Robbie sat up straighter. "Tell me that Carryck didna send the lass in tae Somerville, or I'll lose ma mind."

Moncrieff raised a finger. "If there's anything to ken about the auld earl it is this: he could turn almost any quirk o' fate to his own advantage or amusement, and he never gave awa' what was his.

"S. Off Bainbridge stumbles to his bed, and awa' marches the earl in the other direction wi' most of the party behind him. My faither and I gaed along, too, carrying torches. So lang I live I willna forget the sight o' it--the ladies and gentlemen in their fine clothes, high-stepping through the muck and mud, slipping an' sliding in shite and laughing like boobies on their way tae the barn. More than a few o' them gaed astray in the hayricks, for the moon was full and Bainbridge wasna the only man wi' an eye for the lassies."

Moncrieff stopped to scratch his thinly sprouted beard, extracting a louse that he examined closely before crushing it. Then he looked around the circle of faces, meeting each man's eye.

"And while the laird was seeing to things in the barn, the drink got the better o' Bainbridge and he fell to sleep waiting. But he woke in the morning to find the earl was so guid as his word, for he wasna alone under the kivvers."

"No' wee Barbara in bed wi' him!" whispered Robbie.

"No' Barbara," agreed Moncrieff. "The viscount woke wi' his arms about a fine Scotch sow--twenty stone o' pig--tranked wi' grog to keep her sleepy. A lovely pink she was, wi' a hair ribbon to match tied in a bow around her neck. Bainbridge's cursing could be heard throughout the castle, and all the way to the Solway Firth, forbye. And from that day to this, he's been known as Pink George. No' to his face, o' course."

When they had stopped laughing, Robbie wiped his eyes. "And what o' Barbara?" he asked. "What became o' her?"

Moncrieff turned away to help himself to more of the sausage. "That winter she sailed off to France in the service of a rich merchant's wife. I believe she married there, and raised a family."

"I for one ain't surprised," said Hawkeye. "Men don't change much in their lifetimes, after all. Unless it's for the worse."

"Pink George," said Robbie, almost singing it to himself. "I wad verra much enjoy oinkin' and snortin' in his face."

From the hall there was a shuffling and Thompson appeared at the grid in the door. "Jones!" he hissed. In a rush what was left of the food was hidden away under the cot in the farthest corner; by the time Ronald Jones had come through the door, they were gathered around a game of cards.

The sergeant stood for a moment watching them, his arms crossed over his paunch. He sucked noisily on the stem of his pipe so that smoke circled the greasy red head. One blue eye narrowed, he took in the cell from corner to corner with a practiced sweep, finally settling on the snoring Denier.

A look of pure disgust passed over his face as he leaned down to bellow in the butcher's ear. "Wake up, you great sack of Frog lard! The sun's long up, innit? Wake up!" A single shove landed Denier on the floor, where he sputtered his way awake while Jones aimed kicks at his legs. He glanced over his shoulder at Pépin, who was watching with a wary expression over his fan of cards.

"If it was up to me I'd let you rot in gaol, the both of youse Frogs. But he says to let you go, and that's what I'll have to do." He spat, barely missing Denier.

Pépin leaped to his feet. "Go?" He shot an astonished glance at Nathaniel and Hawkeye. "Go?"

"Are youse deef as well as stupid?" bellowed Jones, his color flushing to a deeper shade of red. He made a great sweeping gesture toward the door with one arm. "Released! Free! You've served your time! Go on now, before I find a reason to keep you here!" He gave the young farmer a push.

Denier scrambled out, but Pépin paused in the doorway, tolerating Jones's shoves and kicks without flinching.

"We will meet again," he said. And he was gone, hurried off by Thompson.

Jones lounged in the doorway, suddenly at ease. He grinned, his teeth showing greenish-yellow in the dim light. "He'll see youse again, all right. On the gallows, and in short order."

Hawkeye stood. Jones took a step backward, one pasty hand moving to the hilt of his short sword, stubby fingers fluttering.

"Go on, then," he said. "I'd be glad to save the hangman some work. What, is that a surprise? Don't tell me you didn't hear them out there, hammering away?"

There was something going on in the courtyard, a persistent sawing and hammering that Nathaniel had not paid much mind to. Now he wanted to go hoist himself up to the window and have a better look, but he would not give Jones the satisfaction.

It was Moncrieff who spoke first. "Even Pink George wouldna dare hang us without a trial." His voice had gone hoarse again and he coughed once.

Jones grinned, but his hand stayed on his weapon and his gaze fixed on Hawkeye. "He won't have to. The governor comes in tomorrow. I expect you'll swing the day after."

"I dinna believe it," muttered Moncrieff.

"Oh, not for you. There's something else on for you, Moncrieff. Word come in with the post this morning, you're wanted in Québec. A Crown matter, no less. Luck is with you, innit?"

Moncrieff rose to his feet with some uncertainty, glancing first at Nathaniel and then at Hawkeye, whose impassive expression did not shift in the slightest. Nathaniel had the urge to say something, but before he could Moncrieff had already been herded out the door.