Page 6 of Winter Longing
Not intending to court useless worry, Ailsa pulled her cloak more snugly against her neck and turned, her gaze surveying the landscape surrounding Torr Cinnteag, while she waited for her maid, Anwen, to catch up.
As it often did, her gaze settle first on the Sinclair keep, which stood breathtakingly atop a rugged promontory overlooking the wild beauty of Cuil Bay at Loch Linnhe below. Thick walls worn by wind and rain appeared a steely gray under the overcast sky, their rough stone blending into the surrounding cliffs that cascaded down toward the water. Despite the forbidding look of the keep from afar, there was a natural beauty to the rugged landscape, where the stony outcrop met the expanse of the loch. Ailsa never tired of the view.
Beyond the keep, pockets of Sinclair farmland dotted the hillsides sectioned off by simple stone barriers. The fields lay empty, harvested months ago and quiet now, waiting for renewed life in spring. The bay itself, though often turbulent in winter, today lay almost still beneath the light snowfall. Small boats were moored along the shoreline and might see more frequent use as fishing became more necessary.
Beyond the keep to the south lay an ancient pine forest, its branches dusted with early snow, forming a natural windbreak for Torr Cinnteag.
Anwen Lamont climbed up the rise in the path toward Ailsa, toward the northern village.
Though she looked much younger, Anwen was more than twice Ailsa’s age, and had been first her nurse and later her maid, but always her confidante and friend, though truthfully a very bossy one. She was broad-shouldered and sturdy, built in a way that suggested an unyielding hardiness—which was not the case at all—yet her appearance was softened by an effortlesssmile and a lively, expressive face. Her cheeks were perpetually rosy, contrasting beautifully with her otherwise flawless skin. She was tall, nearly of a height with Tavis Sinclair, Ailsa’s brother and laird of Torr Cinnteag, and sported a gap between her front teeth that was ever on display as Anwen was rarely without the appearance of a smile. In quiet contemplation or even in moments of angst or fear, Anwen appeared to be grinning. “Tis simply how my face is fashioned,” she’s said once to a young Ailsa when questioned about her constant, peculiar expression.
Anwen breathed heavily now, puffs of white air dancing and dissipating in front of her face.
“I dinna ken what the hurry is,” she groused, blowing a wisp of her brown hair off her forehead. She stopped at Ailsa’s side, possibly pleased for the reprieve and glanced down at the northern village, where dozens of sleepy cottages sat silently under the gentle fall of snow. “He’ll get nae better nae worse ere we get there, sure enough,” she said, referring to Mallaig, the aged and frail farmer to whom they were bringing bread and mutton stew. “Does my bones nae guid, though, I’ll tell ye that, as much as ye have me out of doors with...this,” she said, holding out her hand to catch a few flakes of snow.
“But look, Anwen,” Ailsa, said, directing her gaze behind her. “Is it nae striking, the way the clouds seem to hover right over the keep? And how through the snow ye can still see the blue of the loch?”
Anwen turned but was unimpressed. And though it appeared that she smiled, she said, “Could’ve seen as much from half the windows in the keep. Mayhap in a chamber with a fire.”
Ailsa grinned, even as she knew Anwen was more than half serious. “And we’ll get there. We’ve the altar cloths to finish, which is certainly best done near a fire.”
“God bless ye, lass. Aye, near a fire.”
They walked on, tucking their chins into their chests as the snow continued to fall. Mallaig’s cottage was the first they came upon, being closest to the keep and more run-down than any other, owing to Mallaig’s infirmity—which, by Anwen’s way of thinking had gone on long enough; “Be dead already, he should be,” she’d said not long ago, “if he’s nae going to bother living.”
While Ailsa didn’t exactly subscribe to Anwen’s callous view, she did agree with her maid on another complaint she had against the old man: Mallaig sometimes took advantage of his ailment, which was not quite specific enough to be named so that it was generally accounted as aging frailness.
At the worn-down cottage, its exterior walls cracked and peeling, Anwen took the lead, giving a brisk knock before pushing the door open without waiting for an answer.
The cottage door creaked loudly, revealing Mallaig hunched in his usual chair, near enough to the hearth that his wiry, white hair almost blended with the haze of smoke curling from the fire. Deep lines creased his face, giving him a permanently displeased look, though his blue eyes shone bright with pleasure at the company. A moth-eaten plaid was draped over his frail frame, hiding almost everything but his long, knobby fingers, which held the plaid together at his narrow chest.
As they stepped inside, Ailsa held up the small basket she’d brought, lined with cloth to keep the warmth in, revealing a loaf of fresh bread and a crock of mutton stew. “Guid day, Mallaig. We’ve brought ye a bit of bread and—”
“Mutton again?” Mallaig interrupted, disappointment evident in his tone as he leaned forward in his chair, eyeing the basket’s contents skeptically as Ailsa bent and laid it at his feet. “What I really need is a joint of venison. Easier on the teeth, aye?”
Ailsa opened her mouth to reply, but Anwen cut in. “Aye, ye’d need a fine stag, then, wouldn’t ye? But we’ve got bread andstew, just the thing to warm ye,” she said. “Bread’s fresh-baked, and soft enough for a bairn, so I ken it’ll do ye fine.”
Mallaig sighed theatrically, then looked purposefully at Ailsa, his expression as doleful as it was hopeful. “If only ye’d a drop of ale, or at least some mulled wine for the chill,” he suggested.
Ailsa smiled politely at him. “Maybe next time, Mallaig, when—”
“Nae next time,” Anwen cut her off, crossing her arms over her ample chest. “Warm enough, ye are. Sitting closer to that fire than ye do your bed, and ye ken the ale’s for healthy men that work to keep the clan fed.” She nodded sharply to underscore her remark. “Try the stew first,” she said to Mallaig as Ailsa put the crock in his hands. “We’ll see if it doesna set ye straight.”
Mallaig gave another small sigh and gingerly took the stew, spooning a bit with a skeptical look.
“Warmer still ye’ll be when we return,” Anwen predicted. “We’ll bring yer peat and stoke yer fire and fine as mulled wine ye’ll be—though ye’ll still have none of that.”
With food in hand, Mallaig now paid scant attention to the women so that Anwen tugged at Ailsa’s arm and inclined her head toward the door.
“My own fire awaits me,” she reminded Ailsa. “Let’s get his peat and get back to the keep.”
Ailsa nodded and leaving Mallaig to his stew, lifted the empty basket, following Anwen to the door. They started toward the peat stacks on the far side of the village, where they were kept near the edge of the bog for easy access. The snow had settled into a steady, fine mist, the flakes now dusting their cloaks as they made their way down the narrow, winding path outside the village.
Anwen chirped the entire time, as she did almost daily, about Mallaig. “A man scarcely past fifty—nae much older than me—needing two women to fetch his food and fuel. Have ye everheard such a thing?” she muttered, clearly annoyed. “No pride left at all, that one. If I were to sit idle as he does, I’d shame myself to the bone.”
Accustomed to Anwen’s tirades, Ailsa nodded and murmured sounds of assent before attempting to defend the man. “Perhaps he truly is as frail, as incapacitated as he seems,” she offered, though even she had her doubts about Mallaig’s supposed malady.
“Frailty, is it?” Anwen scoffed, stomping a bit heavier with her agitation. “More like laziness. I’ve got a mind that he’d move quick enough if we did bring ale or wine, and dinna set it in his hand but just out of reach.” She shook her head, her cheeks ruddy with the cold and her usual lively expression hardening into one of indignation. “He’d rise out of the chair then, ye mark my words.”
