I scanned the room, looking for an animal, but found an old man, wrapped in a blanket, sitting on a stool near the fire. Oh, and a goat beside him,that explained it.
“Two of ye, is it?”
Torin grunted.
I looked around. The ceiling was low-beamed, blackened from years of fire. The walls were made of rough stone and packed earth. There were skins hanging by the hearth to dry.
The old man said, “Ye can sleep in the loft if ye daena mind the smell o’ turnips.”
Torin said, “I will be grateful for the smell of neeps, tae cover the stench of this wayside. Tis nae fit for ruffians, much less ladies.”
The old man said, “Ye want the loft or ye wanna keep ridin’?”
“I will take it.”
Torin led me to an old rickety wooden ladder.
I whispered, “Is there no food?”
Torin whispered back, “Climb up, there is stew, I will bring it tae ye.”
I climbed the ladder, my drenched clothes dragging on the rungs, every step heavier than it should have been. At the top, the loft yawned dark and rank, with only a few scattered piles of straw and some rough wool blankets. In the corner sat a chamberpot.Ugh.Who had slept here last? How long since any of this had been cleaned?
I leaned over the edge of the loft and whispered down, “Will you make sure the stew is heated, so it’s safe?”
“Aye, I will oversee it.”
He crossed to the hearth, firelight catching his face. Even though I swore I hated him, he still looked intent on rescuing me, serious and handsome in the flickering glow. “Tis yer stew?” he asked.
The old man grunted. “Aye, the missus made it.”
Torin stirred the pot. “Where is she?”
The old man muttered on, but the only words I caught were, “Long gone.”
A chill ran down my spine. I whispered, “Torin?”
He strode close to the ladder.
“How old is the stew, Torin?” I felt like, once again, I was going to cry.
Torin said, his voice low, “His wife made it yesterday. She is gone for the night tae stay on their croft. He mans the wayside alone.”
“Oh, okay, I guess that’s okay.”
“I will bring it up, but ye are still shiverin’. Ye ought tae get from yer wet clothes.”
I nodded and retreated into the dark, damp loft.
I undid the pin holding the plaid across my shoulder and unwound it, leaving just the tunic on. The fabric was soaked through, clinging to my skin. I couldn’t decide what was worse — going naked under a scratchy wool blanket, or staying in a tunic that was wet, growing colder? None of this was okay.
A trill sounded below. I leaned over the loft’s edge to see Dude stalk into the wayside, fur plastered flat, tail thrashing, wet, wild, pissed, walking into the room trilling his head off.
The old man and Torin spoke to each other and I suppose they came to an understanding on the cat, because Dude strutted to the hearth, shook himself, and sprawled like he owned the place.
When the goat sidled over, Dude swatted a paw and the goat skittered back to the old man’s stool and ate straw from the floor.
A momentlater Torin climbed the ladder, his broad frame crowding the tiny space, and handed me a wooden cup of stewwith a spoon balanced inside. He glanced around the loft. “Och nae, yer bed is even worse than last night’s.”
