Chapter Three“Owen!” Owen, the Bald of Strathclyde!” The words travelled through the slumbering camp, waking men and women and setting a score of dogs to bark. “Where is Owen the Bald?”
“He's sleeping,” Melcorka muttered, turning over on the ground and holding her head. “So am I. Go away.”
“I am Owen the Bald.” Owen stumbled up and peered from the royal tent, still dazed from sleep and wearing only his leine. Unshaven and with rain dripping from his bald head, he did not look like one of the best warriors in Alba.
“I am the man you know as the Butcher.” The hooded warrior was still astride his garron, with the grey man standing featureless at his side.
“We've been looking for you,” Owen said as half a dozen Strathclyde spearmen hurried out in various stages of dress and undress.
“Will
