“Thank ye. I was with him when he passed. I brought his body home to bury him. Ye’re invited to the wake and the funeral tomorrow. Please, come to Dundail.”
“Of course we’ll come, lord,” Murdina said and squeezed his arm. “Do ye need anything?”
“Yes, I was hoping to buy yer fine uisge for the wake.”
“Oh, aye,” Neacal said. “This year it turned out especially well. How much do ye need?”
“Two, three casks if ye have that many.”
“Frangean, come with me,” Murdina said. “We’ll look, lord.”
“Thank ye.”
Murdina and Frangean went back into the house and Neacal patted the horse’s neck.
“’Tis verra good we have ye, lord—a young, strong warrior. We need ye in these times of trouble. Have ye heard of the Sassenach troops lurking around?”
Ian’s back chilled, and his shoulders tensed.
“Aye. I met some on my way here.”
“Ye must bury yer father, of course. But forgive me for asking, will ye protect us from them? Do ye have a plan? Because whatever ye need from the MacFilibs, we can give ye.”
Ian’s mouth dried. How was he going to tell him he didn’t have a plan of defense, nor did he intend to raise a sword again in his life?
Frangean appeared with a cask in his hands and carried it to the cart.
“Aye, here’s good. I thank ye, lad,” Ian said.
“Ma found two,” he said.
“Aye, I’ll take them.”
Frangean nodded, a gleam of adoration in his eyes, then turned and walked back into the house.
“What do ye say, lord?” Neacal insisted.
Ian stepped back and threw a glance at the horse. “I canna think of it yet, Neacal.”
The man raised his hands, palms to Ian. “Aye, I understand, lord. Forgive me. ’Tis just, we’re all worried, hearing what the Sassenachs do around here. Kill and rape and plunder. Burn farms. Slaughter livestock.”
Ian’s stomach tightened. Had he been whole, he wouldn’t have hesitated. If his people needed him, he’d be there.
But he couldn’t. No man would die on his sword again. He’d promised himself.
Frangean appeared with the second cask and carried it to the cart.
“How much do I owe ye, Neacal.”
The man waved his hand. “Nothing, lord. We regret yer father’s demise.”
“Nae. Please. I insist. He’d want that.”
Neacal hesitated. “Aye. Thank ye. Four shillings will be enough.”
Ian laid the coins in Neacal’s hand and quickly climbed onto the cart, hurrying to avoid more questions he wasn’t ready to answer.
“Thank ye,” Ian said. “And I’ll see ye tomorrow.”
Neacal waved. “God bless, lord.”
Ian visited other tenants after that to invite them to the wake. Back in Dundail, the large manor still didn’t feel like home. He’d picked up some of the household chores, painfully aware of how much older Cadha and Manning had become. He didn’t mind cleaning and washing his own clothes, repairing the tools, and doing some work in the smithy. Actually, simple labor brought him relief. Physical work made him feel like he was getting in touch with his land, and his house, and his people.
The day of the wake, the great hall was clean. Pastries, pies, bread, and cheese stood on the tables, roasted chickens already sliced, and cooked vegetables. The room didn’t smell like desolation anymore.
His father’s tenants and tacksmen, the rent collectors, began coming in. The men talked and drank somberly. The wives scolded running children and chatted with one another. Most people, he didn’t remember.
There were claps on the shoulder and mournful faces and murmurs of condolence. People visited the body and said their goodbyes. Then they settled at the tables with their food and drinks. The hall was no longer silent and empty. It was filled with the quiet sound of voices.
A big, stout man with a bushy beard and long black hair came up to him. “I canna express how sorry I am, lord,” he said. “I am Alan Ciar, yer tacksman in Benlochy.”
Ian nodded. “I thank ye.”
“Yer father was a good man. He’ll be sorely missed. By everyone.”
“Aye.”
They stood in silence for a while. Ian had an uneasy sense that the man hadn’t yet said what he’d come to say.
“’Tis a sad day to say goodbye to him,” Alan said. “But a joyous day to see ye alive. We all thought ye were killed by the MacDougalls. I am certain ye will be as good a lord as he was.”
Ian’s jaws tightened.
“Gladly will I swear my oath to ye,” Alan said.
Ian’s shoulders stiffened as hard as rocks. No one should swear anything to him. If they knew…
“I canna think yet of that,” he said. “But I thank ye for yer loyalty.”
“Aye. Glad to. And I want ye to ken. I havna been stealing from yer father like the other tacksmen.”
Ian frowned and looked around the room. “Stealing?”
“Aye. I suppose ye wouldna have kent. But why do ye think yer father didna do so well in the recent years? Why do ye think yer house is in this condition? ’Tis because after yer death… I mean, disappearance, yer father became a different man. He mourned ye so much he didna pay attention to what was goin’ on around him nae more. So some of his tacksmen used him and kept part of the collected rent to themselves.”
He straightened his back and corrected the belt on his big stomach. “Never I. I have always been loyal and honest and always gave all the rent and taxes collected.”
“Hm,” Ian said.
The man’s dark eyes glistened. Ian studied him. Alan didn’t look away or blink. He resembled a bull about to attack.
“Ye should ask around, lord,” Alan pressed. “Ye should check. And they should face consequences.”
Ian nodded. “I thank ye, Alan.”
He gestured at the tables inviting the man to join the others.
“One more thing, lord,” Alan said. “The English have been seen around. Knights and warriors. ’Tis good we have our lord back, a warrior who will protect us.” He paused and frowned. “Ye will, aye?”
The weight of a mountain landed on Ian.
The enemy was knocking at their door, but Ian could not raise a sword again.
