Page 20
“’Tis an army. And I let every Comyn servant go, including the women.”
“Why?”
“Because just like ye, they are enemies and potential traitors.”
“Well, lucky them. I’m envious of people who just lost their jobs. They can be as far away from you as possible.”
Craig stopped in front of a table by the fireplace. Other warriors sat there, laughing, but they quieted once they noticed Amy.
“Sit,” he said, pointing at the bench.
She jerked her elbow from his hand, and he released her. “I’m not a dog,” she hissed.
“Nae, ye’re not. Dogs are loyal.”
What a jerk. He doesn’t even know me, and he makes assumptions just based on my last name.
What did he know of the MacDougalls anyway? She was proud of being a MacDougall. The stories her grandfather told, of the brave warriors and mighty chiefs, of how the clan had sprung from a great warrior named Somerled, of how her ancestors had defeated the Vikings, of how strong and proud they were.
“Suit yerself,” he said and sat down. “Enjoy yer meal standing.”
He handed her a bowl and a spoon. Aha. The heavy object she was hoping for. And the brownish-green stew would stream nicely down his face. Amy’s fingers tensed, and she had to physically stop herself. She would have thrown it at him if she hadn’t been starving.
Deep breath in, deep breath out.
She stepped over the bench and took her seat. The table was silent, while the rest of the hall droned with voices, erupting with occasional laughter. Someone played medieval music on a lyre and sang. Badly.
Amy put the spoon to her mouth, but felt the eyes of the men on her. She glanced up. They looked away. She just needed to ignore them.
She began eating—it wasn’t a particularly tasty meal. It lacked salt and seasoning, but it was food. And if she didn’t eat now, when would she?
A tall man sitting across the table slid a silver cup to her. He eyed her from under his brows, a dark, probing look with more meaning than she could understand. He was in his thirties, she guessed, a tall, lean warrior, his skin weathered.
“Something to wash that down, lass,” he said. “Looks like ye need it.”
Amy glanced into the cup and smelled it. Whiskey. No. Not quite. Maybe whiskey didn’t exist yet. If she remembered correctly, the information board said Inverlochy Castle was taken by Bruce in 1306 so this must be the fourteenth century.
“Thanks,” she said and took a sip.
She closed her eyes, enjoying the burn that went slowly down her throat and settled in her stomach, warming her.
“My name is Hamish MacKinnon,” he said.
“Hamish,” Craig said, “she’s nae a guest. Ye dinna need to be friendly with her.”
“Aye, I ken, but she didna commit a crime, either. Let her have her peace for now.”
Craig scowled at her. “I suppose.”
Amy smiled at Hamish.
“Thank you,” she said and gave his cup back to him.
Hamish shook his head once. “Drink up, lass. I’ve had enough. Looks like ye need it more.”
“So there are nice people in Bruce’s army after all,” she said and could almost hear Craig’s teeth crack.
“Ye have a strange accent,” a blond man sitting to Amy’s right said.
