“Look at them,” Merida said, putting an arm over his thin shoulders. She could feel that he was still quivering every so often with his fear. “Have you ever seen anything like them?”
Hamish didn’t answer. Instead he stood pressed against her, staring at the beehive houses with a hollow expression. She dug out the little bear that she’d first brought to Ardbarrach for Hubert and handed it over to Hamish, who silently accepted it. Brother and sister stood side by side like that, Hamish worrying his fingers over the bear’s worn ears and Merida worrying her hand over the top of Hamish’s head, as Fergus received an introduction to Maldouen’s boss, the head of the village. Earl Godfrey of Strathmannon. It was a very big name for a very small village, and Merida was uncomfortably reminded of Mistress mac Lagan talking about rural kingdoms playing pretend. The earl’s subjects were a few dozen scrawny villagers with not a lot of meat on their bones and not a single luxury to be seen, apart from smiles. There were plenty of those. A royal visit would have been thrilling on its own. But a royal visit after a daring wolf chase? The village was in high spirits; the stories tonight would be good.
Godfrey trundled over to Hamish and Merida. He looked no more earl-like than any of the men he led, and he had the same broad accent as Maldouen. “You must be the princess.”
“That’s me,” Merida said.
“And this the prince,” Godfrey said. He squinted at Hamish, who was still visibly quivering. Instantly his face melted into sympathy. This was how it always went with little Hamish. Just as Leezie usually inspired people to offer her help, Hamish inspired people to offer him comfort. “Oh, wee prince, you’re safe now. The wolves are bad this year, but Maldouen and Ol’ Flower here keep them well away. Look. Ol’ Flower, come on over to this boy.”
Godfrey encouraged the dog with the spiny armor to approach Hamish.
Hamish, already small, somehow managed to shrink further. What Godfrey didn’t know was that there was nothing he could say to improve Hamish’s mood and that, moreover, the act of talking to him would make Hamish feel worse. He was still afraid of the wolves, and now he was also afraid of the armored dog, and also of being talked to directly by Godfrey.
Fergus saw this and said, “Merida, why don’t you put up the horses, and check the bags after that gallop—you know what to do. Bring Hamish so he can see to Humor. And do something with that cockeyed dog of Harris’s.”
“I thought you said he was of good stock,” Merida said. She and her father eyed Brionn, who was running in loopy circles around Ol’ Flower, barking strange half-barks that just came out as nasal whines.
“Don’t tell Harris I called him cockeyed,” Fergus said. “But that dog was born under a broken star for sure.”
The villagers offered to do the job for the princess, of course, but Merida waved them away. She knew what her father wanted her to do, and it was not simply take care of the tired horses.
“Have you ever seen Dad do this before?” Merida asked Hamish, who stood obediently beside her in the lean-to, eyes still terrified, fingers still trembling. It would have been easy to be impatient with him if he had been crying, but instead he just tried to quietly do whatever she asked despite his fear. She looked to see if he still had the little bear—he did—and kept up a cheery prattle she hoped would distract him. “Oh, of course you wouldn’t have. You’ve never traveled with him. This village doesn’t have any trade routes, and they don’t have anything to trade, anyway. They just live off the land. They might have a few goats and maybe a pony or two. They gather food and store it for when it gets cold. So we’re going to give them what we have, these things we brought for our treats. That’s what Dad meant for us to do.”
Hamish watched with serious eyes as she loaded his arms up with sugared fruits and preserved meats and spiced baked goods, all the royal luxuries they’d brought for the journey.
“But don’t make a fuss—act like we don’t know if they already have these things, okay?” Merida added. “Let them have their pride.”
Later they sat around a big, roughly hewn table outside, enjoying a meal in the still-bright light. (Merida suspected the insides of the beehive houses were too small and dark for comfortable dining, and those living in them might not want to spare the rushes and animal fat to light them.) It seemed like it might be late, but it was hard to say what time it was. These summer days went on forever, and it would be bright until midnight or later. Fergus sat at the head of the table and the earl at its foot, and villagers packed the benches on either side and spilled into the grass as well. The tale of the wolves had already been told several times over. Every time it was told, Ol’ Flower got thrown another bit of meat. She moved quickly despite her great size, and no matter how quickly Brionn tried to intercept the flying food, Ol’ Flower always got to it first, to everyone’s great delight. Well, everyone but Hamish, who was still terrified of her.
Hamish had calmed down a little, at least. With his big eyes he now watched the villagers savoring all the foods he took for granted. He also stared at the lute leaning against the bench a few feet away.
The woman beside it caught him looking at it but was smart enough to not bring it up directly. Instead, she said, “Thank you for these treats, little man.”
He blinked up at her. The woman glanced at Merida, who shrugged a little.
“But what’s nicest is your company,” the woman added. She took the lute up into her lap. “A new audience to play for!”
As she began to play, voices whooped around the table. Some of the villagers banged cups against the wood in time with the tune. Merida watched Hamish’s spidery, cold fingers subconsciously move along with the tune. How he loved music. He only had to hear a melody once or twice to be able to play it back.
“Does the prince play?” asked the lute player.
“Hamish is a wee beast with all stringed things,” Fergus said. “Pity those wolves didn’t have strings.”
Immediately, the woman passed the lute to Hamish. He didn’t move his arms in time to take it, so she simply plopped it down in his lap. “I’ll trade you a tune for your dish of pears.”
Hamish sat there, a frozen little creature with big eyes. Pinned to the bench by fear and by the lute.
How badly Merida wanted him to be able to play fearlessly for this group. Not for their benefit, but for his. How was it that his sense of fun had been replaced by a sense of fear? She whispered to him, “You could play ‘Crosses and Squares.’”
Still he was frozen.
Maldouen said, “Don’t you think you owe Ol’ Flower a tune for saving your life?”
Maldouen was being playful, but he had, without realizing, hit upon the only way to make Hamish perform: obligation. Hamish let fear rule him, but not at the expense of other people.
Hamish whispered, “All right,” and then added, to the dog, “Ma’am,” which made the entire table laugh uproariously.
Hamish began to play.
The villagers began to clap in time with him. Hamish played faster. They clapped faster. Hamish played little riffs and twirls, and the villagers got up and danced along with the well-known tune. With the lute in his hand and the tune ringing out strongly, it was almost possible to believe Hamish wasn’t afraid, but Merida knew better. This was how it always went. When Hamish played for other people, he always looked liked a different person. Straighter, surer. More like Hubert or Harris. This was part of a good show, after all, and he felt obligated to give Ol’ Flower a good show.