it.
As they pushed their way down the sharp incline Bascot cursed his ankle, which had begun to ache. The air was filled with the cries of vendors, the raucous hum of voices raised to be heard above the din and the acrid aroma of human sweat, animal dung and fish guts. This last was from High Market on Spring Hill, a winding street that led off Steep Hill where the fishmongers of Lincoln kept their stalls. In an attempt to escape the press of people Bascot veered off the main thoroughfare, going past the Drapery where the cloth merchants and their customers milled like bees around a hive, and across the top of Parchmingate into the comparative quiet of Hungate. This street led to an intersection with Brancegate, a larger street that crossed the main road of Mikelgate. Since Hungate was nearer the city wall and the residents were mainly merchants selling less expensive items such as household implements, blankets and napery, it was not as congested as the streets they had left behind. Most of the items here would not attract those with a lot of silver to spend and so there were fewer street hawkers and the shop owners had, in the main part, put up the shutters over the casements of the bottom floor of their houses and were displaying their wares by spreading them over a counter just inside the opening. To guard against thieving, the merchant would usually stand outside on the street while a member of his family watched from within.
Many of the shops had a variety of goods for sale since most of the houses were of three stories and occupied on each level by a different family, or two or three, engaged in varying occupations. Such houses had combined their wares, laying them out carefully side by side, and took turns at guarding and selling. The customers meandering down this street were of a less pretentious sort, clothed in sober garments of russet brown or dark green, the women with plain white coifs covering their hair and the men with simple leather caps on their heads. They inspected the goods carefully, the women judiciously fingering small cloths for wrapping cheese or making swaddling bands while their husbands carefully examined the iron that had been used in making nails or carpentry tools for flaws.
To ease the ache in his ankle, Bascot stopped underneath the cloth awning of a leather worker. There were several pairs of soft shoes laid out on the counter along with a few purses and belts. Nearby, a young man clad in a leather apron was punching holes in pieces of leather with an awl. When Bascot approached, he shoved his work into a large pocket in the front of his apron and gave his prospective customer a smile. His long yellow teeth and narrow face gave him a horselike appearance and his voice, when he spoke, was also similar to the high-pitched neighing of a steed, rising and falling in quavering tones. Bascot would not have been surprised if he had whinnied in accompaniment.
“Some fine pieces I’ve got here, sir,” he said deferentially, glancing obliquely at Bascot’s Templar badge. “And belts and wrist-guards made to your order, if you wish.”
Bascot gave him a nod in response, then picked up a pair of shoes and idly examined them. Behind the counter stood a woman, older, with teeth curved in the same equine smile as the young man’s. She bobbed her head at Bascot in courtesy, then spoke in a voice that was surprisingly sweet in contrast to the lad’s. “We make good boots, too, sir. My husband could make you a pair that would serve you far better than those you’re wearing. Could even pad the left one to ease your pain.”
Surprised at the quickness of her observation, for he must only have been in her view for a few limping paces, Bascot laughed amiably and asked her the cost.
“One mark,” she replied promptly, “with an extra ten pence for the padding.”
Bascot grimaced at the price. Since he had agreed to carry out some duties for Lady Nicolaa she had insisted on paying him the rate her household knights received, ten pence a day, but except for a few pieces of silver he kept about him for immediate expenses he had not touched the money, leaving it with the Haye steward against the time he might return to the Templar Order and, in accordance with his vow of poverty, pay it into their coffers. The amount the shoemaker’s wife had mentioned represented more than a month of his earnings. Could he truly justify spending such a sum for his own comfort?
The shoemaker’s wife saw his hesitation and added quickly, “They would be well worth the cost. My husband is an expert at his trade.”
She turned and gestured behind her to the back of the long low-ceilinged room that comprised the first floor of the house, to where an elderly man sat at his workbench. He had a small hammer in his hand which he was using to soften a piece of leather stretched over a last held between his knees. “If you will come through, sir,” the woman said, “my husband will show you a sample of his work.”
Attracted by her promise and feeling the need to rest his leg for a moment, Bascot accepted the invitation. Gianni trailed behind him to where the cobbler sat. The shoemaker immediately got up and put his work aside as soon as he saw them come in, pushing forward a chair for Bascot. The cobbler was a small man with clear blue eyes and legs permanently crooked to the shape of his stool. His pate was bald, covered with skin the colour of nutmeg, but he had arms that were strong and wiry beneath the short sleeves of his tunic, with corded muscles roping his forearms.
Once Bascot was seated, the cobbler knelt in front of him and, with surprising gentleness, removed the Templar’s left boot and placed the bared foot on his own curved thigh. As Gianni looked on curiously, he ran his fingers over Bascot’s injured ankle, and nodded his head in a knowing manner.
“That was a nasty injury, sir.”
“It is mended as well as ever it will be, I think,” Bascot replied. “Sometimes I bind it with strips of linen, but that does not seem to be much help.”
“No, linen will not do any good,” the cobbler said. “It firms but does not strengthen. It is here and here you need support.” He placed his fingers one on each side of Bascot’s ankle and pushed lightly with a soft pressure. Bascot could feel the benefit almost immediately.
“Can you make me a boot that will do what your fingers have just done?” he asked.
“I can, sir. Small pads, one on each side, made from the soft underbelly of a calf. You will not even know they are there, except that your pain will be lessened.”
“For that, shoemaker, I would be most grateful.” The lure of relief from the almost constant ache was too great a temptation to resist. He decided to purchase the boots. “How long would it take you to make them?”
The cobbler glanced at his Templar badge. “For you, sir, I will do them straight away. They will be ready in two days’ time.”
Bascot nodded his acceptance and, while the cobbler took the measurements of his feet with the aid of a long piece of leather marked with notches at regular intervals, looked to where Gianni had been distracted by a pair of shoes that were lying on the cobbler’s workbench. They were about the boy’s size and had been decorated with a row of red beads sewn along the seam at the front of the shoe. Gianni was turning one of the shoes around and around between his fingers, touching the beads gently in admiration. Bascot smiled in amusement at the boy’s interest. The shoes Gianni was wearing were the only ones he had and, albeit still sturdy, had soles that were wearing thin.
“How much for the shoes the boy has there?” he asked the cobbler. If he was going to indulge himself, it might ease his conscience if he gave his servant a similar pleasure. Gianni’s head snapped up as Bascot spoke.
The shoemaker glanced over his shoulder and then called to his wife. “I only do the work,” he said apologetically, “my wife sets the prices.”
“You are a wise man, shoemaker,” Bascot said with a grin as the cobbler’s wife came bustling from her place at the front counter after giving the young man, who was obviously their son, instructions to keep his eyes sharp in looking after her wares.
Gianni listened anxiously as the cobbler’s wife examined the shoes in question. “They were made for another customer,” she explained to Bascot, “but have not been called for. If these fit your servant, I will let you have them for five silver pennies. If my husband has to make new ones, then it will be another half-penny on top.”
“Agreed,” Bascot said, and watched with stifled laughter as Gianni grabbed the shoes and, kicking off his old scuffed ones, pushed his feet into the pair decorated with the red beads. Delighted, he danced around the room, his mouth stretched wide into a grin and his fingers snapping loudly while the black curls on his head bobbed from side to side with his movements. Both the cobbler and his wife watched in amazement, and the wife asked, “He does not speak, sir. Is it that he cannot?”
“He is a mute,” Bascot confirmed.
The wife clucked her tongue in sympathy and the cobbler gave a sad shake of his bald head. “He is a handsome lad, sir,” he said. “And fortunate to have such a kind master as yourself. I am glad the shoes fit him.”
