To Love a Highlander by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

a bucket of fresh-reeking muck. Horse and cow manure.
    “If the smell doesn’t convince Lockhart you’re beggars or lepers, nothing will.” Stepping back, he winked. Unfortunately, Sorley was anything but happy.
    He’d planned to address the matter of Sir Henry Lockhart on his own
    Before he could argue, Roag appeared at his elbow, stepping around him so that his bulk blocked Sorley’s retreat.
    Cocking his head to the side, he fixed Sorley with a determined stare. “When the wind whistles…” He let the code words trail away, waiting for Sorley to acknowledge that his reason for being here came from the crown.
    Sorley glared at him.
    He didn’t want to answer.
    Direct reference to Fenris the Wolf, their namesake in Norse mythology, was aye a serious matter. As son of the trickster god, Loki, the wolf was only mentioned when circumstances, and orders, brooked no argument.
    So…
    Sorley pulled a hand down over his chin and peered up at the smoke-blackened rafters.
    He tried not to swear. It wasn’t easy.
    “When the wind whistles,” he finally repeated the secret phrase, “a wolf is sharpening his teeth.”
    “Aye, so they say.” Roag beamed and punched his arm again. “And those with reason to believe warn that Lockhart isn’t acting alone.”
    “Traitors to their country usually do have helpers.” Sorley knew it well. “I’ll handle them on my own.”
    Roag shrugged. “Think you I wish to don an already rancid wayfarer’s robe and then smear it and myself with dung?”
    “Then stay here. I’ll no’ force you to ride with me.”
    “I will all the same.” Roag leaned in, all mirth gone. “Truth is, for reasons I cannae explain, I’d go with you whether King Robert wished it or nae. No man should deal with a worm like Lockhart only to feel a dagger sinking into his back when he turns to ride away.”
    “Hummph.” Sorley couldn’t deny such a truth, so hestrode across the long room to where Wyldes stood by the door to the rear yard.
    “Come, then.” He glanced over his shoulder at Roag. “The day is aging and my fists are itching to crush bone, my blade calling for blood.”
    Roag joined him, shaking his head. “No blood will spill at all if Lockhart sees you and notices the bloodlust in your eye. He’ll be away before—”
    “You talk too much.” Sorley grabbed Roag’s elbow and pulled him through the door Wyldes held wide.
    The reek from the muck barrel the innkeeper had prepared hit them at once, the stink almost blinding. As Wyldes had promised, the barrel stood near the well, as did two of the sorriest-looking horses Sorley had ever seen.
    He doubted they’d make the few steps out of the stableyard, much less the day’s journey.
    Sorley might not either with the perfume of manure clinging to him.
    At least the weather was fine.
    It was a bright morning, cold and crisp. The sun shone, its light dappling the cobbles where the rays slanted through the trees. Few clouds marred the brilliant blue of the sky and all that stood between Sorley and his day’s work was the road that wound away through the piney woods and then across the open countryside to his destination, the ruined Abbey of St. Mary and the wee riverside village and wharf that belonged to the ancient holy site.
    Much damaged in the wars with the English, their armies taking pleasure in violating sacred Scottish ground, it was a place that should never be soiled by the likes of Sir Henry and his perfidy.
    Sorley’s head began to pound again. A muscle jerked in his jaw and he felt his hands fisting. The King had plans to rebuild the once-magnificent abbey, but the site was now tainted. Every stone, still in place or tumbled to the ground,forever stained by an enemy’s willful destruction. Sorley frowned, pushing away the anger at long-ago wrongs so he could concentrate on the task at hand.
    He’d take especial delight in confronting the traitor Lockhart at St. Mary’s.
    Roag was an annoyance he hadn’t expected.
    He