blue-lipped and pale in the hall, gasping sporadically for breath. Panicking, Elias had rushed to the Abbey, and begged the doorman to fetch a monk to help, but by the time the man had found one, his boy was dead.
The cook sniffed and took another long draft of ale. It had been hard, but after burying his wife and child, he had settled into a routine. Working hard to keep his business going took up most of his day, and then there was always the tavern and Lizzie or another girl. All in all he was reasonably content.
The barrel rocked and he came to with a sudden alarm. Standing over him were two of the men from Denbury. His startled gaze went from one to the other.
“Elias, we think you need your stall looked after carefully,” said Long Jack.
The second man smiled. In a way, that was more terrifying than anything else. His teeth were black stumps, and his breath was as foul as the devil’s own. “Long Jack’s right,” he leered. “Otherwise you might find all your pies and things trampled on the ground. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”
9
It was gloomy here. The sun was beyond its zenith, and buildings shadowed the packed dirt of the roadway. Laughing men and women trailed idly, most drifting back toward the town, the excitement of the first morning of the fair beginning to pall in the middle of the afternoon. They had already sated themselves in viewing the range of goods available; now was the time to return to inn, tavern or rented rooms to prepare for the evening’s entertainments.
In the gloom of a doorway, Pietro da Cammino waited nervously, leaning against a wall and glancing up and down the street with anxiety creasing his brow as the people trickled past, one or two casting an uninterested glance in his direction.
His father couldn’t understand. He was too old. Pietro had listened to Antonio telling him time after time how he had wooed Isabella, his mother, all those years before, and how proud he had been to win so handsome a woman, yet Antonio could not understand that Pietro had found the woman he needed at last. Even her name, Avice, sounded unique to the young Venetian. The name matched the girl; both were rare and exotic.
She was beautiful. Pietro was smitten on the ride into town, but when he mentioned her to his father, as they returned to their room from seeing the Abbot after their abortive visit to the tavern, Antonio had immediately expressed his reservations.
“No, Pietro. She’s not right for you.”
“Not right?” He could still feel the disbelief. “What does that mean? She’s well-mannered, beautiful, healthy, and her father has money! No other woman could be so ideal for me.”
“That’s not the point. We are here only long enough for me to persuade the Abbot, you know that. There is no time for you to court her. No, leave her alone, and we will find you a wife when we return home.”
“Home? I know all the women at home! Avice is the woman I want.”
“Yes? And how will you win her hand? You are prepared to stay in this country, are you? What would you do when I left?”
His father had been amused, his tone patronizing, but his conviction that Pietro was wrong made his son determined. Antonio had no right to prevent him choosing the woman he wanted; he was old enough to choose for himself.
“I’ll stay here with her if I want!”
“Without my money to keep you?”
“Your money?”
Antonio had frozen at that, his confidence evaporating at the sharpness in his son’s tone. He took a deep breath and spoke placatingly. “Pietro, you must see that this is impossible. We must be gone within a few days. What if something goes wrong? You would still be in this country – at risk.”
“I am willing to take that risk: I want her.”
Their servant entered, pouring ale from a jug. Antonio had sipped and pulled a grimace. “This tastes like something the dogs have passed!”
His son shrugged. Antonio had always disliked ale, but refused to pay English prices for wine. It was exorbitant in this godforsaken land.
Pietro hated quarrelling with his father for there were bonds of loyalty between them that went further than the usual ties of blood. His mother had died when he was not yet two years old, struck down by a runaway wagon in a narrow alley in Florence. The boy had grown up without even a memory of his mother, and had depended on his father more than anyone. It had made their relationship unusually close.
But that very closeness was now suffocating him. He longed to escape from his father’s rule and create his own life, rather than always being an associate in Antonio’s schemes. And Avice was his concept of perfection.
It had been a sheer fluke that they had bumped into her this morning at the fair. Even his father could not then refuse to talk to her and her father, and Pietro had walked with her while their parents had followed.
It had been wonderful, just being with her. Even her kindness to the monk was an indication of her generosity of spirit. But afterward his father had not changed his mind. “Pietro, just think what you are risking! You know what almost happened in Bayonne. Your life could be in danger.”
“Father, I love her!”
“You only met her yesterday. Today you love her; tomorrow you may loathe her. She’s pretty, but she’s not worth dying for.”
Pietro didn’t have to accept his father’s commands any more; he was old enough to know his own mind. He cursed under his breath. His father had always ruled him: he never had any say in their fortunes. What Antonio demanded was what he expected; what Antonio demanded was what he got. The wishes of others were irrelevant. Pietro felt suddenly very alone. If Avice did not accept him, what would he do? He had made his position clear to his father – if she did not accept his wooing, he was not sure he could apologize to his father and beg forgiveness. Antonio was too proud to accept him back without an apology, but Pietro was not self-confident enough to be able to do that wholeheartedly.
There was a giggle from further along the road, and his head snapped to the sound. He recognized her even from that simple explosion of mirth.
At first he saw nothing. Where he stood was in shadow, and after glancing upward, he was blinded. In the road all seemed gloomy and dull, it bent and twisted away, sinuous as a snake, and seemed to grow ever more dingy as it wound its way further up the hill, erratically making its way north. It was from that direction that he heard her voice, and he wondered what could have made her so cheery. There were too many people in the street, and he could not see past them to Avice. Then at last he caught a glimpse of her between other, irrelevant figures, and he felt a quick pleasure. Seeing a man at her side, he stiffened with jealousy – until he recognized her father.
Arthur Pole nudged his daughter as the figure detached itself from the wall and stood as if wondering whether to approach or wait. “See what you’ve done now?” he murmured.
“Oh, Father! It’s hardly my fault. I haven’t led him on or anything.”
The merchant eyed his daughter with good-humored cynicism. “Oh? And I suppose you didn’t tell him where we were staying, is that right?”
“He would keep asking,” she said serenely.
“Avice Pole, I don’t know what will become of you.” Her father took a deep breath and cast a sidelong glance at her. “You know your mother is set on John and…”
“Father, I don’t want to argue about it,” she said firmly.
Arthur Pole blinked slowly in exasperation. In his house he knew that his servants called him the “scold’s saddle,” and he often felt he deserved it, for no matter how often he tried to impose his will on Marion, his wife, he usually tended to be pulled round to her point of view. She overrode his objections and forced him to agree with her. It was much easier and created a better atmosphere in his home if he surrendered.
When he looked at Avice now, he could see in her the woman he had married – and yet Avice was more than
