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“Actually, not that good. I’m not even sure it’s a real memory. Maybe just a vision or something. It’s from my childhood. If it is a memory, I didn’t have a very happy one, for the most part.”
He chuckled bitterly. “I didna have a happy one, either.”
Kate nodded and looked at the loch because the more she looked at him, the more her legs turned into goo.
“Do ye ken where ye come from?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t. I still need to bother you a bit longer.”
He scoffed. “Bother me? Ye’re nae bother, Katie. Stop sayin’ that.”
Burden… Ye’re a burden. Ye’re a burden.
Her eyes prickled again from tears, and this time even Ian’s shirtless torso couldn’t stop them.
“Okay, well, I better get back to the kitchen,” she said and hurried away from him.
He called after her, but she walked faster. She wasn’t just a burden. She was a crazy burden with strange visions and no idea where she came from…and the growing feeling that she was more of a stranger here than she could ever imagine.
* * *
The day passed in continuing preparations for the wake: sending messengers to different villages and farms, buying more food, talking to the village priest.
In the afternoon, Ian went to the MacFilib farm to buy some of the uisge they were famous for.
The farm lay in a small valley surrounded by forest. Ian stopped the cart near the farmhouse. Several buildings were scattered around the property, among fields of oats that surged like a golden sea in the wind. Like all healthy farms, it smelled of warm earth, manure, and growing things. Ian couldn’t imagine any better smell, except mayhap the scent of Katie’s golden hair. In the distance, where the fields of oats ended, sheep grazed on the steep hills. Ian heard their weak baas, along with the nearer sound of someone hammering at an anvil in one of the workshops.
Ian remembered that as a lad, he’d been out collecting rent with his father and had visited this farm among others. He recalled how much he’d admired his father then, how Duncan had dealt with the tenants—friendly but showing no doubt who was lord.
Ian didn’t stand a chance of being the kind of lord his father had once been.
“Neacal!” he called, stepping to the ground. “Murdina?”
The door to the workshop opened and a man in his forties in a blacksmith’s apron came out. Neacal. He’d aged, but looked strong and healthy. A tall, strong but lean lad of eighteen followed him. Ian narrowed his eyes. Could it be Frangean? Ian remembered him as a boy who could barely hold a pitchfork to help his father on the farm.
“Aye?” Neacal said.
The door to the farmhouse opened as well, and a woman came out—with her, the scent of fresh bread and stew.
“What is it, Neacal?” Murdina said.
Ian’s chest tightened from both sadness and joy.
“Ye probably dinna recognize me,” he said. “But ’tis Ian Cambel. Yer lord’s son.”
Neacal’s face went blank in surprise. “Ian? Our lord’s son is dead.”
“Nae. I was sold into slavery in Baghdad. But I made my way back.”
Murdina came closer to him. “Aye, I recognize ye, lad. ’Tis Ian! Look at his red hair and his mother’s eyes.”
Neacal and Frangean came closer, too.
“Lord.” Neacal clapped him on the shoulder. “’Tis good to see ye alive and well. Welcome back.”
“Thank ye.” Ian nodded. “But I come with sad news. My father died a few days ago.”
Murdina gasped and shook her head mournfully. Neacal and Frangean lowered their heads.
