Chapter 4

It was the scratching more than the musky smell that first pricked my senses awake. A thin beam of light illuminated two black eyes, yellow rimmed and wild. Ears flat against the head, the furry body crouched beside me, tensed and ready.
The cat offered a single momentary glance at me as if to say, don’t move. I lay still. It pounced over my head. The rat shrieked. The cat’s sharp claws tore into it. Bones crunched as sharp teeth pierced the soft grey neck. The rodent shuddered then fell silent. With prey in mouth, the cat proudly walked away. The guttural growls were warning enough not interfere.
The entertainment over, I raised myself upon my elbows and took in my surroundings. It had been dark when we finally arrived at Lachlan’s estate and, due to my conflict with Alexander, I was sent directly to my quarters; the sheep barn.
“Lest you think it beneath you, William, remember that Christ was born in a stable.” Lachlan handed me a blanket and an oil lamp, then pushed me toward the large building in which his flock found shelter from the wind. “Mind you don’t burn it down,” were his last words before he lead the others away.
Exhausted and almost asleep on my feet, I did not complain. I walked the short distance to the barn, climbed the wooden ladder to the loft, stripped naked, put out the lamp and, wrapped in the blanket, fell into a deep uninterrupted sleep on a pile of straw. Uninterrupted, until the rat started to gnaw so loudly that it woke my feline loft mate, and me.
I had heard a great deal about Lachlan’s manor and was anxious to see it, so I threw off my blanket, brushing away strands of straw that stuck to my naked body, and crawled over to a crack in the wall boards. Dust rose around me, dancing in the thin beam of sunlight that shone through the narrow gap between the rough-hewn boards.
I put my eye to the opening. Early morning summer’s sun bathed the majestic, stone manor in a soft warm light. Ivy climbed the stone walls, finding good purchase in the cracks between the grey stones and draping the sides of the manor in a cloak of green leaves. The reflections from small, square panes of glass in two rows of windows, one above the other, dazzled my eye. A thin line of smoke rose from the farthest of the three chimneys.
Lachlan’s manor was like a small castle, far grander than any building in Freswick Bay, stately in design and well-kept. I could not help but be impressed. I pulled away from my spy hole and looked around. My quarters were not so grand.
I had slept well past sunrise, which was not normal for me, and I desperately needed to piss. I grabbed my crumpled kilt from where I had tossed it the previous night, wrapped it around me, and tied it off. I brushed off the dust and, satisfied that it would do for the day, picked up my shirt and pressed it to my nose. I turned my head at the stink. I was certain that I would meet Helen, so I took a less odorous shirt from the rolled sheepskin that held my clothes, and put it on. I hung the offending shirt on a beam hook, hoping it might air out, and carefully laid out my clan kilt and tunic that I was to wear to the Trinity Sunday dinner.
By now my bladder was almost bursting. I pulled on my shoes, climbed down the ladder and found relief outside, at the back of the barn. A few surprised sheep, who must have lingered, ran to join the main flock grazing in a far field. Feeling better, I adjusted my kilt and walked around the building toward the manor. The bright sun and fresh air lifted my spirits, along with the anticipation of seeing Helen again. The only part of me still grumbling was my stomach. I hadn’t eaten the night before and I was very hungry, so I set out to find the source of the chimney smoke certain that it would bring me to food.
As I rounded the corner of the house I saw Kilgore’s horse grazing on the well-kept grass in front of the main entrance. Not wanting to reacquaint myself with the Englishman, I turned and entered a rear door of the house.
“Who are you?” asked a large, red-faced woman. She sat upon a stool at a wooden table in the centre of the room.
“William,” I replied.
“You’re late,” The words were mixed with a slurp of porridge from a large bowl. “I’ve already served the food and it’s eaten.”
“There is still porridge on the fire.” I nodded at a pot that hung above the glowing coals.
“That’s for the help,” she said, still spooning sticky grey gruel into her mouth, her fat tongue pushing through the gaps caused by missing teeth.
“There looks to be plenty.”
“Don’t touch it!” The fat woman glared and reached for a large wooden spoon. “I heard you were trouble.”

1. Lee Says:
   February 8th, 2010 at 8:36 am

   Waiting for more…