Page 54 of The Falcon Laird
“Swords!” Christian said. “She runs and climbs with Moira’s sons so often, she seems more a lad than a lass at times.”
“They are her only companions. It is not bad for her, I say. She will learn some useful skills.”
“Aye, true. And Scottish women have a long tradition of handling weapons alongside their menfolk. My mother told me ancient tales of warrior princesses long ago, born in my own blood line.”
“And why not your daughter among them? She may have need of it one day.”
“Sometimes the women are the ones must defend their homes. I had to do it.”
“But with Sir Gavin for a stepfather, she may wed a wealthy lord and have no need for such things,” Dominy said. “Since ye do not know her parents, she may be English blood all through.”
“There is Scottish blood in her. She has the look of it, I think. She could be a fine harper someday if she wishes. She likes her harp lessons and seems to feel it within. That is a Celtic trait, I think. And born of me or not, she will be the keeper of the Kilglassie legend after me.”
“My husband, rest his soul, hated the English war against the Scots. Ye would have liked my Edwin. William is like him in his face and in his heart, but the English soldiers at Carlisle filled his head with thoughts not fitting for a boy. Living in Scotland will help him understand how wrong this war is.”
Christian looked at Dominy in wonder. “For an Englishwoman, you have a strange sympathy for the Scots.”
“We lived in Scotland for a few years, and Will was born here. Edwin hated King Edward’s lack of chivalry in Scotland.” She shook her head. “He was but a poor knight and had no choice but to fight in the king’s host to earn his living. But he never had a hatred of Scotland. That belongs to the king.”
Christian huffed. “King Edward thinks Scotland is but a territory of England. He thinks we are all disobedient rebels in need of a firm hand. So he shows us a vicious one.”
“It is not right. If a man is king on the tiniest hill, and stamps on the earth and beats the ants that live there, sooner or later they will bite him back. And he would deserve the pain of it.”
“If I were an ant, I would summon my armies to swarm the invader who tramples our hill.”
“Just so,” Dominy said. “God gives no man, even a king, the rights that Edward takes for himself. If I were a man, I would fight such unfairness, no matter where I pledged my oath.”
Christian sidestepped a pile of rubble. “I signed an oath of fealty to King Edward years ago, in order to keep Kilglassie. And I broke that oath when I helped Robert Bruce, and the English punished me for it. But I would break it again in a moment.” She lifted her chin defiantly.
“A man’s oath—or a woman’s—belongs where their heart is, my lady.”
“You sound like a rebel, Dominy,” she teased. But she glanced up at the walls of her castle and knew without a doubt where her loyalty resided.
She wished, suddenly, that Gavin’s loyalty lay closer to her own. As it was, she wondered if true happiness could ever exist between them.
The bakery chamberbeneath the great hall was littered with stones, tools, ladders, buckets, and busy with a few workmen who clambered up the ladders to work on the ceiling that joined to the floor of the hall above it. Stacks of fresh-cut pine gave off a pleasant odor, and a window had been repaired to let in more light, as well as a chilly blast of outside air.
Near the hearth, which was in the process of being repaired, Michaelmas, Patrick, and Robbie watched a mason work on the stones lining the fireplace. The children glanced up as Christian and Dominy entered.
“Where’s Will? We want to hunt the treasure!” Robbie said.
“We found something fine,” Patrick said. “There’s a wee door beside the hearthplace.”
“It is a storage place,” Dominy said.
“There might be gold hidden there,” Patrick said. He and Robbie ran out of the kitchen to find Will.
“Moira, good morning!” Christian called over the din.
Stirring the contents of a kettle suspended over a small fire, Moira Macnab turned and smiled. She was a tall woman with a gaunt, handsome face and a fat dark braid. “Tcha, Christian,” she said. “God’s greetings to you. Look! The ceiling is nearly done and the carpenters are already on the upper floors. And below us, your husband and mine have decided to clear the well.”
Christian hurried to the well to peer together into its depths. By the light of a torch stuck in a crevice in the wall, Christian saw the gleam of tawny golden hair and strongly muscled shoulders above the water. Gavin glanced up, his face dark with soot and grime, his eyes bright blue in the torchlight.
Beside him, Fergus wielded an iron hammer against the side of the well to dislodge something.
“Throw down the bucket!” Gavin called when he saw her, his voice echoing. Christian looked around, puzzled, until Michaelmas came forward. The girl grabbed a thick rope attached to a bucket, with one end tied to a stone block. Christian helped to lower the bucket carefully until Fergus grabbed it.
“Thank you,” Fergus called. “Robbie near broke my head when he tossed it down last time.”
