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“Aye, but the big celebration is on the eve before. Hogmanay is celebrated with parades and fireballs being flung about in the dark night.”
“Fireballs?”
“A hollow ball filled with dry peat that we light on fire. If ye swing it around on the end of a rope, it blazes through the night. With many twirling, ’tis wonderous to see.”
“And dangerous. Here you would hit people and light them on fire,” she said, indicating the masses.
He chuckled. “A place is cleared before Edinburgh Castle, but we also celebrate with fire out on the moor before my home. At least when I was a lad.”
“What else do you do on Hogmanay?”
“Mother sprinkles holy water throughout the house, seals it up, and lights juniper. When we start to cough and insist we are all going to die, she throws open the door, and we open all the windows to let the smoke out and the cold air of the new year inside, washing away the evils of last year.” He shrugged. “’Tis only her now, so I don’t know if she still does it.”
“How long ago did your father and sisters die?” she asked, her words soft, although she tried to keep pity out of it.
“Nearly five years now.”
“And you don’t go home to stay with her through Hogmanay?”
“She wishes for me to be up at the castle, garnering Lord Moray’s favor and then the king’s. I bring gifts the next day and a steak pie for our feast.”
Lucy hooked her arm through his. “Maybe we can find some fire for you to throw around tonight. The queen would love the spectacle.”
They turned down New Fish Street, which led to London Bridge. Despite the mandate of no work, the narrow walk between the shops lining the bridge on both sides was crowded with people hawking food. Many of the shops had removed their signs to show they were closed, but their doors were cracked, allowing for illegal commerce. The apothecary was open, and Lucy stepped inside the exceedingly small shop that smelled of herbs and the tang of chemicals. There was barely enough room for Greer and her to shut the door behind them without climbing over the counter.
“Master Wendel,” Lucy said, giving the middle-aged man a warm smile. With her quest for cures and coverings, she’d known the ornery man for years.
He nodded to her but frowned at Greer. “Good Christmastide, Lady Cranfield,” he said, pulling his gaze back to her.
“I have need of some sweet-smelling soaps for my sister and three friends, one being a lad,” she said.
“He ain’t no lad,” the apothecary said, glaring at Greer.
She laughed lightly. “The soap ’tis for a boy of ten years, and I agree, Master Buchanan is not a lad.”
“Buchanan,” Wendel said. “A Scot.” He nodded to Greer’s wrapped plaid. “I don’t sell to foreigners. Not Irish, Scots, Walloons, French, Spanish, none of them.” He waved his hands.
“He’s visiting the queen from Edinburgh,” Lucy said, trying to keep cheerful in the face of such prejudice. The two men had taken on defensive stances. Well, Greer always stood in a battle stance, but Master Wendel looked ready to pull a sword.
“My father was killed by a Scot on a battlefield,” the apothecary said, accusation heavy in his words.
Greer crossed his arms over his chest. “Likely a Scottish battlefield where he’d come uninvited.”
“He fought for good King Henry.”
“Then he probably slayed a good number of Scots before losing his life,” Greer said.
“That he did,” Wendel nodded. “And anyone who the good king thought was a threat.”
Lucy held her gloved hands out. “Then the two of you are even with the… killing of family and countrymen.”
Wendel grunted. “I sell only to English, like Lady Cranfield here.” He turned to a shelf that had various chunks of cut soap. “Strawberry soap for you, jasmine for Lady Cordelia Cranfield?”
“You have a sharp memory, Master Wendel,” Lucy said in her most complimentary voice.
“Do ye sell poisons, Master Wendel?” Greer asked.
Lucy raised her hand to her forehead and gave Greer a silent, wide-eyed reprimand.
