At least then I can make sure she’s real. A part of him still felt like he’d imagined the whole thing, especially the part with her. It seemed too far fetched.
“Hey?” a voice called from outside. “Are ye inside?”
“Aye!” Brogan called back, opening the makeshift door of the lean-to. “It’s me. Come in…I got the fire going in the center of the floor.”
“Good,” Lewes spat heartily onto the leaf mold, then stepped into his cottage. “It’s cold enough tae freeze a person hard.” He slammed the door shut behind him and bent down to the makeshift hearth. His cloak was a tattered thing of old wool, patched with linen, drawn about his shoulders.
“It is,” Brogan nodded. “Aye, Lewes.” He paused.
“You got a kettle there?” Lewes asked, holding his hands out to the fire. A white-haired fellow with stooping shoulders, Lewes could have been aged anywhere from forty to seventy and Brogan would have had no idea. “We ought tae make stew or something. Not that there’s much tae put in.” he gasped a chuckle.
“I’ll get it,” Brogan said. “Lewes? I wanted to ask you something?”
“Aye?” the older man said, poking the fire with a twig, rearranging some of the small branches so the air ventilated better. “What’s wrong, lad? Something on your mind?”
“Um, yes. If I got employment at the castle, where would I stay?”
“At Berwick?” the fellow frowned. His eyes were red-rimmed, testimony of long nights spent tending fires. He looked levelly at Brogan.
“No…closer by. Where his lordship lives.” He had no idea what the baron’s title might be, or even his surname. Of the name of the castle, he had no idea whatsoever.
“Here?” the older man said it as if Brogan suggested flying by spreading his cloak and jumping from the tallest tree. “You mean, at Fortress Tysdale?”
“I suppose,” Brogan shrugged. “Is that the name?”
The older man laughed.
“What?” Brogan frowned. He felt his skin prickle with agitation again, though he couldn’t say exactly why.
“Nobody just gets hired there,” the charcoal maker said with the air of someone stating the obvious. “Not without some sort of trial.”
“I did,” Brogan said. He spoke the words lightly, but in truth he felt deeply uneasy. What was he saying? What was all this about a trial?
“Fine, fine!” the older man chuckled. “Well, then. This calls for a celebration! We’ll have tae add wild onions to the stew.”
He laughed about that, as if it were the finest joke he’d ever heard. Brogan shifted where he sat, crouched over the fire, feeling uncomfortable.
What had he let himself in for?
THE HORSE TRAINER
The stables were full of the sound of horses, and the scent of sawdust and hay. Brogan felt his joy in the sights and sounds of his trade mingle with his utter rage.
“That’s no way to do anything!” he roared. He’d been employed at the castle two days, and already he had a bone of contention with his immediate superior, the overseer.
The man at whom his rage was directed turned insolently to face him. Older than Brogan by perhaps twenty years, the fellow’s mustache and hair were white, his eyes faded blue. He narrowed them at Brogan.
“Ye can mind your tongue, ye clod-pated fool.”
Brogan felt his stomach clench. He was holding a staff and he had to make himself put it down, before the temptation to break it on the fellow’s hide possessed him.
“You might think I’m a fool. But who trained Sir Ilmore’s horse?”
The fellow’s eyes narrowed. “You have no business using that to make yourself seem better.”
“Oh?” Brogan raised a brow, feigning calm. Inside, he was raging at Miller. “You think that counts for naught, eh? Well, I say it proves my methods are better than what you do, any day.”
The fellow’s mouth twisted down sourly. “You whippersnapper,” he muttered.
Brogan just raised a brow. The staff was in his hand without him having intended it, and he knew he was inches away from threatening the older man. The sight of him, standing there, seemed to be enough, however. Mr. Miller spat, angrily.
“Fine,” he said. “You do it, then. See if I care if you fail again.”
Brogan said nothing. Just watched as the older man walked away. He stared at the point between his shoulder blades, feeling a mix of contempt and cold hatred.
“You will cut that rope, before you go,” he said coldly.
The older man turned around, glaring murderously. However, he gestured to Pete, the stable boy who stood in the doorway.
“Untie him.” He waited an instant, then snarled it. “Do as I say. I might be old, but I can still beat ye.”
That’s all you could ever do.
Brogan let out a breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding as the old trainer left the yard. He nodded at the younger man.
“Do it,” he said. “And then you can leave.”
The lad regarded him with a wary, pale stare. Then he did as he’d been bidden, walking out of the yard faster than Brogan would have thought possible, as if he was afraid that anything that went wrong would be remade as his fault.
Brogan waited as the stallion calmed himself. Freed from the barbaric practice of having his lead rope tied to his foot, so he could only walk in circles, on three legs, the horse regarded him with the whites of its eyes showing.
“Easy, lad,” he said softly. “I’ll not let anyone do that.”
The stallion snorted in warning as he approached. Brogan crouched, making himself less threatening to him. The horse calmed visibly, his flanks lifting with less force as he breathed.
Brogan waited. He knew it would take a while for the creature’s trust in people to be restored.
He was still crouched in the sand before the horse when he heard footsteps. Without looking around, he waited as the person approached.
“You angered Miller,” somebody said.
“Miller is angry,” Brogan said levelly, still not turning around. He watched the horse, as he lowered his head and sniffed the sand of the enclosure’s base. “He has been angry for quite some time. It’s something to do with his own thwarted purpose.”
He felt the presence behind him tense, the way a horse does when they are unsure of something.
“You have insight into Miller,” the voice said. It was warm, as if amused. Brogan felt it wash through him like warm honey. He resisted the urge to smile, as it continued. “Your insight into aught else has yet to be shown.”
He watched the horse as he stepped back, still sniffing the ground, his ears twitching only slightly. He was disturbed, but not overly so, more curious. “That is true, milady,” he agreed. He turned around. His eyes widened at the beauty of her and he tried not to let his eyes widen too much. “And I might fail. But I am honored by the trust you place in me.”
“My trust is yet to be placed,” she said carefully. “As with all questions, I reserve my judgment.”
“Good plan, milady.”
“It is no plan. Life taught me.”
Brogan said nothing. She looked down at the dust, where her foot, clad in a fine black outdoor shoe with a polished buckle, toed the sand. He watched the motion too, thinking swiftly.
She comes here to observe what I’m doing. I shouldn’t let myself be distracted, though it is hard to be unaware of beauty. She is as lovely as a painting.
“Nevertheless, you are right. It is wise to reserve opinion,” he said carefully.
“Yes.” Lady Irmengarde said carefully. She paused. “You are very confident, for a man who trains horses.”
“I am practiced in my trade.”
She turned away, looking at the stalls where the horses waited patiently. “I believe so.”
Brogan let his breath out in a sigh. He hadn’t realized how he’d been nervous throughout the conversation. It seemed like he was being tested, and he desperately wanted to pass any test, where she was conce
rned. He already admired her beyond anything he had ever felt for anyone before.
Whist, Brogan – and you, who only saw her once! You should get a hold on yourself, man…you’re going daft.
“My husband bid me remind you that you have a month, to train my horse,” Lady Irmengarde said. Her brown eyes regarded him impassively, without giving away any emotion. “You had best do the job well, or you will lose the reputation you have built in this valley and your livelihood along with it.” Her voice was ice.
He swallowed hard, and allowed himself a moment to consider how to reply. He had not worked with her horse, yet – his first act on starting as a new trainer seemed to be to make an enemy of the old trainer – but his first glance had shown him that there was nothing amiss about the training of her palfrey. The horse was shy, delicate and lovely. A creature with whom he could find absolutely no fault. He was still at a complete loss about the assignment the baron settled on him.
“I will do my best, milady,” he said.
“Do that.”
This time, he heard real feeling in her voice. When he looked at that infernally lovely face, her eyes were red-rimmed and he could see pain in them and he felt his heart clench with concern, though that was ridiculous.
The lady’s so far above you, she’d like as not be insulted by your caring.
He looked away before he could show his thoughts.
“I assure you, I’ll do my best.”
“Good,” she said again.
This time, he heard the swish of silk skirts and the crunch of a heel on sand. When he turned around, it was to see her tall, straight-backed figure striding from the yard.
He stood and watched her leave, her dark brown dress rustling in the wind. When she’d gone, he shook himself, as if his skin itched.
“Good,” he said firmly.
It was best if she left him to his work. He couldn’t do his best if she was there, watching him.
“It’s better without that.”
“What’s that?” the stable boy – not the one Miller threatened, but another lad called Brendan with an impudent air – asked.
“That’s sir to you,” he said crossly.
“What’s that, sir?”
Brogan heard a mockery in the tone, but chose to ignore it. “Nothing,” he said. “But make sure you brush out Ink’s stall.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ink, the stallion he was supposed to be training – the one he’d caught Miller treating cruelly – stood looking at him. His head was level, feet spread. He regarded Brogan with a measuring glance.
“Aye, lad. You can trust me. Not that you have to, yet – don’t blame you. After that beast had at ye, I don’t blame ye. I would nae trust another man either.”
The horse just watched him. Brogan bent and lifted the rake, and, ignoring him, tidied the yard, moving things to rest against the wall, flattening the scuff marks from the sand with his boots. After a while, the horse dropped his head in a relaxed way.
“You reckon you’ll stay like that, eh?” Brogan asked. “Then, in a bit, you can go back into the stables.”
He knew that, if he tried to lead him in now, the creature would fight him. He’d had more than enough of humans for a while and he needed to rediscover that, some of them, at least, could be trusted to be safe.
“That’s that done,” he said to himself, lifting a barrel and rolling it from the yard.
As he tidied up, still waiting for Ink to trust him, he found his mind drifting back to the lass. He recalled the moment when he’d seen her in the woodlands.
She’s so beautiful. I don’t understand her – not for a second.
He recalled the real fear on her face, when he’d found her. She’d said something about her husband killing her horse. The baron had ridden up as he led her horse back to the path. That was when he’d offered his services.
I still don’t know why I did it – not truly.
It was a position that could win him renown – working for Baron Tysdale, Lord DeWarenne. That was something he could live on. However, it was equally perilous if he got it wrong. Fail in this, and he might as well forgo any job in the Borders for the rest of his existence.
“And thinking about the lass isn’t helping.”
He swore as he went to get the rake, to start mucking out the stables. Because he was in charge here, the trainer and not a stable hand, did not mean – in his eyes, for one – that he forewent stable duty. He had started as stable hand, working on his uncle’s land, and he wasn’t about to think he was any better.
That was also why, he told himself gruffly, he wasn’t allowed to think about her.
Lady Irmengarde was impossibly beyond him.
Not only, he reminded himself strictly, was she married to the baron himself. She was also a gentlewoman so far out of reach as to be invisible.
He closed his eyes and erased, piecemeal, her beautiful figure from his mind. Her trim waist, long frame, those high, curvaceous breasts. He was torturing himself, and for no real purpose.
“Focus on the task you’re granted.”
He still had no idea why he’d gotten it. As he carried in a second bale of hay, he glanced into the stable where milady’s horse – Grayswift – was watching.
“You’re a fine lass,” he murmured.
The horse regarded him with liquid eyes. Inanely, they made him think of her mistress, soft and compassionate, her eyes watched him with no scorn.
Lady Irmengarde should scorn me.
He put the hay down and started to muck out Ink’s stall, sweating as he worked. He was confused by the baroness’ courtesy towards him. At once scathing and strangely cold, she nevertheless actually spoke with him, as if he were an equal.
He’d never met a gentlewoman who did that.
“Not that I’m a peasant, mind you,” he grinned to himself with some irony.
His family were farming stock. His uncle owning land in Dumfriesshire. He himself regarded that of little matter, but to some people, these things were important. He expected Lady Irmengarde should care about such things.
“Hey! Brogan!” a voice called. He turned around.
“Fergall!” he waved to the guardsman who came to join him. “What’s happening?”
“Come off duty,” his newfound friend shrugged. “Want a pint?”
“Can I have one?”
Fergall grinned. “I ken Bonnie, as works in the brewery. You’ll get one if you come along in my group.”
Brogan chuckled. “Thanks, friend.”
Fergall nodded. “It’s good to have good company. And besides – I can’t be sorry tae see Miller go and roast his ballocks.”
Brogan shrugged, not sorry to hear the old horse trainer had been as disliked as he suspected.
When he’d finished the stall, he strode out to join Fergall, who was already heading to the ale house. A small stone building, built into the base of the castle wall near the buttery, the place smelled sweet and clean.
“Bonnie?” Fergal called. “Where’s my lass?”
“Your lass?” a voice called cheerily. “Go and boil your brains, Fergall Tyneworth.”
Brogan bit his cheeks. He didn’t want his friend to know he thought it was funny. He watched as a rosy-cheeked woman with masses of curly butter colored hair appeared.
“That’s my lass.”
Bonnie slit dark eyes at him, but, Brogan noticed, she was laughing at the interchange. “You can take a swig of ale, and I reckon your friend can have a dram, too.”
She passed them both a clay jug. Brogan sniffed, smelling the delicious, heady scent of well made ale. He drank appreciatively.
“Thanks, Bonnie,” he said.
“Och, there! A feller who knows how tae treat a lass.”
He saw Fergal shoot him a look and stepped back quietly.
“I’d best go, fellers,” he said. “I’m needed at the stables.” He wasn’t, but he didn’t want Fergal to assume that he’d fancy Bonnie – she was a lovely l
ass, but he’d set his heart currently on one he couldn’t have.
PLAINS AND HORSES
The rain fell that afternoon in sheets. Irmengarde sat in the still room at the top of the tower with Mrs. McNeal and watched it stream down over the tree line. She could smell the wet, cold scent of rain soaked stone through the window and hear the steady drumming of it on the walls of the fort.
“There’ll be plenty of people soaked through, eh?”
“Yes,” Irmengarde murmured in reply. “There will.”
The woman opposite her nodded. “Just as well, then, that I’ve plenty o’ horehound for sore throats. And tansy.”
“That too,” Irmengarde nodded. She was looking at the dish she held, where she mixed an oil of roses for her skin. She had a keen interest in the use of herbs, though she knew there was a great deal she did not know about.
Opposite her, the healer was busy chopping thyme. She had a strong face with big green eyes and wide cheekbones, a sturdy, reliable countenance Irmengarde couldn’t help but trust. She was perhaps twenty years – at least – the senior of Irmengarde herself. She had a large family and some grandchildren, whose exploits she enjoyed discussing, especially their misadventures.
“Och, with all that bucketing down, we’ll have grand crops of herbs.”
Irmengarde felt her brow go up. “I’m so pleased this weather brings cheer to one person.”
The healer smiled. “Och! Big bunches of crisp sorrel, fresh mallow…you can’t begin to think!”
Irmengarde looked down. The rose cream smelled grand, the scent of the petals having stored well since the summertime. She had mixed it with lanolin and the oily substance that came off wax, and it made a smooth, scented cream that would be good for her hands and face in dry conditions.
The winter in this castle is going to be cold, and dry.
It was the second winter she’d spend here, and she was prepared. She found her mind wandering to the dress her seamstress was making for her – a fine one of imported velvet.
Her Highland Protector (Iron 0f The Highlands Series Book 2) Page 3
