Charming the Shrew by Laurin Wittig Read Free Book Online Page A

them at the last village. Thank goodness his natural charm had enabled him to bluff his way through the evening. This time he had a better idea of what needed doing.
    First he would sing an old ballad, something melancholy and familiar to those gathering about him. Then he’d tell a story or two. He could tell stories all night long. ’Twas the singing and the playing that vexed him. After the stories, he’d sing a slightly livelier tune, and then he’d move into the news and gossip. If he gauged it right, a few songs would be all he needed to get him through the evening—and none of them would be about Tayg of Culrain.
    Well then, to begin. He took a long swig of ale to bolster his courage and began the rhythmic beating of the drum. When he thought he’d got the beat going well enough to add the complication of a tune, he began to hum the melody. Perhaps he could get the growing crowd to sing with him so his voice would not have to carry all on its own. He hummed a bit louder, but no one joined in.
    When he decided there was no putting it off any longer he launched into the sad song, only to realize he was beating the drum too quickly. Stumbling over the words as he adjusted the tempo, he noticed a few surprised looks on the faces around him. A child giggled, and he felt his cheeks heat. What had he been thinking when he decided to do this?
    He stumbled over the words again and lost the beat. Pulling his thoughts back to the song, he drew it to an early close, took another long pull of the ale, and went with his strength.
    “As you can see, I’m not much of a singer.” Scattered laughter met him, and he tried not to mind. “But I am an excellent storyteller, one to rival the king’s own.” He flashed his smile at a lass sitting close, and was rewarded with a dimpled grin.
    “What story will you tell?” she asked.
    “Ah, what sort of story would you like?” he asked the crowd, searching the faces there for any possibilities.
    “One with monsters and gore!” yelled a lad with a dirty face and a tangled mop of blond hair.
    “Ah, you wish to hear of the English then, and Longshanks, their dearly departed king?”
    A loud chorus of boos and hisses had him grinning.
    “A story of war and victory!” someone yelled.
    “A love story!” yelled a lass from the other side of the circle.
    “Ah, I have just the thing,” Tayg said, anxious to avoid any stories that might refer to him.
    “And ’tis true, too. Have you heard the tale of the mad chief and the fair healer? Nay? Well then, gather round, and I’ll tell you about the evil doings way down to Kilmartin.”
    Tayg launched into a story he had heard shortly after the miraculous recovery of King Robert last winter, though he did his best to embellish the love story with as much intrigue and horror as he could. When he ended, the crowd applauded and begged for more, so he told a story of a man who had come from the mists of time to claim his own true love. This tale was full of swordfights and miracles, and he had the crowd firmly under his spell right up to the very end when the villain was sent off into a blast of fire. This time the crowd erupted into cheers, and Tayg felt very pleased with himself. Maybe this wasn’t so hard after all.
    “Tell us another, bard.”
    “Aye, soon. For now, though, I am hungry and the smell coming from those platters is most appealing!”
    The crowd looked around, apparently surprised to find the food had been brought into the hall without them noticing. Everyone agreed with him and scrambled to seats. Tayg placed the drum carefully on the floor next to his stool, then sauntered over to a table, finding a place where he could view the entire hall while he ate.
    He settled himself in between two pretty lasses, one blond, one auburn-haired. Both giggled when he grinned at them. As he reached for a platter of small pies, a hush fell over the crowded hall.
    Tayg looked up in time to see the chief settle himself at the head