Peter shrugged.“I don’t remember him.But we do just fine, my ma and me.”
“You help her with the alehouse?”
He straightened with pride.“I do the deliveries.”
“Deliveries,” Hew said, pretending to be surprised.“Where do you deliver?”
“All over.To the hermit at village end.To the monastery.Even,” he confided in a dreamy whisper, “to Lady Carenza herself.”
There was that name again.Carenza.
“Sometimes she gives me a penny,” Peter told him.Then he leaned closer to murmur, “Sometimes she kisses my brow.”
“Peter,” his keen-eared mother scolded.“I’m sure she kisses all the wee lads’ brows.She’s the laird’s daughter.’Tis her duty.”
For an instant, Hew wished the dutiful Lady Carenza would kisshisbrow.Then, deciding that would be a mistake, he cleared his throat.
“You deliver to the monastery, you said?”he said.“That’s where I’m staying.”
“Ye are?Aye.I go every Monday and Thursday.”
“You go into the monastery proper?”
“Nay, the cellarer meets me at the gate after midday Mass.”
The alewife called out to him.“Ale’s ready for Dunlop, Peter.”
“I have to go,” Peter said, scrambling up from the table.“Don’t like to keep Lady Carenza waiting.Maybe I’ll see ye at the monastery?”
Hew nodded.But he’d already ruled out Peter as a suspect.The lad was enterprising, but he didn’t seem like the sort to steal from a monastery.
He’d only polished off one of the warm, chewy oatcakes when patrons began wandering in.The Bell was surprisingly popular for this early in the day.But considering the quality ale and decent fare, it was probably a good way to prepare for a long, hard day of work.
He checked the prior’s list.When the alewife refilled his cup, he asked her about the man who visited the monastery once each season to deliver spices.“Do you know where I could find Absalom the spice merchant?”
“Absalom?When he’s in town, he comes most every day.He should be along any time.”
No sooner did she say the words than a dusky-skinned, black-haired man came through the door in a cloak thickly embroidered at the edges with bright thread.
“That’s him,” she murmured.
Absalom seemed rather richly dressed.Was that thanks to his talent as a spice merchant?Or his dexterity as a thief of religious artifacts?Hew wasn’t sure.
He stood and greeted the man.“Absalom?”he asked.
“Aye.”
“I’m told you deliver spices to the monastery not far from here?”
“That’s right.Kildunan.Four times a year.”He paused to call out to the alewife.“Ale and an oatcake.”
“On its way,” she called back.
“Can you tell me,” Hew asked, “who takes the order?”
“The kitchener comes to the gate.”Then he frowned, eyeing Hew’s axe.“Why?Is there a problem?”
“Nay.’Tis only…” He drew closer, confiding, “I’m staying there, and the food…” He wrinkled his nose.
