Chapter 5
brìGHDE PICKED UP the small blade she’d been forging and, with her tongs, shoved it into the fire.
Sour bastard.
She’d almost had a turn earlier when she’d looked up to find a tall, dark-haired man standing in her doorway. And aye, for a heartbeat, she’d thought it was Alistair Maclean. Her pulse had spiked before she checked herself.
The man was dead.
The warrior standing before her wasn’t Alistair.
It wasn’t Davy Maclean either.
This man was older, broader of shoulder, with a face set in a permanent scowl. And of course, when she marked the carven stick he held in his right hand, it gave him away.
Greig Maclean didn’t usually darken her door, and after a short while in his company, she hoped he never would do so again. He had the manners of a boar, and she didn’t like the way he’d looked at her.
As if weighing her—and finding her wanting.
She couldn’t help it; her hackles had risen. Even so, she’d tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. She’d been polite, had enquired after his mother.
Some warriors at Duart mocked her moniker.
‘The Forge Maiden’ wasn’t always spoken kindly.
Some were threatened by a woman like her, who stepped beyond the usual role expected of her.
It didn’t matter that she had learned her trade honestly, that the things she produced were as good quality as her father’s had ever been.
She disrupted the order of things, and some men found that disconcerting.
Greig was clearly one of those.
But bringing up Alistair had been a mistake. She kicked herself for it.
The three brothers had always looked so similar.
Striking, masculine men. She hadn’t meant anything by her comment and certainly hadn’t wanted to overstep.
However, her belly had dropped when she witnessed the banked anger in those dark eyes, the flex of muscle under the short beard that covered his jaw.
Greig Maclean hadn’t paid her a visit to talk about his brother. He just wanted a job done.
His response had been cutting. Aye, he’d put Brìghde in her place.
Yanking the glowing blade from the fire, she grabbed her hammer and started to work. Heat washed over her with each blow. It had been an unguarded moment, and he had punished her for it.
One day, this bitter man would sit in the clan-chief’s chair. She wondered then what sort of laird he’d make.
His father, Loch, had surprised them all.
The young hothead who’d returned from fighting with the Bruce to find his father had recently passed away had stepped into the role and shown them all that he was as just and strong as his father had been, perhaps even stronger.
He was a man lightly crossed, but he was never needlessly cruel.
In the years to come, would the people of Duart say the same about Greig?
A thistle, a tower, or a stag … what shall I carve?
Brìghde inspected the iron ring she’d just shaped, satisfaction warming her chest. She’d forged it from a single length of iron rod, hammering one end broad and flat upon the anvil before curving the remaining metal into a thick band.
The join still needed smoothing, and the round bezel would require filing before she could engrave it properly, yet the shape pleased her nonetheless.
It would be a man’s ring, easier to make than something more delicate and feminine.
A good choice for her first piece of jewelry.
She’d have preferred to make it from bronze or silver—for iron rusted easily and was harder to decorate—yet she couldn’t spare the coin.
However, if this ring turned out well, she’d see about ordering silver specially for her next project.
She was getting ahead of herself though. The ring still needed a bit of work before it could be worn.
Sighing, Brìghde massaged a stiff muscle in her shoulder.
She’d worked long, the day vanishing around her, but had left time for a personal project.
She was secretive about the iron ring she was making—a little shy of showing it to anyone.
She wasn’t even sure why she’d started it, only that she couldn’t seem to stop.
She’d even picked up some finer tools from Craignure a few days earlier for the engraving.
“Supper’s ready!” Eòghan bellowed through the open doorway, yanking Brìghde from her task.
“I’ll be right there,” she called back, picking up the ring and placing it on a high shelf, out of sight. She looked forward to working on it again, a respite from the mountain of paid jobs that kept piling up. Something creative that fed her soul.
A short while later, she stepped outdoors and heaved in a lungful of damp, fresh air.
It was still light, as, at this time of year, darkness fell late. Supper had come and gone for most folk, and a group of local children raced by, chasing each other, their squeals piercing the gloaming.
Watching them go, Brìghde’s lips curved. There was something about the joy of bairns that always lightened her heart.
She lingered there, breathing deeply, her gaze sweeping across the cloudy sky, before she eventually closed the door to her forge.
She then made her way around to the bothy she shared with her family.
As always, a tub of warm water, a cake of rough lye soap, and a drying sheet sat on a table outside the door.
Her mother liked her to clean up instead of bringing a trail of soot indoors, and Brìghde didn’t blame her. Hers was a dirty profession.
She’d stripped off her apron in the forge and hung it by the door before leaving. She brushed herself down now, making sure there was no ash or soot on her clothing. Her kirtle and the lèine she wore underneath it were always permanently stained grey.
Then, picking up the soap, she lathered her bare arms and hands, sluiced them off, and then washed her face. The drying sheet came away black.
She then poured the cooling water into the sprawling growth of rosemary nearby and brought the bowl and other items indoors with her, heeling her boots off just inside.
The aroma of frying bannocks hit her then, the nutty, oaty smell making her belly rumble. It was a usual supper for them: a vegetable pottage, bannock, and hard goat cheese. Like the rising and setting of the sun and the turn of the seasons, it was something she could always rely upon.
Her mother was there, bustling around the hearth and adding final seasonings to the pottage. Her brother and father were already perched on stools around the hearth, waiting for Ada to serve up.
“There ye are,” her brother greeted her. “Finally. What kept ye?”
“I was just enjoying some fresh air after the smoky forge,” she replied. “Sometimes, I forget there’s a whole world out there. I get so engrossed in my work that I lose time.”
Her father huffed, sightless eyes moving in her direction. A wry smile then curved his lips.
“It was often like that for me, too, lass,” he sighed. “There is a magic to forging iron. Sometimes, I used to feel like a druid of old.”
His wife muttered something under her breath at this before making the sign of the cross. “What nonsense, Breac,” she said, although her voice held little force. “Don’t go putting such strange ideas in yer daughter’s head … or yer son’s.”
Brìghde smiled, crossing to the hearth and lowering herself down onto a stool. “It is magic, though,” she added, before catching Eòghan’s eye across the fire, “and one ye’ll master one day too.”
“Aye, if that lad ever stops idling,” Ada replied, ruffling Eòghan’s hair.
The boy made an annoyed sound and ducked his head away. He hated it when his mother did that. “I don’t idle,” he said sourly.
“Oh?” his mother challenged, a glint in her grey eyes now. She was a pale-skinned woman with white-blonde hair coiled into a neat bun at the nape of her neck. Both her children had inherited her coloring, although they’d taken after their father in build.
Breac Boyd was a massive man, even now that he didn’t work at the forge. Years of hammering iron had left his neck, shoulders, and arms powerful. He dwarfed the fire that he sat beside. Eòghan was having a growth spurt and would soon fill out, one day equaling his father in strength.
And although Brìghde was a woman, she had the same muscular frame—something she had been teased mercilessly for over the years, until she’d become the village smiddy.
“I asked ye to get me some eggs earlier today, and ye were gone so long, I thought ye were laying them yerself,” Ada said, fixing Eòghan with a knowing look.
“The lad needs to start learning our trade,” Breac said, his gaze moving around the fire. He couldn’t see any of them, but he knew from their voices where they sat. “Ye must start instructing him properly, Brì.”
“I am,” she replied, taking the bowl of steaming pottage her mother had just passed her and helping herself to a warm bannock.
“All I do is sweep the floor and fill the slack tub,” her brother grumbled, flashing Brìghde a frown. “She won’t let me wield a hammer.”
Irritation sliced through Brìghde. “That’s not true,” she countered. “Just yesterday—”
“Ye can’t run the forge on yer own forever, lass,” her father cut in. “It’s Eòghan’s birthright … not yers.”
Brìghde stilled.
Hurt slammed into her belly.
She knew her father appreciated her skills. He’d taken great care to teach her everything he knew while his sight remained. However, in the last couple of years, it had deteriorated swiftly. She’d thought he was proud to have her continue his legacy.
But now, she realized that he’d been marking time.
He wanted Eòghan to take her place.
The betrayal of this moment robbed her of breath. Of speech.
“The forge is mine, Da,” she managed eventually, her voice choked. “I have no wish to hand it over.”
Of course, her father couldn’t see the pain on her face, yet her mother and brother could.
Their faces stiffened.
“Ye’ve done well,” her father replied gruffly. “Better than most would. But the forge was never meant to be yers.” He paused then. “In a couple of years, when Eòghan is ready, ye need to find yerself a man and have a family of yer own.”
“That’s right,” her mother added, a note of chagrin in her tone. “No woman escapes her duty.”
Brìghde cut her a sharp look, the hurt in her chest digging deeper. Of course, Ada would take her husband’s side in this.
Her mother had never liked her taking over from the blacksmith, but it had been a matter of necessity. Without the forge, the family risked destitution, and Brìghde’s skills had saved them all. But now, with their bellies full and a steady stream of work, they’d all grown complacent.
They didn’t appreciate fully what she’d done.
“Ye can’t swing a hammer forever,” Ada added, settling herself down on her stool. She then cast a speculative look over her daughter, her eyes shadowing. “I don’t want to see ye alone ten years from now, with no one to stand beside ye.”
Anger quickened under Brìghde’s ribs. She’d been looking forward to her supper, to spending time with her family. Mealtimes were usually pleasant, full of good-natured banter, but this evening, things had shifted.
“That Ian Maclean is always sniffing around the forge,” her mother went on. “Ye’d do well to encourage him.”
Heat washed over Brìghde. “I’m not interested in Ian,” she replied, biting out each word.
Her mother lifted an eyebrow. “A bit high and mighty, aren’t ye? He’s not much to look at, I grant ye, but he’s steady … and that counts for more than pretty.”
“A farmer is a solid choice for a husband,” her father agreed, a groove etching between his thick eyebrows. “And he could do with a sturdy lass like ye working at his side.”
Brìghde exhaled sharply through her nose. She didn’t appreciate her father talking about her as if she were a cart horse. “Be that as it may … I’ll not wed him.”
Eòghan sat quietly now, his brow furrowed as his gaze flicked between his parents and Brìghde. Worry shadowed his grey eyes. He’d been complaining earlier, yet had sensed the change in atmosphere. He didn’t want them to argue and yet was firmly caught in the middle of this battle of wills.
“Aye, well, Eòghan’s still young,” Brìghde said finally, shattering the tension around the fire. It was dimly lit in here and smoky, yet the ruddy flames highlighted the faces of her family. “I’ve got a few years as the village smiddy yet.”
“Maybe,” her father said, his brow furrowing deeply. “But from tomorrow onward, Eòghan is to work alongside ye.”