Page 46 of Bound to a Warrior
They walked for a couple more hours before coming upon a croft. Duncan didn’t pull back as he had done on other occasions. He simply approached with a smile and a wave to the man on the roof repairing the thatching.
He was a slim man, though solid with light hair and smooth skin and a pleasant smile.
“Good afternoon to you,” Duncan said.
“It is a good afternoon. The sun high, the day warm,” the man said. “If it is food and rest you look for, you are welcome.”
“Thank you for your generosity. I am Duncan and this is Mercy. And we could use nourishment.”
“I am Able,” the man said, climbing down the ladder resting against the front of the cottage.
A robust woman emerged from behind the house, a basket brimming with freshly picked greens on her arm. Her full cheeks were flushed, and her light hair a mass of curls escaping a single ribbon and bouncing around her unmarred face. A lovely embroidered green blouse was tucked in the waist of her dark blue skirt and a pale yellow apron covered a good portion of that.
“This is my wife, Eleanor,” Able said.
“Welcome to our home,” she said.
Any doubt that these people were other than who they presented themselves to be faded quickly from Mercy’s mind when Eleanor smiled. It was sincere, warm and welcoming. They were safe. These people meant them no harm, though she couldn’t help but notice the strange markings that wrapped around Able’s upper arm and there was one around Eleanor’s wrist.
Mercy knew little about the Picts and the little she did was from those who believed them their enemy. The talk she had heard certainly didn’t match what she was seeing for herself.
“So is that a new way the Scots have of holding on to their wives?” Eleanor asked, her dark eyes twinkling as she pointed to the shackles.
Duncan gave a nod to Mercy. “She fears I will stray.”
Mercy grinned and raised her arm. “Aye, and so I solved the problem.”
The couple laughed.
“Come and eat,” Eleanor invited.
It was a hardy stew she gave them with fresh baked bread along with cider and ale, and friendly conversation. When it was done Able approached the matter of their shackles.
“Was it the king’s men who did that to you?”
“Aye, it was,” Duncan said.
“I hope the true king does return and set things right,” Eleanor said. “He would know how to bring peace to this land since the blood of the Picts and Scots run through his veins.”
Able nodded. “He would understand and respect our ways.”
“This king who is to return is not merely a myth?” Mercy asked.
“Some believe it is,” Eleanor said, “but those who know understand otherwise. The time will come for him to rise and claim the power that is his. Now about this chain.” She looked to her husband.
Able turned to Duncan and shook his head. “I have no tool capable of removing them. You’re going to need a smithy to get them off.”
“Is there one nearby?” Duncan asked.
“Are you headed to MacAlpin land?”
“We are,” Duncan confirmed.
“There would be the closest smithy, otherwise you would travel further away from your destination to reach one.”
“Bliss could help you with those wrist sores,” Eleanor said.
“She’s a healer?” Mercy asked.
