turned to face him, her brown eyes warm. “Congratulations. Is that who you were visiting?”
“Aye. The daughter o’ Douglas.” Campbell frowned, the words feeling rough and awkward in his mouth. And not quite true.
He pulled up short and handed her down to the road. He needed to get her off of his lap before she noticed he was growing friendlier than he ought. She landed hard and turned back to him, her eyes flashing. He was not about to explain the problem.
“Walk, we need to give the horse a rest.” Campbell set his jaw and trudged forward. She had addled his brain, it was the only explanation. He needed to be rid of her, but there was no way to return her to England without being drawn and quartered, and no way to set her free in Scotland that would not end most unpleasantly for her.
“Well!” Isabelle spun away from him and glided down the road ahead of him, her back straight, her head high, her ridiculous velvet train following her like a bedraggled puppy.
Seven
Campbell leaned down from his horse and reached for Isabelle. “We need to move quickly if we are to make it into Glasgow before the gates close.”
Isabelle was too tired to answer. They had traveled hard all day, alternating between riding and walking, though Campbell’s walking stride required Isabelle to hustle to keep pace. Her feet hurt, her legs hurt, her back hurt, and she was greatly tired of this journey. Campbell offered his hand and she allowed herself to be hauled back onto the horse, and onto the Highlander’s lap. She collapsed against his chest and he spurred his mount toward Glasgow.
Having spent most of her life in a castle, Isabelle thought herself immune to whatever splendor the Scots may have created, but as they approached Glasgow, she realized she had misjudged. They plodded over a wooden bridge crossing the River Clyde, and she stared at the large wooden ships. Several were tied along the banks, looking impressive with their single, tall mast in the middle. Never had she seen such a wonder. At Briggait Port Gate her Highlander had a few words with the guard, and they proceeded into the burgh.
Isabelle was immersed in the sights and sounds and smells of the Glasgow market. The streets were lined with small shops and carts of people selling wares. People crowded the streets, brushing by her as they passed. Vegetables, fish, and game were proudly displayed, along with cloth, ribbons, and spices. Each little, crowded shop sold goods from their particular guild: tanners, skinners, weavers, and fishmongers. Carts of fresh produce lined the street. The pungent aroma of dead fish, cinnamon, roasting meat, and many bodies assailed her like a restorative.
She sat up tall, soaking in the new sights and sounds. Never had she seen so many people, so many wares, such brilliant colors. She was accustomed to traders who came once a moon to Alnsworth Castle, but this was extraordinary. Her uncle had never allowed her to leave the castle, so she had never been to a fair or market. Apparently she had missed much.
“Ye’ve ne’er seen a market before?” Campbell raised one eyebrow.
Isabelle shut her gaping mouth. “No, never.”
“Saltmarket, this is. The weekly market at Glasgow Cross.”
“Cross?” Isabelle looked for some sort of sculpture.
“The cross streets of Saltmarket, High Street, Trongate, and Gallowgate; ’tis market day, almost its close. The time when the best deals can be made.” The corners of Campbell’s mouth twitched up.
Isabelle glanced at him sideways. “I’ve heard tell the Scots are a frugal folk.”
Campbell smiled, “With seven sisters I’ve had to be. Here, maybe ye can be of service to me.” He dismounted and helped Isabelle down. “If I dinna return wi’ cloth, my sisters will have my head. Perhaps ye can help me choose?”
Isabelle smiled at the chance and put up the hood of her cloak to appear more respectable. She walked to a storefront of a cloth merchant in one of the
“Aye. The daughter o’ Douglas.” Campbell frowned, the words feeling rough and awkward in his mouth. And not quite true.
He pulled up short and handed her down to the road. He needed to get her off of his lap before she noticed he was growing friendlier than he ought. She landed hard and turned back to him, her eyes flashing. He was not about to explain the problem.
“Walk, we need to give the horse a rest.” Campbell set his jaw and trudged forward. She had addled his brain, it was the only explanation. He needed to be rid of her, but there was no way to return her to England without being drawn and quartered, and no way to set her free in Scotland that would not end most unpleasantly for her.
“Well!” Isabelle spun away from him and glided down the road ahead of him, her back straight, her head high, her ridiculous velvet train following her like a bedraggled puppy.
Seven
Campbell leaned down from his horse and reached for Isabelle. “We need to move quickly if we are to make it into Glasgow before the gates close.”
Isabelle was too tired to answer. They had traveled hard all day, alternating between riding and walking, though Campbell’s walking stride required Isabelle to hustle to keep pace. Her feet hurt, her legs hurt, her back hurt, and she was greatly tired of this journey. Campbell offered his hand and she allowed herself to be hauled back onto the horse, and onto the Highlander’s lap. She collapsed against his chest and he spurred his mount toward Glasgow.
Having spent most of her life in a castle, Isabelle thought herself immune to whatever splendor the Scots may have created, but as they approached Glasgow, she realized she had misjudged. They plodded over a wooden bridge crossing the River Clyde, and she stared at the large wooden ships. Several were tied along the banks, looking impressive with their single, tall mast in the middle. Never had she seen such a wonder. At Briggait Port Gate her Highlander had a few words with the guard, and they proceeded into the burgh.
Isabelle was immersed in the sights and sounds and smells of the Glasgow market. The streets were lined with small shops and carts of people selling wares. People crowded the streets, brushing by her as they passed. Vegetables, fish, and game were proudly displayed, along with cloth, ribbons, and spices. Each little, crowded shop sold goods from their particular guild: tanners, skinners, weavers, and fishmongers. Carts of fresh produce lined the street. The pungent aroma of dead fish, cinnamon, roasting meat, and many bodies assailed her like a restorative.
She sat up tall, soaking in the new sights and sounds. Never had she seen so many people, so many wares, such brilliant colors. She was accustomed to traders who came once a moon to Alnsworth Castle, but this was extraordinary. Her uncle had never allowed her to leave the castle, so she had never been to a fair or market. Apparently she had missed much.
“Ye’ve ne’er seen a market before?” Campbell raised one eyebrow.
Isabelle shut her gaping mouth. “No, never.”
“Saltmarket, this is. The weekly market at Glasgow Cross.”
“Cross?” Isabelle looked for some sort of sculpture.
“The cross streets of Saltmarket, High Street, Trongate, and Gallowgate; ’tis market day, almost its close. The time when the best deals can be made.” The corners of Campbell’s mouth twitched up.
Isabelle glanced at him sideways. “I’ve heard tell the Scots are a frugal folk.”
Campbell smiled, “With seven sisters I’ve had to be. Here, maybe ye can be of service to me.” He dismounted and helped Isabelle down. “If I dinna return wi’ cloth, my sisters will have my head. Perhaps ye can help me choose?”
Isabelle smiled at the chance and put up the hood of her cloak to appear more respectable. She walked to a storefront of a cloth merchant in one of the
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