As if he’d drunk too much ale the night before, Drummond felt weak, his stomach sour, his head spinning with regrets. Exhaustion added to his misery, for he’d sat on the floor in the entryway and stared at the torches until the flames had burned themselves out. Then he’d made his way here, to the solar. He hadn’t tried to sleep, knew he couldn’t, not indoors. Every night since his release, he’d slept in the open. In Dunstable he’d purchased a fast horse and kept the stallion at the ready. He half expected the king’s men-at-arms to overtake him, bringing word that Edward II had rescinded the order of clemency. Dwelling on the prospect that he might be returned to prison was merely a diversion, for Drummond knew what had caused his current distress: her accusation and the painful memories it spawned. To deflect his thoughts, he again studied his surroundings. In the rosy light of dawn, the sparsely furnished solar appeared functional, and not what he had envisioned.
