He knew it must be a dream, because he had not had a drinking head like this since he left France. The thunder went on, and on. So did the dream, which became more vivid. Not only a headache as if an axe was buried in his brow, but a tongue too big for his mouth which tasted like an ashpit. Socrates barked near at hand, once, then again, and a voice exclaimed, ‘Maister Cunningham! Maister Cunningham, can you waken!’ ‘Likely no. He was ower late home last night, and a skinfu’ wi it.’ That was Maggie. Not a dream, then. ‘Out the way, son. I’ll sort him.’ Light, and footsteps. He was aware of a distant shouting, and the dog’s paws scrabbled as he left. Then cold water stung his face and neck. He surfaced, spluttering and wincing, to find Maggie staring down at him by the light of a candle. Someone stood behind her in the shadows. ‘Are ye awake, Maister Gil, or do ye want the rest of the jug?’ demanded Maggie. Gil struggled on to one elbow and shielded his eyes from the candle.
