Chapter Sixteen Murieall #2
“Too many to count,” I said, my fingers catching on the edge of a board that shifted slightly under my touch. “Wait. I think I’ve found something.”
I dug my fingernails into the gap between two boards, pulling upward. The wood groaned but gave way, revealing a shallow space beneath filled with damp earth. Bess leaned forward eagerly, her breath warm against my cheek as we both peered into the hole.
“I do nae see anything,” she said, disappointment clear in her voice.
“We need to dig,” I replied, plunging my hands into the cool earth without hesitation.
The soil packed beneath my nails as I scooped handfuls away, my heart pounding with a strange excitement.
This was nothing like my careful, planned approach to life.
This was wild, impulsive, and somehow exhilarating.
Bess joined in, her small hands becoming as filthy as mine. We worked in companionable silence for several minutes, the only sounds being the horses’ occasional nickering and the soft squelch of wet earth between our fingers.
My knuckles struck something hard, and I gasped. “I think I’ve found it,” I whispered, more to myself than to Bess. I dug more carefully now, brushing away the soil until the object was revealed: a dagger in a leather sheath, both encrusted with years of dirt and rust.
“Is that it?” Bess asked, leaning close to see. “It looks old.”
“Aye,” I said, lifting it carefully from its hiding place. Despite the rust and dirt, I could tell it had once been a fine weapon. The hilt was wrapped in leather that had stiffened and cracked with age, and there were remnants of what might have been decorative metalwork around the guard.
The ghost whispered again in my mind, clearer now that I held his treasured gift in my hands. “Take it to Fergus. Tell him I kept my promise. Tell him I did nae mean to leave him without a farewell.”
“Who’s it for, Murieall?” Guinn asked, stepping closer, the mare’s reins still in her hand.
I stood, my knees protesting after kneeling on the hard wooden floor.
“A man named Fergus,” I replied, still wiping dirt from the dagger’s hilt.
“His da left this for him before riding to battle. He never returned, and Fergus did nae ken of the gift. Do ye ken a Fergus who works in the stables?” I asked, already moving toward the stall entrance.
Guinn nodded eagerly, leading the mare back into her stall. “Aye, old Fergus! He’s been with the horses since before we were born.”
My heart quickened. The voice had been guiding me true, then. “Where might we find him at this hour?”
“The tack room, most likely,” Guinn answered. “He’s always mending something or other.”
We made our way to the back of the stable, the musty scent of hay and horse growing stronger.
The tack room door stood slightly ajar, and through it came the soft sounds of someone working leather.
I hesitated, suddenly uncertain. How was I to explain this strange gift to a man who’d likely think me daft?
“Shall we go in?” Bess whispered, her small hand finding mine once more.
Drawing strength from her touch, I nodded and pushed the door open.
Inside, hunched over a saddle in need of repair, sat an older man with shoulders broad from years of hard labor.
His hair and beard were more grey than brown, and deep lines etched his weathered face.
He looked up at our entrance, his expression shifting from surprise to gentle warmth at the sight of the lasses.
“Lady Guinn, Lady Bess,” he greeted them, his voice gruff but kind. “What brings ye to my humble workshop?”
“We’ve found something for ye,” Guinn announced without preamble, gesturing toward the dagger in my hands.
Fergus looked at me properly then, his eyes narrowing slightly in confusion. “I do nae understand.”
I stepped forward, my throat suddenly dry. “Are ye Fergus, son of Dougal?”
His bushy eyebrows rose in surprise. “Aye, that I am. Though my da’s been gone many years. How did ye—”
“Yer da left something for ye,” I said, extending the dirt-encrusted dagger toward him. “Before he rode to battle. It’s been buried beneath the floorboards of the third stall all this time.”
Fergus stared at the dagger, his weathered hands frozen above the saddle he’d been working on. “That’s nae possible,” he whispered, but there was desperate hope in his eyes that belied his words.
“He wants ye to ken he kept his promise,” I continued, the dead man’s words flowing through me. “He did nae mean to leave without saying farewell.”
Fergus’s hands trembled as he reached for the dagger.
“My whole life,” he said, his voice thick with emotion, “I believed he left without a thought for me. My mama told me he’d promised a blade for my naming day, but he rode out before that day.
” He swallowed hard, tears gathering in his eyes. “How could ye possibly ken this?”
I exchanged a glance with the lasses, who watched with wide, solemn eyes. “I just heard it,” I said simply.
Fergus looked from the dagger to my face, his expression a mixture of confusion, gratitude, and wonder. “Thank ye, from the bottom of my heart.” His gnarled fingers closed around the hilt. “Ye’ve given me back my da today.”
As Fergus cradled the dagger to his chest, a profound sense of calm washed over me, and then a soft woman’s voice filled my head.
The recipe for minced pie is hidden behind the loose brick in the leftmost corner of the kitchen hearth. My Nessa needs it for her wedding feast. Tell her the secret is the touch of cinnamon. Tell her I’m proud of the woman she’s become.
When it faded, I turned to Guinn and Bess, who were watching Fergus with a mixture of awe and sympathy.
“We’ve another task,” I said softly. “In the kitchens this time.”
Their eyes lit up with excitement as they bid farewell to Fergus, who seemed scarcely aware of our departure, so entranced was he by his da’s final gift.
The kitchens were a flurry of activity when we arrived, with servants preparing for the evening meal.
The large hearth dominated one wall, its flames casting flickering shadows across the stone floor.
Cook eyed us suspiciously as we entered her domain, but the presence of Bess and Guinn seemed to stay any objection she might have had to our intrusion.
“What are we looking for now?” Guinn whispered as we edged toward the hearth, trying to remain inconspicuous among the bustling kitchen staff.
“A recipe,” I replied, searching the hearth’s massive stonework. “Hidden behind a loose brick in the corner.”
“I’ll look!” Bess offered eagerly, already moving to the hearth’s edge. I caught her by the shoulder before she could get too close to the flames.
“Careful, lass. Let me.”
I knelt by the hearth, the heat from the fire warming my face as I examined the stonework. The leftmost corner, the voice had said. My fingers traced the rough edges of the bricks until one shifted slightly under my touch.
“Found it,” I murmured, working my fingers around the edges of the loose brick. It came away with surprising ease, revealing a small cavity behind it. Inside lay a folded piece of parchment, yellowed with age and smelling faintly of smoke and spices.
As I pulled it free, a young woman with apple cheeks and flour dusting her forearms approached us, curious.
“What have ye there?” she asked, wiping her hands on her apron.
I unfolded the parchment carefully, revealing a recipe written in a delicate, feminine hand. “A recipe for minced pie,” I said, glancing up at her. “Are ye Nessa?”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “Aye, that’s me.”
“It was yer mama’s,” I explained, holding it out to her. “She wanted ye to have it for yer wedding feast. The secret is the touch of cinnamon, and she wants ye to know she’s proud of the woman ye’ve become.”
Nessa’s hands flew to her mouth, tears welling in her eyes. “My mama’s been gone five years,” she whispered through her fingers. “How could ye possibly ken about her recipe? I’ve been searching for it ever since she passed.”
I simply shook my head, offering her the parchment. “I just kenned ye were meant to have it.”
Her hands trembled as she took the recipe, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Thank ye,” she whispered, clutching the parchment to her chest just as Fergus had done with the dagger. “Ye can nae ken what this means to me.”
As we left Nessa to her tearful examination of her mama’s handwriting, another wave of peace washed over me. The lasses skipped ahead, chattering excitedly about our adventures.
“Why are ye helping the ghosts, Murieall?” Bess asked suddenly, turning back to me with those piercing eyes that seemed to see too much.
I hesitated, considering how much to reveal. These lasses were far too perceptive for their age, and I found I couldn’t bring myself to lie to them.
“Because it’s the right thing to do,” I said. “And I’m hoping that if I help enough of them yer mama will speak to me. I need her to tell me what truly happened to her.”
Bess’s eyes widened. “Ye’ve heard our mama?”
“Aye,” I admitted. “But I was foolish and did nae properly listen.”
Guinn reached for my hand, her small fingers curling around mine with surprising strength. “What matters is that ye are listening now.”
“Aye,” Bess added.
“I certainly hope so,” I replied.
The afternoon slipped away as we moved from one task to another, following the whispered guidance of the dead.
With each completed errand, another voice would fade from the chorus in my mind, replaced by a new one with its own urgent plea.
The lasses threw themselves into each quest with unbridled enthusiasm, their faces flushed with excitement as we traversed the castle grounds, becoming conspirators in a secret mission that only we understood.
As we walked toward the garden, an elderly woman whispered in my head.
The locket is beneath the loose stone in the garden wall. Tell Mairi I want her to have it. Tell her I forgive her for the harsh words we exchanged before I passed.