Grimly, he set to work, almost expecting to fail but determined to go through with it anyway, and was almost surprised to find small things returning to his mind. How to hold the chair so that it remained stable. How to remove the nails and put new ones in without splitting off the wood. How to fashion braces out of the spares pile to reinforce the corners and frame. Mathe lost himself in the work as he remembered old memories, long forgotten, of summer days in the sawmill. He could almost taste the dust in the air and the sounds of his master barking orders at the apprentices.
Mathe’s hands grew gentle as he worked the wood and idly wondered if Fynn would take an apprenticeship. It seemed the boy was forced to stay inside the house all day while Lilidh worked, so surely learning a trade would be good for him?
This, of course, reminded Mathe of Lilidh’s words about the boy being shunned around the town. And all because of him, of course. Because the boy had done nothing wrong other than be born the son of Mathe MacBrennan; a prison sentence that had condemned both the boy and his mother.
Mathe sat back with a frown, thinking of young Fynn inside the house, all alone. Did he deserve such a fate? And what kind of man would Mathe be to sit back and let it happen? With a sigh, he stood and stretched his legs and stepped out of the stables. The sun was now hidden behind a bank of grey cloud and Mathe shivered as he walked. The ice from the previous day had melted, and Lilidh’s house once again sat in the wet mud. He knocked on the door and waited.
“I’m no' allowed to open the door,” a small voice said from the other side.
“Fynn, it’s Mathe.” He paused. “Duine.”
A moment later the door unlocked and Fynn looked out, smiling.
“Hello, Duine,” he said.
“Hello, Fynn. How are ye?”
“Fine,” the boy said. “I’m pretending to cook. But no' potatoes, though. What about ye, Duine?”
“Ye should probably call me Mathe. Duine is only a nickname, of sorts.”
The boy nodded. “Mama called ye Mathe.”
“It’s my real name,” Mathe explained.
“Then I’ll call ye Mathe as well,” he announced. “What are ye doing here? Mama said ye werenae going to come back.”
“I wasnae, but then I thought of ye here on yer own, and wondered if ye'd like to help me with something?”
Fynn’s eyes widened. “Help ye?”
“Aye,” Mathe said. “I’m fixing some chairs for someone, and I could do with an assistant. If ye’re up to it, of course.”
“Aye, I’m up to it,” he said excitedly. “I love to help mama with all sorts of things.”
“That’s because ye’re a good lad,” Mathe said. “Throw a coat on and come with me.”
The boy hesitated as he dressed. “Mama says I’m no' to leave the porch.”
Mathe frowned. “She doesnae want ye wandering about the town on yer own. It’s no' safe, is it?”
“Aye, that’s why.”
“But ye’re no' on yer own, are ye?”
The boy considered Mathe’s words, and a smile split his face. “Nay, I’m no'. I’m with ye, so that’s alright.”
“And I’ll try to get ye home before yer mama gets back, so she doesnae have to worry. How does that sound?”
“That sounds great!” Fynn shouted and put his small hand in Mathe’s.
As he led the boy back into the cool stables, Mathe suddenly realised that he had no idea what he would do with him. He’d promised Fynn that he could help, though, so he supposed that was a good place to start.
“I’m helping the innkeeper fix some chairs,” he explained, holding up the first example. “They’re auld and wobbly, so I’m going to make them stronger.”
“Why doesnae he buy new chairs?” the boy asked.
“He might no' have the money to do that. And sometimes it’s best to fix things again, rather than throw them away.”
“That chair looks like it might need to be thrown away,” he said, eyeing it dubiously.
Mathe smiled. “I cannae argue with ye, but let’s see if we can fix it first.”
“What do ye want me to do?”
Mathe thought back to his first encounter with Fynn, hunting for stones in the mud. “Would ye like to play a game?”
Fynn’s eyes lit up. “Aye, I love games.”
“Inside this hay, there are nails hidden. Why dinnae ye try to bring me ten nails?”
“Only ten? I can count all the way up to twenty.”
“Alright, then,” Mathe said. “Twenty nails. Be careful, mind. They could be sharp, and ye dinnae want to prick yerself. Dinnae put yer hands all the way under the hay, but just sift the surface.”
“Aye,” Fynn replied and set to work. Mathe watched him for a few moments and observed how he crawled around, poking gently, before he pulled up a nail with an exclamation. “Found one!”
“Good lad,” Mathe said. “How many to go?”
Fynn screwed his face up. “Nineteen,” he said at last.
“Nineteen,” Mathe agreed.
As the boy continued his task, Mathe smoothed down the side of a chair leg and watched him. Fynn had a natural curiosity about him, pulling things out of the hay and tilting his head at them.
“What’s this?” he asked, pulling something out from underneath him.
“That’s a horseshoe,” Mathe explained. “Horses wear them under their hooves to keep their feet safe.”
“Like a boot?”
“Aye, like a boot.”
“How do they stay on?”
“Well,” Mathe said, “they’re nailed into the hoof.”
Fynn made a face. “No' much like a boot, then.”
Once the boy had gathered twenty nails, Mathe pulled out a small plank of spare wood and passed him a hammer. “Why dinnae ye hammer these nails into the wood for me.”
“Why?” Fynn asked.
“I just want to see how ye do it.”
“I’ve never hammered anything before,” the boy said with a frown.
“Never?”
“Never.”
“Well, give the first one a go,” Mathe said encouragingly.
Fynn gripped the hammer awkwardly, holding it close to the head, and tapped the nail. It wobbled around on the wood as the boy gingerly knocked it, making no imprint on the surface.
“I’m no' good at this,” he complained.
“Ye've just no' been taught, that’s all,” Mathe said, clapping him on the back. “Ye said yerself, ye’ve never done this before.”
“So what do I do?” Fynn asked.
Mathe stood and walked over, sitting next to the boy. He took the hammer from him. “The hammer is a special tool, Fynn. It knows if its owner is nervous or unsure, and will fight back. The trick with the hammer is to grip it tightly, like this,” he took hold of it down near the base of the handle, “and then to strike the nail without hesitation. If ye do this, the hammer will feel yer confidence, and will do as ye ask.”
With that, Mathe placed the nail against the wood and tapped twice to set it. He then withdrew his hand and swung down once, hard, and the nail drove itself down to finish flush with the surface. He ran his thumb over it.
Fynn breathed out. “That was great. Can I try?”
“Aye, although it might take a bit of practice before ye can hammer like that. I’ll tell ye what; why dinnae ye try setting the nails first? Just tap them a few times, holding the hammer like I showed ye, until they stand up in the wood on their own. Set all the nails and then we can practice driving them in.”
“Alright,” Fynn said. He took hold of the hammer, although still too close to the head, and Mathe gently moved his grip further down.
“Careful, now,” Mathe said. “Ye dinnae want to hammer yer thumb, do ye?”
“Nay,” Fynn giggled. “It would be squashed flat.”
“It most certainly would.”
Once again, Mathe returned to his scraping plane and watched Fynn. He learnt quickly and was already up to the fo
urth nail. It was such a simple thing, knowing how to use a hammer, and yet to the boy it was something new and exciting. Mathe felt a strange feeling deep in his chest as he watched and reflected on the boy being raised by Lilidh on her own, without a father to teach him about things like horseshoes and hammers.
Of course, Mathe didn’t have a father to teach him, but that resulted from war and not absence. His own father had been killed in some minor skirmish when Mathe was still on his mother’s teat, but he had uncles and grandpas and friends and an apprenticeship. And, of course, later in life, the old laird took him in and became somewhat of a father; the one he’d never had.
Fynn didn’t have any of that. Just a mother who loved him, and a town that despised him. Again Mathe was overcome by the guilt of what he’d done to them both, and once again that guilt burned hot within him, turning into an iron resolve to do right by them, no matter what it took.
“How’s that?” the boy asked proudly.
Mathe looked down at nineteen nails sticking out of the plank of wood.
“That’s magnificent, Fynn,” he replied.
8
Lilidh MacBrennan
As Lilidh wiped the plates down and returned them to the cupboards, chaos erupted in the kitchens all around her.
Two young men burst in on either side of an enormous cauldron, heaving it towards the sinks. A third man walked next to them with a distressed look on his face, wringing his hands. Behind them, the cook followed. He was waving his arms in the air and bellowing at the top of his lungs, his face as red as ruby wine. Lilidh paused to watch the spectacle and could see she wasn’t the only one.
“This didnae happen overnight!” the cook shouted. “It would have taken days for that stew to boil off. How could ye just forget about it, on an open fire the way it was?”
The third man nodded, trying to placate him. “I know, I know. I’m sorry, I dinnae know how it happened.”
“It happened because of yer inattentiveness,” the cook spat. “And now ye’ve wasted the soup, and likely ruined the pot besides.”
“Nay, we’ll save the pot.” He looked over at Lilidh and the others. “Naught a little scrubbing willnae fix, isnae that right?”
Lilidh looked over at the pot doubtfully. Whatever had been inside was now black, hardened like a crust, and looked as solid as the cast iron cauldron itself. She found herself agreeing with the cook.
Into the middle of the argument, Margaret entered the kitchens. “What is the meaning of this?” she cried.
The man’s eyes widened. “Ah, chamberlain, we were just taking care of it. It was a pot of stew that was left on the fire in the second dining hall. I meant to take it off yesterday, but, well…”
Margaret’s mouth drew into a thin line. “I employ ye to make sure things like this dinnae happen, Wilfred,” she said.
“Aye,” Wilfred nodded. “It was an accident.”
“The pot’s ruined,” the cook added.
“Nonsense,” Margaret said. “That pot is older than I am, and if ye think a little burnt soup is going to ruin it, then ye’re verra much mistaken.” She turned and looked at the kitchen staff. Only one of them was at the sinks. “Torrey,” Margaret said to her, “stop whatever ye’re doing and scrub the pot clean.”
Torrey looked to Margaret, and then to the pot with widening eyes. “Aye,” she said in a small voice.
“And Wilfred? My study, now,” and she turned and walked away without waiting for a response.
Wilfred swallowed and stared at her back. “Aye, chamberlain.”
The young men hauled the cauldron up into the basin with grunts and groans, then followed the cook out of the kitchens. Torrey found herself there alone, looking down at the cauldron forlornly. It was the biggest in the castle, easily large enough to fit two whole people inside, and took up the entire sink.
“Well, good luck,” Cora said with a rough bark.
Lilidh turned back to her plates, giving silent thanks that she hadn’t been standing by the sinks when Margaret entered. After a moment she lost herself in the monotony of her task and once again, her mind slipped back to Mathe. The words of the laird had troubled her, and she felt like a curtain had been pulled away, however briefly, to reveal another world. It was a world of war and intrigue and things that shouldn’t concern her, and yet she found herself involved all the same.
Did Mathe mean what he said to her? Was he here to make amends and nothing else? Or was it like Blaine said; that it didn’t truly matter, and that Mathe would be used whether he wanted it or not? Lilidh sighed at the feeling of walking down a path shrouded in fog, with no idea what lay at the end. All she knew was that she couldn’t risk her job here at the castle. Surely if she worked hard and remained open and honest with Margaret, things would work out for the best.
As the afternoon wore on, Torrey’s complaints grew louder. The cauldron seemed to be as bad as Lilidh feared, and the girl’s frustration was plain for all to see. “Will someone please help me?” she finally asked, throwing her dishrag down in disgust. She looked at the others. “Cora?”
The older woman shook her head. “Nay, Torrey, I cannae. I have to finish the utensils or the chamberlain will be cross.”
Torrey growled. “We would help ye, Cora, and ye know it.”
“We all have our jobs,” she sniffed.
“Fine. Nessa?”
The third girl looked up guiltily. “I wish I could help, Torrey, I really do, but I’m running late as it is. Margaret took yer other duties away, but didnae take away ours.”
Lilidh looked down. She’d made quick work of her task, lost in her thoughts as she had been, and knew she could help if asked. Torrey glanced at her once, quickly, then looked away without saying anything, and Lilidh sighed, closing her cupboard and standing.
“I’ll help,” she said.
Torrey’s eyes darted back to her, and she could see the others stop what they were doing to watch. Lilidh felt strangely nervous under their gaze, as though they were sizing her up. Cora’s eyes blazed, and Lilidh swallowed.
“Fine,” Torrey muttered.
Lilidh waited for one moment, but knew there would be no gratitude coming. Perhaps the acceptance was enough, for now. She picked up another dishrag and joined Torrey at the sink, standing shoulder to shoulder, and began to scrub.
An hour later, Lilidh thoroughly regretted her decision, but had to admit that they were making progress. They’d taken to chipping the black crust away with a knife and then quickly scrubbing the exposed cast iron with scalding hot water, and it seemed to be working. Their strategy involved coordination and so they even spoke to each other, directing movements and timing their attacks. Torrey continued to call her widow, and the third time it happened, Lilidh paused in her task.
“Lilidh,” she corrected.
Torrey also paused and looked at her for a moment. Finally she gave a small nod, then turned back, and they resumed their task. They continued to labour for another hour until the pot was almost clean. Torrey stretched down to reach the bottom, and Lilidh brought over another jug of boiling water.
“The day before yesterday,” Torrey said suddenly, almost hesitantly.
“Aye?”
“Ye didnae tell Margaret that ye'd been treated… unkindly here.”
“Nay,” Lilidh replied. “I didnae.”
“Ye could have.”
“Aye, I could have,” she admitted. “But I’d rather no'.”
“Why no'?”
“Because I’m no' here to make trouble, Torrey. No' with ye, or Cora, or anybody else. I’m here to work hard for my family.”
Torrey nodded slowly, then tuned back to the cauldron. It was just about finished, and right on time, Margaret entered the kitchens. She looked over and saw Lilidh and Torrey standing side by side at the sink, and gave a small nod. If Lilidh didn’t know any better, she would have thought it looked satisfied.
“Thank ye, ladies,” the chamberlain said, inspecting the pot. “It’s s
urvived another day.” She turned and looked out of the only window, noting the length of the shadows over the floor. “There’s still another hour left before yer shift ends, but why dinnae ye finish early. Goodness knows ye’ve earned it.”
Lilidh smiled and did her best to ignore the glowers from Cora. “Thank ye,” she said.
Margaret shook her head. “Thank ye, Lilidh. Ye didnae have to help. And good work from ye too, Torrey. Now away with ye both.”
Lilidh didn’t need to be told twice. She hung up her apron, grabbed her coat and almost skipped out into the afternoon, leaping across the wooden planks to her front porch, excited to tell Fynn that she had finished early. They rarely got the chance to spend time together during the day, not since she had started working in the castle, and all the worry she felt about Mathe had made her suddenly want to spent time with Fynn and do her best to forget about everything else.
Inside was quiet, and the floor was clean. Lilidh frowned. Normally she came home to a wide assortment of toys; rocks and sticks, pots and pans, fishing rods and utensils. It didn’t look like Fynn had been playing with any of that today.
“Fynn?” she called.
The silence that answered sent a small shiver through her, and Lilidh felt her heart beat faster. She bent down to look under the bed, but knew there was no way he could fit underneath. In fact, the house was so small that she could see everywhere all at once, and a simple glance told her all she needed to know.
Fynn wasn’t there.
Lilidh stepped back onto the front porch and looked around the corner behind the house. It butted up against the town wall and there was no open space to speak of, only the accursed mud that never seemed to dry no matter the weather. She looked down into the mud but saw no footprints coming from the porch anywhere. That only left the wooden planks, but Fynn knew he wasn’t allowed to leave the porch.
“Fynn?” she called, louder this time.
It didn’t make sense. She only had two rules for the boy and he followed them diligently; don't open the door to strangers and don’t leave the porch. Dun Lagaidh was a safe town, as safe as anywhere could be, but that didn’t mean there weren’t strangers and people passing through that would look at a child on his own with ill intent.
A Price to Be Paid: A Scottish Highlander Romance (Legacy of the Laird Book 2) Page 8
