Mr. Campion didn’t knock but burst into the room. He stepped on the mattress, threw open the shutter to the window over her bed, and looked outside.
Lyssa scrambled to her feet. “What is it?”
“Drunks,” he said with disgust. Lyssa quickly climbed upon the mattress beside him so she could see too. Sure enough, there were six men gathered in the yard. One carried a torch and two carried a good-size log, which they heaved back and rammed into the front door again while the others cheered them on. She was surprised the door held.
She turned to Mr. Campion. “Why are they doing this?”
“Why do drunks do anything?” he returned. He sat on the bed and tested the mattress as if to sleep there.
Lyssa chose to ignore him as she grew caught up in the drama outside her window. One of the men, a rawboned, greasy-haired fellow with a face that resembled that of a weasel’s, stepped away from his companions and in a slurry, booming brogue yelled, “MacGregor, ye’d best come out ’ere! Do ye ’ear me?”
There was no answer, but there were plenty of people to hear him. To Lyssa’s left and right, windows had been opened and necks craned to see what was going on.
“Veeerry well,” the Weasel said, rolling hisr’s, “we’ll have to come in for ye.”
His words were met with drunken grunts of agreement from his comrades. They heaved the log into the door again, and Lyssa fell back on the mattress, almost landing on top of Mr. Campion, who had stretched himself out, taking up most of the bed with his long body.
She scooted over. “Why doesn’t this MacGregor come out and speak to them?”
“You can’t be serious,” Mr. Campion said, not even bothering to open his eyes.
“They won’t stop pounding on the door until he answers.”
“Yes, and they’ll start pounding on him instead.”
“How do you know?” she challenged.
“Drunks don’t get together in the middle of the night to exchange recipes for face cream.”
Lyssa frowned. He was right.
Suddenly, the innkeeper’s sharp voice shouted, “Here now! What are you doing trying to break my door down and frighten good men out of their sleep?”
She clambered up on her knees to look out the window. The innkeeper, dressed in his nightshirt, nightcap, apron, and a pair of boots, had come out to confront the drunks. His bare legs looked white and scrawny in the torchlight.
“We want MacGregor!” one drunk said. “He owes us money, and no one will sleep this night until we get paid.”
“Daniel MacGregor is not a guest here,” the innkeeper answered. “I kicked him out. Now go on your way.”
The Weasel took a menacing step forward. “Let us come in and see for ourselves.”
The innkeeper blocked the front door. “Now see here, you’ll do no such thing. I run a clean house and the likes of you will not cross my threshold. Now get on your way or I’ll send for the magistrate.”
His threat was a mistake. “You’ll not be talkin’ to anyone until we see MacGregor,” Weasel returned and before Lyssa could blink, he picked up the innkeeper as if he weighed no more than a sack of grain and handed him off to his comrades, who dropped their log, pulled his nightshirt up over his head, and tossed him into the horse trough.
Lyssa was too shocked to speak.
“They tossed him into the water trough,” Mr. Campion surmised.
She found her voice. “How did you know?” He hadn’t even opened his eyes.
“I heard the splash. Come on, away from the window. Those lads will get tired of the play and drift off.”
But the door to the inn opened again. The innkeeper’s son, the bar lad minding the ale keg earlier, came out. He was young and thin and his voice cracked with his fear. “Leave my father alone!”
“Here now,” the Weasel said. “Do you want us to stop doing this?” And to illustrate, as the innkeeper climbed out of the trough, the Weasel pushed the man back in. His friends cheered.
“Yes,” the boy said, his voice quavering.
