Chapter 4
The messenger looked extremely travel-worn when he rode into the smithy yard.
The two men were busy at the anvil and did not notice the rider immediately because the noise from the hammers and blasting furnace was too loud.
When the rider gave a short toot on the messenger horn he had tied to his belt at the side, they broke off their working, removed their bonnets, and wiped the sweat from their foreheads, actions which made the messenger hide a smile.
He could see a similarity in the men from their behavior, but not much similarity in their faces.
One man was tall and good looking, with a light beard and bright eyes. The other man looked old and tired.
The elderly man, who looked like a true Highlander, lowered his bushy eyebrows before saying, “An’ what might ye want?”
The messenger wasted no time in telling the two formidable-looking men why he was there. “I come on behalf of me mistress, Lady Meria, on the eastern shoreline. She seeks a blacksmith to craft her husband a sword to be presented to him during a celebratory feast.”
Fingal Fearguson looked at Will and waited for him to answer.
He knew it would be his son’s skills the lady would be looking for.
Will stepped forward so his eyes would adjust faster to the sunlight.
It was dark in the smithy, and the rider still sat atop his horse outside in the broad daylight.
It was an old warrior’s trick to never let an enemy gain the advantage by leaving an opponent blinded by the sun.
The reply was short and firm. “I don’ do ceremonial swords.”
The messenger must have realized he was insulting the blacksmith’s son by staying mounted. He hastily dismounted and made a bow before presenting the tall man with a rolled parchment.
“It tells ye everythin’ ye need to ken here, master. The lady wants a weapon for her husband, no’ a ceremonial toy. She sent out six riders to all corners o’ the Highlands to search for the best smiths. I was sent west, and thus, was told that was ye.”
Will was not flattered, but he appreciated the messenger climbing down to give him the letter. “Och lad. Ye must be parched an’ weary. Come on into the kitchen an’ make free with the water pump by yon well.”
The two men went into the cottage, which was built a good way away from the smithy, fire being a big concern when one roof was thatched with straw and the other roof with lumber.
Will waited for the messenger to douse his head under the pump before pointing him to sit at the kitchen table.
It was cooler inside the cottage, and the rider heaved a sigh when Will handed him a mug of small ale.
“Thank ye kindly, master. It will be midsummer at the next rising moon, but I swear it feels as if it is full heat already. And don’ get me talkin’ about the midges risin’ up out o’ the trees and grasses, else I might be too afeared to travel back. Blasted wee biastags!”
Will indicated that the messenger could make free use of the pitcher of small ale on the table while he read the parchment. The words had definitely been written by a professional scribe; no lady would waste her time copying out her message six times in such a fair script.
I hereby make an offer to you, skilled craftsman: travel to MacNair Castle and all your expenses will be paid for out from our own purse.
To wit: I promise to reimburse any losses and out of pocket expenses you incur when traveling from there to here.
At MacNair Castle you will set to crafting a sword for my husband, Laird Callum MacNair.
It is to be a surprise, so I have secretly taken his measurements under the pretense of it being for a fine suit of clothes.
As many smiths as reply to this call may come - all will be paid for their work and their travel.
The catch is this: I will choose the best sword for my husband and pay an extra sovereign for it.
The other smiths will be paid for their craftsmanship, with their swords given all due reverence and kept in the armory too.
But my husband will only wield the winning sword and keep it strapped over his back forever more.
Do you accept this invitation and challenge?
I pray you do, dear craftsman, because the honors that accompany this task are manifold.
Lady Meria MacNair
MacNair Castle, two leagues above the eastern Dornoch Firth peninsula as the crow flies north.
Will looked up. His father had just come in, wiping his neck and hands on a rough cloth.
He had also ducked his head under the water pump and come in for an ale.
Smithing was hard work in the summer. Will stuck to drinking an elderberry cordial made with fresh spring water.
He drank over three pails of the liquid every summer day.
He answered his father’s unvoiced question.
“I never thought I had a fate mapped out for me, Faither, but it seems to me that destiny thinks otherwise.” He knew Fingal’s eyes were weak from all the fire sparks that had lodged under his eyelids over the years, so Will read the letter aloud for his father to listen to.
“Seems like the most convoluted bothersome keech I have ever heard of!” Fingal did not mince his words. “Only a spoiled lady with naught on her hands to do except thinking up flashy gestures so she might impress her neighbors would come up with such an idea.”
He wiped his mouth and then slammed his mug down. Then the messenger and the blacksmith fell to talking about the silly ways of wealthy Highland ladies. Will said nothing, just sat with the letter in his hands, rereading the words.
It was a sign. As much as he loved his foster father and thought of Moira Fearguson as his true mother because she had been the one to rescue him, offer him a home, and raise him, this letter could only mean one thing: fate wanted him to seek out his half brother.
“How many other blacksmiths have been called to the castle?” Will wanted to know.
The only chance he had of meeting his half brother was if he won the prize.
As confident as he was about his skills, Will was not such a braggart as to claim he was the best swordsmith in all the Highlands.
Not only would a claim like that bring him more work than he could handle but could even alert brigands to the whereabouts of the smithy.
The last thing Will wanted was for his father and himself to have to fend off a brigand attack if a band of rogues came sniffing around for gold, especially if they came around while he was traveling, something that he very much intended to do now.
“Six men, yerself included.” The messenger was most forthcoming now that he had quenched his thirst. “But I ken no’ how many have accepted the call.
I headed out from the castle five days ago.
It took me three days to reach the West Coast an’ another two days to discover who folks claim to be the best man.
” He tilted his mug toward Will. “That would be ye. I didnae find a single man who said otherwise.”
Fingal grumbled, “So I am to lose me son to this lark, an’ off he goes to pit his skills against five others?
I don’ like those odds.” He turned to Will.
“Nay offense, Son, but ye have nay idea how serious these blasted challenges are taken. Imagine the toughest Highland games imaginable, but with great big blacksmiths instead o’ athletes! ”
Will grinned. “Och, Faither. I’ve won me fair share o’ Highland games. I can handle meself, dinnae fash. I must venture forth an’ match me skills against others. I cannae stay here on the western shores all me life. I have a yen to see a bit more o’ the world.”
This jovial reply made Fingal raise his eyebrows, but he said nothing in front of the messenger.
That night, while watching Will pack a few items into one of the saddlebags, he placed his fists on his waist and sighed.
“Right. Out with it. Why are ye leaving with this fellow tomorrow? Ye have nae attended a Highland games since ye were a wee yin, so don’ be givin’ me any blather about loving the thrill o’ competition an’ whatever else ye were spouting forth at the dinner table! ”
Will grinned. “M’love o’ travel and the yearning I have to see a bit o’ the world, ye mean?” Fingal Fearguson smiled but nodded. “Aye, now give me the truth with nay bark on it.”
Will sat on the edge of the chest. “I think this Laird Callum MacNair might be me half brither.”
Fingal came to sit next to Will so that their voices would not travel out to the stables, where the messenger was asleep in the hayloft. “There may be more than one Callum MacNair in the world, lad. Think o’ the boy’s faither. Was he no’ also Callum MacNair?”
Will nodded. “Aye, but the elder one was a chieftain. This one is a laird. An’ his story has all the hallmarks of truth. I have to go there in the flesh to find out. Hence, the comment about me fate comin’ knockin’ at the door.”
He stood up and set to packing his saddlebags again. Fingal watched him, his frown betraying his concern.
“Ye seem remarkably cool about this news, lad. What d’ye plan to do if the man turns out to be yer brither?”
Will shrugged. “I dinnae ken. Maybe introduce meself an’ jog his memory. Maybe ignore him. It depends…”
This was not good enough for Fingal. “Ye are no’ sure how ye’ll react?
That seems to be leaving ye with an exceedingly wide boundary of emotions to rise up inside ye, Will.
Ye were always such a quiet, solemn wee child—half bairn, half boy—with a wee bit o’ the philosopher inside ye too, for good measure.
“Yer mither would never tell ye this, but ye came to us with much on yer plate and no way to eat it. But sometimes it would keek out at the world when certain memories were jostled inside ye. I remember when ye first came home with us, ye kicked an’ screamed so hard because ye would nae get up into the back o’ the cart, no matter how much we begged ye.
Eventually we had to untie the pony from the traces an’ settle ye on the animal’s back.
I pulled that bletherin’ cart all the way home on me own!
An’ another time, we tried to knot a kerchief around yer neck so ye would look smart for the chapel service.
Once more, ye kicked an’ screamed blue murder. So, ye see…”
Will did not look at his father straight as he replied, “That’s all auld water under the bridge, Faither.
I’m a grown man now with no grudges to bear.
Besides, I am curious to see if this man is me brither.
What harm can that do? An’ I get to earn gold at the same time.
Spread the name o’ Fearguson far an’ wide!
I swear ye will be proud o’ me one way or the other. ”
The blacksmith shook his head. “It’s like ye dinnae want to listen, Son. Those dreams ye still have? Ye’ve been having them all yer young life. They have left their mark on ye, an’ ye don’ even ken it.”