“I think he was chasin’ a mouse.”
I said, “So after another ale?—”
He said, “And perhaps another bowl of old stew.”
I smiled. “When will we be shown to our room?”
“We winna, I can see it. Tis through that door.”
I looked, it was dark in there.
I blinked. “Oh, so not a private room?”
“Tis a private room. We just hae tae go through the public room. The men in the public room will sleep on the floor,wewill hae a bed.” He sipped from his ale and wiped his hand across his mouth. “Oryewill hae a bed, I will sleep upon the floor.”
“Oh.” I exhaled. “This is a lot to get used to.” I drained the ale and added, “But I guess this is what you were dealing with when you came to the future.”
“Aye, dost yer eyes sting from the brightness?”
“Nope, it all seems too dark. My breathing is really loud in my ears.”
He nodded thoughtfully and finished his ale. He signaled to the innkeeper for two more. Then while we waited he pulled the vessel from his sporran and placed it between us.
I clamped my hands on his forearm, but it was unnecessary. Totally dead.
He dropped it back in his sporran. “Tis a good thing — we dinna want tae leave Dude anyway.”
I nodded, letting go of his arms, blinking back my tears as the innkeeper brought us a new ale.
Torin asked him, “I ken we are near Aboyne, aye?”
The innkeeper nodded. “Aye, sire. Ye’re at The Fordman’s Rest, by the burn crossing east o’ Aboyne.”
Torin leaned forward. “Dost ye ken what the date is?”
The man scratched his beard. “Och… a week or two past Beltane, if I reckon right. The hill paths are warm, the lambs growin’ quick.”
“That would be near mid-May. And the year?”
The innkeeper only shook his head.
Torin’s jaw tightened. “Hae ye heard any news of our Mary?”
“Aye, she’s away tae France, ever since our good king Jamie passed?—”
Torin leaned forward. “James the Fifth passed in 1542. How long since then?”
The man squinted at the fire, then gave a slow nod. “I mind it well. My eldest lad was born the same winter the king died. He’ll be sixteen come Yule.”
Torin said, “Sixteen years… then this must be the year of Our Lord 1558.”
The man grunted, glancing toward the ale barrel. “Aye, if ye say it plain, that sounds right. Beggin’ yer pardon, sire, I must see tae the drinkers.” He shuffled off.
Torin lifted his ale, thoughtful. “I canna be certain, Princess, but by his reckonin’, tis mid-May, 1558. A week after I left. The verra same year.”
I said, “That’s good news. Max will be here. Somewhere.”
“Aye. I must reach Muckhart, where we are tae meet.”
