Chapter Eight

“Out! Out of my kitchen.”

The head cook of Crag Corvan, in a state of high dudgeon, glared down her nose at Tansy. At Tansy’s side, poor wee Noreen cowered, looking as if she expected a beating from the huge, glowering behemoth.

Which, Tansy decided, would occur over her dead body. Who did this florid woman with the loud voice and sweaty armpits think she was? Well, head of the place, obviously. That did not make her Queen, and Tansy had always abhorred bullying of any kind.

Ah—surely no place here for her, then. She experienced a stir of disappointment. At first when Noreen brought her in, she’d found the kitchen pleasant—warm, and redolent with the scent of roasting meat and good baking. She’d been seated at a table and fed her fill. Before long, even her feet felt warm.

Then the cook—Mistress Dee—had descended upon her, waving pots and ladles, making demands.

“Ye’ve had yer fill,” she roared. “Now get your scrawny arse to moving and prove yer worth.”

Tansy leaped to her feet, Noreen, who’d remained to keep her company, popping up beside her, only to find Mistress Dee still towering over her. She cocked back her head in order to meet the woman’s furious eyes.

“I am no scullery maid,” she retorted. “While I am willing to work for my supper, ’twill be work worthy of me or none at all.”

Mistress Dee fisted her hands on her hips. “High and mighty, is it? And you wi’out the shoes for your feet. Peasant! I should be afraid, on second thought, to let the likes o’ ye touch our good pots and kettles.”

“I am no peasant, but an educated woman who can write her own name. Can you?” Tansy challenged. Not a wise ploy on her part, for most the denizens of the kitchen now stood watching, and Mistress Dee’s face turned an even brighter shade of red.

“And why would an honest woman like mysel’ need to write her name? Or a gypsy like you, for all that. If you wish to eat another crumb in this house, you will do as you’re bidden. Noreen,” she bent a prodigious frown on Tansy’s companion, “run and bring Mistress Dinmore.”

The housekeeper. Aye, well, Tansy did not fear her, either. As soon as Noreen scampered off, she reached for the slender threads of magic that lay within. Should she weave them into a spell and blow this old harridan off her feet? Or would that cause more trouble than it was worth, and perhaps get her cast out of here…

Ah, but she wanted to see Sir Malcolm again.

Since he’d come to mind, she used his name without compunction. “Sir Malcolm Montgomery, who did bring me here, promised I would be given to work with Angus the brewer, seeing as how I brew the best heather ale in Scotland or the isles.”

“Is that so?” Mistress Dee’s eyes bulged.

“It is. Just ask him, if you do no’ believe me.”

“Call Master Malcolm awa’ from his important business to ask him about a scrap o’ a lass such as yoursel’? We shall rather see what Mistress Dinmore has to say.”

She reached out and pinched Tansy’s shoulder between fingers like fireplace tongs, as if Tansy meant to try and escape, which she did not. The strands of magic inside Tansy burned and begged to be used. Tansy’s not-so-well-hidden malicious streak came to the fore.

“Do you like to drink ale, Mistress Dee? If so, I should think you would ponder most carefully how you treat me—since I shall soon have access to every sip that passes your lips.”

Mistress Dee screeched and let go of her. Just then the housekeeper, trailed by tiny Noreen, sailed into the kitchen.

“Now then, what is all this fuss? Mistress Dee, this is your domain—can you not run it wi’out my assistance?”

“’Tis this—this elven creature that has been thrust upon me. She does no’ want to take orders and thinks she can choose the tasks that will earn her bread.”

Mistress Dinmore, tall and thin as Mistress Dee was wide and beefy, stared down her nose at Tansy in a haughty fashion. “What would you have her do?”

“Scrub the pots, like any newcomer to this kitchen. But she says she’s been promised—by Master Malcolm, no less—a place in the brew house. And she threatened to poison me.”

“I did nothing o’ the kind. ’Twas your own evil mind made you think so.”

Mistress Dinmore struck Tansy a stinging blow across the face, so quick Tansy had no time to duck, and so hard it swayed her on her feet. No one in the kitchen so much as gasped, which branded it a common enough occurrence.

But rage suffused Tansy. Kindhearted Bessie had never struck her, and the most she’d ever received from her Da was a half-hearted swat with no intent to hurt behind it.

She stood with her cheek flaming, looking at the housekeeper from eyes that suddenly felt utterly cold. The threads inside her came together of their own accord in a pattern both simple and dangerous.

Still staring at Mrs. Dinmore, she tugged on one of those threads.

On the far side of the kitchen, a pot overturned, spewing its full complement of mush across a table. The flood hit a tall container, which promptly toppled over also, knocking into a pile of turnips, which broke loose and tumbled to the floor, where they rolled like a series of small boulders, making several kitchen maids squeak.

One of the lasses, leaping aside, bumped into a pot, which toppled into the fire, dumping a roast all trussed and seasoned, and starting another flood of gravy, that made the fire belch smoke. On and on the rolling chain of destruction came, accompanied by sharp rattles and clangs, exclamations, and bodies moving out of the way with alacrity, straight across the kitchen toward them, until at last Mistress Dinmore had to break eye contact with Tansy and take a horrified look.

By now, Mistress Dee was jumping up and down from one foot to the other, exclaiming in disbelieving dismay, “My kitchen! My kitchen! Get her out!”

Mistress Dinmore hissed like a kettle on the boil. She turned to Noreen who stood by, cringing.

“Take her to the brewer’s hut. Who am I to disagree with Master Malcolm?”

****

Malcolm grunted and closed his eyes as the dispenser, Matthew, smeared salve on the last of his wounds. Matthew, though he had once worked with the monks at Iona, could not be praised for his warm manner or gentle touch, and this ordeal had taken what seemed an age. At least Matthew—normally dismayingly inclined to chatter—had been struck dumb by the number and nature of Malcolm’s wounds.

Now the tiny space, redolent with the scents of herbs and poultices, lured Malcolm toward sleep. Stretched on the pallet wearing nothing but his kilt, he watched the last of the light fade outside, his body wracked by exhaustion. Indeed, the only thing that kept him from sleep was Matthew’s heavy hand.

They both heard the commotion from a long way off. Raised voices and the clatter of feet along the passageway outside caused Malcolm to open his eyes and the dispenser to lift shaggy brows.

“By the holy saints…” Matthew began.

Before he could complete the thought, Angus the brewer burst into the room. Large and obviously annoyed, wearing a stained smock that showed he’d been working, Angus towed a second figure behind him, one Malcolm recognized all too readily.

She looked small and disgruntled, her arm caught in the brewer’s grip, yet far from cowed. Rather, her pale eyes burned with an expression that had Malcolm sitting up on the pallet, a curse escaping his lips.

Tansy’s eyes widened when she beheld him, and a new expression bloomed there. Her gaze skipped over his skin, touching him everywhere—on each burn and festering sore—in a manner far less concerned than assessing. Malcolm felt something stir in the back of his mind, a response to the emotions inside her, as well as a spear of heat lower down. For she looked at him the way a woman looked at a man she desired.

“Master Malcolm!” Angus began unhappily. “You know me for a patient man.”

Well, that might be an overstatement. Malcolm knew Angus to be fussy, particular about his craft, and often disagreeable. This appeared to be one of the latter times.

But he said evenly, “Aye, Master Angus, to be sure.”

“Yet I will not put up wi’ this.” Angus released Tansy’s arm, casting her off from him with sudden alacrity. “A scrap of a lass from nowhere, coming in to my brew house and supposing she can tell me how to improve my ale.”

Malcolm bent a look upon Tansy. Black hair swirling around her, she appeared anything but abashed and repentant. In fact, Malcolm would be hard pressed to say when he’d seen anyone less abashed.

Her eyes, narrowed between long black lashes, met his. He felt that tickle at the back of his mind again.

He got to his feet. “What is the meaning of this?” he asked her directly.

But Angus answered, “She was foisted upon me by Mistress Dinmore, Mistress Dee having thrown her out of the kitchen. From what I hear, she destroyed that place. They could not get shed of her quickly enough.”

Tansy tossed her head. “I am no scullery maid, nor am I accustomed to taking orders from folk less intelligent than mysel’.”

Disquiet stirred in Malcolm’s heart. “Yet,” he said sternly, “you must earn your way here. Everyone does.”

Angus howled, “That is why they foisted her upon me. She claims to ha’ a talent for brewing ale.”

“I do ha’ a talent for it. And Master Angus’s brew could be improved. I ha’ sampled it—”

“Wi’out my permission!”

“—and its flavor could only be enhanced by the judicial addition of—”

Malcolm felt his own eyes bulge. “Mistress Gant, Master Angus’s ale is legendary here at Crag Corvan. I am certain no one wants it changed.”

She sniffed. “That is merely because those here ha’ become accustomed to an inferior brew.”

Angus choked. “Upstart! Lass, I will have you know I ha’ been brewing ale longer than you ha’ been alive.”

“And doing so poorly.” Tansy tipped her head and considered. “Nay, I can no’ say that. ’Tis no’ the worst ale I ha’ ever tasted, but no’ so good as my own.”

“Hold me back!” Angus roared to Matthew, who stood aghast. “Else I will wring her scrawny neck.”

Matthew seized hold of the brewer’s arm.

“Come now,” said Malcolm, striving for reason. “I am sure the two o’ you can come to terms. Mistress Gant, you maun accept Master Angus’s authority if you are to work in the brew house.”

“I will no’ have her in the brew house. Send her back to the kitchens.”

Malcolm thought of Mistress Dee, a mountainous woman who intimidated even him. “Perhaps not, if they ha’ already tossed her out.”

Tansy glanced around the dispensary. “I also have some knowledge of salves and potions. Mayhap I could do my duty here.”

“Nay!” Matthew let go of Angus and waved his hands wildly. “I will not have her here if she is a disruptive influence. My patients need nurturing and calm.”

Malcolm heaved a sigh. “Then pray tell me what I am to do with her.”