Page 9 of Laird of Flint
“Nay, not that I know of,” she said, confiding, “But I’d be willin’ to do it, if ye have coin.”
By her tone, she was hungry for work. Perhaps her husband’s patrons didn’t trust her skills. In Hew’s experience, a member of the guild was a member of the guild. It didn’t matter whether a goldsmith was young, old, male, or female.
“How much is that?” he asked, nodding to a tiny gold ring decorated with intertwined vines.
“Twenty shillin’s.”
Twenty shillings was enough to buy two coos. But the woman’s sad blue eyes were troubling him. So he dug the shillings out of his coin purse and saw her face light up with hope as she wrapped the ring in a linen scrap and pressed it into his palm.
What he was going to do with it, he didn’t know. It was too small for his fingers. And since he’d sworn off women for the moment, he wasn’t going to gift it to his next sweetheart. He tucked it into his satchel. Perhaps he’d give it to his little sister, Nichola.
Over the next few hours, he visited the handful of shops where used goods were sold. Though all of them featured jewelry—it was a common item to sell for those needing quick coin—the pieces didn’t match the abbot’s descriptions.
No one had a silver cross or a gold chalice, though one unsavory shopkeeper boasted a splinter of the true cross. A splinter that had probably come from the ruins of a henhouse.
By the end of the day, discouraged by his fruitless search, Hew headed to another alehouse to feed his belly and gather more information. This time he chose a dingy, cheap place where serfs and laborers might gather and more could be had than just ale. It seemed like the kind of spot where nefarious thieves who would steal from a monastery might gather to brag about their spoils.
As he expected, within the alehouse were several unsavory characters. This time when he appeared with his axe, he saw several men clap hands on the hilts of their own weapons, as if they expected a fight. He ordered an ale and a trencher and sat in a corner to observe them.
As the heavily-wrinkled, gruff-voiced alewife brought him his supper, she told him she had a pair of daughters if he had another kind of hunger, giving him a broad wink in case he didn’t catch her meaning.
Hew seldom turned down female attention. But he never paid for it. Not only did it trouble his romantic nature. Seeking companionship in a place like this was risking the pox. Besides, he was on a strict no-female regimen. So he muttered in the negative and turned his attention to his supper.
The pottage tasted like it might have been made with mouse meat. But it was cheap, and he was hungry enough to choke it down.
Two rough-looking men in mud- and blood-stained leines whispered over their ales. He could only hear fragments of what they said. But it seemed to do with pigs and how busy they’d been lately with the autumn butchering.
At another table, a nervous young man with an older brother had taken the alewife up on her offer of more than supper. They were waiting for their turn with the daughters. Hew was tempted to warn them away. But the older brother was intent on ushering his sibling through this rite of passage, so there wasn’t much Hew could do.
A shamefully drunk merchant lolled in one corner, and his apprentice kept stealing coins from his purse. It was wrong, of course, but most merchants didn’t compensate their apprentices fairly. The lad might filch a penny from his master once in a while. But Hew doubted the lad made a habit of thieving churches.
Hew took a final swig of ale. He was getting nowhere. Then a new man entered the alehouse and hung his plaid on the wall. He had a broad back and shaggy brown hair. The pig butchers waved him over.
“Cainnech!”
Cainnech nodded and joined them. “How’s pigs?”
The men groaned in mutual exhaustion.
The alewife set an ale down in front of the newcomer. “Still comin’ to town for Mary, are ye?”
“Every Saturday,” Cainnech replied.
“Pah!” she groused. “Ye let me know when ye get an itch for one o’ my daughters.”
All three growled and waved her off.
“How are the coos?” one of the pig men asked Cainnech.
“Haven’t driven them to the close yet.”
“Better watch for caterans,” one of the pig butchers warned. “I heard Boyle’s lads have been reivin’ this year.”
Caterans. Hew doubted there was any connection between stolen cattle and stolen church treasures. Caterans were usually just troublesome lads who routinely crossed over clan borders to take their neighbor’s animals. Still, he’d keep listening.
“Och aye, the Boyles,” the other pig man concurred. “That clan’s had a grudge against Dunlop for years.”
Cainnech disagreed. “Not anymore. Boyle’s made peace with Dunlop. He’s got two sons o’ marryin’ age now, and they’ve set their eyes on Dunlop’s daughter.”
