But Fraser MacGinn was no enemy, and that day, he had only one objective: to return the newly shod horse to its mistress. There would be good payment for such a service, and Fraser was looking forward to a good meal later for his troubles. The horse was walking well now, and as they came in sight of the castle, Fraser was confident that his work would be well received.
“Back home to yer mistress, now, lad,” he whispered, patting the horse’s mane.
Fraser had an affinity with animals, quite different from that he had with other people. Men and women could be complicated creatures, and he often failed to understand them, particularly the fairer sex, with whom Fraser had never found much common ground. He had had fancies over the years, young Nairne Bryce, the daughter of an old soldier who lived on the outskirts of the village, and Mary McDowell, who had gone off to Edinburgh to work in service. But neither of those lasses had ever captured his heart.
Instead, Fraser had resigned himself to a life of solitude, as monastic as that which his brother aspired to. It seemed much easier that way. There was no chance of hurt or emotional turmoil, he was happy with his tools and the company of the horses that came to be shod.
“Here we are, lad,” Fraser said as they came up the track towards the castle.
There was no one around, and Fraser called out for Sweeney, trotting the horse around towards the stable yard. There was no one there either, and he called out again, turning back toward the castle, only to be startled by the appearance of Isla Armstrong, who had just emerged from the tower.
“What racket is this? Ye would think the riders of the apocalypse had arrived, rather than a mere horse fresh from the smithy,” she said, shaking her head as Fraser blushed.
“I … I had thought Sweeney would be here, ‘tis he who usually takes care of the horses,” Fraser said, looking down at the ground in embarrassment.
“Aye, ‘tis, and when he goes off for his sneaky drink down yonder, nae one bothers, but when I go off, ‘tis a different matter,” she replied, pointing vaguely towards a copse of trees down in a dell about a mile across the marshland.
Fraser shook his head and smiled as he passed the reins over to Isla, who patted the horse’s nose and whispered in his ear.
“He is a fine animal and make nae mistake. I’ve put new shoes on each, so he should be good for a long run now, and he’s had his oats for the mornin’, so ye could ride him out now if ye so wished,” Fraser said.
“If I were allowed to. My father has seen to it that I am nae longer permitted to ride out. At least until I prove my obedience,” she said, wistfully looking out across the marshlands to the hills on the horizon.
“Yer father will come around, I am sure. I make idle threats to my wee brother all the time, tellin’ him that if he doesnae behave himself, then all manner of ugly things shall befall him,” Fraser said, laughing at the thought of Duncan’s face if he could see him conversing with Isla now.
“Ye dinnae know my father,” Isla replied, glancing around her, as though the Laird might appear at any moment to chastise her once again. “Have ye nae mother and father to chastise yer wee brother?”
“Nae,” he said, shaking his head sadly, “my mother and father are dead. ‘Tis just me and Duncan now.”
Isla shook her head and looked sadly at him.
“My parents are dead, too, my birth parents at least, and my poor mother, my adopted mother, went to her grave some years back. ‘Tis a hard thing to endure and make nae mistake,” Isla said.
Fraser was about to respond when the door to the castle opened, and Alistair Elliott strode out. Despite his years, he was still a fine figure of a man, imposing and with an area of authority to him. Fraser had not seen him up close before, and he was every bit as he imagined. Fraser felt quite scared, and he took a step backward as the Laird approached.
“Where is Sweeney?” the Laird said, ignoring Fraser as though he were not even there and standing before his daughter and the horse.
“Probably off drinking, father, this lad, err …” Isla said, turning to Fraser, who kept his eyes firmly on the ground.
“Fraser, my lady,” he mumbled in response.
“Fraser, here, brought the horse back. See, he has shod all the four hooves, and the animal is walkin’ well now, he tells me.”
“Aye, well …” the Laird began, as Fraser looked up and now caught his eye.
The Laird’s words fell flat, and he stopped mid-sentence, looking hard at Fraser and then down at his hands, which the young lad had clasped in front of him, his right hand over his left.
“I … I am pleased to have been of service, Laird,” Fraser said, blushing as the Laird stared hard at him, his eyes flitting between his face and his hands.
Fraser had always been embarrassed about his birthmark. As a child, he had been teased by the other children and often called strange or bewitched. His mother had told him not to worry, that the mark on his hand made him special. But Fraser had no wish to stand out and knowing that the Laird was staring at the mark, he quickly placed his hands behind his back.
“Ye can go now, be gone,” the Laird said, composing himself and dismissing Fraser with a wave of his hand. “Here is payment for yer services, now get along with ye. I am sure there are plenty more horses to shod, and next time ensure that the horse is collected by Sweeney; dinnae be bringin’ it up here like this, ye hear me,” and he threw a purse of silver coins at Fraser, the money scattering on the ground.
“Father …” Isla began, but Alistair Elliott turned to her angrily.
“Ye have caused enough trouble these past days, lass, dinnae cause more by arguing for peasants!” he cried.
Fraser simply backed away, reaching down and picking up the coins before turning and making his way back to the village. What a strange reaction from the Laird. Perhaps he was superstitious. The birthmark on Fraser’s hand had often been commented upon in such terms, all manner of fanciful ideas given over in explanation for its presence. There had even been a rumor that Fraser was a sorcerer; his solitary walks into the forest were mistaken for forays into dark magic. No doubt, the Laird also believed such nonsense, and Fraser had no intention of ignoring his words. He would not return to the castle nor endure such harsh treatment again. The Laird could think what he liked; Fraser knew the truth.
Chapter Twelve
Isla was curious as to her father’s behavior toward Fraser; why had he spoken so harshly to him? And why dismiss him in such terms? Usually, her father was a kind and generous man, though she admitted that his patience had been tested these past few days, chiefly by her own actions. Still, to behave in such a manner was not only rude, but it was also foolish, given the need for a blacksmith well disposed toward the family.
“Why were ye so harsh towards the blacksmith, father?” she asked, as together they led the horse around to the stable yard where Sweeney was just returning to his work, an embarrassed look upon his face.
“Ye are to have nothin’ to do with that lad, ye hear me, Isla?” the Laird said, handing the reins to Sweeney and scowling at him.
“But why? What harm has he done? He is only a peasant from the village, and he seemed friendly enough, dinnae ye think?” Isla replied.
“I will nae repeat myself again, Isla. Ye are to have nothin’ to dae with him. If a horse needs shoddin’ then ye send this waster to dae it, promise me?” her father replied, pointing at Sweeney, who ran off in fright, the horse trotting after him towards the stable.
“Aye, but …” Isla began.
“But nothin’,” Alistair roared and raised his hand to her, though she knew he would never hit her.
Isla recoiled in terror from him and meekly nodded, following him back inside. She hated to see her father angry with her.
It seemed so strange, though. Her father did not even know the boy, and yet here he was, so vocally forbidding her from having anything to do with him. It all seemed very strange, and as they came around from the stable yard, she paused and looked down th
e track to where the distant figure of Fraser could still be seen, ambling toward the village.
“Isla,” the Laird called from the doorway of the castle, “come inside, now.”
She cast a final glance down the path, wondering again just why her father possessed such vitriol for the young lad who had seemed so pleasant, if a little shy. He was handsome too, though, of course, nothing like the men who often sought to court her. She knew her father had plans to marry her off, and that he was already in discussion with neighboring families as to a suitable match. But Isla had no desire to be married to just anyone; she was far too forthright for that. As she followed her father inside, she became ever more curious as to why he should forbid her from speaking with the Blacksmith and settled herself ponderously before the fire.
* * *
“‘Tis a sorry affair,” her father said the next morning, as reports arrived of another Musgrave attack across the border.
One of the peasants had arrived early that morning to tell the Laird that his croft had been attacked and livestock set free. There was little that Alistair Elliott could do but listen with a sympathetic ear. Promising the man that he would do what he could to see himself avenged upon the fiends who had done this.
“’ Tis the same each time,” Isla said wearily, “when ye attack them, they retaliate, and when they attack ye, ye retaliate. Nae one ever gains the upper hand; it will be the same for generations to come.”
“And are we to settle for that?” he said, “I need to ride out and see what damage has been done to these poor folks’ homes. Stay here, ye hear me?”
“I am tired of being confined to the house. Where dae ye think I will go to? Allow me a walk, at least. Else I am as good as a prisoner in my own home,” she said, sighing and shaking her head.
“Ye can walk out on the marshes, but keep yer eyes and wits about ye, lass, and nae farther than the village, ye hear me?” the Laird replied, wrapping his sword belt around him and kissing her goodbye.
“Nae farther than the village, I promise,” she said, smiling at him.
Isla watched as her father departed, riding along the track and veering across the marshland toward the outlying crofts where the attack had taken place. She loved him dearly, but he could be a difficult man, set in his ways, and when he had decided, there was little anyone could do to change his mind.
“A walk will dae me good,” she said out loud, turning to the dogs who barked enthusiastically, but remembering their disdain for her on the evening of the failed raid, she left them behind, much to their annoyance.
She could hear their barking below as she made her way out into the yard. Sweeney was there, brushing down the horse, and he eyed her with suspicion, as she made her way across to the track leading to the village.
“Where might ye be going, lass,” he called after her, and she turned to him with a look of annoyance on her face.
“What business is it of yers, and perhaps my father should ask the same question of ye, Sweeney, when ye are down in the copse with yer flask of whiskey,” she said, smiling at him as he blushed.
“Aye, well, ye and I have known each other these many years past. Ye keep my secret, and I’ll keep yers,” he replied, as she smiled at him, for Sweeney had always been a friend to her.
“Agreed, but today I am nae taking out the horses, I’ve had enough riding for a while,” she said and, waving to him, she set off down the track.
Chapter Thirteen
The weather was undecided today, as it often was upon the borders. Squally winds and flecks of rain blew across the marshlands, and occasionally the sun burst forth from behind a cloud. It could turn in an instant though, and Isla knew of many occasions when she had set off in sunshine and returned soaked to the skin.
Today she had no real objective; at least that was what she told herself. Walking in the vague direction of the village, but ever since yesterday’s encounter between Fraser and her father, Isla had dwelled heavily upon the blacksmith and why it was that she was forbidden from speaking to him. She could think of no reason why, except perhaps the simple fact of snobbery, a trait not usually displayed by her father, who could be a most benevolent and kindhearted man towards those of lower fortune than himself.
There must be something else, and, as Isla walked across the marshlands, she was already resolved to disobey her father’s instructions regarding the blacksmith. Surely it would not hurt to speak with him again, perhaps question him and discover why he was forbidden from speaking with her. She was naturally curious, and that natural propensity, mixed with a highly rebellious streak, ensured that she would conveniently neglect her father’s words regarding the young lad.
Isla would speak with whom she chose, and as she approached the village, she could hear the bashing of metal against metal. The blacksmith’s workshop and cottage were among the first dwellings to come into view, and, as she rounded the corner, she could see Fraser with his back to her, hammering in the shoes of a horse that stood patiently at its tether.
“Duncan, will ye fetch me another shoe; this one is out of shape,” he called out, not looking up from the task in hand.
A moment later, Duncan appeared from the workshop, but as he passed the shoe to his brother, who chastised him for its faults and passed it back, he paused and tapped Fraser on the shoulder.
“Dinnae disturb me, Duncan. I cannae look now,” Fraser replied.
“Oh, I think ye might want to,” Duncan said, as Fraser turned around.
Isla blushed a little, approaching the blacksmith and smiling. Fraser laid aside his tools and wiped his hands down on his apron as Isla came to stand before them, Duncan looking at her wide-eyed and open-mouthed.
“Good mornin’, miss, how may we help ye today?” Fraser said, holding his right hand under his left, as he stood slightly embarrassed before her.
“Oh, I was … well, I was just takin’ a walk on the marshes and well …” she began, glancing at Duncan and blushing.
“Duncan, dae ye nae have some work with Father MacConkey to see to?” Fraser said, turning to his brother, who still stood open-mouthed, clearly amazed that Fraser had been telling the truth.
“Aye …” he said, sounding disappointed, “but …”
“Well, be on yer way then, lad,” Fraser replied, smiling at him.
Duncan had no choice, and he ran off towards the village, turning around as he went and almost tripping over himself.
“Is that yer brother?” Isla asked as Fraser patted the horse’s nose, and then washed his hands.
“Aye, that’s wee Duncan. He’s a good lad, but he doesnae know an anvil from one end or the other, and every shoe he makes is wonky,” Fraser replied, laughing.
Isla smiled, Fraser seemed more relaxed in his own setting, as though his role as a blacksmith gave him confidence. It was that confidence that had not been in evidence yesterday when he arrived at the castle on his errand to return the horses.
“I … I just wanted to apologize,” she began, as he checked the horse’s hooves over once more.
“Apologize? For what?” he asked, pointing her into the workshop, just as a few specks of rain began to fall.
Inside, it was snug and warm, the heat from the furnace, causing her cheeks to tingle as he pulled some tools off of an old chair and bid her sit.
“Well, for the way my father behaved towards ye yesterday up at Kirklinton. He is usually such a kindhearted soul, a bit rough around the edges, but that is any clansman for ye, but yesterday he was rude to ye, and I am sorry,” she said as he looked at her with a puzzled expression.
“Dinnae worry, lass, I am used to such things from nobles and my betters. I am only a peasant who mends broken swords and shods horses’ hooves. Yer father owes me no kind words,” he replied, shaking his head.
“He is a good man, though, and doesnae behave in such a manner towards others,” Isla said, persisting in her apology, despite Fraser’s dismissal, “I am just curious as to why he should behave in such a mann
er towards ye. Have the two of ye had dealings before?”
“Nae, nae as far as I can remember, lass. I only look after the horses for ye and ‘tis usually Sweeney or one of the stable lads who bring them for their hooves. I was surprised when I saw ye bringin’ the horse the other day,” Fraser replied.
“Aye, well, I was told to dae so by my father to teach me a lesson, I would gladly have sent Sweeney but then …” she began, her words trailing off, for she was going to say that if she had not been sent to the blacksmith’s shop she would not have met Fraser.
Somehow, that did not seem quite the right thing to say, given the circumstances, but there was something about Fraser that interested her. He was different from other men, seemingly so calm and collected, certain of himself, though in a manner which was not boastful. Certainly, he was shy, but then he would be, he was a peasant, and she was the daughter of the Laird. Her very presence there was unusual, and she knew it.
A Highlander Forged In Fire (Scottish Medieval Highlander Romance) Page 5