Chapter Six
“Whoa,” Rory said, bringing his horse to a halt in front of the Ankeld village blacksmith.
He was greeted by the thick, shifting back muscles of Ramsay McDonough who stood, legs spread, pumping the bellows.
Ramsay’s fire roared and burned brighter with every life-giving breath.
Then with tongs, he retrieved a long, slim piece of tortured metal from the flames, red hot and ready to submit to the command of Ramsay’s hammer.
He turned then, strands of blond hair clinging to his forehead, and brought metal to anvil, while at the same time reaching for his hammer.
Down it came. The sharp clang rang out, piercing the air.
“Alba gu bràth, Ramsay,” Rory said when next the hammer head reached toward the sky.
Ramsay looked up, a scowl of surprise darkening his pale blue eyes the instant before a crooked smile bade Rory welcome.
His hammer slammed down again. The hot metal yielded, shedding sparks like tears.
Tongs pinched tightly, Ramsay removed the flattened piece and drove it into a bucket of water.
Steam billowed off the surface as heat and flame surrendered to their master.
Setting his hammer down, Ramsay reached out his hand, which Rory firmly clasped in greeting. “Go ahead,” the blacksmith said, gesturing deeper inside his stall toward a narrow door. “He’s waiting on ye.”
Rory nodded. “As always, ye have my thanks.” Before he crossed to the door, he glanced at the road. Villagers crowded the busy streets, heading toward the green where the market had been assembled.
“Ye’re all right,” Ramsay said, reassuringly. “Go ahead.”
Rory ducked his head beneath the overhang and retreated into the shadows of the dim stall toward the door.
Once inside, he walked past crates filled with tools, then behind a large stack of wood.
Squatting low, he squeezed his fingers beneath one of the wooden floor planks.
It came loose. Setting it aside, he did the same with the next, wider plank, creating enough space for his large frame to squeeze through.
Darkness greeted him as he stepped down through the hole, his head still remaining above the floor.
He had to duck to move the planks back in place, concealing himself beneath.
Then, staying low, he turned to his right and took three long strides, which brought him to a short, arched passageway from the top of which hung a thick blue curtain.
Pushing the fabric aside, he descended a small staircase into a narrow room, illuminated by two fat candles.
At the far end sat a keg propped up on a stool with several tankards stacked on top.
Above the keg hung a wooden sign, which read The Iron Shoe Tavern, and dominating the space was a narrow table with six wooden chairs.
At the far end of the table, the abbot sat, busy scribbling on a piece of parchment. He looked up and waved Rory over, then motioned to a tankard placed in front of the chair at his side. “I’ve poured yer cup.”
Rory slumped into the chair, his legs spread wide. He wiped at his eyes before stretching his neck from side to side.
“Ye made good time,” Abbot Matthew said.
A lazy smile curved Rory’s lips. “I rode like I was outrunning the devil himself, pardon any blasphemy.”
The abbot, his smile unwavering, cocked a brow at Rory. “Given yer outstanding work for a higher cause, I’m quite certain the good Lord will forgive ye. Although as ye know, I cannot hear confession. Ye’ll need a priest for that.”
Rory sat straight and reached for his cup, taking a long draught.
His eyes followed the candle smoke coiling in thin ribbons through the floorboards into Ramsay’s stall above their heads, combining undetected with the ubiquitous cloud and soot of the blacksmith’s fire.
The Iron Shoe Tavern was Ramsay’s contribution to the cause.
Originally extra storage, he’d turned his cellar into a safe meeting place for the abbot’s agents.
The clash of striking metal began again, absorbing Rory and Abbot Matthew’s conversation.
Rory took another sip of ale and smiled.
Ramsay even ensured they did not go thirsty.
The abbot had returned his attention to his paper, deftly composing words in his even, disciplined hand.
Rory stood to refill his cup. “Ye must have been mighty pleased by the last fortune of silver David delivered.”
The abbot nodded but did not look up. “Indeed. I intend to purchase chargers to rebuild the Scottish cavalry.”
Rory sat back, enjoying his relaxed surroundings while the sharp ringing of the hammer kept watch. “I have to tell ye, Abbot. I enjoyed that last mission in particular.”
This time the abbot looked up and seemed to consider Rory for a moment. “Judging by the less than holy twinkle in yer eye, I feel it’s safe to assume ye met Alex.”
Rory leaned forward, elbows on the table and raked his hands through his hair. “Met her? Abbot, I undressed her.”
The abbot winced. “Och, knowing ye both as I do, I am not surprised to hear that, not surprised at all.” Frowning, he sat back in his seat and scratched at his shorn head. “Ye know, ‘tis interesting that ye should bring Alex up, because she’s central to the reason I summoned ye here.”
Rory sat forward, an alarm sounding in his mind. Being an agent for Scotland was dangerous. On any given day, every one of the abbot’s agents risked capture, injury, and most certainly death. “What’s happened? Is she hurt? Was she arrested?”
The abbot shook his head, putting up a pacifying hand. “Nay, nothing like that, lad. She’s not in immediate danger; however, she is in trouble and has turned to me for aid.”
The tension eased somewhat from Rory’s shoulders. “What are the particulars?”
“Her father recently passed away; may God rest his soul.”
“God rest his soul,” Rory repeated, making the sign of the cross with the abbot. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Aye, he was a good man. Unfortunately, he didn’t settle the matter of her marriage before he passed away.”
“Forgive me for saying so, but can marriage be so important to one of yer agents, to a rebel—even if she is a woman?”
“It is if the agent’s father is laird of Clan MacKenzie.”
“Laird?” Rory blurted. He sat back and blew out a long breath.
Images of the Alex MacKenzie he had met came rushing back to him, her slender form, her request for him to untie her laces, her cheeky smile, her strong thigh with a dagger strapped to it.
“Are ye quite certain we are talking about the same woman?”
The abbot chuckled. “Alex flouts convention to be sure. Remember, the most ruthless of nobles can often be the most polite or well-behaved. Alex has never been well-behaved. She aspires to reach far higher ideals.”
“Did her father know of her involvement with the cause?”
The abbot shook his head. “No one knows that I’m aware of, although I would not be surprised if her cousin, Mary, guarded her secret.”
“Is there not someone else with the authority to select her husband, a brother or an uncle?”
“There is no one, and that, my lad, is the problem. Clan MacKenzie has no chieftain. Her father’s chair sits empty while those who would claim it wait for the opportune moment.
Already she feels pressed by the MacLeod, a neighboring chieftain.
The wealth of the clan, the desirability of their land—’tis too fine a prize for even the best intentioned to resist. There will be others who will want the wealth for themselves.
Worse yet, Gordon MacLeod is in league with the English.
Tensions in the region are bound to rise, placing Alex at their perilous center. ”
“What’s to be done?”
“Before committing my life to the service of God, I was a MacKenzie. It is my duty to ensure the clan remains safe while a husband is chosen for her. To that end, I am sending three men north to MacKenzie territory. Each man is good and loyal to Scotland, not to mention highly skilled at specific elements of defense. They will ensure the MacKenzie warriors have the support and training needed to handle any possible attacks.”
“What about me? Why am I here?” Rory asked.
“Ye’re here for Scotland,” the abbot said, leaning closer. “Alex has a stockpile of weapons hidden away. I am sending ye north so that ye can help her bring those weapons to me.”
“Weapons, ye say? I was just speaking to David about that very subject.” Rory smiled as he considered the prospect of another mission with Alex MacKenzie. Wetting his lips, he leaned forward. “When do I leave?”