Page 37 of Highland Spy

She bent over and whispered in his ear. “I havena had the chance yet to tear out that page with those . . . bad things I wrote about ye.”

“Och, nay, Bridget! Ye promised.”

“Mayhap he willna see it,” she told him. “After all, I have three pages written about ye that are all guid. So hopefully, he will read those instead.”

“For both our sakes, I hope that’s true,” said Caleb as Bridget and her father left the room.

Caleb kept looking over his shoulder at the king, praying that the man wouldn’t read bad things about him in the book. Something kept the king’s interest. He kept reading while he ate.

“Logan, I need to get that book away from the king,” Caleb said in a low voice to his friend.

“Why?” asked Logan, wrapping a cloth around a leg of lamb and sticking it in his bag.

“What on earth are ye doin’?”

“It’s for Jack,” he said. “Rhoswen is sittin’ over by the lassies and said she’d take Jack some food, but I told her I’d do it. It’s no’ appropriate for her to be walkin’ around with a leg of lamb in her grasp.”

“And it is for ye?” Caleb shook his head.

“It’s no different than ye bringin’ yer weasel to the table.”

“Slink isna a weasel,” said Caleb, looking down to see his pet sitting atop his trencher, gnawing on a hunk of venison. “Slink, it’s no’ polite to eat my food before I’ve had a chance to taste it.”

Caleb picked up a goblet of wine and was about take a drink when he heard the king calling out his name.

“Caleb MacKeefe. Where are ye?” asked the king.

Caleb had never met the king personally, so there was only one reason he’d be calling for him now. He must have read those bad things about him in the book. Caleb froze, not sure what to do.

“Caleb, didna ye hear the king? He calls for ye,” said Logan with urgency in his voice.

“Caleb MacKeefe?” the king called out again.

“He’s right here,” said Logan, pointing to Caleb.

“Thanks a lot,” Caleb mumbled, getting up off the bench.

“Come here, lad,” said the king. “And bring that little weasel of yers with ye.” The king chuckled, as if he were amused.

Caleb turned back to get Slink, mumbling under his breath, “It’s no’ a weasel.” Cautiously making his way to the dais, he kept Slink in the crook of his arm, stopping in front of King Robert.

“Yer Majesty,” he said, bowing to the man.

“Why do ye look like ye’re scared out of yer skin?” chuckled the king. “I only wanted to meet the man who graces the pages of my book with his name.”

“Sire?” he asked, glancing back at Logan. Logan shrugged his shoulders.

“Yer heroic deeds have been noticed,” said the man.

“My son is bein’ noticed by the king?” Ian MacKeefe, Caleb’s father, looked up from his position at the trestle table. His mother, Kyla, smiled at Caleb proudly.

“I’m talkin’ about Caleb MacKeefe – the one who has a pet weasel,” said the king. “Is that ye, lad?” the king asked Caleb.

“It – it is,” said Caleb, not able to deny it since he was holding on to Slink. It irritated him when people called his pine marten a weasel, but he didn’t dare correct the king.

“So, ye really sound like the most remarkable MacKeefe of all,” said the king.

“He does?” Storm looked over at Caleb in confusion. “Yer Majesty, are ye sure ye read the pages correctly? Mayhap ye’ve mistaken Caleb for me?”