“Ye could have been killed,” he said, around half an hour later, turning to her with an angry look upon his face.
“But I wasn’t,” she replied, meeting his gaze with a defiant look, “and so could ye, for that matter. What a foolish raid it was, how could ye be so stupid as to not know there would be an ambush waitin’ for ye,” she said.
“How can we know anything in battle, lass. Expect the unexpected that is what every commander must know. Of course, I knew we might be attacked, but ‘tis a risk I took, I knew the dangers, but what made it worse was yer presence there, that was one thing I dinnae expect,” he said.
“I only wanted to prove to ye that I could join ye on a raid, just as well as anyone else,” she replied, “I am just as good as any man, and I held my own out there today.”
“Aye, at the expense of men and a horse that is lame. Men cannae fight when a lass is there next to them, they cannae dae it. Their minds become changed. They rally to protect the woman instead of fightin’ for what they should be fightin’ for,” he said.
Isla sighed. She knew she would never convince her father otherwise, but now that he had seen her upon the battlefield, surely, he could not deny her right to be there.
“So, I am still forbidden from riding out with ye? From fighting with ye for the honor of this clan?” she said.
“Aye, and that is my final decision. Tomorrow, ye will take the horse to Lochrutton and see to it that the animal is properly shod by the blacksmith, and then we shall hear nae more of this nonsense about ridin’ out with the men. A lass’s place is here in the safety of the peel house, not out gallivantin’ against the English,” he said, shaking his head as the dogs fussed around him.
“And if ye are killed, then there shall be nae castle for safety. What possible use is bricks and mortar, when there is nae the men to defend it,” she replied.
“Then ye will die, either way, won’t ye,” he replied.
Isla knew it was foolish to argue, and they spent the rest of the evening in silence as the darkness fell outside and the fire was kindled in the hearth. Isla watched the shadows flickering on the walls, her thoughts turning to the adventures of the day.
“Who was the young Englishman who charged ye today, Father?” she asked, breaking the silence of several hours and causing him to look up from his own brooding.
“That is the son of Sir Percy Musgrave, lass. A particularly nasty character by the name of Howard Musgrave. He is his father’s son and make nae mistake of it, as cruel and ruthless as the man responsible for him. But that is the English for ye. Now, I am going to my bed, I suggest ye do the same and be up early tomorrow to take the horse, ye hear me,” her father replied.
“Aye,” Isla said, staring into the flames, her thoughts still resting upon the young man who had seemed so full of hatred and anger that afternoon.
As she went to bed that night, Isla wondered whether there could be any hope of peace along the borders. It seemed unlikely, and she knew that the two sides would continue to fight it out, just as they had done this afternoon.
“And it seems I am to remain in the middle of it,” she said, sighing to herself as she snuffed out her candle for sleep.
Chapter Nine
“Duncan, be careful!” Fraser cried, as his younger brother almost scalded his hand upon a freshly beaten horseshoe.
The metal was still glowing orange, and Duncan had reached around without looking, concentrating upon beating the second shoe into shape.
“Honestly, Duncan, the sooner ye enter the priory, the better. Ye are nae cut out for the work of the Blacksmith,” Fraser said, shaking his head and laughing as Duncan blushed.
“I … I am sorry, brother, ye are right though, I dinnae have yer skill, but ye could have laid yer hands on me if I were burned, that would have healed me” Duncan said, picking up the shoe with a pair of metal tongs and thrusting it into the water where it hissed and steamed.
“Dinnae believe in such things. I am tired of folk saying’ such things of me, Duncan, and dinnae go puttin’ it around, else folks will start to talk,” Fraser said.
Some in the village believed Fraser to have something of a healing touch. Ever since he was a child, he had possessed an uncanny knack of soothing the misfortunes of others. Perhaps it was his gentle nature and calming ways, or perhaps folks simply believed that the birthmark on his hand had given him a power not possessed by others. Whatever the reason, Fraser was often called upon to help others in the village. While some were suspicious of the MacGinn child, who some claimed had appeared ever so suddenly as a bairn, his mother having shown no signs of pregnancy.
“I am sorry, brother,” Duncan said, carefully laying aside the pair of tongs.
“Ye dinnae have the craft from our father, our parents just left ye to pray, but prayin’ doesnae put bread on the table, despite what the good book says,” Fraser said, as Duncan laid aside his apron and sighed.
“I should dae more to help though, brother,” he said, crossing over to where Fraser was hammering a sword into shape on his anvil.
“Yer company is good enough, though ye could sure use more practice at blacksmith’s arts,” Fraser replied, “now, get ye off to pray, but be sure to say one for me, and for our parents, too, and tell Father MacConkey that he is welcome to supper anytime.”
Duncan smiled and nodding to his brother, he ran toward the kirk across the village. Fraser watched him go, shaking his head and smiling. His brother was a good lad, but he was not cut out for the work of the blacksmith’s workshop, and despite his company, which Fraser valued greatly, he knew that soon, he must go to fulfill his calling. Fraser had more earthly concerns and took up the two shoes his brother had been working on and threw them into the embers of the fire, ready to reshape them.
He hummed to himself a tune he remembered from his childhood, one which his mother used to sing to him. It brought back happy memories of his childhood when he used to sit and watch his father at the forge, and his mother would come calling them in for dinner. It had been a happy life, but times change, and Fraser knew that he must change with them.
He could not spend his life wallowing in grief for his parents, but their memory still caused him pain. Duncan had found solace for his grief in the church and the prospect of dedicating his life to God, but Fraser was just a simple blacksmith, unsure of what the future held.
“Always make yer own destiny, son,” is what his father used to say to him, and teaching him the ways of the blacksmith’s trade had been a way for Fraser to take hold of his own destiny by both hands.
It would be a simple life, but at least one that was secure and predictable. He had few friends in the village, and those he did have had gone off to seek fortune elsewhere. It was just Fraser and Duncan, and despite the brave face he put on things, Fraser knew he would miss his brother terribly when the time came for him to leave.
Fraser was mulling all this over, the little ditty still running around in his head, when the sound of approaching horse’s hooves caused him to look up. He knew the horse was lame, even before he saw it. The sound of its walk was enough to know that, and as he glanced up, his thoughts were confirmed.
There, coming towards him, was a horse, lamed and walking slowly and methodically along the track which led north from the village. But it was the lass who was leading him that caught Fraser’s eye. She was striking, with a long shock of ginger hair and a pretty complexion. He knew her, of course, it was the daughter of Laird Elliott, and he had seen her at times when the Laird would come to inspect the crofts around the village.
Fraser always looked after the Laird’s horses, but it was usually Sweeney, the stableman, who brought them down to be shod. Fraser had known him since he was a boy, and his father had performed the same task, looking after the Laird’s horses and seeing to it that they rode out with shoes worthy of the tasks they performed.
Fraser was a little taken aback. He wasn’t used to speaking with such people, and a nervous sweat appeared
on his brow as he laid aside his tongs. He wiped his hands on his apron and stepped out from the workshop to greet the lass, whom he knew to be called Isla.
“Good morning, my lady, and what can I do for ye today? Is it the horse that wants shodding? He’s looking lame. Has yer father been ridin’ him out too hard this past day? I saw him up on the ridge,” Fraser said, patting the horse’s mane as the animal whinnied.
“The horse needs shod, aye, can ye dae him for me quickly?” Isla said, looking around absentmindedly, as Fraser looked down to examine the horse’s lame foot.
“How did it happen?” Fraser said, patting the horse’s mane as Isla looked around with some exasperation.
“Out on the ride yesterday, he … well, I … I pushed him a little hard. The poor creature lost his shoe on a hill out yonder,” Isla replied, pointing vaguely up on the ridge.
Fraser furrowed his brow, he was about to make mention of the incident yesterday, when Duncan had spotted the strangely clad soldier up on the ridge, but he thought better of it. He was nothing to her, a servant, and it was not his place to question her. If he did, then perhaps she would tell her father, and he would no longer have his horses shod in Fraser’s workshop.
No, better to keep quiet and simply do as he was asked. He stroked the horse’s mane once more, the animal whinnying and stomping its good foot, as Fraser led him into the workshop.
“Dae ye want me to dae all four shoes, my lady? ‘Tis silly to do just the one when they could all dae with changin’ to new ones,” Fraser said.
“Aye, ye can dae, just make sure the horse is back at Kirklinton tomorrow,” Isla replied, and Fraser nodded.
“He will be, miss, I can start on him right away, and my brother and I will take good care of him overnight,” Fraser replied.
“See that ye dae,” she replied and, patting the horse’s mane, she wished Fraser a good morning and went off down the track back toward the castle. He blushed, a red flush rising in his cheeks, and he shook his head, smoothing down his apron. She was very beautiful, her long, flowing, ginger hair catching the morning sunlight. It almost shimmered, and Fraser was enchanted by her figure, by her looks, and the way she had appeared with such a sense of confidence, even though she had been abrupt, and, some might say, almost rude.
He could forgive such things, though, for Fraser was that sort of man. He held no grudges and bore no one ill will. He was kind and gentle, ever the caring sort, and as he began to work on the horse’s shoes, he started to hum once again. Happy to have finally had cause to speak with the beautiful young daughter of the Laird, a lass he would not soon forget
Chapter Ten
Duncan had not believed his brother when Fraser had told him that the daughter of the Laird himself had come to the Blacksmith’s workshop that morning.
“And she is beautiful,” Fraser said, as he finished shodding the last of the horse’s hooves while Duncan sat nearby, methodically eating his lunch.
“The Laird’s daughter didnae need to come and ask ye to shoe the horse’s hooves,” Duncan said, shaking his head and laughing at his brother, “yer a liar, Fraser, a rotten liar.”
“I’m tellin’ ye, Duncan, Isla Armstrong was here,” he said, hammering in the last of the nails into the horseshoe
“And why is she called Armstrong and nae Elliott?” Duncan said, laying aside his lunch and coming to help his brother with the horse.
“Ye know why, Duncan. She is nae the Laird’s daughter by blood, only by adoption. She is the daughter of the Armstrongs, and it was after they were killed that the Laird and his wife, rest her soul, took her in,” Fraser replied, patting down the horse’s mane.
“But why was she bringin’ the horse herself, tell me that, if she was really here?” Duncan replied as the two led the horse out to graze in front of the workshop.
“Think back to yesterday, Duncan. Ye remember ye saw the funny lookin’ soldier up on the ridge?” Fraser said, pointing up to the ridge, “my guess is that she was followin’ them and somethin’ turned nasty. She’s run this poor beast too fast towards home, and its shoe has come off in the excitement. Is that what happened, lad?” and he patted the horse’s mane.
“Aye, well, I still dinnae believe ye,” Duncan replied, punching his brother’s arm and ducking as Fraser retaliated, the two brothers laughing with one another as a few drops of rain began to fall from the sky.
“And it was such a lovely morn. Now, look at it,” Fraser said, hurrying back toward the cottage.
It rained for much of the rest of the day, and Fraser and Duncan retreated to the cozy warmth of their cottage. They kindled a fire and spent the afternoon huddled around it, the horse given a warm bed amid the straw and hay of the stable.
“So, is Isla Armstrong comin’ tomorrow to collect her horse? I might have to wait until she does before going to the kirk,” Duncan said, laughing, as Fraser toasted bread for their supper.
“Nae, I am to take him to Kirklinton, to the castle,” Fraser replied, passing his brother a slice of toasted bread from the hearth.
“So, there is nae corroboration to yer story, brother, and I shall happily call ye a liar and a fantasist. Dae ye think ye are going to marry the lass or somethin’, is that it? Ideas above yer lowly station,” Duncan said.
“Dinnae be ridiculous, Duncan. The lass is the daughter of the Laird. What interest would she have in a lad like me?” Fraser replied, shaking his head and laughing.
“Ye need a wife, Fraser, why nae aim high?” Duncan replied, laughing as his brother shook his head and poured out a dram of whiskey for them both.
The two sat up long into the night, talking of old times and looking forward to the future. It would not be long before Duncan entered the priory at Lanercost, and despite the brave front that Fraser was offering, he knew he would miss him dearly.
Chapter Eleven
The rain had cleared by the next morning, leaving a silky mist hanging over the trees around Lochrutton. The loch was like a millpond that day, and as Fraser went to the brook to collect water, he looked across the waters, wondering what the day would bring.
He would take the horse back to the castle at Kirklinton, and perhaps he would even catch sight of Isla Armstrong. She had been much on his mind since their encounter the day before; she had such a confidence to her, more so than many men. It was no surprise, Fraser thought to himself, that she had followed her father off to battle.
The horse was neighing in the stable, and Duncan was stroking its mane and giving it oats for breakfast when Fraser returned. The two pails were heavy, and Fraser set them down with a thud, the water splashing over the side.
“Ye need more practice at that brother,” Duncan said, laughing, as Fraser came to pat the horse’s mane.
“And perhaps I will send ye from now on, Duncan,” he replied, shaking his head, “dae ye nae have some prayin’ to do or some good works to perform.”
“In time, brother, aye, but for now, I am happy to tease ye about yer fantasy woman. I presume Sweeney, the stableman, will soon come ambling down the path to pick up the beast,” Duncan said, punching his brother’s arm and laughing.
“Nae, in a few moments I will take the horse back to Kirklinton, and I shall return with tales of the Laird and his household,” Fraser replied, snatching the bucket of oats from his brother, “and who is going to pay for all these oats ye are feedin’ the beast?”
Duncan simply shook his head and splashed water from the pail onto his face. Fraser undid the horse’s reins and patted him on the nose.
“Good as new, aren’t ye, lad?” he said, looking down at the horse’s hooves, all of which had been reshod and were ready for the road.
“I look forward to hearin’ yer tales,” Duncan said, as Fraser led the horse down the path away from the workshop.
“If I choose to tell them, that is,” Fraser called back, waving his hand dismissively to his brother, who just laughed and walked away.
Fraser shook his head and pulling on the ho
rse’s reins, he walked the animal on, smiling to himself at the thought that his brother was entirely mistaken.
* * *
The track to the castle was a lonely one at the best of times. Why the castle had been built out upon the marshlands all those years ago was a mystery, one which had long been lost in the mists of time. It stood defiantly amid the marshes, approached by a long, winding track, dotted with the occasional scrubby tree. From its isolated position, it commanded a view across the borders, on a clear day, stretching many miles east and west. Therein perhaps lay the reason for it having been built as it was. No enemy could spring upon its inhabitants unexpectedly, and, in its long history, no hostile force had ever breached the imposing home of the Elliotts.
A Highlander Forged In Fire (Scottish Medieval Highlander Romance) Page 4
