Chapter Three #2
The market itself was a crowded thoroughfare of vendors, stalls, animals, and people.
Heady scents of livestock – goats and sheep – mixed with human musk and the odd spice hung like a cloud over the market.
The low din of chattering market customers and vendors was a shocking difference to the quieter tower at Glenbervie.
Ailith was trying to look everywhere at once.
There were many more options than Ailith had imagined.
Some merchants were wealthier, with awning-styled pavilions, flags, and signs announcing their wares or guild.
Others were simpler, with only the items for sale displayed on a table.
The market was well represented. Most of the food vendors were to the right, with the fishmongers on the end and fruit stalls near the middle.
On the left, weavers and their wool and fabrics filled the first stall, followed by woodworkers, spice sellers, and herbalists, then the smiths and other wrights near the end.
The silversmith was the last in the intricate line of vendors.
“Hail, Theodore! How do ye fare this day?” Mairi called out with a wave of her hand.
Ailith tore her attention from the diversion of the different stalls to Mairi and the direction of her gaze.
The silversmith’s stall appeared to be connected to a larger building, where his hearth, anvil, and other larger tools were probably housed. There was a second story to the thatched-roofed building, where he most likely lived with his family.
On the table at the stall’s edge sat a variety of silver objects, ranging from buckles to cutlery and chalices to jewelry.
“Good Lady Gordon. Ye are a welcome sight this day. And ye have Ailith with ye! Ciamar a tha thu?”
How are you, Ailith translated in her head. So Theodore knew her. Ailith bit her lip to prevent herself from saying something problematic.
“We are well. As ye know, Ailith is to wed William MacDougal.”
Theodore clapped his hands. “Aye! Meal do naidheachd, milady. ‘Tis something I can supply for the blessed event?”
Mairi stepped to the side and swept her hand from Ailith to the table.
Ailith brushed wisps of crimson waves from her face as she leaned toward the silversmith.
“A Lukenbooth, perchance? ‘Tis thoughtful and practical.”
“Aye, that ‘tis,” Theodore agreed. “I have a selection of items here.” He moved to the edge of the table to a selection of rings and penannular brooches.
Many were plain silver, crafted with images of stags or thistles.
A few had more ancient Celtic patterns, knots or circles engraved into the face of the brooch, while others had brilliant gems.
So many to choose from! Which did she like best? And which would William prefer?
Mairi moved right behind Ailith. “Ye are the one to see it every day. Select the one ye most desire.”
Sound advice, but what would she like to see on William?
“Might I make a suggestion, milady?”
“Of course, please,” Ailith answered with a relieved breath.
Theodore lifted a brooch into the palm of his hand. It was a circular brooch with a long pin at the back. On the face, find interlocking lines woven around the silver, and at the center was a garnet the size of her thumb tip.
“The color nigh matches your hair,” he commented, holding the piece close to her cheek.
The silversmith was accurate. The deep red garnet did resemble her hair’s hue, and the idea of giving William something that reflected her hair, a significant reminder of her, was one she liked. Smiling at the smith, she nodded.
Without hesitation, Mairi handed over several coins, dropping them into Theodore’s hand as Ailith took the brooch. She couldn’t tell how much money exchanged hands.
“Thank ye,” Alight said in a low voice so only Mairi might hear. “’Tis generous of ye.”
“Generous of your brother,” Mairi answered. There it is, Ailith thought, that grim nature. “He’s the one who wanted to assure everything was in place for this wedding, including a gift for William.”
Be the bigger person, Ailith, she reminded herself. “Well, thanks to him and to ye for bringing me here.”
Mairi had no retort. Her lips thinned into a semblance of a smile, and she turned around.
“Daniel should have met us already. Do ye see him?”
Ailith’s eyes searched the crowd, but the bustle of people made it difficult to locate anyone. She stepped away from the stall and moved down the thoroughfare, stopping by the herbalist stall. Wasn’t the wheelwright just past –
“Ye must be joking,” an unfamiliar voice behind her said loud enough to overhear through the crowd’s clamor.
Ailith spun to see who owned that voice for two reasons. First, the accented English sounded odd, almost like her friend Angelina from America. Second, the phrasing, ye must be joking, was something she would have said in her old life, 1100 years in the future. It was not a common phrase in 900 CE.
So strange, Ailith thought as her eyes fell on the voice’s owner.
It was a slender woman with bright orange hair, very curly. Curlier than her own, and bound with a creamy white strip of linen.
“And what of carline or bog myrtle? I cannae find it on my own,” the strange woman said to a man behind a table.
The herbalist clutched his hand to his gaunt chest. “Carline? Only witches use such a thing, or the English.” The herbalist spat as if he’d just cursed.
So we know how the Scots feel about the English, even this early. Ailith surmised with an entertained smile. Carline? Did the woman mean Carline Thistle? Witch’s thistle, if Ailith recalled correctly.
And witches? This orange-haired woman had gumption to risk being called a witch.
“Never ye mind,” the woman said, waving her hand as if to wave the thought away. “The bog myrtle?”
The tension in the herbalist’s face lessened. “Aye, I have that. Anything more?”
“Nay,” the woman answered. Then she turned to the side, surveying the crowd as she waited for her herbs. Her gaze landed on Ailith.
The look they shared was heavy, full of questions and presumptions. The woman’s hair curled around her pale, freckled cheeks, and her light green eyes leveled at Ailith.
To gaze upon a stranger so boldly – it was not something Ailith had seen any other medieval woman do.
Most wore wimples or kerchiefs to cover their hair and dropped their gazes to hide behind those diaphanous fabrics.
This woman was bold in her speech and behavior, and reminded Ailith so much of . . .
Of me. The thought struck Ailith like lightning in her brain. Could she be . . .? Could she be a voyager like me? It seemed ridiculous, but was such a thing possible?
Eladon, the self-proclaimed Romani witch, had known what she was doing when she sent Emilie back in time to become Ailith.
She had sent her back for a reason. A purpose, Eladon’s voice echoed in her head.
If Eladon knew what she was doing, a skill handed down from one generation to the next, then Eladon, her mother, or her grandmother could have easily sent others back, and probably had, for any number of reasons.
Had Eladon or one of her predecessors sent this woman? Or were there others – either witches or fae or whatever they called themselves – like Eladon with the same skill?
A hand clasped her arm, jerking Ailith from her thoughts. Daniel was at her side.
“Are ye ready to leave? Mairi says ye found your wee gift.”
Ailith looked down at her hand. She had gripped the brooch so hard the back pin punctured her skin, drawing a pinpoint of blood. She loosened her grip.
“Aye,” she rasped out. “Aye, let’s return to Glenbervie.”
As they walked to their horses, Mairi strode beside Ailith. “Dinna get too close to that woman,” she said in a tight voice. “I’ve heard she’s a peculiar one. The last thing ye need is to be seen near her. Ye are odd enough, lass.”
Mairi said it as though she was protecting Ailith, but she couldn’t hide the bite behind the words.
As they mounted, Ailith wondered two things. Was that orange-haired woman really a voyager like her? And, if Mairi listened to and shared gossip like that, what might she be thinking and saying about Ailith?
When William returned, the keep was bustling with preparations – both happy and sad, as some were arranging for Brian’s funeral and others readied the keep for William’s wedding ceremony.
Clansmen carried armfuls of peat and slabs of mutton and pork to the kitchens.
Young clan lassies, with their hair tied back with kerchiefs, swept and scrubbed and wiped.
Fresh linens were brought down to the warriors’ sleeping quarters beneath the main hall, and to the tower for those highborn enough to sleep in proper quarters.
Cormag’s wife, Caitir, stood in the main hall, directing their efforts and greeting guests with the ease and comportment of any military general.
Truly, she was a force to be reckoned with, her slender arms clad in a creamy léine under a flowing yellow kirtle, her uisge-beatha-shaded eyes sharp and focused on the task at hand.
She lifted a hand at him when he entered the main hall.
“William. A word if ye may?”
With a quick bow, he crossed the wide hall towards her.
“Do ye have many duties this day?” she asked as she pointed a lass toward the tower.
William shook his head.
“Excellent. Might ye greet our visitors as they arrive? I have duties I must attend, and I believe they would rather be greeted by our guest of honor, aye?”
“Understood,” William said with a side smile.
Though she was handling both duties beautifully, ‘twould be far easier on Caitir if he were to take a bit of the load from her skilled hands.
She rested her hand on his arm. “Thank ye, William. I will see ye later in the day.” Her smile was wide with genuine thanks as she departed the hall, calling after another lass who had ascended the stairs.