The Reiver

by Campbell, Glynnis

  “Well, he’s an old man,” Mabel admitted. “He needs his rest.” And then, as if the brilliant notion suddenly occurred to her, she said brightly, “But as long as she’s here, why not have the lass lend a hand? I’m sure she has some sort o’ valuable household skills.”

  Irritated by Mabel’s poorly disguised attempt at pointing out the lass’s wifely talents and peeved at having to miss breakfast, Brochan muttered, “Ye mean other than reivin’ cattle?”

  Chapter 5

  Cristy supposed he had every right to say that. But it hit a nerve.

  Her uncle always said she was useless.

  Cristy wasn’t useless.

  “Fie, m’laird!” Mabel protested. “O’ course. Surely she can churn butter and shell peas,” she suggested. “Och, and mend the lads’ trews. Can’t ye, lass?”

  A child could do those things. Cristy suspected she was being flattered into menial labor. Nevertheless, her pride and boredom made her reply, “O’ course.”

  “Excellent!” Mabel cheered with far too much enthusiasm. “I’ll just take that bowl if ye’re finished and bring a needle and thread.”

  Cristy could have eaten another bowl of the frumenty. It was the best thing she’d tasted in weeks. Her uncle never served such tasty fare. He had rather simple tastes and preferred oatcakes and watered ale to break his fast.

  Mabel took the bowl and hurried down the stairs, leaving her alone with Macintosh.

  He looked rather different in the light of day—younger and less menacing. She realized he wasn’t much older than her. His sleep-mussed, chestnut-colored hair made him look as boyish as his sons. And though his eyes were shadowed from lack of sleep, she could see they were gentle and kind, just like Colin’s and Cambel’s.

  “The missive should be delivered soon,” Macintosh assured her. “Ye won’t have to spend the whole day mendin’ the lads’ trews.”

  She nodded, though now that she’d passed a night unscathed in the house of the enemy, she wasn’t particularly looking forward to going home. Naught awaited her there except her uncle’s cruel tongue and hard knuckles.

  She shrugged and said pointedly, “’Tis the least I can do to thank your sons for their charity.”

  He could not have missed her point. But he managed a smile anyway. And she was struck by the warmth in his face in spite of her sarcasm.

  “I’m not certain ye should thank them for accostin’ ye in the middle o’ the night and stealin’ half the covers,” he said. “But I’m sure they had good intentions.”

  The truth was she hadn’t minded them at all. When she’d first awakened in the middle of the night to hear the lads’ worried whispers in the dark hall, something had melted inside her. When they threw coverlets over her shoulders and nuzzled against her, she’d never felt so cared for and so needed. A tiny part of her wished she could spirit the sweet lads away with her.

  Of course, stealing Macintosh’s lads would be far worse than reiving his cattle. She could see that he loved them more than life. Besides, he needed them here. With so few servants, someone had to milk the cows.

  Brochan’s brow furrowed briefly, and he went to the cupboard. Opening the door, he ran a finger along a shelf of small clay jars, stopping and taking one down. Then he came to hunker down beside her and gave her the jar.

  “Healin’ unguent,” he explained, nodding to her ankle, “for your…”

  He locked gazes with her, and her breath caught. This close, she could see his face clearly for the first time. Not only were his eyes the most beautiful and startling shade of rich green, but they were deep and expressive. In a single glance, she could see the whole history of his emotions written there—joy, grief, humor, hurt, strength, love.

  Suddenly disarmed, she was at a loss for words. He seemed to be tongue-tied as well. But when his gaze lowered to her mouth, her heart made a queer flutter in her breast.

  Before Cristy could wonder what was happening, Mabel came stomping up the stairs. Brochan moved away as fast as a spooked cow.

  “I’m goin’ to the garden now,” he announced, his voice cracking over the words. “I’ve got to repair the wall.”

  “Aye, fine, m’laird,” Mabel sang. “Don’t ye worry about our wee guest. I’ll keep her properly occupied.”

  Cristy watched him leave, seeing him with new eyes. The young laird seemed to bear the whole weight of the world on his shoulders. And yet he still had room left in his heart to care for his sons and to make sure his hostage was comfortable.

  She felt bad about stealing his cows now. And she was glad he was her neighbor. The old Laird Macintosh had been a sour and miserable man. This new laird seemed good-natured.

  As Mabel handed her a pair of torn trews and tools to sew them, a silly hope sidled into Cristy’s mind. Perhaps, after all this mess with his cattle was straightened out, she would come and visit on occasion. She liked Colin and Cambel. And she could even lend a hand to Brochan, just until he got his keep in order.

  The lads returned an hour later, as she was taking the last stitch in Cambel’s trews. At Mabel’s prompting, they thanked Cristy, whom they insisted on calling m’lady, and dutifully took the trews and the coverlets they’d dragged down the stairs back up to their own chamber.

  When they returned, they’d changed into the repaired trews. Mabel gave them each a couple of oatcakes and cups of fresh, warm milk. Colin insisted on sharing his milk with Cristy, boasting that he’d milked the cow himself. So she obliged him with a sip, though it was a strange taste to her, since she was much more accustomed to ale.

  Mabel brought out the full butter churn and a basket of peas, returning to the kitchens to start the supper pottage. The lads took turns churning the cream, while Cristy shelled peas into a wooden bowl. It was soothing work, and the lads were good company.

  They chatted about their old home, how there had been more kin living in the keep, but that they liked this big empty tower house because it was all theirs. Colin especially liked the cows. And Cambel enjoyed exploring, especially down by the burn.

  Cristy told them she lived on the other side of that burn with her uncle. She explained that her parents were dead. And she learned from the lads that they’d never known their mother.

  She asked them what it was like to have a brother who looked so much like them. They told her a few of the tricks they’d played on their kin. But they mostly found it disappointing that people couldn’t tell them apart.

  Cristy said she thought that was ridiculous, as ridiculous as not being able to tell cows apart. She assured them that even though she’d known them less than a day, already she could tell the difference between them. The lads brightened at that.

  And then they began to ask more difficult questions.

  Cambel stopped churning and wiped his brow. “Why did ye steal our da’s coos, m’lady?”

  Cristy almost dropped a peapod. How could she explain that?

  She sighed. “’Twas a foolish trick, I suppose, maybe like the tricks ye played on your kin. I wanted to show off for my cousins.”

  “But stealin’ is bad,” Colin said.

  “Aye.”

  “Are ye sorry?” Cambel asked.

  “Aye.”

  “And are ye goin’ to be punished?” Cambel asked.

  “Probably.”

  “By our da?” Colin asked.

  “Nay, by my uncle.”

  “What will he do?” Cambel asked.

  Cristy didn’t want to talk about it. She shrugged.

  Cambel suggested to Colin, “Maybe he’ll make her muck the stables.”

  Colin whispered back, “Mabel said Laird Moffat probably gave her the black eye. Maybe he’ll hit her again.”

  Cambel straightened. “But that’s not right. Da says ye should never hit a lady.”

  Cristy sighed. She was liking Brochan Macintosh more and more.

  Colin took over Cambel’s spot at the churn then, and Cambel added a block of peat to the fire.

  “Do ye kn
ow any stories, m’lady?” Colin asked as he pumped the churn. “I like stories.”

  Cristy thought about it. Her mother had told her stories when she was a wee lass. One of her favorites was from the Bible—the tale of the shepherd David fighting the giant Goliath.

  She regaled the lads with a rousing rendition of the battle, complete with a demonstration of David’s sling, using a pod to fire a pea across the hall, which made the lads erupt in laughter.

  “Will ye come back to visit us, m’lady?” Cambel asked.

  “Aye, will ye?” Colin chimed in.

  She was saved having to answer when the door opened and Brochan returned from working outside. The lads leaped up and ran to him.

  “Da!” Cambel cried. “Do ye know the story o’ Goliath and wee David?”

  “M’lady fixed my trews. See?” Colin turned his back and bent over so Brochan could view the mended seat of his trews, nearly splitting the seam again.

  “We’ve been helpin’ churn the butter.”

  “She can come visit us anytime, right, Da?”

  “Lads, let me catch my breath,” he told them.

  Cristy could see Brochan was overwhelmed. He must have been working hard on the garden wall. He was dripping with sweat, and his forearms were smudged with mud. Yet he was still as aggravatingy handsome as the devil. And as tired as he must be, he had hugs and a smile for his sons.

  “Mabel!” he called out. “Have ye got a spare ale?”

  From the kitchens below, Mabel yelled, “Aye, be right up!”

  Then his gaze fell on Cristy, and something caught in her throat. Brochan looked so content, standing there with an arm around each of his sons. She couldn’t help but feel a sort of bittersweet envy.

  Then Colin said exactly the wrong thing. “Ye aren’t goin’ to let m’lady go back to that bad man who beats her, are ye, Da?”

  The awkward indecision in Brochan’s eyes crushed her. Yet what could he say? All he knew about her was that she’d stolen his cows. What happened between her and her uncle wasn’t his concern.

  “Well…I…”

  She came to his rescue. “I have to go home, Colin. But maybe I could come and visit now and then.”

  Brochan was clearly relieved. “Aye, if ye like. Would ye like that, lads?”

  They jumped up and down and cheered.

  Mabel came up the stairs with a tray of cups for everyone. “What’s all this fuss?”

  Colin replied, “M’lady is goin’ to come and visit us.”

  “Is that so?”

  Brochan clarified, “After the…situation…is resolved.”

  “No word yet?” Mabel asked, handing out the ales.

  Brochan shook his head. “Ye’re certain he gave the missive to Brother William this morn?”

  “Och, aye. He said the monk was makin’ rounds today, reassurin’ the folk who were frettin’ o’er the star last night.”

  “What star?” Colin asked.

  “Och, lads,” Brochan said, “I must show ye the star tonight. ’Tis a special star with a tail, called a comet. ’Tis quite spectacular.”

  So it hadn’t been a dream, Cristy thought. The strange star was real. She’d begun to wonder if she’d imagined it.

  “Can m’lady come see it with us?” asked Cambel.

  “Well…Miss Moffat is most likely goin’ home today,” Brochan explained.

  The lads’ faces fell, and Cristy had to admit she felt the same disappointment.

  “That’s all right,” she told them, “I’ve seen the star already.”

  “That’s right, ye have,” Brochan said, no doubt remembering that her distraction by the comet was how he’d been lucky enough to catch her.

  “If ye wash up, I can bring us all pottage,” Mabel said.

  Brochan shook his head. “I just came in for an ale. I’m only half done with the wall. Is Rauf up and around yet?”

  “Nay, m’laird, and ’twill be a while. Don’t ye have accounts to go over? Why don’t ye come sup with us now and do your outdoor work later? Rauf can help ye finish the wall this afternoon.”

  Brochan rubbed the back of his neck, considering the idea. Cristy was astounded that he was hesitating. He hadn’t broken his fast, as far as she’d seen. Did the man take no time to eat?

  Mabel said, “Ye can bring your work to the table, slay two birds with one stone.”

  “One stone?” Colin tugged on Brochan’s trews. “That’s just like David, Da.”

  “I suppose ’tis.” Brochan smiled and ruffled his son’s hair. “Fine. I’ll go wash up. But I’m countin’ on ye lads to help me with the accounts.”

  When he returned and Mabel began to serve supper at the table, the lads made more trouble.

  “Da,” Cambel whispered, just loud enough for Cristy to hear, “we can’t make m’lady sit on the floor to eat.”

  “Aye,” Colin agreed. “’Tis unchivalrous.”

  “Can’t ye take off her chains?” Cambel asked.

  Brochan replied in a murmur. “Lads, she’s our prisoner. If we let her escape, she’ll go home, and we’ll never get our coos back.”

  Cristy stared into the fire, pretending not to hear, though she was hanging on every word. Would they unshackle her? Was escape still possible?

  Colin tried to convince Cambel. “Da’s right, Cambel. We have to get our coos back.”

  “But ’tis dishonorable,” Cambel argued. He frowned and crossed his arms over his chest. “I won’t eat my pottage unless she’s allowed at the table.”

  Cristy feared Cambel was begging to be clouted for his impertinence. But Brochan answered him with patience and consideration.

  “Indeed?” he said. “Then what would ye suggest?”

  “I know,” Colin said. “She could give us her word she won’t flee.”

  “Her word?” Brochan almost choked. “And how do ye know ye can trust her word?”

  “She’s a lady,” Cambel said, as if it were obvious.

  Brochan smirked. “Ye’ve much to learn, lads. But if ye think ’tis the right thing…”

  Cristy’s pulse raced.

  Colin and Cambel answered in unison, “Aye.”

  Brochan went to the cupboard and brought back a key. He dropped to one knee beside her. “Do ye swear ye won’t try to escape?”

  “Aye.”

  “Do ye give the lads your word on it?”

  “Aye.”

  He sprang the shackle and held out a hand to help her up. For one tense instant, she thought about racing for the door, despite her oath. And as if he read her mind, he clasped her hand firmly in his and led her to the table, wedging her strategically between his two sons, to whom she’d just given her solemn word.

  The pea and barley pottage Mabel served in a crust of coarse maslin was just as delicious as the frumenty. Cristy thought she’d be glad of an excuse to visit every day if the food was always so appetizing.

  While they ate, Brochan looked over several documents he’d brought to the table. Then he slipped a page toward the lads and asked them to recite the numbers in a long column while he checked them off on another page.

  Cristy was astonished the young lads could decipher the marks on the page. She wished she could. Women were seldom tasked with anything requiring such knowledge. But she often wondered how much more power she would have if she could read and write.

  In a flight of whimsy, Cristy imagined coming here every day to learn from the lads how to recognize numbers and pen letters.

  When Brochan no longer needed the lads, Mabel put them to work, sweeping up the rushes on the floor of the great hall. The old woman said she planned to see what crops she could salvage from the overgrown garden.

  Meanwhile, she quietly brought a ripped leine to the table and asked Cristy if she wouldn’t mind mending it.

  Brochan glanced up. “That’s my leine,” he murmured to Cristy. “Ye don’t have to do it.”

  “I don’t mind,” Cristy said. Otherwise, she’d be bored, with naught to do.
“I promise I won’t even sew the sleeves shut.”

  He snorted at that.

  The afternoon was the most peaceful Cristy had passed in a long while. Between the fire crackling on the hearth, the laird quietly scrawling figures, the whispery sweep of the rushes, and the soothing repetition of stitching, she felt calm and restful.

  She’d just made a final knot in the thread when she glanced up to see Brochan slumped atop the table. His pen was still in his hand. His head rested on his forearm. And his open mouth was making a soft sawing sound. She smiled. He looked more like his sons than ever when he was asleep.

  All at once, a dangerous thought occurred to her. Mabel was outside. Rauf was in his chamber. Brochan was asleep. And she was no longer shackled. She could easily send the lads on some errand upstairs and slip out the door. Her heart raced as she considered the possibility.

  Then she thought about Mabel, who had made her a bowl of frumenty and treated her like a guest. She glanced again at the poor overworked laird dozing on the table. She watched his kind and dutiful sons, piling rushes near the door.

  She’d given them her word. She’d promised she wouldn’t flee. And though it might mean a beating for her if she didn’t escape, she couldn’t stomach the thought of betraying the sweet lads. Or their father.

  So, silently cursing herself for a fool, she carefully set his mended leine aside so as not to wake the laird. Then she glanced around the hall, wondering what else she could do to make herself useful.

  Brochan woke to the sound of Rauf coming downstairs. Startled and disoriented, the laird lifted his head, nearly upsetting the vial of ink. Then he frowned and gave his head a good shake, dispelling the fog from his brain.

  Had he fallen asleep at his work? Again?

  He had to stop that. There was too much to do for the luxury of dozing.

  The rushes were gone from the great hall. The lads must have finished their chores. But where were they now? And Cristy…

  His blood turned to ice as he realized the lass was missing. He stood up, knocking the bench over with a great thud.

  “M’laird, what’s wrong?” Rauf said as he stepped into the hall.