“He’s sent ye on yer own, has he?” the older man asked, his brow furrowing. “That’s quite a job for one man.”
Ailean favored him with what he hoped was a devil-may-care grin. “I like a challenge. The old man wants to see what I’m made of.”
This drew appreciative laughter from those gathered nearby. They’d all downed tools and moved closer to overhear the conversation. Ailean didn’t blame them. It was juicy indeed; possibly one of the most exciting things to happen in this quiet village for a long while.
Nodding to them all, Ailean gathered his reins and urged Sgòth on. They quickened their pace from a trot to a steady canter, kicking up dust behind them. He rode through the knot of low-slung bothies and took the rough track up the hill to the tower, slowing Sgòth as he did so.
It was a relief to let the mask drop. He wasn’t sure how long he could keep his jovial manner in place. His belly had clenched like a fist ever since that awful scene in his father’s solar, and it had yet to loosen. Despite being hungry this morning, he felt slightly sick.
Reaching the top of the mound and the edge of the ruin, he swung down from his stallion and pulled an ale-skin from his saddlebag, taking a few gulps. He was nearly out of ale and had no food at all, but replenishing those things would have to wait. Today, he needed to survey this tower—his new home—and make some plans.
Up close, it was in an even worse state than he’d realized. Nearly three decades had passed since Kendrick Mackinnon had destroyed this tower and put its inhabitants to the sword, but looking at it, he’d have guessed it was much longer.
It was incredible how nature took over. With the passing of the seasons, ivy had climbed over the walls, lichen had formed, and weeds now bloomed amongst the broken and cracked cobbles and pavers in what had once been the tower’s hall.
Ardnacross Tower hadn’t been a large holding, but once it had been filled with a chieftain and his family. They’d stewarded the border for generations. And these days, with Bran Mackinnon ruling the Mackinnons of Dùn Ara, there was no longer a threat to these people.
But this place needed to be resurrected, and Ailean was the man to do it.
His skin prickled as he ventured inside.
He remembered seeing it for the first time, as a bairn. He’d climbed up the tower like a surefooted goat while his father shouted to him to come back down. Even at that tender age, this place had fascinated him; however, he’d never imagined he’d be charged with rebuilding it.
A ground floor and two levels above it, connected by a crumbling spiral staircase.
Emerging from the ruin, he moved around the base of the tower, taking in the old stone well encrusted with lichen and the remains of some stone outbuildings: a kitchen and bakehouse, and what were likely once stables and a granary. All of it crumbling. All of it forsaken.
“Mary’s tits.” He raked a hand through his hair and let out a weary sigh.
No wonder the cottars had watched him with incredulity. This was a huge job for just one man. Too big. And his father knew it. He’d set him up for failure deliberately as punishment.
Heat ignited in the pit of Ailean’s clenched gut. “Ye did, Da,” he muttered, “but I won’t go down easily.”
Continuing his circuit of the tower, he came across a small walled enclosure that had been terraced on the southern slope of the mound. A few gnarled apple and pear trees grew here, their branches already heavy with fruit. No doubt the locals helped themselves every autumn, but they’d have to ask first in the future. This was his garden now.
He’d rebuild the walls and think about putting these terraces to good use, growing vegetables to eat … once he learned how.
It struck him then how unprepared he was.
He could thatch a roof and build a wall. He could shoe a horse, and his carpentry skills weren’t poor. But he wasn’t a gardener, and he knew little about crops. He’d have to buy some of the local men an ale and bend their ears. He’d have to develop many new skills if he was going to survive here.
Returning to a cobbled area in front of the ruined main entrance, he approached the well. The iron frame above it was listing and corroded, and there was no bucket or rope to be seen.
Stooping, he picked up a pebble and leaned over the edge, dropping it. A few seconds later, he heard a welcome splash.
Well, that was something at least.
He had to make getting this sorted a priority. Once he fixed up a rope and bucket and mended the iron structure above it, he’d have fresh water. That was one piece of good news on a day of general shittiness.
He returned to where Sgòth was cropping at grass and unsaddled his stallion. The courser paid him little mind, his thick mane and tail ruffling in the breeze gusting off the Sound. The day before had been much cooler, but even with the sea breeze, the sun warmed his face. Another fine summer’s day was about to stretch out before him, and he needed to make the most of it.
Shrugging off his leather jerkin, he hung it over the side of the well before rolling up the sleeves of his lèine. He then gingerly made his way into the tower once more.
He had to find a spot where he would be able to make himself safe to sleep and live temporarily while he did the work. He’d have to source some hide for a makeshift roof, as well as food, and fuel for a fire. But first, he needed to make a plan.
The enormity of his task crashed over him then, and he drew to a halt in the midst of the empty hall.
Cods … what have ye done?
