It was early and not many people were about as Rose and Tristan headed for their horses. A loud bell rang out once. It came from the glorious cathedral a short distance away. Rose had read about cathedrals. She’d never been in one before.
“Can we go inside the church, Tristan?” she pleaded from her saddle. “I want to pray for your soul.”
“How can I refuse then?”
She beamed at him. “You cannot.”
“We will be quick.”
“Aye,” she vowed with a playful grin. “But this is your soul we are praying for. It may take a little while.”
He threw her a smirk and set his horse toward the cathedral.
Rose was so glad he’d agreed. The structure was like nothing she had ever seen before. Rebuilt about a hundred years ago with rows of lancet windows framed by slender columns and carved moldings, it was the perfect image of English Gothic craftsmanship.
The inside took her breath away. Every sound echoed off the high, vaulted ceiling. A gloriously huge east window was crafted in stained glass. The sun shone through it, painting the inside in shafts of green, blue, and red. They sat for a little while in one of the polished wooden benches while Rose wept softly, overcome by the magnificence around her and the love and dedication for God that had gone into seeing it built. There was a crypt below, built by St. Wilfred in the seventh century that they visited. Tristan waited patiently while she touched ancient walls and spoke with a priest about the cathedral’s history.
They finally left with Rose feeling a new sense of hope that all would be well. She had survived the Black Death. She met Tristan, her dream, but evil men’s nightmare. Oh, she believed they were evil, just as Tristan had said. He would never kill men who hadn’t done terrible things. She had slept at an inn and she had sat inside a beautiful one hundred-year-old church. What other wonderful adventures did this day hold?
She found out a few moments later when, instead of leading them out of the town, Tristan brought them to the market.
“Where are we going?” she asked him as they rode past shops and vendors selling chickens dead and alive, metal lanterns, herbs, fabrics, everything all in one place. Rose steered her mount through the market, fascinated.
“It doesna appear as if the sickness has been here,” Tristan pointed out, looking around.
“Does it normally skip over places?” she asked him.
He shrugged. “The pestilence does what it wants. Ah, here.” He stopped his horse and dismounted in front of small vendor selling different scented soaps.
“Pick something,” he told Rose while he remained alert, looking around.
She held many pieces to her nose. Some scents she recognized, like rose and sandalwood. Some she had only smelled once or twice, like the jasmine soap she chose. The fragrance was very light, but fresher than the others.
“Now I only need water,” she told Tristan playfully when he paid for the soap.
“I’m certain we will find some.”
He walked their horses with her at his side to a small shop with a sign hanging over the door. Painted on the sign was a needle and a piece of thread.
Tristan stepped inside first and looked around then beckoned her to follow. Three men sat at tables sewing by the light of nearby candles.
“Can ye make her a gown?” Tristan asked them, moving toward the first tailor to set down his needle.
The tailor looked her over and smiled. “Of course.”
“How long will it take? An hour? Less?” Tristan asked them. Rose covered her mouth with her hand and smiled. He was positively adorable.
The tailor didn’t seem to agree. He practically bristled in his perfectly fitted doublet. “I have to measure her and sew—”
The shop door opened and a girl who was a few years younger than Rose walked inside carrying a skein of fabric.
“Good morn, Papa, Uncles.”
She walked by the tables and gaped a little at Tristan before she caught Rose’s dark glare on her.
“Wait!” Tristan stopped her. The girl blushed and looked at her father. “I will give ye two pieces of silver fer yer dress.”
Rose almost stopped him but the dress was so pretty. The kirtle was light purple beneath a heather-colored overdress. Gold stitching decorated the square, semi-low neckline and long, tapered cuffs. A thin braided rope circled her waist and fell down one thigh. It fit the tailor’s daughter well, and she was about the same size as Rose.
Rose would see every penny paid back to Tristan once she was home.
The girl looked to her father again and then began to shake her head.
Rose stepped forward and told her something in her ear. The girl blushed a second time. “Very well,” she said, her gaze darting to her father. “It will be well, Papa. I can wear one of your old tunics back to the house. You have many in the back room.”
Tristan slid a dark look to the tailor, warning him silently not to refuse. The tailor didn’t.
“Do you want to wear the dress now?” the girl asked Rose, holding back the curtained wall to the back.
Tristan shook his head. “She will be carryin’ it fer now. We will wait here while ye change.”
The tailor’s daughter smiled at him and nodded then disappeared behind the curtain wall.
“You are from the north,” the girl’s father said, looking at Tristan.
“Aye.”
“How are things there? Has the plague hit?”
“Nae, as far as I know there have been none affected. But ’tis travelin’. ’Tis in Crawford, north of here.”
All three tailors clapped their hands together to pray.
The girl returned with the kirtle and overdress and handed them over to Rose. In turn, Tristan paid the girl two silver pieces, but instead of leaving, she waited for more.
Rose tugged on his sleeve and whispered in his ear. “You have to kiss her hand.”
He pulled back and stared at her with a hint of amusement in his eyes.
“Oh, do I?”
She gave
