* * *
The men sat around the fire after their supper, lazily enjoying the feeling of full stomachs, exchanging stories and scratching. The scratching was endemic; close quarters and lack of hygiene made body lice so common as to excite no remark when one man detached a representative specimen from a fold of his plaid and tossed it into the fire. The louse flamed for an instant, one among the sparks of the fire, and then was gone.
The young man they called Kincaid—his name was Alexander, but there were so many Alexanders that most of them ended up being called by nicknames or middle names—seemed particularly afflicted with the scourge this evening. He dug viciously under one arm, into his curly brown hair, then—with a quick glance to see whether I was looking in his direction—at his crotch.
“Got ’em bad, have ye, lad?” Ross the smith observed sympathetically.
“Aye,” he answered, “the wee buggers are eatin’ me alive.”
“Bloody hell to get out of your cock hairs,” Wallace Fraser observed, scratching himself in sympathy. “Gives me the yeuk to watch ye, laddie.”
“D’ye ken the best way to rid yourself o’ the wee beasties?” Sorley McClure asked helpfully, and at Kincaid’s negative shake of the head, leaned forward and carefully pulled a flaming stick from the fire.
“Lift your kilt a moment, laddie, and I’ll smoke ’em out for ye,” he offered, to catcalls and jeers of laughter from the men.
“Bloody farmer,” Murtagh grumbled. “And what would ye know about it?”
“You know a better way?” Wallace raised thick brows skeptically, wrinkling the tanned skin of his balding forehead.
“O’ course.” He drew his dirk with a flourish. “The laddie’s a soldier now; let him do it like a soldier does.”
Kincaid’s open face was guileless and eager. “How’s that?”
“Weel, verra simple. Ye take your dirk, lift your plaidie, and shave off half the hairs on your crutch.” He raised the dirk warningly. “Only half, mind.”
“Half? Aye, well…” Kincaid looked doubtful, but was paying close attention. I could see the grins of anticipation broadening on the faces of the men around the fire, but no one was laughing yet.
“Then…” Murtagh gestured at Sorley and his stick. “Then, laddie, ye set the other half on fire, and when the beasties rush out, ye spear them wi’ your dirk.”
Kincaid blushed hotly enough to be seen even by firelight as the circle of men erupted in hoots and roars. There was a good deal of rude shoving as a couple of the men pretended to try the fire cure on each other, brandishing flaming billets of wood. Just as it seemed that the horseplay was getting out of hand, and likely to lead to blows in earnest, Jamie returned from hobbling the animals. He stepped into the circle, and tossed a stone bottle from under one arm to Kincaid. Another went to Murtagh, and the shoving died down.
“Ye’re fools, the lot o’ ye,” he declared. “The second best way to rid yourself of lice is to pour whisky on them and get them drunk. When they’ve fallen down snoring, then ye stand up and they’ll drop straight off.”
“Second best, eh?” said Ross. “And what’s the best way, sir, and I might ask?”
Jamie smiled indulgently round the circle, like a parent amused by the antics of his children.
“Why, let your wife pick them off ye, one by one.” He cocked an elbow and bowed to me, one eyebrow raised. “If you’d oblige me, my lady?”