by Aileen Adams
“Do you think you’ll be back in time for the happy event?” she’d asked as they walked side-by-side to the stairs which led to the first floor.
“I don’t see why not. You say she has another month?”
“Most likely.”
“I cannot imagine it taking that long for me to find what I need and return,” he’d surmised.
She had merely laughed, shaking her head. “You might be surprised. Seldom do excursions made by members of the Duncan clan turn out as expected.”
With this in mind, Derek looked around, taking in their surroundings with a practiced eye.
The light was turning a shade of orange so particular to that time of year when the sun began its descent, casting the southernmost edges of the Grampian range and their snow-capped peaks in a haze of gold. It was nearly heartbreakingly beautiful—the sort of vision he wished his mother were still alive to see. She would’ve appreciated it.
However, while beautiful, the setting sun brought with it the need to find or create shelter for the night. A fire would be welcome, the air turning decidedly chill so late in the day. It would only grow colder with each passing minute.
They could heat the roasted rabbits which the cook from the manor house had provided them and create makeshift shelter using the blankets which Sarah had insisted they pack, along with a small bag of poultices, tinctures, and herbs from her collection. Just in case.
Broc was waiting for his command, still the first mate. Still ready to defer to his captain.
“Aye,” he decided with a firm nod, allowing reason to overcome his sense of urgency. “Let us set up for the night.”
2
From what Sarah and Heather had told him of the village, Kirkcaldy had grown in the fewer than two years since they’d taken their leave. By leaps and bounds.
Derek looked around in wonder as they rode into the village, five days after they’d left the Duncan manor house. Both he and Broc were tired, irritable, and soiled after spending the better part of a week sleeping in mud which seemed to creep through even the thickest blankets.
Even so, the wonder at such a bustling, prosperous village cleared most of the irritation he’d struggled with during the last legs of their journey.
“I thought you said this was little more than an outpost,” Broc reminded him, the two of them riding abreast down the wide road which led into the village, careful to avoid the marshy sides.
“It was when I was a boy,” Derek replied. “It’s grown considerably.”
No matter how the girls had described the place, there was no understanding until he saw with his own eyes how it had exploded over the years. Buildings crowding each other, built with only the narrowest of alleys between them for the disposal of slop and waste. Thatched and wood plank roofs dotted the horizon, with smoke from dozens of fires rising until they created an ever-present cloud which hung heavy in the damp, early-spring air.
“It must be the growth of the harbor,” Broc mused, half to himself. “It’s brought in far more trade, goods, and the like.”
They fell in single file once a trio of heavily packed carts rolled past, each pulled by a pair of mules led by men who lobbed jokes back and forth, good-natured insults which invariably resulted in hearty laughter. The men raised their hands in greeting, their relief at the turn of the weather and their ability to go back about their daily routines obvious.
Derek raised a hand in reply, unable to keep from smiling at their high spirits.
“Would that everyone in the village was that friendly.” Broc chuckled as he fell in line with Derek once again.
“Even if they aren’t, it’s of no concern.”
“It’s only that I was thinking…”
Derek laughed. “You? Thinking? When did you pick up that new trick?”
Broc scowled, grumbling. “If that’s the attitude you wish to take, I expect you won’t want to hear the idea which came to me. It’s just as well, I’m sure.”
“Do share,” Derek urged him, arranging his face in more serious lines.
“I wondered, on seeing how busy the village is and how many ships are docked a ways yonder, whether there would be room for McInnis Shipping here in Kirkcaldy.”
He had to give it to his first mate: he hadn’t considered it. Then again, they had only just taken sight of the village. His first thoughts had been of a hot meal, a mug of mead, and a bath. Business would come later.
But Broc had a point. Reestablishing his business in Kirkcaldy, rather than returning to Kincarny, would mean living in closer proximity to his brother and the Duncans. They were family, like as not, and the past months spent living among them had reminded Derek of the benefits of living among loved ones.
He did love them. Phillip and Jake were nearly as much his brothers as his twin, Hugh. Maccay was more like a close cousin than a longtime friend.
And the women—Sarah, Heather, Alis, Dalla—were the closest things to sisters Derek had ever known. He’d give his life for any of them, and in fact, had nearly done just that on rescuing Dalla from drowning not long after their first meeting.
He’d been without family for so long, he’d forgotten what it was like to have them in his life. Going back to Kincarny, so far from them, wouldn’t give him the pleasure he’d first assumed it would, back when his plan had been to return after a short visit with the Duncans.
Damned, blasted winter. Complicating everything.
“I suppose we ought to stop in the first tavern we come across,” he suggested, driving his thoughts back to the present. “The horses could use the rest, and I know I could.”
“Aye,” Broc agreed, wincing as he stretched his thick shoulders. He wasn’t accustomed to spending days at a stretch on the back of a horse, and Derek barely smothered a knowing grin when he considered the saddle sores his friend must have developed since their departure from the manor house.
“We’re bound to hear something of importance in such a thriving place,” he mused, speaking more to himself than to Broc.
Rumors had a way of spreading when people lived in such close proximity. It would take little more than a single ship—not even a large one, at that—with loose-lipped sailors aboard to spread news of his warehouse hither and yon.
Broc’s idea lingered in the back of his mind as they reached the first outlying buildings, refusing to stay silent. Was it possible? Could he rebuild here? There wasn’t overmuch love for Highlanders here in the lowlands, but Derek was hardly a wild clansman anymore. He’d learned to adapt, and fast, when the time came to do business with merchants from all walks of life.
It behooved a man of business to ingratiate himself across all classes, to be whomever the men with the gold needed him to be.
It didn’t take long for them to find a tavern, the smell of roasted meat and ale pouring from the open door along with several swaying, laughing men who seemed unable to steady their legs.
Derek glanced up at the sun, its position nowhere near overhead. It wasn’t midday, yet these men were already well on their way to complete drunkenness.
“Is it a holiday?” Broc asked, chuckling as one of the men fell flat on his rump in the mud.
The other two laughed themselves nearly sick, leaning on each other to avoid their friend’s muddy fate.
Derek shook his head. “I’ve lost track of time, but I don’t believe so.”
The two of them tied off the horses along the post which ran the length of the tavern’s front-facing wall before going inside.
It was a dingy place, cramped and full of the odors of men and sweat and the less-appealing aspects of life. Nothing Derek wasn’t familiar with thanks to the course of his travels. If there was one thing he’d learned early on in his career, it was the similarity of taverns the world round. The language spoken there might have been different, but the overall spirit was the same.
Broc requested ale, bread, and whatever sort of meat the owner could find in the kitchen while Derek seated himself at one of the shor
t, small tables. Short or not, cramped or not, it was a pleasure to take a seat in an actual chair again.
He stretched his legs as far as he dared, warming himself by the modest fire in the long, deep hearth. After so many days spent living outdoors, he might as well have been in heaven.
Broc joined him moments later, unsuccessful in hiding a wince of pain as he sat his sore rump on the unforgiving chair.
Derek turned his face away to hide his laughter—it would’ve been rude and, more importantly, hypocritical. He, too, felt acutely the effects of riding for so long, even if they were as severe for him.
“How are you faring?” he asked once his mirth was under control.
Broc’s strong-featured face contorted in a grimace. “You damn well know, you sod,” he grumbled, quickly followed by good-natured laughter in which Derek soon joined in.
“You’ll get used to it. We all did,” Derek promised as their refreshments were served by a comely lass who eyed them both from head to toe before turning away. She was a saucy one, no doubt about it.
“Are lassies bolder in this part of the country?” Broc wondered aloud, his eyes following the girl’s progress as she crossed the room. “They’re certainly shapely enough.”
“Aye, and possibly as dangerous as a dirk to the heart.” Derek chuckled around a mouthful of brown bread. He tore off a hunk of roasted boar and wrapped another piece of bread around it, savoring the succulence.
While the Duncan larders had remained comfortably stocked throughout the long winter, the variety of choices had slimmed considerably in the last several weeks of their confinement. If he never had to eat root vegetable stew and dried meat again, it would be too soon.
Broc’s eagerness to devour everything in front of them told Derek of his shared opinion.
Once his appetite was somewhat sated, Derek could afford to turn his attention to the conversation around him. The usual village concerns, whose roof needed fixing after the weight of the winter snows had all but collapsed it, whose fields needed work after months of neglect. That would be everyone with a field to be worked, Derek supposed. Spring brought with it no end to chores.
A pair of roughshod men strode in then, laughing and calling out for a cask of ale and the nearest wench to warm their laps.
Broc and Derek exchanged a knowing look. Sailors, only just arrived in harbor.
“Join us,” Derek invited them, moving to make room at the already crowded table. “We’ve been without the company of those in our line of work lo these many months.”
“You’re seamen?” one of them asked, spitting on the hay-strewn floor.
From the looks of it, this was a common practice among the tavern’s patrons.
“Aye, homebound throughout the winter and itching for a new adventure.” Derek grinned.
“You were likely better off for it,” the spitter assured them as he sat, splaying his legs open wide and leaning his elbows on his ill-patched, dirt-streaked tunic.
His appearance, and that of his companion, caused Derek to wonder at the conditions under which the pair worked. Most sailors—at least, those under captains worth their salt—donned more presentable clothing when it came time to go ashore. These two were still barefoot, as they would be while climbing ropes aboard the ship.
“It was a rough winter, to be sure,” the other said, shaking his head. When he laughed, a mouth full of rotten teeth was on full display.
Derek remembered when such a sight would’ve turned his stomach, even after he’d seen a man disemboweled in battle.
The man continued, “I’m surprised my blood hasn’t turned to ice.”
“We were hung up in an ice bank for a while there,” the spitter admitted before spitting on the floor once again. “It looked fairly grim. Our last run of the season, or so the captain told us at the time. We were supposed to make it to harbor well before the weather changed, but it wasn’t to be.”
“No one could’ve predicted this past winter,” Derek pointed out. He then ventured to ask, “Would it so happen that either of you two passed through Kincarny of late?”
“Nay,” the second of the pair replied. “No one has.”
“No one?” He exchanged a concerned glance with Broc, who remained silent.
Broc was far more skilled at observation than he was at conversation. His insights often proved invaluable.
“The entire harbor was destroyed by fire at the end of the summer,” the spitter reported. “It started in a warehouse, from what we were told—”
“A fire set by filthy Norwegian scum,” the other asserted, snarling.
“Aye, Norwegian scum. The fire spread before the villagers arrived with their buckets of water, but they would’ve done little good from what we heard. It was raining, but the wind was strong enough to whip the blaze up until it stretched over the docks, some of the fishing boats, the roofs of nearby buildings…”
Derek’s stomach turned, the boar he’d just enjoyed staging a revolt. The fire had claimed not only his warehouse, but the livelihood of so many others. He was only glad Dalla wasn’t there to hear the sailors’ tale, as it would add to the guilt she’d struggled with as a result of her uncle’s actions in his attempt to kidnap and kill her.
To think, Derek had been so eager to hear of the result of the fire. He’d never imagined how dreadful the result would be.
All records of his ships, their cargo, all of it was destroyed. His ships were like as not sitting idle, his men without work to keep food in their mouths and the mouths of their families. And there he’d sat all winter, warm and well-fed in the bosom of the Duncan clan.
The look which Broc shot him, his deep-set eyes troubled, expressed the same sentiment.
The appearance of the saucy young wench diverted the attention of the sailors—the comely young lass looked considerably less enthused than she had on her first visit, Derek noted with a grim smile—which gave him the chance to speak somewhat privately with his friend.
“You know, I’m certain they would’ve found other work by now,” Broc grumbled, leaning forward so as to avoid raising his voice.
“Aye, it’s the best we can hope for.” He didn’t make a practice out of employing dotards or dimwits. His men were sprightly, smart, strong, and skilled. They would’ve had no trouble finding other positions.
But what of the men who called Kincarny their home? They would’ve had no choice but to travel elsewhere to seek openings, and with the winter having been what it was…
There was nothing to be done about that. It was in the past. If there was one thing Derek had learned, it was to leave the past where it was. It was far too heavy a burden to carry in one’s heart.
Their refreshment long since finished, the two of them stood and prepared to find lodging for the evening.
“There has to be an open room somewhere,” Derek reasoned. “With so many ships coming and going, some of them must carry passengers in need of a bed and wash basin.”
“To sleep in a bed…” Broc muttered, sounding as though he were describing a dearly loved dream.
Derek laughed, clapping his first mate’s broad back. “I wouldn’t get my hopes up if I were you, old friend. We won’t find anything half as comfortable as what we’ve grown accustomed to in the manor house.”
“The thinnest straw tick would be more comfortable than what we’ve slept on over these last evenings,” he reasoned, groaning with the unhappy memory and stretching as if to soothe tight muscles.
“To hear you tell it, one would think you were of royal blood, raised on the finest roast of beef and aged wine, sleeping in silk bedding from the day you were born…” Derek trailed off when he noticed a flurry of activity at the end of the narrow street, down by the docks.
“What is it?” Broc asked when he noted the direction Derek’s attention had taken.
“I don’t know.” That didn’t stop him from following his curiosity.
He strode through the barely dried mud, careful to avoid piles of wh
at looked like waste thrown from the windows which lined the street on both sides. A broad road separated the village from the harbor—it took caution and quick reflexes to cross without being run down by an ox-drawn cart or a team of horses.
By the time he reached the outer edges of the crowd which was quickly forming around a trio of sailors, he was nearly out of breath.
That didn’t stop him from noticing the wide-eyed, trembling scrap of a lass they held captive.
Words flew, as did exclamations and more than a few knowing chuckles from the other bystanders.
In the middle of all of it, one word was clear.
Stowaway.
3
Margery had come so close to escaping without being noticed.
It had been such a long journey, too, but she’d done everything in her power to stay silent. Hidden. Away from prying eyes and hands. Curled into a ball behind casks of ale which were obviously meant to be delivered to their destination, rather than enjoyed by the men who worked aboard the ship. They would leave her hiding place alone.
A stroke of luck which Margery had celebrated. She’d taken it as a sign that her voyage was blessed by God, that He had turned a benevolent eye toward her. That He didn’t think her a fool for wanting…
For simply wanting more.
According to her estimation, four days had passed since she’d boarded the ship in Silloth. Not enough time to make it to the Thames, at least she didn’t believe so. Perhaps she had gotten close enough to it to make the rest of the way over land, as she had on her journey to Silloth from Thrushwood.
She had already gone through too much to accept defeat.
Beatrice would never believe the stories she had to tell. Sleeping in barns, burrowing into the hay to keep herself warm. Watching the activity in the farmhouses the barns belonged to, the little cottages with glowing fires visible inside. Hearing the laughter of loving families floating on the night air, reminding her of what she was missing out on by striking out on her own.
Of what she’d always missed, except for the moments she’d shared with Beatrice. They were all the other had in the world. And they needed better than their miserable little lives in Thrushwood, no matter what anyone else said.
