Chapter Eight
Clara woke witha sore head thanks to the very excellent mead she and Lilah had enjoyed last night. They’d had a right jolly time of it, as they always did together, and neither had missed joining in the manly revels from the night before. Or at least Lilah hadn’t, and she had managed to keep Clara distracted well enough that she had not gone exploring.
But now it was morning, and she would not stay cooped up like an errant child. She was quick with her ablutions and dressed in a gown that she could button up on her own, which was to say it was a good dress for a tradeswoman. If Lilah were awake, she would have stopped Clara from wearing it—it was important to dress to one’s class when in a foreign land—but to Clara, it was a matter of expedience. So she put it on and slipped outside as the sun began to light the day in earnest.
The inner bailey was filling with people selling their wares. It was too early for most of them to be ready, but every one managed to greet her good morning and offer her a quick early look for her eyes alone. She refused them, promising to return later, but a few managed to suck her in. She was impressed by the quality of their woolen hosiery. She purchased a stunningly tatted fan. And then she marveled at an array of glass bottles and other pieces. She’d never seen such beautifully rendered glassworks, but before she could ask who had fashioned them, she was distracted by a jewelry vendor who sported beautiful copper pieces for “a lady’s head and hair.”
They were quite lovely, and she nearly bought a bracelet as a wedding gift for Lilah when Mairi caught her elbow.
“You cannot be buying Aberbeag goods without matching your purchase among the MacCleal,” she said. “You’ve done got a fan from them. If you don’t balance it quick from the MacCleal side, you’ll be declaring yourself on their side, and you won’t be welcome on this one.” She gave Clara a pointed look. “Is that what you want?”
Clara grimaced. This was why she hated anything outside the city. Her own home county had a rivalry with the neighboring one. She never remembered whose pig was to be praised and whose was to be ignored. And if she said she liked one flower over another, it became the talk of the parish.
“In London, I can buy a beautiful fan, and no one thinks twice about it.”
“Then you should’a stayed there. But you’re here now, and you need to think. The copper mine is on the Aberbeag side. The glass and whisky is from here.”
“And who made the mead?” she said. “I’ve never had better.”
“That’s from Father Andrew and his ladies. It’s right fine mead, but he serves both the clans equally, so it’s no help to you.”
“And the wool?”
“Everybody does wool. Depends on who you mean.” Then before Clara could answer, Mairi cursed under her breath. “And now the fighters are here, and I’ve got to see that they don’t kill each other early. Quick make up for your gaff or the whispers will follow you all day.”
“How?”
“Buy something from us!” the woman said with a huff. She shoved Clara toward a stall of heavy wool scarves that would probably itch, then rushed off to a group of twenty large men clattering in through the gate.
The seller perked up, but Clara reasoned it would do no good to buy something and discard it immediately because it was itchy. Instead, she turned back to the glassworks. That was undoubtably MacCleal work, and she was fascinated by the different shapes and colors. One perfume bottle was shaped in a lion’s face with his mane streaked in copper. She had no intention of buying, but she was impressed by the craftsmanship. It looked like the creature was in mid-roar.
“This is exquisite,” she breathed. “I can’t even imagine how it’s done.”
“Tis skillful, indeed, Miss. But maybe you’d appreciate something more like this.”
He passed her another perfume bottle with the stopper in the shape of a wolf’s head. The skill was evident in every line, especially as the wolf was stretched up to the sky as if howling. But for some reason, the bottle was blue, and she could not reconcile a wolf done in blue.
“It is lovely,” she said, her eyes going back to the lion. At least this was done with clear glass and copper highlights. That made sense to her mind, though she kept comparing the intricacies of both animal heads. The work was extraordinary.
“Don’t like the blue, do you?” a voice said from behind her.
She spun around, grateful that she had a good grip on the two bottles otherwise she might have dropped them. As it was, the merchant held out his hands as if to catch them should they drop. “Lord Loughton,” she cried as she looked up at his rugged face. “You’re awake.” Awake and dressed in his barest highland kilt. He had fabric wrapped around his waist and thrown over his shoulder, but much of his torso remained bare.
“A poor man I would be to sleep on the day of the Highland Games,” he responded, while she did her best to not look at his partially naked chest.
“I believe the Aberbeag competitors have arrived,” she managed, realizing belatedly that they too had been dressed, or undressed, in a similar fashion. And how embarrassing it was that she had not noticed their attire at all, but that Lord Loughton’s flesh suddenly had her blushing.
“Aye, they did,” he was saying. “But don’t think about them. Tell me your thoughts on the two pieces of glass.”
“They’re both beautiful. I’ve never seen work this skilled. How are they made?”
“In heat and sweat, my lady. Like the fires of hell.” He pointed to the back side of the castle. “The furnace is back there, and all MacCleal men have the burns to prove it.”
Her eyes widened. “Really? Even you?” She couldn’t imagine him like a blacksmith hunched over an anvil.
“Even me,” he said with grin. “Will I have to prove it to you?”
“Yes. Definitely!”
