Without a word, Maeve climbed into the saddle, and then with only a quiet thank you to the stableboy, they were off.
The two of them rode without talking for a while side-by-side, Maeve keeping pace with Cailean without understanding where they were going, just as she had when she'd ridden alongside Senan all those weeks. However, it soon became clear that they were traveling along the road that circled outside of Broken Windmill, and Maeve wondered if there was something on the other side of the village that awaited them.
"Are ye nae gonnae tell me where we're goin'?" she asked eventually.
Cailean glanced over at her. "Ye'll see soon enough. We just need tae go down the hills behind the village."
They kept going, and Maeve suddenly found herself feeling awkward. She had grown to like Cailean, or at least respect him, but she felt oddly tongue-tied now that she was alone with him. Despite their nice conversation the first day of training, and a few ever since, it felt odd to be outside of camp alone with him. It wasn't that she had nothing to say, it was more that when she said the words, she wanted them to be the right ones. The problem was that she had no idea what the right words could be.
After about ten minutes, Cailean indicated a large building with smoke rising from a chimney at the foot of a small hill. The two of them dismounted and, tying their horses to a waiting post, headed inside.
Maeve was immediately hit with a blast of heat. Around her, she saw weapons and horseshoes hanging from the wall, and she could smell the burning of a furnace nearby. This must be the village blacksmith, she realized; one of the few places in the village that was still making money, as the smithy supplied both the rebellion and any traveling merchants who sought to shoe their horses or peddle metalware.
The blacksmith himself was a burly man in his late fifties who reminded Maeve strongly of Senan, though unlike the warrior, the blacksmith was completely bald. The man approached fromthe back room as soon as they entered, and it was clear that he had seen Cailean here many times before.
"McManus," he greeted. "What can I do for ye? Who's the lass?"
"This is Mary, one of me fighters," Cailean introduced. Maeve felt a thrill at being referred to as such, even if she wasn't sure that she deserved the title yet. "Mary, this is Arthur McKenna, the blacksmith here in Broken Windmill. He's single-handedly keepin' both the village and the rebellion afloat."
"I'm doin' me best," Arthur replied with a shrug.
Maeve glanced around her. She didn't know much about metalwork, but she'd spent most of her life in castles, and glancing around at these weapons was enough for her to know that the blacksmith had exceptional skill. What was he doing out here in a village that was so poor it had almost fallen apart, rather than traveling down south to take his chances?
"Broken Windmill is me home," Arthur said gruffly, as though he had read her mind. "Me father was born here, and his father, and his father, and so was me son and me grandson, and, God willin', their sons and grandsons. The English may have robbed us of our money and our supplies, but they couldnae take our spirits. They couldnae take our homes."
"Is that why the village is supplyin' the rebellion?" Maeve asked, then bit her lip. She wasn't sure if she should be asking such questions so openly.
But Arthur gave her a small smile and a nod. "I heard the lost prince, the true king, stands amongst ye, or that at least yer council kens where and who he is. When the time comes for him tae retake his throne, then me family and me friends will have it kent that we supported every moment. We willnae kneel tae the False King, nae matter what."
Cailean had a strange expression on his face, but before Maeve could examine it further, he cleared his throat. "Arthur," he said, "I've come tae ye with a commission."
The older man's expression brightened. "Somethin' special, eh? Are ye lookin' for a fine sword for yerself, son? Or is old man Bruce after a replacement pommel for that weapon of his?"
"Nae for me, nor the council," Cailean said, shaking his head. He reached into his pocket and drew out a piece of paper. Upon it, as Maeve saw when she craned her head to look, was a rough sketch of a long, narrow sword. "This was me idea. I want it narrow and agile, with a pommel built for a small hand. The focus should be on bein' quick, nae just hittin' hard."
The blacksmith tapped the drawing. "A fine idea. Ye'll need good quality materials for that; fine, light steel, nae the usual sort." He furrowed his brow. "It will be expensive tae get the materials together and make somethin' so intricate."
"Aye," Cailean agreed gravely. "I was worried about that."
Maeve stood there, stunned, as the realization of what was happening hit her. The sword… such a beautiful, fine sword, would be too small and delicate for most of the warriors who fought in the rebellion. There was one reason and one reason only that Cailean would have brought her with him, but it made no sense. Could this really be… was he really here to buy this sword for her?
"Cailean," she murmured, hoping that Arthur could not hear her. "I dinnae have the funds for such a thing."
"Hush," he told her. "Arthur, how much gold do ye think this weapon will cost?"
Arthur chewed on his thumb for a second in thought, then sighed, shaking his head. "I'm sorry, young McManus, but I cannae give ye this one as I have others in the past, nor take a pittance for it."
He named a number that made Maeve's eyes widen in shock, not because it was unfair but because she figured it would be enough gold to feed every family in the village for a couple of days.
"I understand," Cailean said without blinking. "But I need the sword. So…"
He reached into the deep inner pocket of his cloak and pulled something out, then held it out to Arthur.
Arthur swore, then immediately turned to Maeve and said, "Forgive me crudeness, lady." Then he turned back to Cailean, staring like he'd never seen him before.
"It's forgiven," she replied. "But… what…?"
She finally saw what was in Cailean's hand. Sitting offered on his palm was a small but hefty cloak pin, with a large emblem of a bird intricately designed in its center. Even at a glance, it was obvious that the thing had been created by a master craftsman, made of solid gold.
