Chapter 8
They walked back up the bailey hill together, chatting like old friends. When he told Ailsa she resembled a silver minnow fish under the water because of her pale hair, she laughed and swatted his arm in a playful manner. He found her spontaneity refreshing.
“D’ye think this competition is fair?” Ailsa wanted to know. “If I am to be honest with ye, what Lady Meria kent about sword quality could be balanced on the head of a pin!”
He smiled. “Nay, lass, dinnae worry yer sweet head. All three of us blacksmiths understand what we are doing. At the very least, the lady will get three good swords to choose from.”
Ailsa frowned. “But even I ken that a man must be measured for his sword so that the balance and weight of the weapon will be suitable for all occasions, be it battle, training, or simply to carry around in a sheath strung over the back. How on earth can a blacksmith craft something like that without knowing all the details?”
Will gave her a rueful grin. “All of us blacksmiths are using me to mimic his lairdship’s size, Ailsa!
Lady Meria, as ignorant as she might be when it comes to crafting a weapon, took one look at me when Galbraith an’ Creel asked for measurements an’ said, ‘Master Fearguson, ye’re a perfect match for me husband, so make a sword for yerself an’ it will fit just fine.
’ And o’ course, I am helping the other two masters with their calculations, but as for meself, I’m just making a sword as though it’s for me. ”
They laughed all the way up the bailey hill, but while walking down the main thoroughfare, Will grew serious. “Ye made the day a happy one, Ailsa, as I’m sure many a man has told ye before.”
Ailsa blushed and hung her head, a sure sign the maiden was not looking for courtship.
“I…am pleased ye seem to be more relaxed today, Master Will. There have been times when I think I have seen the worries of the world on yer shoulders.”
He grabbed her hand, and they stopped walking. When she looked up into his face, he could see her concern for him was genuine. For a brief moment, his heart gave a skip, but then the bitterness about his past rushed in to warp him again.
“I dinnae need yer pity, lass,” he growled, and stalked off to the smithy, leaving Ailsa standing alone on the road.
He found Lady MacNair there. She was admiring two swords sitting in a pail of water with their hilts sticking out.
Both swords had highly decorated hilts with ornately crafted embossments and jewels set in the pommel and cross guard.
Meria looked up when Will’s tall shadow fell across the smithy door.
“Master Will! Have ye finished? I am agog to see what ye have produced.”
Will gave the woman a perfunctory nod and moved to the corner where the anvil he had been using was set. Behind the anvil was a wooden barrel. He lifted a plain steel sword out of it and held it out to Lady MacNair to inspect.
“I am still to wrap the hilt with leather cord, Lady,” Will informed her.
Lady Meria ran one finger along the unembellished pommel and said, “Mm, well…how functional. But I’m not sure if my husband would like such a plain weapon.”
Logan and Creel stepped forward to inspect Will’s sword. Both men agreed it was perfectly balanced and crafted but hardly the sort of gift one would want for such an important celebration.
Lady Meria seemed relieved to have the two blacksmiths agree with her. “But you are still invited to the feast, Master Will…and ye, Master Galbraith. It’s only that I think Master Creel’s sword is the best.”
She ran her hand over the jewel-encrusted weapon the same way a housewife might do with a fish she was thinking of buying at the market.
“But please bring yer swords to the feast, masters, so that the villagers and clan might admire them all. And I thank ye for yer service.” She handed Logan and Will each a pouch of gold, but said to Master Creel, “Tomorrow at the feast, I will award ye the extra gold. And I thank ye, gentlemen, more than words can say, for makin’ me husband’s celebration one that he will remember for the rest of his life. ”
The heat in the spinner’s cottage was intense.
Tossing and turning, punching his bolster as he tried to find a cool spot, Will could not sleep.
He had to fight back the impulse to return to the stream, but he knew it would not be the same to go there alone; the silver-haired young housekeeper had cast a spell on him, and if he was not thinking about what would happen at the feast that day, Will was dreaming about how delicious Ailsa’s pale nipples had looked pressed against the thin material of her shift.
As the roosters began to cry their morning greeting into the skies, Will jumped up and went outside after wrapping his plaid around his waist. Gudrun kept the curtain over her side of the cottage closed until the sun rose above the surrounding hills, which would be early enough; it was midsummer’s day, after all.
Logan and Will had taken the loss in stride.
It was a certain kind of comfort to lose when it was a woman making the selection.
Master Creel’s sword hilt had the most jewels and embossments, so his sword was declared the winner for that alone.
There had been no checking the balance or weight, not when a cornucopia of emeralds, sapphires, and rubies were glinting on the pommel.
“The man should be a jewelsmith, not a blacksmith,” Logan grunted to Will as they walked back to Gudrun’s cottage.
A camaraderie had sprung up between the two men after sharing accommodations for the last three days. They were able to fend off the advances from the village maidens far better by sticking together, each man using the other as an excuse or a witness, depending on what the circumstances demanded.
Will did not reply, but after being prompted by Logan, he said, “The wife must ken what the husband likes.”
Will’s imagination was running wild. In his mind, if this man was his brother, Callum MacNair must be a shallow, heartless fool to prefer a useless weapon covered in jewels.
Fie on the wastrel! But that was typical of what he knew of the fellow thus far.
The man was a braggart and a bully, making himself out to be the best warrior in all the Highlands and rubbing his status in the nose of anyone who would listen to his tall tales.
Likely as not, this was some rambling mercenary who had stuck the real Callum MacNair with a dagger after hearing about his vague claims to fame.
Faugh! How could he, Will, be related to such a braying ass?
He was not aware of it, but Will began to formulate a way to humiliate Laird MacNair right then.
It was only a wisp of a plan: a confrontation at this precious feast of his.
MacNair might not have been aware of the contest to craft him a sword, but how about if Will challenged him to a sword fight after Laird MacNair received his new sword?
Right there in the banqueting hall, once MacNair had taken his trumpery sword as a gift, Will decided it was only fair that he challenge the man to a sword fight to test the strength of one another’s weapon right away.
“Do ye think that sword o’ Master Creel’s would stand up in a fight, Will?” Logan had asked him last night.
Will smiled grimly to himself as he emptied a pail of water over his head and shook his hair free of the droplets.
We are about to find out, are we no’, Laird MacNair?
And while ye might be under the impression I am challenging ye to a fight because I’m sore about losing the competition, ye will nae ken I am doin’ it for other reasons up until the time me sword goes into yer belly.
The main road had been rumbling with the sound of cart wheels and horse hooves since the birds began singing.
Gudrun had not served anyone porridge that morning and told the two men to save the space in their bellies for the feast, leaving the hearth unlit to emphasize her point, and then went uphill to help Freida in the kitchen.
Logan had grumbled about missing out on breaking his fast and rooted around in the baskets until finding an old bannock.
Will, with memories of his time in the foster home still clear in his mind, did without food quite happily.
The two men walked to the baker’s house, where Master Creel was accommodated, and waited outside for the blacksmith to wrap his prize-winning weapon in a fine silk cloth.
All three men went up the hill together, chatting about what they would do with their gold when they got home.
Each had the sword they made slung wrapped in cloth, carrying it in both hands, and no one said anything about another sword being strapped behind Will’s back; he was in the business of making weapons, after all.
Will kept quiet for the most part, occasionally interjecting a murmur of agreement here and there.
He was distracted, planning on how he would go about trouncing this peely-wally laird of Lady Meria’s.
Real brother or imposter, Will had built up such a hatred for the man by this time, all he wanted to do was…
have MacNair beg for mercy at his feet like a cowardly dog…
run away from the challenge with his tail between his legs… die with agonizing screams of pain…
In the courtyard, Will was torn between entering the castle through the hall or telling his companions he was going to the kitchen.
“Come on, lad,” Master Creel said. “What’s with yer ditherin’? The trumpets are about to signal the start of the feast, an’ I want to sit at the board closest to the kitchen!”
This made more sense to Will if he wanted to catch a glimpse of Ailsa, so he followed his friends inside.
The great hall was ablaze with MacNair and Gray plaids, giving credence to that part of Callum’s story, at least. If pine branches had been hung on the walls, the festive colors would make it seem like Yule, except no fires were burning inside the sweltering confines of the castle.
Will spotted Lady MacNair immediately, dressed so fine as she was in a red shift dress under dark green stays and kirtle. She saw them enter and bid the men to follow her, saying, “I have ye all seated at the back, an’ please stay hidden behind the larger tables, masters, until I call ye forward.”
By this stage, Will was panting, eager for action. Curse his brother for leaving him to rot in a foster home. To hell with the man who made no push to seek him out!
“What’s got ye so heated, lad?” Master Creel wanted to know.
“The Lady chose me sword fair an’ square, an’ if ye ken a wee bit more about ladies, Will, ye would have decorated the doldrums out o’ yer sword too.
The weapon ye crafted is plain steel when all’s said an’ done, and no’ very festive or celebratory. ”
Will shook his head. He had no grudge against the master blacksmith. “Aye, Master Creel, I will ken better next time…if there ever is one.”
His companions found nothing curious about this statement.
Traveling to make a gift sword for the privilege of being declared the winner was an unusual event and unlikely to ever be repeated in the Highlands.
The three men sat down at the trestle board to the back of the banquet hall: Master Creel craning his head to look for the servant bringing out the platters of food, Logan looking around with an interested expression on his face, and Will on edge, shrugging his shoulders every now and again to make sure the sword stayed loose in its sheath.
A fanfare sounded; the pipes began to wail.
Laird and Lady MacNair walked onto the dais at the front of the hall.
Cheers and claps echoed up to the high ceiling, and servants ran amidst the boards and up to the high table on the dais, filling mugs and glasses.
So no one noticed Will’s face when he saw his brother for the first time since he had been left on the slave cart all those years ago.
He inhaled sharply through his nostrils and held his breath.
That man is nay interloper. Laird MacNair is me brither, Callum, in the flesh.
The primal pain of being abandoned made Will’s temples throb with anger. He did not even care when Ailsa entered the banqueting hall behind an enormous haunch of venison.