Highland Seer (4 page)

“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.”

Ellie shrugged. “We’ll talk more on it later. For now, ’tis time to head back for the evening meal.”

She turned to the friar, who had stood aside while they talked. “Are ye set for tonight, Tam, or is there aught ye need?”

“Nay, lass. I’ll bide well enough here.” He gave her a wink. “I’ve my prayers to keep me company.”

Ellie chuckled, surprising Donal. What amused her about a priest at his prayers? But Ellie merely waved to Tam and headed outside.

Jamie glanced at Donal, then turned to speak to the friar. “Thank ye for the lesson. I for one will savor the whisky even more, now that I ken the extent of yer efforts in making it.”

Donal nodded his agreement. “I’d like to come back when ye have the next batch underway, to see it done.”

“Ye’ll be welcome. But for now, be off with ye,” Tam told them with a decidedly unclerical grin. “The lass awaits ye outside.”

As they exited the building, Donal and Jamie traded a glance. Aye, something seemed odd about the good friar. What it was would have to wait. Ellie sat ready to ride back to the keep.

****

The next day, Donal stalked the bailey, Bram at his side. Jamie and the MacKyrie were having a private discussion, at her request. Aye, what a bonnie lass. He wouldn’t mind some private time with one so lovely, if the lass were not a Seer. Despite what he’d learned from Aileana, he still found himself reluctant to accept that such a thing could be real, no matter the lass herself believed in it.

Donal hoped Jamie settled this matter quickly so they could head back to the Aerie before the weather got any worse. This summer trip had stretched beyond what they’d expected, as every laird who signed the treaty insisted on hosting them for days or weeks at a time, then recommended other clans to treat with, which added even more stops to their journey. But Jamie was determined to do a thorough job, just as Toran would have done, so here they were, with autumn tending toward winter. ’Twas not a good time to be traveling these mountains.