Fyskar

Chapter 22

Snow and ice dripped from thatch eaves, creating slick, muddy tracks in the melt. Rodney's birlinn docked on the second day of frost break. Thin sheets of ice danced around the hull, squeaking a thin tune over the thunk of wood and slap of rope. Gulls cried in a clear morning, greeting a pale pink sky.

Eoin studied the improvised basket sitting on a dock post above a pile of bags and trunks. A twirtling chirp protested a sudden gust of wind. He breathed a sigh, reassured that Vanora was well enough to respond to her environment. He had rescued her from the mews the evening before Iain brought a fire brigade to the Daleroch estate and burned it to the ground. Seonaid had not protested the bird's lodging in their byre. Plenty of the dried meats, root veg, and what remained of the peat had already been packed away for sale to the neighbouring crofts to turn one last coin. Comestibles left at the end were either turned out to the refuse pile or carefully stored to be shipped with Fearchar, Seonaid, and Eoin.

The doctor and the handyman had taken the better part of two days to dismantle the makings of the croft home and disposed of what they would not take with them. Trunks were purchased and traded for to pack away clothing, tools of Fearchar's trades, and Seonaid's household materials.

Men gathered around the dock in nervous clumps, avoiding and making eye contact with each other while their wives cried and fussed over a woman in their midst.

"You'd think Seonaid took them on," Fearchar chuckled next to Eoin.

I think a few of them did. The physician recognized more than one face in the slew of dull-coloured skirts who had made the trip up to Seonaid's croft.

"True. I recognize that look her suiters have. I had that look the day she moved shop from upper to lower Glasgow and the same look was on those men's faces when I carried her off to here. At least they'll help us get the bags aboard." Fearchar waved and walked over to talk to Rodney.

"We'll be sad to see you go, Doc, but you kept Plague from our village. We cannot ask you for more. If it is time for you to move on to your next village, it is time for another town to be safe from Lucifer's influences." Matew from the kirk pressed a packet of dried herbs into Eoin's gloved fingers. "Seonaid let me know of Widow Magaidh's passing and that you knew of her. I am sorry you were not informed for her burial. She walks along the golden roads. Please find peace with this news as she has found peace with God."

Eoin clenched his teeth, thankful he did not have to speak with the parish priest only meaning kindness. The Fyskar regretted never being able to make it to the grave and Walk his grandmother's spirit to the Forest.

"Aye, men, grab a trunk or a bag and I'll tell you where to set it!" Rodney called for the gathering's attention. Soon enough, a nook in the hold was filled with the handyman and prostitute's belongings. Eoin clung to Vanora's cage while Fearchar took the apothecary chest and duffle to that storage corner. Other packages of goods for trade took up the rest of the hold. Near midday, Eoin and his lovers boarded the ship heading to the mainland.

A week of travel by cart turned them out onto a London road. Storied houses crowded the cobblestone, casting grim shadows on frozen horse muck. Seonaid and Fearchair stared at the buildings and the peasantry dressed so differently from themselves. A number of more well-off men openly huffed and sneered at Fearchar until they noticed Eoin. A bubble formed around the little group. Fear of Plague uppermost in people's minds tended to force distance.

The little group's shipment had been sent ahead to a storage house on the wharves, save for a couple of handbags of clothing and Vanora's cage.

"You sent a note to your man, where is he?" Fearchar sidled up to Eoin and took Vanora's cage from him.