Trust Ruth to ken what to do around the farm. Her cousins in the village can come to help out if they may, and promise them payment when we come back.
Dinnae fash about me, Mither dear. I’m strong of mind and have taken enough food from the pantry to last me a long time. When I find Faither, I will try and get a message to ye as soon as I may.
Your loving daughter,
Blair Carmichael
Blair signed the letter with a flourish and wrapped the coins inside the parchment before she folded it. She was too uncomfortable telling her mother that Angus had told her where he kept his savings. He had done it because he did not trust his wife to spend it on worthless trinkets and pretty fallals.
She crept upstairs to her mother’s bedchamber, listened at the door for sounds of her sleeping, and pushed the door open a crack. It did not take long to slip the letter under her mother’s feather pillow and go back downstairs.
A feeling of exhilaration came over Blair as she left through the kitchen door after stocking up her saddlebags with food. Her father’s black stallion, Pooka, was saddled, bridled, and mounted in a trice, with Blair using a log to help her climb on top.
Before the sun rays could lighten the Highland mountain shadows, Blair was cantering down the lane away from the farm, toward Flichity and her father.
3
The Two Taverns of Flichity
Blair had sometimes accompanied her father to the market in the past. When she had been old enough to sit on the mare without complaining of saddle soreness after a few hours, it was Angus who suggested she come with him to the large market town of Flichity, especially in the weeks before feast days and holy days.
The road to Flichity headed directly north, deep into the jagged Highland coastal lands. Flichity market was a vibrant hub of foreign and local travelers and traders. They congregated at the market to exchange, bargain, and socialize. Gossip and intrigue flourished in every corner of the bustling town; visitors found it hard to work out what was news and what was muckrake.
After trading his livestock to the highest bidder at the cattle market and guiding Blair to where she could sell her eggs, Angus would take his daughter to the shopkeepers displaying their enticing wares on trays outside their windows. He would kindly allow Blair to keep half a shilling from selling her eggs, then the two of them would spend an enjoyable afternoon inspecting and sampling the tempting goods and buying presents for the family back home.
If the traveling fair was visiting Flichity, father and daughter would hurry to the field where the fair traders had set up and stroll from stall to stall, buying baubles and small toys, watching conjurers fascinate fairgoers, and even attending the occasional stage play. It had been a lovely way to spend the day, and the summer sun would be sinking behind the mountains before Angus and his eldest daughter would come home exhausted, but satisfied.
As Pooka followed the familiar route toward Flichity, Blair had ample time to think about what made this trip different for her father.
Faither said he didnae ken if he would have time for shopping after his transactions at the market were over. This is the part I dinnae understand. When I have gone with him, he sells the goats, sheep, or bullocks in a twinkling of an eye. There is plenty of time left to shop.
Blair rode for miles with a perplexed frown on her face. In all the years her father had been riding to Flichity, his timing had begun to change more and more.
Since she had been old enough to start lessons with her mother, Angus had ridden the ten miles to Flichity in under three hours, sold the farm goods, and been back home in time for tea. Lately—within the last five years or so—he had begun to leave earlier and return later. Why?
If he departed at five hours past midnight in the summertime, even with the slowest of herds or driving his cart at a walk, he would still arrive in Flichity market well before noon. That meant he should have been back within hailing distance of the farm by five hours past noon, even on the days he went to the shops after selling the cattle, eggs, and other farm-made produce. Angus had never yet had to spend the night at an inn or tavern, but lately, he would come home only a few hours before the clock at the nearest church tower struck midnight. He would avoid questions about where he had been and what he had done with a hand outstretched and a dismissive and firm shake of his head.
It was all very puzzling.
Blair knew she was getting closer to Flichity when the road became busier. She passed horses and carts laden with interesting-looking crates and barrels, protected from the weather by heavy hessian sacks. Eager riders would blaze past her on a mettlesome steed, kicking up dust and pebbles as they dashed by. Pooka would snort and kick out his hind hooves at bleating sheep and goats shepherded by weary herdsmen. When she saw the church steeple rising into the horizon in front of her, Blair knew she was only fifteen minutes away from Flichity.
The Highland burgh was unwalled, and there were no sentries posted at the main entrance. This was because the townsfolk were too penny pinching to pay for guards and soldiers. If troubles arose, as they sometimes did with so many strangers mingling together, the burghers would hire mercenaries to stamp out the problem and send the malefactors off to Berwick or Stirling for judgment.
Blair guided Pooka right up to the tavern where she and her father used to grab a bite to eat. It was one of the establishments where she could ask questions, being well known to the innkeeper and his wife.
She handed Pooka over to the tavern groom and promised him a penny to feed and water the tired animal. She watched the man tether the horse at the water trough and fill a string bag full of hay before heading inside.
“Greetings, Mister Hardie!” Blair said as she entered the tavern’s taproom and hefted her saddlebags onto one of the long wooden tables. “How are yer fair bairns and lovely wife?”
The innkeeper smiled in delight to see Blair again. “Och, wee Blair Carmichael! And all on yer own. What brings ye here?”
Blair gratefully took the mug of weak ale from the man and drank it halfway down before her mouth felt less dry and dusty. She removed her cloak and gave it a shake, and rested her elbows on the alehouse counter.
“It’s interesting ye say that, Mister Hardie, because Faither’s been missing a good couple o’ days now, and seeing as his last whereabouts was Flichity, I was hoping ye ken someone who could help with me inquiries?”
Mr. Hardie stopped polishing the mug he had in his hand and looked worried.
“Now, now, Blair, ye ken I would be doing yer faither a disservice if I were to introduce ye to some blabbermouth gossip who might tell ye things a young girl has no right to ken.”
