Page 5 of Steel & Surrender

She’d just begun work on another, hammering out a rectangle of fresh iron, when movement to her right drew her attention.

A muscular man her own age, around three and twenty, with tousled fair hair and a blunt-featured face, had stopped in the open doorway.

Her stomach sank, her good mood evaporating.

“It’s early for a visit, Ian,” she greeted him brusquely, not bothering with pleasantries.

They’d grown up together, she and Ian Maclean, and in a village of this size had known each other’s business for as long as she could remember. When they were bairns, he’d ignored her mostly. But with the passing of the years, as they’d both matured, things had shifted.

She wished they hadn’t.

The man had become a pest of late.

Flashing her a grin, Ian folded his arms across his chest and leaned lazily against the doorframe. “Thought I’d pay ye a visit before the day gets started. I’ve got planting to start this morning. Lots of work to be done. But I wanted to see yer bonnie face before I did.”

Brìghde scowled. My bonnie face?

Hardly.

They both knew she wasn’t a beauty. She was too big, too muscular, her face too plain. And when a man made a comment like this, she couldn’t help but think he was making fun.

And yet, Ian’s blue eyes were sincere.

Her belly dropped once more. Shite. The man really was sweet on her.

This was becoming a problem, for she didn’t return his interest, not in the slightest.

“Now spring’s here, ye will be busy.” She shifted her focus once more to the strip of iron she’d been hammering out on the anvil. “As will I. The Maclean has ordered a few sets of these hinges, and I need to get them done.”

Her response and terse tone made it clear she didn’t have time to stand here and blether. However, Ian didn’t take the hint. She could feel the weight of his stare. He was drinking her in, and her skin prickled under his scrutiny.

“Ye work too hard,” he said then. “Ye don’t have to live like this.”

She snorted and started to slam her hammer down on the still glowing iron.

Click, clack, click.

It rebounded off the metal in a rhythm she knew as well as her own heartbeat.

A short while passed, and then she straightened up and glanced toward the doorway, annoyed to find Ian still there.

“I do, Ian,” she replied, her voice hardening. “Da lost his sight, and my brother is too young to run the forge.”

Indeed, her younger brother, Eòghan, had been born ten years after her, a surprise for all the family. Her mother had given birth to two bairns before Brìghde, but both lads died in infancy. At thirteen winters, Eòghan helped regularly in the forge, doing menial things like sweeping the floor and keeping the charcoal glowing. In a year or two, he’d be able to do heavier work, and eventually he’d work alongside her.

But that day hadn’t arrived yet.

Ian gave a rueful shake of his head, his disapproval evident. “But that doesn’t make it right, lass. Ye should be a wife and a mother by now.” He paused then, a groove etching between his eyebrows. “As is fitting. As is right.”

Brìghde pulled a face. He was starting to vex her now. The iron was cooling, and she’d have to reheat it in the fire before continuing. But it seemed Ian had no intention of moving on. Not quite yet. “I care not what’s fitting,” she snapped. “Fitting doesn’t keep my family fed.”

She didn’t add that it was good, honest work too, and a craft she was proud of. Aye, there was necessity in this, but she also enjoyed the work. Sometimes. It was hard, hot, sweaty, and physically grueling at times, but it was hers. And despite that she was a woman in a man’s role, a village blacksmith was a well-regarded person. Folk watched her work the forge with wary respect. They valued her skill.

“But surely, ye want what other women do?” he replied, bemused.

Brìghde stiffened. Of course, she wanted the things Ian had spoken of. Nonetheless, he’d be the last person she’d admit such to.

“That’s not my path.” She gestured then to the surrounding forge and to her clothing. She wore a thick woolen kirtle—the sleeves rolled up and pinned in place by arm rings, the skirts tucked into her belt—with thick woolen hose underneath, and a singed leather apron over the top. “Who’d want a woman like me anyway?”