The barkeep was behind the counter, standing in front of half-empty barrels and bottles. He would listen keenly to one of the serving wench’s requests, go to his supply of spirits and beverages, turn the tap on one or two barrels, and then refill the mugs to the brim with clear, foaming liquid. Blair was not there to drink.
She knew all she had to do was wait. It did not take long. The barkeep wiped his face with his apron and signaled for a young man to come and stand behind the counter in his place. Then he disappeared to the kitchens downstairs.
Quick as a flash, Blair ducked out the entrance and ran around the back of the alehouse to where the stairs for food deliveries went down to the kitchen. She sauntered in through the doors leading to the scullery and out into the kitchen. She could not have timed it better. The barkeep was stuffing his face full of pie and taking the occasional refreshing sip of cold milk. He looked very happy and seemed quite amiable when Blair approached him.
“I saw ye hanging ’round the alehouse entrance at the front o’ the house, lass. I was wondering what brings such a fresh-faced young lady to this side o’ Flichity Harbor?”
Blair gave a beaming smile and complimented him on his sharp perception. Then she got straight to the point. “Are the men from theDon de Dieuhere? I have need for a mercenary.”
The barkeep pushed back his empty plate, replying, “Aye, they’re here, at least, those that havenae acquired a job yet, so ye better hurry. Ye can go back inside using this door”—he indicated which one with his head—“and they are all seated at the table on the left, against the harbor-facing side of the house.”
Blair felt in her bones that this part of her quest was nearing its conclusion. She thanked the man and left the kitchen.
It was only then Blair realized that thinking about hiring a warrior and actually doing it were two entirely different kettles of fish. She stood at the side of the table where at least ten men were drinking and scoffing down food, ducking the hasty serving wenches and staggering drunkards, and trying to muster up the courage to advertise her job.
Losh! I must crack to it and buckle down with making me request. The day’s nae getting any younger, and I still have yet to begin me search for Faither in earnest.
Inspired by the thought of her father, Blair shouted out to the table, “I’m looking for a warrior! Are any of ye men available?”
A roar of laughter greeted her statement. The rest of the alehouse joined in once their neighbors had let them in on the joke.
A man stood up from the table and lurched toward Blair, slurring,
“Aye, sweetheart, I’m yer man! If ye are keen to have a warrior, I will stiffen meself in the wink of an eye—if it’s me longsword ye seek!”
Blair was revolted by the man, even though she had no clue as to what he was insinuating.
“Nay! I want a proper soldier, nae some ale-soaked oaf! Does nary one of ye want a job?”
More loud laughter, mixed in with a few jeers and mocking catcalls, was heard.
“Please, can no one help me?” Blair was now close to tears. It had been a long day, and she was close to losing all hope and determination. “Me...me faither is missing...and...and me mither and siblings are all home alone. I have gold…” she sobbed.
The sound of her voice was drowned out by men offering her gold for one night alone with her. She was buffeted to one side by a serving wench.
“Get out o’ the way!” the woman snarled. “Cannae ye see they want none o’ yer highty-tighty ways here, girl?”
Blair was as near to giving up as she had ever been in her life. Her father, her mother left alone, her quest—everything was ashes in her mouth. Her tenacity meant nothing outside the fences surrounding the family farm.
A deep voice, easy to hear over all the raucous chatter, said calmly behind her, “I’ll take yer job and the gold ye’re offering. What is it ye want done?”
5
Cu Chulainn to the Rescue
Slaine Thamhais had had a wretched last couple of days. His horse had shed a shoe outside Inverness, and the local blacksmith and farrier had not been able to assist him, being laid low by severe colic. After spending two nights at one of the worst inns this side of the firth, waiting for the man to regain his health, an eager apprentice blacksmith had asked Slaine politely if he would like to avail himself of his services, rather than wait. Deciding to take a chance with the young lad, Slaine had handed his precious grey stallion, Maximus, over to the apprentice with strict instructions to make the shoe big enough to fit his hoof.
The problems with Maximus’s new shoe became apparent not three miles away from the smithy. The horse began to lose its stride and then simply halted, stamping its hind leg in frustration. Slaine had to dismount and lead his horse all the way back to town.
The blacksmith apprentice had cowered when he saw Slaine returning, leading his horse.
“Dinnae I say, sir, that I’m nae yet a farrier, only a blacksmith still learning his trade? I did everything I’ve seen me master do, I swear it!” the poor youth gibbered.
There was a reason for the lad’s fear. Slaine Thamhais was easily the tallest, most muscular man in Scotland. He had reached his full height of six feet and two inches—a conservative estimate—at the age of six and ten summers, the year his foster aunt had been carried off by the seasonal plague. In those days, ten years ago and counting, Slaine had already developed the wide shoulders and bulky arms that made villagers in his foster aunt’s town whisper his father must have been a Norseman.
Some townsfolk disagreed with this suggestion. His dark brown hair, growing down to those same wide shoulders, and silky dark beard, cut back enough for anyone to see his strong jawline, were demonstrably more likely to come from the wild horsemen who rode the edges of ice in the land of the Rus.
The conclusion was drawn when they looked at Slaine’s thoughtful hazel-flecked brown eyes; he looked foreign enough to set tongues wagging but was strong and brave enough for every Highlander to be proud to call him their own.
