The Posy Ring Episode 84

Lilias took Mateo’s hand, dusty from the cas chrom, the nails chipped and stained and dirty, and laid it at her breast. He felt her heart beating strongly beneath his fingers. The stretch of land where he was working, while not remote, was at least hidden from prying eyes. Or so he thought.

He held her at arm’s length for a moment, afraid of muddying her gown, her wrap, and then unable to resist the desire in her eyes, bent and kissed her full on the lips. Heedless, she pulled him closer. “Oh my darling,” she said. “What are we to do?” “What can we do?”

“I’m sure I don’t know. We have a saying here: what’s for you won’t go by you. Perhaps we should wait and see what the springtime brings.”

They must have been watched. Not closely, perhaps, otherwise the consequences would have been even worse, for Lilias as well as for himself. But from a distance, Iain Og Mcneill, returning from some errand for his master, had perhaps lurked and watched and seen what amounted to an unwise intimacy between the incomer and the daughter of the house. Suspicions

Maybe the kiss had been observed. Afterwards, Mateo found himself wondering why the man had not gone straight to Ruaridh Mcneill with his suspicions, but then it occurred to him that Lilias would have denied it.

Of course she would. She would have described it merely as a friendly encounter, because she was in the habit of bringing the stranger some refreshment when he was working out in the fields like this, as she brought bere bannocks and a flask of ale to the other men and women.

She would have expressed outrage and indignation and Ruaridh would have believed his daughter. Whatever he may have suspected, he would have trusted her.

Besides, he was well aware that the presence of the two young Spaniards on the island was causing discontent and even downright hostility among some of the islandmen, who saw them as a threat, possibly even as enemy spies. They could not go against Mcneill’s wishes, but the feeling persisted and Mcneill knew it.

Mateo had finished his day’s work and was trudging home, carrying the cumbersome cas chrom as best he could. He was so tired that he could think of nothing except the warmth of the fire, food of some kind and a long sleep.

Tingle of danger

Darkness was coming on. He was passing the walls of a long-abandoned cottage when some never-quite-quiescent sixth sense kicked in, the tingle of danger, and he suddenly became aware of movement out of the corner of his eye. All his old instincts of self-preservation surfaced.

Three men were slinking out from behind the remains of a turf wall where they had been lying in wait for him, far enough from the house for them to attack him without anyone coming to his assistance. Three against one. Bad, he thought, but not insurmountable.

He saw even in the gathering gloom that they had no weapons. So they planned to give him a beating, but would stop short of killing him, knowing that their chief had guaranteed his safety, would be forced to investigate and punish a murder. They circled him warily. They had been hoping to take him completely by surprise but now they had to rely on their greater numbers. Energy of battle

He recognised Iain Og, and two more of Mcneill’s followers, herdsmen. They spoke to each other in their own tongue, but he didn’t need to translate what they were saying. He had fought enough men, sometimes to the death, to be able to read them. The fight was brief and brutal.

They relied on fists and strength but he had the cas chrom, which – he immediately realised – was a pretty good defensive weapon if needed. He had been exhausted, but the energy of battle suddenly surged through him and he swung it like a great sword, catching Iain Og on the side and throwing him off balance. The other two rushed forward, but he swung the heavy metal foot back again, knocking a second man down.

As Iain regained his balance, Mateo carried on swinging in a wide arc, hearing the satisfactory crack of metal colliding with bone. Iain gave a great cry of pain, and hopped away backwards, groaning. One of the attackers had circled behind him, and jumped on his back, throttling him, but Mateo instinctively crouched down low as he had been taught by his father, and used the man’s own forward momentum and body weight to throw him to the ground.

Sending a little prayer of thanks home to his father, fierce and uncompromising as the man had been throughout his childhood, he stood back, panting, reversing the cas chrom and holding it by the weighty metal foot. One of his attackers was winded, one disabled. The third made a last attempt to seize the improvised weapon, but Mateo had the advantage and thrust it forward into the man’s belly, knocking him to the ground.

“Enough?” He held the plough ready for another bout. The three men cursed him and backed off. He couldn’t tell exactly what they were saying, but the general tenor of their words was obvious.

“Leave the lassie alane,” growled Iain Og. “Do you hear me, interlowper? Leave the lassie alane. You’ve been warned. Next time we’ll bring swords.”

Telling tales

They left him then, the two bruised men helping Iain along, walking on either side of him so that he could take the weight off his leg. Mateo wondered what story they would tell Ruaridh, or Beathag, who would have to tend to their injuries. Not the truth, surely.

He was torn between laughter at the nature of his weapon and fear that somebody really had seen the kiss and would tell tales to Mcneill. But when he arrived back at the house, Beathag and the other women were gossiping about the kicking and subsequent broken bone that Iain Og had had from one of the beasts. Lilias was nowhere to be seen.

“It was a clean break, and should heal well enough. But you should never get between a cow and her calf,” said Beathag.

Relieved and weary, Mateo thought that he and Lilias had had a narrow escape. They would have to be more careful in future. Or perhaps, for her sake as much as his own, he should follow the advice of the three men and “leave the lassie alane”.

Do you hear me, interlowper? Leave the lassie alane. You’ve been warned. Next time we’ll bring swords

The Posy Ring, first in the series The Annals of Flowerfield, is written by Catherine Czerkawska and published by Saraband. It is priced at £8.99.