Late summer, 1390

Kate is holding herself together very tightly as she leaves the Douglas' war tent. Oh, she knows well enough when she is being condescended to -- that brash, smirking, weather-bitten, brawling usurer--

The men-at-arms escorting her give warning glares to the Scottish soldiers, but it's hardly necessary. They might grin at her fury, but none seem inclined to have it directed at them.

Anger is much preferable to the dread threatening to creep into her heart, at least. She'll certainly not let anyone think the Douglas frightened her. She clings to that resolve as they ride back to the castle, where Margaret waits.