ance, Italy, even the Holy Lands. At last, she discovered a merchant with brilliantly colored, tightly woven fabrics of such quality that she’d not seen. Each bolt cost more than one peasant family subsisted upon in one year at Langumont, and Maris nearly went on to a different stall.
But the merchant knew his trade, and when he saw the interest in her eyes and noticed the fineness of her clothing, he pulled a special cloth from the bottom of a trunk. Maris’s eyes widened when she saw it, and her mouth opened in a soft gasp. She’d never seen anything as beautiful as the shimmering pale gold cloth. Nearly sheer, and shot through with shiny gold threads in a spider web pattern, the fabric slithered over her fingers like a mere whisper. It would make a stunning under gown. Maris fingered it thoughtfully for a moment, then acquiesced to its beauty and commenced with haggling over the cost of the bolt.
Her undisguised interest was her undoing, and, though she was normally skilled in the technique of bargaining, the merchant was able to wring rather more gold from her than she should have paid. Maris purchased a second bolt of darker gold silk for her overgown at a much lesser cost, and a light, cinnamon colored wool for a cloak from the same merchant.
The party moved along from the cloth vendors, pausing to buy meat pies and cheese for a mid day meal. The libation offered by a local alewife was strong and pleasingly bitter, sending a tingle of happiness into Maris’s belly. They found sweet pastries at yet another stall and stood enjoying them at the side of the busy street.
Now came the difficult part: a wedding gift for her betrothed.
The men-at-arms wandered along the streets in Maris’s wake as she perused stall after stall, vendor after vendor, and was able to find nothing she deemed suitable for Dirick.
At last they came to the market section that housed the jewelers and the goldsmiths. Wandering up and down the narrow aisles between stalls, Maris felt a growing sense of frustration as nothing seemed appropriate for her soon-to-be husband. And why this task of finding a gift should plague her, she didn’t know…but it did.
Finally, she paused at a goldsmith that specialized in fashioning brooches and pins for the cloaks and mantles worn by men and women alike. The thought came to her of a sudden.
“How quickly could you create a pin with my lord’s standard upon it?” she asked the smith.
The man frowned and ventured, “In six days, mayhap, my lady. ”
She shook her head. “Half again as much if you can deliver it to me by Sunday morn. ”
Obviously unwilling to the let opportunity pass him by, the smith considered briefly, then agreed. Maris dug out her leather pouch to give him an initial payment. When she pulled two silver coins from its depths, her dagger tumbled out onto the ground.
The smith stooped to retrieve it for her and made a little sound of delight. “Ah! Such a lovely piece. I’ve not seen this work for many a year, my lady!”
Instantly, her attention left the coins and focused on him. “You know of this work?”
“Aye. ’Tis the skill of Frederick of Gladwythe. ”
“Where might one find this Frederick?” she asked, knowing that Dirick would demand the same information if he were present.
The smith shrugged. “My lady, I’ve not seen the man for five or six summers. He may be dead for all I know, as I’ve not seen any of his work for that long. He was not a young man. ”
Maris dug an extra coin from her purse. “If you recall anything more about him, or where he might be found, do you send word to me, Maris of Langumont, or my betrothed husband, Dirick of Ludingdon. ’Tis a matter of life and death. ”
He accepted the third coin with alacrity. “Aye, my lady. That I will do. And I will see that your husband’s pin is delivered to you by Sunday matins. ”
“I thank you, good sir. ” She bid him a good day and returned to Raymond and her other companions with a new bounce in her step. On their wedding day, she would have two presents for her husband.
Because the streets were so crowded, the party did not mount their horses. They were ambling along, the urgency of the trip now gone, when a loud noise behind them drew their attention.
A heavy cart was speeding down the narrow street in their direction, bouncing pell mell behind two heavy horses. Screams and shouts rang through the air, and passersby jumped out of the way.
The cart narrowly missed the stall where Maris’s goldsmith was and trundled along without pause. As the crowd surged and ebbed, frantic to escape the runaway cart, Maris became separated from her party.
“Lady!” Raymond shouted when he saw the horses running straight at her.
She tried to duck out of the way, but the cart changed direction, following her as she dodged off the street. It rumbled along in her wake, tearing stalls from their moorings and knocking displays from their tables, gaining proximity as she stumbled down an alley.
Her lungs hurt and her leg ached where she tripped against the side of a stall, but Maris did not stop. The cart came closer, the noise barreling behind her like the rush of a huge wave, and she knew she would not come out of this alive.
Suddenly, as the alley opened onto a wide street, she spied the stone enclosure of a public well. Heading for it, she said a quick prayer. Maris grabbed the heavy wooden framework that supported a large bucket and jumped up and out of the way of the cart.
The cart stormed by, leaving dust in its wake, then disappeared down a side street.
Raymond ran up, his face tight with fear, exclaiming, “Lady, lady, are you all right?”
Shaken, Maris clambered down from her perch on the side of the well. Though she knew her eyes were huge, belaying her fright, she spoke calmly, “Aye, I am unhurt but for my leg. ” She looked down at her torn, dirty gown, and knew that her hair, which had come unveiled during the chase, hung in sagging braids and straggles down her back. Discreetly, she lifted her skirt to examine her bloody, bruised leg.