Page 8 of Laird of Flint
He tried. He glowered as he walked along, training his eyes on the ground a few feet ahead of him.
Even then, his ear caught on snippets of conversation, feminine laughter, and a few speculative whispers as he passed.
He happened to brush a lady’s skirts, and he lifted his gaze only momentarily to apologize. But the lass caught his eye and smiled. And of course, she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. At least the most beautiful in a sennight.
Tightening his jaw, he murmured an apology and swiftly ducked into the first doorway he found for refuge. It was an alehouse. Perfect. He could use the distraction of a pint. And the local alehouse was the best place to collect gossip about a village’s residents.
The place fell silent at the sight of his axe, as if they feared he was a Viking on the rampage. He supposed that was understandable. He was taller than most, with long straw-colored hair and pale gray eyes, and his sister said he was as broad as an ox. But he was Scottish, born and bred, not a rampaging Viking. It was his ancestors who had been the rampaging Vikings.
Hanging his plaid on a peg, he nodded a greeting to the attractive apple-cheeked alewife. She had a twinkle in her eye that told Hew she liked the cut of his trews. He tried not to think about it.
“An ale, I pray you,” he said, averting his eyes. Then he reconsidered. “Got anything cooking on the fire?”
“Mutton pottage, m’laird,” she said. “Warm. Tasty. And satisfyin’. Or so I’m told.”
Hew couldn’t mistake the innuendo in her voice. But he could ignore it. “A trencher of that as well then.”
He chose a seat against the wall, propping his axe beside him, and nodded to the other inhabitants of the alehouse.
A velvet-clad nobleman scowled into his ale. A pair of laborers warmed their knees by the fire. Two dusky-skinned foreigners played at dice on a table. And three well-dressed commoners chatted animatedly in the corner.
Hew listened. The three were merchants, discussing the upcoming village fair. According to their discussion, they felt there were too many wool merchants being allowed in from other parts. Woolmakers Row, they said, was going to be crowded with competing vendors.
That wasn’t useful to Hew. Wool merchants had no use for crucibles. Nor would they be likely to try to sell religious artifacts.
His trencher of pottage and ale arrived, and he dug in at once. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. But the simple peppery stew with its chunks of mutton, leeks, and kale tasted like food of the gods.
He suspected hunger had likewise clouded his judgment about the alewife’s attractiveness. On second glance, she was at least a dozen years older than him and lacking two of her front teeth.
Finishing off the meal, Hew sipped at his ale and eyed the lone nobleman. He wore a jeweled ring and a silver medallion. His plaid was closed with a silver brooch, and a jewel adorned his velvet cap.
“Your pardon, sir,” Hew said, “but may I inquire as to where you obtained your brooch? ’Tis a work of great craftsmanship.”
The man gave him a cursory glance and decided Hew’s saffron leine and woolen trews were of fine enough quality to warrant further conversation. “’Twas made by a silversmith in the village by the name of Ingram.”
“Fine work.”
The man sniffed.
Hew nodded a good day, then retrieved his axe, donned his plaid, and headed into the gloomy morn to look for Ingram the silversmith.
He wasn’t hard to find. But Hew discovered within moments that Ingram took great pride in his craft. He was horrified at the idea of melting down another silversmith’s work for coin.
“Do you know of any in the village who might do such a thing?” Hew asked.
Ingram stroked his gray beard, possibly considering ruining a rival’s reputation. But in the end, he was a man of solidarity. “No silversmith worth his craft would, m’laird, unless the owner wished the piece altered for his own purposes.”
“I see.”
“So if ye have silver ye’re tryin’ to profit off of,” he said, arching a judgmental brow, “ye’re better sellin’ it to a Lombard or a chapman.”
Hew had no wish to offend the man, so he nodded his thanks and continued on his way.
That left goldsmiths. He found only one. To his dismay, despite the sign indicating the shop was owned by William the Goldsmith, William had recently expired, and his widow had taken over his trade.
She was a sad and lovely lass with black hair and blue eyes. Of course. Any other day, he might have tried to coax a smile from her rosy mouth. But not today. Today he was on a mission.
“Tell me,” he asked her, “did your husband ever melt down a gold piece?”
