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?”
“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.
