The Inscription by Pam Binder Read Free Book Online

his feet. “Lady Amber may indeed be quick-witted, but you have the manners of a drunken reaver.”
    Amber could see the muscles in Lachlan’s jaw tense. His emotions were close to the surface. It had been the same when she had told him about Bartholomew. The episode with the tutor was still fresh in her mind. It had not occurred to her, at the time, that the behavior she was witnessing would be commonplace in the medieval and renaissance era. She didn’t like this reenactment. It was too real.
    She rubbed her temples. Slow down, think this through. She could hear the grating sound of metal fork against pewter plate as Marcail cut her food. She’d asked Lachlan to take Gavin to see a doctor. Her hands trembled, and she clasped them in her lap. He’d said that Marcail had a “gift of healing.” He’d not said she was a great physician. The expression had not seemed odd then, it did now.
    The smell of animal fats from platters of mutton and beef, musk and flower-scented perfumes, combined with too many people jammed into the Great Hall had suddenly become overpowering. She felt dizzy. If d been less than twenty-four hours since she’d been pulled from the loch. She was not rational. After all, her body was probably still recovering from a mild case of hypothermia. A glass of cold water or iced tea might help settle her stomach, not to mention her imagination. Maybe she could scrounge something in the kitchen.
    Amber touched Lachlan on the arm. “I think I’m going to look for something else to eat.”
    She left the table and walked in the direction she had seen servants carrying platters of food. Stumbling over bones thrown on the floor, she wove her way around the long tables until she reached the entrance.
    Heat poured from the kitchen as Amber opened the door. In the stone fireplace, against smoke-stained walls, two pigs roasted on an iron spit. A whitewashed brick oven stood in the corner and she could smell the rich aroma of baking bread. Garlic and dried onions hung from oak beams. The details were amazing. She had to keep reminding herself that this was only a reenactment, like the one she’d seen at Stirling Castle. Aunt Dora would love this place. Of course, her aunt would put up a fuss if they made her wear the clothes; hot, heavy and confining. She wondered why she’d given in so easily.
    Her stomach growled, reminding her of the reason she was here. She stepped farther into the kitchen. Una stood behind a trestle table, kneading a mound of brown dough. As she flopped it over, a powdery mist of flour floated into the air.
    Una looked up and smiled. “The clothes fit you well.”
    “Thanks.”
    The sleeves on her dress felt too tight and the bodice made her feel as if she were encased in shrink-wrap. She promised herself to wear baggy jeans and sweatshirts for a month when she got home.
    “Is there something you seek?”
    Amber walked over to the table. “My stomach feels as if it’s turned upside down. Maybe a piece of bread would help.”
    Una wiped her hands on her soiled apron and reached for a knife. She cut a slice from the coarse loaf and handed it to Amber.
    A chicken scurried past her feet, chased by a man in a kilt and a frayed shirt. The plaid in his costume was so faded, the colors were no longer distinguishable. He wielded a meat cleaver over his head and grabbed the bird around its throat. Flinging the squawking chicken on a table, he brought the blade straight down and whacked off its head. Blood spurted from the neck and flowed into a metal trough at the end of the table.
    Amber backed against the stone wall. Her clothes felt tighter and the smells in the close quarters of the room had suddenly become suffocating. This was more authenticity than she could handle. Una looked at her with concern.
    “What troubles you, lass? You look as white as new linen.”
    A small boy, his face encrusted with dirt and soot, brushed past her. He headed toward the hearth and the sizzling meat. He