Highland Seer Page 3

  “Yet ye sit behind fortified walls.” Jamie pointed toward the windows and the curtain wall beyond them, then steepled his fingers together in front of him. “Someone must have had a reason to build this keep in such an imposing manner.”

  “Long ago, aye. Lately, nay, save for occasional disputes with nearby clans.”

  “And yer menfolk. Lost at Flodden? Didna yer Sight give ye a warning?”

  Ellie fought to keep her gaze level while anger and sadness fought for supremacy in her mind.

  At last, she spoke, clear-eyed with anger. She suppressed the heartbreak that would not heal, for the menfolk they lost and the troubles they left behind. “Aye, lost at Flodden. I regret that my talent is never so specific or infallible. At times, I canna determine what a Seeing means until the event takes place. Else I surely would have warned against sending our men.”

  Jamie’s gaze dropped to the floor. Could he not bear to look upon one who had failed her clan in such a devastating way? “Then I’m doubly sorry for yer losses. It must have been even worse for ye.”

  Ellie’s temper spiked. Worse that her talent had failed to save her laird and clansmen? That she now sat in their place? “It was bad enough for all of us,” she spat. She noted Donal’s frown. Was that in sympathy or in reaction to her irritation? If only she could read minds instead of, sometimes, seeing the future. She’d like to know what was going through his. He looked bloody dangerous. And yet, there was something about him. Even without her Sight, it was plain there was more to Donal MacNabb than that.

  “Much the same in many clans.” Jamie sighed and she realized his words had been spoken in sympathy, not recrimination. “As a younger son, Toran never expected to lead our clan. But a fine leader he is—for the Lathans and for others in the Highlands who wish to ally with him.” His words softened somewhat the sense of failure that his avoidance of her gaze had given her.

  “How can the Lathans help us?”

  Micheil’s belligerent tone put Ellie on alert. Donal, too, from the set of his shoulders.

  Micheil continued in the same tone. “Ye’re too far away to reach us in time of need. The same if ye called on us—we’d ne’er arrive in time to be of any assistance.”

  “Perhaps no’,” Jamie conceded, “but the signed treaties that we’re carryin’ back to the Aerie ensure there will be help available from other clans nearby.”

  Micheil’s fists pounded the cushioned back of Ellie’s chair. “We dinna need...” Micheil began.

  “To finish this discussion now,” Ellie completed the sentence for him, then held her breath. Not this time, Micheil. She willed him to silence. Now was not the time for a display of temper. Hers had been bad enough. Besides, Donal watched Micheil like a hawk spotting its prey.

  Micheil must have heard the censure in her tone, for he remained silent. She didn’t need him to cause the negotiation to break down completely.

  The tip of her tongue tingled with a question, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer yet. If the MacDuff was one of the nearby signatories, that would be a complication she needed to consider before speaking about it. “Let us think on the matter for a while. If ye have the time, ye’re welcome to guest with us while we discuss this further.”

  Ellie rose and Micheil moved to her side. Jamie stood quickly. Was he nonplussed by their resistance or by sudden change in direction their conversation had taken?

  “Of course, Laird MacKyrie. Would yer hospitality extend to showing us yer lands and holdings? We would be better able to assess how to help ye if we could see the extent of yer responsibilities.”

  Would they? Or would they use the information to come back with more men and take over her glen? Ellie studied their faces—Jamie’s open and guileless on the surface, though she’d already seen evidence of his sharp mind and sharper wit. And Donal, fierce and brooding, keeping his own counsel yet fairly vibrating with the strength of his emotions. She lowered her gaze to his hand, resting on the back of Jamie’s chair. Strong, big, scarred. Could he be the man in her dream? Had the Sight shown her this man saving the wagons, Fergus, and the lads?

  It seemed right somehow. A risk, but one worth taking. “We’ll ride out in the morning. Today, I must tend to my wounded. I thank ye again for their lives and safety.”

  Ellie moved to the door. Jamie sketched a quick bow, but Donal stood straight behind him.

  With a nod to both of her guests, Ellie left the room, Micheil on her heels.

  ****

  “Ye have a home many would envy.” Donal couldn’t help but be as impressed by the MacKyrie glen as he’d been at the first sight of the MacKyrie keep. Aye, he’d had some concern about taking its laird—and Seer—outside her walls given the raid they’d broken up on the way here, even with Jamie and Micheil riding ahead of them. But once they’d quit the keep and village sprawled at its walls, they’d been out for hours and met no one. They’d crossed several burns, stopping at one to rest the horses and allow them to drink the bracingly cold water before continuing up into the higher elevations of the valley, following game trails through the thick woods. He nearly forgot to keep alert for wolves or bandits or any other dangers that could lurk among the thick trees. Against all of his instincts, he was starting to relax and enjoy the ride and the company of the woman at his side.

  Ahead, he could hear Micheil telling Jamie about the tactical advantages offered by the high passes and steep-sided mountains surrounding them, as well as the types and bounty of game available to them. Those things should be Donal’s prime concern, yet he couldn’t keep his attention on their conversation. Ellie had ensnared him with her enthusiasm for the day. The only voice he wanted to hear was hers.

  “We’re favored indeed,” Ellie answered proudly. “But ’tis welcome to see it again through a newcomer’s eyes. Lately I’ve been too busy to look over the walls, much less to ride out and enjoy all of this.”

  As she pointed out the beauty of her holdings, Donal found himself spending more time watching her than the scenery she so patently loved. His heart eased when she laughed at the summer-fattened coos dotting the clearings. It soared every time she smiled. What was she doing to him?

  He could not remember the last time he’d simply spent time with a bonnie lass, talking and watching her laughter light up her eyes. He nearly laughed aloud himself at the thought of what Toran’s new wife would say to see him now. He had no doubt Aileana would blame his gruff demeanor on his monk-like existence these last few years and tell him someone like Ellie would give him just the healing he needed. Not to mention being what he deserved after the way he’d distrusted Aileana’s talent. He didn’t need to hear it from her. Despite his reluctance to become involved with a woman of unusual talent, Ellie attracted him in a way that made him think about leading her to the nearest moss-covered hillside, tossing up her skirts, and losing himself in her. But he was content, today at least, simply to be. Besides, he reminded himself with a grimace, she was a laird. He was no one.

  Eventually, they came to a large open clearing.

  “What’s this?” Jamie’s exclamation drew Donal’s gaze from the woman beside him back to the glen. A fast moving burn danced down one side, splashing over rocks and flowing deeper into the valley behind them. A large stone building sat at the upper end of the clearing, surrounded by several smaller ones.

  “The MacKyrie distillery.” Ellie raised her voice to answer him since he and Micheil had gotten a few lengths ahead. “Ye ken those casks ye saved were full of whisky. This is where we make it.”

  The buildings looked well-used to Donal. “For how long?”

  Ellie cut her gaze to Donal, then tipped her head as Jamie and Micheil continued ahead of them toward the building. Donal merely lifted an eyebrow, accustomed to Jamie’s curiosity. He would be eager to see everything. Donal found himself content to stay with Ellie.

  “My grandfather started with a small still, making just enough for the clan.” Ellie let her mount walk up the hill. Donal
kept pace with her, listening without comment, enjoying the sound of her voice. “But word got out. In my father’s time, demand grew such that he built this place and we expanded our production.” Ellie pursed her lips and glanced at Donal, then returned her gaze to the building. “’Tis the best thing left to us, yet since Flodden, we struggle to keep it going.”

  Her sudden change in tone alerted him her mood had shifted from simple lass enjoying the day to heavily burdened laird. “What do ye mean?”

  “We have a master distiller who oversees the operation. We grow some barley and buy the rest, do the malting in those smaller buildings, the mashing there, distilling and several years’ storage in the largest building. But every step takes skilled craftsmen we no longer have. We have enough casks aging to last us a few years. Long enough, I hope, to see us back up to strength so we can begin to make more than we can at present. Without the whisky, we have little income for aught else we need, unless we sell off more cattle.”

  “I ken what ye mean when ye say ye lack the means for the tasks, but I dinna ken what ye mean by malting and mashing. Is it difficult then, to make whisky?”

  “Ye drink it, yet ye have no idea how ’tis made?”

  “I drink it. I like it. Is there more I need to ken?”

  “Much,” she told him, her smile returned. “Come on then. I’ll show ye.”

  They dismounted outside the largest building where Micheil and Jamie waited.

  “Where is everybody?” Jamie looked around as if expecting a crowd to step through the open doorways.

  Ellie shook her head. “Everybody? Nay. Just Friar Tam. Some of the lads help when they can be spared from other chores.”

  “Here I am.” His sonorous voice preceded the florid-faced friar out of the door of the larger building. His pudgy frame was dressed simply in trews, a shirt, and a plain woolen coat against the cold, not the robes Donal expected. Donal looked him over carefully, but could detect no weapons on him. Nothing to defend this place that Ellie said contained the lifeblood of her clan. It made no sense.

  The friar quirked an eyebrow. Ellie blushed. “Where are my manners?” She gestured to the Lathans. “Friar Tam, this is Donal MacNabb and Jamie Lathan of clan Lathan. I’m sure by now the news has reached ye. They’re the ones who saved Fergus and the lads during the attack on the wagons.”

  “Blessings on ye! Bless ye both. ’Twas a brave thing ye did, fightin’ off those bandits.”

  “Thank ye, Friar,” Jamie said as Tam waved his words away.

  “No thanks are necessary, lad. Clan Lathan? No’ one I ken.”

  “We come from deeper in the Highlands,” Donal told him.

  “That would explain it, then. I misspent my youth in the northeast.”

  “Have ye no guards here?” Donal turned to Ellie for an answer. As laird, it was her responsibility to see the wealth of the clan protected.

  “Nay, no’ since Flodden. But this is the most remote area in the MacKyrie holdings. We’ve had little reason to fear someone would come this far to do us harm, especially when they must pass the keep to reach this. We defend the keep because our people are there. All of these,” Ellie said and waved a hand about her to indicate the surrounding buildings, “could of need be replaced. As we’ve learned to our great grief, our people canna.”

  The friar stood by, silent, while Ellie spoke of their losses.

  Something about the friar didn’t seem right. Something other than his lack of clerical clothing, but damned if Donal could put his finger on what bothered him. The friar seemed relaxed, but watchful as well. Even stranger, he had failed to provide the usual “God rest their souls” response to Ellie’s comment. What was he doing running a clan’s distillery instead of one belonging to a holy order?

  “Well, then,” Friar Tam continued, interrupting Donal’s musings, “I suppose Ellie brought ye here to show ye the pride of clan MacKyrie.”

  “I did, Tam. Donal claims he doesna ken how whisky is made. We must show him so he can appreciate it even more than he does already.”

  “Follow me, then.”

  Donal gestured for Ellie to precede him. Jamie followed, but Micheil hung back.

  “I’ll await ye here,” he announced.

  Ellie nodded her agreement and entered the large building.

  Donal blinked at the sudden change in illumination. A low fire burned under a copper still, providing some light and heat, but the room remained darker than the sunlit clearing outside.

  “This is where our undertaking becomes complete,” Tam announced. “Distilled here, then aged in those kegs ye see back there,” he added, pointing toward the shadowy end of the hall away from the still, “for eight to twelve years—or longer. Much happens before the whisky reaches this point. For that, we must go to the other buildings. But I wanted ye to see this to understand where it all leads.”

  Donal nodded. Jamie looked around, then turned toward the back where kegs were stacked row upon row. “That doesna seem like very many kegs for a still of this size.”

  “We keep the new whisky here for a short time, then move it to the keep to better protect it,” Ellie added.

  “Protect it?” Donal wanted an answer. What other threats beset this clan?

  “Aye, but not from raids. Fire. We have a cavern where it can age undisturbed and be close at hand when it’s time to send it out to be sold. Here, when production is underway, there are too many cooking fires. They could become a conflagration if the casks were damaged and the whisky spilled.”

  Donal bit back an oath. With so few here to keep an eye on things, this was a disaster waiting to happen.

  “Come along then,” Tam said. “We’ll start at the beginning.”

  Tam led them to a small building filled with pots. “The barley starts being malted here after soaking for three days. We change the water several times, stir the grain, then let it rest. Larger producers use tanks, but we find these pots adequate and easier to handle.”

  “More suited to the size of the lads carrying them?” Donal kept his gaze on the friar, but saw Ellie’s frown out of the corner of his eye.

  “Ye have the right of it,” Tam agreed. He led them to the next building, a large open floor with four walls and a ceiling. “This space is used to allow the barley that soaked in the last building to germinate. We spread the grain out on the floor and stir it now and again. Once it’s sprouted, we take it up to kiln dry it. That stops the germination and adds flavor to the malt from the peat in the furnace. Then we grind it up.”

  “Why go through all of those steps when the barley starts as a dry grain?”

  Donal quirked a brow. Jamie often spoke Donal’s thoughts before Donal had a chance to—or needed to. Jamie’s curiosity always got the best of him eventually and he would ask what Donal also wished to know. But Donal found this lesson interesting. “Is there aught else ye do with this dried and ground barley?”

  Tam answered Donal’s question first. “Nay, it all goes for the whisky. We do all of this to make the grain into mash ready to be distilled. The quality of the whisky depends on it, and on the water used in the next step, the mash. Fortunately, the water in our burn comes pure from melting snow.”

  Tam led them to another building, this one with a large tank. “Here we mix the ground barley with water to make the mash and develop the sugar from the grain. We add and drain off the water three times, getting all the goodness the grain has to offer. Yeast is added to the liquid we collect and allowed to ferment. Then it goes into the larger building to be boiled off and distilled.”

  “Then ye have whisky?”

  “Aye, very young whisky. Hardly fit for drinking, though if ye wish to try some...” At Jamie’s laugh and seeing Donal’s palm come up to signal his refusal, he continued. “But let it age for several years in one of those casks ye saw, and aye, ye have whisky.”

  They walked back to the larger building where they’d started.

  “How many batches do ye make?” Donal looked toward
the casks lining the far wall. Was that a plenty, or not?

  “As many as we can with the barley we grow or can get,” Tam said.

  “And as many barrels as we have to receive it,” Ellie added. “We retrieve the empty barrels from our customers and reuse them as long as we can. ’Tis another thing we lack. We lost our cooper along with all the others at Flodden. We must replace him or the cost of replacing worn out or damaged barrels will be too high. So far, we’ve yet to find one skilled enough for our needs.”

  “Yet ye have kept this going the last four years on yer own?” Donal couldn’t help asking the question. This process seemed too daunting for a lass of a laird and her nearly broken clan. He had to respect the determination it took to rise to such a challenge and continue to make any whisky at all.

  “Aye, as we must. We canna survive raising and selling cattle. Since we use many of our coos for food during the winter, as do some of our neighbors, our whisky is our wealth—or was when we had the men to keep up production. But we canna grow as much barley now that we lack the means to harvest it, so we either buy it or make less whisky. Each step becomes a stumbling block we must overcome. Our problems amplify one another.”

  “For want of a nail...” Jamie murmured.

  “Aye.” Ellie shook her head. “But we need many ‘nails’ as ye call them. Men here, in the fields, manning the walls and the passes, driving the wagons to market, guarding them, even husbands for our lasses and fathers for their children, all of that and more.”

  “Ye need men.” Donal summed it up for her, growing more impressed at what this slip of a lass had accomplished while wearing the title “Laird.” Many men born and trained to the lairdship would not have done as well.

  “As do many clans, I’m sure,” Ellie answered. “We ken we are no’ alone in our losses.”

  “We’ve seen no other clans that have held together as well as ye,” Jamie told her. “Ye’ve done a fine job thus far, ye and yer clan. But we also see ye are stretched to the limit. We can help. And we can bring help from the treaty clans, if ye’ll let us.”