Page 16 of Laird of Flint
“About your deliveries to the monastery.”
“Ah, ye mean Alan’s deliveries to the monastery.”
“Alan?”
He beamed. “My son. Ten years old, and he can already wield a butcher knife as fast as Sir Gellir o’ Rivenloch can wield a sword.”
Hew smirked. He wasn’t going to tell the man that Sir Gellir of Rivenloch was his cousin. His mother was right. Gellir was known everywhere. “Is your son here?”
“In the back.” He turned and yelled, “Alan!”
The stout lad looked like a smaller version of his father as he came out in a butcher’s blood-smeared apron. “Aye, Da?”
“This fellow wants to speak with ye.”
“Me?” he squeaked.
“You take meat to the monastery every fortnight, aye?” Hew asked.
“That’s right.” He spotted Hew’s axe. “I didn’t miss a delivery, did I?”
“Nay, nay. I’m just wondering, when you deliver that meat, do you take it into the kitchens?”
“Och nay,” he said, very gravely. “I’m not allowed inside. I give it to the monk.”
“What monk?”
He furrowed his brows in deep thought. “The one in the…brown robe?”
“I see.” Hew’s lips twitched as he repressed a smile. Any lad who took his trade so seriously was an unlikely suspect. “Well, Alan, apprentice butcher, what would you recommend I purchase for…” He peered into his purse. “Two pence?”
Alan screwed up his face, considering. “A brace o’ coneys?”
His father said, “We sold the last to Lady Carenza, remember?”
“Och aye,” Alan gushed, turning bright scarlet. “I for-, forgot.”
Hew frowned. Had the lady kissed him on the brow as well? Evidently she had the power to reduce wee lads to stammering fools.
“Go on, son,” the butcher nudged.
Recovering from his fluster, Alan suggested, “How about a leg o’ mutton?” He glanced over his shoulder to check that with his father, who nodded his approval.
“Good,” Hew said.
Carrying the wrapped meat over one shoulder and his axe over the other, Hew yawned as he strode back up the street. He figured he’d arrive at the monastery after midday Mass and before the first meal of the day. So he’d have to decide whether he wanted to eat or sleep. At the moment, despite his earlier nap, sleep was winning.
He wasn’t sure the prior would approve of the sudden increase of meat in the monks’ diet. But a “rampaging Viking” like Hew had to eat well. Especially if he was required to travel from monastery to monastery to continue his investigation. Besides, he doubted the monks would complain.
Chapter 4
Carenza was simultaneously pleased and ashamed that the ragpicker in the village believed her story. It was an outright lie, after all. Carenza had no intention of making clothing for the poor with the scraps of wool and linen she’d purchased from him.
She meant to make a disguise for herself. Something dark. Warm. Bulky. Something that would render her unrecognizable.
She quickly found what she needed. The shopkeeper tied it into a parcel. When she exited the shop, Symon was across the lane, chatting with a friend. Her father had insisted she bring the servant along for safety.
The street was busy now. Everyone knew the laird’s daughter, of course, and they all paid their respects. Vendors bobbed their heads as they carried parcels here and there. Young lads gaped as they scurried past, making deliveries and fetching coffyns for their masters’ dinner. Women paused to smile and nod at her as they shopped, counting out coins for autumn apples and hard cheese and fresh fish. Carts rolled past, brimming with hay or stacked with barrels, and their drivers tipped their caps to her. She beamed at all of them.
