“What kind of display?” Liss was wary of committing herself. On the other hand, good public relations with members of the conclave might translate into more sales at the Emporium’s booth at the highland games.
“Well, since we’re doing a reenactment of a medieval battle, I envision an assortment of reproduction weapons—a hand-and-a-half broadsword, a claymore, perhaps a dirk.”
“Weapons?” Liss let the other woman hear the reluctance in her voice. “I don’t really think that—”
“Why not? You have an assortment of skean dhus in your display case. They’re weapons, too, even if they are small. If you’re willing to sell them, you can hardly object to simply displaying others.”
There wasn’t much Liss could object to in that statement. She knew firsthand how deadly the decorative little knives she carried could be. She searched for an alternate reason to refuse the request. “These reproduction weapons—aren’t they valuable?”
“Not particularly. I’d guess they cost no more than two hundred dollars apiece.” She glanced at Palsgrave for confirmation and received his nod of agreement. “The whole collection probably wouldn’t be valued at more than a thousand. I’m sure your insurance covers that much.”
“You said these are reproductions. Are any of them sharp enough to cut someone, say, a curious customer who decides to pick one up for a closer look?”
“The blades come ready for an edge, but they aren’t pre-sharpened. Perfectly harmless.” She shrugged. “Still, if it will calm your worries, I’m sure we can construct some sort of backdrop that will discourage patrons from reaching into the display window. If people can’t get at the swords, they can’t get hurt.”
In spite of these reassurances, Liss was on the verge of rejecting the idea when her mother emerged without warning from the stockroom. It was instantly obvious to Liss that Vi had come in through the back door, and that she had been listening to the discussion for some time—certainly long enough to have a good idea of what was going on. With a breezy wave of greeting to the others, she joined Liss behind the sales counter and leaned over to whisper in her ear.
“It’s an excellent idea, Liss. Don’t blow it.”
“Mother, I—”
She broke off as Vi reached across the counter to shake Caroline Halladay’s hand and seal the deal. Further protest on Liss’s part would have been much too little and far too late.
“When can you bring the swords?” Vi asked the professor.
Caroline glanced toward the other woman. “What is my schedule like tomorrow, Willa?”
“You have no morning appointments, Professor Halladay.”
“Tomorrow, then,” Caroline told Vi. “Before ten in the morning. The sooner the better for publicity purposes.”
“Wonderful.” Vi’s approving smile was blindingly bright. “Now, if you three will accompany me next door, I have coffee and cookies waiting.”
“This isn’t a social call,” Palsgrave snapped. “We’re here on business.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be wearing my hotel liaison hat while we eat.” Apparently unaffected by his surly attitude, a smiling Vi led all three representatives of the Medieval Scottish Conclave away, no doubt to try, once again, to talk them out of staging their reenactment.
“Well,” Liss muttered to herself once the front door of the shop had closed behind them, “that was interesting.”
The next day, Willa and Caroline came back with the weapons. Liss was fascinated in spite of herself by the enormous two-handed Scottish claymore. The blade alone was more than three feet long and looked as if it would be awkward to handle. It probably weighed a ton, too.
“How on earth did they lift one of those, let alone wield it in battle?” she asked.
Willa grinned at her, showing a mouthful of very white teeth. The contrast made the freckles across her sun-browned skin stand out. Her eyes, Liss saw, were the color of agates.
“I read somewhere that you’d have to be able to bench-press two hundred and fifty pounds before you could swing one, but just picking it up and running somebody through with it wouldn’t be so hard.” She suited action to words, pantomiming the skewering part. “It only weighs about four pounds,” she added as she placed the sword in Liss’s display window atop a bed of black velvet.
“You seem to know a lot about the subject. Are you a history major?”
“My star pupil,” Caroline boasted, before Willa could answer for herself.
Willa flushed with pleasure at the praise. “My father says it’s in the genes,” she confided. “My great-great-grandmother was an archaeologist.”
“Grandmother? She must have been among the earliest women in the field.”
“She was. Back then women didn’t even have the vote yet.”
“We’re here to work, not talk, Willa,” Caroline interrupted when her assistant drew breath to expand on what was a decidedly nonmedieval topic. “Boast about your heritage on your own time. Right now we need to finish up here and hustle back if we’re to reach Three Cities again in time for the start of battle practice.”
Liss retreated and stayed out of their way until they’d finished arranging the contents of the window. An hour later, she stood on the sidewalk in front of the Emporium to study the result. She had to admit that Caroline and Willa had produced an eye-catching display. The swords gleamed in the sunlight. So did the hilt of one of the dirks. It was decorated with acrylic “jewels,” much like the ones Dan used on the “magic wands” he made in his woodworking shop and sold in various gift shops around the state.
Another sword, this one double edged and used, according to Willa, for both thrusting and slashing, had a decorative “basket” hilt. There were three dirks and five swords in all. One of them, despite appearances, was so lightweight that even Liss would have been able to swing it one handed.
Off to one side, Caroline had placed a small, tasteful poster advertising the Medieval Scottish Conclave and the “reenactment of a famous battle” that would be staged at it. The final touch had been the curtain of black velvet she’d hung across the back. As promised, it was designed to discourage customers from handling the merchandise.
Unfortunately, it also restricted Liss’s field of vision. From inside the store, she could no longer see the contents of her display window. And instead of having a pleasing view of almost the entire town square, now she would barely be able to catch a glimpse of the street beyond the plate glass. Through the narrow strip of window that did remain visible, all she could make out of anyone passing by was a disembodied head.
The next three weeks passed quickly and quietly. The Fourth of July came and went. On the sixth, Liss was pulled out of the stockroom, where she’d been filling online orders, by the repeated jangle of the bell over the front door of the shop, a signal that more than one customer had come in. By the time she emerged, two men were leaning over the velvet backdrop that hid the swords and the younger of the two was reaching into the display window.
“Please don’t touch the swords!” she cried.
Both men, startled, turned to stare at her as she approached them. The younger one, who appeared to be in his early twenties, was built like a nose tackle, but any threat Liss might have felt because of his size vanished the moment she got a good look at his boyishly freckled face and shock of red hair. He’d withdrawn his arms from the display and now lifted one hand in a little wave of greeting. He thrust the other into the pocket of his baggy cutoffs.
The older man looked to be at least eighty. He was bald as a cue ball and his eyes had the bulgy look of someone with cataracts. In spite of his frail appearance, he was the one wearing a formidable scowl.
“Are you the proprietor?” he demanded, jabbing his cane in Liss’s direction so forcefully that he teetered and had to steady himself by placing one hand against the nearest wall.
“I am. How may I help you?” She stopped several feet short of where the two men stood.
“You can remove that abomination
from your window.”
“One of the swords?”
“The swords are fine.” He snorted and leaned a little more heavily on the cane. “Give credit where credit’s due, they’ve included a hand-and-a-half broadsword just like the one punched into the rock at Westford. But you’ve got no call to promote blasphemy. Take down the poster.”
“Blasphemy?” Liss repeated, taken aback by his word choice. “Isn’t that a little strong?”
“Granddad worships his ancestors,” the redheaded giant said in a surprisingly musical voice. The sound was accompanied by a rhythmic jingling—the keys in his pocket. “We’re kin to the Westford Knight.”
The old man gave a curt nod in Liss’s direction. “Alistair Gunn at your service, miss. Descended from both the Gunn and Sinclair families.”
Liss needed a moment to make sense of these statements. Her careful reading of Professor Palsgrave’s book paid off as she recalled the essentials of the Henry Sinclair legend. According to the account allegedly left behind in the early fifteenth century by the admiral of Sinclair’s fleet of ships, a man named Antonio Zeno, Sinclair had followed directions he’d acquired from a fisherman who’d been shipwrecked on the North American continent years before. The Scottish nobleman, who also held a title from the kingdom of Norway, had eventually made landfall in present day Nova Scotia. Sinclair had sent Admiral Zeno back to Scotland but had himself wintered in the New World. In the spring, he’d sailed south, ending up in what later became Westford, Massachusetts. There, it was said, one of his knights, a member of the Gunn family, had died. The cause of death was unknown. Had he been killed by hostile Indians? Or had it been a disease or an accident that had taken his life? No one really knew.
The so-called “Westford Knight” was a shape inscribed on a rock ledge, supposedly created by Gunn’s comrades as a memorial. There was certainly something there, but whether it was the result of natural weathering, or the shape of a hand-and-a-half broadsword, or the entire figure of a medieval knight in effigy depended on which “expert” was giving an opinion.
Liss moved a little closer to the two men by the window. “I’m Liss MacCrimmon. I gave the Medieval Scottish Conclave permission to put up that display. I’m sorry if you find the poster offensive, but it stays where it is.” The whole point had been to publicize the event. Without the sign, all she’d have left would be a collection of medieval weaponry.
“Henry Sinclair no more slaughtered innocent savages than I did.”
The old man’s harsh tone of voice and belligerent stance halted Liss’s forward progress, although she told herself she wasn’t afraid of him. In spite of the cane, she doubted he posed any physical threat to her, not at his age. But she had a hunch that he was an old pro at skewering his opponents with words. Given a choice, she’d prefer not to cross verbal swords with him.
She held both hands up in front of her, palms out. “I don’t want to get into an argument on that score or any other, but this display simply promotes activities at the upcoming highland games.”
“No one can remain neutral,” Gunn stated.
His grandson rolled his eyes. “Come on, Granddad. You asked the lady to remove the sign and she turned you down. That’s the end of it. Time to go home.”
Liss sent a grateful smile the young man’s way.
“You haven’t heard the last of this,” Gunn muttered as his grandson led him out of the Emporium. “I can walk by myself, Gabe! I’m not so feeble that I need your arm to lean on!”
Liss breathed a sigh of relief as she went back to the stockroom. Then she grinned, suddenly picturing an army of little old men carrying picket signs. If Alistair Gunn was typical of those who were protesting Dr. Palsgrave’s reenactment, then at least the highland games wouldn’t need to worry about the demonstrations turning violent.
On Thursday, July 9, sixteen days before her wedding, Liss closed the Emporium and drove to Three Cities for the final fitting of her wedding gown. Sherri, Zara, and Vi rode with her, the first two because Melly Baynard had ended up making their dresses, too, and Vi because there was no way to avoid taking her along.
Melly had a small house on a narrow side street but the room she used for dressmaking was large and sunlit. She had Liss out of her street clothes, into her gown, and up on a stool within five minutes of their arrival.
Ordered to stand still with her arms out to her sides, Liss felt a sense of unreality creep over her. She was completely surrounded by wedding paraphernalia. An assortment of wreaths and circlets had been spread out on a worktable. Clear plastic boxes contained bits and bobs of lace, ornate buttons, faux jewels, and other decorative accessories. Even the chairs had become display racks for ribbons and silk cords in various colors. Her eyes narrowed when she realized why they were there. Obviously Vi had not yet given up on the idea of a handfasting ceremony.
Light, feminine fragrances teased the air, from Vi’s familiar Eau de Violets to the mild and pleasing scent originating from a vase filled with roses. In the background, an air conditioner hummed quietly, barely audible over the rise and fall of female voices.
The only one not talking was Melly Baynard, aside from the occasional command to stop squirming, mumbled around a half dozen or so straight pins held between pursed lips. It amazed Liss that she was able to say anything without accidentally pricking herself or, worse, swallowing one of the pins whole.
Equally amazing was Melly’s genius with a needle. The gown she’d made for Liss was exquisite. The long, fitted sleeves were “slashed and puffed” at the shoulders in the best Renaissance tradition. The bodice hugged Liss’s bosom and the neckline had metallic lace trim designed to match the elaborate “girdle”—really a decorated fabric belt shaped to a V in the front—that separated it from a beautifully draped, floor-length skirt. Liss did not plan to wear any jewelry, only the wreath of flowers, and she’d leave her hair loose beneath it.
“Stop squirming,” Melly mumbled again.
Although the dress already looked flawless to Liss, Melly was a perfectionist. She’d been tugging and tucking, pulling and pinning, for a good quarter hour. Liss tried to hold herself rigid and tamp down on her impatience to see the final result. She was no stranger to fittings for costumes, having been a performer for so many years, but this felt different. This time it wasn’t make-believe.
The awe in Sherri’s voice echoed Liss’s sentiments. “This is so gorgeous!” The petite blonde turned this way and that in front of a three-sided mirror, admiring her matron-of-honor gown. It was similar in style to the one Liss wore, minus the trim, and had been made of cotton velveteen rather than silk. The color, a muted shade of dusky rose, was perfect for Sherri’s fair coloring.
“Pete’s going to be speechless when he sees you,” Liss predicted. Although Dan’s brother, Sam, was his best man, Sherri’s husband was also in the wedding party.
“You know,” Vi said, “we still have time to have authentic medieval clothing made for the groom and groomsmen. Black Watch kilts are all well and good but that tartan didn’t exist in medieval times.”
“And, of course, what I’m wearing is so authentic,” Liss said under her breath.
In spite of her general lack of interest in history, she knew a bit about historical costumes. Her old dance troupe, Strathspey, had regularly performed pieces set in Scotland’s past. A middle-class, medieval bride would have worn plain brown wool to her wedding, perhaps accessorized with a ploddan cloak—one woven in three colors in a checkerwork pattern.
“Give it up, Mom,” she said in a slightly louder voice. “It was hard enough getting Dan and Sam to agree to wear modern kilts.”
She heard a muffled snort from Zara’s direction and turned that way. Her second bridal attendant wore the same gown Sherri did, only in moss green.
“Like it?” Zara asked, fluffing her bright red hair.
“Wonderful. Now remind Mom what men wore in the good old days.” Zara hadn’t been with Strathspey as many years as Liss had, but she was j
ust as familiar with the costuming.
“Scottish dress for a man during the Middle Ages and until as late as the mid-sixteenth century,” Zara said, taking the stock pose of an actor declaiming lines, “consisted of a léine, a full, pleated, saffron-yellow linen shirt that hangs to the knees; an ionar, or short red jacket worn over the shirt; and a breacán brat, which is a long rectangular piece of striped wool—purple and blue in the example I know of—flung atop the jacket like a cloak and fastened with a large brooch at the shoulder. The gentleman’s legs and feet were, invariably, bare, which was why the English called Scots warriors ‘redshanks.’ And, of course, to make the outfit complete, a man wore a gigantic broadsword slung across his chest.”
“It wouldn’t kill you to try for a tiny bit more medieval flavor.” Vi sounded sulky.
Liss ignored her. Zara’s recitation hadn’t hurt her mother’s feelings. Violet MacCrimmon had skin as thick as an armadillo. She was also unrelenting when she lobbied for something she wanted.
“You’re missing a golden opportunity to make your big day unique and memorable. Handfasting is a beautiful ceremony, no matter what that Brownie says.”
Liss closed her eyes and prayed for fortitude. “You talked about this to Reverend Browne?”
“Well, of course I did.” Vi picked up a pair of scarlet ribbons and idly wound them around her own wrists. “I’ve known Brownie for years. Your father and I attended his church when we lived in Moosetookalook. I honestly thought he’d be more reasonable about the whole thing, especially since he’d already agreed to perform the ceremony at the highland games. That just goes to show how closed-minded some people can be.”
“Doesn’t it just,” Liss muttered. “What, exactly, did you say to him?”
“I told him you’d like to substitute a handfasting ceremony for the traditional wedding vows.”
Bagpipes, Brides and Homicides (Liss Maccrimmon Scottish Mysteries) Page 4