There was a sudden surge of activity as the clan prepared to barricade the gates against the invaders once more. Isla helped the elders carry their goods and chattels into the courtyard and then handed the old folks over to the housekeeper to provide them with sleeping quarters. It was a smooth procedure. Every castle dweller and those who lived within sight of Dougal Castle’s walls were old hands at it. Some even managed to crack a joke as they scurried past the smithy: “Hoots, lad!” one old cripple said as he hobbled by. “Ye only just got the flames goin’, an’ now ye have to douse them!”
Isla’s father gave a grim smile. “How many times have we been raided now, Jacob?” he said as the old man passed him. “This is the second skirmish this year if I’m no’ mistaken.”
Old Jacob had shouted over his shoulder, “I’ve stopped countin’, lad!”
It was then that the blacksmith began to seriously consider his daughter’s suggestion. As he threw the metal and half-made weapons onto the little cart he had harnessed to the donkey, he thought about the hall full of doddery old men and elderly counselors inside the castle. Did he really want his beloved daughter to marry one of them? She was a bright star in the midst of this dark firmament of war. Isla took after her mother. She had the same straight, dark red hair, sparkling green eyes, and slim, willowy figure. What if one day the castle walls failed? What would happen to a bonny young lass like Isla McDonnell then?
As he drove his cart through the gates, one of the sentries hailed him. “Hang about, Master McDonnell,” he said to the blacksmith. “Orders are for ye to help us defend the walls an’ gates.”
Isla’s father’s mouth gaped. “Are ye raving? I’m no’ a warrior! Whose orders are these?”
The soldier was ashamed as he told the blacksmith. “Please don’ hold this news against me, Master. The orders came direct from Laird Steward. He said the next time the castle is attacked, all able-bodied men are to help in the castle’s defense.”
Isla walked by, shepherding a flock of geese before her. “What is it, Faither?” she asked when she saw him talking to the sentry.
“Naught, Daughter. Carry on with yer business.” He did not want her to worry.
Nevertheless, when the gate was barricaded against the raiders, Isla came looking for her father.
“I kent ye were here,” Isla said, frowning when she saw he was dressed in a cuirass and helmet, “an’ so if ye are made to guard the walls, so will I!”
There was no time to send her back inside. Arrows had already begun flying over the battlements. Isla calmly walked to the nearest bucket and emptied the contents down onto the attackers below. It was full of ordure, and Isla smiled with satisfaction as she heard many shouts of outrage beneath her.
“Too bad we dinnae have a whole midden hole up here for us to use, Faither!” she cried over to where the blacksmith was busy handing loaded crossbolts to the archers.
He shouted at his daughter, “For the love o’ heaven, Isla, lie down on the floor and leave this to the men.”
But when he looked back, she was still there, this time emptying a pot of pitch over the side. For some reason, Isla had an extremely good aim, and more bellows of discomfort were heard beneath the battlements where she was standing.
Isla’s buckets of pitch must have been the deciding factor in ending the raid. The next thing the castle defenders knew, the hoard of McTavish raiders were hightailing it back down the bailey road as if the devil himself were after them. Many cheers were raised when they saw a large number of raiders were blackened with pitch and made so heavy with the substance that they could barely move.
“Thank ye kindly, lass!” one of the elderly soldiers cheered. “They ran off so fast, there was no time for them to harm the village!”
More cheers were raised, but none of this brought a smile to the blacksmith’s face.
Maybe his daughter was right. Maybe it was time to move to a safer village…
