Forging the Blade, Part II: Kithe and Kin, Chapter 2, 3/3
kageorge (kageorge@EROLS.COM)
Wed, 26 Sep 2001 14:53:54 -0400
Forging the Blade, Part II
Kithe and Kin
by MacGeorge
Acknowledgements and disclaimers in previously posted Part 0.
~~~~
The noise and color of the vendors and buyers was disconcerting after a
few months of isolation. Connor circulated among the various wagons and
carts, speculating what the press of so many people might be like for
Duncan, who had been living with little human contact for three years.
He did his best to keep a careful eye on his student, while giving no
appearance of doing so. His efforts apparently went for naught,
however. Duncan moved close as Connor fingered the fabric of shirts and
breeches offered for sale.
“I’m not going to bite anyone, cousin,” Duncan murmured grimly. “You
needn’t watch me like an ill-trained pet who might accidentally piss on
the clan chief.”
“Really?” Connor replied. “You look enough like a mangy old dog to pass
for one,” he observed, wondering if he could shame his student into
cleaning up.
Duncan just snorted. “It won’t work, Connor.” He scratched at his
unkempt beard. “You’re just jealous because you couldn’t grow a serious
whisker if your life depended on it.”
“If it looked like that, I am grateful for it.”
But Duncan’s attention had been caught elsewhere, and he ignored the
insult. They had wandered towards the edge of the market, where animals
were for sale. Chickens and pigs were in small, temporary pens, and a
few sheep were being kept under control by several small black and white
dogs whose periodic yapping added considerably to the general
cacophony. Duncan wandered over to a string of horses tethered to a
stout rope strung between two posts, his eyes lighting on a bay
gelding. The horse was on the thin side, and at first glance didn’t
make much of an impression, but Connor watched as Duncan’s hands slid
over a broad chest and a smooth, straight back. The gelding held his
head high, and the dark eyes had a gleam of spirit in them. Duncan
pulled a lip back to look at the teeth, then lifted a back leg to
examine the animal’s hoof, scraping the mud away with his dirk. His
actions attracted the seller, who wandered over and leaned casually on
the horse’s rump.
“Tis a nice animal, aye?” the man observed. He was short and
bandy-legged, wearing a non-descript kilt of no notable pattern, not
uncommon for a traveling merchant who wished to offend no one. His
round face was made even rounder by a full, curly beard whose luxurious
fullness was accented by the total lack of hair on his head.
Duncan shrugged. “A mite spindly,” he answered. “One would think the
animal might not be sound.” He felt carefully along the joints of the
animal’s front legs.
“Oh, he’s sound all right,” the seller assured him. “Strong and fast.
It’s just with traveling and all, he’s not had time to fatten up like he
should.”
Duncan patted the gelding on the rump. “Well, then perhaps if you fed
him decently, you might be able to sell him,” Duncan answered, his
expression carefully neutral.
“Och, ye shouldna’ let a little lack of meat on sound bones detract you
from the fact that he is a real quality animal, only four years old,
with many years of work ahead of him,” the merchant asserted. “Surely a
fine judge of horseflesh like yourself can see tha’. I’d give ye a good
price for him. What do you have in trade?”
“How about English pounds?” Connor inserted himself into the
conversation, ignoring his clansman’s dark look.
The horse seller’s eyes widened at the prospect of real coinage, but
Duncan stepped up to force Connor out of the conversation, his back to
the trader, but Connor held his ground. “Well, Duncan, you know we could
use another animal, and if you think…”
“Nay!” Duncan, said over his shoulder for the horseman’s benefit, then
privately whispered, “Let it go, Connor.” He cocked a smile at Connor
and gave him a private wink. “The man’s a thief,” he said loudly enough
to be overheard. “Trying to fob off some sickly beast who’ll have to be
put down within the year.” He walked away, leaving the horse seller
mumbling curses after them.
Connor followed, eventually catching up to Duncan, who had retreated to
the edge of the marketplace and was leaning against a barrel, his arms
crossed, watching the busy crowd. “You should have let me continue. I
could have gotten a bargain price, especially after you paved the way,”
he observed. “It was a good looking animal.”
Duncan nodded and smiled. “Aye, I know, but I wouldn’t want to admit
that in front of the man selling him.”
The two men stood in silence for a minute, and Connor took the time to
form his words carefully. “You need a horse, Duncan, and…”
“Don’t say it, Connor,” Duncan interrupted. “I was just looking. I
have no money, and I’ll take no more charity,”
“I’ve already told you this isn’t about charity,” Connor snapped, “and
you didn’t let me finish what I was going to say.” Duncan started to
respond, but then kept his silence. “I’ll buy the horse, which will
make both our lives easier, but only if you will go to the barber over
there,” he pointed to a wagon where a “surgeon” was selling poultices,
pulling teeth and giving shaves, “and get that fur shaved off your face,
and keep it off.”
“Connor, why do you care whether or not…”
“Because it is time you stopped hiding, damnit!” Connor spat.
Duncan stared at the ground in sullen silence.
“Well?” Connor insisted. “You want the gelding, or do you want to carry
all our supplies back to the glen on your back?”
“You don’t know what you’re asking, Connor.” It was said so quietly,
Connor barely heard it above the noise of the crowd.
“Oh, I think I do. You fear being recognized. You fear being rejected
and rebuked for things you don’t understand and have no control over.
But aren’t you tired of being afraid?”
“Oh, aye,” Duncan breathed. “That I am. When my father was killed, I
went back to Glenfinnan. The villagers…well, they didn’t want me
there. I was not of their blood and had no right to lay claim to
kinship, or my father’s sword. But my mother insisted that, no matter
who bore me, I was Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, and to let no man
tell me different. I’ve thought about that so many times. It would be
so much easier if I could pretend to be someone else, to take some other
name, but for her sake, I canno’. I will not. But still…”
“It’s been over three years, Duncan. People will forget, or discount
it, or simply not believe it. Now, do I get the horse, or do you really
enjoy walking everywhere?”
Duncan pushed off the barrel, still staring at the ground. Finally, he
met Connor’s gaze. “I’ll pay you back, Connor. On my honor. Whatever
I have is yours, and if you ever need someone to watch your back, I
don’t care if it happens tomorrow or a century from now, I am your man –
your clansman.” He held out his hand, and Connor clasped it, but that
wasn’t enough for Duncan, who pulled him into a hard hug. “I mean it,
Connor,” he whispered roughly.
“I know you do,” Connor answered gently. A wave of protective warmth
washed over him and he answered Duncan’s hug with one of his own,
surprising himself in the process, but then pushed away in sudden
discomfort. “All right, then. Here,” he pulled several coins out of
his sporran. “You go get yourself a new shirt and a shave and meet me
later at the inn. I’ll go take care of getting your horse.”
~~~~~~~
After Connor had managed to down three pints of ale, and proposition one
of the bar maids, who blushed and ducked her head, but did not exactly
say ‘no’, he realized he ought to be concerned about his absent
student. The inn was doing a lively business, and the tavern was
filling up quickly now that sunset had sent all the traders back to
their wagons and campfires. Connor was hard pressed to keep a seat open
beside him, but so far, the hard glare he turned on any usurpers had
sent them slouching away. There were a few advantages to being over a
hundred years old, other than compound interest. The art of
intimidation took years to hone, and he had been working on it for
longer than most.
The noisy clatter and boisterous conversations died down for a small
moment, then rose again, and Connor glanced at the door to see who had
caused the stir.
Well, well, well.
If he had been a less disciplined man, he would have laughed aloud. As
it was, he only avoided it by hiding his face in his mug and taking a
drink as he watched his student and fellow clansman blush a ruddy hue at
the attention his entrance drew, the high color now clearly visible on
smooth, bare cheeks. His hair had also been washed and brushed, and he
was wearing a freshly purchased shirt, presenting the very picture of a
Highlander in his prime. Connor waved his hand to catch Duncan’s
attention.
Duncan glared at him as he sat down. “Don’t say it, Connor,” he
snapped. “I told you, you didn’t know what you were asking.”
A snort of laughter escaped despite Connor’s best attempts to keep a
straight face. “Oh, aye,” Connor smiled into his mug. “All this time I
thought you were hiding some terrible scar. You didn’t tell me you had
the prettiest face in all of Scotland.”
Duncan elbowed him hard, making him slosh his drink, but by that time
Connor couldn’t stop his chuckles, mostly at his student’s radiating
embarrassment. It wasn’t that Duncan wasn’t manly, no one would ever
dare accuse him of that and live to tell the tale, Connor snorted again
to himself. But the lad was too handsome by half, with a face few would
forget, and that any lass would likely swoon over. That thought sobered
Connor. Well, almost sobered him, especially when the bar maid
returned, bringing a new mug of ale without being asked, and leaned over
to refill Connor’s in a fashion certain to bring her ample bosom into
Duncan’s close view as she smiled flirtatiously into the lad’s eyes.
“Is there anything I can bring ye’?” she asked Duncan sweetly, and
Connor’s dreams of a night of passion faded.
Duncan was still hunched over, but he looked up at the sound of a
feminine voice and his eyes were drawn inexorably to the soft, abundant
flesh presented for his viewing. Connor watched in amazement as his
blushing, stuttering, embarrassed student straightened up, the back
stretched, and the head cocked so that silky chestnut hair cascaded over
a shoulder. Dark eyes widened and the generous mouth curved into a
sweet, seductive smile. Duncan met the maid’s awestruck stare. “A bit
of food would not be amiss, especially if it will bring you back to our
table,” he said softly.
“Oh,” she breathed. “Oh, aye, sir. Right away.” She backed away, not
taking her eyes off of Duncan until she bumped into a patron at the next
table. Then, ignoring calls for refills at other tables, she scurried
off to the kitchen.
Connor looked his clansman hard in the eye. “Especially if it will
bring you back to our table?” he repeated mockingly.
Duncan smiled at him, but there was nothing sweet about it this time.
“I am not a child, Connor. Sometimes you seem to forget that.”
Indeed. All consideration of Duncan’s possible virginity evaporated,
and Connor was glad he had never attempted to inquire. Keeping his
thoughts to himself, Connor just looked at the youngster. “It is all a
matter of comparison. To me, you are still a child,” he stopped and
smiled at his clansman, who frowned back. “Apparently not an innocent
child, though.”
The ale flowed and they had a hearty meal, and Connor watched as Duncan
relaxed when no one challenged their presence or questioned their
identity. He laughed easily, flirting outrageously, and finally coaxing
Bridget, the young barmaid, to sit on his lap and feed him bits of
sweetmeats. A piper was persuaded to play a tune, someone pulled out a
drum, and soon tables were moved and space was cleared. In a heartbeat,
Duncan had pulled Bridget to her feet and the two of them were dancing,
the girl’s cap flying off as Duncan twirled her around the floor.
They were quickly joined by more dancers, and the inn’s owner, a
big-boned, handsome woman with intense green eyes and a long auburn
braid halfway down her back, pulled Connor to his feet and he
reluctantly joined the festivities. When the woman finally let him
rest, he staggered back to his bench, breathless and sweaty, to find
Duncan sitting on the table, his feet on the bench, clapping in time to
the music and watching the happy crowd as young Bridget danced with
another man. He was flushed with drink and with exertion, but his eyes
were bright with a real happiness that Connor had never seen before.
“Glad you came?” Connor leaned close to make himself heard over the
music, shouts and clapping.
“Aye,” Duncan answered with a grin. “I had forgotten…” But he was
interrupted as Bridget stumbled laughing into his arms, still breathless
from the last dance. In a moment of impetuous inspiration, she leaned
over and kissed him full on the mouth. After a startled heartbeat,
Duncan pulled her in, leaned her back over his arm and lustfully
returned the kiss as the crowd cheered him on.
“Just watching him is enough to stir the blood, aye?” a warm, low voice
murmured in Connor’s ear, and he turned to see the innkeeper’s deep
green eyes inches from his own.
“My blood was already warm,” he replied. “And it was not from watching
my cousin.” Connor heard a little bit more of his old burr creep back
into his speech as he leaned closer to the softness of feminine flesh.
“It is not often we get visited by two such bra’ warriors,” she sidled
even closer. “I saw you come in a few months ago, and wondered…or
hoped…that you might be back.”
“And here I am,” he acknowledged, letting his arm slip around her
waist. Oh, yes. It had been far too long since he had listened to the
soft music of a woman’s voice, felt the silky, unique warmth of a female
form. “I was hoping to get a room for the night for me and my
clansman.” He glanced back as the music started again, and Bridget was
pulled out of Duncan’s arms and back onto the dance floor. “But he
might be looking for more privacy,” he added. “But then, so might I.”
Connor pulled the woman’s long braid forward of her shoulder, liking the
heavy feel of the silky hair in his hand.
The woman laughed. It was a full, rich sound of a woman who knew what
she wanted and had every intention of getting it. “You are a brash
young man,” she teased.
“Oh, I’m rather older than I look,” he assured her. “For instance, I’m
quite a bit older than my cousin there, and there are some things where
experience can make such a difference, don’t you think?”
“Oh, aye,” she agreed with a smile as she ran a finger along the vee of
his shirt, brushing against the bare flesh of his chest. Her hand was
cool next to his hot, sweaty skin, and she smelled of the kitchen, of
spices and warm bread. He dared lean close and press his lips to that
soft, sweet spot just behind her ear, delighted when her head went back
a little at his touch, and she sighed.
A resounding crash made both of them start. Connor looked up to find a
bench overturned, and Duncan with one hand firmly grasping Bridget’s
wrist, the other wrapped around the shirt collar of a man whose face had
gone almost purple as he was lifted until his feet barely touched the
floor. In two steps Connor had hold of Duncan’s hair and used it to
yank his head back. “Let him go,” he ordered.
“But…”
“I said let him go, Duncan.” Connor could feel Duncan’s body trembling
with anger, but after a second, he dropped the man, who stumbled
drunkenly, coughing and grabbing his neck.
“What the hell was that for!” the man sputtered in between his gasps and
coughs.
“The lady said ‘no’,” Duncan said coldly.
“A lady? Oh, fer chrissake, she kissed you, didn’t she? Why shouldn’t I
get a kiss, too? It wasn’t like I was going to rape her or nothing.”
It was the wrong thing to say. With a broad sweep of his arm, Duncan
backhanded the man, who spun and fell into the arms of several
bystanders.
“Enough! Stop it, Duncan,” Connor shouted, throwing himself between his
clansman and what was becoming a hostile crowd. “He’s drunk. For that
matter, you’re drunk.”
Duncan’s jaw was set into a firm square, his teeth were clenched and his
lips drawn back in a snarl. For a moment the two men stared at each
other, and Connor hoped his own powers of intimidation were up to the
task since, for a youngster, Duncan was doing rather well. At last
Duncan stepped back, and he broke eye contact. “I’m nay drunk!” he
snarled.
“It’s only Fergus,” the landlady stepped in, trying to appease the crowd
before things got any uglier. “He gets a little carried away
sometimes.”
“I think he got a little carried away!” Fergus growled, pointing at
Duncan. “Coming in here, acting like a young laird. Don’t know what a
MacLeod is doing here anyways. They’re all cursed, with so many demons
among the lot of you.”
With a yell, Duncan swirled back to the table and grabbed his claymore,
drawing it with an ominous sing of steel, and the crowd backed away.
But Connor deliberately put his hand on his student’s blade, pushing it
down. “Oh, aye,” he smiled. “Demons all, at least that’s what our
women say in the bedroom.”
The crowd tittered, and some of the tension eased. “Why, I’m Connor
MacLeod. The same man who lived here fifty years ago, aye? And I’m
still in my prime and can bed any three woman here in one night.” He
turned and grabbed the green-eyed innkeeper around the waist and swirled
her around, making her laugh. “And Duncan, here, why haven’t you
heard? He rose from the dead!” By now the whole room was laughing and
shouting insults, and Connor turned to his student. “Isn’t that right,
Duncan?”
Duncan had stood, still as a stone and white as a shroud, his fist
clenched tight around his claymore.
“Isn’t that right?” Connor insisted, letting his student see the cold
steel in his eyes.
The grimace on Duncan’s face altered at last as his lips were forced
into a grim smile. “Oh, aye, cousin,” Duncan finally ground out. “I
rise from the dead on a regular basis.” His eyes glittered as he
straightened from a battle-ready crouch and let his sword tip lower to
the floor. He scanned the crowd, his chin held high. “I understand the
French call it ‘le petit mort’, eh?”
The room erupted in laughter and bawdy catcalls, and Connor grabbed his
student by the scruff of the neck, steering him back to their table to
right the overturned bench and sit him down. Connor was just about to
launch into a whispered lecture on his student’s utter foolishness when
Bridget melted into Duncan’s lap, stroking his face and prattling on
about how heroic the idiot was.
“Nicely done,” the innkeeper’s voice interrupted his murderous thoughts.
He turned to find her filling his mug once again. “Why do you say
that?” he asked. Then caught her free hand to pull her down beside
him. “And I don’t even know your name.”
“Getting the crowd under control like that,” she explained. “The name
is Miriam,” she told him. “And are you really Connor MacLeod?”
“That is my name,” he acknowledged, then smiled into his ale. “Although
I’ve been called other things.”
“Connor and Duncan MacLeod,” she mused, looking back and forth between
the two men. “Are you really demons?”
“Do we look like demons?”
“No,” she whispered. “But then I would hardly know what a demon looked
like, would I?” she added as she brushed back a stray lock of his hair.
Connor decided his lecture to his student could wait until the morrow.
He had far more interesting things to do tonight.
~~~~
To be continued...