Page 5 of Highland Steel

“Please call me Lady Rhoswen, Blaine,” Rhoswen softly reminded the girl. Logan found it odd that the handmaiden couldn’t remember how to address her superior.

“What did those attackers do to him?” asked Newell, stretching his neck to see.

“My lord, can you hear me?” asked Blaine, taking the wounded man’s hand in hers.

“We were lucky to find him alive,” Rhoswen told the others.

“Did you find the sword? What about the sword?” asked Newell in a low voice.

“What is so important about this sword?” asked Logan.

No one said a thing.

“It’s gone,” mumbled the man from the table, trying to lift his head. Blood soaked into the wood beneath his body. “It –”

“It’s just a sword,” said Rhoswen. “Papa, your life is what’s important and nothing else. You need to pull through, so save your strength and try not to speak.”

“Nay. I need to talk to you, Daughter,” said the man, wincing in pain.

“Bid the devil, I canna work with all this clishmaclaver!” Cuddy waved his hands wildly in the air and called a scullery boy over to help him. “Everyone else out!”

“Nay, I won’t leave Father,” protested Rhoswen stubbornly. “I want to stay at his side.”

“Me, too,” added Blaine. Both the girls had tears in their eyes. Even Newell seemed a bit choked up over this.

“Come on,” grumbled Logan, taking the girls by the arms and pulling them toward the door.

“I’ll stay here in case I’m needed,” said Newell, not moving.

“Caleb? A little help here?” Logan looked over at his friend and raised a brow.

“This way,” said Caleb, escorting the squire to the door that led to the tavern. Slink, Caleb’s pine marten, darted out of the shadows. Caleb scooped it up, along with a loaf of bread from the floor as they entered the other room.

Stepping inside the tavern of the Horn and Hoof, Logan took a moment to scan the area for anyone who looked suspicious. The attackers could still be nearby and he didn’t want any surprises. The aroma of soup – minus the chicken – filled the air and it made it hard to concentrate. Many of the patrons were eating and now all Logan could think about was his empty stomach.

The tavern’s small kitchen was attached to the back of the building while several bedchambers were upstairs. The rooms were rented out to travelers and nobles when they passed through, so they could stay the night in privacy with a roof over their heads and something to eat. A long drink board lined one wall with Scots standing at it leaning over their tankards. These men were only here for a quick dram of whisky as they passed through. Tables, benches, and chairs filled the rest of the area, all occupied by the local patrons. A large wooden bowl of either steaming hot soup or pottage was placed in the center of each table along with several spoons so everyone could share.

Daylight shone in from the open shutters. The smell of damp earth and spring flowers drifted in on the breeze. Logan could hear the chirping of birds that congregated in a tree outside. With only a few small windows on one wall, the door of the tavern was often left open for fresh air to mask the scent of body odor and alcohol. Candles burned all day long to light the small, dim enclosure. The scent of tallow, animal fat from the candles, blended with the smell of strong whisky and piss. Although Callum ran a clean place for the most part, Ethan’s wolfhound had a habit of pissing in the rushes whenever they passed through on their way back to the MacKeefe camp in the Highlands. It was just one more thing to make the old man mad.

Logan’s stomach growled. He was hungry, not having eaten all morning. If his wolf hadn’t angered Callum earlier, mayhap he’d have had at least a bowl of soup or a heaping helping of pottage in him by now. Mule knew how to make a hearty pottage that consisted of roasted pork, root vegetables, and boiled grain that could fill any man’s belly and keep him satisfied for days. But right now, Logan would be happy with even just a bowl of chicken-less broth.

He looked around the room but every table was taken. Escorting the English to a table of four Scots, Logan halted right in front of the men. He recognized them as local patrons.

“Get up,” he told them. “I need the table.”

The men grumbled, but didn’t want to mess with Logan or his friends since they were MacKeefes, so they vacated their seats quickly.

“Sit down,” Logan told the English travelers. They didn’t say a word, but Logan noticed the glare coming from Rhoswen as they took their seats.

Caleb stood munching on a loaf of bread, having stopped next to the drink board. His pine marten was nestled in the crook of his arm and he let it nibble at his food.

“Caleb, give me some bread,” Logan called out, motioning to him with an outstretched arm. “I’ve got a powerful hunger and that weasel doesna need to eat before me.”

“Nay, I dinna think so,” said Caleb, shoving an entire hunk of bread into his mouth at once. “Auld Callum is madder than a wet hornet and has forbidden any of us to give ye or yer wolf any food,” he told him as he chewed. “And dinna call Slink a weasel because he doesna like it.”

“Losh me! It was only a chicken that went missin’, and it wasna me who took it. Jack is an animal and canna help his ways,” spat Logan, moving closer to Caleb and reaching for the bread. He was stopped by a hatchet flying through the air and slamming into the wall just behind them. Caleb swallowed hard, almost choking when he saw the weapon lodged into the wood so close to his head. His pine marten jumped from his arm, landing on the drink board. Logan yanked back his hand in one motion, quickly checking for all his fingers, before turning and drawing his sword.

His heart sank when he saw Old Callum standing there with his hands on his hips and an angry scowl on his face.