The Red Lion

Chapter Three

I awoke to the familiar sound of the crack and pop of pine branches set to flame. Propping myself up on my elbows and rubbing my bleary eyes, I noticed my wife squatting in front of the fireplace, carefully blowing air into the blazing wood.

"How went the night?" I asked.

I think the sound of my voice almost startled her as she jolted slightly and turned, not knowing I had awoken. With a smile she responded, "Well, all things considered." Despite the rising sun pouring light in through the two windows, the room was fairly dark. The light of the fire shone against the side of her face, illuminating her pale skin and brightening her deep brown locks.

"Anymore pass during the night?"

"Only one. The dead have been wrapped and placed outside for burial."

"Ach, do nae tell me Caraid expects us to bury his men," I said with exasperation.

"He said he did when he surveyed the damage. 'I care not for the specifics, just make sure they're in the ground before my men and I depart.'" She used a mocking accent when quoting Lord Caraid.

I flopped back onto the bed with such force I thought the frame might snap. Aileen appeared at the side of the bed and offered a reassuring pat on my head.

"Poor Darach, having to deal with Lord Caraid the Thorn-in-my-Side," she said in a mock-comforting voice. She seemed oddly chipper this morning and I asked the reason why.

"It feels good to work with my hands again. Estate affairs were beginning to feel painfully mundane, as they always do when winter approaches," Aileen said with a glow in her face.

As I have said, my wife is the ideal nurse.

I sighed. "Let's trade places then. I'll need to be getting up anyway." I hopped to my feet and patted the bed where I just a moment prior laid. Now it was Aileen who flopped onto the bedding, only face down this time. I pulled on my stockings, followed by the calfskins that so often adorned my feet.

"Come you on, let us pray before I go," I said to my wife's back. She said something, but it was muffled by the sheets that she had plowed her face into.

I tugged the slipper from her right foot and tossed it at her head. It made a satisfying thump on her skull and she quickly turned back and glared at me. With my now crossed arms, I gestured to the space of bedside next to me as if to say that she should join me.

I knelt down, she followed me. "I doubt the Pope would approve of your methods of prayer," she said, settling down next to me.

"Have you ever met the man?" I asked.

Again, she glared at me. Aileen was, however, referring to my unorthodox method of communicating with the Divine. Rather than the repetitive prayers issued forth by the priests and bishops, I chose to speak to God as I would any other respected man. At a signal relayed to my wife, we simultaneously signed the Holy Cross over our respective chests, whispering "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit." Now I began to speak to God:

"Our Lord in Heaven, we do bow our heads before you now and thank you for the blessings of prosperity that this estate has felt in these recent years. We thank you for the protection conferred upon us, both from brigands, bandits, and their brethren, the English."

Even though my eyes were closed, I knew my wife was smiling at that remark.

"We pray that you may bless our boy Ronan, that he may grow to be strong and loved by his peers and grow in faith also. We pray for the blessed King Alexander, that he may lead this proud land forth to victory against her foes. We pray that our swords and plows may be sharp and that our pockets nae empty. In the name of the Holy Son, Jesus Christ, we say Amen."