Page 101 of Bride of Mist
The bakers had been up for hours, of course. The smell of fresh-baked clapbread wafted through the air. Breezing past the ovens while the bakers were engaged, she casually tucked two of the cooling loaves under her plaid and continued walking.
When she found the stables, the stable lads were already up and about, feeding and watering the horses and mucking out the stalls.
From the wattle fence surrounding the practice field, she called out to the nearest lad. “Hist!” She beckoned him with a lift of her head.
The scrawny blond youth approached.
She showed him one of the loaves. “Here’s breakfast for ye if ye can tell me which one’s Campbell.”
He didn’t hesitate. Wiping his muddy hands on his trews, he took the bread and dove in.
“He’s there with the dappled gray,” he said around a mouthful, nodding toward the other side of the field, where a lad was tightening the girth on a horse.
Clutching the remaining loaf under her arm, she made her way along the fence to where Campbell was working.
He was plain, brown, and honest of face. Unlike the first lad, he was skeptical of a free meal.
She perused the practice field, which was beginning to fill with horses and stable lads. “Do you have somewhere…private…we can go?”
He looked mildly bothered. “With all due respect, m’lady, I’ve got horses to exercise. I’ve no time for…” He let the sentence dangle and turned back to brushing the horse’s coat. “Maybe one o’ the other lads will take ye up on your offer.”
She colored. He’d clearly misunderstood her. “I just need to talk to ye,” she hissed, wondering how often the lad was called upon for services other than grooming and saddling. “’Tis about Dougal.”
That got his attention.
“Dougal? Where is he?” he murmured in concern. “Urramach’s been missin’ for days. No one knows where Dougal’s gone. He rode to Kirkoswald, but—”
“He’s fine,” she said. “But he needs your help.” She scanned the field. “Do you have somewhere we can—”
“Come,” he said. He led her to a small open shed with an anvil for forging horseshoes. He sat on the anvil and offered her a three-legged stool.
“Dougal told me you could be trusted,” she said.
Campbell nodded, obviously flattered. But he was also wise. “How am I to knowyecan be trusted?”
“Fair point,” she said. “All I can do is tell you what I know and swear to you that…” She grimaced. It was hard to express how she felt in words. “That I care for him as much as you do.”
“Ye care for Dougal?”
“I do.”
He still looked unsure. “Is that his plaid?”
“Oh. Aye. He…lent it to me.”
By his mistrustful glance, he still wasn’t entirely sure she hadn’t killed him for the plaid.
Nonetheless she continued. “What I’m about to tell you is of vital importance and utmost secrecy. You must swear, upon pain of death, that you won’t betray him.”
“Betray Dougal? I would ne’er,” he insisted.
“Even if it came to war betwixt Dougal…” she asked carefully, “and Gaufrid?”
He cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “Truth be told, ’tis Dougal who should be laird, not his brother. And I’m not the only one who thinks so.”
“Right.” That was exactly what she needed to hear. “You mean that?”
He nodded.
