Effie had been about to sit, but rose once more to be enveloped in the disproportionately bulging arms of the middle aged man who came through the back doorway, a long white apron covering his front.
“Effie, lass,” he said warmly. He clasped forearms with Gorman and Chumley, while giving a hearty, “Lads,” toward the remainder of the group. He touched Kit Katey’s cheek gently. “Dearest.”
“This is Sir Lucan Montague, Gale,” Mari said pointedly, glancing at him. “He’s anEnglish knight.”
“That so?” Gale said and approached Lucan with his hand out. Lucan took it and gritted his teeth at the man’s massive grip. “Eh now, wait a bloomin’ moment—I know you.”
Lucan opened his mouth, but Mari beat him to it. “He’s stayed here before.”
Lucan opened his mouth again.
“Last summer,” Mari offered.
“That so?” Gale said. “Well, sit down, all! I’ve a fine, warm stew all but ready.” Everyone sat, save the dark-haired woman, who seemed wont to hover near Mari.
“Lamb?” Gorman askedthe proprietor.
Gale shook his head, thick with black hair that flowed back from his lined forehead. “Nary a one, Gorman.Nae for weeks.”
Lucan’s intuition prickled—this wasn’t a query about the contents of the stew Gale had made, Lucan was certain. But it was yet the dead of winter—why would Gorman Littlebrook be asking after a lamb?
Gorman nodded and pulled his chair forward a bit by grasping the seat between his thighs. The rest of the group seemed to relax.
“You might not see any more for a while,” Effie said.
Mari crossed herself, prompting Gilboe to do the same. “Pray God, never. What have you come for?” she asked, and Lucan noticed she kept glancing at him suspiciously.
“We’re on our way north, to find my father,” Effie said. Mari and Gale looked at each other, but said nothing as Effie continued. “We thought we’d stop here for supplies beforecontinuing on.”
“Well, then. That’s verra fine,” Gale declared. “Come along, Brother Gil—you can aid me in dipping outthe pitchers.”
“You bless me,” Gilboe said with a grin as he rose, winking at Chumley.
“Don’t drink it all,” the man muttered. “I know you religious types.”
The monk departed the common room at Gale’s side, and Lucan noticed the black-haired woman had gone ahead of them toward the back of the inn.
“We’ve nae seen her in so long,” Mari said in happy breath. “She looks well. Is she well?”
Effie nodded. “She’s very well.”
Lucan felt awkward again. It was very clear that the people gathered at the White Swan this evening had a history together, but Lucan couldn’t for the life of him figure out what it could possibly be. Neither Mari nor Gale seemed to be the sort to be taken for criminals, and the very nature of the group meant that there were no easy parallels to be drawn between any of the members. Lucan was the odd one out, but he thought it madness—they all should have been odd ones out, to each other. None of them were alike, in the least.
What commonality could theypossibly share?
His twisting thoughts were interrupted by the return of Gilboe and the others, bearing trays of cups and tankards and many pitchers. As the group passed them about the table, Gale returned, this time with a dozen wooden bowls emitting thick, delicious-smelling steam. As the windows darkened fully, the talk turned to stories and jokes and Lucan was drawn into the fringes of the group, so that he forgot his earlier suspicions.
The bread was crusty and fresh, dense and seeded, and Lucan couldn’t help the hum of appreciation as he chewed the chunk he’d dipped inthe rich stew.
“Good, innit?” Bob the Butcher’s Boy said on Lucan’s left. “Gale’s the best cook in all of England.”
Lucan swallowed the food. “Then why is he in Scotland?”
“Taking over, I’d say,” Bob assured him an exaggerated wink.
Lucan chuckled and the good food had started to relax him somewhat as he addressed the party at large. “What mysterious supplies do we seek that we might find only in the village beyond this good guesthouse?”
Several groans rose from around the table. James Rose rolled his eyes. “Here we go,” he muttered.
