Page 32 of The Son of a Highland Witch
When the bothy hove into view, nestled in a large clearing amidst the trees and thick bushes, Finn was relieved to know his anguished thoughts might finally get an answer. He knew every inch of these wattle and daub walls; he had built them himself with his own hands. The chimney stack was constructed from limestone and smooth river stones; thick hides of leather were draped over some windows as an additional barrier against the weather when the shutters were closed. On this fine day, the hides were hooked up to allow in the sunlight and soft breeze, and the chimney stack emitted a thin trail of smoke that floated up into the sky in a lazy line before being blown away when it reached above the treetops.
He tethered his horse close to the well, drew it a pail of water (there was plenty of grass for it to graze on), and pushed his way into the front door.
“Greetings! What a lovely surprise,” the tall, silver-haired woman said when his tall shape cast a shadow over her spinning wheel.
She was so beautiful, with her high cheekbones and elegant figure, it seemed as if time did not have the power to change her. There was hardly a wrinkle on her smooth pale skin, and if there were white strands in her hair, no one could have noticed them. Her eyes were the same blue as the stormy northern seas, and now they signaled great joy at seeing him walk in.
“Welcome home!”
Finn bent to give the woman a warm embrace and plonked the pouch of gold he had received from the O’Donnell purser onto her lap.
“Are ye well, Mither?”
She took the pouch and hefted it in her hand, saying, “Ye ken I have nay use for this. Who was the timid laird who required yer services this time?”
He sat down heavily on the stool beside her, a mug of ale in his hand. After taking a pull, he sighed.
“Mither, dinnae beat me around the head after I tell ye, but I left a poor lass to marry a right busterd. That gold is what I was paid to do so. Now…I need ye to tell me it was the right thing to do.”
Brigette pushed herself away from the smoothly carved mother-of-all benches at her spinning wheel and went to pour herself a small dram of whiskey. She claimed her great health was due to regular servings of the spirit every so often, and she could tell immediately that she would need the soothing effects of the drink.
“Spill out yer news an’ leave naught out.” She ordered her son to tell her everything. He had been her conduit to the outside world for twenty years, as Finn’s mother had no desire to interact with strangers.
Mother and son had no secrets from one another. She gleaned most of her news from the outside world from Finn, never bothering to venture forth herself. The croft was well hidden from prying eyes, and Brigette no longer practiced her healing crafts. Instead, she wove plaids out of the wool she spun from shearing the small herd of sheep and goats she kept out back. Finn would arrive every summer to carry the finely woven bolts of plaid to market, where they always fetched a princely sum. Brigette kept the secrets of how she managed to dye the wools so dark locked away in her mind, and every lady in the Highlands clamored for one of the richly colored plaids.
But trying to winkle the receipt and ingredients used to create the deeply saturated plaids was not the reason why women flocked to bed her son. Since he had left home to train as a warrior with any laird who was prepared to provide him with shelter and weapons in exchange for his loyalty in battle, Finn had women falling at his feet. And never once had he bothered his mind over them once they disappeared out of his life.
So now Brigette was not angry at what he told her; she was intrigued. Her son sounded smitten. Finally, a lass had caught his interest and held it!
Hiding her satisfied smile, Brigette said, “How can I advise ye, Finn, if ye hesitate to tell me what happened?”
He shifted around on his stool, then began. “Erica is no’ like other lasses. Ye must understand that, Mither. She’s a lady, yet as adventurous an’ fearless as any unfettered village maiden. The man she is due to marry is a wretch, fully ungrateful of her great wit an’ charm while preferring the embraces of common wenches when all is said and done. Erica deserves so much more! But the match has been made an’ agreed upon, and so she is set to marry the scoundrel, whether she wills it or not.”
Brigette took another sip of her drink. “Ye were her escort?”
He nodded. “Aye, for the most part. The journey there was treacherous because we were bound to keep to the main roads where the brigands sit an’ loiter about, roaming the Highlands in gangs, preying on the innocent. I took care o’ that. That part was easy.” Here, Finn touched a scar on his arm and rubbed it as if it were a good luck charm. “It was the journey back where me problems arose…”
She said nothing for a beat. “Journey back? Please don’ tell me ye were meddlin’, Finn?”
He stood up suddenly from the stool and began pacing from one side of the small croft to the other side.
“How could I no’? The rascal was a drunkard an’ a lecherous fool! He does nae appreciate her like I do! But Erica’s decision to leave her betrothed’s castle was her own. I simply accompanied her back home.” He paused. “An’ I might have kissed her a few times, but I assure ye it was mutual. She is a rare lass, full o’ spritely fight. No man would dare kiss her without her approval an’ hope for a warm response.”
Brigette said in a dry tone, “Did her betrothed not kiss her?”
Finn blustered, “I care no’ if he did! The man has kissed a thousand women and treated them all the same.”
“So have ye, Finn.” Brigette forced him to acknowledge it.
“Aye, I ken.” Finn’s reply was stern. “But now that I have met Erica, I regret ever having looked at another woman…because I care for her in a different way.”
Finn sat down on the little wooden stool heavily. “Her parents want the match. They said they no longer require me services as an escort. Laird O’Donnell is to return to Buchanan Castle with Erica in tow, an’ he will nae leave until the ring is on her finger.”
Brigette drained her cup and stood up.
“Where are ye goin’?” Finn wanted to know. “Have ye nay advice to help me out o’ this pickle?”
Brigette replied in a calm voice, “I have never met a woman who could tame ye, Finn, an’ so I am curious to meet this legend in the flesh. Come, stock up yer saddlebags with victuals. We travel to Buchanan Castle in the morn.”
Finn’s mother went to a trestle board by the window and began to place vials and sachets of ingredients into a small chest. They were not for dying wools but for healing.
