Page 5 of My Warrior
“Then it’s just as well the deserters have so kindly left their portions behind,” he countered dryly.
“Well,” she said, flicking a beetle from her cloak, “I won’tkneelto this…de Warren. I don’t care if heisa lord.”
“De Ware,” he corrected. “Lord Holden de Ware.”
“Hmph.”
“The de Wares are renowned for their swordsmanship and ferocity. Some call Lord Holden the Wolf. It’s said he’s never known defeat in battle.”
She bristled at this piece of nonsense. The man had obviously never fought a Scotsman.
They stopped on the grassy mound before Castle Blackhaugh, the ancient seat of the Gavin clan, and stood for a moment, looking up in reverence at the worn blue-gray stones.
“I’ll put the matter before the clan in the hall tonight,” the laird said. “It would ease the way had I your support.”
She stiffened.
“I know it’s a difficult thing I ask of you,” he said, “but please, daughter, for the sake of the Gavin, for the sake of your dear departed mother, and for an old man’s dreams, make no trouble for this English lord. He’ll be our only defender, and I’ve faith he’ll defend us well.”
She couldn’t help but wonder who would defend them againsthim, but she swallowed her pride and the urge to rail against the powerlessness that gripped her.
“I suppose I should go prepare for our English…guests,” she bit out.
Laird Angus kissed her on the forehead. Then she turned and marched toward the gates of Blackhaugh.
Katie, the steward’s wife, entered the kitchen and gasped at the chaos before her.
Like the first light snow of winter, fine white flour dusted everything—the flagstone floor, the iron pot swinging perilously on its hook over the fire, even the quivering black beard of the enraged cook. Broken bits of crockery littered the tables, and an ugly brown substance oozed down one wall where it had splattered.
Through the midst of the maelstrom paced Cambria Gavin, sending up tiny clouds of flour as she barked out demands to the cowering scullion lads, her stormy eyes flashing in an ill temper. While Katie watched with raised brows, Cambria cornered the Hamish the cook, haranguing the man with impossible requests. When Hamish’s hand began to tighten around the handle of the enormous knife he held, Katie decided it was time to step in. She took her charge’s elbow and tugged her out of range.
“Come, lass,” she soothed, clucking her tongue. “The kitchen’s no place for a battle. It’s as hot as Hades in here.” She lifted the corner of her apron and dabbed at the dusting of flour across Cambria’s nose.
Katie supposed she was as near a mother to Cambria as anyone. She knew the lass’s quicksilver moods and the volatile temper that could be the dread of many a servant. But she’d also seen the girl cry when she thought no one was watching, sobbing soundlessly into her sleeve as if her heart would break.
“What does he mean, he can’t make more cheese for tomorrow?” Cambria demanded, scowling at the cook.
“Lass,” Katie explained gently, steering her away from the red-faced man, “cheese must be aged.”
“Will it be ready the following day?”
“Nay, lass.”
“How old must it be?” Cambria ground out.
“It won’t be ready till winter, my lady.” She chuckled.
Katie wondered at times what Cambria would do without her. For all her ability to read and write, to wield sword and longbow, the lass was useless when it came to household affairs. Cambria had once told her that preparing the household for guests was more painful than taking a lance blow to the stomach.
If the present state of the castle were proof, Katie could believe it. More than a dozen pallets had had to be tossed out, having become a haven for rats and fleas, and they lay like dead cattle in the courtyard. Chambers unused for weeks had proved a nightmare of cobwebs. Fresh rushes had been mistakenly spread atop the old in the great hall, and so all had to be swept out. Cambria had completely tangled the needlework crest she’d meant to repair on her father’s finest tabard and, in a fit of anger, had run her dagger through the cloth. Consequently, the poor white hawk of the Gavin appeared to have been mortally wounded. Already this morning the cook looked ready to spit and roast his young mistress.
Katie sighed. She’d be up half the night repairing the fruits of Cambria’s labor. And now the lass was glaring coldly at her, as if she were to blame for the physical properties of cheese.
Her look was wasted. Katie never let Cambria’s nasty temper bother her. The lass’s rages usually blew over quicker than an April storm.
Tucking Cambria into a relatively safe corner of the kitchen, she bubbled merrily about, shooing some of the grateful scullery lads out.
“My lady,” she sang, dipping a huge wooden spoon into a pot of thick stock, “there’s no shortage of good food. We’ve fowl and hare aplenty and even fresh trout today.”
