With a curt nod, she left, closing the door behind her.
As he removed his plaid, brushing it off then spreading it out in front of the fire on the floor to dry overnight, he felt the ache in his bones as he sat on the small stool, the basin at his feet, and washed the dirt from his body.
Normally clean-shaven, Callan decided not to shave until he arrived at Blackford, as the itchy beard would keep his face warm as he traveled.
The distant hum of the common room below lulled him into a stupor. For a moment, the weight of his journey and the past seemed far, far away.
He extinguished the candle stub, the cool air seeping into the room as Callan succumbed to a deep, dreamless sleep.
The morning dawnedwith a gentle tapping on his door. The serving wench stood outside, holding his freshly laundered shirt and clean boots.
“There is porridge and ale to break your fast.”
“I thank ye.” Callan nodded his gratitude, looking forward to filling his belly before continuing his journey. When she left, he dropped the plaid he’d been holding to cover himself on the floor, pulled on the clean-smelling shirt, then laid on the floor and rolled to wrap himself in his now dry plaid.
He descended the creaking stairs to find Eamon already breaking his fast at a table set back in the corner of the room, gaze fixed on a crudely hand-drawn map spread before him.
“A good morn to you,” Eamon nodded, motioning for Callanto join him. “You said you were headed south. Would you care to travel together until our paths diverge? I wouldn’t mind having a fearsome Scot such as yourself by my side. Too many bandits around these parts for my liking.”
Callan nodded. “Aye, I would welcome the company.” He grinned, showing off straight white teeth. “Your horse and cart will make for a swifter, more comfortable journey.”
Eamon nodded, a bit of bread caught in his salt-and-pepper beard.
“Eat and we will set out on the road together.”
Over a simple meal of porridge, dark bread, cheese, and ale, Eamon spoke of the markets he planned to visit, while Callan mentioned he was going to Blackford.
“I’ve many stops before, but I am also headed for Blackford. The lord and lady will want my fine velvets, silks, and spices.”The merchant pursed his lips.“We must take care, the closer we venture to the coast. There has been illness in the surrounding villages. The pox.”
Eamon made a rude gesture with his hand.
“Mayhap the sickness will have passed by the time we arrive.”
The sky was the color of dirty snow as they set forth. Eamon’s horse, a sturdy bay mare, pulled a small cart laden with goods—barrels of ale, bundles of fine cloth, costly spices, and various wares destined for distant markets. As Eamon’s knee did not pain him, he declared there would be no rain today.
The road stretched before them, winding through rolling hills and dense forests. Eamon guided the horse with practiced ease, scanning the surroundings for any signs of trouble. Callan occasionally rode in the cart when he tired of walking, but he preferred to walk alongside,keeping pace with the steady clip-clop of the horse on the dirt road.
A man of few words, Callan was content to listen to Eamon share tales of his many travels, while the merchant asked only a few questions about the highlands and its people.
The hours passed, the hills giving way to an open field. They continued onward to the woods before stopping along a stream to eat. Callan had purchased provisions at the inn to show his thanks to Eamon for the merchant sharing his cart and company.
Almost finished with the meal, Callan stiffened, careful not to betray any sign he’d heard the intruders as he spoke in a low voice, eyes narrowed.
“Keep your wits about you. We are not alone.”
A group of men, some dressed in little more than rags, armed with rusty blades and clubs, emerged from the shadows as the leader eyed the horse and cart, along with the costly goods, with a hungry gleam in his eye.
“I will not lose my livelihood to this rabble,” Eamon declared, voice firm.
The bandit leader, a short man with a vivid red scar across one cheek, stepped forward.
“Well, well, what do we have here? Merchants ripe for the picking. Hand over your goods, and we may let you live.”
The air crackled with tension as the bandits closed in, their intentions clear. Callan, sensing the violence about to erupt, unsheathed his daggers.
In the chaos that ensued, Eamon and Callan fought as they tried to hold their ground, even though they were heavily outnumbered.
Callan, his movements honed by a lifetime of survival, cut down three of the men, but not before tragedy struck.
