11
"Clyde?"
In an instant, Fiona was on her feet. The traces of last night's dizziness still in her head, she stumbled to her feet, trying not to trip over her long arisaid.
"Clyde, where are ye?"
Squinting, Fiona glared up into the sun above. Its rays were poking through the tent, hitting her squarely in the eye. The light seared her with pain.
"Och, this isnae funny," she grumbled, trying her hardest not to sway in its bright light. She was barely conscious. Memories of last night pumped through her.
She had bumped her head; that, she did remember. The knock she had taken earlier from the horse came back to her. At the base of her skull, she felt a bump and a sudden tide of dizziness that spun every time she moved her head.
The bright light wasn't helping any. It made it all but impossible for her to open her eyes properly. In consequence, Fiona ended up stumbling about, as if inebriated.
"Clyde?" it was hard to see in the light. Blindly, she groped about, looking for his stallion. Finally, at the far side of the copse, she saw him tethered up alongside Lizzie May, neither of them looking especially happy.
But she still did not know where he was. Looking around the windswept glen, Fiona could see no trace of him. Hitching up her skirts, she took to the grass to begin looking. Then, a noise made her jump.
"Clyde!" she yelled excitedly. "Och, ye nearly sent me tae an early grave."
Piqued, Fiona turned around. He had his hand on her face, squeezing her mouth.
She screamed but could not be heard.
It wasn't Clyde.
"What do ye want? He knew it wasn't particularly polite, but the appearance of the courtier had thrown him.
From across the clearing, Bruce McDowning trotted over before dismounting in a bow.
"Dinnae fash," said Clyde, waving dismissively at the formalities. He watched curiously as Bruce McDowning finished bowing and picked unsurely through the long grass.
Approaching him, the slender courtier grimaced. Maybe it was meant as a smile; Clyde couldn't tell properly, and the intermittent August sun threatened to blanch his eyes out if he kept looking.
Slightly irritated, Clyde forced himself to smile at Bruce.
"So, um, this weather's a bit—" Bruce stopped and checked himself mid-sentence. Bored, Clyde looked around. In true Highlands fashion, the blazing sunshine that had been shining not fifteen seconds ago had gone, and now a minor storm was blowing.
Clyde just stared at him.
Nervous, Bruce continued. "Ach, it's blowin' a hoolie one minute, the next, it's roasting!" he said, his pale eyes darting from side to side. Clyde noticed that he did not once meet him in the eye. "Well, as me auld nan says, cast ne'er a clout ’til May is oot."
Clyde scowled. "It's August," he said briefly. Then he shook his head. "Listen, Bruce, I am sure ye didnae just come all the way up here tae discuss the weather."
Bruce looked up as if surprised. "Ach, nay, I didnae. Although"—he coughed surreptitiously—"it was a wee surprise that I bumped intae ye up here. I was just on my way tae..."
Clyde gazed up at Bruce watchfully.
"On my way tae...ach, it doesnae matter," said Bruce with another cough. Then his face turned from uncertain to serious. "The thing is, Clyde, I was hoping tae have a wee chat wi' ye."
"Right," said Clyde, his gaze unwavering. He watched as Bruce came near. A tall, reedy man uneasy with his height, Bruce was like an overgrown tree, blown and blustered by the winds. His head slightly stooped, he attempted to make himself smaller as he approached Clyde.
"What is it, Bruce?" said Clyde, as friendly as he could muster right then. He looked about again, across the windswept glen. Here they both were, in the middle of nowhere. By chance.
"Well, um, sir, it's a slightly delicate thing," began Bruce, his watery eyes cast down. Another huge gust took the glen, raising Bruce's blond hair alarmingly and making his already pinkened eyes water. "Ye ken, the wee arrangement ye have in place, well, I was just wondering..."
Clyde fought an urge not to roll his eyes. Would Bruce ever get to the point?