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sane man would challenge a boar without a pike and a sword.
    On the heels of confusion, Drummond felt a surge of pride, for she had spoken well of him to his son. Knowing he must comment, he said the first thought that popped into his baffled mind. “My lady flatters me overmuch.”
    John Handle smiled fondly. “’Tis her way, my lord. A more kind and generous soul never drew a breath. She rations peat with the rest of us. When it comes to protecting her, I’d trade cleaver for sword.”
    Drummond had expected scorn from these people. After his release in April, he’d dawdled in complying with Edward II’s command that he reside at Fairhope Tower. Longfellow had grown fat on the lush English countryside.
    Drummond hadn’t expected objectivity from the people of Fairhope, either. He must test their loyalty. Could this butcher confirm Drummond’s suspicions that his wife still entertained the newly crowned Edward Plantagenet? To that end, Drummond pointed to the slabs of meat. “Your wares look fit enough for our new sovereign.”
    John Handle cocked his head to the side. “The pork? Doesn’t he have a taste for beef?”
    So, the butcher had knowledge of the king’s preferences. No doubt he took special care to please the monarch’s palate every time he languished at Fairhope Tower. Glancing at his unfaithful wife, Drummond felt the old anger rise. To the butcher, he said, “Did His Majesty say as much to you?”
    Looking like he’d been poked, the man grew stiff. “The king don’t speak to the likes o’ me.”
    Now that he was about to catch her in the first lie, Drummond relished his victory. Casually, he said, “Then how did you know he prefers beef to pork?”
    “Brother Julian said ’twas so. He heard it from the prior at Sweetheart Abbey, who heard it from the archbishop himself when he was in Carlisle making a saint of that Welshman. Know you of it differently?”
    Drummond floundered, suddenly adrift in a sea of misconceptions. His wife looked away, but not before he saw the disappointment in her eyes. He felt ashamed of himself and groped for something to say. The butcher seemed oblivious to both Drummond’s ploy and his wife’s reaction to it.
    Hoping for the best, he plastered on a smile. “’Tis true, the new king takes beef over pork, but I imagine he’d change his tune, should he see these fresh hams.”
    Clare rolled her eyes and huffed in disgust.
    The butcher sucked in his paunch. “Thank you, my lord.”
    Eager to extricate himself and his wife, Drummond held out his hand, “Shall we, my dear?”
    Ignoring him, she said much too sweetly, “John, send over a haunch of that meat—for my gracious lord. ” Then she left the way they’d come.
    Once in the lane, she walked toward the weaver’s shed. Over the clickety-clack of the looms, Drummond tried to verify Edward Plantagenet’s stories about his dallyings with Drummond’s wife. The weaver proved loyal to Clare, as did the cobbler, the market maid, and the chandler. To Drummond’s dismay, each of the people he spoke with had a tale of his bravery that rivaled or surpassed the story told by the butcher. With a frayed and rotting rope, he had descended a treacherous glen and saved a wayward child. And all of the heroic episodes had come from Clare Macqueen. Why would she make him a cuckold and then create such tales?
    When they exited the candle shop, she turned on Drummond. “These are good people, and they do not deserve to be used as pawns in your senseless game.”
    She spoke the truth, for he found the townsfolk likeable, open, and truly thankful to have him in their midst. But their gratitude didn’t absolve her. “Do you deny your liaison with Edward?” he demanded.
    “I do not deny that a thirteen-year-old bride can easily fall prey to a royal prince.”
    “A decent Scotswoman would never willingly spread her legs for an Englishman.”
    “What about all of the Douglas heiresses who have married English