Page 36 of The Falcon Laird
Gavin turned next to find stacks of folded cloths including woolen blankets and plaids. Lifting the lid of a chest, he discovered a tangle of leather straps and iron bits for harness and reins. Another held tools, kettles, candlesticks, wooden dishes, and more.
A barrel held dried beans, another peas, a third assorted herbs wrapped in cloths; he found a cask of pepper, another of cinnamon; and a barrel of salted fish. Another barrel, sealed with pitch, sloshed when he tilted it.
“Wine,” Christian said. “From Gascony. We purchased casks of red wine at the market in Ayr last year. There should be two left.”
Shaking his head in amazement, he continued to explore, finding ropes of garlic bulbs and bunches of herbs on a wooden rack; and shriveled apples, onions, and dried cherries. Elsewhere, he saw dismantled bed frames with plump feather beds; and benches, chairs, and two long trestle boards with supports. Next he opened a large wooden chest to find mesh armor, spurs, a few maces and axes. Another barrel held arrows, with longbows laid in a long chest, unstrung. A bundle of tall lances leaned against a wall. He recognized their English design.
“These belonged to Henry’s garrison?” Christian nodded.
He came back to her and placed the torch in a bracket by the door. Christian stood silent, wary.
“There is an entire household stored down here,” he said.
“Near enough. It was protected from the fire. I hoped these things would be safe.”
“Down here, they would be protected from the fires of hell. This ancestor of yours was an ambitious architect. And a clever one.”
“The fortress he built on the promontory stood where Kilglassie is now. There were many wars back then, generations ago. They say he had this hall cut so his people could hide from enemies. Eventually it became storage.”
“These are your household goods. Things collected when Henry owned Kilglassie.”
“Henry never owned Kilglassie,” she snapped. “He took it, on the order of his king. Like you.”
He sighed, seeing her temper again, and elected to pursue peace. “We will take what is most useful for us—food and blankets, tools, and so on. With your permission, lady.”
She nodded at that. “There are clothing chests too. I will need some of my things. And I would ask you to carry this up for me.” She turned toward a leather case shaped like a wing. Untying a few thongs, she lifted the covering partly away. “Myclàrsach.”
“I have no Gaelic.”
“My harp.” She pulled the covering away so that he glimpsed polished wood, the glint of metal.
“Harp!”
“I am a harper. But I have not played for months now.” She streamed her fingertips across the strings, releasing a delicate swell of sound, a silvery enchantment in the stillness. The sound went a little sour. “It needs some care.”
Gavin saw a triangular frame made of dark and light woods, gleaming in the torchlight, elaborately carved. The strings shimmered like brass, even dark gold. “They say that a Scottish harp, an Irish harp as well, can make the very music of heaven.”
“Of heaven and earth, of the soul and the heart,” she said reverently.
“I have not heard one, but my mother sometimes mentioned how beautiful harp music could be. She sang some of the melodies when I was small. I look forward to hearing you play your—clarsa?”
“Clàrsach,” she corrected him. “I will not play well for a while yet,” she said, looking at her hands critically. “The ancient punishment for a harper who displeased a chief was to cut his fingernails. Mine are split and short. They need to grow.”
“Your hands are graceful and strong. A harper’s hands. I see that now.”
She looked at him quickly, as if his compliment startled her. “Thank you.”
“As for the rest of your wonderful hoard, it is a Godsend for all of us. But we will take our time to see what is needed as we clear out a living space and make repairs.” He glanced down at the dark, gleaming crown of her head. “Clever to put these things here to protect them in case you returned.”
“I hoped I would come home. Some of the things were already here. The rest we moved down here before I left Kilglassie. I did not want everything to burn.”
Gavin cocked a brow. “Just the castle.”
She tilted her head in a defensive way. “Robert Bruce ordered me to burn Kilglassie. It is his policy to burn what we must rather than let the English have it. But I did not want to burn goods that could be useful to others who live nearby. I told the village priest about it, but the room looks undisturbed. No one has been here.”
“Mayhap he was hoping you would return,” Gavin said.
“That could be.” She shivered, then faltered where she stood. Gavin grabbed her arm.
