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Hugh smiled, too. His years as a landless knight had given him an appreciation for the tradition of stripping defeated foes of their belongings. Many was the time he’d eaten off the money he’d made selling knightly trappings back to his enemies after a tournament or battle. This time, no such offer was made. Those who fought for Simon de Montfort had given up their rights to their property. And some, like the earl of Jagger, had given up their lives.

Hugh glanced toward the forest not far from the tent. Where was she? How long would she sulk? She wouldn’t keep him waiting too long, surely; the sun rapidly approached its nadir, and night in the woods was a fearsome experience.

“We missed your leadership on the battlefield,” Sir Lyndon said. “If not for your early wisdom in planning our maneuvers, we would have been sore pressed after you were wounded.”

Hugh didn’t answer. He didn’t like Sir Lyndon’s barrage of compliments. He didn’t like that their friendship had changed from one between equals to one between superior and supplicant. When Prince Edward stripped Edmund Pembridge of both his title and his castle and bestowed them on Hugh, Sir Lyndon had begun to regard Hugh with an eye toward profit. Hugh found it disconcerting to be viewed as a cow to be milked.

“Who escaped the battle?” he asked.

“Richard of Wiltshire and his party of mercenaries.” Sir Lyndon spit on the ground after saying that name. “Baron Giles of Cumberland. And the clan Maxwell.” He would have spit again, but he knew better.

“The clan Maxwell,” Hugh repeated. He didn’t say so, but he was glad they had escaped.

“I can’t understand what they were doing fighting on English soil.” Sir Lyndon dared to grumble.

Hugh grunted. “They’re Scottish, aren’t they? The Scottish love to see the English fight among themselves, because the Scottish always make a profit off our wars. And why shouldn’t the Maxwell take sides? If the prince wins and the king is freed, they can retreat over the border into Scotland and live off the plunder they’ve taken. If de Montfort wins, they’ll have the pick of any loyal English lord’s castle.”

“You consorted with them, didn’t you?” Sir Lyndon said.

“After they captured me in battle, I lived in Scotland for almost a year,” Hugh acknowledged.

Swept by curiosity, Dewey didn’t realize that a squire should never interrupt. “Did someone ransom you, or did you escape?”

“Neither.” Hugh looked each man in the face as he answered. “They let me go.”

Sir Philip stared in fascination. He hadn’t been with them long enough to have heard this story. But Sir Lyndon avoided Hugh’s gaze. Hugh’s year with the Maxwells occurred before they met, and Sir Lyndon seemed to wish Hugh would forget it—or, at least, stop talking about it.

But Dewey pressed for an explanation. “The Scots let you go? I thought the Scots are barbarians who roast their captives if they can’t make a profit off of them.”

“So they are,” Hugh agreed. “Although I never saw anyone roasted, they do make slaves of their unransomed captives.”

Dewey knelt by Hugh’s stool. “They made you a slave?”

“And made me turn the grindstone in their mill,” Hugh said. “I was chained, and the man in charge told me I was better than a horse and dumber than an ox.”

“He thought you were dumb?”

Dewey didn’t wonder about the “better than a horse” part, Hugh realized, and that was a tribute to his strength. “Aye, he thought I was dumb. That was his first mistake. Letting me off the chain to fight in their championships was his second. I beat everyone there, and when the laird took me into his castle, the miller found himself buying an ox.”

Dewey’s eyes bulged. “Then what happened?”

“I served the Scottish lord—Hamish Maxwell, by name—until I rendered him such service he let me go.” Hugh’s men shuffled their feet and cleared their throats, embarrassed for him that he had served such a lowly creature as a Scottish lord. Hugh didn’t care. To Dewey, he said, “That is why, to this day, I can speak Scottish, eat haggis, and sing every clan song from start to finish. ’Tis good to know your enemies, Dewey—never forget that.”

“Aye, my lord.”

“Now,” Hugh said, “I smell meat roasting, and I’ve had too little of that this last moon. Would you bring me something to eat?”

Dewey jumped to his feet, chagrined that he’d had to be nudged into doing his duty. “As you wish, my lord. We’ve put together a wedding feast for you and your new lady.”

As the squire disappeared toward the fires set among the tents, Sir Lyndon said, “Too bad your new wife isn’t here to share in it.”

Hugh ignored his counselor and looked again to the woods. Had he made a mistake by letting her go? Would pride make her stay longer in the forest than was wise? She’d already demonstrated an overabundance of regard for the wisdom of her actions.

In sooth, he could depend on Wharton to watch over her.

“So the rumors are true.” Sir Philip combed his beard with his fingers. “You lived with the Scots. Are they truly the barbarians of legend, or are they nothing more than superb fighting men?”

Hugh grinned at Sir Philip’s choice of words. “Nothing more than superb fighting men,” he said. “Before you go into battle against them, have the priest give you last rites and pray you don’t need them.”