Symon had proven to be our best at haggling for prices, so the next morning the two of them took the spare mounts to sell. Instead, I rode through the port of Edinburgh, seeking something special. A sheen of ice covered the cobblestones, so I rode carefully up the long incline of High Street until I found a stable for my horse.
It was sunny despite the chill wind. The air was fresh since the wind carried away any stench. The mercat square was busy. Closely built townhouses rose three and even four stories high on each side, most with a shop on the street level. Each shop had its front shutter lowered as a counter. Around the mercat cross, some peddlers had goods laid out on blankets. I made my way through shoppers who milled about looking for goods for the coming yuletide season, walking past a beggar with blank-white eyes holding out his palms. Elegantly dressed women made their dignified way, followed by a handmaid. Servants scurried on errands, many carrying a basket. I scratched my chin, having no idea where to find what I sought.
The heady scent of fresh baking drifted from a shop where people stood at the window buying their bread. When I stepped up to the counter, there were still a few loaves of inexpensive meslin bread, but I was staring at a tray of small cakes with bits of fruit showing through the crust. The hint of honey in their scent made my mouth water, but I waited until the apprentice inside had served his customers.
“Are those plum cakes?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Give me two of them.” I did not have anything to carry back to my companions, so they would have to go without. I smiled, not guilty, as I put two silver pennies on the lowered shutter. “Would you happen to ken where I can find a seller of ribbons?”
He turned to the rear, where the baker was stirring a bowl of dough. “Maister? Do you ken who might have ribbons?”
Turning, the muscular baker wiped the sweat from his forehead with his forearm. “Aye. There is a peddler often here. I saw him near the mercat cross the day. I ken that he usually has ladies’ folderols, ribbons, pins, and such and said to be as honest as any peddler is likely to be.”
Thanking them, I bit off half of one of the cakes and moaned at the tang of the plums mixed with the sweetness of honey. Walking while I finished it, I circled the towering mercat until I came to the wiry peddler in simple but solid clothes with a short cudgel near at hand in case he needed to deal with a thief. He had ribbons, needles, pins, and even a bit of lace laid out on a red blanket. So I squatted down.
“I want that.” I pointed at a piece of glossy blue ribbon easily long enough to serve as a headband for an unmarried lassie and even tumble down past her shoulders in the back. “Is that silk?”
He beamed at spotting a likely buyer. “Aye. That it is, sir. Feel how smooth it is and only ten shillings.”
Ten shillings was a lot of money, but a smile from certain blue eyes would be worth it, so I handed over the silver. I wound the ribbon and paid for a bit of wool to wrap it in to protect it in my scrip. I took a deep breath. I had looked forward to bringing her a gift. Instead, I would have to go to Douglasdale, well to the east of her fermtoun. It might take longer than I wished, but she would have it. I would make sure of that.