“Is it a very large market here?” asked Marjorie.
“Haven’t been for years,” he admitted. “But they are held w-weekly. On Market Street. Most people attend. You might see…some Blackfriars. And Grayfriars.”
“Blackfriars are Dominican order, Grayfriars are Franciscan,” explained Lady Janet.
“Oh!” said Marjorie. “I see. At the convent, merchants and tradesmen had wagons of goods or stalls they used to set up just outside the walls. Do they do the same here?”
Lachlan nodded. “If they have coin. Others lay wares on c-cloaks or blankets.”
His wife wriggled on her saddle, her excitement clear. “I cannot wait to admire everything. Well, admire all that is fresh and well made, of course. Anything else shall feel the full weight of my scorn and wrath.”
Lady Janet laughed. “And that is what I cannot wait to admire.”
The manor was only a few miles from the town proper, and in little time a sprinkling of crofter cottages—with their small plots of land boasting rows of vegetables, pig pens, and hen houses—came into view. Approaching from the south as they were, soon they would be able to see the upper reaches of St. Andrews castle to the left and the cathedral to the right, two ancient and imposing stone guardians that had stood between the town and sea for hundreds of years.
Yet Lachlan shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. It might be because the town was one of the holiest places in Scotland and because of his own uneasy relationship with God, but he felt on edge that no word had arrived from Stirling about Marjorie’s proposed marriage or details on travel arrangements. It made him suspicious. His late mother had taught him as a young lad to never ignore his instincts, and that advice had served him well, even saved his life on a few occasions.
Glancing left and right, he watched townspeople go about their day. They seemed innocent enough, but as he well knew, people were not always as they seemed.
In this market town full of strangers, he would need to keep his wits about him.
…
Last time she had set foot in St. Andrews, she had been too anxious, too overwhelmed, too rushed in her haste to be wed to really notice anything about the town.
This time, she could admire everything.
Marjorie gripped her reins, lest she slide from her saddle as her head jerked up and down and left and right, trying to see all that was around her as they reached the bottom of Market Street. Tradesmen and merchants had set up stalls the entire length of it, and even from here she could see trays of vegetables; pens containing chickens, pigs, and cows; tinkers selling pots, pans, and knives; a stall entirely of leather goods; many selling various fabrics; even a smithy working metal and a carpenter sanding a small table while onlookers watched. There were several fishmongers bellowing about fresh catch, and her nose wrinkled at the briny scent combined with tilled soil, meat roasting on spits, and small piles of manure.
“Fragrant, isn’t it?”
She turned to Janet, who regarded her with glinting eyes. To have her mistress look at her with fondness again rather than distant politeness relieved her no end. The last few days in the manor had stretched her nerves to breaking point, but as Janet refused to discuss how her barrenness hurt her, or the matter of a child, how to proceed had been unclear.
Saints willing, today could change everything.
“So fragrant,” Marjorie agreed. “I just hope when I dismount, I land in cool dirt rather than something fresh and warm.”
“Indeed. We should probably tie up the horses at this end of the street rather than further down. The closer we get to the cathedral, the busier it will be. So many pilgrims travel here, wanting to look at the relics.”
“Relics,” Lachlan grunted, sliding from his mount before handing the reins and a coin to one of the young lads offering to feed, water, and walk horses in a roped-off square. “So they say.”
After he helped them both from their horses, Marjorie tentatively approached her guardian. To her delight, Janet linked arms with her, and they began to walk.
“I must beg forgiveness,” she blurted. “I did not know about your, ah…”
“Barrenness?”
“I feel so terrible. Chattering on and on and all the while causing you pain—”
“No, dear one,” said Janet, shaking her head. “Not here. I swear we shall speak of the matter soon and come to some agreement where we can all be happy. For now…think about what you shall beg me for when we return to the manor, retreat to the solar, and make use of that sturdy chaise.”
Marjorie quivered. Touching herself had brought some relief the past few endless nights alone in bed, but nothing in the world could compare to the soul-shattering pleasure she’d known with Janet and Lachlan. “I…I can think of a few things.”
“So eager. You’ve missed your lessons, then?”
Janet’s tone and smile were indulgent, but a hint of something far deeper lurked in her eyes. Almost as though her bold, commanding mistress felt a little uncertain. And to that, she could only give honesty. Probably too much, too soon, but after so much upheaval, she did not want to hide her true feelings any longer. Who knew what the future would hold for them all?
“So much,” said Marjorie rawly. “I need you, as I need Lachlan. In bed and out. Always. I…I love you.”
Janet swallowed hard, her gaze softening, her hand tightening on Marjorie’s arm. “Well. Well. That is sweet music to my ears. I…ah…where is your husband? Lachlan, stop scowling at the cathedral, or you’ll be struck by lightning.”
He joined them and grunted again. “Relics. Probably chicken bones. Or some unfortunate duck.”
“Have you seen them?”
“Yes. Have you?”
Janet rolled her eyes. “One cannot be part of the king’s retinue and not see them.”
“What is it like?” Marjorie demanded, both disappointed Janet had avoided expressing herself fully
