CHAPTER FOUR
It had been two months since Maeve was faced with the first real choice in her life; two months since she'd finally escaped the prison of her life and scratched the surface of the secrets that had lain beneath it the whole time.
She'd traveled with Ann for some way, but after a while, doubt set in.
What use would she have been to an organization like the White Sparrows?
She had no idea how to be a spy. She had no idea how to be anything at all except a laird's unwanted daughter and a chieftain's unwanted wife.
And so she'd asked Ann to take her somewhere else, anywhere else, and allow her to begin life anew.
Ann had been saddened by her decision, but hadn't questioned her. "Ye'll always have a home with the Sparrows if ye need us, Maeve," she'd told her. "But if ye willnae come with me now, we need tae give ye a whole new life."
Maeve had nodded. She knew that they'd be looking for her.
She was the only suspect in Darach's murder, and now she was an escapee as well.
If Kyle really had been the one to kill Malcolm — and Maeve believed that he was — then she believed he'd stop at nothing to find her and make sure he had a scapegoat to cover his tracks.
And so, one night, she tied her hair back and cut it off right at the ribbon, her long chestnut tresses falling away and leaving behind only a short scruff to her chin.
It felt like a huge weight off her shoulders, both literally and metaphorically.
When Ann saw her the next morning, the Sparrow smiled. "If ye were tryin' tae look less bonny, ye've not succeeded," she teased. "But ye certainly look different. It's a good start, Maeve."
"I cannae be Maeve anymore," she decided. "Maeve is the one they're lookin' for. I need tae use a different name."
Ann nodded seriously. "Clever. And more sign ye'd be better as a spy than ye think, but anyway. What name shall we use for ye?"
Maeve had already been prepared. Her mind had gone to the earnest look in Eoin's eyes the night he'd risked everything to save her life, and she said, "Mary. I'll be Mary."
And so Mary she'd become. Ann brought Maeve to a small village several miles north of Darach Castle.
"This is where I grew up," Ann explained as their horses trotted into the area. "Me uncle owned a tavern here. He's gone now, God rest his soul, but his replacement owes me a favor. He'll take ye in."
Maeve's heart pounded wildly as Ann led her into the small tavern with its thatched roof and creaky wooden sign. She waited near the entrance as Ann disappeared into the back, and a few minutes later, her friend emerged with a tall, bulky man of around fifty or so with sharp, coal-like eyes.
"This her?" the man grunted.
"This is her," Ann replied. "Ye must take care of her, Bill."
Bill's eyes looked Maeve up and down in a way she strongly disliked, but she resisted the shiver that threatened to overwhelm her. This, she knew, would be her only chance for a while to live a life.
The tavern keeper grunted. "Ye've never washed a dish in yer life, have ye?" he demanded.
"No, sir," Maeve replied honestly.
"Wiped a table?"
"No."
"Swept a floor?"
"No."
"Poured an ale?"
Maeve shook her head.
Bill paused to spit to the side. "So ye're useless, then. What can ye do?" His tone turned a little suggestive toward the end of the sentence, his eyes lingering on her body once more.
Maeve pretended not to notice. "I can learn tae clean and cook and tend the bar," she said. "Is that enough?"
"It's more than enough," Ann assured her before Bill could speak. Her fingers tapped on the knife concealed in her belt. "Aye, Bill?"
Bill shrugged. "Aye, I suppose. In that case, lassie, it's time tae learn."
Maeve wiped a table as the tavern slowly began to fill with customers for the night.
She was glad that Bill was still out. In the last two months, he hadn't been too cruel to her or anything, but…
well, he did make her uncomfortable. He obviously found her attractive, and was not shy about displaying it.
A stray hand on her arm, an odd caress on her waist, and not-so-subtle comments about how he'd long been in the market for a hardworking young wife.
Maeve had done her best to gently rebuff it all, but it was beginning to cause her a lot of stress.
She felt like she was stuck in an impossible balancing act, trying to keep Bill happy to retain her job and home but at the same time trying to retain the few boundaries that were allowed to her.
Shaking her head and sighing, she looked around the tavern. It was mostly filled with regulars, though several little pockets of travelers were here too. A group of men she'd never seen before sat near the table she was cleaning, speaking in low whispers.
Maeve knew that what they were saying was none of her business, but something inside her told her she needed to know what was going on.
Maybe she was just intrigued, or maybe it was something more, but she couldn't help but think of Ann.
One of the last things her friend had told her was that she should collect secrets like gold.
It was unlikely that this secret had anything to do with her, of course, but the last time Maeve had let the unknown go by, she'd ended up in a jail cell and nearly lost her life.
Turning slightly and continuing about her work, Maeve listened a little closer.
"I hear the redcoats are rovin' the countryside," one of the men was saying. "Searchin', but God only kens what for. There's talk of rebels against the king."
"Rebels!" another man scoffed. "Eejits and fools is what they are. They paint the rest of us with a bad name, they do, and I cannae believe they cannae just let an old dream die."
"Let it die?"
The new voice was from the table next to theirs.
Maeve, it seemed, had not been the only one who was listening.
She spied the man who had spoken. He was older, in his late fifties if she had to guess, with a bushy gray beard and equally bushy long hair.
His eyes were black as coal, and his shoulders so broad that he reminded Maeve of a painting she'd once seen of an ancient god.
But there was nothing divine about this figure, who sat huddled in an oversized cloak and was clearly so drunk that he could barely keep his back straight.
She'd seen his type before; the sad, older drunks who had nothing in their lives but the alcohol.
She knew that Bill ridiculed them, but she couldn't. What was this man's story, she wondered?
What had led him to view life through the bottom of a tankard rather than with his own two eyes?
She shivered, wondering at how easy it might have been for a good man to lose everything. She knew that better than anyone.
"The False King," the drunkard spat, his voice at a raised volume that carried not only to the whispering men but to the tables beyond. "He sits on a throne of lies and blood, and ye're all cowards who act like he's where he should be. I dinnae bow or simper at his feet. Nae me. Nae mine."
One of the travelers laughed. "Shut yer mouth, old man. What do ye ken of it?"
The man's dark eyes seemed to gain a surprising amount of focus for a moment as he regarded the speaker. "I ken more than ye do, I'll bet."
Just then, the front door opened and Bill entered, looking very angry about something. His eyes found Maeve, and he gave her a smile that was not at all warm or appealing. Maeve found herself shrinking back into herself.
The tavern owner approached Maeve and leaned down next to her ear. He'd obviously been drinking elsewhere even before arriving, because alcohol fumes bounced unpleasantly from his hot, sticky breath. "Ye look darlin' in that red skirt," he told her. "I'd love tae see what it's hidin' below."
"I'm busy, Bill," she said quietly. She'd learned in the last two months that ignoring such comments was the best way to make him go away, even though they made her pulse quicken with fear and disgust. Usually, he wasn't so forward, but when he had a drink in him, he truly scared her.
Bill laughed, a horrible hiccuping laugh that showed he was barely aware of himself. "This is me tavern that keeps ye so busy, remember that. I'm just back from the brothel, lass. They're the real hardworkin' women. Ye'll learn busy when ye've been on yer back for me and nae before."
Maeve balled her hands into fists and forced herself to keep her eyes trained on the table she was still cleaning, even though it had been completely polished by now.
She tried not to let any of her revulsion or fear show on her face.
When Bill realized she wasn't going to react, he shrugged and stumbled off into the back room, no doubt to look for more alcohol.
His apprentice, Gordon, who had been running the place in Bill's absence and now stood behind the bar, caught Maeve's eye, but did not act or offer any comfort.
He never did. He obviously hated seeing what his boss was doing, but he was a coward.
Many men were, beneath it all, as Maeve had learned the hard way.
Shaking her head to try to dislodge the unpleasantness, she gathered her cloth and moved to the next table.
The drunkard was still ranting about the False King and how he would never give in to tyranny.
Most were ignoring him; some were laughing, though, and others looked angry.
It seemed nobody but Gordon had noticed what had gone on with Bill.
The original traveler that the drunkard had been arguing with spoke up again. "Old man, shut yer mouth before ye lose yer head. Or have all of us lose ours."
The drunkard snorted. "What use is a head for a chicken like yerself?" he asked. "When the prince is ready tae take his place, and the McNairs return tae power, ye'll remember who we are as a people."