Chapter 3
Freida and Ailsa were down in the kitchen, peering at the iron table with the latched furnace and door underneath it with curious expressions on their faces.
“Are ye telling me, Ailsa,” Freida, the cook, said in a disapproving tone, “that we are meant to place the wood under this thing an’ then put the pots on top?”
Ailsa stood up. She had been kneeling on the flagstones to check under the strange iron device. “Aye, Freida. The flames are meant to go up, ye see, and heat the iron table and then the pots boil merrily away.”
Freida frowned. “I think I’ll stick to broilin’ me food over the hearth an’ fire pits, thank ye very much.
How are we meant to turn the roasts if it’s no’ over a spit across the flames?
This cast iron box looks more like one o’ those Sassenach cannons than it resembles something that belongs in a kitchen! ”
Ailsa consulted the letter in her hand, following the words with one fingertip.
“Mmm, Lady MacNair says here that part of her birthday surprise for the laird is to present him with broiled meats that were not cooked over the open hearth… She writes to say that we must put the meats into the wee door next to the fire burning under this iron table and thus they will cook from the heat there.”
Freida folded her arms. “I don’ trust not to have me eye on the meat when it’s hidden away inside yon wee iron closet there. What happens if it burns? I will nae ken because it’s burnin’ away behind a closed door!”
Ailsa understood the cook’s reasoning. It seemed very unnatural to set pots to boil over a sheet of iron instead of hooking it inside one of the huge kitchen fire pits.
And what of those easy-to-watch spits? They could handle anything from a whole ox to a row of twenty roasting chickens.
The aromas that would seep out from the fire pits were always heavenly, a delicious mix of woodsmoke and tender viands.
How would they feed an entire castle of servants, soldiers, and gentry with only one wee iron flame-heated closet?
Both women were highly relieved when Meria MacNair chose this moment to come down into the kitchen. She was an astute lady and could see at a glance that the cook was not happy.
“Ha! I have caught ye in the doldrums!” Meria said. “D’ye find it as intimidating as I do? Well, that makes three o’ us, only it is a big joke: I had this new cast iron oven installed because, as ye all ken, me husband used to be a spit boy.”
The three women had seen the shire cart horses straining to pull the iron contraption up to the top of the hill on which the castle perched.
Fortunately, the kitchen yard gates were so wide the horse had managed to pull it all the way to the doors.
Still, it had taken over fifteen men to pull the cast iron box into the kitchen by placing it atop log rollers.
Then they set it on fireproof stone bricks and knocked a hole in the wall to set up some kind of a chimney stack.
The fresh stones and mortar where the chimney hole had been sealed could still be seen in the wall next to the heavy iron box.
Meria ran her hands over the heavy matte metal with a loving eye.
“Right, here’s how it works. This side houses the fire.
After ye have set the logs burning inside it, ye use this hook to close the door if the handle is hot.
This other side houses the oven; it acts like a large cauldron and lid.
Ye place the meat inside here after the flames have heated it.
Use one o’ the copper roast platters we have for serving the meats at the table, or ye can broil the contents in a large pot.
Both receptacles will work. As for the table part on top, ye put yer pans on here to boil.
It’s quite safe, I assure ye. The Edinburgh craftsman says it takes the contraption two tolls of the bell to thoroughly heat up, and thus he recommends that we allow a boy to sleep down here an’ keep the fires burnin’ with the occasional log. ”
Ailsa knew the last thing Lady Meria needed after her long and complicated explanation was a blank stare, so she changed the subject. “It looks like ye have been busy keepin’ yer own fires burnin’ Lady MacNair! When is yer bairn due?”
It was the best icebreaker. Meria laughed and then ran her hand over her swelling stomach. “Och aye, Ailsa, ye wee saucy japes, ye! I am hopin’ for a girl. I promised me maid, who still lives down at Calvin Estate, that I would name the bairn after her. But Callum is hopin’ for another boy.”
The women discussed bairn names for a while, Freida sticking to it that nothing in the world would persuade her to take a husband after a youth that had been spent with Hamish MacTavish.
Meria nodded, an understanding expression on her face.
“Aye, Cook, indeed. Me own husband’s mither was treated in the same fashion and then passed on to a tavern for wenches when he grew tired of her.
She named her second bairn, Callum’s half brither, William.
Wee William… Apparently he was a wee sandy-haired tike, knee-high to a grasshopper when the lad was torn from his mither’s side.
I suppose that is why Callum is hankering for a second boy—because he can remember what fun he used to have with William. ”
“What happened to the half brother, lady?” Ailsa wanted to know. “It seems strange the boy simply disappeared without a trace.”
Meria shrugged. “Slavery is an outdated practice. This was over twenty years ago now. The village elders say there were no longer any interested buyers. Fosterlings and apprentices are far cheaper to obtain an’ dinnae bear a grudge on top of it all!
The children were scattered to the far corners of the realm.
I pray somewhere out there is a man fully grown who still answers to the name of Wee William, but I will be at peace if he never grew to manhood. No’ many nameless children do.”
Freida whispered a silent prayer for the boy.
“Poor wee mite. ’Tis hardly likely he carried the clan name o’ MacNair with him into obscurity.
They only ever called us by our given names, no’ the names of our faithers.
I would nae even ken how to go about finding me family in the north, even if I were so inclined—which I’m not!
To hell with them for exchanging my own life for me brithers! ”
Ailsa had a feeling she should mention that no one even remotely related to Laird Callum MacNair would deserve the appellation of “wee” much past their tenth birthday, but she kept this observation to herself.
“Enough o’ this sorrowful chatter, Cook.” She pinched Freida without Meria noticing. Ailsa did not want the lady of the house to remember her staff as a bunch of morose ghouls raking up the past. “Let’s start planning the laird’s birthday feast.”
Meria cheered up immediately. “Och aye! ’Tis our third year together, but this is the first time Callum will be here to celebrate an anniversary with me.
He’s been so busy traveling from Calvin Estate back to the castle.
” Lady Meria came closer so the scullery maids would not overhear what she was saying.
“It’s no’ really his birthday, ye ken. That date has been lost over the years.
I ken of no’ a single orphaned spit boy who remembers the day of his birth with any certainty.
It turns out that Callum wrote to Laird Gray an’ asked him on what day he arrived at the castle.
The laird was so kind as to check his ledgers and found the column where it was noted that a MacTavish runaway slave boy named Callum, making a claim that he belonged to the MacNair clan, arrived at Gray Castle during the midsummer festivities and was put to work in the kitchens as a spit boy. ”
Ailsa could not help but give a small smile when she heard this. It painted such a clear picture of the man she knew today. He was confident, but there was a stern humbleness about him that both the rich and poor alike could readily admire.
“A midsummer festival anniversary sounds like the perfect day to celebrate, Lady.” Ailsa clapped her hands, then continued to say, “Perhaps we can find something to bake in the cast iron oven besides meat? That would be exciting.”
The three ladies adjourned to the servants’ parlor so that Ailsa could sit to write down the foodstuffs the cook and Lady MacNair wanted to bring in from other parts of the Highlands.
They lived close to the northern coasts, so fishermen must be sent out early on the morning of the feast to bring back seafood; wains must be sent to the Calvin estate to bring back anything left over from last year’s harvest; Edinburgh vintners must be patronized, and fresh produce must be reserved in advance.
“Don’ forget sugar an’ spice,” the cook said, “because last time I checked, they were running low. No’ low enough to cause the castle to run out within the next few days, ye understand, but a feast will finish them off.
” Freida did not want Lady Meria to think her cook was lax when it came to reordering luxuries.
“Is the cast iron stove to be the laird’s only gift?” Ailsa said, wrinkling her nose slightly and then rubbing the tip. “Because it poses difficulties if ye wish to make Laird Callum a presentation of it.”
Meria took the question seriously. “I thought it would be a good idea to present the food and then tell him it was prepared in the contraption. Ye ken, make a wee joke about the days of turnin’ the spit to be well over.”
Freida, the cook, was shaking her head even before Lady Meria had finished talking. “Nay, m’lady, beg pardon, but there is nay way I can cook a feast for the entire castle only using that thing. I need me fire pits!”
Ailsa nodded thoughtfully. “An’ ye’ll be inviting neighbors an’ honored guests too, will ye nae, Lady Meria?”
Lady MacNair agreed with both women. “Aye, the Grays are coming an’ most o’ the MacNair clan. So is me faither. Use yer fire pits and spits, Freida. I did nae realize a feast would be such an undertaking for the kitchen.”
Ailsa noticed her ladyship looked a little bit downcast. Meria’s surprise and joke for her husband seemed to be losing its effectiveness the more closely she looked at it. Ailsa had an idea.
“What about finding Laird MacNair a gift that can be presented to him during the feast?”
Instantly, Lady Meria was keen to do this.
“Och aye! That is a most fortuitous suggestion, Ailsa. What shall it be?” The three women sat down at the table where Ailsa had been writing.
Various suggestions were thrown around: a fine wool plaid?
No, the MacNair clan was bringing a bolt of their finest woven plaid for Laird Callum as a gift.
Silver buckle brooch with the MacNair crest on it?
No, Callum had not yet decided on what motto he wanted attached to the heraldry of his branch of clan.
A horse? No, Callum adored his gray gelding, Frankl, and would not take kindly to being presented with a replacement.
“What about a solid gold helmet?” Freida suggested, inspired by spending money that was not her own. “He would look very fine in such a thing, like one o’ those mighty generals in ancient times.”
Ailsa and Meria gave one another sideways glances and then broke out into laughter.
When Meria had finished wiping her eyes, she said, “Freida, if I ever see Callum wearing anything atop his head except a bonnet, I might die of shock. He is a hard man to please, with all emphasis on that word: hard. He needs a manly gift to suit his inclinations. He is a warrior now, no’ a spit boy.
What can I get him that will honor that? ”
“A sword!” Ailsa shouted out. “Ye dinnae get anything more suited to a warrior than a sword!”
Lady MacNair slammed her hand on the table.
“Aye! Perfect. I will order the best sword to be made for me husband. It’s the perfect gift and will make a fine presentation.
Och! I can see it now… The blacksmith walking into the banqueting hall with a large sword in his hand, and then he will kneel in front of Callum to make him a presentation of the weapon.
Then I will stand up an’ say it is from me, an’ everyone will be impressed an’ cheer me cleverness!
It will have the whole of the Highlands talking about me clever gift for the rest o’ the year. ”
Ailsa could see that Lady Meria was already getting ahead of herself with this idea.
“M’lady, the best blacksmiths don’ just hang about waitin’ for commissions, ye ken.
I suggest ye put the word out and try to find the best man in the Highlands for the job.
And when ye find him, hire him and tell him to come here!
Then ye will be able to keep an eye on him as he crafts it to make sure the gift is ready in time. ”