Rivals for the Crown (10 page)

"Aye, but look around us," Kieran said. "There are people here from all over, and far more outlandishly dressed than we are."

He was right. There were visitors from many places—Italians wearing silk and brighter colors, Norsemen bedecked with furs and gold, dark-skinned Spanish moors, soberly but finely dressed burghers from the Continent.

"Maybe they think everyone not from here is a barbarian."

"Then maybe we need to show them that we're not barbarians," Kieran said.

"What we need are beds and a meal," Rory said, looking up at the darkening sky. "We're here to listen. We'll change their minds another time. There's just ye and me and I'd rather we were better equipped than that when we try to change their opinion of Highlanders."

Kieran grinned back at him. "Ye're right. But we could prevail if we had to fight them. I hear Rory MacGannon killed twenty men with one hand."

"I heard it was forty."

They found an inn, The Oak and The Ash, on a small street below the castle hill, the tavern room lively, loud with conversation, and every table filled. Rory stood in the doorway, getting his bearings and enjoying the delicious aromas. Serving girls pushed past him, carrying trays loaded with plates of food, and he realized how hungry he was.

He turned to Kieran to say just that, but his cousin was across the foyer, talking to a girl. Rory could not see her face, for her back was turned to him, but he could tell she was young and lithe and, from his cousin's expression, comely enough. Her hair was very dark, and when she laughed it fell down her back in lustrous waves. Kieran, it seemed, was well on his way to charming her.

Rory was able to negotiate a decent rate for rooms and meals with the tall, lanky man who greeted him, then found a small table

at the side of the room and called to his cousin. Kieran's smile was wide as he sat on the wooden bench.

Rory grinned. "Not a moment in the door and ye're after a lass. Who is she?"

"I dinna ken her name, but she says she'll bring us some ale, so I suspect she works here."

"Ye're that brilliant, ye are."

"Whoa. Which of us has already talked to a lass?"

"Which of us has found beds for this night?"

"Ah, but which of us has ale on the way?"

"There is that."

Rory laughed, then studied the other patrons while he waited. Most were men, but there were women interspersed among them, some dressed very finely. Not surprising. Berwick was the richest city in all of Scotland, the port from which most of Scotland's, and much of northernmost England's, goods were exported to the Continent. If the wealthy visitors to Berwick ate here, it meant the food was good. The voices around them spoke in many different languages. There was Scots, the language of the south of Scotland, and French, from the Scotsmen and Englishmen who frequented the royal courts. A smattering of Gaelic was heard, not the Gaelic that was spoken in the west but the
north eastern
Highland Gaelic.

He heard English, Flemish and Dutch, and a couple of languages he did not recognize.

And, of course, there were the usual sorts to be found in a port tavern, rough sailors who looked like they'd spent far too much time at sea. A tall, skeletal-thin man whose head jutted forward on a neck knotted with blood vessels watched the serving girls with his mouth hanging open. A small man sat with his cloak pulled close to him, his head hidden in the hood. Two burly men cavorted in a corner with a woman who looked like a whore. A huge and very happy man from the Orient, his dark hair pulled tightly into a queue atop his head, laughed raucously and drank heavily. A man with a vivid scar that ran from his temple to his collarbone clutched a bottle from which amber liquid dribbled. Now there, Rory thought, was a story.

They waited only a few moments before the dark-haired lass came to them, placing tall metal cups of local ale before them and telling them their choices of food. He listened, looking up and into a lovely face, her features even and soft, her
grey
, thickly lashed eyes filled with curiosity as she looked from him to Kieran, who was grinning like a fool. Her voice was soft, her accent refined.

And English, he realized with surprise, taking a better look at her. She was quite lovely. Her face was thin, or perhaps just seemed so with her dark hair framing it, putting the angles of her cheeks into stark relief. She was dressed modestly, her clothing clean and fresh, her hands well-tended. What was a lass like this doing at an inn in Berwick?

Kieran, obviously pleased with himself, sat back against the wall and watched her avidly as they ordered their food. She looked at Kieran, then away, then back again. And again. Amused, Rory, asked her to repeat the meal choices.

If she was annoyed, it did not show in her expression. As she told them the choices again, she and Kieran continuing to glance at each other. Rory grinned at her and chose the venison. Kieran chose the fish, and she nodded.

"It's good tonight."

"I'm sure everything you serve is good," Kieran said.

Rory rolled his eyes. "Thank ye, mistress."

"You're welcome, sir."

"Dinna be too polite to him, lass," Kieran said. "Just call him Rory or he'll get ideas above himself. And call me Kieran. And ye are?..."

"Pleased that you're here with us, sir." She smiled and moved to the next table, where three sailors sat, and told them their choices of food.

"And what of the fish?" one asked.

"It's good tonight," she said.

One of them leered at her. "It could be good every night."

She smiled tightly and asked if they would like ale or wine.

"Neither. I've something else in mind altogether," one said. He reached for her, but she slid out of his reach.

"I am not one of your choices," she said.

He rose to his feet and grabbed her waist, pulling her next to him. "And if I want you to be my choice?"

She struggled, but he held her fast, then leaned to put his lips on her neck.

"Let me go! Let me go!" Her voice held an edge of panic.

Rory and Kieran rose as one. Rory held his dirk to the man's throat. Kieran removed the man's hand from the girl's waist.

"Ye'll let her go, lad, and apologize, aye?" Kieran said softly.

The man turned his head, his eyes far to the side, trying to see the dirk. Rory pressed it a bit harder against his skin. The sailor pulled his head back and released the girl.

"Good idea," said a new voice. Scottish, but no Highlander.

Rory looked into the blue eyes of a man he'd seen across the room earlier, brown-haired, young, his knife now pressing into the sailor's stomach.

"I think," the new man said, "that you're not hungry after all and that you'll leave a generous amount for the insult. And I think you're ready to leave now."

"The hell he is!" the sailor's companion cried, leaping to his feet.

He raised a bottle and swung it at the young Scot, who ducked and punched the second sailor in the stomach. A third sailor jumped up, shouting.

It was a short-lived melee, ending with Rory and Kieran and the other Scot throwing the sailors out the door into the rain.

"We'll burn the tavern down!" one shouted as he climbed to his feet.

"If ye do, we'll find ye," Rory called after them. "Trust me, ye'll regret it."

"Damn Highlanders!"

Rory took a step forward and watched the three break into a run. He stood, laughing with the others on the step, until the sailors were out of sight.

Then he turned to Kieran and the other Scot. "Well done!"

The other patrons cheered them as they returned to the tavern room, and the innkeeper thanked them effusively.

"You never know what the night will hold," the innkeeper said, shaking his head. "Some nights it's quiet. And others.. .We cannot choose who walks through that door. I thank you, sirs. I'll send more ale to your table."

"Many thanks, sir," Rory said.

The other Scot grinned. "Scared the devil out of them, didn't

we?"

"That we did," Rory said.

The serving girl hurried over to them. "Thank you so very much," she said, breathlessly. "Sirs. Edgar. Thank you! I was terrified."

"With good reason," the other Scot said. "He meant trouble."

"It was our pleasure, lass," Kieran said. "How could we let anyone harm a beauty like ye?"

"Thank you for your help." She hurried away, her face scarlet.

"A good team, lads," Rory said as they sat down. "Now come and join us, sir. I am Rory MacGannon." He raised his cup in salute to the other Scot.

"Edgar Keith," he said, extending his hand. "You are Highlanders."

"How could ye tell?" Rory said with a grin, pointing to Keith's clothing. "Ye think we look different than ye?"

"A bit, sir."

"That we are. Ye all look a bit strange to us, dressed improperly as ye are."

Keith laughed. "Look around us. Who's dressed the same here?"

"Aye," Kieran said. "Kieran MacDonald. From Skye."

"Skye? Do you know Davey MacDonald? The one who was—"

"Abducted by Norsemen," Kieran said. "Ye've heard the story?"

"Who has not? And was rescued by a man named Gannon. Same man?"

Kieran laughed. "Aye, and this is his son sitting here with us."

"I heard something about this Gannon...," Edgar Keith said and shook his head. He raised a hand and the serving girl hurried over. "It'll come to me. Another round," he said to her, "if you would."

Edgar Keith was the younger son of a cloth merchant in Lothian, he told them, and often came to Berwick. They talked of the death of the Maid and what those here were saying about Scotland losing its queen. He talked earnestly, expressing his concern about their country's future. His lank brown hair fell across his face as he talked, and he pushed it out of his eyes absently. Then suddenly his expression changed. He stared at someone behind Rory so intently, and for so long, his face ruddy now, that Rory turned to see who it was.

As he'd expected, it was a lass, and a fine-looking one, with golden hair and a worried look directed at Mr. Keith. She was young, dressed modestly, but Rory could see the curves of her waist and hips.

"Excuse me for a moment, sirs," Keith said and rose clumsily to his feet, hurrying away from the table before either of them had a chance to answer.

"I wonder if all the lasses in Berwick are this bonnie?" Rory asked.

"They seem to be," Kieran said, watching the dark-haired girl serving ale to a large group of men. "She looks a'right now, doesn't she?"

Rory followed his gaze. The lass seemed to have recovered from the scuffle with the sailors. And for the most part, she was skilled at evading those who tried to touch her or hold her with conversation.

"Ye mean her manner, or do I find her pleasing?"

"I saw her first, lad," Kieran said.

Rory held up both hands. "I willna infringe on yer territory. Just thinking she's worth watching."

He turned to see how Edgar Keith was faring. The young Scot and the lass were deep in conversation, oblivious to those who moved past them. Rory finished his ale, put the cup on the table, and studied it.

"More ale, sir?" the dark-haired lass asked, suddenly next to their table. "More for both of ye?"

"Aye, and thank ye," Kieran said. "Miss...?"

"And for Mr. Keith? Or has he left?"

"No, he's there, talking with the lass," Rory said.

The girl looked over at Edgar Keith and paled noticeably. "Excuse me," she said and hurried away toward the foyer.

"Ye're wasting yer time,"
Rory
told Kieran. "She won't even give ye her name."

"I'll find it out." At Rory's laugh, Kieran held out a coin. "Wager? Match it?"

"Wager," Rory said. "Before morning ye have to discover her name."

"Done," Kieran said.

They watched as the dark-haired girl approached Edgar Keith and the blond lass, the dark-haired girl's gestures agitated, the glances she threw over her shoulder almost fearful. The blond girl listened, then shook her head and smiled serenely, saying something that stopped the other girl's stream of words. The two girls stared at each other, then at Edgar Keith, who nodded. The dark-haired girl took a step backward, spun on her heel, and disappeared.

"Grand," Rory said. He was hungry and thirsty, and had a feeling he'd stay that way for a while.

"I am sorry, sirs," Edgar Keith said as he slid back into his seat. "Your cup is empty. Let's have another and finish our talk."

"I ordered another," Rory said, "but she ran off to join ye. Are ye pleased with yer talk?"

Edgar Keith's smile was wide. "Very. Ah, here's Jacob.

The innkeeper arrived with a pitcher in his hand. "Here we are, good sirs."

"Gentlemen," Edgar said, "meet our host, Jacob Angenhoff. Been here not even two months and has already turned a decaying building into a comfortable inn. I stay nowhere else when I am in Berwick. Jacob, Rory MacGannon and Kieran MacDonald."