked across the courtyard.
The lady’s maid shook her head. “His Ma was a cook’s assistant … she died two winters ago.”
“And his Da?”
“No one knows.” Carrie cast a fond look at where the lad was chattering to the fowl. “He’s an orphan now … so we all look after him.”
Fiona smiled, pleased to hear it. “There are a lot of stores,” she noted, her gaze traveling over the line of stacked-stone and timber buildings with thatched roofs. Everything about Dounarywse was so big compared to what she was used to. Overwhelming.
“Aye … over the years, the keep has tried to remain as self-sufficient as it can,” Carrie explained.
“The Battle of Dounarwyse showed the castle just how vulnerable it could be under siege. As such, the laird increased the number of storehouses inside the walls. All the fresh food comes in daily from the village.”
Fiona nodded, her gaze fascinated, despite her lingering nerves. Indeed, she’d marked the small village beyond the walls—the pitched-roof kirk and the patchwork of run rigs where tenants farmed all the produce needed to keep this bustling community thriving.
She wondered how long she’d live here. Tapestries, especially big ones, traditionally took years to make.
Dounarwyse could be her home for a while.
Warmth suffused her chest at the thought.
Soon, everything that seemed new and exciting would become familiar.
Soon, Craignure would seem like another life, belonging to another person. Here, she could reinvent herself.
“Would ye like to go up on the walls?” Carrie asked. “Ye can see in every direction for miles. And this time of day, the mountains are bonnie indeed.”
“Aye … lead the way,” Fiona replied, her lips curving.
The two women climbed the stone steps near the gatehouse, arriving upon the eastern walls. As Carrie had said, there was a splendid view to Dùn da Ghaoithe—the mountain range’s deep corries and etched peaks golden in the late light.
“Are ye from Dounarwyse?” Fiona asked, as the two lasses stood shoulder to shoulder. Until now, the conversation had revolved solely around her. Fiona knew nothing of the young woman who’d welcomed her so warmly to the castle.
“Aye,” Carrie replied, grinning. “My family has farmed these lands for generations.” Her expression sobered then. “Don’t worry about Essie. She has a mean bark, but when she bites, ye’ll find she’s all gums.”
Fiona snorted, even as Carrie’s support warmed her. “I expected someone here might have something to say about my humble origins,” she replied. “I prepared myself for it.”
“Even so.” A groove etched between Carrie’s brows. “She was unwelcoming. Most of us are delighted to have ye at Dounarwyse.”
A smile tugged at Fiona’s lips. “And I’m glad to be here.
” She liked Carrie. They’d only just met, yet she felt as if she’d known her for years.
Back in Craignure, she worked too hard to have time to gossip with the lasses at market or at the docks.
And her relationship with her younger sisters had never been close.
Maybe she’d find a real friend in Carrie—someone who’d be by her side as she navigated this new life.
“Come on, let’s finish up the tour.” Carrie stepped back from the wall. “Ye’ll be done in … and ye’ll start work early tomorrow.”
Fiona nodded. In truth, excitement and nerves had carried her through the day. Nonetheless, tiredness now loomed like a shadow. She’d sleep well tonight.
The women made their way along the southern wall to where the Sound of Mull sparkled in the evening light. To one side stretched a terrace built over two of the buildings below, and upon that terrace, two men, stripped to the waist, sparred with swords.
Fiona recognized both warriors.
The first was the lean warrior with the scarred eyebrow who’d been amongst the group accompanying her from Craignure. The other was the laird’s son.
Her pulse fluttered. Ailean—that was the name Captain Jack had given her.
Neither man had seen Carrie and Fiona, too intent on fighting. The thud of the bound blades pounded through the warm air.
“The auburn-haired warrior is the laird’s firstborn,” Carrie whispered before pausing. “The other is Rowan … he serves in the Dounarwyse Guard.”
Something in Carrie’s voice made Fiona glance at her. “Should I be wary of either of them?”
A faint blush rose to Carrie’s cheeks. “Not Rowan,” she murmured, casting the warrior a lingering look. “He’s steadfast. But Ailean is a bit wild … and he has a liking for pretty lasses.” Their gazes met. “I’m sure ye know what I mean.”
Fiona grimaced. “Duly warned.” She didn’t tell Carrie that she’d already encountered the laird’s firstborn.
She didn’t want to gossip about him. All the same, it was difficult not to admire Ailean Maclean’s tall, agile body.
He moved with a dancer’s grace, sweat gleaming from the smooth, lightly freckled skin of his bare torso and upper arms.
Aye, the man was a feast for the eyes and likely knew it. No doubt he’s a conceited cockerel.
They moved along the eastern wall, past where the warriors continued to spar.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
“Carrie.” A man’s voice drifted across the ramparts then. “Aren’t ye going to introduce us to yer friend?”
Carrie halted, as did Fiona. They turned to find Ailean had stopped fighting and now faced them. It wasn’t Carrie he was looking at, but Fiona. Breathing hard, a boyish smile quirked his lips—the sort of smile that made her belly melt.
Aye, she’d been warned, yet the full force of his attention was devastating, nonetheless.