Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [88]
“ ’Tis the admiral!” Elisabeth cried, standing on tiptoe.
Dozens of heads turned in the same direction, including Marjory’s. Gibson’s too, she noticed.
Coming down Kirk Wynd on a handsome gray thoroughbred, Admiral Lord Jack Buchanan cut a dashing figure. His elegant powdered wig suited his rank, and his tricorne fit like a crown. The dark blue coat flared round his knees, eclipsed only by the rich scarlet waistcoat beneath it. Anne was no doubt enraptured by the froth of lace round his neck and sleeves, but it was the braided trim that stole Marjory’s breath. Every pocket, every buttonhole, and every hem was edged in thick gold braid.
Someone shouted over the crowd, making the admiral’s horse grow skittish, forcing his lordship to calm the animal. When he rode by without so much as a glance in their direction. Marjory was more than a little miffed. Might the admiral not at least have looked toward Halliwell’s Close?
“Here come the hammer men to start the parade,” Anne said.
Marjory’s irritation quickly gave way as she watched the burgesses and landowners convene on horseback while the freemen, journeymen, and apprentices of the trade guilds mustered in a designated order, swords held high, flags proudly displayed. Since each guild had its own song, the music was deafening, with drums, pipes, trumpets, flutes, and a host of fiddlers.
The men who worked with hammers—masons, blacksmiths, coopers, and wrights—marched off first. Then came the pride of Selkirk—the souters—a loud and boisterous company of shoemakers. When the weavers marched by, plaids draped over their shoulders and kilted round their waists, Elisabeth sighed. “How my father would have loved this.”
Among the tailors, Michael and Peter Dalgliesh were easy to spot with their crimson heads and bright smiles. Anne gave everyone round them a start, loudly calling out to Peter, who waved back with bright-eyed enthusiasm. At last came the fleshers, bearing the sharp-edged tools of their trade and signaling the town to follow them.
“You two walk while I cook,” Marjory told them as the crowd moved forward: hundreds of folk cheering, shouting, waving, and singing as they escorted the riders to the edge of town.
Marjory added her voice to the throng, tears filling her eyes, as she remembered the years she’d stood with her husband and sons in their place of honor by the mercat cross.
I am here, dear lads. I am home.
Thirty-Eight
Hark! the shrill trumpet sounds to horse! away!
COLLEY CIBBER
here are you, lass?
Jack knew Elisabeth Kerr was here in the marketplace. He could feel it in his bones, had almost sensed her gaze pinned on him as he’d ridden into town, though he’d not spied her lovely face.
By necessity he faced forward in the saddle, keeping a firm control over Janvier, having had a bit of trouble earlier. The strange surroundings, the jostling onlookers, the trumpet blasts, all tested the horse’s mettle. “Easy, lad,” Jack told him, keeping his grip on the reins supple but sure. Though he longed to turn round and look over his shoulder, Janvier would then follow his lead and disrupt the parade marching up Water Row.
Sir John Murray rode up on his right. “Mind if I join you, Admiral?”
Their horses fell into step as the two men lifted their voices above the melee, discussing the route. Jack was only now realizing how valuable the common lands were to the burgh. Though he didn’t require peat for fuel or turf for building, the cottagers of Selkirk certainly did.
“We’ll be riding the marches of the North Common this morn,” Sir John explained.
Jack nodded, having studied a crude map to learn where the neighboring lairds resided. Some of them were old enough to remember his grandfather Buchanan and so had bidden him a warm welcome.
When the riders passed through the East Port, they left behind the townsfolk, who sent them off with loud cheers and well wishes. For the riding party a light breeze and abundant sunshine