Highland Courage(37)

“Nay, my lady, ye mustn’t be waiting on me, I can do it.”

Mairead patted her arm. “Please, let me. I would love a cup myself.”

“Well, as long as ye are having one too.” Eilis took a seat near the hearth, putting her feet up on a little stool. “I don’t move around well when the weather gets cold. Cael, lad, would ye fetch in a bit of wood for me? There is a log pile in the back—ye may have to chop some.”

“I will, Eilis.” He nodded to Mairead before leaving the cottage. Cael didn’t return immediately, and the sound of an ax rang through the chilly air.

Eilis smiled conspiratorially. “Now the lad is gone, my lady, tell me about the wedding.”

Mairead sat with the old woman, drinking the warm brew and giving her a succinct account of the wedding. Not satisfied with Mairead’s brief description, Eilis asked questions about every detail. By the time Cael had returned with a stack of wood and fed the fire, the women were laughing about Mairead’s “triple dose” of thyme.

As the room warmed a bit, just as Ide had predicted, Eilis’ eyes began to droop. Mairead washed their mugs before suggesting Eilis take a little rest. “Aye, my lady, I think I will just rest my eyes for a few minutes.” When she was comfortable, Mairead and Cael bid her farewell.

Jock lived on the other side of the village, so they had a few minutes walk to get there. They passed a number of villagers going about their business. The first two visits had gone well, and Mairead was feeling very pleased with herself. She smiled and greeted the people they met. While no one was overtly discourteous, their responses were chilly, and Mairead received some clearly critical looks. In the face of such obvious disdain, she found it much more difficult to maintain her cheerful, friendly demeanor.

Maybe ye are only imagining it. She glanced at Cael and was disturbed to see his expression was dark and angry. He must have read their disapproval as easily as she had. By the time they reached Jock’s cottage she was nervous and tense. Mairead stood at the door a moment, hesitant to knock. Cael reached over her and knocked on the door. “Ye’ll like Jock,” he said gently.

The old man who came to the door was tiny, not much bigger than Mairead herself, and a little stooped. He had thinning snowy white hair, ancient weathered skin, and watery grey eyes. He greeted her with a kind smile, ushering her into his little home. The room was cluttered but clean, except for wood chips spread all over the hearth. The beginning of a carving was resting next to a small knife on the table.

“Welcome, my lady, I am honored by yer visit. Have a seat here by the hearth.”

She smiled and sat in the chair he offered. “Thank ye. I see ye like woodworking. My grandfather did as well. He was always carving something but if anyone asked him what he was making, his standard answer was ‘wood chips.’”

Jock laughed. “Aye, I do make a lot of those. Cael, lad, reach down that wee bottle up on the shelf and pour us all a drop or two.”

Mairead didn’t usually drink spirits, but she didn’t want to risk offending him by refusing. She was glad to see Cael poured very little into two cups and a more substantial portion in the third, giving it to Jock.

“Other than woodchips, what kind of things did your grand-da carve?”

“He carved my first instrument, a recorder.”

“Did he? That must have taken some skill.”

“Aye. I was just a young lass, but I had been fascinated when I heard a minstrel play one. The instrument has three separate joints and the minstrel told him in order to play the recorder properly, the foot joint containing the last finger hole had to be turned slightly to one side. My grandfather carved intricate vines that wove from the mouthpiece in and around the eight holes. To assemble it properly, I just had to make sure the vines connected correctly across both joints.”

“Now that was very clever.”

“It did make it easy for me. He also carved a wee wren among the vines on the foot joint. It is so small most people don’t notice it, but I can see it when I play.”

“Why a wren?”

Mairead blushed. “He said wrens are tiny and not as bold and brightly colored as some other birds, but they are clever, industrious wee things and their song is glorious. After that, he called me his ‘wee wren.’”

Jock chuckled. “Aye, I can see how he would. I have never tried to make something so intricate. I was a bow-maker and fletcher for years, but my eyesight isn’t what it used to be.” With that, Jock settled in for a nice long chat. He asked her more about her family and clan and told her about the laird and his younger brother when they were lads. “Of course, Robbie was still a wee lad when he and his mother passed. That nearly killed the old laird. After a few years, folks urged him to marry again, but he never would. ’Tis rare when a noble marriage is marked by true love, but theirs was. The way he used to look at her, it was as if he could never get his fill. It is the way the young laird looks at ye.”