Page 13 of Laird of Flint
He didn’t have to request an interview with Peter. As soon as he walked in with his axe across his shoulder, the lad, perhaps twelve years old and as apple-cheeked as his mother, rushed up in wide-eyed wonder.
“Can I look at that, sir?” he asked. “Your axe?”
“Peter,” his mother chided, “leave the patrons alone.”
“Is this your lad?” Hew asked.
She nodded.
“I’m happy to show him my axe.” He whispered to Peter, “Let’s sit by the fire where the light is better.”
“I’ve just made oatcakes,” the alewife offered.
“I’ll take a pair then,” he said.
She brought him the oatcakes and an ale while he showed his axe to Peter.
“I like the designs,” Peter said, tracing the carvings along the handle with a finger.
“They’re Viking runes.”
Peter’s eyes widened. “Are ye a Vikin’?”
“My ancestors were,” he said. “What about you? Do you have warrior kin?”
“Nay,” he said. “My da died when I was three.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Peter shrugged. “I don’t remember him. But we do just fine, my ma and me.”
“You help her with the alehouse?”
He straightened with pride. “I do the deliveries.”
“Deliveries,” Hew said, pretending to be surprised. “Where do you deliver?”
“All over. To the hermit at village end. To the monastery. Even,” he confided in a dreamy whisper, “to Lady Carenza herself.”
There was that name again. Carenza.
“Sometimes she gives me a penny,” Peter told him. Then he leaned closer to murmur, “Sometimes she kisses my brow.”
“Peter,” his keen-eared mother scolded. “I’m sure she kisses all the wee lads’ brows. She’s the laird’s daughter. ’Tis her duty.”
For an instant, Hew wished the dutiful Lady Carenza would kisshisbrow. Then, deciding that would be a mistake, he cleared his throat.
“You deliver to the monastery, you said?” he said. “That’s where I’m staying.”
“Ye are? Aye. I go every Monday and Thursday.”
“You go into the monastery proper?”
“Nay, the cellarer meets me at the gate after midday Mass.”
The alewife called out to him. “Ale’s ready for Dunlop, Peter.”
“I have to go,” Peter said, scrambling up from the table. “Don’t like to keep Lady Carenza waiting. Maybe I’ll see ye at the monastery?”
