“May ‘ave ta send me lad o’er ta’ ye, if she thinks like that,” Beatrice smiled. Eoin bowed humbly at the comment. Ingratiating himself into the village quickly would help him greatly.
A shadow passed along the side of his eye shields. He carefully turned his head to follow it, not wanting to draw more attention then he already did with his rather outlandish clothing. He flinched at the sight that greeted him. Deep blue and green splashed across his vision. Silvery white lines zipped through the tartan and all he could smell was fire and blood.
Fearchar finished collecting a second set of packages from Beatrice before noticing Eoin’s fixation. “Laird Grannd Daleroch ‘n one a’ his son’s – Conner Daleroch, Younger,” Fearchar supplied, watching the two men make their way through the market.
Junior? Eoin kept his hands low and blocked from the possible view of the Laird and his son.
“They’ve an estate up out’ta the village. We’ll pass it on the way ta’ my place. Some in the village says they nicked it from someone, but no one will blether ’bout it. Grannd ‘as a massive fishing fleet ‘n more land then most e’eryone else combined. ‘e’s the largest sheep flocks on this end a’ the Isle. ‘e’s got power and no one tells him no. Right crabbit scunner ,” Fearchar spat. “Le’s go. Ah’d no’ wan’ta deal with him or his pig a’ a son. Snotty spoiled tattyboggle. ‘e just married this summer, ‘n she died not bu’ a fortnight ago,” Fearchar scuffled through the market.
Died? Eoin asked.
“Died,” Fearchar made the same motion as Eoin, though unrefined.
Yes. Eoin told him he had the word right.
“She bled ta’ death a month ‘fter finding out she was carrin’. Midwife we got weren’t called in time.” Fearchar motioned Eoin away from Beatrice’s stand bitterly.
Did you know her? Eoin asked, keeping his eye on the men as they eased through the market.
Fearchar stopped to stare at him, sighing. “Say’s again,” Fearchar demanded, waving his hand in a half-hearted mimic of Eoin’s complexity.