Dougall cursed the town of Stirling as it came into view, cursed its reek and its fog and its crowded, filthy streets. He cursed the castle which loomed over it all in the distance, cursed its guards and its inhabitants and everything it represented.
Mercy be upon him; he even cursed the king.
Their travels had not gone well. A constant rain meant that it had taken far longer to reach the royal burgh than it should have. More than a fortnight after charting their course, Dougall had taken all he could stand of his saddle.
“I need a good cup of ale,” Gregor whined.
“And a warm place to lay my head,” Davey agreed. “A real bed would be nice, but to be honest I’d be happy wi’ a dry stable and a stack of hay.”
“I’m sure we can find a tavern that lets beds for the night,” Dougall answered. “I dinna care what the establishment is like so long as it’s dry.”
As they made their way into the city, they each took turns enquiring after accommodations, but none of the locals were particularly inclined to help. After approaching five individuals, and getting nothing more than a shake of the head, one man stopped to answer.
“Ye’ll be wanting to head farther in,” he said, keeping himself at a precautionary distance from the strangers in their Highland dress. “Ye’re no’ far, though.”
Dougall thanked the man and flipped him a silver piece for his troubles. The man snatched it from the air. When he saw what it was, his eyes boggled.
“Thank ye, sir. ’Tis kind of ye, thank ye.”
“What if he lied?” Gregor said once the man was gone. “I’d no’ be inclined to trust anyone around here.”
“D’ye have a better idea?”
Gregor shrugged. “’Tis yer silver, I suppose.”
The man, it turned out, had spoken true. A few winding laneways into the city were a cluster of inns. No one establishment looked any better than the others, so Dougall, Davey, and Gregor settled on the one closest to them. It was a shabby, two-story wood-and-stone dwelling that looked as though it had been through a ransacking or two. Nevertheless, it was sturdy and dry.
The innkeeper was a large, round man with sleepy, bloodshot eyes. He took their coin, tested it with the few teeth he had left in his mouth, then showed them to a room at the top of the stairs.
“A bed,” Davey exclaimed, and flung himself on it face down.
“No’ bloody likely, lad.” Gregor stomped over to the bed, and rolled Davey off it. The poor lad hit the floor like a sack of grain. “My old bones need it more than yers.”
“Ye filthy arse bugger!” Davey heaved himself off the floor and pounced on Gregor, wrestling the old man for the coveted mattress.
“There’s enough room ye can share.” Dougall sighed. He took up a spot in the middle of the small room and began unrolling his pallet.
Both Davey and Gregor abandoned their struggle.
“Ye dinna want to stake yer claim for the bed?” Davey inquired.
“’Tis all yers, men. Ye never ken what kind of fleas and wee beasties ye might find in a public bed. I’d much prefer my own pallet.”
“I’ll take my chances wi’ the bed,” Gregor declared, and hoofed Davey off with a boot to the backside.
Once the sleeping arrangements had been resolved—both men finally agreed to share—the trio locked their door with the nicked, rough key they’d been given by the innkeeper, and descended to the common room for some food.
“Sorry, lads, fresh out of pottage,” the innkeeper’s wife told them in an unapologetic tone. “Ye want yer supper, best check in wi’ one of the taverns down the way.”
“Perhaps we should have inquired wi’ them for a room in the first place,” Gregor clipped.
The woman squared her shoulders, prepared to do battle with the gruff, surly Highlander. “Perhaps ye should have, but ’tis of no consequence now ye’ve paid for yer room already.”
“Easy, man,” Dougall warned Gregor. “Mistress, please forgive my companion. We’ve been traveling nigh on a month, and we’re tired and hungry.”
The woman softened under Dougall’s charm. “Try the Thistle and Thorn, at the end of this here lane. A bit rowdy, it is. But the ale’s good, and they do a fine pottage. No’ so fine as mine, to be sure, but the meat’s fresh…or as close to fresh as ye’ll find in these parts.”
“’Tis kind of ye, mistress. I’ll no’ forget it.” Then, moving closer so that he would not be heard, Dougall added, “Perhaps ye might help us further. Ye see, we’re in search of some of our Douglas kinsmen. We heard they may be in Stirling, considering what’s happened wi’ the Earl of Ormonde and all. D’ye happen to ken anything of this?”
Despite the tired, disinterested look of him, the innkeeper must have had a sharp ear, for he had heard Dougall from across the room. He came up behind his wife and placed a large, meaty hand on her shoulder.
“What is it ye be wanting wi’ the Douglases?”
“We are no’ a part of this business, whatever it may be,” his wife added.
“I had no’ thought ye were,” Dougall assured them both. “Nay, we’re looking for a lass who may have come here in search of Douglases. We only want to find her and return her to the arms of her mother, who is beside herself wi’ worry.”
It was plain that the innkeeper found Dougall’s story suspect. His brows drew together, and his lips pursed. His wife, however, was more cooperative, taken as she was with the handsome Highland warrior.
“I dinna promise ye’ll find this lass ye’re looking for, but if anyone kens anything of her, ye’ll be wanting to speak wi’ old Angus Mhor.”
“Angus Mhor.” Dougall committed the name to memory.
“Aye. He be in the ceannaiche-cruadhach part of Stirling, about a mile west of here. Head for the castle, and ask as ye go. Ye’ll be wanting the blacksmith Angus Mhor. Just taken him on an apprentice, he has. Tall man, dinna recall his name just now. But I warn ye, best only one of ye go. Old Angus Mhor is skittish. He may clam up tight in the face of three brawny strangers…well, two, anyway,” she added, dismissing Gregor.
The proud Douglas clansman bristled at the slight. “I’ll have ye ken, mistress, I can wield a claymore as fiercely as any man half my age.”
Davey snickered. “That isna saying much. Half yer age is still old—hoof.” Gregor’s elbow landed squarely in his ribs.
“Ye’re a fierce ’un, to be sure, Gregor,” Dougall placated. “But perhaps the lady makes a point. Being older than either of us, ye’re the least threatening—to look at,” he stressed. “Perhaps ye’ should go. Davey and I shall stay behind, and ye can tell us what ye learn.”
Gregor scowled, displeased by the implication that he wasn’t as fierce as his younger companions. He did, however, like the idea of taking on the mission himself.
“All right, I’ll go. Will ye saddle my horse?”
“This way, sir,” the innkeeper responded. He led Gregor to a rear door, which exited to the inn’s small stable where they’d left their horses.
When the door banged shut behind them, Dougall looked to Davey. “What say we check out this Thistle and Thorn?”
“Aye, grand.”
“End of the lane,” the woman repeated, pointing. She beamed at Dougall, her eyes as starry as a maid’s.
The lane of which the innkeeper’s wife spoke was longer than any lane Dougall had known in Kildrummond. It snaked and wandered downhill, with buildings leaning over it, making the narrow path feel even narrower. Rainwater made walking treacherous, for it turned the mud slippery and hid wheel ruts from unsuspecting ankles.
The tavern was situated around one particularly sharp corner. Here, the laneway forked, creating something that might be akin to a courtyard if it hadn’t been so dismal and depressing. The Thistle and Thorn was one of several taverns in the immediate vicinity, but since the innkeeper’s wife had mentioned this tavern specifically, it was to the Thistle and Thorn they went.
There were rowdy taverns and alehouses in Moray. Dougall was no stranger to rough company and drunken excess. But the Thistle and Thorn topped them all.
“Hide yer purse in yer arse cheeks if ye can, lad,” he quipped to Davey. “’Twill no’ be safe anywhere else.”
“’Twill no’ be safe even in my arse cheeks,” Davey answered.
Tavern wenches threaded through the dense crowd of unwashed men. Some were in the tartans of their clans, but a great many wore plainly woven feileadh mhor, or breeks and tunics. A handful of unsightly, rather broken-in whores vied for the attentions of potential customers. The barkeep himself was an unsightly character, with thick, black hair and one clouded blind eye.
“There’s room over there, in the corner.” Davey pointed.
The two men picked their way single-file across the floor. They were careful to avoid any hostile gazes, for more than one man here was undoubtedly itching for an excuse to fight.
Not long after they’d seated themselves, a comely serving wench with a thick plait of brown hair approached—a remarkable lass for the fact that she was the only comely wench they’d seen since arriving in Stirling.
“What be yer fancy?” she asked indifferently.
Davey beamed at her. “Any chance ye’ve got other services to offer—ow!” Dougall’s booted foot kicked Davey’s shin under the board.
The lass’s face took on a look of amusement. She glanced from Davey to Dougall and back again.
“Sorry, lads, I’m a mere serving wench. Have no ambition but to fetch yer ale and yer supper, if ye be wanting it.”
“That would be grand, lass,” Dougall answered, still glaring at Davey. “What d’ye have in the pot this night?”
“Plenty of mutton stew. Cook’s just made a fresh batch. Also there’s umble pie going. Almost gone it is, but there may be a few slices left if that should please ye.”
“Stew for me, if ye please.”
“I’ll have the pie. And an ale for each of us, and one for yerself,” Davey put in. “Sure, ye ken I meant no offense, aye?”
The wench smiled. For half a breath, it captivated Dougall. Hers was a genuine, warm smile—a dangerous smile in a place like this. If it warmed the bones of half the men in here like it warmed his own, the lass would have to be careful whom she bestowed that smile upon.
“Ye’re kind to say, sir,” she said. “If ye be wanting a lass to warm ye for a short while, I can send our Muirne yer way.”
The lass nodded in the direction of an aging woman with a tangle of shocking red hair and far too much rouge and powder. Davey shuddered.
The wench laughed lightly. “Just the ales and the food then, I gather.”
From the table beside them, a Lowlander who was clearly in his cups leaned in to join the conversation.
“Eh, Nolie, I didna ken ye were joining ranks wi’ the likes of Muirne. Bloody hell, if ye’re for sale, I’d pay right good for ye.”
The man made a swipe for the lass’s waist. Dougall saw it coming even before the brute made a move. Prepared to defend her, he pulled his dirk from his belt and reached to pull the lass away.
She was a hair faster than he was. Despite the tight confines of the tavern, the wench whirled away and gave the man’s elbow a shove with a shapely, rivelin-clad foot.
“I’d sooner eat a load of pig shite and call it a feast, Fitzhugh,” she taunted, not unkind. All within earshot laughed at her jest—Fitzhugh included.
Dougall followed the lass with an admiring gaze as she sashayed from their table to a door at the rear beside the staircase. Whoever she was, she was a handsome one—not beautiful in the delicate, helpless sense that most men preferred, but commanding in her grace and elegance. In another life, she might have done well at court. A shame it was that she should be born to a common status.
He scanned the tavern as they waited for any sign of trouble—a compulsion borne of his many years of training. No one paid attention to the two travelers. They were but two more forgettable faces in a constantly changing sea of bodies going in and out of the city.
“I wonder if Gregor is having any luck wi’ the smith,” Davey mused.
Dougall leaned his elbows on the board. “And I. I’m hoping he kens to come straight back wi’ whatever news there is, or even if there’s no news at all.”
He should have made that clear before Gregor left. The cold, wet, and hunger was meddling with his clarity of mind.
“What happens if we dinna find her here in Stirling?”
“We send a missive back to Lord Kildrummond, and ask what he wants us to do.”
“We dinna go home ourselves?”
It was a tempting option, and for a short second, Dougall considered it. But if that be the course of action he took, it would be because he wanted his own bed, and not because it was what he felt was right.
“Nay, lad. We stay. A carrier can take our missive to Moray and take one back from His Lordship fast enough. Meanwhile we must stay and keep looking.”
Davey’s shoulders slumped. “I dinna ken, Dougall, I dinna think we’re ever going to find her. She’s likely dead.”
“Ye may be right. But our mission isna to find the lass.”
“Nay?”
“Nay. Our mission is to keep looking for her for as long as His Lordship says we must.”
“Looking for whom?” The tavern wench had returned with their ale and food. She balanced the wooden cups and steaming bread trenchers expertly on a hammered tin tray.
“Perhaps ye can help us,” Davey said as she laid their meal. “D’ye ken if there are any men of Clan Douglas about?”
Dougall winced. Oh, Davey! He was a loyal man, good with a sword and better with a lance. He was also young and none-too-bright. The innkeeper and his wife was one thing, but Dougall would have preferred not to announce their purpose here for the whole tavern to hear.
The wench stiffened, almost imperceptibly. “And what be ye wanting wi’ men of Clan Douglas, sirs?”
“Oh, we’re no’ in league wi’ them. Dinna misunderstand. Nor are we trying to discover them and bring them to the attention of the king, if they be doing anything treasonous.”
Dougall actually groaned. When the lass’s eyes narrowed, he knew it was time to shut Davey up before the lad got them into trouble.
“What my companion is trying to say is that we’re looking for a lass. We have reason to believe she may have come here, and that she may be in danger.”
“Is that so?”
“Aye, the Lady Eleanor Douglas,” Davey put in. “D’ye ken that name at all?”
“For the love of God, man, will ye hold yer tongue?” Dougall snapped. Davey shrank back, his face turning red.
The hackles on the back of Dougall’s neck stood up as his instincts kicked in. This lass knew something. And she was very good at hiding it—indeed, a lesser man might not have noticed her discomfort. But Dougall did.
“Och, now. The lad didna mean any harm,” she answered gaily. “Ye say ye’re looking for an Eleanor Douglas? A lady?”
Dougall nodded once, watching her closely.
“Nay, canna say I’ve heard the name before. I’ll be sure to keep an eye out, though. What be yer name, sir?”
“Dougall MacFadyen. I am captain of the guard at Glendalough Castle in Moray, wi’ the Earl of Kildrummond. D’ye ken of him?”
The wench smiled brightly—too bright. “We simple folk dinna ken much of lords and ladies, sir. But I shall be certain to find ye if yer Lady Eleanor Douglas turns up. I wouldna count on it, though.”
She left then, rather hastily. Not long after, the large, frightening barkeep stepped away as well.
“D’ye think they’ll ever hear of her?” Davey wondered.
Dougall watched as only the barkeep returned, casting a dark eye his way. The wench did not return.
“Aye,” Dougall said. “I think they may. But I dinna think they’ll be talking to us about what they ken any time soon.”