the High Liege granted the guild’s appeal, the local lord stood to lose quite a bit. It was the kind of tension that makes a perfect setup for a con—a High Liege inspector open to bribes, a prospector who could reveal resources that would greatly benefit the town, carrying the Liege’s decision to whichever side possessed the land they lay on . . .
I shrugged the possibilities aside, for I was no longer a con man. I was squire to a knight errant, here in the service of young love. Sometimes I really wonder about my sanity.
In the service of young love we started looking for players, which isn’t as easy as it sounds. When they go about ordinary business, stripped of their paint, players look just like ordinary folk, and the square was full of them.
“See anyone you know?” I asked Rosamund.
She craned her slender neck to look over the crowd. “Not yet. Though I’m not sure about that man there.” She pointed to a short, scruffy-looking fellow who appeared to be pacing off the open space. “That might be Master Barker, though he looks different without his costume.”
The man paced a few more feet and nodded. He appeared to be talking to himself.
Rosamund’s hand was tucked into Michael’s arm. I suddenly felt impatient to get on with it. “Let’s go ask him.”
Michael scowled, but Rosamund nodded and pulled him over to the stranger.
“Excuse me, sir,” she began sweetly. He turned to face her, and further inquiry became unnecessary—strangers meeting Rosamund are never stricken with dismay. His widened eyes swept over her in disbelief and then closed in a wince. Rosamund was oblivious.
“It is you! Oh, Master Barker, please, where is Rudy?”
Master Barker looked around for rescue and muttered under his breath. Rescue not appearing, he shrugged and gestured toward the old gray keep at the end of the square.
“Thank you so much.” Rosamund pressed a kiss on his cheek and darted off. Michael and I exchanged bemused looks and followed.
Had we waited a few minutes, it would have been unnecessary to ask. As we approached the town hall, a young man shed his doublet and boots and climbed up the molding around the great door, agile as a squirrel. Several people stopped to stare, but he paid no heed, examining the decorative mantel. He appeared to be clinging to the smooth stone with only his bare toes. Having done some burglary myself, this impressed me more than any ropedancing act. None of the men below him seemed to make anything of it, though I noticed they stood positioned to catch him.
Rosamund came to a stop a few feet off, gazing up at the youth with a joyous pride that left no doubt that this was the noblest, handsomest, gentlest, etc. At least she had the sense not to call out and startle him.
He was handsome, I suppose, if you liked lean muscles and romantic dark curls, which women often do. He looked to be much the same age as Rosamund, which made him several years younger than Michael’s twenty or my nineteen, and he was sensibly attending to business, for even the strongest toes can’t hang on forever.
“. . . I think we could attach the support beams here.” His voice was deeper than I’d expected. “But we’ll have to brace ’em all over. Putting up our own supports might be cheaper.”
He slithered deftly down the carved stone and reached for his boots, smiling at a spatter of applause from the folk who’d stopped to watch. “Skinday, my friends, starting just before dusk.” He began to make a sweeping bow, but then he saw Rosamund.
The smile froze on his face, but the incredulous joy that replaced it made smiling irrelevant. He was handsome, curse him. He dropped his boots and took the handful of strides that brought him to Rosamund. I thought he would kiss her, but instead he took her hand, as gently as someone capturing a bird. “Rose.”
I felt Michael stir beside me. I couldn’t completely interpret the expression on his face, but my heart flinched at it. When
I shrugged the possibilities aside, for I was no longer a con man. I was squire to a knight errant, here in the service of young love. Sometimes I really wonder about my sanity.
In the service of young love we started looking for players, which isn’t as easy as it sounds. When they go about ordinary business, stripped of their paint, players look just like ordinary folk, and the square was full of them.
“See anyone you know?” I asked Rosamund.
She craned her slender neck to look over the crowd. “Not yet. Though I’m not sure about that man there.” She pointed to a short, scruffy-looking fellow who appeared to be pacing off the open space. “That might be Master Barker, though he looks different without his costume.”
The man paced a few more feet and nodded. He appeared to be talking to himself.
Rosamund’s hand was tucked into Michael’s arm. I suddenly felt impatient to get on with it. “Let’s go ask him.”
Michael scowled, but Rosamund nodded and pulled him over to the stranger.
“Excuse me, sir,” she began sweetly. He turned to face her, and further inquiry became unnecessary—strangers meeting Rosamund are never stricken with dismay. His widened eyes swept over her in disbelief and then closed in a wince. Rosamund was oblivious.
“It is you! Oh, Master Barker, please, where is Rudy?”
Master Barker looked around for rescue and muttered under his breath. Rescue not appearing, he shrugged and gestured toward the old gray keep at the end of the square.
“Thank you so much.” Rosamund pressed a kiss on his cheek and darted off. Michael and I exchanged bemused looks and followed.
Had we waited a few minutes, it would have been unnecessary to ask. As we approached the town hall, a young man shed his doublet and boots and climbed up the molding around the great door, agile as a squirrel. Several people stopped to stare, but he paid no heed, examining the decorative mantel. He appeared to be clinging to the smooth stone with only his bare toes. Having done some burglary myself, this impressed me more than any ropedancing act. None of the men below him seemed to make anything of it, though I noticed they stood positioned to catch him.
Rosamund came to a stop a few feet off, gazing up at the youth with a joyous pride that left no doubt that this was the noblest, handsomest, gentlest, etc. At least she had the sense not to call out and startle him.
He was handsome, I suppose, if you liked lean muscles and romantic dark curls, which women often do. He looked to be much the same age as Rosamund, which made him several years younger than Michael’s twenty or my nineteen, and he was sensibly attending to business, for even the strongest toes can’t hang on forever.
“. . . I think we could attach the support beams here.” His voice was deeper than I’d expected. “But we’ll have to brace ’em all over. Putting up our own supports might be cheaper.”
He slithered deftly down the carved stone and reached for his boots, smiling at a spatter of applause from the folk who’d stopped to watch. “Skinday, my friends, starting just before dusk.” He began to make a sweeping bow, but then he saw Rosamund.
The smile froze on his face, but the incredulous joy that replaced it made smiling irrelevant. He was handsome, curse him. He dropped his boots and took the handful of strides that brought him to Rosamund. I thought he would kiss her, but instead he took her hand, as gently as someone capturing a bird. “Rose.”
I felt Michael stir beside me. I couldn’t completely interpret the expression on his face, but my heart flinched at it. When
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