particularly fine. These will be added to your flock, as well, and I shall make you the head shepherd of Dunkeathe."
Thomas looked as if he might swoon, but gladly so. "Th-thank you, my lord," he stammered. "Thank you very much!"
"I believe in rewarding those who serve me well, Thomas. Remember that," he said as he turned his horse toward the gate.
Fergus Mac Gordon was just getting settled in his saddle. It was quite clear the man rarely rode a horse, or hadn't in some time— another sign of his poverty, if Nicholas needed it.
"Farewell, Thomas."
The farmer bowed so low, his forehead nearly touched the ground. "Farewell, my lord."
After the Scot managed to get his horse under control, he came alongside Nicholas.
"So, my lord," Fergus said, beaming, "what else do you want to know about sheep?"
"OH, ISN'T THAT PRETTY!" Eleanor cried as she caught sight of some fabric in a tradesman's stall.
Riona smiled, as pleased as Eleanor to be out of the castle on this fine day after being forced to keep to the hall and her chamber by the rain and fog, as well as the dread of encountering Sir Nicholas. She had no idea what he might do or say if she did, and she didn't want to find out.
Fortunately, he'd kept his distance since that morning in the chapel. Even more fortunately, Eleanor never wanted to talk about their host, probably because both of them were ostensibly here for the same reason—to try to become his bride.
She joined Eleanor in examining the lovely, soft dark green wool interwoven with a bright red. At home she rarely had time for such activity. Most of her dealings with merchants were for practical necessities, like food or drink. "Nobody weaves as well as a Scot," she said proudly.
"If this is an example of Scots craftsmanship, I agree," Eleanor replied. "I hope Percival will let me buy it."
"Is your mistress going to purchase anything today?" the merchant asked Riona in Gaelic, smiling but uncertain.
Since she and Eleanor had been speaking French, it was no wonder he was confused, and if he thought she was Eleanor's maidservant, what else could she expect, given the difference in their clothing?
Riona genially replied in Gaelic. "We think your fabric is wonderful. The lady hopes her cousin will purchase it for her."
The tradesman's face fell slightly, but he kept smiling. "Oh, aye? And who might her cousin be?"
"Sir Percival de Surlepont. If an extremely well-dressed young nobleman comes to you looking for this plaid, that will be Sir Percival."
"He's the bonny fellow in bright green sarcenet who went hunting this morning?"
"Aye, that's him."
"Oh, Riona, look at this, too!" Eleanor exclaimed. "I've never seen such a lovely deep blue. How does he do it?"
Riona turned again to the merchant. "She likes the blue fabric, too. She wants to know how you get such a fine color."
The merchant's smile became genuine, and his eyes sparkled with a craftsman's pride. "Ach, you'll have me tell all my secrets?"
"Only if you care to share."
"Well, for the sake of your bright eyes and the lady's beauty," he said, giving her a wink. "Welsh blackberries."
"Ah, Welsh blackberries?"
He nodded. "They're the best for that dark blue."
"I'll remember that."
A group of children ran past. They halted near the stocks, where a man sat on a stool, his head and wrists held fast in the wooden slats. A boy about ten, with brown hair and freckles, cried out, "Murderer!" and pelted him with an apple core. Others followed suit, with mud.
Their victim raised his head and snarled at them, until they ran away.
"Is he really a murderer?" Riona asked the merchant, wondering if that was so, why he was only in the stocks.
"He killed the lad's dog a fortnight ago. It got to barking one night and that drunken lout beat it to death. Sir Nicholas ordered him to be in the stocks for two months, then to leave Dunkeathe and never come back."
Riona tried not to betray any overt interest in the lord of Dunkeathe or his justice. "That seems
Thomas looked as if he might swoon, but gladly so. "Th-thank you, my lord," he stammered. "Thank you very much!"
"I believe in rewarding those who serve me well, Thomas. Remember that," he said as he turned his horse toward the gate.
Fergus Mac Gordon was just getting settled in his saddle. It was quite clear the man rarely rode a horse, or hadn't in some time— another sign of his poverty, if Nicholas needed it.
"Farewell, Thomas."
The farmer bowed so low, his forehead nearly touched the ground. "Farewell, my lord."
After the Scot managed to get his horse under control, he came alongside Nicholas.
"So, my lord," Fergus said, beaming, "what else do you want to know about sheep?"
"OH, ISN'T THAT PRETTY!" Eleanor cried as she caught sight of some fabric in a tradesman's stall.
Riona smiled, as pleased as Eleanor to be out of the castle on this fine day after being forced to keep to the hall and her chamber by the rain and fog, as well as the dread of encountering Sir Nicholas. She had no idea what he might do or say if she did, and she didn't want to find out.
Fortunately, he'd kept his distance since that morning in the chapel. Even more fortunately, Eleanor never wanted to talk about their host, probably because both of them were ostensibly here for the same reason—to try to become his bride.
She joined Eleanor in examining the lovely, soft dark green wool interwoven with a bright red. At home she rarely had time for such activity. Most of her dealings with merchants were for practical necessities, like food or drink. "Nobody weaves as well as a Scot," she said proudly.
"If this is an example of Scots craftsmanship, I agree," Eleanor replied. "I hope Percival will let me buy it."
"Is your mistress going to purchase anything today?" the merchant asked Riona in Gaelic, smiling but uncertain.
Since she and Eleanor had been speaking French, it was no wonder he was confused, and if he thought she was Eleanor's maidservant, what else could she expect, given the difference in their clothing?
Riona genially replied in Gaelic. "We think your fabric is wonderful. The lady hopes her cousin will purchase it for her."
The tradesman's face fell slightly, but he kept smiling. "Oh, aye? And who might her cousin be?"
"Sir Percival de Surlepont. If an extremely well-dressed young nobleman comes to you looking for this plaid, that will be Sir Percival."
"He's the bonny fellow in bright green sarcenet who went hunting this morning?"
"Aye, that's him."
"Oh, Riona, look at this, too!" Eleanor exclaimed. "I've never seen such a lovely deep blue. How does he do it?"
Riona turned again to the merchant. "She likes the blue fabric, too. She wants to know how you get such a fine color."
The merchant's smile became genuine, and his eyes sparkled with a craftsman's pride. "Ach, you'll have me tell all my secrets?"
"Only if you care to share."
"Well, for the sake of your bright eyes and the lady's beauty," he said, giving her a wink. "Welsh blackberries."
"Ah, Welsh blackberries?"
He nodded. "They're the best for that dark blue."
"I'll remember that."
A group of children ran past. They halted near the stocks, where a man sat on a stool, his head and wrists held fast in the wooden slats. A boy about ten, with brown hair and freckles, cried out, "Murderer!" and pelted him with an apple core. Others followed suit, with mud.
Their victim raised his head and snarled at them, until they ran away.
"Is he really a murderer?" Riona asked the merchant, wondering if that was so, why he was only in the stocks.
"He killed the lad's dog a fortnight ago. It got to barking one night and that drunken lout beat it to death. Sir Nicholas ordered him to be in the stocks for two months, then to leave Dunkeathe and never come back."
Riona tried not to betray any overt interest in the lord of Dunkeathe or his justice. "That seems
Similar Books
