Chapter 6
Will was travel-sore and weary. He had come to regard his traveling companion, the messenger, with a dawning respect.
“Ye must have a backside of iron, lad, to live in the saddle as much as ye do.”
The messenger, David MacNair, was one of Laird Callum’s dozens of cousins from the MacNair clan side of his family.
During the three-day journey, he had filled in Will on all of the new laird’s clan connections and the backstory of how Callum came to be recognized by the MacNairs as one of their own.
Thus Will’s suspicions became certainties with every mile the horses put behind them.
“Och aye, Master,” the messenger prattled away.
“Cal the Elder was the brither of the auld Laird MacNair and a powerful chieftain in his own right, with lands under his control and reliant on his guardianship. But he fell for one o’ those cool Norse sirens, ye ken, and he would never be satisfied with a Highland lassie again.
Callum MacNair the Younger is the fruit o’ their union.
“Then the poor lady’s family took umbrage at the match and began discussions about how to get her put away into one o’ those places for errant women.
She ran away to meet with her husband but got taken by pirates.
The next thing the poor soul kent, she was up at MacTavish Castle as a slave girl.
But auld MacTavish doesnae like his ladies used, so when he saw she was with child, he passed her on to a tavern of ill repute—a common bawdy house—to be sold for wenching. ”
“That’s no’ how I remember it,” Will murmured under his breath.
“What?” David wanted to know.
Will raised his voice. “Naught, it’s only that I heard the tale told differently over on the West Coast.”
David, who only heard that the story of his famous cousin had spread as far as the Highland shores on the western side, gave a satisfied smile.
“Aye, our Callum is renowned up an’ down the land.” If he had looked behind, David would have seen Will roll his eyes and give a scornful sneer.
“How d’ye ken the man is no’ just an imposter?” Will shouted the words forward.
David had ridden ahead to check out the land. When he heard these words, he reined in his horse and waited for Will to catch up to him before he answered.
“Because Callum MacNair the Younger looks just like his faither an’ his clan!
The auld laird says Laird Callum is the living spit o’ his brither, and he should ken, right?
Our laird never met the fair Norse lady, but we can only suppose ’tis from her where Laird Callum inherits his strangely slanted eyes an’ eyebrows.
As for the rest o’ him, he’s pure MacNair—tall, broad, muscles honed from all manner o’ manly pursuits, and sharp as a whip. ”
Will hid a smile. “This Laird Callum MacNair of yers sounds like a regular paragon of virtues! But ye have nae answered me question. How d’ye ken the man is no’ an imposter? Look at me, for instance. Don’ ye think I could be described in the same way?”
David’s eyes widened. He must have looked at Will properly for the very first time because the messenger went very quiet before saying, “I think Laird Callum’s hair is lighter…
” then he kicked his horse into a canter as if he needed to put some distance between himself and the man who resembled his laird so closely, it was uncanny.
They had the furthest to ride, and even starting at dawn and setting camp at sundown, no mean feat of endurance in those parts so close to midsummer, Will and David were still the last to arrive at the bailey. Lanterns had already been lit, and not a soul was waiting for them.
David frowned but hastened to reassure Will, “Dinnae fash, Master. I will ride to the castle and find word about where ye are to be housed. It is of the utmost importance that ye stay hidden an’ begin work tomorrow morning at the same time as the others—to make it fair.”
He trotted his horse up the main thoroughfare that bisected the bailey in twain.
Will had been biting back his bile for this final part of the journey.
He had convinced himself that this fancy new laird was his brother, and he was finding it harder than he imagined to reconcile the bitterness he felt toward him.
It might be a relief to find an imposter instead of someone who had abandoned him at such a tender age, knowing he would be taken into slavery.
David rode down toward him, a wide grin on his face, but he pulled up short when he saw the thunderous scowl on Will’s face.
“Was I gone long? My pardon, Master. Ye must be as sick o’ the road as I am.”
That was an understatement. For three days, Will had not had access to a hot meal other than roasting skinny waterfowl over a small fire.
Half of the journey had been spent riding around bogs and stinking mires, and he was covered from head to boots in marshland mud.
Even the scruff of his short light beard was matted with dirt.
He wanted to bathe, and he wanted something hearty to eat.
And yet, that was not what was making him scowl.
Thoughts of revenge were seething inside him. David knew none of this, however.
“The cook says we are to make our way to Gudrun Gun Ainm’s house.
She has a wee cottage, which is large enough to harbor ye for the length of the challenge.
” The two men began walking their horses back down the bailey hill.
“She’s a spinster. Gudrun makes the finest wool thread in the Highlands.
She can fashion it so thin, it’s possible to weave transparent plaid that can be pulled through a wedding band! ”
Will stepped back and allowed David to knock on the spinster’s door. A softly lilting feminine voice called out from inside, “Enter. The door is off the latch.”
That voice banished Will’s preconceived notions about what a spinster should sound like right out of his head, and when he entered the cottage, ducking his head under the lintel to step inside, the woman he saw stirring a small cauldron of stew over the fireside made him wonder if David had his information wrong.
The young woman drew his attention, even though there were others in the room.
She had a sheath of silvery-blonde hair falling over her shoulder; the rest hung down her back like a river of shining metal.
When she looked up to greet them, her eyes were pale gray, so pale that the color gave her an air of otherworldliness; he would not have been surprised if the girl gave one wailing shriek and flew up the chimney in a wisp of smoke.
When she stood up from the little stool on which she had been perched, he was reassured she was a flesh-and-blood woman, but her slightly kittenish features gave her an intriguing uniqueness.
“G-Gudrun Gun Ainm?” he stuttered, and then felt foolish when she gave a ringing laugh.
“Nay. Gudrun is me mither. I am her daughter, Ailsa—the housekeeper up at the castle. Lady MacNair sent me here to settle ye in. Ye are most welcome, Master.”
Will glared at David for supplying him with the wrong information. His disgruntlement was clear, and David began explaining immediately. “Nay, Master. I dinnae lie. Ailsa is Gudrun’s foster daughter.”
An elderly lady stepped out from behind a curtain of leather pulled across one corner of the room.
A youthful-looking man was seated on the bench next to a small dining table.
Will looked from one to the other, unsure of how they were all connected to one another.
Ailsa stepped forward and seemed to know that he would never allow her to take his saddlebags away from him.
Will would never hand over something so heavy for a woman to carry on her own.
“Ye can place yer baggage over there where it will be safe from catching anyone’s feet.”
Will slung his saddlebags onto the floor where she had indicated. Then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, Ailsa took him by his hand, not caring that he was muddy and must stink like a swamp.
“This is me mither, Mistress Gudrun. She is the foremost mistress spinner, but her only apprentice is me!”
The lady by the leather curtain stepped into the room, letting the leather fall to hide the narrow bolster pushed against the wall behind her.
“Me daughter likes to sing me praises, Master,” Gudrun said, taking Will’s hand between two of hers.
He could feel how thin and worn the skin on her fingers was, made that way from hours of twirling thread.
“But I am an ordinary crafter compared to a blacksmith. How braw ye are!” The elderly lady had then looked over at the youth sitting at the table and said, “Not that ye are no’ braw in yer own way too, lad.
’Tis only that this gentleman has some mighty muscles on him! ”
Ailsa gave a small laugh. “Mither! I am sure that Master…ye must be Will Fearguson? Aye, Master Will is braw in keeping with his great height an’ strength and goes nowhere beyond that.
And so is Master Galbraith here. Master Will, may I make the introduction o’ Master Logan Galbraith to ye?
He is setting to make a sword for Laird Callum as well.
T’other blacksmith is housed with the baker.
I believe his clan name is Master Creel. ”
Will was already tired of all this formality. He clasped Logan’s forearm in a Highlander’s greeting as the young man stood up.
“Call me Will…or Fingalson, if ye prefer. Me faither is the true master craftsman in the family. If ye want to ken the truth, I like craftin’ swords as much as the next man, but I prefer using them more.
The thing is this, as I’m sure ye’ll agree: a blacksmith cannae simply drop his work to ride off to fulfill another’s bidding.
That sort o’ behavior is hardly likely to endear him to the local folk. ”
Logan bowed. “Thank ye, Will. Call me Logan. I recently set up me own smithy near the Caithness eastern borders, so I have nay local customers to please yet. I figure if I win, I can put the money to good use to buy metal an’ expand me wee smithy.”
The two men moved back to the table to discuss the merits of leaving a master once an apprenticeship was finished as opposed to staying and working alongside an old Master.
“Me Faither is me auld master,” Will said, “an’ I’ll no’ leave the auld man for love nor money.”
He noticed the blonde lady smile when she heard this, but she did not stop stirring the stew.
The sound of a wheel spinning came from behind the leather curtain: Gudrun had disappeared to continue her work.
It was a homely, peaceful atmosphere, but it could not stop Will from asking where he might find the nearest washhouse.
“There is no hostelry in the bailey,” Ailsa said. “Please forgive me for no’ showin’ ye to a washstand, but the only one is in me mither’s corner. Come with me an’ I’ll show ye to a place.”
She waited for him outside while he retrieved the saddlebag that held his fresh clothes, then they walked toward the cow byres at the edge of the village. The intense smell of tanning kettles hit Will full in his nostrils.
Ailsa wrinkled her nose. “Me uncle is a tanner. I hope it is no’ too offensive for ye?”
Will grinned. The young woman was so friendly and open about things, he felt sorry for her having to show him the way, and said so.
She shook her head. “In truth, I missed the place when I was trainin’ down in Inverness. Come, meet my clan.”
A quick introduction was made to a cheerful man named Tam and his wife, Oona. Will was beginning to sense a pattern here. When Ailsa led him out to the washroom at the back of the cottage, near the water pump, he said, “Are the females in yer clan…”
She gave him a sad smile as she handed him a cloth and soap Oona had given the young woman.
“Aye…they were once Norse slaves…” and she looked up at the castle with a sorrowful expression.
That gave Will a lot to think about as he washed.
Not bothering with the clay wash bowl, Will loosened the belt holding his plaid just below his waist and tore off his shirt, pumped out water into a wooden pail, lathered soap all over his body, and then poured the bucket over his head.
Only when he had done this three more times did he feel like a presentable man again.
The idea of eating stew with his new friends in the spinner’s cottage was looking more appealing to Will…