Chapter 2
Will Fearguson was sitting in the tavern, slumped back against the wall with his long legs stretched out under the table.
He was listening with only half an ear to what was being said around him.
His mood was contemplative. He was returning to the MacKenzie estate after riding out for another commission.
After what happened before—forging the harsh laird’s sword before checking first that he was a kind and goodly master—Will no longer accepted commissions via an envoy.
Instead, he would go and take the man’s measurements in person.
His latest task was to forge a sword for a laird’s son.
The youth was average height for a Highlander but still undeveloped in the arm muscles.
The laird had agreed for two swords to be crafted, the first one weighing less than the second so the youth could grow into each one as his strength and skill progressed.
For some reason, it had made Will sad to interact with the laird’s son, measuring the reach of his scrawny arm and reassuring the lad he would soon grow to become the greatest warrior in the Highlands.
Could it be that he was missing the chance of having a son of his own?
So he was not really listening to the alehouse chat going on around him until he heard something that piqued his interest.
“Laird Callum MacNair’s wife is expecting another bairn!” a voice shouted out from the counter. “Slàinte to the laird an’ lady. Another MacNair is on the way. That’s how to guarantee a succession—with plenty o’ bairns born on the right side o’ the blanket!”
Raucous laughter boomed out across the alehouse. Will did not react in case any sudden movement caused the talkative men to quit their conversation.
“Aye! All hail to the new laird! No’ yet three years into his lairdship an’ that empty nursery up at auld MacTavish Castle is set to be fuller than ever!”
Another man chimed in. “Wheesht the lot o’ ye. MacNair holds nay sway over these lands. If one o’ Chieftain Stuart’s soldiers were to hear ye raisin’ yer mugs to salute another laird, they might question yer loyalties!”
Many men jeered at this. “Then yer Chieftain Stuart should have done something to stop MacTavish’s evil ways before instead of just sitting back an’ allowing the bustert to bring pirates an’ slave traders to our shores!”
Cries and cheers of approval met this remark. One man added his mite. “Och aye, but is that always the case? Men dinnae want to get involved unless their clan is directly affected by the scourge? We have plenty of our own problems without goin’ looking for more.”
This general consensus of opinion made the critical atmosphere in the alehouse simmer down as each man went back to his ale.
When he knew there was no more to be learned from listening to the alehouse patrons, Will whistled to catch an elderly man’s attention.
When the man looked and pointed at his chest, Will nodded and pushed the bench opposite him outward, indicating the old man was welcome to sit down.
People tended not to sit down opposite Will; there was something about his hulking, brooding presence that welcomed neither friendship nor casual chat.
The elder sat down but did not settle himself more comfortably on the bench until Will beckoned a serving maid over and then raised his eyebrow toward the elder. “Whiskey?”
The old man grinned, nodding eagerly.
Speaking clearly to the serving maid, Will said, “Bring a bottle o’ yer finest whiskey.”
He had to speak loud enough to be heard over the noise inside the alehouse but not so loud as to draw attention to the fact he was ordering a bottle because that was a sure way of bringing taproom patrons buzzing around the table, willing to risk Will’s ferocious features if it meant being able to drink down a wee tassie of golden whiskey.
The elder settled himself onto the bench and leaned his elbows on the table. “Thank ye kindly, young man. But ye should ken I cannae repay in kind.”
Will leaned across the table too so no one could hear him. “Aye, ye can. I seek information about this new laird ye were chattin’ about.”
The serving maid brought a dusty dark glass bottle to the table, plonked it down beside two tasse glasses, and then held her palm out toward Will.
He pressed some coins into her palm and then wrapped the girl’s fingers over the coins so that no one would be able to see how much it was.
It was an old trick men used when they wanted the girl to meet them in their chambers later on in the evening, paying extra and making sure no one else saw this so as not to embarrass the girl.
The serving maid gave Will a wee wink, but before she swayed off to the kitchens to brag to her friends that it was she, Maeve, who had caught the handsome traveler’s eye, Will grabbed her wrist.
“The extra coin is for ye to leave us alone, lass. I have nay wish to be disturbed.” This news was hard for the girl to swallow; she was halfway to sleeping with the tall Highlander in her mind already!
But when she left the table and saw the generous coin he had pressed into her palm, she forgave him immediately.
Still, when she glanced back to the man’s table, the serving maid wished he would be looking at her with the same amount of longing as she felt in her heart.
He was not: Will was already deep in conversation with the old man.
“Sláinte,” Will said, tapping his ale mug against the elder’s tassie of whiskey.
He never drank anything stronger than small ale; his mother had insisted her sons were brought up to despise drinking and wenching as much as she did herself.
The lesson had been so deeply instilled into Wee William’s mind that he could remember her words three and twenty years later.
“So, tell me more about this new laird I heard ye talkin’ about? ” he asked the man.
The old man took a while to reply; he was busy smacking and licking his lips over the whiskey. “Och, young fellow. Ye’re late to call Callum MacNair a new laird. He killed auld Hamish MacTavish and freed the heathen’s slave girls nearly three years ago now.”
Will indicated that the old man should help himself to the whiskey as much as he wanted. “This is news to me. I’m over on the West Coast an’ have no’ much call to visit these parts. They dinnae have happy memories for me, ye ken,” he told the elder, leaning back and pushing the ale away from him.
Will had no desire to be called away to visit the latrines and miss the best part of the elder’s story, and he never imbibed more than two mugs of ale in one sitting anyway.
This iron discipline had given rise to many jokes made about the blacksmith’s son’s rigid willpower when it came to drinking.
They laughingly called him Iron Will to his face, and Will just smiled when he heard them saying it.
The old man looked sad. “Were ye one o’ those wee boy bairns who was no’ allowed to thrive on MacTavish land?”
Will was relieved to have his backstory received and understood so readily. “Aye,” was all he grunted.
The old man nodded, a compassionate look on his wrinkled face.
“Then belike ye will have a lot in common with Callum MacNair. The man is more legend than flesh an’ blood.
He made good his escape from MacTavish nearly three and twenty years ago now, setting himself up as a spit boy at Laird Gray’s kitchens.
Humble work, but there must have been magic in the food they served there because yon Callum grew to massive proportions in both height and muscle.
In fact, he must be about the same build as ye are yerself, young man! ”
The old man screwed up one eye, then amended his remark. “Ye have a strangely foreign look about the eyes, lad, but the rest o’ ye is pure Highland giant!” He laughed at his own joke but it tapered off when all Will did was give the jest a fleeting smile.
Will grunted. “Tell me about this man’s clan?”
Made garrulous from the whiskey, the old man was generous with his words.
“Hoots! On his faither’s side, Callum is acknowledged as clan by the MacNairs.
Even though the man’s mither died during one o’ MacTavish’s raids, it was after the first Laird Cal MacNair and his lady plighted their troth over the anvil in the Norselands and conceived the young Callum.
She was captured on her way to meet her husband at Fair Isle, and then the first Cal MacNair was caught in an ambush set by MacTavish. D’ye follow me?”
Will nodded. All of his concentration was on the old man’s words. He had blocked out the sounds of laughter and chatter coming from the other parts of the alehouse.
“What of Laird Gray?”
The elder shook his head. “Laird Gray had sons of his own, so he was never in a position to foster Callum when he was a boy. Callum MacNair left Gray Castle when he heard MacTavish’s call for more mercenaries to join his troops.
He would have never given up his clan name, however; he was too proud to be the legitimate son of Chief Cal MacNair to take on another’s clan name.
Being a soldier at MacTavish Castle gave Callum the opportunity to take him out, thus bringing home to roost the curses he had laid on the laird’s head when he was a boy. ”
“What a…noble sentiment,” Will drawled, leaning back against the wall once more. “And yet we have only the man’s word for it that he is a legitimate MacNair, do we no’?”
The old man was too enamored of the Callum MacNair legend to let go of it. “Nay, plighting troth over an anvil with one witness to record the event is a legitimate claim to wedlock in Norseland.”
Will sighed. He was too weary to bother hearing more. He had all the proof he needed to draw the conclusion he had suspected at the start: the laird who had ruled over MacTavish lands for the last three years was his long-lost half brother, Callum MacNair.
He was not sure how he felt about this news, but he had the overwhelming desire to find absolute proof of his own.
More than one upstart interloper had taken power over land after pretending to be someone else.
Will could recall over half a dozen examples of lairds returning from battle or traveling abroad, only to find another man in his wife’s bed claiming his name.
The wife, of course, would always swear herself blind that she was sure the man in her bedchamber had been her husband, only greatly changed since his sojourn away, but everyone knew these claims were made because the woman had become lonely in her bed.
There were so many rumors flying from village to village in the Highlands that if one were a stranger to those parts, one might think the region was overrun with witches, sorcerers, and legends come to life.
Will had come to the conclusion in his own mind that Callum had been dragged off and eaten by wolves when the soldiers in charge of the slave convoy had found Callum’s neck rope loosened and empty.
It was so long ago, he had forgotten more than he remembered.
He would not have even been able to claim with any certainty what color his brother’s hair or eyes were.
What was the alternative? That his brother had escaped the convoy and made his way to Castle Gray to live his best life there as a spit boy?
Never making the least push to send out word to discover what had happened to his younger half brother?
It would not have taken much effort: approach Laird Gray and beg his assistance to send word to MacTavish bailey village to find out what had happened to the slave contingent.
Wee William had been the only orphan from that convoy, for heaven’s sake!
It would have been so easy to locate him at the foster home.
Then Will remembered his foster mother’s face when she had visited the foster home after her son, Steven, had passed away only three days before his fifth birthday. Moira Fearguson had spotted him eating his gruel silently in the dining hall and ran straight up to him.
“Me sweet angel. D’ye have nay mither of yer own? Would ye like a new mither?”
She had hugged him to her bosom and kissed the top of his head, making Wee William feel as if he had finally arrived home.
Perhaps it had been a good thing Callum MacNair had decided to cast all memory of his half brother out of his mind…
Will pushed the bottle of whiskey to the old man’s side of the table. “Go well, elder,” he said. “I bid ye a very good night.”