“I don’t see any mercenaries with you or any sort of guard. You’ll have need of someone to mind your back.”
Cormac braced his feet wide and looked down at the slender man who was a head shorter than he was. “I dinna think we do.”
The dog issued a whine and stared up with soft brown eyes set beneath his filthy hair.
Was the dog begging Cormac now as well?
Cormac didn’t bother to mention Duncan or Lachlan. Instead, he grabbed his pack and slipped into the tent with Graham following behind him.
“We dinna have time for all this,” Cormac muttered. “No’ when we have to prepare for the feast. We dinna even know what time it starts.”
“Just before the sun goes down,” the mercenary answered from outside the tent.
Cormac ignored the man’s reply. Graham, however, called out to the man in thanks. Sundown was swiftly approaching. Not that they needed the motivation to hurry them from the wet clothes chafing at their skin. Duncan and Lachlan appeared several moments later with a bucket of fresh water to wipe away the mud of travel, while the brothers returned to their tent to prepare for the feast where they would be spying on the nobles.
Cormac and Graham changed into their finest tunics, which they belted over woolen hose, and emerged from the tent to discover the mercenary lounging outside, his back pressed to a pile of timber with his dog resting its head in his lap. The mercenary leapt up as his gaze caught Cormac and Graham.
“The feast is going to be one of the best from what I hear,” the man said. “M’name’s Alan and this here’s Pip.” The dog cocked his head at the mention, forehead rumpled with concentration.
“We dinna need an escort, Alan.” Cormac fixed his gaze on the man. “We dinna need protection. Men already travel with us, men from our clan. Ye’re no’ wanted, and I’ll no’ be paying ye.”
Not only did Alan appear nonplussed, but he also did not leave their side. “Do you even know where you’re going?”
“The castle,” Cormac replied. “Where I’ll no’ have need of ye.”
“Aye, well, the entrance is that way.” Alan indicated west with a long, thin finger. “You’ll be going toward the back of the castle with the direction you’re heading.”
Cormac grudgingly shifted his direction.
“If you’re not in the market for a mercenary, what are you here for?” Alan asked. “The joust? The melee? Revenge?” He stated the last word with dramatic flair, his brown eyes growing wide.
Graham met Cormac’s gaze, and Cormac knew immediately what his brother was thinking. Neither of them knew what the ladies they sought looked like. Graham wanted to utilize the mercenary’s knowledge of the people to glean the identities of the women.
Cormac shook his head, but Graham was already pressing a coin into Alan’s palm and whispering in his ear. Alan nodded and picked up his pace with a determined purpose.
The Great Hall was packed with people by the time they entered. Musicians filled the air with the merriment of strings and pipes floating above the raucous din of too many conversations. A space would no doubt be cleared by the lower tables later for dancing.
Cormac grimaced at the idea of having to dance.
“There is Lady Clara de Montfort ,” Alan said in a low whisper. “Daughter to the Norman Count de Evreux.”
Cormac followed the direction of his stare to a brunette in a green kirtle with a pert smirk on her lips. She offered a chuckle to the woman next to her and casually sipped from the goblet in front of her.
“And there is Lady Isolde Maxwell.” Alan shifted his focus across the capacious Great Hall. “Sister to Earl of Easton.”
Cormac turned his head and stopped short. Lady Isolde wore a yellow silk gown that complimented her auburn hair and set her skin off like rich cream. Her face was delicate in its beauty with high cheekbones and finely arched brows, balanced with the fullness of her rosy lips.
Despite the excitement humming around her, Lady Isolde held only a small smile on her lips, as if she were offering it for posterity rather than in genuine enjoyment. She didn’t engage in conversation with those around her, as others did. Nay, she gazed at the flowers strewn over the linen tablecloth with that plastered smile, her thoughts so far away, it made Cormac wonder where they took her.
Lady Isolde Maxwell.
Her name hummed in Cormac’s veins like a challenge.
She was the lady he wished to woo. He