Page 3 of A Nameless Highland Laird
1
The sound of steel colliding with the anvil filled the air in a repetitive rhythm. Cameron’s arm burned from exhaustion as he swung the heavy hammer over his head and down onto the red hot metal plate he was beating into the shape of a sword. His face was drenched with sweat and scrunched with focus as he worked.
It was a grueling job and not one he particularly enjoyed, but the blacksmith was the only man in town who had been willing to hire the village orphan. Three long years had passed since Cameron had first started his apprenticeship with the blacksmith and he still didn’t feel entirely accustomed to standing so close to the fire. The heat from the flames and the dancing light often gave him flashbacks to the day he swore he would never forgive nor forget. But it was work and the work put food in his stomach every day. That was enough to make Cameron keep coming back day after day for three long years.
“Are ye still working on that claymore?” the blacksmith, Mangus, asked.
Cameron did not answer right away, instead he finished the spot he was smoothing out before dunking the whole piece into the bucket of cool water. Steam hissed and Cameron was tempted to do the same. He stood up tall, standing almost a head taller than Mangus, but still he felt small.
“Aye. I wanted to get it done right so ye did nae have to do it again,” Cameron said by way of explanation.
Mangus raised a soot covered eyebrow at Cameron, making it clear just how little he trusted the apprentice’s work. He ambled over to Cameron’s workstation and yanked the half finished sword out of the water, lifting it to eye level to inspect. Cameron watched as his boss turned the metal this way and that, looking for anything he could point out as less than acceptable. The critique came only a second later.
“And this is what ye consider ‘done right’? This is shoddy at best. How ye have been working wit’ me for three years and still ye can nae finish a sword within a week’s time is beyond me. I dinnae ken whether I should think myself a bad teacher or ye as dumb as the rest of the village thinks ye are.”
Cameron clenched his jaw and grit his teeth. He should have been used to the insults by now seeing as they were all he ever got from the man, but still, Mangus’ harsh words managed to spike Cameron’s breathing. A notch hitched in his chest, making it harder and harder to breathe. He said nothing, knowing that if he dared to open his mouth and let his father’s temper out, Cameron would soon be out of work.
Mangus quickly grew bored with Cameron’s lack of response and tossed the half finished sword onto Cameron’s worktable, making a mess of it all. With his jaw still clamped shut, Cameron turned back to his space and straightened everything up again. He worked to calm himself and to steady his breathing, only picking up the sword again when he was steady once more.
Holding the weapon up to the light, Cameron examined it the same way Mangus just had, searching for any area he thought could use further attention. He knew that he was only half way through the work and that once it was all grinded into a point and polished to shine, the sword would be one he could be proud of—even if it was difficult to see that now.
He shoved the end of the sword back into the sweltering fire, turning it slowly until every side of the metal glowed with heat. Only then did he pull it out and put it back on the anvil. With everything in position, Cameron picked up his hammer and started swinging again, the weight of the tool slamming the softened sword into the right position.
“‘Scuse me, I am looking for a Cameron?”
The worn, leathery voice came from just over Cameron’s shoulder, probably a little too close for comfort, but Cameron didn’t let that stop him from the work in front of him. He swung again and again, hoping the unwelcomed and unknown visitor would take a hint and leave.
A throat cleared but still Cameron kept his eyes trained on what he was doing. He knew just how irritated Mangus would get if he came back to find Cameron slacking off by talking to a stranger rather than finishing the work that was already behind schedule.
“I am sorry to interrupt, but I really do need to speak with Cameron.”
This time, Cameron twisted his neck, only catching a glimpse of the man calling for him. He was sure that he had never seen the man before and could want nothing good from Cameron, so he worked on.
“Cameron. I ken who I am talking to. I will stand here all day if I must.” A beat filled with another swing of the hammer. “Cameron.”
Finally, Cameron dropped the sword back into the bucket, sending droplets of water all over his threadbare pants.
“And who is it thatIam talking to?”
“I am a friend of Alastair’s. We need to talk.”
* * *
“Charlotte.Good. Come in, we need to talk.”
Charlotte let herself into her father’s study instead of peeking around the door the way she truly wanted to.
The room was the same as it had always been. With walls covered from floor to ceiling in dark wood, the whole space felt ominous. It was big enough to hold the entire clan council inside comfortably with her father’s desk pushed in the far corner looking out on the rest of the space. There was also a long table that was currently covered in maps and parchments where the council would sit to debate their plans. And on the other side of that table was a sitting area. Someone, long ago, had tried to make it a cozy spot to curl up with a book, though it had never been used for that purpose since Charlotte could remember.
She once thought that the room was dark and heavy because of the lack of light, but even when the drapes were pulled back and the windows were open and the sun was shining, there was still something depressing about it all. On the whole, she preferred to avoid coming here as much as she possibly could.
When the maid had given her the message that her father was expecting her in his study less than half an hour ago, Charlotte knew it couldn’t be good. She could count on one hand the times she had been summoned to her father’s study—the first was when he told her that her mother was dead, the second was when he announced they would be going to war, and the third was when she had stolen a horse from the stables and spent the day and most of the night in the village hiding. Every time she had been inside the dark, wood filled room, she had left in tears or shaking or numb to whatever news she had been given. She doubted her fourth trip down would be much different.
“Hello, Father,” she said in a demure greeting, bending to press a kiss to his bushy cheek once she was close enough to where he sat on the sofa. “I was nae expecting to see ye two here as well.”
She glanced at where Blake and Senga sat on the opposite sofa, their hands intertwined as they so often were. Charlotte wondered if they had become permanently fused to each other after the wedding, if something had gone wrong when the priest tied their hands together. But she knew they truly just loved each other enough that they did not want to be apart, even when they were sitting right next to each other.
Despite the fact that their happily ever after tended to grate her nerves, she had to admit that they made a handsome couple. Blake sported their father’s strawberry blonde hair, though he hated it being called that. His blue eyes he got from their mother, and it would have made him look very feminine if it wasn’t for the rest of his features being so sharp. Senga managed to accentuate his masculinity with her own elegant air. There was nothing particularly eye-catching about her brown hair and eyes, but the way she moved made her seem like a princess out of a storybook. Charlotte often wondered if they painted a similar picture that her own parents had in their youth. But with only a singular portrait ever painted of her parents, Charlotte could hardly tell.
