Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Ye’ve a full day ahead of ye, me lady.”
Davina nearly dropped the ledger she’d been handed. “A full day?” She lifted the heavy volume, which looked as though it had endured a decade of neglect. “It’s only breakfast, isnae it?”
Ailis, standing beside her with a basket of folded linens in her arms, gave a sympathetic smile. “Aye. And after breakfast comes the rest of it.”
Davina blew out a slow breath, glancing around the solar where she’d been attempting to organize tasks for the morning.
She had imagined her first full day as Lady Kincaid would be overwhelming, but she hadn’t realized how deeply disorganized a clan could become without a woman overseeing the inner workings.
“It’s been some time since we last had a lady in the castle,” Ailis continued. “Years, in truth. The men dae their best, but…” She lowered her voice. “When left tae their own devices, they only remember the things that concern sword or shield.”
Davina pressed her lips together. “Then the rest falls tae us.”
“Aye.” Ailis nodded with a note of relief in her expression, as though she’d been waiting a long time to say that to someone who would actually listen. “There’s much tae be done. But not all at once.”
Davina opened the ledger again, only to discover another page of items scribbled in different hands: winter tallow, spare blankets, barley stock, broken hearth tiles, spoiled apples. The list seemed endless.
She sank onto a nearby bench. “I dinnae even ken where tae start.”
Ailis placed the basket aside and came to sit beside her. “Well, ye could start with the kitchens.”
“The kitchens?” Davina blinked.
“Aye,” Ailis confirmed, folding her hands neatly in her lap. “Ye’ll want tae understand our winter stores, if there is food enough fer the people, and what’s running low. And ye should meet the cook and the servants who keep the castle fed. They’ll ken more about what’s needed than any ledger.”
Davina exhaled, feeling the tension loosening slightly. That made sense. It was practical and manageable. “Aye. The kitchens. That seems like a reasonable place tae begin.”
Ailis grinned. “It is. And it’ll give ye a proper sense of the people’s needs. Winter always hits hard, and harder still when there’s nay lady tae keep things in order.”
Davina’s heart tightened. “Has it truly been so long since anyone oversaw these things?”
“Nae since Lady Kincaid passed,” Ailis said softly. “The men tried… but a household runs better when someone cares fer more than just weapons and walls.”
Davina nodded slowly. She had seen the disarray already in the scattered duties and the half-tended tasks. It wasn’t neglect, so much as the absence of a steady hand.
“Well,” she said, straightening her shoulders. “If the household needs a lady, then I suppose I shall have tae become one quickly.”
Ailis beamed. “I dinnae doubt ye will. Come on, then. Let’s start with the kitchen.”
Davina stood, smoothed her skirts, and picked up the ledger. It still looked daunting, but suddenly the weight of it felt less burdensome. Because she had purpose now, something she could do, something that mattered.
And perhaps, she thought quietly, as she followed Ailis toward the door, this would help her belong there, in that cold, unfamiliar place still echoing with grief.
“Thank ye, Ailis,” she said as they left the solar.
“Fer what, me lady?”
“Fer showing me where tae begin.”
Ailis smiled warmly, as though the simple words meant more than Davina knew. “Aye. That’s what I’m here fer.”
And together, they descended the winding stairs toward the heart of the keep.
The moment Davina stepped into the kitchens, she was hit with a wave of heat, noise, and the rich scents of broth and baking bread.
Women hurried between tables, pots bubbled over the fire, and a young boy darted past her with an armful of chopped wood.
Conversation faltered at her arrival.
Ailis leaned toward her. “They dinnae ken what tae make of ye yet, me lady. Give them a moment.”
Davina nodded, drawing in a steady breath, then stepped forward. “Good morning,” she said with as much warmth as she could muster.
Cook Morag, a round-cheeked woman with sharp eyes and flour-dusted hands, set down her ladle. “Morning, me lady.” Her voice was cautious. “What brings ye tae this chaos?”
Davina lifted the ledger. “I came tae understand our winter stores and tae see if there’s anything I can dae.”
A few eyebrows rose. Noblewomen typically asked for information. They didn’t usually offer to roll up their sleeves.
Morag folded her arms. “We’ve enough fer now, but after the funerals and the feast, our stores are running thin. We have enough till Yule. And the oaten flour’s lower than usual.”
Davina frowned at the shelves. “Because of the Sinclair blockades?”
“Aye.”
She bit her lip. “Could we stretch the flour by mixing in barley? Me mother used that trick in lean winters.”
Morag blinked. “Barley in oatcakes?”
“It changes the texture a little, but it fills more bellies,” Davina explained. “And if ye add a touch of honey, nay one will complain.”
There was a pause. Then Morag cracked the faintest smile. “We can try it.” She shouted over her shoulder. “Fiona! Bring the barley sacks down from the upper shelf!”
Fiona, a girl of maybe sixteen, hurried to obey, not even trying to hide her pink cheeks as she peeked at Davina. Work resumed, though with a new note of interest in the air.
Ailis nudged Davina. “Good start.”
Davina spent the next hour moving through the stores, talking with Morag about root vegetables that would keep through winter, suggesting ways to stretch the remaining cider, and personally helping to stack crates of apples.
She wiped her brow at one point with the back of her sleeve and caught several workers exchanging looks. They were not mocking. They were surprised. A small group of townsfolk entered the storeroom with baskets of late turnips and carrots. Upon seeing her, they bowed uncertainly.
Davina stepped forward. “Thank ye fer bringing these,” she said. “Winter will be easier fer everyone because of yer work.”
One older woman blinked at her. “Ye speak kindly, me lady.”
Davina’s heart gave a pang. “Then I hope ye’ll hear it often.”
The woman’s eyes softened. “Ye remind me of the old Lady Kincaid. She cared fer the people and helped when she could.”
A warm ache filled Davina’s chest. “That is me hope as well.”
By midmorning, Davina’s skirts were dusted with flour, her hands were stained with root vegetable dirt, and her hair was coming loose from its pins. But for she was starting to feel grounded.
When she carried a heavy basket of potatoes to the corner storage herself, a young man rushed forward. “Me lady, let me—”
“Nay, nay,” Davina said, already knee-deep in the task. “I’m nearly done.”
He stared at her as though she’d sprouted wings. “The laird’s wife… lifting potatoes.”
She offered him a rueful smile. “Hardly the worst thing I’ve done today.”
As laughter rippled through the kitchen, Morag muttered. “Saints bless us, she’s staying. Truly staying.”
Davina looked up. “Pardon?”
Morag wiped her hands on her apron. “Ye are a lady who works beside us instead of above us. Ye’ll dae very well, indeed. Aye.”
Warmth blossomed slowly in Davina’s chest.
Ailis leaned close, whispering just loud enough for Davina to hear. “I told ye. They only needed tae see ye.”
Davina laughed softly, feeling unexpectedly content. For the first time since stepping into the cold stone keep, she felt she truly belonged to something.
“Sinclairs, ye say? At our borders?”
Kenny jogged beside Baird as they strode across the inner bailey, while the scout who’d brought the message trailed behind them, panting from the run. Instinct led him toward the armory, as he knew that trouble was brewing, the sort of trouble that could only be solved with weapons.
“Aye, me laird,” the scout replied. “Two of them, maybe three. Spotted near Rowanford village just after dawn.”
Baird cursed under his breath. “They’re getting bold.”
“They’ve been bold,” Kenny muttered. “We just hoped they’d grow stupid with winter coming. Seems they’ve grown hungry instead.”
Baird didn’t slow. They reached the armory door, and he pushed it open. There, he grabbed his sword, buckling it in one quick motion.
“Saddle the horses. We ride now.”
Within minutes, they were thundering down the narrow road leading from the castle to the lower villages, with the wind cutting cold and hard across their faces. Frost still clung to the heather, making the landscape glitter with deceptive beauty.
Baird barely noticed. His mind was already three steps ahead, focusing on supply shortages, blockaded routes, winter storms brewing, and now Sinclairs stealing from Highland villages that struggled even in prosperous years.
They reached Rowanford by mid-morning. Villagers had already gathered in a tight cluster near the well, murmuring anxiously. When Baird swung down from his horse, silence swept the crowd like a wave.
“Me laird,” an older man said, stepping forward. His cap was clutched between his fingers. “We dinnae ken what tae dae. They came in the night and took half our grain stores.”
Baird’s gut tightened. “Half?”
“Aye. And what they didnae take, they fouled.” The man’s voice cracked. “We had enough until spring. Now… now I dinnae think we’ll make it through the winter.”
Baird rubbed a hand across his jaw. Memories of every winter hunger he’d lived through pressed at the edges of his mind: harsh nights, empty cellars and desperation.
“Show me,” he ordered.
They walked to the village storehouse. The lock had been smashed, the wood splintered, and footprints tracked through the mud. There were several pairs, heavy and pointing north. Sinclair boots.
Inside, the shelves were half-empty. The remaining sacks had been ripped open, and grain was scattered like sand across the floor. Some had been soaked with water, ruined completely.
Kenny let out a low whistle between his teeth. “Bastards.”
Baird crouched, sinking his fingers into the spilled grain. It was damp and useless.
His jaw clenched. “They’re testing us. Seeing what they can take before we strike back.”
“Or seeing how much they can starve us before winter hits,” Kenny added grimly.
Baird rose slowly. “Either way, this ends now.”
He went outside and addressed the gathered villagers.
“We’ll send what stores we can spare from the castle,” he instructed. “And I’ll see that ye have guards day and night. Nay Sinclair will cross yer borders again without a fight.”
Relief rippled through the crowd, though worry still clouded their faces.
Kenny stepped closer. “What’s the plan, then?”
Baird looked toward the hills where the Sinclair tracks disappeared. Snow clouds gathered behind them, heavy and threatening.
“Put more men on every outer village,” Baird ordered. “Double the patrols. And tell them their priority is food stores. If the Sinclairs want tae weaken us, they’ll strike where we can least afford it.”
Kenny nodded. “Aye, me laird.”
“And Kenny,” Baird added, lowering his voice, “tell the men tae be ready fer more. This was nay random raid. This was preparation.”
“Fer what?” Kenny asked.
Baird’s gaze darkened. “War, most like.”
The words settled in the cold air like frost. Baird mounted his horse again, staring out toward the distant mountains that marked Sinclair land. His clan was hungry, his stores were limited and winter was coming eagerly.
“Let’s go,” he said, voice hard as steel. “We need tae be back before nightfall.”
They turned their horses toward home, and each step echoed the truth in Baird’s mind. His people needed him steady. His wife needed him steady.
And the Sinclairs had just pushed their first piece onto the board.