Ann nodded seriously. "Clever. And more sign ye'd be better as a spy than ye think, but anyway. What name shall we use for ye?"
Maeve had already been prepared. Her mind had gone to the earnest look in Eoin's eyes the night he'd risked everything to save her life, and she said, "Mary. I'll be Mary."
And so Mary she'd become. Ann brought Maeve to a small village several miles north of Darach Castle.
"This is where I grew up," Ann explained as their horses trotted into the area. "Me uncle owned a tavern here. He's gone now, God rest his soul, but his replacement owes me a favor. He'll take ye in."
Maeve's heart pounded wildly as Ann led her into the small tavern with its thatched roof and creaky wooden sign. She waited near the entrance as Ann disappeared into the back, and a few minutes later, her friend emerged with a tall, bulky man of around fifty or so with sharp, coal-like eyes.
"This her?" the man grunted.
"This is her," Ann replied. "Ye must take care of her, Bill."
Bill's eyes looked Maeve up and down in a way she strongly disliked, but she resisted the shiver that threatened to overwhelm her. This, she knew, would be her only chance for a while to live a life.
The tavern keeper grunted. "Ye've never washed a dish in yer life, have ye?" he demanded.
"No, sir," Maeve replied honestly.
"Wiped a table?"
"No."
"Swept a floor?"
"No."
"Poured an ale?"
Maeve shook her head.
Bill paused to spit to the side. "So ye're useless, then. Whatcanye do?" His tone turned a little suggestive toward the end of the sentence, his eyes lingering on her body once more.
Maeve pretended not to notice. "I can learn tae clean and cook and tend the bar," she said. "Is that enough?"
"It's more than enough," Ann assured her before Bill could speak. Her fingers tapped on the knife concealed in her belt. "Aye, Bill?"
Bill shrugged. "Aye, I suppose. In that case, lassie, it's time tae learn."
Maeve wiped a table as the tavern slowly began to fill with customers for the night. She was glad that Bill was still out. In the last two months, he hadn't been too cruel to her or anything, but… well, he did make her uncomfortable. He obviously found her attractive, and was not shy about displaying it. A stray hand on her arm, an odd caress on her waist, and not-so-subtle comments about how he'd long been in the market for a hardworking young wife. Maeve had done her best to gently rebuff it all, but it was beginning to cause her a lot of stress. She felt like she was stuck in an impossible balancing act, trying tokeep Bill happy to retain her job and home but at the same time trying to retain the few boundaries that were allowed to her.
Shaking her head and sighing, she looked around the tavern. It was mostly filled with regulars, though several little pockets of travelers were here too. A group of men she'd never seen before sat near the table she was cleaning, speaking in low whispers.
Maeve knew that what they were saying was none of her business, but something inside her told her she needed to know what was going on. Maybe she was just intrigued, or maybe it was something more, but she couldn't help but think of Ann. One of the last things her friend had told her was that she should collect secrets like gold. It was unlikely that this secret had anything to do with her, of course, but the last time Maeve had let the unknown go by, she'd ended up in a jail cell and nearly lost her life.
Turning slightly and continuing about her work, Maeve listened a little closer.
"I hear the redcoats are rovin' the countryside," one of the men was saying. "Searchin', but God only kens what for. There's talk of rebels against the king."
"Rebels!" another man scoffed. "Eejits and fools is what they are. They paint the rest of us with a bad name, they do, and I cannae believe they cannae just let an old dream die."
"Let it die?"
The new voice was from the table next to theirs. Maeve, it seemed, had not been the only one who was listening. She spied the man who had spoken. He was older, in his late fifties if she had to guess, with a bushy gray beard and equally bushy long hair. His eyes were black as coal, and his shoulders so broad that he reminded Maeve of a painting she'd once seen of an ancient god. But there was nothing divine about this figure, who sat huddled in an oversized cloak and was clearly so drunk that he could barely keep his back straight.
She'd seen his type before; the sad, older drunks who had nothing in their lives but the alcohol. She knew that Bill ridiculed them, but she couldn't. What was this man's story, she wondered? What had led him to view life through the bottom of a tankard rather than with his own two eyes? She shivered, wondering at how easy it might have been for a good man to lose everything. She knew that better than anyone.
"The False King," the drunkard spat, his voice at a raised volume that carried not only to the whispering men but to the tables beyond. "He sits on a throne of lies and blood, and ye're all cowards who act like he's where he should be. I dinnae bow or simper at his feet. Nae me. Nae mine."
