Page 90 of The Falcon Laird
Gavin chuckled, and Christian felt her spirits lift. She had missed him. For a moment she marveled at how handsome he was in that moment, tall and strong, his eyes like sapphires, his jaw whiskered in flecks of gold and bronze.
“Fergus, have you had a chance to see the blacksmith here yet?” he asked.
“Aye, when we left the abbey and came into town this morning. I ordered lengths of iron chain and rope, and a thousand nails, as you requested. We must send a man here with an oxcart in a fortnight.”
“Good. I thought before we go, we could stop at the tolbooth where the town council meets, to ask about hiring a glazier to make some colored windows.”
“Thank you, Gavin,” Christian said softly.
He tilted his head. “For what, my lady?”
“For caring so much about Kilglassie.”
“It is my home,” he said quietly. “And yours.”
She blushed and picked up the basket at her feet. “I bought some things with the coin you gave me. Candles, soap, spices and such.”
He bent and lifted both baskets. “Feels like we have enough candles and soap for years.”
“Likely you do. But return in June for a larger fair,” Fergus said. “They will have livestock then. And more candles.”
“We just might. My horse is stabled down that lane—yours as well?” Gavin asked, carrying the baskets and motioning them along. Christian and Fergus nodded. As they followed him, a light, silvery sound caught Christian’s attention.
“A harper!” she said and crossed the earthen street. A man, slight and elderly, sat on a stool at the edge of the street and played a fast, rapid melody on a small Irish harp. Christian smiled at Gavin and tapped her feet, listening, watching the man’s skillful fingers dance over the brass harp strings. When he was done and some of the crowd drifted away, Christian stepped up to talk with him in Gaelic, complimenting him on his skill and his beautiful harp, which he told her had been made in Ireland, the land of his birth.
She traced her fingers reverently along its lines and spoke of her own harp. Then she smiled at Gavin. “The harper says he willtrade me harp strings of new brass,” she said. “I could surely use them.”
Gavin reached into the pouch at his belt. “How much will he take for them and for his performance?”
“Ach, you cannot offer coin to a harper!” Shocked, she pushed at his hand. “It is an insult.”
“What will he take, then? How does he manage to live if he accepts no coin?”
“Harpers accept gifts of goods, even land. They will not take silver. This man is on his way north, where a clan chief has invited him to be harper in his household and promises a sturdy house for his services.” She turned to the harper. “I have candles, soap, or herbs to trade,” she told him in Gaelic.
“New strings for two candles,” he said, crinkling a smile. “And one song from the lady. Both of us together. Have you done this?”
“Not since I learned from my harp tutor. Agreed!” She laughed and swept her hand over the strings.
He suggested a melody, and she nodded, familiar with it. Standing on the left side of the harp while he stood on the right, she began to pluck the upper, feminine, part of the melody, while he played the lower masculine notes. He began as well, and the song that emerged was like magic, lifting her spirits as high as they could ever be on such a glorious, lovely day, in sunshine, and Gavin laughing to watch.
Then the old harper reached up to turn a tuning peg with his harp key in the middle of the song, throwing a string out of tune. Christian laughed, knowing the game, and made a variation to avoid the off-tune sound. Watching the man’s clever playing, striving to predict what he would do next, she kept up with him until they both rang off the harp strings, laughing in delight. Around them, a crowd had gathered to listen, and applauded, cheering.
“I will give you the new strings as a gift, my lady,” the harper said. “You are mistress of the harp, and nearly as grand a harper as myself.”
“Ach, never as fine as you,” she said, laughing, and accepted the coiled brass wires he handed her. She insisted that he take some of the candles, and he did, then sat to play a lilting melody as she walked away. She knew the tune had been written for an ancient Irish queen.
Farther along thestreet, walking with Gavin and Fergus, she turned to smile up at her husband, her heart filled with pure joy. Again, she noticed the sound of the birds, which she had been hearing throughout the day, which seemed much louder now.
“Fergus says there is a fowler’s shop down a side lane near here. That must be why—” She suddenly stopped where she stood.
“What is it?” Gavin asked, looking around.
“Birds,” Fergus said. He elbowed Gavin to look. “Cages. I do not think she much likes them.”
Christian froze where she stood, staring at a large, uneven cluster of wooden cages, dozens stacked two and three high in front of the fowler’s shop. Doves and pigeons huddled together, crowded and cooing; pheasants slept, bright feathers shining in the sun. Larks, chirping in silvery tones, clung to the struts of two other cages. And three gray and brown falcons blinked in another cage, two large and one small. Their squawks sounded piteous to her. The largest cage held two white swans jammed in together, feathers dingy, heads bowed.
“Oh God,” she said, setting her hand over her mouth. “The cages!” She shuddered.
