and gingerbread – but they were offset by the stink of sewage, newly tanned leather and salted fish. Travelling merchants had set up stalls among the more usual goods for trade. Janna stopped to admire a display of soft leather gloves and slippers, then moved on to inspect trays of ribbons, cheap trinkets, bone combs and buttons, strings of amber and glass beads and finely wrought brooches. She fingered her empty purse, imagining how it would feel to have enough money to buy whatever she wanted. With a small sigh, she moved on to join a group gathered around a juggler. As she came closer, two women stepped out of her way, neither acknowledging her nor meeting her eye. Janna recognised them and was puzzled. One of them, the wife of a weaver from Berford, had made the journey to the edge of the forest several times to consult her mother. Surely she would not be influenced by the priest’s prejudice against them?
‘I give you good day, Mistress Bertha,’ she said, as she came closer.
‘God be with you, Janna.’ Bertha didn’t look at her, seeming absorbed instead in the antics of the juggler, who had now added a flaming sword to the three balls he was keeping in the air so skilfully.
Janna pulled a face behind Bertha’s back as the woman kept on walking, then chided herself for being silly. She would not allow anyone to spoil her pleasure in the day. So she watched the juggler, and clapped his performance when he was done. She wished she had some coins to put in his cap for he’d entertained and delighted her with his skill.
She was about to move on when she recognised another familiar face. There, in the marketplace, his black cloak flapping around his short, thin frame so that he looked like an old crow as he swooped about, was the priest from Berford. What was he doing here? Probably making sure none of his flock managed to enjoy themselves, Janna thought with a grin, and edged away out of his notice. There was so much to see and do; she had no intention of being waylaid and lectured by the priest.
She ambled on, fascinated by all the products for sale: fruits and vegetables, sparrows, pigeons and hens, woven cloth of varying quality, fresh bread, candles and soap, crocks of honey and blocks of cheese. Her nose twitched as she smelled once more the fragrance of hot meat pies. She had come out in such a rush that she’d not yet broken her fast. Her empty stomach rumbled to remind her of the fact. As soon as she had sold her wares, she would visit the pieman. She looked about for a space to set out her scented candles, creams and rinses, enjoying her new feeling of independence. The thud of a horse’s hooves and the jingle of a bridle alerted her to the presence of a stranger coming towards her.
The first detail Janna noticed was the horse, a huge black destrier such as a soldier or a crusader might ride into battle. It was a sleek beast, quite unlike the shaggy ponies and plodding carthorses she usually saw in the fields. The horse’s glossy coat shone, and Janna shielded her eyes from the bright sunlight the better to admire it.
She became aware of its owner next, as he reined his mount to a standstill and surveyed the market scene before him. Dark shoulder-length hair and clean-shaven in the old Norman fashion. A long and decorated tunic, the sort worn by the nobility. A faint smile curled his mouth. Seeing it, Janna clenched her fingers into fists, feeling hot indignation on Wiltune’s behalf. Condescending bricon , she thought, automatically assigning to him the Norman word for ‘fool’. He must surely be one of them for no Saxon would sneer at the villagers as he was sneering now.
As if becoming aware of her gaze, and her judgment, the man glanced down at Janna. The smile died on his lips, burnt away perhaps by her furious expression. Feeling no fear, for she had nothing to lose, she continued to glower up at him. A smile twitched his lips once more as he nodded to her from his horse and called out,
‘I give you good day, Mistress Bertha,’ she said, as she came closer.
‘God be with you, Janna.’ Bertha didn’t look at her, seeming absorbed instead in the antics of the juggler, who had now added a flaming sword to the three balls he was keeping in the air so skilfully.
Janna pulled a face behind Bertha’s back as the woman kept on walking, then chided herself for being silly. She would not allow anyone to spoil her pleasure in the day. So she watched the juggler, and clapped his performance when he was done. She wished she had some coins to put in his cap for he’d entertained and delighted her with his skill.
She was about to move on when she recognised another familiar face. There, in the marketplace, his black cloak flapping around his short, thin frame so that he looked like an old crow as he swooped about, was the priest from Berford. What was he doing here? Probably making sure none of his flock managed to enjoy themselves, Janna thought with a grin, and edged away out of his notice. There was so much to see and do; she had no intention of being waylaid and lectured by the priest.
She ambled on, fascinated by all the products for sale: fruits and vegetables, sparrows, pigeons and hens, woven cloth of varying quality, fresh bread, candles and soap, crocks of honey and blocks of cheese. Her nose twitched as she smelled once more the fragrance of hot meat pies. She had come out in such a rush that she’d not yet broken her fast. Her empty stomach rumbled to remind her of the fact. As soon as she had sold her wares, she would visit the pieman. She looked about for a space to set out her scented candles, creams and rinses, enjoying her new feeling of independence. The thud of a horse’s hooves and the jingle of a bridle alerted her to the presence of a stranger coming towards her.
The first detail Janna noticed was the horse, a huge black destrier such as a soldier or a crusader might ride into battle. It was a sleek beast, quite unlike the shaggy ponies and plodding carthorses she usually saw in the fields. The horse’s glossy coat shone, and Janna shielded her eyes from the bright sunlight the better to admire it.
She became aware of its owner next, as he reined his mount to a standstill and surveyed the market scene before him. Dark shoulder-length hair and clean-shaven in the old Norman fashion. A long and decorated tunic, the sort worn by the nobility. A faint smile curled his mouth. Seeing it, Janna clenched her fingers into fists, feeling hot indignation on Wiltune’s behalf. Condescending bricon , she thought, automatically assigning to him the Norman word for ‘fool’. He must surely be one of them for no Saxon would sneer at the villagers as he was sneering now.
As if becoming aware of her gaze, and her judgment, the man glanced down at Janna. The smile died on his lips, burnt away perhaps by her furious expression. Feeling no fear, for she had nothing to lose, she continued to glower up at him. A smile twitched his lips once more as he nodded to her from his horse and called out,
Similar Books
