were peppery tasting. It was a relief to have something different on my tastebuds.
Our routine was this: Eat leftovers first thing. Then hunt and fish, eat lunch, wrap up the last of the fish in a cloth, depart camp, travel for about three hours — today it had been mostly downhill, not as cold, and gorgeous, a trail through the woods, thick and lush, like a prehistoric forest.
Magnus had a way of knowing the direction and following the land. He led us to another stream, and then we set up camp, just as it was getting dark.
We climbed into the tent and ate the last of the fish. The transmitter on, the tent zipped up, inside our warm sleeping bags, I asked, licking fish juice from my finger tips, “What would you eat if you could have anything?”
Magnus thought for a moment. “Dost ye remember the dish Chef Zach made the night we watched the movie with the fightin’?”
I tried to imagine what movie it was... “Superhero fighting or space fighting?”
“There was the large green man, and the—”
“The Avengers, that’s one of my favorites.”
“Mine as well, though I hae only seen three movies, I daena think it matters which one I put first.”
I laughed. “True, what did we eat that night?”
“Twas a meat pie with a flaky crust.”
“Oh my, I remember that meal. That was delicious. Do you remember the carrots? Sweet, oily, and hunks of salt broiled onto them, like every flavor. Yeah, that was a memorable meal.”
“There was a salad as well. Made of dark green leaves with tiny slices of orange.”
“You joked it was a scurvy salad — man, now I’m getting really hungry.”
“We should think of somethin’ else. Like your breast, ever so close tae my hand.”
I shifted my top over a half inch so that his hand was on my breast. “Imagine that, so it is.” I giggled. “Funny how your wish is my command.”
“Ye are a verra obligin’ wife, and ye daena complain too much on the state of yer castle.”
“I don’t think it needs to be said, but your castle, Master Magnus, kind of sucks.” He squeezed my breast playfully.
I added, “But your cannon is nice.” I curled up on him. “We going to play around again?”
“Tis dark, the night is long, we daena hae anythin’ proper tae eat in days. Tis all we can do...”
I laughed, “I think that’s the first time I’ve heard you sound like sex is a runner up in things to do. “
“Tis the first time I hae been this hungry around ye.”
“How many days before we get to Edinburgh?”
“I think three more nights.”
I sighed and joked, “Fine, sex it is.”
Forty-nine - Kaitlyn
It took five days to travel to Edinburgh. We were in lower elevations. It was a bit warmer, but also more wet. And if we got wet we got chilled through. Our last night was just outside of town. Hunger pulled at our stomachs, making us irritable and impatient, but it was too far to travel this last night, we had to sleep and arrive in the morn. We kept the horses close by, and we were quieter. Highwaymen might be about so Magnus was guarded. We kept our weapons close. We had passed two groups of people on our route, the roads were busier and more dangerous.
At dawn we packed up our tent in lovely weather and began the beautiful ride into Edinburgh.
The town was amazing after living in a tent for so long. How long had it been? Weeks and weeks. Ugh, I needed a shower. The main thoroughfare into Edinburgh was lined with house after house, that cool old fashioned kind with overhanging second floors darkening the road. The roofs were thatched, the details were timber, the walls were white-washed, and behind the houses gardens stretched away from the back doors, small urban farms, in a way. The road was small, crowded, and wound up a hill and settled imposingly at the top, a castle, a large tower that shadowed the surrounding town.
There were people everywhere, pulling carts and pushing loads, carrying baskets, everybody overburdened.
I tried not to stare open-mouthed, but there was so much to see. Weird old-timey work happening: weaving and thatching, women carrying bundles, hordes of unwashed children carrying on and rushing by, a dude with a slop bucket, slopping. A literal chicken slaughter with a loud squawk. A foul-smelling chamberpot poured from a top floor, splashing onto the road, with the call, “Gardyloo!”