The Reiver

by Campbell, Glynnis

  “Now, lads,” Brochan chided. “What is it Aesop said?”

  Cambel said, “Slow and steady wins the race?”

  “Well, aye,” Brochan said, “but I’m thinkin’ o’ the The Milkmaid and Her Pail.”

  “Och!” Colin cried. “Don’t count your chickens ere they’re hatched.”

  “That’s the one,” Brochan said.

  Cristy had no idea what they were talking about, although not counting chickens until they’re hatched seemed like a good suggestion.

  “Do ye like Aesop’s stories, m’lady?” Cambel asked.

  “I don’t know Aesop,” she said.

  “Da will tell ye some o’ his stories,” Colin confirmed. “Won’t ye, Da?”

  Cristy could see Brochan had a dozen things on his mind already. “Maybe later?” she suggested. “I fear your da is very busy today.”

  “I’ll make ye a bargain,” Brochan said. “Ye three come help me clean out the pantry ere Mabel gets home, and I’ll tell ye some of Aesop’s stories while we work.”

  Unlike the much smaller buttery that Mabel used daily, the pantry was deep, dark, and cool. When Brochan brought down a candle stand so they could see better, the lads discovered an abundance of cobwebs and mouse droppings. It seemed that parts of the storeroom hadn’t been touched by anything but vermin in years. Thick dust coated clay jars filled with unidentifiable substances that, when the corks were popped off, made the lads’ noses wrinkle in displeasure. A few earthenware vessels had fallen, and shards of pottery were scattered on the floor. Mushrooms had sprouted on a few of the shelves, and the sack of barley slumped against the corner had long ago been chewed at the bottom, strewing grain everywhere.

  Cristy would be surprised if anything was salvageable. Still, it had to be cleaned up to make room for the supplies Mabel was bringing home. So she pushed up the sleeves of her kirtle and grabbed the broom perched in the corner, determined to set the place to rights.

  Brochan hauled in a great bucket of water, along with rags so they could clean as they went. He took the items off of the uppermost shelves and set them in the middle of the pantry. It was Colin’s task to wipe away the dust and read the letters on the vessels to identify their contents. Cambel had the responsibility of peeking inside to determine if they were empty, rotten, or usable.

  “Da, ye said ye’d tell us a story,” Colin reminded him.

  “Which story do ye want to hear?”

  “The Lion and the Mouse!” Colin cried.

  “Aye, The Lion and the Mouse!” Cambel echoed. “Ye’ll like this one, m’lady.”

  While Cristy swept, Brochan told the story. “Once, a long while ago, a great lion was sleepin’ in the woods…”

  “Do ye know what a lion is, m’lady?” Cambel interrupted.

  She smiled at his concerned expression. “Aye.”

  “As I said, a great lion was sleepin’ in the woods. His enormous head was restin’ on his paws, and he was snorin’ as loud as…well, as loud as Rauf.”

  The lads giggled.

  “Meanwhile, a timid wee mouse, payin’ no heed to where she was goin’, came upon the dozin’ lion. In her hurry to get away from the dangerous beast, she accidentally ran straight across the lion’s nose.”

  Cambel gasped dramatically, mostly for Cristy’s benefit.

  “O’ course, the lion awoke at once, and, seein’ the mouse, raised his big paw, intendin’ to kill the wee beast that had disturbed his sleep.”

  The lads were enrapt and no longer toiling. Cristy, too, slowed her sweeping, transfixed both by the tale and by the sight of Brochan lifting heavy vessels off the top shelf, which made the impressive muscles of his back strain against the cloth of his leine.

  “But then the mouse cried, ‘Spare me, I beg ye!’ ‘Why should I spare ye?’ said the lion. ‘If ye spare me,’ said the mouse, ‘one day I shall repay ye for your kindness.’”

  Cristy bit back a grin at the wee voice he’d given the mouse and the loud boom of the lion. No wonder his sons like the tales. Brochan was a gifted storyteller.

  “Well, the lion didn’t believe the mouse for one moment. After all, how could such a wee creature ever help a big and powerful lion? Nevertheless, he was amused by the minx of a mouse, and so he let her go.”

  Colin was squirming with anticipation. “Wait till ye find out what happens, m’lady.”

  “Many days later, the lion was chasin’ after his supper in the same woods when he was caught in the tangle of a hunter’s net. Unable to free himself from the ropes, no matter how much he twisted and turned, he let out a huge roar of anger.”

  “Do it, Da, do it!” Cambel cried.

  Brochan gave Cristy a wink. Then he emitted a loud roar that left her heart in her throat, so savage was the sound.

  The lads were giggling.

  “Don’t fret, m’lady,” Cambel said. “’Tis only Da, not a real lion.”

  “Miss Moffat’s not afraid o’ lions, are ye, Miss Moffat?” Brochan asked.

  If she was, she wasn’t about to admit it. She lifted the broom. “Not while I have my trusty lion spear by my side.”

  The lads went wild with laughter then, which made her laugh in turn. She suddenly felt more giddy with joy—in a dark storeroom, holding a broom like a weapon, telling stories with two wee lads, admiring their father’s hilarity and hindquarters—than she’d felt in years.

  “Go on, Da,” Colin said. “Tell m’lady what happens.”

  “Where was I? Och, aye, the roar. The mouse heard that roar and came at a run to find the lion strugglin’ in the net. So, bein’ a mouse o’ her word, she nibbled and nibbled at the ropes until the grateful lion was free.”

  Colin clapped.

  Brochan finished with, “The mouse said, ‘Ye see? Even a wee creature like me can be o’ help to a lion.’”

  “Did ye like it, m’lady?” Cambel asked.

  “Och, aye.” Cristy could take the story to heart. For much of her life, she’d been made to feel like a mouse—wee, insignificant, useless.

  “Now, lads, what’s the moral o’ the story?”

  The lads recited, “Kindness is ne’er wasted.”

  Cristy smiled. It was a good moral.

  “Tell us another, Da,” Colin begged.

  Brochan cocked an eye at them. “Ye finish those last few vessels, and then ye can start on the bottom shelves.”

  They hurried to do his bidding. Meanwhile, Cristy tied a damp rag around the handle end of the broom and swabbed away the cobwebs along the plaster ceiling.

  “Will ye tell the story o’ The North Wind and the Sun, Da?” Cambel asked when they started on the lower shelves.

  Colin pouted. “But it doesn’t have animals.”

  “’Tis a good story, though.”

  Colin shrugged. “I suppose.”

  “M’lady would like it.”

  “Would ye like it, m’lady?” Colin asked.

  Cristy thought she’d happily listen to Brochan reciting the hours of the day, so pleasant was his voice. She nodded.

  “Lady’s choice ’tis,” Brochan declared as he wiped down the top shelf. “One day, long ago, the North wind and the sun were bickerin’, tryin’ to decide which was the strongest. While they were arguin’ in the road, a traveler happened to pass by.”

  Cambel gave his father a sly smile. “Did the traveler have a name?”

  Brochan returned the grin. “Aye, as a matter o’ fact, she did. Her name was Miss Moffat.”

  Cambel beamed. Apparently, it had been his plan all along to feature her in the story. She was enchanted.

  Brochan continued. “The sun said to the wind, ‘I know how we can settle this dispute. Whichever of us can strip the arisaid from that traveler—’”

  “Miss Moffat,” Cambel interjected with a giggle.

  “Aye…‘from that traveler, Miss Moffat, will be the strongest.’ The North wind agreed and, all at once, blew a cold blast of air toward Miss Moffat.”

  “Do it, Da!” Cam
bel urged.

  With a sheepish smile, Brochan pretended to blow out a long blast of air toward her. Caught up in the spirit of the play, Cristy feigned being blown backward by his North wind, which delighted the lads and made even Brochan laugh. So she continued to act out his story.

  “Harder and harder the wind blew. One corner of the arisaid flew up, then the other. But Miss Moffat wrapped it close about her. The fiercer the wind blew, the tighter she held on to the arisaid. And finally the wind had to surrender.”

  Everyone was laughing at her antics. But it was Brochan’s grin that made her melt.

  He continued. “Then ’twas the sun’s turn. The great yellow ball began to shine, very gently at first. Miss Moffat enjoyed the warmth after all the bitter cold o’ the North wind. In fact, ’twas so pleasant that she unpinned her arisaid and loosened it a wee bit.”

  Cristy saw where the story was headed. And, feeling the way she did at the moment—lusty and daring—if she were alone with the laird, she might be tempted to actually remove her clothes, layer by layer. She settled for miming the actions, which seemed to satisfy the lads.

  It also seemed to satisfy their father, whose eyes had taken on a shadowy cast.

  “Warmer and warmer the sun burned,” he said, “until Miss Moffat tossed back the hood o’ her arisaid and mopped her brow.”

  She complied, wiping her forearm across her brow.

  “The sun continued to blaze,” he said, his voice a bit hoarser. “Cristy loosened the arisaid until it hung from her shoulders.”

  As she pretended to loosen her arisaid, Cristy watched Brochan. He might have been reciting a story, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. He was gazing at her with the same hunger she’d glimpsed in his eyes before, a hunger that sent a thrill through her.

  “And then what, Da?” Colin urged.

  Brochan licked his lips, staring at Cristy. “Then…then she…cast the arisaid away, because…”

  From the level above came Mabel’s voice. “Are ye down there, m’laird?”

  Cristy clapped her hand to her bosom, as if she’d been caught disrobing.

  “Aye!” His voice came out on a squeak. He cleared his throat. “Aye! In the pantry.”

  “We’ve brought the goods,” she called down. “Can ye help Rauf unload them, m’laird?”

  “I’ll be right up.”

  “Da, ye have to finish the story,” Colin said.

  “Och, aye,” he said in a rush. “So she tossed her arisaid aside, which meant the sun won. Now ye lads help Miss Moffat finish up the pantry while I unload the cart.”

  “But the moral, Da,” Cambel reminded him.

  “Right. What’s the moral, lads?”

  They replied, “Persuasion is better than force.”

  Cristy sighed as Brochan disappeared up the steps, her gaze lingering on his snug trews. Persuasion? It wouldn’t take much to persuade her to kiss the irresistible laird again.

  Brochan was glad of the heavy physical work, because it helped to take his mind off the enchanting lass in the pantry.

  He was ashamed that he’d let lust take such control over him. For years, he’d kept it at bay, focusing on taking care of his sons, making a good life for his motherless lads. He felt he had to honor their mother’s memory, and he’d never been tempted to look at another woman.

  It was bad enough that he was drawn by Cristy’s feminine lures—her lush black hair, her shining eyes, her succulent lips, her winsome figure. But now he was also attracted to her charming nature.

  She was most remarkable, a lass of fascinating contrasts. Her spirit had been damaged in some ways, yet there was a willing playfulness about her. On the one hand, she seemed as innocent as his sons, yet on the other, she was worldly and wise beyond her years. She could be frail and fearful at times, fierce and frisky at others.

  He liked her. It had been a long while since he’d said that about anyone. But he genuinely liked her.

  And hours later, as they all sat together under the light of the comet—Cristy happily cradling both lads’ sleepy heads in her lap—he wasn’t sure “like” was a strong enough word.

  Chapter 8

  “Does your da always punish ye like this, with chores?” Cristy asked the lads the next morn as they skipped hand-in-hand toward the dovecot. She still thought it was the most curious form of chastisement. Her uncle always backhanded her and her cousins when they did something wrong. But the lads seemed genuinely excited to do the work.

  “We haven’t done daub in a while,” Colin said.

  “Usually ’tis chamber pots,” Cambel added.

  “Does he never clout ye?” she asked.

  The boys looked at her as if she were mad.

  “Why would he clout us?” Cambel asked.

  “That would be ungentlemanly,” Colin said.

  Cristy frowned. “But what’s to keep ye from disobeyin’ him again if ye’re not afraid to be clouted?”

  The lads looked at each other, pondering the question.

  “’Twould make Da unhappy,” Colin finally decided.

  “Aye, and ’tis dishonorable,” Cambel added.

  “Da would never use force against us,” Colin assured her.

  “Aye, that’s it!” Cambel said. “’Tis like the story about the North wind and the sun.”

  Together the lads said, “Persuasion is better than force.”

  Cristy lifted her brows. Was that true? Had Brochan never clouted his sons? Had he managed to raise these two wee gentleman with their kind manners and courteous speech without raising his hand to them?

  She shook her head in wonder. Perhaps persuasion was better than force.

  Daubing the dovecot might not have seemed much like punishment to Cristy, but it promised to be dirty work. So once inside the stone structure, she brought the back of her skirt between her legs to the front, looping it up to tuck it into her belt like the crofters did. There was no point in getting the hem any filthier than it already was.

  “Ye’ll have to show me how to make the daub,” she said.

  Colin and Cambel took pride in demonstrating their very precise recipe. They showed her exactly how many handfuls of straw, clay, and cow dung to use, though she insisted they employ a spade to measure out the cow dung. They mixed it all in a large wooden bucket, stirring it with a stick until it made a thick paste.

  Then, using a few small spades, they began to daub the mixture into every cranny where the sunlight streamed through.

  “Da says we can get chickens when the doocot is repaired,” Cambel said.

  “I can’t wait to get chickens.” Colin wiped his cheek, leaving a streak of daub there. “I’m goin’ to be in charge o’ collectin’ the eggs every day.”

  “I’m goin’ to be in charge o’ the pigs when we get them,” said Cambel.

  “What are ye goin’ to be in charge o’, m’lady?” Colin asked.

  “I…” she began awkwardly.

  Cambel elbowed his brother. “She’s goin’ home, Colin. Remember? Da said when we get the thirty coos, she’s goin’ home.”

  Colin pursed his lips in a sad pout. “I don’t want her to go home.”

  “But ye like coos, Colin.”

  Colin’s chin trembled. “I don’t like coos as much as I like m’lady.”

  Cristy felt her heart cave in at his words. No one had ever said such a sweet thing. She bit her lip to keep from crying.

  Cambel consoled his brother. “But she promised she’d come and visit us, right, m’lady?”

  She didn’t trust herself to speak, so she just nodded, hoping she could keep her promise. She knew it was only a matter of time before the ransom was paid. It wouldn’t be thirty cows. That was a preposterous number. But her uncle would at least return Macintosh’s own cattle. And then she’d have to leave. But it wouldn’t surprise her if Douglas Moffat forbid her from venturing to the Macintosh holding after that.

  It took over an hour to use up the first bucket of daub, though a good portion of it
seemed to have found its way onto their clothing. While the lads were mixing another batch, Cristy surveyed the dovecot. The interior was dimmer, now that they’d filled in the lower crevices. She decided they should have the door open for light.

  As she swung the door wide, something fluttered out of the path. It looked like a scrap of crumpled parchment. She bent down to pick it up. As she did, she noticed another piece. She compared them. They fit together. Someone or something had torn the parchment in half. There was scrawling on one side, but she couldn’t read it.

  An inexplicable tingling suddenly traversed the back of her neck, as if she’d backed into a spider’s web.

  “Lads,” she said, wandering back into the dovecot, “do ye know what this is?”

  They glanced at the two pieces.

  “Parchment?” Colin guessed.

  “Can ye tell me what it says?” she asked.

  They frowned in concentration as they bowed their heads over the two scraps, deciphering the letters.

  “Keep her,” Colin said. “It says ‘keep her.’ But I can’t read this word.”

  “’Tis too messy,” Cambel said.

  She stared closer at it. She’d seen that scrawl before. “Moffat.”

  Cambel shrugged. “Maybe.”

  Keep her. Moffat.

  The letters blurred as she continued to stare at them.

  Suddenly she felt dizzy. Then sick. Then numb. Her blood congealed in her veins. And her heart seemed to shrivel in her chest.

  Cristy’s worst fears were confirmed. She didn’t belong. She wasn’t wanted.

  “What does it mean?” Colin wanted to know.

  How could she answer him?

  What it meant was that she was alone in the world. That her own uncle didn’t care about her. That nobody cared about her.

  “Are ye all right, m’lady?” Cambel asked, resting a dirty but concerned hand on her skirt.

  She looked blankly down at him.

  But that wasn’t right. Someone did care about her. These two lads cared about her. They thought she was bonnie…and better than cows.

  And then, as she let the pieces of parchment flutter to the ground, she realized someone else cared even more about her.