Chapter 23 In Ruins
“MORNING, MACLEAN. WHAT brings ye back to these parts so soon?”
A cottar leaning on his hoe, taking a short break from his morning’s work, greeted Ailean as he rode in.
“I can’t keep away, it seems.” Ailean forced a smile.
“Has yer father sent ye in his stead?”
“He has.” Ailean pulled Sgòth up by the roadside. Leaning forward, he stroked the stallion’s neck, damp with sweat. His mood was dark this morning, yet he did his best to hide it from these cottars.
His search for Fiona had yielded nothing.
A ferry had departed just before his arrival in Craignure, for Oban, and he suspected she’d taken it.
Choking the urge to go after her, he’d left Craignure the afternoon before and ridden north.
He’d stopped a few travelers on the road to ask if they’d seen her—a lass with wild, curly blonde hair—but none had.
He’d then camped, sleeping rough near one of the beaches north of Dounarwyse before heading off once more and reaching his destination a couple of hours after sunrise.
And as he’d ridden into Ardnacross, something had occurred to him.
Maybe Fiona hadn’t left Mull. Villages scattered the eastern coast of Mull, this one among them.
Could she have come here?
The urge to ask these men if they’d seen her rose then, yet he checked himself. If Fiona was here, he wouldn’t do her any favors by linking himself to her. He’d already caused the lass enough trouble.
“The laird sent me to rebuild the tower,” he said after a pause. “It’s time Ardnacross looked proud of itself again.”
A smile bloomed across the cottar’s leathery face. “That’s fine news indeed.” He glanced at the outline of the ruin against an unblemished sky. “It’s a sad sight. It’ll be good to see it used again.”
Ailean followed the man’s gaze, his belly hardening. He remembered his last visit here with his father, how the laird had considered the idea of rebuilding the ruin. At the time, Ailean had been certain he never would.
“What will the tower be used for, Maclean?” another, younger man called from a few yards distant. He’d been weeding onions, but their conversation had drawn his attention.
“I’ll be moving in,” Ailean replied, injecting a heartiness he didn’t feel into his voice. “My father has made me steward of this place … for the time being at least.”
That was all true enough. He hadn’t lied.
He’d just missed out the part where he had been disinherited and banished from Dounarwyse.
He’d left out his father’s rage and disappointment, and his own shock and festering self-recrimination.
These people didn’t need to hear any of that.
Eventually, news would reach them of his shame.
Merchants traveled between Dounarwyse and Ardnacross, and when they did, he’d have to brace himself for it.
But there was no need to make his arrival here any more difficult.
He had an arduous task before him, and he needed these people’s support.
“He’s sent ye on yer own, has he?” the older man asked, his brow furrowing. “That’s quite a job for one man.”
Ailean favored him with what he hoped was a devil-may-care grin. “I like a challenge. The old man wants to see what I’m made of.”
This drew appreciative laughter from those gathered nearby. They’d all downed tools and moved closer to overhear the conversation. Ailean didn’t blame them. It was juicy indeed; possibly one of the most exciting things to happen in this quiet village for a long while.
Nodding to them all, Ailean gathered his reins and urged Sgòth on. They quickened their pace from a trot to a steady canter, kicking up dust behind them. He rode through the knot of low-slung bothies and took the rough track up the hill to the tower, slowing Sgòth as he did so.
It was a relief to let the mask drop. He wasn’t sure how long he could keep his jovial manner in place. His belly had clenched like a fist ever since that awful scene in his father’s solar, and it had yet to loosen. Despite being hungry this morning, he felt slightly sick.
Reaching the top of the mound and the edge of the ruin, he swung down from his stallion and pulled an ale-skin from his saddlebag, taking a few gulps.
He was nearly out of ale and had no food at all, but replenishing those things would have to wait.
Today, he needed to survey this tower—his new home—and make some plans.
Up close, it was in an even worse state than he’d realized. Nearly three decades had passed since Kendrick Mackinnon had destroyed this tower and put its inhabitants to the sword, but looking at it, he’d have guessed it was much longer.
It was incredible how nature took over. With the passing of the seasons, ivy had climbed over the walls, lichen had formed, and weeds now bloomed amongst the broken and cracked cobbles and pavers in what had once been the tower’s hall.
Ardnacross Tower hadn’t been a large holding, but once it had been filled with a chieftain and his family. They’d stewarded the border for generations. And these days, with Bran Mackinnon ruling the Mackinnons of Dùn Ara, there was no longer a threat to these people.
But this place needed to be resurrected, and Ailean was the man to do it.
His skin prickled as he ventured inside.
He remembered seeing it for the first time, as a bairn. He’d climbed up the tower like a surefooted goat while his father shouted to him to come back down. Even at that tender age, this place had fascinated him; however, he’d never imagined he’d be charged with rebuilding it.
A ground floor and two levels above it, connected by a crumbling spiral staircase.
Emerging from the ruin, he moved around the base of the tower, taking in the old stone well encrusted with lichen and the remains of some stone outbuildings: a kitchen and bakehouse, and what were likely once stables and a granary. All of it crumbling. All of it forsaken.
“Mary’s tits.” He raked a hand through his hair and let out a weary sigh.
No wonder the cottars had watched him with incredulity. This was a huge job for just one man. Too big. And his father knew it. He’d set him up for failure deliberately as punishment.
Heat ignited in the pit of Ailean’s clenched gut. “Ye did, Da,” he muttered, “but I won’t go down easily.”
Continuing his circuit of the tower, he came across a small walled enclosure that had been terraced on the southern slope of the mound.
A few gnarled apple and pear trees grew here, their branches already heavy with fruit.
No doubt the locals helped themselves every autumn, but they’d have to ask first in the future. This was his garden now.
He’d rebuild the walls and think about putting these terraces to good use, growing vegetables to eat … once he learned how.
It struck him then how unprepared he was.
He could thatch a roof and build a wall. He could shoe a horse, and his carpentry skills weren’t poor. But he wasn’t a gardener, and he knew little about crops. He’d have to buy some of the local men an ale and bend their ears. He’d have to develop many new skills if he was going to survive here.
Returning to a cobbled area in front of the ruined main entrance, he approached the well. The iron frame above it was listing and corroded, and there was no bucket or rope to be seen.
Stooping, he picked up a pebble and leaned over the edge, dropping it. A few seconds later, he heard a welcome splash.
Well, that was something at least.
He had to make getting this sorted a priority. Once he fixed up a rope and bucket and mended the iron structure above it, he’d have fresh water. That was one piece of good news on a day of general shittiness.
He returned to where Sgòth was cropping at grass and unsaddled his stallion.
The courser paid him little mind, his thick mane and tail ruffling in the breeze gusting off the Sound.
The day before had been much cooler, but even with the sea breeze, the sun warmed his face.
Another fine summer’s day was about to stretch out before him, and he needed to make the most of it.
Shrugging off his leather jerkin, he hung it over the side of the well before rolling up the sleeves of his lèine. He then gingerly made his way into the tower once more.
He had to find a spot where he would be able to make himself safe to sleep and live temporarily while he did the work. He’d have to source some hide for a makeshift roof, as well as food, and fuel for a fire. But first, he needed to make a plan.
The enormity of his task crashed over him then, and he drew to a halt in the midst of the empty hall.
Cods … what have ye done?
And as he stood there, frozen with a strange indecision that made it feel as if weights were attached to his ankles, his thoughts went to Fiona once more.
Where was she?
Now that he had stopped—now that his future stood here in ruins around him—the full impact hit him like a fist to the chest.
He’d done this.
He’d ruined not only his future, but hers.
And while he’d been taking those risks, he hadn’t cared. He’d known exactly what he was doing. He’d known the danger he was courting. But that had just added fuel to the excitement.
And there’d been a part of him that had believed, come what may, he’d be able to talk his way out of it—that he’d be able to make excuses, spin a few lies so that he and Fiona could continue their meetings, or at the very least escape any consequences.
But he’d been lying to himself.
It was bad enough that he’d set fire to his own life. That was his prerogative, as long as he didn’t harm anyone else.
But he’d dragged Fiona into his downfall.
And for that, he was truly sorry.
The afternoon shadows were lengthening when Ailean finally decided it was time to stop for the day.
He’d done all he could. His back was aching.
His fingers were bruised and sore from shifting rocks and stones, from clearing a path through the rubble and trying to create a shelter for himself in one corner of the ruined hall.
He couldn’t do anything more for the moment.
He’d downed the last of his ale, and now his throat was parched, his belly growling with hunger. It was time to go for food and supplies.
He tied Sgòth up inside the crumbling shell of what had once been the stables. The stallion had grazed for most of the day, but he would need water. Ailean would bring him up a pail from the village when he returned.
Slapping the stallion on the rump, he made his way down the slope toward the village. He needed to ask around and find someone who could help him make the well usable.
Ardnacross lay partly in shadow now, and the men and women who worked the fields were making their way home. It was a good time to go into The Shepherd’s Crook, to ask some questions and get the assistance he needed.
The full coin purse jangled at his belt as he walked. His father had given him plentiful pennies, but he’d need to use them carefully. He had a lot to buy, and he could already see his funds running out sooner than he’d like.
Pushing his way inside the tavern, he was greeted by the rumble of conversation and the delicious aroma of roasting mutton.
His mouth started to water. It reminded him that ever since he’d left Dounarwyse, he’d barely eaten.
And although he still felt sick to his stomach over what he’d done, his hunger wouldn’t be ignored now.
The musty smell of hops assaulted his nostrils too, reminding him of just how thirsty he was. The air was close and smoky, and he caught the hint of sweaty bodies pressed too close. Yet it was a familiar smell, and not one that he shunned.
He needed these people. They were all he had now.
His gaze swept over the crowded common room, noting how men stopped their conversations, their drinking, and their games of knucklebones to look at him. Conversation died.
Of course, they all knew he was here. They’d been wondering when he’d show his face.
Even so, discomfort stole over Ailean. He wished he were anonymous. He wished he were just one of them. Maybe one day, he would be, but he’d have to work for it. For now, he was a stranger, an oddity, and he would be the subject of gossip in this small place.
However, as his gaze continued to roam the common room, looking for a spare seat he could squeeze into, it alighted on a woman.
His breathing hitched.
An instant later, warmth rolled over him.
He’d found her.
Cheeks flushed from work, Fiona Mackinnon stood by one of the tables. In one hand, she held a jug of ale, and in the other, a tankard she was just about to fill. She wore an apron over her kirtle, and her curly blonde hair had been tied back from her face. Her blue-grey eyes were wide and startled.
She watched him as if Lucifer himself had just stepped into the tavern.