“Not all of it — just one. A light one.”
“What would the men think of me? They would mock me mercilessly!”
I said, “That can’t possibly be true. Women can carry things, we’re strong.”
He jokingly scoffed. He had heavy bags all over his shoulders and looked very weighed down. “Ye say ye are strong. Where are yer muscles?”
I bent my elbow and flexed. My bicep barely showed. He laughed.
I joked, “It’s much bigger when I pump some iron.”
He looked confused. “Pump... tae mean, what?”
“I mean to lift weights and pump the muscle bigger so it will impress you.”
He shook his head, amused. “I daena think we hae time tae wait for the miracle it would take tae impress me with yermuscles. Princess, I am verra hungry. Can I give ye one sack so we may get straight tae supper?”
I said, “Fine, yes, heaviest you’ve got so I can prove myself.”
He dipped his shoulder, and let one bag drop with a thud.
It was heavy. Very heavy. I hoisted it, wobbling under the weight. “Ferrari carried this without complaint? Wow.”
I trailed him toward the inn, staggering under the filthy leather bag, the stench of horse and dust rising with every step. Hungry, raw-skinned, weak-kneed, I wondered why I hadn’t just played the Princess card and let him carry it.
12
LEXI
1558 - THE FORDMAN’S REST NEAR ABOYNE
We ducked through the doorway into the tavern, the light vanishing behind us. It took my eyes a moment to adjust — the interior was darker than the dusk outside. The ceiling was so low Torin had to stoop, his head thrust forward to keep from brushing the soot-blackened thatch.
The only light came from a few tallow candles guttering down the center of the long trestle table. A peat fire burned at the far end, smoke curling up the rough stone hearth.
Six men hunched over their cups at the warm end of the table, but when the innkeeper waved his arms and barked, they shuffled grudgingly along. We dropped our bags in a stack against the wall and claimed their seats, three-legged stools, right before the hearth.
The floor was packed earth, strewn with straw, damp in places —was that piss?The air was thick with ale, old sweat, and a waft of boiled onions and turnips from the kettle swinging over the fire.
Not that I could complain. I reeked of wet wool and horse, and, frankly, like something pickled, a little like cat piss. I hadn’tbathed or washed my nether regions in days.How long had it been, days or years?
Torin leaned across the table, low, and said, “Best not look down the table at the ruffians there. They’re ornery and drunk. Ignore them.”
I nodded quickly. “I agree.” Then I asked, “What will we be ordering for food, what are our choices?”
He smiled faintly. “My dream is bannocks and cheese.”
“Is that your favorite?”
“Aye, tis the best, oatcakes with hard cheese. I order it whenever I can. I hae been thinking on it for hours.”
“Like pancakes?”
He thought for a moment. “Heavier, verra substantial. My favorite cheese is the goat, but any cheese can be just as fine.”
“Never had bannocks, but I will try anything.” I licked my lips. “Hopefully something filling.”
The innkeeper’s wife stalked up to the hearth, swung the kettle closer, and scraped the contents with a long wooden spoon. Whatever it was, it was thick and took some muscle to move it around.
