17
The relief that Finlay felt when a pile of gold coins spilled out onto the ground was palpable. McCorkindale bent down, picked up a handful of coins, and then allowed them to trickle through his fingers.
“There are enough pistoles, ducats, an’ demyes in this chest to last a laird a lifetime,” he said.
The diggers stepped forward, their eyes wide with wonder.
It was not yet the right time to celebrate. Finlay knew there was still so much to be done, but he also knew he must acknowledge this great discovery. The gold in the chest probably contained every last McTavish coin that the clan paid in taxes for the last eighty years. With one shovel tap, the fortune of one clan had become the fortune of another’s.
As he stared at all the gold coins shining on the upturned soil, Finlay was given a deeper insight into how much his grandfather’s and father’s war had cost both clans, and he was saddened. What should have been his golden moment tasted bitter in his mouth. But then he realized what he could achieve with such a large pile of gold, and his mood brightened. He could pay his loyal followers, retake the castle, and marry Isla without demanding to use her money. Suddenly, life was sweet.
“Does anyone happen to have a quill an’ parchment on him, by any chance? I must tally this amount before each man gets his pay.” This was how a fair laird divided up the spoils of war; each item would be counted in place and then carried back to the quartermaster so that he might disburse every man’s share.
“I’ve been diggin’, Fin,” one of the soldiers laughed, “an’ I don’ carry a blasted quill around with me like a bleedin’ school teacher!” All the men guffawed with laughter. Their mood had lightened, becoming merry as they slowly realized how far their fortunes had changed in the last few moments.
“I have a wax tablet an’ stylus in me pockets,” Isla said in a quiet voice. “Ye can have that if ye want.”
Finlay nodded and stretched out his hand to take the small tablet and stylus from Isla’s hand. He gave her a triumphant grin and a small wink, wanting her to share in his great change of fate, but she did not give him an answering smile. He bowed his head to begin counting the coins as McCorkindale tallied different gold coins into piles, and so Finlay did not even notice as Isla slowly walked away over the hill and back to the harbor.
* * *
When Isla walked back into the smithy, her father laid down his tools and asked her the question he had been eager to hear the answer to since he sent Finlay Dougal out to find her.
“Well? Am I to wish ye happy? Did ye say aye? When are ye to be married?”
The barrage of questions from her father did not hurt Isla so much as it did disappoint his hopes.
“Nay, Faither. Finlay Dougal did not ask me to be his wi—”
The blacksmith interrupted her. “What!? But I was sure that is what he proposed to do and I thought to hasten the event by sendin’ him over to ye to seek yer approval for the wheat. I have been thinking for the last few weeks that it was all May an’ springtime between the two o’ ye! When I saw him come to the forge this mornin’, I thought he wanted to ask me permission to woo ye. What went wrong?”
So many questions her father wanted answered, but Isla had many of her own she wanted to be answered too!
“If I knew why he did not ask me, Faither, it would soothe both of our curious minds, but he did no’ so I would like for ye to stop pesterin’ me about it!”
The blacksmith shook his head and once again, he wiped his hands on his leather apron, saying, “Come, Daughter, let’s sit in the parlor and drink some ale to cool our tempers. I have a feeling ye—we—have been presumin’ at cross purposes. There’s nay need to work yerself up into a lather over this.”
Isla could think of a thousand reasons to be consumed with anger, but she followed her father into the parlor and then went down to the kitchen to fetch him a mug of small ale. When she sat down, Master McDonnell finished his ale and then started talking.
“The thing is this, Isla… We are both in the unfortunate position of being the laird’s son’s followers. We are no’ his captain or his advisor, an’ if ye ken how difficult those positions were, ye would be thankful for it! Finlay Dougal is a natural-born leader. In battle and in peace, he is used to havin’ his orders obeyed and his final judgments respected.”
Isla folded her arms and huffed. “So what? I beg yer pardon, Faither, but I fail to see the point.”
The blacksmith chuckled. “Don’ act the dunce, Isla, an’ listen carefully because ye have had little contact with men in yer short life an’ ye’ll never meet another man like our true laird, Finlay Dougal, again!
“Put yerself in his shoes. He vanquishes his foes an’ comes home with every expectation of celebratin’ his great victory with his faither, an’ instead he gets thrown in a dungeon and usurped of his lairdship! On top o’ that, he finds himself travelin’ with a comely lass—that’s ye, Isla, if ye had any doubt o’ it—an’ he has an eye on her from the start.
“Then the cards start to fall. He finds out ye’re an heiress while he has naught. He must come cap in hand to ask us for money. A proud man like Finlay Dougal reduced to beggin’ so that he might win back his land! What I’m tryin’ to say is this: men have a hard time of it tryin’ to concentrate on one thing at a time, never mind the many things that are demandin’ Finlay’s time right now. So, be patient an’ wait. He’ll come around.”
Isla tried hard to take her father’s good advice, but she struggled.
“He does nae have to ask us for gold anymore, Faither; we found the mercenaries’ hidden treasure. An’ now that he does nae need me dowry anymore, ye will see him forget about me!”
Isla burst into tears, covering her eyes with her arisaid so that her father would not see her woebegone face.
The blacksmith clucked his tongue. “If he has been playin’ with ye, Isla, it’s a good thing ye found out now before ye allowed him to make free with his advances.”
But all this statement did was make Isla pace from one side of the room to the other, a look of fierce concentration on her face as she tried to sort out her feelings for the laird’s son.
