Maitland tossed the bare bone of a chicken leg into the fire. “King Robert wishes for us to keep the English in the Borderlands and trapped in Berwick until he takes the castle back. Where are we needed most? Have ye heard?”
“A group of soldiers in disguise headed into Edinburgh, begging for food so I’m told. Douglas said to find them and send them out. We couldnae locate them. Ye can try. They say they are split into two groups of five. They are stealing anything they can: food, coin, livestock. Anything they can sell or eat. And I’m told they are gaunt. They are hungry and desperate. I wish ye luck. I suggest ye search the outskirts of the city and check the tavernsat night. Ye might catch them. If ye do, bring them to Douglas. He’ll handle them.”
Willum had to admit the thought of this tactic made his skin crawl. He didn’t wish to go inside any tavern, since they were often filled with unwashed men wall-to-wall. That was exactly the type of situation that could make him lose his head.
Crowds in tight spaces.
Being alone in the woods.
His two biggest fears. With eight of them, he needn’t worry about being alone, especially with Maitland’s rules about always traveling in pairs.
But he didn’t like the idea of Edinburgh. Any burgh made his insides curdle from distaste.
Loki and his group took their leave after the meal, heading back into the Highlands.
“Dyna, let’s no’ waste any time,” Maitland said. “If we’re looking for English thieves in Edinburgh, then we should find a place to sleep this eve. We’ll split up. Choose yer team and we’ll get on our way.”
“I’ll take Thea, Alaric, and Willum. Work for ye?”
“Aye, off to Edinburgh. There are two inns I know where the questionable oft shelter. I’ll take the worst of the two places. Ye take the other.”
Willum let out a breath. He was more than pleased to have Thea with him.
Perhaps he’d get the chance to steal a kiss. A real one.
Ayrshire-Survival
1263
A new scene for you showing both Lucky Loki and Wise Loki.
Tissue warning. Have them ready…
Loki woke up with a sneeze, hitting his head on the top of the weathered crate. Hell, but it had rained half the night and he was soaked. He needed a tarp to cover the crate, though he would soon outgrow the meager shelter. He had to find something to keep him dry overnight through the damp spring.
He blew his nose on his hand and wiped it off on a nearby stone, hating his life. At times like these, he would spend half the day trying to recall anything about his parents.
Why had they given him away?
Had he done something to make them hate him? Father Adair had told him some families had too many children to feed so they gave their bairns away or even sold them. Was he just pushed out the door, or had they traded him for something? But the priest had also reminded him that his parents could have simply passed on from illness.
Every night when he went to bed, he said a wee prayer for God to let him dream something about his parents or his family.
He had to know. It was an ache deep inside him that would not be eased. That hollow place in his chest was worse than the emptiness of his belly.
After taking care of his few belongings—the pot, his extra tunic and trews that were too small but he kept anyway, and the few linen squares he’d stolen to wash his face and hands when they were covered with dirt—he got to his feet and stretched. He leaned against the tree he kept his crate under for extra shelterfrom both the elements and some of the unsavory characters in the area. Sadly, his belly no longer grumbled. It was too used to being empty.
It hadn’t been a good week. He’d had little too eat, hadn’t been able to find any coin, and Father Adair, his only friend, had gone on a journey of some sort. He could usually count on obtaining an apple from the priest, but not this day.
He groaned and pushed off from the tree, the rain letting up enough for him to head to town. This day he had purpose.
He would search for a tarp or length of thick canvas to keep his sad home dry.
And a piece of bread.
Mayhap he’d beg a stale loaf from the local bakery, though they usually only threw crumbs at him to make him leave. One baker was kind and would feed him a hardened crust on occasion, but only what they couldn’t sell.
Selfish pignuts.
