Page 6 of Laird of Flint
Her father had explained it to her when she was a wee lass. He’d told her that the six-year-old cattle were always culled.
Never having heard the word, she’d secretly followed him out to the close to see what he meant. She saw a servant leading one of the coos to a stall away from the others. While Carenza watched through a gap in the fence, the man picked up a heavy mallet and swung it at the coo’s head, knocking her to the ground.
Carenza screamed in terror.
She would have run to the animal’s rescue. But her father prevented her.
Upset at her for following him, he scooped Carenza into his arms and strode away from the close. She kicked and pummeled him, begging him to save the coo. But his jaw was set. And when she peered over his shoulder in distress, she saw the servant cut the animal’s throat.
Tears of shock and dismay sprang to her eyes. A wail of unimaginable woe escaped her. She collapsed against her father’s chest, sobbing at first in horror, then with forlorn hopelessness.
He tried to soothe her. He tried to explain that it was the coo’s time. That she’d lived a good, long life. That the clan would starve if they didn’t have meat for the winter. He assured her that the servant had done his best to make the coo’s death quick and painless. And that Carenza would have to learn about sacrifice and the cycle of life and death.
But the only powerful message she received from that day was that “cull” meant “kill.”
Hamish snorted and nudged Carenza’s shoulder, startling her from the horrific memory.
She smiled. “O’ course I brought ye a treat.”
She rummaged in the satchel she’d hung from Leannan’s saddle, pulling out one of the shriveled apples she’d found among the fallen leaves in the orchard. She sliced the fruit into pieces with her dagger, distributing them to the coos, one by one.
The coos were exceptionally polite. They waited their turn, even when she had to return to the satchel for more apples.
Eventually the supply was exhausted. Most of the cattle, understanding she had no more, began to wander away.
Hamish remained. He liked Carenza’s scratches and conversation as much as the treats she brought.
“I’m goin’ to miss ye, lad,” she said, letting her eyes brim over with tears as she brushed the hair back from Hamish’s sweet face. “I’m goin’ to miss your gentle eyes. And your curious nature. The way ye always trot up to keep me company and listen to my stories. How ye protect the new wee calves from the other coos.”
She lingered a moment longer, resting her brow upon Hamish’s brow, between his long horns, inhaling his peaty odor.
Then she sniffed back her sorrow and explained, “I have to go now. But I’ll be back in a sennight.” She added in sober tones, “Maybe sooner.”
She rode away before Cainnech could return. Tomorrow was the Sabbath, his day off. That meant the cattle wouldn’t be driven to the stone close for at least a few more days. Hamish was safe enough till then.
Meanwhile, she needed to pry from her father what day he planned to move them. And what day he planned to cull them. Nay, she corrected, tokillthem.
It had been seven days since Hew had been in the company of a lass. Not since he’dswivedone. Since he’d evenlaid eyeson one. In his entire life, he’d never experienced such famine.
But it was a challenge he felt compelled to undertake. After all, in the end, women had brought him only heartache. Suffering. Enslavement. Humiliation. He needed to forget about them for a while.
That might have been more bearable if the monks hadn’t been such poor company. Though they weren’t sworn to silence, they did revere quiet contemplation. Hew couldn’t interest them in a game of draughts, a walk to the loch, or a hunt for coneys. Instead, they pored over religious tomes, prayed at all hours, and ate in silent reflection.
Chewing on a trencher of tough horsebread made of oats, rye, and peas, he regarded the somber faces around the table. The dull abbot. The stern prior. The boring monks.
He wished he’d been dropped into a convent rather than a monastery. Not that he would have tried to romance a nun. Even amorous Hew had his limits. Besides, he’d made that mistake once before. But after six days of staring at pasty-faced men, he would have been grateful for a glimpse of a rosy cheek, a pink mouth, a fluttering lash.
He swallowed, and the bread scraped down his throat, as if punishing him for his insufferable lust. He had to stop thinking about women. Stop dwelling on what he couldn’t have.
Adding to his frustration was the fact he was half-starved. He’d always heard monks ate well. The monastery near Rivenloch was full of paunchy old men and soft-bellied youths. But these monks, raised on portions sized for a child, were gaunt and gangly.
To make matters worse, he hardly knew where to begin with his investigation. There wasn’t much to go on. The monastery’s treasures had vanished without a trace. The only way to discover the guilty party was to either catch them in the act or find one of the missing items. But that was as likely as locating a particular flea on an ox.
On the other hand, if he set out to scour the neighboring village for evidence, something might turn up.
And he might find some real food.
And he might get a glimpse of a feminine creature.
