Chapter 26
D uncan frowned studying his wife as she sat huddled at the far end of their wee isle with her arms clutched around her bent legs. They’d not tupped in days.
Wishing Beth hadna witnessed Mary’s birthing was of little use now. More worrisome was her endlessly twisting of her wedding band.
In a flood of tears, she had told him her people would have sliced wee Mary’s womb and taken the babe, so the babe wouldna have had a damaged arm as he did now. Though he had heard it done when a woman was lost, he had difficulty believing both mother and child could survive such barbaric treatment. But she swore it was true, and he worried even more.
He knelt behind her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. Believing he already kenned the answer, he still asked, “Lass, what are ye fashin’ on now?”
Staring at the sea, she leaned back against his chest. “Whisky.”
“Pardon?”
“Do you know how to make it?”
“I dinna ken the art myself, but Ol’ John does. Why?” If he lived to be one hundred, he wouldna ever understand this woman.
“Whisky will make you rich.”
He chuckled. “Ladywife, ‘tis nay a way in hell John’s wee still will make me a wealthy man.”
“Exactly. You need bigger stills to make more. And some of the whisky needs to be put up in oak barrels and stored for five years, some even twenty.”
Ack! The poor wee thing had gone totally daft from fashing, just as he feared. He stood, lifting her as he did so. “Come, lass, ye need rest.”
She spun in his arms. “Listen to me. The longer whisky ages, the better it gets. Where I come from and in England, a rich man thinks nothing of paying fifty dollars—-pounds—for a bottle of aged whisky this big.”
His jaw dropped as he studied the small space between her hands. “Ye canna be serious?”
“Aye, Duncan, I am. As serious as your priest is about his sacraments.”
He expelled a great whoosh of air contemplating the possibilities. He had heard rumors some English were quite fond of the water of life . Of course, he’d not tasted aged whisky because they drank John’s brew as fast as he made it, but…
Then there was the problem with the land. His wouldna support large crops, but he could negotiate for grain or finished whisky from the lowlanders. He could sell a bit and put away the rest. Too, he’d have to engage in a bit more smuggling, something he’d been reluctant to do of late, but better that then going to France. Hmm.
“Lass,” he kissed her soundly, “we need go speak with Isaac.”
#
Flora grinned as Beth settled in the boat. “My lady, we’re finally off to Drasmoor.”
Beth nodded. With her husband sequestered with Isaac, Rachael engrossed in mending—-Beth’s idea of purgatory—and the keep in good order, she’d been in sore need of a distraction. “Thank you for suggesting this outing.”
“My pleasure. We shall visit the babe and Wee Mary first, then go to Kari’s cottage and watch her work the Eire loom.”
As they drew closer to Drasmoor Beth asked, “Do you look forward to having children?”
“Nay.” Flora’s gaze shifted out to sea. “I watched my sister die trying to birth and heard too many tales to want such.”
“I’m sorry.” She placed a hand of Flora’s arm. “I hadn’t meant to open wounds.” After a long pause she garnered enough courage to ask, “Is that why you refused the men who have asked for your hand?”
Flora’s brow furrowed. “In part.”
Lost in their own thoughts, they didn’t speak again until the boat beached.
At her cottage door, Wee Mary wobbled a curtsey. “Good day, my lady. And to ye, Mistress Flora.” She ran a worried hand over her plain and spot-stained kirtle. “I hadna expected visitors. Please come in.”
Beth smiled and handed Mary a basket laden with a beef stew, bread and jam. “I just came by to see how ye fared.”
“Well, thank ye.” With her free hand, Mary waved to the cottage’s one chair. “Set ye and I will fetch ye a drink.”
“Thank ye, but nay. I just wanted to see your beautiful son again.”
The worry in Mary’s face dissolved at the mention of her babe. “Come then.”
Beth’s gaze drifted over the soot-covered rafters, the unadorned whitewashed walls and settled on the wooden cradle in the corner.
The child was wrapped snugly in a woolen blanket so Beth could only make out his face. But such a pretty face he had now, all the swelling and redness had vanished. “Is his shoulder healing?”
She nodded. “We keep him bound but he can now move his hand.”
Beth sent a prayer of thanks heavenward.
“Would ye like to hold him, my lady?”
“Umm…” Her fear of possibly hurting the child must have been apparent for Mary chuckled.
“He willna mind, my lady.”
When the child had been placed in her arms, Beth marveled at how light he felt and how good the infant smelled. “What did you name him?”
“Clyde, after his father’s father.”
The babe chose that moment to open his deep cobalt eyes. When a bubble made him grin, Beth chuckled, “And it’s a pleasure to see you again, too, Master Clyde.”
She rocked him as they chatted about the upcoming tournament. When the child became restless, anxiously alternating between fist chewing and trying to rout at her breast, Beth murmured, “It must be dinner time.”
She handed the baby back to his mother and she and Flora readied to take their leave. At the door Beth said, “Thank you for letting me hold him.”
“Ye are most welcome and come again.”
As they approached the weaver’s cottage, Flora, who’d been silent during most of their visit with Wee Mary, became animated again. “It takes Kari nigh on a year to make enough cloth for one cotehardie, but ‘tis worth the wait.”
“A year ?”
Beth soon found out why.
Kari’s cottage was much like Mary’s, only in this home a tall, narrow loom that produced eighteen-inch wide cloth occupied the corner by the window.
Kari, a small, middle-aged redhead with a wide grin, told her, “’Twill take twenty-five yards of my wool to make a gown such as ye wear now, my lady.”
“My word.” Beth ran her fingers through the fine warp threads. “Will you show me how you do it?”
Kari sat on a backless stool before the loom. Beth—knowing she barely had the talent to walk and speak at the same time—gaped as Kari made the shuttle fly across the weave while her foot controlled the vertical threads. Kari then demonstrated how she created patterns.
“This is amazing.”
“Nay, my lady. ’Tis only a matter of havin’ practice, good eyesight, and a strong back.”
“Do others in the village work a loom?” The beautiful fabric would be highly sought in major cities.
“Nay, some ken how, but this be the only loom.”
“Hmm. Are looms expensive—-dear?”
“Aye, my lady, but another could be crafted by a skilled carpenter.”
“Wonderful.” She might have found yet another way to garner income for the clan.
Seeing Flora becoming impatient, she thanked Kari again and said good day.
Outside, Flora asked, “My lady, while we are here, would ye mind if we went to Bryce Burn in yon glen?” She pointed between two nearby hills. “‘Tis only a short walk where I found kale and fern fiddles peeking up last week. They most surely are ready to harvest now. If we hurry, we may even have time to hunt mushrooms.”
“Wonderful.”
An hour later Beth began to wonder if Flora had lost her way. She could no longer see the smoke from the village chimneys or the harbor thanks to the dense, head-high foliage and young pine.
“Flora,” Beth puffed, “how much further?”
“’Tis just around these boulders, my lady.”
Stumbling over her skirt, Beth muttered, “Thank God,” and continued on, climbing over the myriad of tree roots clinging tenaciously to the steep hillside.
“’Tis here,” Flora said as she came up beside her.
Thirsty, Beth looked about the small, sun-dappled clearing for a brook. “Where’s the burn?” Her gaze shifted from the hard ground to Flora’s stony expression. Inexplicable fear made the fine hair on the back of her neck and arms stand up.
Instinct made her turn to run, only to slam face first into a massive leather chest shield. “Whoa, Lady MacDougall!” Heavily callused hands slapped around each of her wrists like manacles. Mouth agape, Beth stared at the man’s familiar face. She didn’t know his name but did recognize him. The night of the banquet, he’d arrived with the Bruce.
“FLORA?”
Flora calmly stared at her as a second and then a third man came into the clearing, and Beth’s fear solidified into fury. She kicked the shins of the man holding her. “Let go of me!”
Her kicking only resulted in bruising her feet, and she sought Flora’s help again. Seeing her new friend backing down the path, realization dawned. Incensed, Beth screeched, “YOU BITCH!”
A gag was forced between her teeth before she could hurl another expletive. Her fury turn to liquid fear when Flora only waved and the two men holding her arms dragged her backward, kicking and crying into the foliage.