‘Well, you don’t have to worry because we’re all here and we’re not going anywhere,’ Jim said.
‘Don’t you worry, Izzy,’ said Jeanette. ‘This is going to be one heck of a Christmas. The Carter-Joneses won’t know what’s hit them.’
She served the coffee in the hall by the fire that Jim had lit earlier, the logs spitting slightly and the flames licking around glowing embers. Izzy had hoped that Godfrey had forgotten he wanted to examine the Claymore, but she was to be disappointed.
‘Now that…’ Godfrey stopped dead in front of the fire and threw an arm up towards the sword hanging on the wall. ‘It’s magnificent but it really should be in a museum. May I take a look?’ Despite the question he was already moving forwards.
Ross, who’d been loitering by the stairs as if he were heading up at any moment, stopped and turned back.
‘It’s just an old sword,’ said Xanthe. ‘I don’t know what all the fuss is about. It’s not even very shiny.’
Godfrey went to the wall but wasn’t quite tall enough to reach the sword, which, for some petty reason she wasn’t that proud of, pleased Izzy no end.
Ross stepped forward as if to help.
‘No,’ snapped the other man. ‘I can manage.’ He overturned the coal scuttle beside the fireplace, scattering crumbs of black coaldust everywhere, and climbed on top of it. With one hand, which even Izzy knew was foolish – a Claymore was a two-handed sword – he grasped the hilt and lifted upwards, away from the two sturdy hooks that held it in place. For a moment, as the full weight settled into his hand, he staggered back, swaying about in a situation comedy moment that had everyone stepping back out of range.
‘Whoa!’ cried Duncan who was the closest and was a hair’s breadth from having his ear removed.
Godfrey managed to grasp the sword with his other hand and stood there, rocking on the spot for a moment before he regained his equilibrium.
‘Ah,’ he said with a long exhale, his eyes glazed with wonder. ‘So well balanced. This would have been a very expensive sword. Solingen steel from Germany, if I’m not mistaken. They were the greatest swordsmiths in Europe, you know.’
‘So you said before,’ drawled Ross.
Godfrey glared at him and swished the sword experimentally, almost falling over with the weight of it.
‘Steady,’ said Ross, as Godfrey’s arms gave way and the tip of the sword thunked to the floor, the metal ringing out against the stone. He reeled on the spot, his arms dead straight, clutching the hilt of the sword, reminiscent of a small boy trying out his dad’s wellies for size.
With a shake of his head, Ross strode over and removed the sword from Godfrey’s hands, lifting it with apparent ease, although Izzy saw the way the muscles in his arms bunched. She’d got used to his size and bulk but this was a reminder that Ross wouldn’t have looked the least bit out of place on a battlefield, his kilt flaring around him, hefting that very sword. Izzy wanted to cheer as much for his casual display of masculine strength, which set her hormones buzzing in the most unseemly fashion, as for the matter-of-fact way he picked the sword up without a speck of drama, flair or showmanship. He put it down on the long oak table by the wall.
Godfrey glared at him with an audible sniff and stalked over to the table.
‘As I was saying,’ he sneered, ‘It’s an excellent example of seventeenth-century craftmanship. A blade forged hundreds of years ago and as sharp as the day it left the blacksmith.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Ross. ‘Judging from the nicks in the blade. It’s been well used and it doesn’t look as if it’s been sharpened for a while. Although it could still do some damage.’
Godfrey ignored him and turned to Xanthe who was pretending to be spellbound. History bored the pants off her, as Izzy well knew. ‘It’s so fascinating to hear an expert’s opinion on it,’ she gushed.
‘Yes. This Claymore would have been used to protect the castle from all sorts of invaders, such as the Sassenachs.’
‘I doubt that,’ said Ross. ‘The laird and Lady Isabella were loyal to George II as Lady Isabella’s brother, Richard, was married to one of the king’s favourite envoys’ daughter.’
‘That’s hearsay,’ blustered Godfrey. ‘And the family probably promulgated that story in later years to stay on side with the English government.’
‘Promulgated,’ whispered Jeanette to Izzy. ‘What does that even mean?’
Ross’s mouth firmed. ‘According to the family bible, the family tree is quite clear and the parish register at St John’s Kirk in Perth clearly records the wedding of Sir Richard to Lady Henrietta, daughter of Edmund Poley, envoy to Hanover.’
‘I’ve not heard that,’ dismissed Godfrey.
‘Just because you’re not aware of it doesn’t mean it’s not true. It’s historical fact backed up with evidence from a primary source.’
Xanthe shot Ross a look of dislike and Godfrey allowed himself a small smirk and patted her on the hand.
‘See here? The long handle and the unusual decorative pattern on the hilt are typical of the region.’
Ross leaned forward and frowned at the rows of crude lumps on the hilt. ‘They’re not typical,’ he said, looking genuinely puzzled. ‘I’ve never seen anything like them before.’
