Chapter Ten
The council quickly devolved into raucous merrymaking. Gavin had set a feast to be held the following evening in honor of their guests, but that would not stop them all from getting soggy drunk right there and then. They had a battle plan to celebrate, and the hillmen seldomly missed a reason to take full advantage of their Laird’s hospitality.
So, the day turned slowly to evening as they drank and ate in the hall, clapping their hands on the table as they laughed and shared stories of their villages, children, and livestock. At one point, they left the hall and wandered down to the common house, the likes of which was much more familiar to the hillmen than a castle hall, and there everyone began to further overindulge, including the butchers and carpenters who leaped at a break from the mundane cycles of their lives. Then as evening became night, and they all became exceedingly drunk, the stories turned to war, and of the English invasion, of Robert the Bruce and Bannockburn.
“Through the mists, they came!” MacNear shouted out, clambering up atop one of the low tables and bracing himself with one hand against the large roof beams. “Bloody English, rows and rows they were, armor shining through the fog, spears bristling, like nothing I ever seen.”
Kyle leaned against one of the posts nearby, listening intently. He loved to hear stories of the war, and in his drunkenness, he was completely absorbed. The room seemed to slant, and all the noise of the bustling common house had fallen to a standstill as MacNear told of that fateful day where Kyle’s father had fallen.
“So, the Bruce, there he is,” MacNear continued, holding his hand aloft as if he could see the King there before him. “Nay even in his battle armor yet! He was, tae give us strength up and down our lines, and there was an English knight, far across the field, who thought he would silence us Scots forever with one lucky blow! So on he came, lance held high, helmet visor down, aiming right at our Bruce, tae end the battle before it began!”
The room hung on his every word. Everyone had heard the story before. Many men present in the common house had been there, in their younger days, as conscripted levies armed with not much more than long wooden pikes and simple padded tunics as armor. But it was the legend of the Bruce that they lived for, that they drank up faster than ale, and Kyle was no different. He was utterly enchanted, and there was no trace of Laila in his mind for the first time that day.
“So the Bruce! He takes his ax!” MacNear went on, brandishing a mug of ale as if it were the weapon. “And he rides! Rides out tae meet the Englishman! Without his armor, mind ye! And all o’ us were sat silent, watching our King, breathless with fright for him. And they clash! Down come the ax, and the lance misses wide! We all cheered tae see the knight fall from his saddle, and the Bruce rides back tae us. He holds up the ax, wet with English blood, and he cries out—”
“I have broken me good ax!” the whole common house cheered. It was a famous story, and everybody knew it, but that did not stop them from loving to hear it, as thunder clapped above as the common house wrang out in cheers. The sounds of rain came steady from outside.
“Then he cried out!” MacNear bellowed, standing fast with his memory spilling out of him. “Lay the proud usurper low! Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty’s in every blow! On to victory!”
“For Scotland!” the common house cried back.
“On came the English horse!” MacNear went on, practically howling at the thunderstorm above. “And fast we held! Long were our pikes! Then he cries out, the Bruce, ‘On them! On them!’ And Black Douglass, his bloody sword swinging! On them, we went! The looks in those English faces, tae see us advance like we never had, our spears dark with their blood! Intae the river, we pushed them! Then across! Back they were thrown! Back over the border! Raise yer cups! Tae Wallace! And tae the Bruce! And tae Scotland!”
The common house exploded once more as thunder roared, and everyone downed their ales as they garbled out slurry cheers.
“Tae Scotland!” Kyle echoed, hollering as loud as he could. Never before had such national pride held the Scottish nation as it did then. For the first time in a generation, they were free of the English yoke. Wallace had first united them, and the Bruce had given them victory. They were a free nation of warriors with ancient traditions and lore, and while they could remember their common English enemy, the old clan feuds had calmed. They were Scots, and they were in love with it.
MacNear climbed down off the table, ale running through his beard and a wide smile on his face. People clapped him on the shoulders as he sauntered over to where Kyle stood, thrusting another mug into his hands.
“Come, sit,” MacNear said, pulling Kyle to one of the low tables. “It has been long since I spoke with ye.”
Kyle sank onto the stool across from him, his drunkenness making every move slow and deliberate. He could feel the heat in his cheeks and knew he was flush and tried with all his might to suppress the hiccups he felt were dangerously close.
“Ye spoke well today,” MacNear said, clunking his cup against Kyle’s and forcing another drink.
“Thank ye,” Kyle said, his head bobbing as he drank. “I only spoke me mind.”
“It was a good mind,” MacNear went on. “Ye take an interest in war like yer brither doesn’t.”
“It has always been so,” Kyle mumbled back. “He was raised tae rule. I was raised tae fight.”
“Just so,” MacNear gargled. “Ye know, today in the keep, I saw the strangest thing.”
“Strange?” Kyle asked, looking up from his cup. The ale was warm in his belly, and he gave off a little burp.
“In the corridor, after I took me bath,” MacNear continued. “I could have sworn I saw an Englishwoman, a servant, bleedin’ beautiful she was, drop-dead gorgeous.”
Kyle immediately felt his face go redder than he thought was ever possible. For the whole of the afternoon, he had managed to suppress thoughts of Laila, but now with that simple mention, she came flooding back, dominating every aspect of his thought. He could practically see her there in his chambers, hear her commanding, feisty voice, and in his drunken state, he felt so surely that he wanted her.
It was a deep stirring, welling up from his gut, that soon was invading every little nook and cranny of his being. His skin felt hot, his heart felt loud, and his manhood gave a slight stir within his trousers.
“Where did ye find the likes o’ her? Did ye take her on a raid? A fine prize she’d be! The borderlands are full o’ prizes such as that. Ye and I should go sometime, together, take us back some fine Sassenach wenches!”
Kyle did not have words for a reply. Instead, he could only focus on the overwhelming desire for Laila. Earlier that day, he had not wanted to feel such things. He had purposefully set them aside, uninterested in what they meant. But now, free of his inhibitions, he realized what he wanted, and he wanted it intensely.
“Perhaps I’ll take her tae me chambers tonight,” MacNear went on cheerfully. “Always wanted tae know what an Englishwoman tastes like.”
What Kyle did next was not planned nor thought about for even a moment. It was pure reflex, which had he been sober, he may have been able to deny, but at that moment, his being burning with a suddenly realized desire, he very unceremoniously lunged across the table at MacNear, spilling over their mugs and sending ale out across the dirt floor.
