He could feel Eoin rolling his eyes at him under the mask. Eoin reached under his cloak. Fearchar grabbed for the knife lying in his great kilt. The cloaked figure dropped a small leather pouch on the table. It clanked enticingly. Widow Magaidh snorted at the two men. Fearchar raised an eyebrow and poked at the bag. The doctor motioned him to it. Fearchar picked it up and peered inside. He could feel the blood drain from his face. He looked back up at the red apparition in front of him. “Anythin’ ye want, Weard,” Fearchar conceded his service.
Eoin held out a scroll to the redhead. Fearchar took the proffered parchment and unrolled it gently, curious as to what would cause a plague doctor to pay so much gold for a man missing the sounds of battle. “Purty script, Weard. Can’nae read worth a damn,” he handed the roll back. Eoin’s shoulders sagged. He turned to Widow Magaidh, his body language looking for reassurance. Fearchar turned to her as well. “Aunty, ye take his letters to Cill Chriosd to be read, don’nae ye? I take it a min’ster’s out’ta the question with this?” he peered at her knitted eyebrows.
“Ah can read a bit, Fear. Find it’s much less work ‘ave’n Matew read my letters most days with my eyesight gone. ‘e should’na ken wha’s in tha’ scroll though,” she had seen just enough of the document to know that it would need to be burned when Eoin’s task was completed. Eoin made another sign. Fearchar looked at him, confused. He nodded while making the sign.
“Aye?” Fearchar took a leap of faith in guessing what Eoin was saying. Eoin made the sign more emphatically with an excited bob of his head this time. “I’m kennin’ that as aye then. Well, ‘ere’s say, long’es this don’nae ‘ave me nikkin’ ye the throne, Ah’ll sees what Ah can do f’r ye,” Fearchar took Eoin’s signing hand and shook it. Eoin looked down at it in surprise, suddenly silenced. It had been too many years since he had heard the twists of words and phrases of his homeland and, right honest, at that moment, it was giving him a headache.