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twenty-four command them? And how had the clan’s coffers been mismanaged?
    He looked around the room. A brocade-covered bed stood between carved tables. A tapestry of some ancient battle hung on the wall. A candle stood in a holder shaped to look like a lion rampant. He’d been in a dozen centuries-old castles like this on school trips or dragged by his mum on holidays to see “our history,” but never had he stood in the middle of one, knowing that the furniture and decorations at which he looked were not part of Scotland’s past but its present. A shiver went through him.
    He didn’t have to be a denizen of this century to know his torn and bloodstained sark was a no-go for dinner. He opened the wardrobe and looked at the array of linen and coats. Whoever owned them was tall and broad shouldered. He hoped it wasn’t Rosston. He didn’t want to spend a moment in that man’s debt.
    He found a sark embroidered with a tiny vine around the neck and down the front. Had Abby’s hand done the work? He traced a finger along the twining leaves.
    He heard a sound and turned. Grendel had appeared and was turning in circles to make a place for himself on the empty hearth.
    “Oh, I see. You’re here to keep an eye on me, are you? As if I had anywhere to run. Perhaps you can tell me a bit about your mistress.”
    Grendel laid his head on his paws and looked at Duncan ruefully.
    “Sworn to secrecy. I understand.” Duncan bent to scratch the dog’s ears. “There are no pets allowed in my building at home, I’m afraid. I have to get all my dog needs filled at the park.”
    Grendel rolled on his back and offered his belly.
    A boy flew by the open door, firewood in his arms, and Grendel barked. Duncan recognized him as the boy who’d been attacked at the battle.
    Duncan jogged to the door. “Hey.” The boy spun around. He was twelve or thirteen, with a shock of brown hair that hung over his forehead. “Where are you going?”
    “Firewood for Sir Alan’s room.”
    “Come back here when you finish, will you?”
    The boy shrugged, flipping the hair from his eyes.
    By the time Duncan had tucked in his tails, the boy was back, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “What is it?”
    “Do you remember me?”
    The boy nodded, hesitant.
    “My name’s Duncan. Is your arm all right?”
    “It is, sir. Thank you.” The boy stooped by Grendel and patted the dog’s head. His hands were filthy and the shirt he wore looked as if it was a size too small.
    “Grendel is Abby’s dog, is he?”
    “Abby?”
    “Er, Abby Kerr?”
    “Oh, Lady Kerr. Aye, he is. He’s verra good with sticks. I can throw them as far down the river as you can imagine, and he just jumps in and brings them back.”
    “Lady Kerr is, er, the chief of Clan Kerr? I’m not from around here.”
    “She is. My ma says Lady Kerr is too big for her saddle. I don’t know as I agree, though. I’ve seen her in her saddle. She looks quite handsome.”
    Duncan coughed to hide a laugh. “What about you? Do you like her? Do you think she does a good job? Lady Kerr, I mean, not your mum. I’m sure your mum does a very fine job.”
    The boy shrugged. “I guess. She negotiated with an officer in the English army, and there haven’t been any battles since last year at Hogmany—well, until today.”
    “Does Rosston help her? Rosston is the man with arms like small hams.”
    “I know Rosston. He was a hero at the Battle of Dunkeld. Everyone knows him.”
    “So, does he help her with the planning of attacks or anything else with the clan?”
    “Lady Kerr does not plan attacks,” the boy said. “I don’t think she likes them at all. She certainly doesn’t plan them with anybody.”
    “Perhaps they share a different relationship?”
    The boy made a thoughtful frown. “They are related. Rosston’s her cousin, though their families don’t speak.”
    Feuding cousins. Very interesting. “She appears to be a little cool toward him.”
    “I dunno about that. He’s the