“Oy!” the second exclaimed. “An English wench is wae she is!”
“TaeLairdain’t interested in no sassenach,” the first growled. Still, they took another step closer, and Laila felt fear once again.
“I have here a letter,” she hurried to explain, her confidence quickly waning, and she began rustling in her satchel for the paper Jacob had given her.
“Tae bitch cain read,” the second guard sneered.
“Well, I cain’t,” the first said. “So, fuck yer letter.”
“Get out’a here, wench,” the second said. “Or we’ll send ye on yer way with a bastard in yer belly.”
“I—” Laila had no words. All she could do was hold the letter aloft, trying not to cry. She was so tired and disheveled and beaten down that she could not bear the thought of failure. She had come so far and left so much behind; to see it all wasted here at the gate at the hands of some pigs in armor was breaking her heart.
“Go on! Get!” the first guard cried out.
“What is the meaning o’ this?” a kind but commanding woman’s voice floated out from the gate, and Laila lifted her eyes to see an elegant, middle-aged woman in fine clothes, standing with her arms crossed in the center of the gatehouse. She was decidedly pregnant, and the child within her gave her frame a further reach of intimidation and confidence.
“M’lady,” the two guards said, clearly flustered, and snapped to standing at attention.
“Who are ye?” the woman asked, staring at Laila.
“My,” Laila began, choking back the tears that never came and straightening her face to address the noblewoman. “My name is Laila.”
“Laila,” the woman said. “Such a pretty name. And what are ye doin’ all the way out here, English Laila?”
“I seek shelter,” Laila went on, glancing nervously at the guardsmen. “I have a letter for the Laird. I need somewhere to stay,” she pleaded. “I’ve been riding all night in the rain.”
“I can see that,” the woman said, looking Laila up and down. “Is that the letter?”
“It is,” Laila said, climbing down tentatively from the horse. As her feet hit the ground, she felt the immense soreness of her legs and backside from so much time in the saddle, and it took an effort to stand and look presentable as she handed the noblewoman the letter. The woman glanced down at the parchment and said,
“This is the seal of Willby,” the woman said, looking between the sealed letter and Laila.
“It is,” Laila said.
“Though I dinnae expect these shite for brains hogs tae ken the difference,” the woman said, shooting a piercing glare at the two guardsmen. “In the future, I should expect them tae graciously welcome any lady intae the castle. Especially a lady in distress. Is that understood?”
“Yes, M’lady,” they said simultaneously, their faces flush with fear and embarrassment.
“Good,” she retorted. Her accent was not as thick as most others Laila had met thus far, and her posture, and the guards, led Laila to believe her to be the Lady of the castle. She struggled to remember her name. What had Jacob said? “Come along then, Laila,” the woman said. “One o’ these buffoons will tend yer horse.”
Laila gave the second guard a glare as she handed him the reins, then adjusted her satchel and began to follow the woman through the yard, each step screaming out at her sore thighs and cramped ankles.
“I am the Lady McGowan,” the woman said, leading Laila toward the hall built on the far side of the castle. As they walked, Laila took stock of the yard. It was at least twice as large as her family’s, and she marveled at how many common folk went about their business, tending hogs, sawing timber, and running a small market.
“I thank you, Milady,” Laila said.
“Dinnae thank me yet,” she laughed in response. “We’ll sort ye out.”
“Why did you help me?” Laila asked tentatively, glancing at the letter the Lady McGowan still clutched in one hand.
“Well, ye dinnae exactly blend in, did ye?” she answered and led Laila into the hall.
It was far grander of a building than her father’s, and Laila drank in the rich tapestries that hung between torch sconces and the several tables lined up in rows stretching out from the head table, set upon a short pedestal of stone to stand above the rest. On the far end of the head table sat a man, whom Laila took to be the Laird based on his fine-combed hair, his seemingly fresh winkles, and the golden jewelry he wore about his wrist.
“Gavin,” the lady McGowan snapped with that commanding tone of hers. “We have business.”
“Good morrow tae ye as well, me’dear,” the Laird said, looking up from dish of bread and cheese. Seeing the food, Laila felt a pang of hunger.
