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Malcolm Maxwell was silent for one astonished moment, then he roared, “Hugh! Hugh, me lad, how are ye?”

Hugh dropped the big man’s fingers and clasped his shoulders instead. In the Scottish he’d learned while turning the millstone, he said, “Good to see ye, Malcolm! Although in this light, there’s not much seeing to be done.”

“Come in then! Come into the light where we can—” Malcolm stopped talking, then pushed Hugh’s chest with all his might. As Hugh stumbled back, Malcolm said, “Wait. We were told ye were the commander of the English prince’s troops.”

Hugh righted himself. “Aye, so I am. Did ye think that would keep me from the best hospitality now in the south of England?”

Malcolm maintained a suspicious silence.

Hugh kicked out and connected with the barrel, and the dull sound of its laden richness spoke loudly of his intentions. “I brought a barrel of stolen English ale to prove I’ve not forgotten what ye taught me.”

Malcolm roared with laughter. “Ye learned well—for an Englishman. Aye, ’tis the night before battle, and we’d best have our drink together now before I separate your head from your body.”

“Aye, or before I teach ye proper respect for an English lord.” Hugh hooked his thumbs into his belt. “I am a lord now, ye ken.”

Opening the tent flap, Malcolm bowed low. “Enter our humble abode, then, English lord, and let us show ye a Scotsman’s awe for all things English.”

Which was none, Hugh knew, else they would not be there. Blinking in the light of candles, he had the impression of a tent full of large, hostile men before another rough Scottish voice spoke. “Did ye capture one of the king’s Englishmen already, then, Malcolm?”

“Better than that, Hamish.” Malcolm pushed Hugh forward so the light shone on him. “He came to surrender when he heard we were here.”

One moment of stunned silence greeted Malcolm’s announcement, then the laird himself, Hamish Maxwell, came to his feet and rushed forward. “Hugh! ’Tis glad I am to see ye, lad!”

The other clansmen, the ones who had been there during Hugh’s tenure in Scotland, surged forward, following the lead of their chief. Angus and Armstrong and Charles and Sinclair, and some he recognized but could not remember, surrounded him and pounded him on his back. The others, the ones who were too young to remember him or who had been elsewhere, stood up and watched in ill-concealed amazement.

Passing from hand to hand, Hugh got tweaks and slaps and manly punches, and he returned them in fair measure. He’d forgotten how much he enjoyed the company of these men, barbarians though they were. They never pretended false friendship, nor did they break oaths given long ago. He was safe in their midst until the next day, when they would meet on the battlefield and try, as Malcolm said, to separate heads from bodies.

At that thought, he could almost hear Edlyn’s voice in his ear. There had to be a better way.

“I’ve brought ye ale”—Hugh lifted the barrel above his head—“and wonder if ye have something to offer in return.”

The men quieted, and Hamish eyed the barrel. “’Tis a bold guest who brings a gift in hopes of receiving one in return.”

“Ah, but most of your guests haven’t gone twelve years without the fine flavor of Scottish haggis,” Hugh answered.

The tent erupted into wild masculine laughter, and Hugh found himself pushed onto a stool. He was relieved of his barrel. An oat scone was placed into his one hand, and a wooden platter of haggis steamed in his other. It was, he assured them, enough to bring tears to an adopted Scotsman’s eyes.

They used a tap—“just happen to carry one with us, lad”—to break through to the ale, and before a single drop had been consumed, the Scots heartily toasted him. Then he ate, and he toasted them. Then they toasted each other, then Hugh wiped the brown liquid off his upper lip and said, “I have a longing to sing a song I’ve not heard for too many years.” In a hearty, booming voice, he started singing the song he’d heard so many times while a guest of the Maxwells. It was the song that boasted of every Maxwell’s courage, strength—and the length of his claymore.

The Maxwells, caught by surprise, sputtered for only moments before joining in. One song led to another, and other adventuring Scots from other clans pushed their way into the tent. They sang their songs, too, and drank the ale until the tap ran dry. After that, different barrels, most with mysteriously English markings, were brought from their hiding places and cracked.

Hugh had forgotten the camaraderie of a Scottish evening, where every man drank all he could and spoke his piece and each wrestling match begat another. When Hugh found himself on the ground beneath a pile of smelly Scotsmen, he proved the truth of the adage that the wildcat on the bottom always won.

Late into the night, the party broke up with laughter and cheers, and Hamish Maxwell himself clapped his hand on Hugh’s shoulder to show him the way out of the camp. Malcolm walked on Hugh’s other side, making sure, Hugh supposed, that he would go right back to the king’s camp and not loiter to cause trouble.

But Hugh didn’t plan to physically attack the rebel army. Oh, nay, he had a different plan, and Hamish Maxwell knew it. The joviality left him, and he asked, “So, lad, why did ye really come to see us this night?”

“’Tis scarcely night, now,” Hugh said. “See? The morning star is low on the horizon, and the sun will be rising ere long.”

“So it will,” Hamish said agreeably. “And then I will take your head from your shoulders.”

“Ye will try.” Hugh corrected him. He stretched hugely, hoping to work the aches out of his muscles that the night’s work had put in. “’Twas a good cause for any Scotsman, I think, to join with Simon de Montfort and his son and all the barons who are fighting the English prince. ’Tis a good chance for a Scotsman to raid English towns and sack English farms. I imagine ye filled your coffers with goods and gold.”

“And if we did?” Malcolm asked.

“’Tis no more than an Englishman expects,” Hugh answered. “We all know the Scots like to fight, especially when there’s profit to be made and especially when it’s not on their land. But I wonder”—he cracked his knuckles, and the sound snapped through the predawn like a lance breaking—“if the Scots will be smart enough this time to escape with their plunder.”

“The Scots always escape with their plunder.” All geniality had escaped from Malcolm’s voice.