Chapter 2
Two months later …
brìGHDE HAD JUST started work for the day when her suitor came calling.
The charcoal had been lit, and she’d got the fire going to just the right heat so that it glowed bright gold, illuminating the shadowy forge.
She rose early in the mornings, earlier than the rest of her family, leaving their bothy while the others slept and walking the few yards to her forge.
She loved this time of day, the quietness of it.
She was making hinges at present for the new oaken doors the clan-chief was having fitted in Duart Castle. These were far more ornate than the hinges she usually made for the folk of Duart village, a chance to show a little bit of artistry in her work.
She’d just begun work on another, hammering out a rectangle of fresh iron, when movement to her right drew her attention.
A muscular man her own age, around three and twenty, with tousled fair hair and a blunt-featured face, had stopped in the open doorway.
Her stomach sank, her good mood evaporating.
“It’s early for a visit, Ian,” she greeted him brusquely, not bothering with pleasantries.
They’d grown up together, she and Ian Maclean, and in a village of this size had known each other’s business for as long as she could remember. When they were bairns, he’d ignored her mostly. But with the passing of the years, as they’d both matured, things had shifted.
She wished they hadn’t.
The man had become a pest of late.
Flashing her a grin, Ian folded his arms across his chest and leaned lazily against the doorframe. “Thought I’d pay ye a visit before the day gets started. I’ve got planting to start this morning. Lots of work to be done. But I wanted to see yer bonnie face before I did.”
Brìghde scowled. My bonnie face?
Hardly.
They both knew she wasn’t a beauty. She was too big, too muscular, her face too plain. And when a man made a comment like this, she couldn’t help but think he was making fun.
And yet, Ian’s blue eyes were sincere.
Her belly dropped once more. Shite. The man really was sweet on her.
This was becoming a problem, for she didn’t return his interest, not in the slightest.
“Now spring’s here, ye will be busy.” She shifted her focus once more to the strip of iron she’d been hammering out on the anvil. “As will I. The Maclean has ordered a few sets of these hinges, and I need to get them done.”
Her response and terse tone made it clear she didn’t have time to stand here and blether. However, Ian didn’t take the hint. She could feel the weight of his stare. He was drinking her in, and her skin prickled under his scrutiny.
“Ye work too hard,” he said then. “Ye don’t have to live like this.”
She snorted and started to slam her hammer down on the still glowing iron.
Click, clack, click.
It rebounded off the metal in a rhythm she knew as well as her own heartbeat.
A short while passed, and then she straightened up and glanced toward the doorway, annoyed to find Ian still there.
“I do, Ian,” she replied, her voice hardening. “Da lost his sight, and my brother is too young to run the forge.”
Indeed, her younger brother, Eòghan, had been born ten years after her, a surprise for all the family.
Her mother had given birth to two bairns before Brìghde, but both lads died in infancy.
At thirteen winters, Eòghan helped regularly in the forge, doing menial things like sweeping the floor and keeping the charcoal glowing.
In a year or two, he’d be able to do heavier work, and eventually he’d work alongside her.
But that day hadn’t arrived yet.
Ian gave a rueful shake of his head, his disapproval evident. “But that doesn’t make it right, lass. Ye should be a wife and a mother by now.” He paused then, a groove etching between his eyebrows. “As is fitting. As is right.”
Brìghde pulled a face. He was starting to vex her now. The iron was cooling, and she’d have to reheat it in the fire before continuing. But it seemed Ian had no intention of moving on. Not quite yet. “I care not what’s fitting,” she snapped. “Fitting doesn’t keep my family fed.”
She didn’t add that it was good, honest work too, and a craft she was proud of.
Aye, there was necessity in this, but she also enjoyed the work.
Sometimes. It was hard, hot, sweaty, and physically grueling at times, but it was hers.
And despite that she was a woman in a man’s role, a village blacksmith was a well-regarded person.
Folk watched her work the forge with wary respect. They valued her skill.
“But surely, ye want what other women do?” he replied, bemused.
Brìghde stiffened. Of course, she wanted the things Ian had spoken of. Nonetheless, he’d be the last person she’d admit such to.
“That’s not my path.” She gestured then to the surrounding forge and to her clothing.
She wore a thick woolen kirtle—the sleeves rolled up and pinned in place by arm rings, the skirts tucked into her belt—with thick woolen hose underneath, and a singed leather apron over the top. “Who’d want a woman like me anyway?”
The moment she uttered those words, her heart kicked.
Why the devil had she said that? She’d just given him an opening.
Ian’s eyes widened, and a slow smile spread over his face. “I would.”
They stared at each other, and sweat slid down Brìghde’s spine. She’d had enough of this conversation, and she now felt cornered.
She wasn’t sure how to respond to this man’s relentless interest, or how to extricate herself.
Fortunately, she didn’t have to, for a lad, all gawky limbs and messy white-blond hair, appeared next to Ian. Eòghan’s face was flushed, his eyes wide.
Ian scowled at the sight of him, while Brìghde stepped forward, alarmed at the flush on her brother’s face, his shocked eyes. “What is it? Is Ma or Da—?”
“They’re all right,” he cut her off, breathless. “I’ve just come from the village well,” he added. It was Eòghan’s job each morning to draw water and bring it home so that their mother could begin her daily chores. “There’s been an attack … out on the Sound.”
Ian turned to him, his irritation at being interrupted vanishing. “What?”
“The clan-chief sent out a birlinn to escort a merchant cog bound for Craignure from Oban … but two MacDonald galleys descended upon it. There was a fight.” Her brother paused then, his iron-grey eyes guttering. “Alistair Maclean is dead.”
They buried him four days later.
Brìghde and her family attended, as did everyone in Duart, from the village and castle alike.
Brìghde dressed in her only good kirtle for the occasion, removing her leather apron for once and washing the soot off her face and hands.
She even braided back her hair neatly and pinned it beneath a linen veil, a small gesture of respect.
She walked with her father, her arm looped through his. Breac Boyd was completely blind these days and didn’t venture often from his bothy.
But to show his respects, today he would.
Their pace from home was slow, weighed down by the grief that had settled like a heavy blanket over Duart.
Now and again, Brìghde inclined her head to neighbors as others joined them along the narrow path that led across to the graveyard, speaking little.
The mourners made a somber group; even the children were quiet this morning, subdued by the grief that hung over Duart.
The graveyard lay on the northern outskirts of the village, a circular space ringed by a stacked-stone wall with two wind-beaten yew trees growing in the center.
The deceased villagers all had simple graves around the outside of the cemetery, whereas the ruling family of Duart had their own special plot in the center of it.
Here lay the graves of the clan-chiefs of Duart, and their wives, and children.
The villagers made their way to the heart of the space, halting under the shadow of the yews.
Waiting on the fringes of the crowd, Brìghde glanced over her shoulder.
A procession was making its way from the castle itself.
Duart rose high against the morning sky behind them, its massive western curtain wall a dull gold in the spring sunlight.
The castle perched on a headland, looking over the Sound of Mull.
In many villages, a kirk sat next to the graveyard, but at Duart, the burial ground stood alone, and the chapel lay inside the castle walls. The procession was coming from there, although the chapel doors had remained closed to anyone but kin this morning.
As the family drew closer, Brìghde’s chest tightened at the sight of their haggard faces and hollowed eyes.
She could almost taste the bitterness of their sorrow.
Instinctively, she lowered her gaze as the coffin approached and clasped her hands tightly before her, raising her eyes only as it drew nearer.
The procession entered the graveyard. The young chaplain led the way, murmuring a psalm and swinging a censer of incense to purify the air and ward off evil as he went.
There were four casket-bearers: Loch Maclean and his son Davy at the front, and the Captain of the Guard, Finn MacDonald, and another warrior at the back.
Brìghde’s attention rested on Loch’s face, lingering there.
The clan-chief was around fifty these days, yet she’d never really thought of him as old.
He was too strong, too masculine for that.
But this morning, every single one of his years, and more besides, was etched upon his face.
His shoulders seemed bowed beneath more than the weight of the coffin.
The rest of the family followed close behind.
Mairi, Loch’s wife, moved slowly, her face drawn, eyes downcast. Brìghde’s chest constricted. It was an awful thing for a mother to lose her child, especially so young. Alistair was only twenty. He’d had his whole life before him, before the MacDonalds had stolen his future.
Mairi walked with the eldest of their sons, Greig. His sharp, hawkish face was set in severe lines this morning. He used a stick, limping heavily, yet his free arm looped through his mother’s.
And despite that he was maimed, it looked as if he was supporting her, not the other way around.
Brìghde had never liked Greig Maclean much.
He was just a couple of years older than her, and so she’d seen him grow from lad to man.
And in the few instances when their paths had crossed over the years, she’d found him arrogant and dismissive.
She’d much preferred his younger brother Alistair, who’d often stopped by the forge to talk to her.
But, watching Greig now, steadying his mother despite his lameness, she softened her opinion of the man a little.
Pity stirred in her breast then. He’d been brought low by a grievous injury in battle nearly a year earlier.
How galling it would be for him that he wasn’t able to carry his brother’s casket.
By rights, he should be up front instead of Davy.
Yet he wasn’t, and that wasn’t lost on anyone here. Brìghde marked the way a few villagers glanced toward Greig before quickly looking away again, as if embarrassed to witness his helplessness.
The Macleans drew to a halt under the yew trees, and the villagers gathered close, watching as the men lowered the coffin into the freshly dug grave. Soft sobbing reverberated around them, puncturing the morning’s stillness.
Brìghde bowed her head then, fingers tightening around one another until her knuckles ached. What a terrible loss.
And as soil was heaped over the top of the coffin, some local women came forward and knelt nearby. They began to keen then. An outpouring of grief that made Brìghde’s throat grow tight and her eyes burn.
Astrid—the clan-chief’s sister—stepped forward. Her long pale hair braided around the crown of her head, she was a regal sight, even in her grief. Lifting her chin, she began to sing. It was a lament that rose and fell in the damp air.
“Ochón, ochón, Alastair mo chridhe,
Why have ye left us so soon?
The tide still turns upon the Sound,
The wind still sighs across the hills,
But ye do not walk among us now,
Nor answer when yer name is called.
Ochón, ochón, fair son of Mull,
Yer sword lies still, yer hand is cold.
Yer mother weeps by the darkened hearth,
Yer father stands with a broken gaze,
Yer brothers walk in shadowed grief,
And none can fill yer place.
Ochón, ochón, Alastair mo chridhe,
Sleep now beneath the yew and stone.
May the saints keep watch upon yer rest,
May the green earth lie soft above,
And may we meet beyond the mist
Where sorrow yields to love.”
A tear escaped, rolling down Brìghde’s cheek. She brushed it away quickly, embarrassed to be seen weeping for a man who wasn’t hers to mourn.
Nonetheless, the tragedy of his death struck her deeply.
She’d always looked forward to Alistair’s visits to the forge, his smiles, and the warmth in his dark-brown eyes.
He’d always arrived with that easy grin, as if the world held nothing but possibilities.
Sometimes, when she lay upon her cot near the fire at night, she’d let herself imagine what it would be like to be wooed by a man like that.
Of course, it was nonsense to fantasize about such things.
Alistair had just been kind. He had no interest in her. Why would he? She was a lowborn woman, a hulking female blacksmith. Not the right sort for a man like him.
The clan-chief’s wife began to cry helplessly, and the Maclean moved close to her, wrapping his arms about Mairi’s shaking shoulders. They’d been such a strong couple over the years, their love enduring decades, but this tragedy rocked them both.
Brìghde was glad they had each other, especially now.
Meanwhile, Greig Maclean had stepped back from his parents, letting them share their grief without intrusion.
Davy moved to stand alongside him, but neither brother touched nor gave the other comfort.
Instead, both their faces were carven from stone.