Bride of a Scottish Warrior

by Adrienne Basso

  “Aye. And nearly a half barrel of salt.”

  Grace struggled to remain nonchalant, though the cook’s astonishment and delight was contagious. Spices were expensive, precious, and sought-after commodities, especially black pepper and salt. Their addition to food elevated the taste considerably and enhanced the reputation of the individual preparing that food.

  “We have a spice chest in the cellar, though little is kept inside,” Cook said. “Lady Moira has the key.”

  That was no surprise. It was the duty of the lady of the keep to manage all aspects of the household.

  “Though I know that it is well within my rights, I hesitate to demand the key from Lady Moira. I would not wish to insult my husband’s mother.”

  Cook raised an eyebrow. “Aye, she willnae take kindly to being pushed aside.”

  “I shall think upon it and try to devise a way to handle the matter delicately,” Grace said as she took another bite of cheese. “Did I mention that I also brought seeds? Beans, turnips, peas, parsnips, cabbage, carrots, and several others.”

  The cook’s eyes glowed. “I could start a kitchen garden again. A few weeks back I had one of the lads repair the fence and till the soil, but had naught to plant.”

  “I’m sure I can spare a goodly amount of seeds to get ye started again. Some must be saved fer the fields, but I find many of these vegetables grow best in smaller plots.” Grace popped the final piece of bread into her mouth, then brushed the crumbs from her fingers. “Do ye think we should ask Lady Moira’s opinion before we begin?”

  A bit of the excitement waned from Cook’s expression, but then she drew herself up and faced Grace. “Ye are Sir Ewan’s wife. If ye want a kitchen garden planted, then it must be done.”

  Grace nearly cried out with delight, as a rush of elation coursed through her veins. My first victory! “We shall speak of this later and see which lads we can find to help with the work. Young fellows do love putting their hands in the dirt and mud.”

  The cook smiled, then bobbed an awkward curtsy. Her mood considerably lightened, Grace headed outside. The clouds were hanging low and a chill was in the air, but no raindrops fell. It was the perfect weather to do some exploring.

  There were few signs of life in the bailey at this hour of the morning. As she strolled through it, Grace saw the spot for the kitchen garden, the pens for the animals, and stables for the horses. She could hear the squawking of a few chickens, the baying of goats, and the occasional shout of a child.

  As she walked, she found herself making lists in her head of things that needed to be done, improvements that should be made. A chair for Lady Moira was the first order of business, and a tapestry for the great hall should be designed and woven. The seeds must be unpacked, distributed, and planted, and the threadbare clothes for the servants replaced.

  Hopefully there was some cloth available; if not it would have to be woven. Her eyes scanned the bailey for a weaving hut, disappointed not to find one. She had brought one loom with her, but others could be built. She hoped that at least a few of the women possessed the necessary skills, but if they were lacking, Grace could teach them.

  All these tasks would require a great deal of time and effort, but Grace realized the challenge appealed to her. When she was mistress of Alastair’s castle she had overseen the women’s work, but everything ran so smoothly. The servants all knew their jobs and did them—they required little guidance from her.

  But here it was different. Here she was truly needed. ’Twas an overwhelming responsibility, but one she welcomed. If not for the disagreeable presence of Lady Moira, Grace would have already begun her work.

  Shaking off that gloomy thought, Grace continued her exploring and her mental list-making. As she strolled near the kennels, a sound distracted her thoughts. Craning her neck, she looked over the chest-high stone wall. Her face broke into a smile when she caught a glimpse of the occupants. A brown and white bitch lay peacefully on her side while her litter of pups nursed.

  Delighted, Grace watched them feed, amused by the sounds of contentment they made. Tummies full, jaws slack, several dozed off to sleep, but two of the bolder pups decided to play. They began climbing and wriggling over their brothers and sisters, trying to boost themselves onto their mother, but their legs were too short to carry them up her body.

  Turning, the female gave them an exasperated look. She nudged them with her nose and the pair tumbled onto the others. After a few quick licks on the top of their heads, the mother stood. Frantic cries soon filled the air, as those who were still eating were now denied their meal. Rooting blindly, they fell over each other as they tried to find a nipple. The mother gave herself a long shake, from head to tail, then eyed Grace suspiciously.

  “Ye’ve a fine brood,” Grace said calmly.

  The bitch moved closer, favoring her with a low, rumbling growl. Grace nodded respectfully, keeping her distance. She would have dearly loved the chance to cuddle one or two of the fat, frisky pups, but knew well the mother would not appreciate the gesture.

  “Och, is that a growl I hear?” Deirdre asked as she approached the kennel, a wooden bucket in her hand.

  “Aye.” Grace turned with a friendly smile. “She’s a protective mother, but I cannae fault her instincts to care fer her young.”

  “She’s a fine hunter, and a favorite of Sir Ewan,” Deirdre said. “The pups were born a few weeks ago and all seem healthy.”

  The maid cautiously opened the gate and carefully set the wooden bucket in front of the dog. The animal sniffed, then wagged her tail, yet she still stood guard, refusing to eat.

  “Best if we leave her in peace,” Grace suggested. “She’ll not eat with us so close and she’ll need her strength to take care of all those puppies.”

  “Lord above, can ye imagine having so many at once?”

  “Nay. ’Twould drive any sane woman to drink, I’m sure of it.” Grace fell in step beside the maid. As they walked away she could hear the dog heartily enjoying her meal. “What about ye, Deirdre. Do ye have any bairns?”

  The maid shook her head. “I’m not married.”

  “Really? A pretty lass such as yerself.”

  Deirdre smiled and lowered her chin modestly. “Truth be told, fer years there has not been anyone to marry. Nearly all the men were killed when they refused to yield the keep to King Robert’s soldiers. ’Twas a long siege, followed by a fierce battle that lasted fer days. Those that did survive swore allegiance to the king and were taken away to fight.”

  “Sounds dreadful.”

  “It was horrible.” Ashen-faced with the memory, Deirdre sighed. “We barely survived the next few years, with little food and no one to protect our village.”

  “War is so senseless, so brutal.” Grace covered Deirdre’s hand with her own. “I’m sorry fer all yer suffering.”

  The maid sniffed, then tried to smile. “Mercifully, that has all changed now that Sir Ewan has arrived. ’Tis good to have a knight as our leader, to protect and watch over us.”

  “Aye, and now there are more than enough handsome rogues in yer midst to consider fer a husband. Tell me, is there any man in particular who’s caught yer fancy?” Grace said the words teasingly, but Deirdre’s telltale blush let her know the remark had struck close to the truth.

  “Sir Ewan has many fine-looking retainers,” Deirdre said demurely. “Though I doubt they all wish to marry. Not all men do, and when that is the case, ’tis best they shy away from it.”

  Grace nearly stopped walking. ’Twas true that many men chaffed at the bonds of matrimony. Had Ewan been one of them? He had never made a secret of the fact that he needed her dowry. And after arriving at Tiree Keep she well understood that need. Yet she could not help but wonder if he would have chosen to remain without a wife under different circumstances.

  “Fie, any man who isn’t proud to have ye as his wife is a half-wit,” Grace declared.

  Deirdre smiled at the compliment. As they walked to the edge of the bailey, G
race could see the area that had been marked for a second wall to be built, recognizing this usual manner of defense. With a smaller garrison of soldiers to protect them, a second wall could prove the difference between victory and defeat.

  This would be an expensive, time-consuming undertaking, but a necessary one. Most castles had two walls and in the strip of land between them a pattern of long, sharp wooden spikes was stuck into the ground. Dangerous and lethal, they stood ever at the ready to shred an enemy if he managed to breach the first wall.

  They turned the corner and Grace could hear the sounds of sawing and hammering, along with some cursing and good-natured arguing. It seemed as though every man was there, working on the construction of a pair of outbuildings. Including her husband. ’Twas an odd sight indeed to see a hammer, instead of a sword, in Ewan’s hand and a stark reminder of how different his life was from most lairds.

  As if sensing her presence, Ewan looked up and gave her a welcoming smile. Grace returned it. “I will not disturb yer work, husband, though I will ask if ye could spare a lad or two to help with the kitchen garden. Vegetables and herbs need to be planted, and the sooner that is done, the sooner they will grow.”

  “I’ll send Arthur and Giles to ye once we have secured the roof,” Ewan replied. “Just make certain someone keeps careful watch. The lads have a talent fer getting into mischief.”

  “I shall put Cook in charge of the work. Thank ye.”

  Very aware of the curious looks she was receiving from the working men, Grace dipped a respectful curtsy, then let out a yelp when Ewan grabbed her arm. He leaned his head down and kissed her soundly on the lips. “That, my dearest wife, is the proper way to say thank ye.”

  The men hooted and whistled and Grace blushed. “I shall strive to remember, sir,” she replied with a saucy wink.

  Grace returned to the great hall in a happy mood, her spirits buoyed. She passed through the front door and the women ceased talking for a few moments. They gave her a collective stare, pressed their heads together, and then the conversation once again started. Grace shuddered, thinking what Lady Moira might have told these women about her. No matter. ’Twas time to get to know the members of her household.

  Deirdre made the introductions. Grace smiled and nodded a greeting, repeating each name so that she might remember them. There was uncertainty among the faces staring back at her, but that was not unexpected.

  Grace also noticed several anxious glances toward the stairs leading to the kitchen and decided that was most likely where Lady Moira was this morning. Clearly, the women feared being caught talking to her.

  In due course, Lady Moira emerged. She spared no greeting for Grace and immediately began assigning duties to the others. Grace decided to let the insult lie, choosing to listen rather than speak. She quietly melted into the background and observed, soon gaining a grudging respect for Lady Moira’s household knowledge, though she did not agree that such a firm hand was needed with the servants.

  When all was set to rights in the great hall, several of the women retreated to the storeroom. Lady Moira led the way, declaring the need for an inventory. The work had just begun when a sudden commotion drew everyone’s attention. One of the women clumsily knocked over a wooden bin of oats, spilling the precious grain on the dirt floor.

  Frantic, the girl dropped to her knees and started gathering the oats into a pile and scooping handfuls of them back into the bin.

  “That’s not fit to serve the dogs,” Lady Moira bellowed. “There’s bits of dirt, straw, and small rocks mixed in with the oats.”

  The maid’s eyes welled with tears. “I . . . I . . . c-can fix it, m-milady,” she said.

  With tears flowing, the young servant started picking out the large pieces of straw and rocks, but it was impossible to separate them. Truth be told, the girl was making more of a mess.

  Grace noticed several of the other women looked pained, but no one dared to move. Grace remembered the girl’s name was Helen. She seemed a simple soul, a bit slow, mayhap even dim-witted, but earnest and eager. Her speech was thick and her eyes a tad dull, making her the ideal target for mockery.

  Fearing Lady Moira’s retribution, Grace knew she must intervene. Moving forward, she knelt beside Helen.

  “’Twas simply a mistake,” Grace said calmly. “We all make mistakes, do we not, Helen?”

  “A . . . aye.” The girl ceased her weeping and wiped her nose with the back of her sleeve. “I dinnae mean to make such a mess.”

  “I know.” Grace raised her head. “We need to sift the oats to remove the large bits of debris.”

  “I’ll get a sieve from the kitchen,” Deirdre volunteered.

  Grace saw the fire of anger building in Lady Moira’s eyes, uncertain if it was directed at her or Helen. No matter. This poor, simpleminded creature was doing her best and Grace was determined to help her.

  She showed Helen how to properly sift the oats, then stayed at her side while the girl performed the task. Her hands shook at first, but gradually her confidence built and Helen successfully finished the job.

  With a grateful smile, the girl rose awkwardly to her feet. Grace felt a moment of triumph, but then Helen stepped back and knocked over a pitcher of wine. It cracked on the hard dirt floor, spewing liquid in all directions.

  Everyone gasped and leaped away. Grace quickly checked the front of her own gown, relieved to discover it was clean, then looked at the others. Most of the women were smiling and nodding their heads. Except for Lady Moira. She blinked in bewilderment, then stared down the front of her dress. It was splattered with wine and stained a deep red color.

  One of the women cried out, then clasped her hand over her mouth. Grace tensed, knowing she would be unable to protect Helen now. Servants were struck for far less and it was obvious the gown was ruined.

  “I should box yer ears fer this, girl,” Lady Moira said in an angry voice.

  Shamed, Helen bowed her head. “’Tis what I deserve, milady.”

  “Hmm.” Lady Moira took a deep breath. Pressing her mouth into a taut line, she ineffectively brushed at the stain covering her chest. “There are some who say ye are of little account, Helen.”

  “Aye,” Helen whispered, lowering her head even more.

  “But I dinnae believe it,” Lady Moira exclaimed.

  “Ye have always been kind to me.” She gave Lady Moira a sorrowful look. “I am truly sorry that I ruined yer gown.”

  Grace’s brow rose in astonishment. Had her ears deceived her? Did Helen just say that Lady Moira was kind?

  “Ye shall help the laundress clean my gown, Helen.”

  “I will use lye and then soapwort, milady, and scrub until the wine stain is gone,” Helen promised, sounding eager.

  “Take care not to tear the fabric,” Lady Moira admonished.

  “I will be ever so careful. And I will tell the laundress to add marjoram so the gown will smell sweet.”

  “Very good. Now come and help me change. Ye must wash the gown right away, before the stain has time to set.”

  Sparing not a glance for the others, Lady Moira sailed from the storeroom, Helen following dutifully in her wake. The rest of the women returned to their work. Grace also remained, but her mind was in a whirl, as she tried to comprehend what she had just witnessed. She was pleased that Helen had not been harshly punished, but astonished to discover that Lady Moira was capable of such compassion.

  Surprised and hopeful and selfish enough to pray that one day that compassion would be cast in her direction.

  By the end of the week Grace was feeling pleased over the progress and improvements that had been made. Seeds were planted, a weaving hut and looms constructed, and a brand-new chair sat at the head table on Ewan’s other side. Lady Moira had naturally commented on the size and design, claiming it was not as grand as the other two chairs, but she sat upon it at every meal.

  As for Ewan, well, her husband’s stamina was nothing short of miraculous, for he worked alongside his men unt
il it was too dark to see, ate a hearty supper, and then made love to her for a good part of the night.

  She could see the pride he took in his holding, the care and concern he had for those under his protection. Yet underlying it all, Grace felt something was lacking. Ewan was working hard to build a legacy, yet had no legitimate name to pass along.

  Grace had an idea of how to change that, but needed her brother’s help to make the plan succeed. The problem lay in getting word to Brian without alerting Ewan. Happily, that opportunity came sooner than she expected, when Ewan told her he was sending a few of his men south to barter for additional supplies.

  “Will the men travel on McKenna land?” she asked, stooping to push several seeds deeper into the soil. They were walking the southern fields this morning, surveying the progress.

  “Most likely.” Ewan tilted his head. “Why do ye ask? Are ye in need of something from yer brother?”

  “Well, I’d like news of my family. The time has come and gone fer Aileen’s babe to be born. I should like to know if it was a lad or a lass.”

  “I shall instruct the men to stop and speak with Brian.”

  “Wonderful! I will write a letter this evening fer them to deliver.”

  Ewan’s eyes narrowed. “Why must ye write? Is something amiss ye wish to report to him?”

  Grace was taken aback by the harshness of Ewan’s tone. He seemed genuinely distressed at the idea of her writing to her brother. Why?

  “It seems foolish to waste this opportunity. We sent word to them of our marriage and I asked that Brian gift the convent with additional supplies, since I took nearly all of what I was bringing to them here, as my dowry. I would like to assure both my brother and Aileen that all is well and that I am happy. If ye wish, ye may read the letter before I seal it.”

  That suggestion brought an almost stoic expression to Ewan’s handsome face. He said nothing, just looked straight ahead to the fields. Grace waited. Finally, he glanced her way and for a moment he looked embarrassed. Grace swallowed her cry of understanding, not wanting to further insult him.