Page 89 of The Falcon Laird
Hastings snarled. “I will be at Kilglassie in one week. I expect to see that gold, and I expect repairs complete by then.”
Gavin leaned against the table, eyeing Hastings lazily. “I will ready my castle in my own time.”
“You purposely delay. That borders on treachery.”
“Carpenters and masons can only work so fast given the weather and the poor availability of supplies. They are making their best effort. Do you want the barracks tower to fall down around your garrison’s ears?”
“Your garrison,” Hastings amended sourly.
“Carpenters,” Ormesby cut in. “Did you tell him?”
Hastings shook his head and looked at Gavin. “That carpenter who had promised to inform Bruce was found dead in the forest. He was full of short arrows from Scottish bows.”
“A hunting accident?” Gavin asked, one brow raised.
Hastings did not laugh. “Someone must have told Robert Bruce the man was a spy. But I told only you, Faulkener. Only you.”
“I am sure others knew.”
“Your wife is a known ally of Bruce. Did you tell her?”
Gavin watched him evenly. “She knew naught of it.”
“Someone did,” Hastings said. “I suspect her, or that local priest. Follow that one, or follow your own wife. With one or the other, you will find a tie to Bruce that will be the key.”
Gavin gave him a cold stare. “My wife is no spy.”
Hastings smiled, a dark, narrow gleam in his eyes. “She is not trustworthy, Faulkener. Watch your back.”
“The king thought her trustworthy. He just pardoned her,” Gavin said. “Have you forgotten so soon?” Inclining his head, he turned and left the chamber.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Candles and soap,ginger and cloves yet to find,” Christian said, looking at Fergus. They stood together in the sunny market square. “We have been to the pepper merchant, the oil merchant’s stall for almonds, the weaver’s stall to look at plaid cloth. I still need some spices from the apothecary.”
“Most of those stalls and shops are here on High Street,” Fergus said, shifting the large basket that contained some of the cloth-wrapped packages Christian had already purchased. “Your husband should be here soon. I hope you are near done. Moira wants a few things too, but I have them now.”
“Thank you for carrying the bigger basket,” Christian said, smiling at him. She lifted her face to the sunshine as a mild breeze lifted her white veil. “It is like a lovely spring day, after all that rain and wind.” She shifted the smaller basket she carried. “Where are all the birds? I keep hearing them.”
“Likely the fowler’s stall, that way.” Fergus indicated a corner street. “They keep doves and pheasants and such for housewives and innkeepers to prepare for supper.”
“We have hundreds at Kilglassie. Where is the chandler’s shop?” They turned, and suddenly Christian pulled at his arm. “English soldiers,” she hissed, as guards in chain mail rode through the marketplace.
“Ach, they are everywhere in Ayr since the castle was taken. Do not pay them any heed.”
Inside the chandler’s shop, Christian collected a dozen candles made of practical, inexpensive tallow, and a few largetable candles of a more expensive rolled beeswax. While the chandler wrapped her purchases, she chose two small clay pots of soft Flemish-made soap scented with oils and herbs. They emerged a while later, both toting much heavier baskets.
“Enough,” Fergus groaned. “My Moira will wish she came with you, not me.”
“Nearly done,” she promised, as they elbowed their way through the crowd, passing the tall carved stone market cross that stood above the throng. The square was filled with people carrying baskets, calling and laughing, stopping to examine goods or bargain for prices. A quick visit to a cook shop gave them small meat pies, and they stopped outside, baskets at their feet, to nibble at them.
“Have you some to share, my lady?” A hand rested on her shoulder, and she gasped, turned, laughed to see Gavin. She handed him a half pie, and he gave her a lopsided grin before taking a bite.
“What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you. Ah, here is your priest. Good. My business is done at the castle. I am full of talk of the king’s latest demands, and listening into the night to strategies and finances to further Edward’s war. I left first chance I had.” He flexed his shoulders. “I hope you passed a more comfortable night than I did, sleeping on a cold stone floor wrapped in my cloak.”
“The abbey keeps guest quarters,” Fergus said, “but the beds are fair similar to a stone floor.”
