“Ye’ll wed me,” he told her with a nasty smile. “Ye have yer bairns to consider, Maggie Kerr, and if there is one thing I have learned in my weeks here, it is that yer a good mother. Ye’ll not allow anything to happen to yer lads. Fight me on this, and I’ll send them through the pass to be fostered by yer greedy English kin.”
“If ye think my uncle would harm my sons, yer wrong, sir. I know how Edmund Kerr thinks. He would wed the little daughter his mistress gave him several years ago to David and raise him to do his bidding, or try,” Maggie countered.
“And if he turned the lad English, then it would be the fine Scots sons ye’ll give me who inherit Brae Aisir, and not Fingal Stewart’s lads. Yer clan folk would give their loyalty first to a good Scot, and ye know it,” he matched her.
“Fingal Stewart is not dead,” Maggie responded. “He will come home, and he will drive ye from Brae Aisir if I don’t do it first.”
Ewan Hay laughed. “Let him try and I will slay him,” he said boldly.
They had two heavy snows in the first half of March. The pass would open late.
Finally as the month began to draw to its end, the hills began to quickly show signs of spring. The white snows and the gray melting began to give way to the open earth. The hillsides gave off a hint of hazy green. Ewan Hay came into the hall on the last day of the month to learn that Maggie had gone into labor in the night. The keep was oddly silent. Old Dugald sat at the high board after the morning meal playing the board game of Hare and Hounds with his two grandsons. Grizel entered the hall with another woman.
“Who is this?” Ewan Hay demanded.
“The midwife,” Grizel told him bluntly.
“Is she all right?” he asked.
“She’s laboring to bring forth a bairn,” Grizel replied, and then hurried on with Mistress Agnes up the stairs.
“Why does she need a midwife?” Ewan asked Dugald Kerr. “She’s had two bairns before this one being born.”
“She’s not some animal giving birth,” the laird said irritably. “Every birth is different, ye dumb clot.” He turned back to his game.
The main meal of the day was served. The laird, Ewan, and the two little boys ate at the high board. This was a rare treat for the two brothers who usually ate in the kitchens with Maudie. At one time, their nursemaids had eaten with them, but now they were gone. The laird directed his great-grandsons in their table manners and in how to properly use their napkin. Ewan noted that the laird was extremely fond of the two little lads. He could use that as a weapon to force Maggie to the altar, for he knew she loved her grandsire dearly and would do whatever she had to to see him happy.
The afternoon wore on. The days were noticeably longer now. The hall was silent. The laird had fallen asleep in his chair by the hearth. Davy and Andrew had disappeared. The dogs sprawled about lazily, following their master’s example. Ewan Hay was bored. He decided to ride out and see how the melt was progressing. When he returned an hour later, the hall remained exactly as he left it.
“Busby!” he shouted, and the majordomo was at his side almost immediately.
“Has the lady birthed her bairn yet?”
“Not yet, sir, but Grizel tells me it will be quite soon,” Busby answered. “Is there anything else, sir?”
“Get me some wine!” Ewan snapped. He was irritated, and he didn’t know why.
Busby brought him a large silver goblet studded with green agate. It was filled with a rich red wine, the pungent aroma of which filled his nostrils. Ewan took the goblet from Busby and drank deeply of it. The damned servant annoyed him, and yet he had done nothing since Ewan arrived that should irritate him. He was polite—deferential to a fault—and Ewan wondered why. The other servants practically ignored him, avoiding all contact with him until spoken to, at which point they answered him, but no more than that. And the old witch who looked after Maggie made no secret of the fact she could barely tolerate him at all. He’d send her packing when he married Maggie, and he would put in her place some buxom little thing he could swive when his wife’s moon link was broken.
He hadn’t had a woman since he arrived at Brae Aisir. Maggie had swiftly sent all the young female serving wenches back to their family cottages in the village as the snows began. And the clansmen kept a close eye on their women whenever the Hay men-at-arms came into their midst. Of late, however, Bhaltair had mentioned that Brae Aisir had a whore who was willing to make herself available for a coin or two. He shouted for his captain, and questioned him further.
“Ye said there was a whore in the village. Where is she?” he demanded.
“There are two, but one will only service the lads whose wives are big in the belly,” Bhaltair replied. “The more willing one lives on the edge of the village where the Aisir nam Breug begins and ends. Her name is Jeannie.”
“Take me to the more reluctant whore,” Ewan said. “If she will take a cock, she cannot be fussy about the cock she takes. Come with me, and we’ll make an evening of it. This enforced celibacy is not to my taste.”
The two men departed the hall, and taking their horses, rode down to the village, stopping at the cottage Bhaltair said belonged to Flora Kerr, the widow. They entered, startling the woman, who was kneading bread for the morrow. Her pretty, plump hands were covered with flour. Flora knew instantly what they wanted.
“I serve only the lads whose wives are with child,” she quickly said. “You will find what you seek at the end of the lane, sir.”
“But I don’t want the well-traveled cunt of the village whore,” Ewan told her. “My captain and I deserve something finer, Flora Kerr. It is Flora, isn’t it?”
Flora nodded.
“Do ye know who I am, Flora? I am the new master of the keep, of Brae Aisir itself. Ye dinna want to displease me now, do ye?” Ewan smiled at the woman, but his eyes were cold, his tone menacing.
“Sir, I am not a common whore. I give of myself for the women’s sake,” Flora said in a trembling voice. “I take naught for my service.”
