Page 16 of Fletcher

In the great hall Fletcher stood for a moment by the hearth, staring blindly at the dying flames while he tried to collect his thoughts. Each time he came near Lark every sane notion fled his brain; each touch they shared sent hot surges pulsing through his veins. Her lovely little face seemed permanently etched in his mind, and the smell of her promised to drive him mad. Yet despite all that made her perfect in his eyes, he knew himself wholly unsuitable for her, and not simply because of his Fae blood.

Why did she bid me come into her bed chamber at night? Doesnae she ken what such means?

“Ho, Brother.” Shaw appeared beside him, and pulled a clean tunic over his head. “I reckon you’ve made peace with Mistress Ambrose over that fetching shift she wore?”

“’Tisnae a shift.” He regarded the chieftain, and while he couldn’t see his face now he could guess what he was thinking. “She’s no’ for you, either.”

The hand of Shaw’s inked arm bunched into a fist, but he shook it until his fingers loosened. Often he did such things when the strange symbols the Pritani had etched into his skin began to plague him, usually during any type of confrontation. Fletcher doubted anyone else except the laird noticed the subtle battles the chieftain waged against himself.

“I shall surrender all claim on the lass, just as the Finfolk shall.” Shaw’s chiding tone turned serious as he nodded toward a group of vassals coming into the hall and said, “’Tis shepherds from the sheep farm in the valley next. Need you my aid with them?”

“You’ve men wanting drilling.” He shook his head. “’Tis likely some stock gone astray.”

His brother nodded and sauntered out, leaving Fletcher to speak with their vassals. The head shepherd bowed before he related the events of the previous night, when a dozen new lambs had disappeared from one of the pastures near the bay.

“Born last moon, strong and sound,” the older man told him. “’Twas no reason keep them in the birthing pen after the thaw.”

“Their mams yet wander the fields now calling for them,” another of the shepherds put in. “So they didnae drive them off.”

Caladh had no predators that would stalk their flocks, so Fletcher considered one of the rarer crimes on the island as a possible reason. A tiny lamb was certainly easier to steal than a ewe, which could weigh as much as a man. “Saw you any signs of poaching?”

“None, Seneschal,” the man said, and surreptitiously kicked one of his companions. “Although the lad saw what he claimed drag marks in the sands by the cove.”

“The ewes go there for the sweet grass on the banks, and ’tis the place the white-haired Finfolk commander often comes,” the man he’d kicked, who had a younger voice, said. “You saw the marks. What more could make such deep ruts in the sands but one of the fish men?”

Fletcher rubbed his brow. “Finfolk dinnae eat lamb, nor any kind of land animal. Fish and kelp, ’tis their food, and you shouldnae call them fish men.”

“Mayhap he didnae steal them to eat,” another man said in a snide tone. “With their king gone, the bastarts grow bolder and surlier by the day, Seneschal. Why, time and again we’ve spied them watching us from the water. Doubtless they think on stealing our young lasses.”

The head shepherd swatted him. “Dinnae spout such nonsense.”

“I shall go and see the cove, and speak with the laird,” Fletcher finally said. “For now, keep your flocks in the valley pastures.”

That seemed to satisfy the men, who bowed before trudging out of the hall. From there Fletcher went to the kitchens, where the clan’s towering cook Brochan sipped a strong brew while overseeing the week’s bread making. Air heated by the brick ovens outside brought the smell of baking inside, where it mingled with the slightly sour scent of rising dough and the pot of herbed brew set to keep warm on the hearth.

“Seneschal.” One of the kitchen maids hurried over, bobbed, and made a beseeching gesture. “Forgive me for the pitcher in the hall. ’Twas so strange, as if the thing sprouted wings and jumped from my hands.”

“Dinnae fret, lass.” He forced a smile for her before he regarded the cook. “Brochan, a word.”

“Jamma, check the dry stores and see if we’ve anymore of that good rye,” the cook told his head kitchen maid. “If ’tis adequate, make a dozen loaves for the ferryman, as he favors the taste. No seeds in the dough, mind you. He’ll come by later for his stores.” He turned to Fletcher and said, “No, Seneschal.”

“I’ve no’ yet asked anything of you,” he pointed out.

“You’ve an asking look on your face, while I’ve yet a half-day of baking, and naught started for the evening meal. Worth attempted spit a suckling pig on the poultry roaster, which bent the rods, and the blacksmith’s out at the farms mending plowshares. Never mind the chamber maids pilfering splits for my ovens as they’re too lazy go and fetch wood from the sheds.” When Fletcher said nothing the cook made an exasperated sound. “Want you the facking island flooded again?”

Brochan referred to his mortal weakness, which attracted any body of water to him. Although it had proved dangerous more than once in the past, it could sometimes be used for other purposes.

Fletcher held up a hand. “I need you only stand in the shallows long enough to empty the cove so I may see if the missing lambs drowned.”

The cook rubbed a big, burn-scarred hand over the blur that was his face in Fletcher’s eyes. “Jamma, ’tis your kitchens until I return. Find Worth and bid him fetch more splits for the ovens. Tell him wood, ’tis all he’s permitted touch until the summer solstice, else I’ll spit and roast his useless arse.”

“Aye, Chief.” The skinny kitchen maid sighed before trotting off.

As they left the stronghold Fletcher glanced up at one particular window slit overlooking the forest, but saw no sign of Lark. The woman fashed him completely, turning his thoughts this way and that with no end to his pondering. He wondered again what had compelled her this morning to cobble a dress from shifts, then claim such outlandish notions before inviting him to come to her bed.

“If ’twas what she meant,” he muttered under his breath. It had been so long since he’d spent any real time with a female that he’d forgotten how maddening they could be, especially when they flirted and spoke in riddles.

“Brood you on the wee beauty?” At Fletcher’s glare Brochan chuckled. “Aye, Shaw’s right, you’re all but besotted. What does she now?”