Every Heart Has Its Day

by Lynda Lukow

  He scowled at her as she curtsied, then turned and smiled at the cook. “How fare thee this morn, Agatha?” He patted her bottom.

  She giggled like a lass twenty summers younger. “I could be better, milord. It seems someone”—she glanced at Kasey—”be behind her time. The fare will be late agin.”

  Kasey wished she could slap the disdain off the cook’s face, but feared the consequences.

  The Cameron grabbed her plait, jerked back her head, and leaned down so they stood nose to nose. His rancid breath soured her stomach.

  Despite the pain in her neck and scalp, she said naught and trained her gaze on his chin.

  “I would think by now ye would ken the penance for sloth. Since yer return, ye have consumed fewer than half the meals ye have prepared.”

  Kasey resisted the urge to gag as his spittle fell on her chin.

  “This be yer last warning.”

  “As ye wish, milord.” Though she dared not show it, she took pride in her steady voice.

  He shoved her toward the table. She latched onto the edge while she dashed away the image of her mother’s head striking the mantel.

  “Why dinna ye return to bed, Douglas? I shall serve ye anon.” Agatha winked.

  He clutched the cook’s breast. “Bring fare for three.”

  Kasey glanced at the woman, who had oftentimes eaten thrice her share. When Agatha had served as Lady Brietta’s maid, she had been sweet and helpful. Now she stationed herself on the padded chair next to the hearth and issued commands.

  “Dinna ye have work to do?” Agatha pushed Kasey toward the oven.

  Kenna cowered in the corner. Kasey smiled, hoping to reassure the child. She must have understood, for she blinked twice, straightened, and returned to slicing venison. Pretty, brown eyes in a sunken face, ribs poking through her threadbare kirtle. Whenever Agatha refused Kenna fare, Kasey fed her and gladly suffered the punishment for disobeying.

  She removed the apples and served the meal. After her clansmen ate, she cleared the tables before again scrubbing the floors. Four and twenty men ate the morning meal, but they made the mess of a hundred pigs.

  Afterward, she snatched up her buckets and hurried to the pond. She wished the unmarried soldiers would wed quickly, for the mountain of dirty tunics, trews, and plaids often stood higher than she. At least the laundresses did not expect her to scrub the garments.

  She need only fill the tubs. The first few days her arms had burned hotter than the hearth, but she had since grown accustomed to the labor. And she no longer had to water the garden. When she emptied the tubs, she poured the leavings straight down the rows.

  The sun approached its peak too soon. She ran back to the kitchens. Quiet reigned while she and Kenna prepared the nooning meal. Agatha sat on her perch, plying a needle. She stuck out her foot once as Kasey passed, but Kasey had expected mischief and stepped over it. She dammed her laughter at the disappointed look on Agatha’s face.

  Despite their tardiness, they readied the nooning meal on time. After serving and clearing it, she again scrubbed the great hall’s floor. Twice the men attended the nooning meal, yet the mess did not double. Mayhap the warriors’ aim improved as the day wore on. Nay, judging from the increase in noise, their mouths must grow.

  Before she prepared the evening’s feast, she attended the abovestairs. Her laird demanded clean bed linens daily in all the chambers, whether slept in or not. She had to scrub the floors and spread out fresh rushes each sennight. Thankfully, she had done that chore the previous day.

  As she dusted her way from room to room, she wondered what tasks the scullery maids attended. She could ask no one save her laird, and that was out of the question. At least she did not have to empty the chamber pots. She could not stomach that chore.

  She stopped outside the last door on the left and took a deep breath. She dreaded entering her mother’s chamber and laid her hand against the wood. Just as she cracked it open, a man shouted.

  Not just any man, but her laird. Creaking floorboards sent her scurrying into the next room. She peeked into the corridor.

  “Clean yerself well, my sweet. I shall return after a wee rest.”

  With a smile on his face, her laird sauntered past. She could not remember the last time she had seen aught but a scowl. Mayhap later, if he remained in high spirits, she would ask him why the Camerons hated the Mackintoshes.

  Nay, she would not. He would consider her question insolent, and she would suffer his wrath.

  She slumped against the door. When had she become a coward?

  Sobbing caught her ear. She peered into the corridor to make sure no one lingered, then crept toward her mother’s chamber where Evonne straightened the bodice of her kirtle. Tears trailed down her cheeks.

  Kasey wrinkled her nose at the musky smell and noted the rumpled bed linens. “Evonne? Be ye ill?”

  Her friend hugged herself as she backed up against the wall. Her flush deepened with each shake of her head. “Ye should not be here.”

  “Ye should not be here. This be my mother’s chamber.”

  “Yer mother be dead.”

  The words stung like a slap, but naught would be gained by arguing with her last friend. “Tell me if ye be unwell.”

  Evonne smiled weakly. “I be fine. Go afore someone sees us speaking.”

  “I must clean the room.”

  “I will tend the rest of the abovestairs. Please, Kasey, let me be.”

  She longed to take her friend into her arms and soothe away her troubles. But if caught, both would suffer consequences. Whatever worried Evonne could not be as bad as a beating.

  For the first time this day, Kasey was ahead of her time. She could not enjoy the spare moments, for she had a feeling they had cost her friend dearly, but she could put them to good use. Mayhap she and Kenna would not have to rush through the preparations for the evening meal—if Agatha kept to herself.

  As the sun sank below the horizon, Kasey sat alone at the table savoring her first meal in nigh on two days. The scraps of pheasant had dried, the crusts of bread had staled, and the crumbs of cheese had hardened. Yet it tasted like the finest fare she had ever partaken. She wished she had the time to truly enjoy the food, but more chores awaited her.

  She pushed her chair from the table and stumbled over the hem of her kirtle. Afore she retired this night she would have to take up the hem. Again.

  Her vision grayed. Sad amber eyes appeared, then faded. The room darkened, dampened. At first she could see the shadow of her hand before her, but a force pulled her further in. Evil and despair blocked the distant candle’s light.

  Her sight brightened, then blurred with tears. She snatched the last full pail, threw in the scrub brush, and stomped into the great hall. She was a fool. She shoved crumbs to the floor. Mackintoshes lie. She scoured the tables. Gratitude? Honor? They did not ken the meaning of the words.

  She looked down. The men had dropped more food on the floor than she prepared for a nooning meal. She kicked the rushes aside and dropped to her knees.

  Evonne’s earlier distress as well as the vision provoked her to scrub the oak until it splintered. Had her friend perceived her folly? Gavin would not come for Evonne any more than Hunter would claim Kasey. She seized the soiled rushes and thrust them into a wooden cask. Hunter could make a fool out of her, but she would not tolerate Gavin disappointing her friend.

  Her tears returned. She let them fall with the fresh stems she scattered over the planks. She could do naught to avenge the lies. She and her friend could but accept their new life, for neither would see a Mackintosh again.

  Though she felt like worn, wet linen, she could not rest. Tonight she had to make tapers. She crawled to her feet, snatched up the bucket, and toddled to the kitchens.

  At least she could sit while making candles. Her other late night chores did not allow that luxury. Though she knelt while gardening and emptying the hearths, the tasks strained her back. She could not stir soap from a chair.


  As she dipped wicks into melted tallow, she thought about the people she knew. All, save Evonne, had deserted her. Her mother had died. Her laird, who had on occasion tolerated her, now treated her as a slave. The king had done naught but send an emissary once every season.

  Each man commented on her disheveled appearance before inquiring about her well-being. Some had lamented their lack of authority to remove her. Of the eight visitations since her departure from Inverness, Broderick had made none. From his look of horror before warriors removed him and the king’s guard from the keep, she expected the king to hang Laird Cameron. Broderick must have forsaken her mother’s memory, too.

  Gone, too, was the goodwill she once shared with her clansmen. Though none voiced accusations, most blamed her for their lady’s death. Even those who did not hold her responsible would not risk the consequences kindness wrought.

  She hung the last taper to harden. Though her eyelids felt heavy, her thoughts would keep sleep at bay. She wished Evonne would come to talk, but she did not expect her.

  Only one other could ease her troubled mind.

  The sliver of the moon offered little light, but Kasey could walk the path stone blind. She eased open the warped door, stepped over the stablemaster and around the ale cask, then sneaked to the last stall.

  “My apologies. I dinna bring ye an apple.” Each night she brushed the mare, she confided her hopes and her worries. The horse did not understand her words, but the sympathetic look in the animal’s eyes comforted her.

  After tending the mare, Kasey spent a few precious moments cleaning the day’s grime and sweat from her body, then crawled over to the corner by the hearth. She wrapped herself in a plaid and prayed for peaceful rest.

  ****

  Connor “Hunter” Mackintosh arose before the sun crested the castle. He dressed, donned his sword, and sought out his commander. He found Tavish Shaw laying kindling on the fire behind the quarters. That could mean but one thing. Gruel again. He had eaten more of the tasteless porridge in the last two years than he had as a toothless babe.

  “How fare thee this morn, Connor?”

  Connor grinned. He had not made a sound, yet without turning his way, Shaw knew of his approach.

  Since he had bathed the night before, the man could not smell him. “Someday ye must tell me how ye do it.”

  “It be simple. Every group of trainees has one who rises earlier and works harder than the others.” He smiled. “I must admit two summers ago I did not expect ye to be the one.”

  Connor raised a brow.

  “I remember the look upon yer face when ye first entered yer quarters.”

  He glanced at the small wooden building that had become his home. “Two and ten pallets, two and ten wee chests. No chairs. No tapestries. The Mackintosh dungeon offers more comfort.”

  “These quarters provide some men with more than they ever had. But being a man of station—” Shaw hesitated. “I expected ye to decry such primitive conditions.”

  “Battlefields offer far less.”

  “True, but I dinna ken ye fought with yer clan. I wonder how ye survived.”

  Two years ago Connor would have punched the man for insulting his skill, but now he had to agree. “Do yer doubts persist?”

  “No one leaves my ranks unable to defend himself.” Shaw placed the kettle on the fire. “My experience with men of privilege left a sour taste in my mouth. Yet no matter how difficult I made things for ye, ye never failed to meet the challenge.”

  “I had thought ye addled.”

  “Most do.” Shaw cracked a rare grin. “Few ken wielding weapons takes more than guidance. Yer body must be strong, yer head clear, and yer heart devoted.”

  “Some days I dinna think I would survive. My muscles burned from the menial tasks.”

  “Ye had grown soft.” Shaw, who fancied himself a cook, stirred the gruel. “Pain goes hand in hand with battle. Might ye admit that since those early days, ye can bear more without notice?”

  “Aye.”

  “The trees?”

  Connor nodded. He and his fellow men-at-arms had spent the first month chopping down a legion of trees and stripping them of branches. Then they moved the pile of trunks from one spot to another. Sometimes Shaw had ordered them to throw the boles at a target. Other days they held the trunks overhead as they ran from pile to pile. “I had thought ye more indecisive than a woman.”

  “What of building the wall?” Shaw asked.

  As the farmers harvested the last of their crops, Connor and the men cleared boulders from the forest and unplowed fields surrounding Inverness. They carried the stones to heighten the furthermost section.

  “I dinna understand why we placed the stones from the northern fields in the southern wall.”

  “The distance made ye stronger.”

  “I hated the moat the most.” They celebrated their first New Year at Inverness damming the stream that fed the moat. With naught but buckets, the men deepened the ditch. “I often wondered whether my fingers or toes would freeze first.”

  Shaw’s mouth opened as if to reply until Connor put up his hand.

  “No need to say it. We canna know when we will be called to arms. The work taught us to ignore bitter cold and blowing snow.” Connor remembered his frustration. “Ye could have explained yer reasons.”

  “Do ye ken why I dinna?”

  “Warriors must follow their commander’s orders without question.”

  “I be impressed, Connor.”

  “Ye can thank Broderick.”

  “He explained it?”

  “He dinna say a word.”

  “Ye confuse me.”

  “The trees budded afore ye gave us a day’s break. The men had sat in the quarters complaining. Nigh on six months had passed, and we had yet to touch a weapon. Their whining increased my own vexation, so I went for a walk. Broderick happened to pass by. I admit I gave him an earful.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He told me to get Gavin and bring our weapons to the training field. He greeted me by swinging his fist toward my face, but I ducked the blow. Our brawl lasted until Gavin pried us apart.” Connor grinned. “The old man be quick.”

  Shaw nodded. “He be a legend. What happened next?”

  “He picked up my bow, shot an arrow at a distant tree, and challenged Gavin and me to do the same.” Connor did not admit the challenge had worried him. He had always been accurate, but only at shorter distances.

  “Broderick snickered when Gavin’s first shot flew past the tree. I thought he would split his trews when my shot went wild.”

  “Did he explain what went wrong?”

  “Nay, he just handed us more arrows. Gavin’s second attempt embedded just above Broderick’s.” Connor paused.

  “And yers?”

  “I realized the labor had made me stronger and adjusted my aim.” He smiled. “My arrow split Broderick’s.”

  Shaw clapped him on the back and nodded. “I ken the way the old man works. Did he pull his sword on ye next?”

  “Nay, though in truth, I wish he had. I believe he could teach me things even ye have yet to learn. Instead, he settled back and watched as Gavin and I wielded our swords. The sun had reached its peak afore he called an end and walked away.”

  “He dinna say aught?”

  “Not one word. He had shown us the answers.”

  “And ye shared with the men, dinna ye? I noticed the change.” Shaw nodded. “Ye spent the first year posing as a man. I be pleased a born leader like ye has now chosen to live like one.”

  “I shall forever be in yer debt.”

  “Nay, Connor. The honor belongs to ye alone.” He stirred the pot. “Speaking of honor, ye have earned two. Our king be pleased with ye and has invited ye to join the Royal Guard.”

  He shook his head. Though the recommendation was the highest tribute, his heart would wait no longer.

  “Consider the offer well afore ye make a decision.”

  “And the ot
her?”

  “Go rouse the others. After we break the fast, we will enjoy a diversion.”

  “Another bard?” Connor sighed. He had no use for the romantic ballads or the fops who spouted them.

  Shaw chuckled. “Nay. At the end of each training session, each division chooses a warrior to fight a man from the other. Yer men have chosen ye.”

  “And my opponent?” He held his breath.

  “Randall of the Clan Cameron.”

  He hid the smile that tugged at his lips. “I shall win for all of us.”

  “If ye dinna let anger cloud yer senses.”

  Connor wolfed down his gruel. Life could get no better. He had but two days left to serve, and in another sennight Kasey would be his bride.

  Better still, his fellows have given him the chance to avenge Randall’s wrongs. He would make the snake pay for his sins. Aye, life had never tasted sweeter.

  Shaw gave him final instructions on the way to the field. “This be not a game. Ye will use swords, dirks, clubs, fists, but no leather armor. Ye get an aide, but if he enters the ring, ye forfeit the match. Who do ye choose?”

  “Gavin.”

  Shaw nodded. “Once a weapon be dropped or knocked from hand, ye canna use it agin. Any questions?”

  Connor shook his head as the other contingent came down the hill. He scowled at Randall’s swagger and the unruly crowd following him.

  He crossed his arms and braced his feet apart. He had no intention of letting this opportunity slip through his hands.

  Randall entered the ring, his sword drawn. Connor unsheathed his and moved within a blade’s length. Randall raised his weapon and slashed. Sparks flew as Connor’s blade stopped the other. They circled, parried, thrust, and lunged. Randall had gained strength.

  Connor tired of playing. He locked the hilt of his sword against the hilt of his opponent’s and twisted his wrists. Randall’s sword fell from his grasp. For fairness’s sake, Connor dropped his blade behind him.

  Randall dove for the weapon.

  With his shoulder, Connor butted him away. Randall landed hard on his side. Connor threw both swords from the ring.