Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
P reparations for Samhain were always interesting, as far as Alistair was concerned. Even the tedium of daily tasks he was required to attend to as the laird weren’t enough to keep him from being involved in the chaos that surrounded the approach of Samhain - a chaos only slightly less prevalent than the energy that surrounded Yuletide.
Children were preparing to go guising and carving their first neep lanterns, filling the air with the sharp smell of raw onions. The farthest corner of the courtyard, near the smithy, had been claimed by the laundry maids to make soaps for the coming year, and the scent of lye, mixed with herbs and flowers, was enough to make a man’s eyes water.
The day the maids got out their large tubs to begin the process of making soaps, scents and candles was, by both tradition and common sense, the day the warriors of the castle left for the Samhain hunting. Any man who could leave for the larger part of the day did so, and Alistair was no exception. Beyond the desire to escape the smell caused by preparing lye, he genuinely enjoyed hunting, and the preparation for a festival day was one of the few times he could indulge without feeling as if he was ignoring his other duties.
Some years, the hunting was poor, but Alistair was relieved when their party managed to take four deer, and a host of smaller animals. That much meat would fill the larders for most, if not all of winter - a blessing when the snows piled so deep that hunting became a nightmarish chore rather than a pleasure.
Dressing and butchering that much game was a tiresome process, but it meant plenty of blood for puddings and sausages, pelts and hides for clothing, fat for rendering, and meat for smoking. And with so much bounty in the hunt, it meant that less of their livestock needed to be butchered to fill the smoking hut.
The day after the hunt, the men went out again, this time to collect the logs that would be used for the smoking. Fragrant woods added flavor to the meat, and while it wasn’t necessary for the laird to attend to the wood collection, Alistair enjoyed the exercise of swinging the axe. He also enjoyed the raw scent of the heavy pine, the fragrant cedar, the earthy oak, and the wild cherry. The former two would be used more to add scent to the fires, or to other things, but he enjoyed them all the same.
At the cook’s request - and Catriona’s - they harvested some juniper as well. The berries would be used in seasonings and tisanes, the wood for the fires.
By the time they returned home, laden with wood chips and logs for various uses, Alistair felt comfortably tired, and well-contented with the way his day had passed. He was considering a hot bath and a tankard of mead when a sight in the courtyard made him stop and stare, oblivious to everything else for a moment.
Niamh. In the courtyard. Working with the women to prepare the meat, as if she’d been born to do so. She looked more comfortable than he would have imagined possible, and happier than he’d seen her for some time. She had the sleeves of her dress rolled up to her elbows, and an apron that looked like one of Catriona’s old ones around her waist, and her hands were streaked halfway to the elbow with juices from the meat and the residue of the herbs the women were using.
There were ladies who wouldn’t have bothered to get involved with such things. The fact that Niamh was willing to join in the preparations, to work alongside the rest of his clan… Alistair couldn’t recall when he’d ever seen anything so entrancing.
As if she’d sensed his gaze, Niamh looked up, and her emerald green eyes met his. Something passed between them, like sparks dancing in the air. Then a faint blush spread across her cheeks, and she looked away and turned back to her work.
“Och, are ye woolgathering?” Ewan’s voice startled him into motion. “I thought we were plannin’ tae inspect the armory this afternoon, in case we’ve need o’ more weapons, or tae commission the blacksmith for repairs.”
“Aye.” Alistair forced his gaze away from Niamh. “I was thinking tae have a drink and a bath, but I can manage with a flagon o’ mead and something from the kitchens. The bath can wait.”
Ewan followed his gaze and smirked. “Aye. I’ll wager it can.”
“Och, mind yer manners.” Alistair gave his brother a half-hearted punch to the shoulder, then made his way toward the armory.
The large stone room that housed the clan’s weapons was guarded by a heavy oak and steel door. Ewan unlocked it, then lit the torches all around the room. The two of them studied the racks of spears, ranks of swords, and walls lined with shields, knives and battle axes, as well as other weapons. Ranks of unstrung bow staves, carefully packaged bow strings, and wrapped quivers of arrows were set in and around everything else, along with fighting staves. A few sets of spare armor stood on armor stands, for those warriors who might need to temporarily replace armor damaged during battle.
Alistair studied the assembled inventory. It looked impressive - but only if everything there was in good condition, and he was certain it wouldn’t be. Even with the best of intentions, steel rusted, wooden staves and shafts splintered or rotted, and weak points developed. Arrow fletchings became too tattered to fly straight, or the strings turned frayed and prone to snapping.
Of course, the castle armorer did his best to keep it all in good repair, but he spent much of his time helping warriors keep their personal gear in proper order. Since a warrior’s weapons and armor were his first line of defense, that was always the priority. It did no good to have your spare weapons and armor gleaming if the ones your men needed to defend themselves were falling to pieces.
“Let’s get tae work, then.” Alistair poured himself a tankard of mead, then moved to the nearest rack of spears to begin the inspection. “Assuming all our men tak’ proper care o’ their own weapons - and I’ll be kenning why if they dinnae - how much o’ a loss can we afford tae tak’ afore we used the dowry gold from the MacBeth clan tae replace the weapons, rather than the stones on the walls?”
“’Twere nae fer MacTavish, I’d say there’s nay question - repair the walls. But if he decides tae bring the fighting tae ye… we’ll need every warrior armed we can get, and as much as we can spare.” Ewan scowled as he set aside a spear that had visibly warped. It could be repaired - unlike the sword Alistair was studying, which had rusted close to the handle, to the point of rattling ominously against the guard. A closer look revealed a crack in the blade as well, small but dangerous. He set it aside to be smelted down.
“Aye. Ye’re nae wrong. I was thinkin - if a quarter o’ it has tae be resmelted, best tae use some o’ the gold tae replace it.”
“Quarter is bold and may stretch us thin if it comes tae fightin’. I’d say if more than one in every ten is beyond repair.” Ewan shook his head as he tossed aside a dagger that looked as if it had been used to hew stone.
“I’ll trust yer judgment then.” Alistair agreed. It was the sort of thing Ewan had a better handle on than he did, especially as he’d been occupied with other matters for the last month.
“Ye can trust me judgment in other things as well, braither.” Ewan’s voice was soft, and there was something about the tone of it that made Alistair feel instantly on guard, the way he might if he found unidentified tracks near the keep.
“And what’s that supposed tae mean?” He kept his voice calm and neutral, despite the edge of tension that wanted to turn the words into a snarl.
“Ye gave yer bonny bride yer ring - Constance’s ring. An’ mayhap ye can convince others that ye did it as a convenience, that ye didnae have time nor money tae get her another, but ye and I both ken that’s nae true. And even if it were… what o’ mother’s rings? Or some o’ the family heirlooms? Or even asking Catriona tae seek out somethin’ suitable? Nay, brother, ye had other choices.”
“And what o’ it?” Now the words were a snarl, but Ewan didn’t appear to be willing to heed it.
“Why would ye give her Constance’s ring? Ye loved Constance true, I ken ye did. So why? And what was it on yer wedding night that the witch would find so funny? What is goin’ on between ye and yer little Lowland lass? There’s something, I’m fair sure o’ that. I saw the way ye were lookin’ at her in the courtyard just now. Whether ‘tis feelings ye dinnae want tae admit, or something else, I dinnae ken, but I can tell ‘tis tearin’ ye up inside.”
Alistair bit his lip and kept quiet. With any luck, Ewan would realize his silence meant he was unwilling to talk about the matter, and he would let it go.
And really, why was his brother so insistent on knowing what was between him and Niamh? Yes, his brother was one of the few who knew there was a curse to contend with. Yes, his brother was close enough to him to see his turmoil and be concerned. But why could he not let the matter alone? Why did he have to continue asking questions and prying into matters that were Alistair’s business?
“Ye willnae answer?” From the heavy tone of Ewan’s voice, thick with irritation and the edge of resentment that sometimes overwhelmed him, he wasn’t going to cease his questions any time soon. “Why nae? Are ye embarrassed? Or dae ye just think that yer younger braither doesnae deserve tae ken?”
There was no good answer to that, and Alistair was of no mind to lie, or give an answer that would further the growing tension between them. He kept silent, though he could feel the anger burning hot within him, and knew that, if Ewan didn’t take his silence as a hint and leave him be, there would be trouble.
“Alistair MacDuff, the laird’s eldest and most important son - pride o’ the family.” Oh, it was rare for Ewan to get so sharp tongued with him. “And I suppose ye’re tae wise and powerful tae ever heed the words o’ yer younger braither. And what am I tae ye, but a shadow, tae be used when needed and ignored the rest o’ the time?”
Ewan stalked closer. “I’m tired o’ ye dodgin’ me questions and ignorin’ me words, braither. Tired o’ everyone and their cousin kenning more than I dae about me own braither. Tired o’ wondering what ye’re thinkin’ and what ye’re planning, and whether I’ll be sidestepping arrows from MacTavish, or takin’ yer place after the curse claims yer life.”
And there it was. The witch must have said more to Ewan than he’d told Alistair. Or perhaps the constant state of wariness, when they had no idea which direction the next attack would come from, had worn his brother’s nerves to threads. It was hard to constantly worry about ambushes, or poison, or raids that might destroy precious crops and stores of grain for winter. And with Alistair occupied with Niamh, Ewan had been forced to bear the burden. A burden he wasn’t ready for, had never been trained for, and didn’t want.
“What? Ye willnae answer? Ye’re tae good tae even speak tae me now?” Ewan’s voice was harsh. When his hand landed on Alistair’s shoulder, as if he might pull him around or strike him, Alistair reacted.
All his tension, all his frustration and turmoil and uncertainty, exploded out of him in a single, white-hot burst like a lightning strike. His fist caught Ewan on the chin at an upwards angle, and sent him sprawling to the floor, dazed.
He hadn’t meant to hit Ewan. He also knew that, if he stayed long enough for his brother to pick himself up off the floor, there’d be more blows exchanged, if not weapons drawn. There was no point talking to Ewan when his younger brother was in such a mood.
For that matter, Alistair found himself disinclined to talk to anyone either. He didn’t know why Ewan had decided to press the matter. He didn’t care either. He was tired of dancing around everyone’s expectations.
“Finish checking the weapons. I dinnae want tae see ye until the task is completed, unless ‘tis fer meals or Council meetings.”
“Tha’s nae…”
“That’s an order, from Laird MacDuff tae his second-in-command. Ye’ll follow it, unless ye want me tae find someone else tae fill yer place.” It was a threat he hated to make, but Ewan was beyond reason, and he’d clearly been prepared to overstep the bounds that even the laird’s younger brother might cross.
Ewan glared at him, but after a moment, his eyes dropped. Alistair took it as a sign of agreement, and left the armory before one or both of them could do something else foolish.
He’d have to make it up to Ewan later - after his brother had cooled his head enough to realize how badly he’d been about to err - but that wasn’t his only problem.
How many others had seen what Ewan had seen, there in the courtyard? How many others might guess his feelings for Niamh were beginning to blossom into something more than mere ‘convenience’?
And even more concerning - what was he supposed to do about it?
Picking the herbs had been an interesting task in its own right, but Niamh found that actually using them was even more so. She, together with several other women of the castle, worked to rub the blend of fennel, wild garlic, salt, sorrel and sage into the slabs of raw meat after it had been butchered. From there, the cook supervised several young men in taking each finished piece to the smoking hut, where wood gathered by teams of men was waiting to be lit.
The task itself became tedious after a while, but with the company of the clan women it was much more enjoyable. Once they got over their surprise at seeing the Lady of the clan in such menial tasks, the women were quick to welcome her into the group and introduce themselves.
Niamh’s work partner was an older woman named Moira, a cheerful woman who appeared to be roughly her father’s age, with gray-streaked brown hair braided down her back and smile lines crinkling the corners of her mouth and eyes.
Catriona was working with another woman of about Moira’s age, by the name of Shannon. The last two women were somewhere in the middle in terms of ages and introduced themselves as Eileen and Rose.
All four of them proved quite willing to tell stories, once they’d got used to her presence. Shannon, in particular, seemed to have no problem telling stories that might embarrass her laird.
“Och, dinnae fret yer head about bein’ perfect lass. Laird Alistair may be stern, a good warrior and a good laird, but he’s nay paragon. Why, I remember the first year he was old enough tae have proper spirits, instead o’ mead and beer…” Shannon grinned, and the rest of the women smiled in a shared fond memory.
“What happened?”
“He drank half a bottle - didnae ken how tae pace himself, the young fool that he was. Then, when it was time fer the gatherin’ by the river tae build the Samhain bonfires, he was so drunk and blusterin’ so tae hide it from his faither, that he fell straight intae the water.” Shannon snickered. “Ye can imagine, the water sobered him right up, chilled as it was!”
“Aye. I remember it.” Rose grinned. “He was shiverin’ like tae freeze, but his face was red as this meat, and I thought steam would come from his ears fer sheer embarrassment!”
“Aye. And his faither too busy tryin’ tae decide whether he needed tae give his son a lecture or tae laugh, so that in the end he just had tae walk off and tak’ his place and try tae pretend he wasnae wet through and ready tae sink intae the ground.”
The women laughed, and Niamh did as well, remembering the day she and Alistair had fallen into the wide stream, and the way he’d indulged her desire for mischief. It appeared to be a habit of Laird MacDuff’s.
“Do ye remember the year Ewan convinced all the lads in the castle tae go guising as Laird MacDuff? ‘Twas a sight tae see, all the serving lads dressed in their kilts and shirts and caps, tryin’ as hard as they could tae look like ‘proper lairds’.”
Niamh could imagine it. “How did Alistair tak’ it?”
“Och, ‘twas years and years ago, and he was serving at his faither’s side, so o’ course he was right there playing along with them.” Shannon smiled. “His laird father was sore bemused, but he had each o’ them given a honey cake and a copper farthing, his sons included.”
Eileen nodded. “I remember when Laird Alistair was learnin’ tae carve his first neep lanterns on his own. I was only a wee young lass at the time, but…”
“But he cut his hand, and ‘twas hard tae say what tae react tae first - the blood on the lantern, or the look on his face when the juice o’ the onion got intae the cut. His eyes were waterin’ so, but he refused tae cry. But there was nae gettin’ the color out o’ the onion, and it made for a fair peculiar sight that Samhain.” Moira finished the story with a soft, nostalgic smile.
Niamh could well imagine the scene - a young Alistair, his hand bleeding, his jaw clenched and his cheeks red, eyes watering as he fought back a whimper of pain. Onion juice in an open wound was no laughing matter, and it must have stung fiercely.
Catriona was next to speak, wiping her hands as she and Shannon finished one slab of meat. “Mind ye, our laird is nae the only one tae get intae mischief in Samhain season - or any other. I recall, me first year herb-gatherin’, ‘twas one young lass who tripped right intae a bed o’ nettles…”
Niamh winced. “That must have hurt…”
“Och, it certainly did, and her pride most o’ all, I think. But ‘twas how I got me first lesson in poultice making, for the old healer was with us, and she showed me how tae find the plants and a little mud tae soothe the stinging.”
The stories branched from there, each woman sharing their memories of Samhains of the past. Then the talk turned to guising costumes of previous years, and from there to the dresses they planned to make for the coming Samhain Night.
They took a break for the noon meal and returned to work not long before the wood-cutting party returned. Niamh was elbow deep in rubbing herbs into a haunch of venison when Alistair happened to cross the courtyard, on his way toward the castle proper. He paused, and Niamh looked up to see what had arrested his attention.
Their eyes met, and Niamh felt as if tiny, dancing sparks of energy were snapping between them, an invisible connection that sang a song for their ears alone. She felt heat rising to her cheeks and looked away, suddenly abashed.
Was it really so strange for her to want to be involved with the affairs of the clan? Had he thought she would just stand aside and do nothing while everyone else worked? Or was there something else that had caught his eye, and she had simply happened to be in his line of sight.
She looked up again, but he was already walking away, or else being dragged, by his brother Ewan. She wondered what they were up to, then dismissed the thought.
Alistair had his own tasks to perform, as she did. If there was something important going on beyond his Samhain duties, he could tell her later in the privacy of their bedroom.
For now, she had meat to tend to, stories to hear, new traditions to learn,. She was starting to feel she was no longer an outsider. She might not be accepted by everyone, but she was no longer a stranger in a strange land. She had kinfolk, in the form of Catriona. And she felt she had friends, to guide and help her on her way. And that, Niamh felt, was quite enough.