The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [27]
He made his way back, careful with the heavy, steaming bucket, and found Willie still sitting on his stool but having now succeeded in entangling his head and arms in the bridle, which he’d evidently tried to put on.
“Elp!” Willie said, thrashing wildly. “Elp, elp, elp!”
“Aye, I’ll help ye, ye wee gomerel. Here, then.” Jamie set down the bucket and went to assist, thanking his guardian angel that Willie hadn’t managed to strangle himself. No wonder the little fiend required two nursemaids to watch him.
He patiently untangled the bridle—how could a child who couldn’t dress himself tie knots like that?—and hung it up, then, with an admonition to Willie to keep well back, poured the hot water into the bran tub.
“Ye want to help stir?” He held out the big worn paddle—which was roughly as tall as Willie—and they stirred the mash, Willie clinging earnestly to the lower part of the handle, Jamie to the upper. The mix was stiff, though, and Willie gave up after a moment, leaving Jamie to finish the job.
He’d just about finished ladling the mash into buckets for distribution to the mangers when he noticed that William had something in his mouth.
“What’s that ye’ve got in your mouth?”
Willie opened his mouth and picked out a wet horseshoe nail, which he regarded with interest. Jamie imagined in a split second what would have happened if the lad had swallowed it, and panic made him speak more roughly than he might have.
“Give it here!”
“Mo!” Willie jerked his hand away and glowered at Jamie under wispy brows that nonetheless were well marked.
“Nnnnn,” Jamie said, leaning down close and glowering in his turn. “Nnnnno.”
Willie looked suspicious and uncertain.
“Mo,” he repeated, but with less surety.
“It’s ‘no,’ believe me,” Jamie assured him, straightening up and pulling the bucket of mash closer. “Ye’ve heard your auntie Isobel say it, have ye not?” He hoped Isobel—or someone—said it to Willie on occasion. Not often enough, he was sure of that.
Willie appeared to be thinking this over and, in the process, absently raised the nail to his mouth again and began licking it. Jamie cast a wary look toward the door, but no one was watching.
“Does it taste well?” he asked casually. The question of taste appeared not to have occurred to Willie, who looked startled and frowned at the nail, as though wondering where it had come from.
“Es,” he said, but uncertainly.
“Give me a taste, then.” He leaned toward the child, putting out his tongue, and Willie blinked once, then obligingly reached the nail up. Jamie folded his hand very gently around Willie’s fist and drew his tongue delicately up the length of the nail. It tasted, naturally enough, of iron and horse hoof, but he had to admit that it wasn’t a bad taste at all.
“It’s no bad,” he said, drawing back—but keeping his hand round Willie’s. “Think it would break your teeth, though, if ye chewed it.”
Willie giggled at the idea.
“It would break the horses’ teeth, too, see? That’s why we dinna leave such things lyin’ about in the stable.” He gestured through the open door of the tack room toward the row of stalls, where two or three equine heads were poking out, inquisitive as to the whereabouts of their dinner.
“Horsie,” Willie said, very clearly.
“Horse, indeed,” Jamie said, and smiled at him.
“Horsie eat dis?” Willie leaned curiously over the mash tub, sniffing loudly.
“Aye, they do. That’s good food—not like nails. No one eats nails.”
Willie had clearly forgotten the nail, though he was still holding it. He glanced at it and dropped it, whereupon Jamie picked it up and tucked it into his breeches. Willie promptly stuck a small hand into the mash and, liking the sticky feel of it, laughed and slapped his hand a couple of times on the quivering surface of the molasses-laced grain. Jamie reached out and took him by the wrist.
“Now, then,” he said. “Ye wouldna like it if Deke put his hoof into your dinner, would ye?”
“Heeheeheeheehee.”
“Well, then. Here, wipe your hand and ye can help me put the mash out.