“Aye, it might. Will have to keep it in mind,” Sigimor said, then frowned. “Nay such a good thing though, as it may help Robert get to the lad, too.” He stood up and then bent to quickly kiss his wife. “We best be on our way. Ye keep watch, Jo. They may come here.”
“We have big, burly men with swords here,” she said, and patted his hand where it lay on the table. “We will be fine. You just watch your back.”
“Always do.”
Gybbon got up, said his thanks and farewells to Jolene, and hurried out after Sigimor and his men. Sigimor paused to give some orders to the men lurking around outside, and Gybbon watched them station themselves more precisely around the manor. Jolene was right. She had big, burly men with swords to protect her, and he wondered if Sigimor had purposely chosen his biggest men.
Once mounted, Gybbon felt a touch more confident about what they had to do. It was a small but impressive little force of men and he doubted anyone would hesitate to answer their questions. He hoped he would have as much when he had to take Mora to Gormfeurach. He prayed they would not be needed, but he was not foolish enough to think Robert would not prove to be a problem. He was eager to get to Gormfeurach.
Chapter Eight
“Nay sure the eight of us riding into the village like this is good. Could make folk wary or e’en nervous,” murmured Gybbon as he glanced at Sigimor.
“Nay, they have seen us before. The bigger town in the other direction sees us more often as it has an excellent alewife and an inn I dinnae mind taking my wife to.”
“There is the butcher’s shop,” said Fergus as he moved up on Sigimor’s other side.
They all stopped to look around but did not immediately see a blue door. Sigimor stared hard at a burned-out cottage, his expression growing darker with each moment he looked at it. Gybbon then noticed the flowers in front of the still smoldering pile, some burned, some stomped down by the ones who had come to fight the fire.
Gybbon cursed. “They have already come after her.”
Sigimor nodded. “Appears they have, but did they start the fire just to kill her and the boy or because they were angry that they couldnae find them? We will inquire of the butcher first.”
Following him, Gybbon left his horse under the watchful eyes of Fergus and the MacFingal lads as he, Sigimor, and the others walked into the butcher shop. It was clean and well set up. One could smell the blood but only if one breathed deeply, yet there was no scent of rot.
“What can I be doing for ye lads and m’laird?” asked the plump, aging man at the counter, nodding respectfully at Sigimor. “’Tis usually your wee lady who comes by. Mayhap ye could tell her that I will have fresh pig on the morrow.”
“I will do that,” Sigimor said. “We were wondering if ye kenned what happened to the cottage across the road, the one that has burned down and that should still be being soaked as it smolders? Did it have a blue door?”
“That it did, aye. A wee bit of fancy done by the woman who lived there.”
“Did she get out?”
“Cannae say and, if any can, they are nay talking. She had a wee lad with her for a wee while and no one will say what has happened to him, either. A sad thing.”
“And no idea of who did it?”
“Nay that any are speaking of. That poor woman ne’er did anyone harm. She used to bring me flowers for my shop. To keep away the smell of death, she would say.”
“Was anyone verra close to her?” asked Gybbon.
“Lady in the house two doors down from it—has a green door.” He pointed in the direction they had just ridden in from. “The two of them often came in here together chattering like magpies and looking o’er what I had. I would often hear them talk of meals they had shared. So, aye, Morag Sinclair would have been close to her, I am thinking. Sheriff talked to her though and he didnae look happy, so I be thinking she didnae tell him much. ’Course those Ogilvy men were with the sheriff, too, and he didnae look too happy about that either.”
“Thank ye,” said Sigimor. “I will be certain to tell my wife about the pig.”
Gybbon looked at Sigimor once they were back outside. “Do ye think we ought to talk to the sheriff?”
Sigimor frowned and rubbed his chin. “Let us speak to this Morag Sinclair first. She might already ken what he thinks about the house or what he may plan to do about it.”
“I hope she has some information as I would like to be able to give Mora some news.”
“E’en if it is bad?” asked Fergus.
“Aye, e’en then. Kenning something is usually better than kenning nothing.”
Leaving the youngest to watch over the horses again and keep an eye on the smoldering cottage, Sigimor, Gybbon, Nait, and Nanty walked up to the door of the tidy little cottage. Gybbon wondered why the man who owned the land was so tight-fisted about the land he allowed the cottages to be put on. None of the ones in this row had much at all, not even enough for a proper kitchen garden. He had seen ones like this in the smoky, bustling towns that he thought had far too many people crowded into them.
“This is all Ogilvy land,” said Sigimor. “Old mon clung to every patch of land he had. Mayhap that is where his grandsons got their idea that it should all be theirs again.” He looked up and down the road. “They are rather, weel, fancy for field workers though.”
