“Ye bugger it up already?” Domnal gave a laugh.
“Shut it,” Kyle replied.
“Just sit,” Gavin sighed, waving his hand. “And watch this fool perform.”
Kyle flopped into his chair with a bitter grunt and looked out at the hall. MacNear was up on one of the tables, pulling his shirt open and shouting out a near-incomprehensible old Scottish drinking song, bringing half the hall along with him in his tune.
Landlady count the lawin',
The day is near the dawnin',
Ye're a' blind drunk boys,
And I'm but jolly fu'.
Hey tuttie tatie,
How tuttie tatie,
Hey tuttie tatie,
Wha's fu' noo!
Cog an' ye were aye fu'
Cog an' ye were aye fu'
I wad sit an' sing tae you,
An' ye were aye fu'.
Hey tuttie tatie,
How tuttie tatie,
Hey tuttie tatie,
Wha's fu' noo!
Everyone applauded the crowd favorite, and as the ruckus calmed down a bit, Kyle leaned into his brother and said:
“I dinnae trust the Englishman.”
“And ye think I do?” Gavin said, giving Kyle a bewildered look. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll shoot him dead outside me walls. We’ll keep an eye on him.”
“So be it,” Kyle said, settling into his seat.
“Tae the Bruce!” MacNear shouted from atop his table.
“Tae the Bruce!” the room echoed. Kyle saw Simon wince at the toast, and that brought him a bit of comfort.
