5
Cu Chulainn to the Rescue
Slaine Thamhais had had a wretched last couple of days. His horse had shed a shoe outside Inverness, and the local blacksmith and farrier had not been able to assist him, being laid low by severe colic. After spending two nights at one of the worst inns this side of the firth, waiting for the man to regain his health, an eager apprentice blacksmith had asked Slaine politely if he would like to avail himself of his services, rather than wait. Deciding to take a chance with the young lad, Slaine had handed his precious grey stallion, Maximus, over to the apprentice with strict instructions to make the shoe big enough to fit his hoof.
The problems with Maximus’s new shoe became apparent not three miles away from the smithy. The horse began to lose its stride and then simply halted, stamping its hind leg in frustration. Slaine had to dismount and lead his horse all the way back to town.
The blacksmith apprentice had cowered when he saw Slaine returning, leading his horse.
“Dinnae I say, sir, that I’m nae yet a farrier, only a blacksmith still learning his trade? I did everything I’ve seen me master do, I swear it!” the poor youth gibbered.
There was a reason for the lad’s fear. Slaine Thamhais was easily the tallest, most muscular man in Scotland. He had reached his full height of six feet and two inches—a conservative estimate—at the age of six and ten summers, the year his foster aunt had been carried off by the seasonal plague. In those days, ten years ago and counting, Slaine had already developed the wide shoulders and bulky arms that made villagers in his foster aunt’s town whisper his father must have been a Norseman.
Some townsfolk disagreed with this suggestion. His dark brown hair, growing down to those same wide shoulders, and silky dark beard, cut back enough for anyone to see his strong jawline, were demonstrably more likely to come from the wild horsemen who rode the edges of ice in the land of the Rus.
The conclusion was drawn when they looked at Slaine’s thoughtful hazel-flecked brown eyes; he looked foreign enough to set tongues wagging but was strong and brave enough for every Highlander to be proud to call him their own.
He had only gotten more muscular and stronger with every passing season. Slaine, happy to leave his few books behind when his foster aunt’s landlord threw him out of her little cottage for not paying the rent after her death, had walked out of the small town where he had been staying for as long as he could remember, and made his way in the world using his wits.
Seeing the small blacksmith cringe, Slaine was too bored and tired to raise a fuss.
Wearily, he asked, “Did ye make a shoe anew or use one already here?”
Too cowed to lie, the youth replied, “I used the largest shoe we had here, sir. I didnae make one meself, but…I can make a big one now. I promise ye!”
“Aye, let’s do it together then, shall we?” Slaine spent the rest of the day showing the apologetic boy how to measure the hoof and bend the metal to create a horseshoe. The results were perfect, and Maximus was soon back to his old spirited self once the shoe was nailed onto the stallion.
“How many years are ye into yer apprenticeship, lad?” Slaine asked as he mounted and prepared to ride away from the smithy and Inverness for a very long time.
“I’m apprenticed for seven years, sir,” the boy said, “and this will be me second year in service.” He hung his head and looked contrite.
“Hm,” was all Slaine said, flipping the boy a penny, and urging Maximus into a canter. Soon Inverness was a grey line on the horizon behind him, and the blue-tinted Highland hills stretched out in front of him.
He stopped a peddler coming towards him on the road, reining in Maximus with all his strength. The animal complained but did as commanded.
“Good man, from what town do ye come from in the direction I am headed? Is this still the king’s highway from Inverness?”
The old peddler nodded. “Aye, mister, but the road takes a fork just a few miles up ahead. The left one goes south and west towards the loch and Croachy. T’other one goes up toward the seaport of Flichity.” He inclined his head to one side, and asked, “If ye dinnae mind saying so, mister, in what business are ye? I ken both towns well and can guide ye to the best one for yer money’s worth.”
Slaine agreed. “It’s good of ye to offer me such assistance. I’m in the business of helping folks sort out theirs! A warrior at arms for rent, a mercenary, a hired right-hand man—call it what ye will, but that’s what I do.”
The peddler cocked one eye closed and looked Slaine up and down. “Well, ye’re as big as a carthorse, mister, so I would be so bold as to say ye’re in the perfect occupation. Flichity’s the town for ye. The townsfolk hire their soldiers when needed, and the harborers simply chockablock with mercenaries from all four corners of the world. Make yer way to Flichity, and I’d say ye can leave there with a sack full o’ gold, and more besides.”
Slaine tilted his hat in thanks and spurred Maximus down the road. At the crossroads, he turned right toward Flichity. There was something in his bones telling him it was the right thing to do.
Slaine sat in a corner of the harbor alehouse and surveyed the crowd of patrons with a skeptical eye.
Mercenaries? Calling this bunch of raff an’ scaff such a praiseworthy appellation makes me laugh. They are more like the biggest cluster of scallywags I’ve seen on this side of the mountains. Some of them are from other countries, of that I’m sure. The rest? Clearly, Sassenach chancers and rascals managed to survive that graceless country’s incessant purges.
Slaine had no very high regard for anything south of the Scottish border. He did not even like the people who lived in the lowlands of Scotland that much. He was a Highlander, through and through, no matter what the scandalmongers liked to say about his parentage, but he was happy enough to earn a living off any weak southerner who needed to buy some muscle.
He summoned one of the slatternly serving wenches over to his table.
“Ale and food, whatever’s at hand.”
Slaine’s demeanor was never encouraging to those who liked to stop and chat. He was taciturn by nature and pleased with the results it brought him, so he never made any effort to change. He was a man of action, not words, and if this gave off signals to people to leave him alone, Slaine was more than happy with that. Folks, at the end of the day, were excess baggage—and Slaine liked to travel light.
He passed the time by reading some of the people in the room. He kept his ears open to overhear conversations; it was easier than asking for information outright.
“The righteous burghers of Flichity have no idea it would be cheaper to train an’ house their own militia,” a man’s voice said with a belch and loud guffaw. “The local tenant-in-chief, Master Albert, was granted a charter to govern the town’s trading and transactions. We give him a cut of everything, including the stolen goods we fence, and he keeps the paid mercenary soldiers off our backs. ‘Tis a goodly deal.”
“How many is he wantin’ to hire this time?” an interested voice asked.
“Och, the last lot messed things up a bit. They got carried away, there nae bein’ any sheriffs here, an’ all, so there was a nasty case of drunken looting, done by the bloody soldiers themselves! ‘Twas all hushed up, but they were put outside the town’s boundaries at sunrise an’ told to keep walkin’. Auld Albert is lookin’ for two dozen more men.”
Slaine had heard enough. He was wise and experienced enough to know that word of the lawlessness inside Flichity would have reached Holyrood Palace by now, and it would not be long before the king ordered a royal battalion to trek north to Flichity and revoke its charter. It might not be this month or even this year, but it would definitely happen, and Slaine did not plan on being anywhere near Flichity when the heads began to roll.
He made to finish his meal, drink down his ale, and leave when the sound of a sweet little voice was heard over the rough conversations.
Intrigued, Slaine listened to Blair’s pleas for help and the rud
e replies she received in return.
He looked his fill at the girl asking for help and could understand why the men were besotted with her. She was medium height and well proportioned, but her bosom was full enough to make a man’s mind imagine what she would look like under the sheets with only a shift to hide her charms. Although she had made an attempt to tie back her bouncing red curls, they had refused to be tamed and cascaded in a riot of soft ringlets over her shoulders. Her face was pale, showing that whatever job she did, she had money enough to pay for a bonnet with a veil, a fact backed up by the one she was currently wearing.
But for Slaine, it was the girl’s eyes that riveted him. They were pale ocean-blue, irradiated with a darker blue, fringed with the longest lashes he’d ever seen, and just now, sparkling with tears.
His mind made up, he flipped a coin onto the table to pay for his food and drink, and stood up. Men at the tables around him tilted their heads all the way back as they watched him rise. Then they went back to nursing their drinks, wanting to keep a low profile until this giant of a man had left.
“I’ll take yer job and the gold ye’re offering. What is it ye want done?” Slaine said as he strode toward Blair. Men scooted their chairs out of his way and ducked their heads. The mercenaries at the table next to where Blair was standing suddenly went quiet. No one wanted to catch the eye of the immense, dark-haired man. One of the men whispered, “Is it a bear or a man? I cannae tell,” but Slaine turned his head to stare at him in such a way that the man knew the stranger had heard every word he had said. He muttered an apology of sorts and made hurriedly for the nearest exit.
Blair looked up at the man who had offered to take up her quest.
“The name’s Slaine,” the man said. No bow accompanied his introduction, but Blair was left in no doubt the man was giving her his real name. There was something in his eyes that indicated he was a truth-teller.
“Cu Chulainn!” she whispered in shock.
6
Beggars Can’t Be Choosers
Blair noticed the silence that had descended on the previously vocal pests at the table beside her. There were no more whistles and taunts. The requests to spend one night alone with her disappeared as though the very idea of it had never crossed the men’s minds.
This could be a useful thing to have happen if I am to travel around looking for Faither. I wonder how much he charges and whether I can trust him?
As these thoughts flitted through her mind, Blair did not realize her face was exceedingly easy to read.
“Aye, lass,” the massive man said to her with a brief smile, “I do have an interesting effect on cowards and braggarts. But I am nae a hero or legend, just a simple soldier looking to see if I can help ye.”
Realizing she had to make up her mind quickly and that he was the only man to have stepped forward, Blair hooked her arm through his and ushered him outside. It was a good thing the man was happy to accompany her because she could feel how heavy and strong he was as she pulled him along.
“‘Tis so noisy in there, and one is always being pushed aside by serving girls and patrons,” Blair said when she and Slaine were finally out in the fresh air. She craned her neck to see if he agreed with her and then saw the funny side of things. No one would ever be able to push this man out of the way if he did not want to be moved. Exhilarated at finding her warrior and relieved to be out of the alehouse, Blair burst out laughing.
The change from Blair’s utter despair to hilarity caught Slaine off guard for a moment, but then he too saw the humor in what this young lass had just said and gave a brief chuckle.
“Please, can I fetch me horse from where I tethered him? How did ye arrive at the alehouse?” Blair tugged at Slaine’s sleeve in the direction of where Pooka was waiting for her. There were several horses tied to the rail, and when they both claimed the two biggest horses as their own, Slaine said nothing but raised an eyebrow.
“Pooka’s me—” Blair began to explain.
“Yer faither’s horse, aye, I can see. But ‘tis good fortune ye took it, lass. Yer steed looks as though it kens its paces,” Slaine said.
Slaine stuck his foot in the stirrup and mounted Maximus with an easy swing of his leg, even though the horse towered well over eighteen hands in height. For Blair, however, mounting Pooka was a bit more challenging. She tucked her skirts aside, stepped on the rail, balanced there for a brief moment as though she were an acrobat, and then jumped. She landed onto Pooka’s back with surprising agility. Slaine watched her display of nimbleness with interest. He had no doubt Blair had many more tricks up her sleeve when it came to inventiveness and independence. Her skirt was slit in such a way that enabled her to ride astride in modest fashion, and the way she handled the horse’s reins gave him no reason to doubt her abilities as a horsewoman.
The couple began riding away from the harbor, leaving the alehouse and mercenaries far behind. Only when they had reached a more genteel part of town did Blair rein in Pooka and ask Slaine if he knew of a nice place where they could undergo the conversation they so badly needed to have.
Slaine replied, “Ye choose.”
Blair did not want to go back to the inn where the Hardies were, not with her warrior in tow.
“P'raps we can take the road to the fields and sit there for a short while? It would cost us nae a single penny, and no one will bother us.”
Slaine nodded, and they both said nothing about why Blair had chosen a wide-open place with lots of witnesses passing by on the surrounding lanes.
Safe and costs nothing.
Blair was unsure if her strategy to get Slaine alone—but still within convenient shouting distance of other travelers if she needed it—was too obvious. She looked across at him as he rode beside her, and was unable to read his face. They reached one of the fields where the fair would sometimes set up. Blair dismounted with a sigh.
She rummaged around in her saddlebags and brought out a flagon of mead and some pasties.
“I have food. Will ye like some?” she offered.
“Nay, I ate at the alehouse,” Slaine said, throwing his traveling cloak onto the grass and lying down on it. There was a large oak tree above them, and it spread its leaves in such a way as to dapple the sunlight in a lovely warming way.
Blair looked keenly at Slaine’s cloak after he had signified it was alright for her to sit on it with him. The material was hardy and durable; the item of clothing itself was threadbare in some places and stained in others. Blair wondered if it meant her warrior was too frugal to buy a new cloak or too poverty-stricken to afford it. She darted a look at him from underneath her eyelashes and made her own assumption—he just did not care about what he wore and how others perceived him. She liked her judgment of his character as far as this went and hoped her guess was a shrewd one.
Slaine waited for Blair to finish eating. When a wasp landed on some of the crust from her small pastie, he lashed out suddenly with his hand, too fast for her to see, and the insect lay crushed and lifeless. Blair finished her meal in contemplative silence, too impressed to know what to say.
They both realized they were judging one another, but it was Blair who broke her silence first.
“I think I should start at the beginning, like all good stories, only this one is nae so sweet or simple,” she said, wiping her fingers on her little lace kerchief.
Slaine nodded.
Honestly! Would it hurt him to say something out loud once in a while instead of lying there so gruff and quiet? He might be the biggest man I’ve ever seen, but he could do with his manners matching his size. Still, he was the only one to come forward, so beggars cannae be choosers...although I’m nae quite a beggar yet!
“Here’s me tale in short: Me name’s Blair Carmichael and me faither, Farmer Angus Carmichael, has been a fool. There’s a noisome tavern back in Flichity called the Phoenix. They lured him into running some errands for them whenever he was in town attending market, and these tasks have become more dangerous and unlawful
over time. He didnae come back to the farm three days ago, so I need ye to help me look for him. I cannae offer ye much.” Blair decided to throw caution to the wind. “I’ve brought a scant four gold coins with me, and part of the first one has already been broken into, but ye can have the rest after all is said and done, and Faither is back safe. There it is.”
Slaine got up and mounted Maximus. Then, rethinking his movements, he dismounted again and went to stand beside Pooka, his hands cupped together, waiting for Blair to use them to mount her own horse.
“Wherever are ye going?” Blair asked, her voice raised in surprise.
“The Phoenix,” was his short reply, and he jerked his head to where he still waited to give her a leg up.
Blair scrambled to her feet, dusting her skirts down for crumbs, and stuck her foot into Slaine’s hands. She was flung up into the saddle as lightly as if she were a feather, and soon they were riding back the way they had come.
In less than half an hour, they were back in Flichity and reining in their horses outside the tavern.
“Stay here,” Slaine said.
Blair was quite happy to obey him. The words of warning Mistress Hardie had given her were still ringing in her ears.
Not much happened for a few minutes, and Blair was so bored she was tempted to dismount and peek through the grimy tavern windows to see what was going on inside. She began to wish she had asked the harbormaster if he was able to give her any spare maps to read. That would have been fun.
Without warning, the tavern doors swung open and twenty or so men ran out into the street. They did not stick around to see the time of day, and every single one of them broke into a run, hither and thither, as fast as their legs could carry them. Soon, the street corners had hidden the trails of dust they had left in the road behind them.
Highlander’s Road to Valor: A Steamy Scottish Medieval Historical Romance Page 4
