When Isla told the cook that her father was taking a break off work as they contemplated their future, Pila came in and began complaining about the sad state of affairs at Dougal Castle. It was boring, filled with elders, and could squeeze the life out of any fun.
“No’ that we even ken what to call the castle anymore now that the steward seems hellbound on takin’ over. He’ll want to change it to Castle McMichaels, I suppose.”
The young girl flounced her petticoats and then asked Isla, “When do ye think we can go out collectin’ wood again? I’m so bored sitting around the kitchens all day.”
“I’m sure I dinnae ken, Pila,” Isla said, too busy concentrating on pouring the hot water out of the cauldron and into a wooden pitcher. “Why don’ ye gather wood for the kitchens?”
The cook told her that the forester had an agreement with the steward to keep the castle supplied with fallen wood. Pila stuck a tongue out at her mother behind the woman’s back.
She whispered to Isla, “Are ye goin’ to the barracks? Can I come with ye, please? I am no’ so persnickety as ye are an’ will nae turn down a flirtation with one o’ the laird’s son’s fightin’ men.”
Isla did not know what to say. It had suddenly dawned on her that if their escape tonight was successful, she would never see anyone who lived at the castle again. Her hand shook as she placed the cauldron down on the flagstones.
“I will come an’ spend some time with ye after, Pila dear. I don’ think Finlay Dougal wants his men wasting their time in a flirtation when they must prepare for a raid tonight.”
It felt wretched brushing off her friend like that, but Isla promised herself that she would spend the rest of the day with her lifelong friend once Finlay’s men had their wounds attended to. But this turned out to be more difficult than she anticipated. After tending to the men, her father came and bid her bring the precious items she kept at their lodgings in the castle down to the smithy, which took many trips in and out of the castle gates, not being able to carry them all at once because that might alert the guards that something suspicious was happening. Then she had to return to the kitchen, but it was not to see Pila.
“Mistress Cook, the soldiers sent me up here to ask for more food from ye.”
She hated lying to the cook, but they had to have something to eat on the road, especially when their path parted ways from the one Finlay and his men were headed down.
“I keep a generous table, Isla! What are they? Ravenous beasts?”
The cook was upset; it was an insult to Highland hospitality to ask for more food. Isla tried to explain in a way that would satisfy the woman’s outrage and sound innocent at the same time.
“The thing is this… The men were starved on the road here, plus they have to bolster their strength for the raid happening tonight. They only ask for more bread an’ ale for the wineskins.” When she explained it like that, the cook understood.
“Och! Poor lads. Pila! Bring me the old bread basket we were keeping for the pigs. Don’ worry, Isla, the bread is nay more that one day auld at most.”
The cook spent the rest of the time shouting for scullions to bring dried apples from the cellars, small ale casks from the brewery, and cured hams from the airing rooms. Isla ran back down to the castle barracks. Finlay was waiting for her in the small room where the watch guards slept during their shifts.
“Yer faither has gone down to the bailey barracks. He’s pretendin’ to fortify the walls in preparation for the false raid tonight.”
Isla nodded, slightly out of breath from her run. “Is there any way you can find a mule, sir? Cook was upset by yer request for more food, an’ it looks like she’s emptying the larder for ye! It might be too much for yer men to carry when we leave, no matter how braw they think they are.”
They laughed together, but then he grew serious again. “Yer faither had already offered us the use o’ his horse an’ cart, for which I am truly grateful. He told me to warn ye no’ to pack too many fallals an’ trinkets. He says he’ll buy ye more once ye get down to Inverness.”
There was a knock on the door. It was Pila. The young girl craned her neck around Finlay’s tall form, hoping for a glimpse of soldiers through the door behind him.
“Please, sir, me mither has sent me forth from the kitchens with the gig full o’ provisions for ye.”
Finlay answered the cook’s daughter in an avuncular tone. “Thank ye, little lass.” Then he called up two of his men to drive the gig down to the bailey barracks. “Please tell yer mither that this is just what we need to make us strong again.”
