The buzz of happy conversation filled the air and Dani laughed along with the others, enjoying the comfortable camaraderie of the group as her buckets filled. A boy of perhaps eight or nine dashed in and swooped up those buckets, returning a minute later with empty ones for them to fill again.
Dani’s curiosity was piqued. History had never been one of her strong points, but actually living history? That was turning out to be much more enjoyable than any dull class filled with names and dates to memorize.
“Obviously this Feast of Odin is a big celebration. What’s it about?”
Jeanne shrugged one shoulder without looking up, her knife chopping expertly through the row of carrots in front of her. “It’s meant to bring victory in battle or some such. I’ve heard Cook tell stories from her old home about it, but I dinna ken much more meself. Only that there’s to be all the food we can eat and drink aplenty this night.”
“Meant to bring victory in battle?” The knife in Dani’s hand stilled.
That didn’t sound at all like a celebration of some long-remembered battle out of history. Besides, if that were the case, they would have known that it was coming and would have been preparing for days. This big party, whatever it was for, was something no one had expected.
Meant to bring victory in battle.
No, that sounded suspiciously like something yet to come.
It also sounded suspiciously like something she didn’t think she was going to like.
Not at all.
And everything that anyone knew about this feast came from the cook’s stories.
Setting her knife down, she turned and made her way over to the center of the room, straight to the old cook.
“Ada? This Feast of Odin, can you tell me why we’re celebrating it now?”
“FeasttoOdin,” her friend corrected. “To honor him. Tonight we petition the God of War to protect our warriors when they march off to battle tomorrow. It’s long been a tradition of the MacDowylt to placate their testy ancestors, aye?”
Dani had been correct. She didn’t like what she was hearing. Not one bit.
“Where are they—wait. Why? Why are they going into battle?” And why hadn’t Malcolm said a word of it to her?
“Because our good laird Malcolm kens his responsibility to rescue his sister before it’s too late to save the poor lass. Their half brother holds her prisoner at Tordenet Castle.” Ada beat the air with her spoon as she spoke, her eyes narrowing as she got into her story. “I’ve no a doubt but that Laird Alfor’s ghost is walking the halls of his beloved castle over that one, though he’s none to blame but himself. Serves him well enough, it does, naming his firstborn to succeed him as laird. Torquil was an evil, sneaky arse from the day he was old enough to take his first steps. It was the idea of serving him what sent my Ulrick following after Malcolm when his father first sent him off to fight his battles for him.”
Oh, hell. All the movies she’d ever seen, all the books she’d ever read, all of them spoke to how the Scots couldn’t get along with one another. She’d always just thought it was storytelling.
“Where’s Malcolm now?”
“In his solar, I’d say.” Ada stuck her spoon back into the big pot, stirring in sweeping wide circles. “Likely with the MacKilyn’s men, who arrived in the night.”
She had to talk to him. She couldn’t let him ride off into battle. Not now. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing him when she’d only just found him.
She couldn’t very well be a fairy-tale princess if her fairy-tale prince went off and got himself killed.
“THEN IT’S SETTLED, William.” Malcolm clasped the forearm of the man across from him, slapping his shoulder as he did so. “You and yer men will join up with us tomorrow at first light. We meet where the trail to yer camp reaches the main road.”
“It will be so,” William answered, his hand to Malcolm’s shoulder in return of the earlier gesture.
Malcolm stepped back, his arms crossed at his chest, waiting as the three MacKilyn warriors made their way out of his solar.
“One last thing.” William paused at the door. “Our good laird bids me remind you that by our being here, you’ve a debt of honor you owe to him. Due and payable upon his request.”
“Due and payable upon his request,” Malcolm echoed.
“My laird then bids me inform you of his intention to collect upon said debt before Yule. In one month’s time, he will arrive, accompanied by his daughter, expecting to be welcomed in the fullness of yer hospitality. This is agreeable?”
“It is.”
Malcolm did not hesitate in his response. He could not. He could not risk losing the support of the MacKilyn, no matter the personal cost to him.
