Susan King - [Celtic Nights 03] (14 page)

"And if the weaponsmith is with us, we will soon be an army," Iain Og said.

* * *

Lachlann poked through the scrap iron piled beneath a canvas in a back corner of the spacious smithy. He had discovered several thick rods of cast iron and two fat ingots, their crude quality suited only to making pothooks and heavy chains. He shifted part of a broken plough, its iron reusable, to one side.

Against the wall he found a bundle of wrought-iron rods of a finer quality. He remembered leaving those there himself, iron purchased from the ironmonger across the loch, years ago. The canvas had protected it from rust, for the most part, although some spots had developed, but heating would destroy that. Good iron could be made into small knives, axe heads, kitchen utensils, latches, and so on. Lachlann nodded with approval as he searched the pile.

Several worn horseshoes were stacked haphazardly on the floor, and more dangled from nails embedded in the wall. The iron shoes could be reshaped to fit other horses, or the iron could be heated and remade into a variety of items.

Only the best iron could be made into steel to form weapons and sword blades. He frowned, rubbing his jaw as he considered what lay at his feet. Good weaponsmithing required quality materials. Wrought iron, refined by an ironmonger, could be made into steel, but cast iron was too full of impurities to be used.

Lack of materials could be corrected, he thought, but lack of ability could not. His long-held dream of swordsmithing might have come to an end; he was not yet sure. Though he had skill and talent, the smithing of steel depended on eyesight. Nuances of color in heated metal told the smith a great deal. If his vision was faulty, the weapons he crafted could be flawed. If a faulty weapon broke, it could bring about the death of its owner.

He rubbed his fingers over his eyelids. Ever since his injury, colors were sometimes dim, shadows deeper, and erratic flashes of light erupted without notice. Someday, he knew, the weakness in his eye might worsen into blindness; at best, it would never improve. He could never be the swordsmith that he had once dreamed of becoming.

His experiences as a smith in Perth had proved to him that he was still a capable blacksmith for horseshoes, nails, pothooks, door latches, and the like. Cherry red was a color even he could see easily. Working the black metal was little challenge for him now, and he enjoyed the work well enough.

Working the white metal—steel—was different. The sheer magic of mastering the light-bearing metal had fascinated him as a boy, and still held him in its thrall.

Ancient tradition gave blacksmiths the privileges and the mystery of magicians. The ability and the courage to bend hot metal to their will made smiths essential and well respected in their communities. They kept their secrets carefully guarded. And now Lachlann feared that he would never be able to fully use the knowledge and traditions he had learned from Finlay.

Hearing men's voices in the yard, he looked up from his musing, and strode across the smithy to open the door.

Several men, armored and bearing swords and weapons, filled the yard between the smithy and the stable. Lachlann frowned and walked outside.

He glanced toward the house. Last evening, Eva had returned from her wanderings so late that Lachlann had helped himself to food from Mairi's cupboards earlier, and set up a simple pallet for himself in a corner of the smithy. Hearing the dogs barking quite late, he went to the door to see light in the windows of the house. This morning, he had arisen just after dawn, but again Eva was gone. Now, at midmorning, she had not yet come back.

He strode forward as two men walked toward him, an old Highlander in a plaid, his white hair bright in the sun, and a brawny blond soldier in a steel cuirass, tunic, trews, and boots. The old man raised a hand in salute.

Lachlann lifted a hand, too, grinning. "
Failte,
Alpin MacDewar, and how are you?" he called in Gaelic.

"Failte, gobha
—greetings, smith! Welcome back! It is good to see you again, looking hearty and all in one piece, and not so bad for three years of warring!" Alpin grinned, showing crooked teeth and the same gruff charm that Lachlann remembered. Smiling, he clasped the gnarled old hand, amazed, as he had always been, by the sheer strength in Alpin's knotty grip.

"Gobha,
this is Sir John Robson, the king's man," Alpin said in Gaelic. "He speaks the southern tongue, so I hope you have not forgotten it, after all the French in your head now.
Gobha
means 'smith,'" he told Robson in English, loudly, as if the man were partly deaf.

Lachlann held out his hand to Robson. "I am Lachlann MacKerron," he said in Scots English. "Balnagovan is my property by tenant's agreement, although I have been gone a long while."

"John Robson, captain of the king's garrison at Innisfarna Castle," the man answered. "Alpin told me you were newly arrived from France."

"And I said you are a fine craftsman, and a man local to this village," Alpin added in Gaelic. "He is a good
gobha,"
he added loudly in English for Robson's benefit.

"We are pleased to have a smith so close," Robson said. "There is a fellow in Glen Brae, but he isna so competent."

"That fellow likes drink and dislikes hard work," Alpin muttered in Gaelic to Lachlann.

"We need a good deal of smithing from time to time," Robson continued. "Just now, some of the horses need shoeing, and our harnesses and gear need repair. Are you trained as an armorer or a weaponsmith?"

"Name the task, and I will see what I can do."

"He is doing it all," Alpin added proudly. "Steel and iron, he is doing it all."

"A weaponsmith? Indeed, how useful," Robson said.

"I have done some of that in the past," Lachlann said. "But materials for good weaponry are not easy to come by." He frowned at Alpin, hoping to curtail any further boasts.

"For now, two of the mounts in there need shoeing—the bay mare and a brown garron," Robson said.

"I will check the others," Lachlann offered.

"Good. I noticed some rust on the harness fastenings too. If you could tend to that soon, I would be glad to pay you for your trouble. Some of the men have weapons in need of repair. I will have those collected and brought to you."

Lachlann nodded. "That I can take care of, as well. What is your business this day, armed and saddled and ready for war?" He gazed past Robson at the men who guided horses out of the stable.

"Their business is trouble," Alpin rumbled in Gaelic.

"We ride out on patrol looking for rebels by king's order."

"Ah," Lachlann said, "so you know where they lurk?"

"Nae yet, though 'twill change if they continue to raid the lands in this glen. We keep the king's peace in the region. A messenger arrived the other day with news," Robson went on. "The king sent a man to Argyll to speak with the MacArthur rebels. Would you know aught about that?"

"I am that man," Lachlann said.

"Ah, I knew it," Alpin commented in his native language. Lachlaan slid him a glance.

"Then you know these rogues yourself," Robson said.

"I do, and 'tis why I am instructed to speak to them myself, and deliver the king's message to their leader. But I confess I canna do so until I know where they are."

"Luck to you, then. Not even the rebel leader's sister, Lady Eva, knows where they hide. Nae doubt you met the lady who stays in the house over there."

"I have spoken with her. I know her from years past."

Robson lowered his brows. "And where are you staying, sir?"

"In the smithy. Eva MacArthur owns the house, and has been sharing it with my mother—surely you are aware of that, sir."

"Aye. But be careful. Lady Eva's betrothed is a powerful man, a Campbell. When he returns, he willna take a kind view of a man sharing this property with his beloved."

"His beloved," Lachlann said curtly, "is safe here, if you imply otherwise." He narrowed his eyes.

"The
gobha
loves her like a brother," Alpin said. "Is it not so?"

Lachlann glanced at him. "How else would it be?"

"Very well," Robson said. "You can help me, then, by watching out for her. I am appointed to protect her, but it is difficult when she willna stay at Innisfarna."

"I heard she didna feel she could stay there."

"Some rogues in my garrison lacked manners, but they have been disciplined for it. She could come back to the castle, but she is a stubborn young woman and willna return."

"You canna expect her to accept protection from men who hunt after her kinsmen."

"For certain, she is not liking that," Alpin muttered in English. Robson glanced at him, but seemed unbothered by Alpin's comments. Lachlann could tell that the man knew Alpin well.

"More than MacArthurs raid in Argyll, but they are the most troublesome of the rebels," Robson said. "We ride sentinel often to prevent more cattle being stolen and barns burned. Their raids grow more frequent. If we ever meet the rebels, it will go ill for them. You are a king's man, sir. If you would like to arm yourself, mount up, and ride with us, we would welcome a man who knows the region."

Lachlann frowned, glancing at Alpin, who raised his white brows high, but for once said nothing. "I might do so soon."

"You do have a message to deliver to the rebels. You will want to be with us when we find them," Robson said.

"I prefer to meet them alone, without a host of king's men."

"Understood, though I urge you to be cautious. Report to me when the king's message is delivered, if you will." One of the men in the stable yard called out, and Robson waved. "Good day, smith."

Lachlann nodded, arms folded, while Robson strode away and mounted the dark destrier saddled and waiting for him. The king's men, more than a dozen in all, turned as a group and pounded out of the stable yard and across the meadow.

He looked at Alpin. "Where is Eva?" he asked abruptly.

"How do I know? I am not her keeper. She might be with Margaret," Alpin said. "Good to see you, smith, and we will talk again soon. When your foster mother comes back to Glen Brae, I will fetch you for a boat ride. I must go now, and ferry those three over the water," he said, pointing at two knights and a small blond boy, a page by the look of him, who stood in the stable yard. He strolled away, and the boy ran toward him.

Lachlann turned and went back inside the smithy, wondering indeed if Eva was with her cousin—or with her brother and the rebels. He was still frowning to himself as he took up a heather broom to sweep the dust from the smithy floor.

Chapter 10

"Keep your balance when you swing," Alpin said. He came toward Eva as she shifted in her stance, and used his toe to adjust the angle of her foot. "Sword leg forward, girl. Remember that. Try again." He resumed a guarding stance and raised his sword, facing her in the dawn light. The air was so chilled that morning that his breath frosted and the tip of his nose was pink.

Movement kept her warm as she lunged and parried. Alpin knocked her blade aside easily. "Sword leg forward," he reminded her.

"Sometimes it feels awkward with my right leg forward." She stopped, flexing her hand on the handle of the wooden sword. "I am not as good at this as you want me to be," she added, feeling discouraged.

"Well, you are a girl. It is not so easy for you."

She scowled. "Shall I call you an old man?" she snapped.

He grinned. "I knew that would stir you up like a boiling kettle. You are good, Eva, graceful and fast, but you are too reluctant to hurt your opponent. Hit me like you mean it. Put your temper into it. Do not hold back. I can defend myself, so do not worry about hitting me. Come on."

Eva rounded on him, raising her sword. Alpin blocked her downward stroke, but she scooped under it and tapped his lower leg. He grunted approval and struck again. She caught his wooden blade with a hard thunk. Mirroring his position, she circled with him, crossed blades, and repeated the sequence.

Finally Alpin lowered his sword and bowed. "Ah, much better. You have fine dancing feet, and this old man cannot keep up. But you move too tightly. Loosen your hold and your stance. Your strikes will be faster and more accurate."