He said it with such disgust, Mary tried not to laugh. The customers who frequented his booth were not peasants but the burgeoning merchant class—people like him—who were helping to make Newcastle-upon-Tyne an important town.
The markets and fairs such as the one today were some of the best north of London. And John Bureford’s booth, full of fine textiles and accessories, was one of the most popular. In an hour, it would be crowded with eager young women seeking the latest fashions from London and the Continent.
He picked up one of the ribbons, a plush ruby velvet on which she’d embroidered a vine-and-leaf motif in gold thread. “Even on these they notice. The ladies of the town are vying to be the first to secure your talents for a surcote or a wall hanging. Even the hem of a shirt might satisfy them. Let me arrange it; you could name your price.”
She stilled, a flash of her old fear returning. Her voice dropped automatically to a whisper. “You did not tell them?”
He looked affronted. “I do not understand your wish for secrecy, milady, but I honor our agreement. No one needs to know it is you. But are you sure you won’t consider a few select items?”
Mary shook her head. Preserving her privacy was worth more to her than the extra coin. Three years ago she’d been left on her own, frighteningly ill-prepared to deal with her new circumstances, with no more than a handful of pounds to her name. She could have gone to the king as others in her position were forced to do, but she feared drawing attention to herself. She knew the fastest way to find herself in another political marriage was to put demands on the royal coffers. She might have gone to Sir Adam—indeed, he’d offered to help—but she did not want to be beholden to him for more than she already was.
With the rents from the castle barely earning enough to pay the servants and keep her and her solitary attendant fed, she knew that she had to think of something. What would Janet do? She asked herself that often, as she began the daunting prospect of fending for herself.
As a sheltered young noblewoman with little education and few talents, her options were decidedly limited. About the only thing she knew how to do was sew. She and her sister had shared a skill with the needle, and though it held painful memories for her, she began to embroider small items like ribbons, coifs, and eventually purses—things that would not draw attention to the craftswoman.
Unfortunately, that part of her plan had not worked as well as she’d hoped and her “trinkets” had attracted attention. She, however, had not. Edward the son didn’t seem to possess the same hatred toward her husband and the “Scot traitors” as his royal sire, and so far the new king had left her alone. She intended to keep it that way.
“I have all that I need,” Mary said, surprised to realize that it was true.
It would have been easy to fall apart after losing her sister and husband, having her son taken away again, and finding herself a virtual prisoner in an enemy land. A bittersweet smile played on her mouth. No doubt Janet would have fought against her velvet chains and railed against the injustice every step of the way. But Mary had always been the more pragmatic of the two, coping with the way things were, not the way she wished them to be. She didn’t waste time bemoaning things she could not change. The early disappointments of her marriage had prepared her for that.
Although her search for her sister had yielded frustratingly little, and her visits with her son were heartbreakingly few, she’d made a life for herself in England. A quiet, peaceful life, free from the destruction of war.
The constant danger that had been so much a part of her life with Atholl was gone, as was the hurt of being married to a man who barely noticed her. Without them, she felt as if a weight she didn’t know she’d been carrying had been lifted off her shoulders. For the first time in her life she didn’t have a father or a husband to control her actions, or her sister to protect her, and her confidence in her own decisions had grown. She discovered that independence suited her; she quite liked being on her own.
The days had taken on a predictable rhythm. She tended her duties as the lady of the castle, worked on her embroidery every extra hour she could find, and kept to herself. She’d made the best of her situation and found herself if not happy, at least content. About the only things she could wish for were news of Janet and more time with her son, and she hoped Sir Adam would have good news for her on the latter soon.
She didn’t need to draw more attention to herself by taking on the additional work.
The merchant looked at her as if she’d blasphemed. “Need? Who speaks of need? One can never have enough coin. How am I ever to make a tradeswoman out of you if you talk like that?”
His outrage made her laugh.
The old man smiled back at her. “It is good to see you smile, milady. You are too young to hide yourself behind those dark clothes.” She was only six and twenty, but she looked ten years older. Or at least she tried to. He grimaced. “And that veil.” He held up one of her ribbons. “You make these beautiful things for others and will not wear them yourself. Tell me this time you will let me find you something colorful to wear—”
Mary stopped him. “Not today, Master Bureford.”
The drabness of her clothing, like her working too hard, had become a familiar refrain between them. But as everything else, her appearance was designed to draw little attention. How easily pretty could become plain. Black, shapeless clothing, thick veils and unflattering wimples in dark colors at odds with her coloring, long hours before the candlelight that cut into her sleep, and perhaps most of all the gauntness that pinched and sharpened her normally soft features. Half-starved sparrow. She recalled her sister’s words with a wistful smile. If Janet were here, she’d put a pile of tarts in front of her and not let her up from the table until she’d gained two stone.
Mary could see the old man wanted to argue, but their difference in rank held him back.
“I should be leaving,” she said, suddenly aware of the time. Dawn had given way to morning, and there were already people milling around the booths.
It was going to be another beautiful day. She’d come to quite love the north of England in the summer. The lush verdant countryside wasn’t that different from the northeast of Scotland where she’d grown up at Kildrummy Castle. She pushed aside the pang before it could form. She didn’t think of her life then. It was easier.
“Wait,” he said. “I have something for you.”
Before she could object, he ducked into the canvas tent that he’d set up behind the table, leaving her alone to watch his goods. She could hear him muttering as he tossed things around behind her and smiled. How he found anything in all those trunks and crates, she didn’t know.
Unconsciously, her gaze scanned the crowds for a golden-blond head attached to a woman of middling height. She wondered whether she would ever be able to go where a crowd was gathered and not look for her sister—and not feel the resulting twinge of disappointment when she didn’t find her. Sir Adam begged her to stop. She was only torturing herself, he said. But even if her searches had yielded nothing, Mary couldn’t accept that her sister was gone. She would know … wouldn’t she?
She turned at a sound, seeing that a mother with two small children had come up to examine a tray of colorful ribbons on the opposite side of the table. From their clothing, she could see that they did not possess the wealth of Bureford’s typical customers. She guessed the woman to be the wife of one of the farmers. She was clearly exhausted. She held one child in her arms—a babe of about six months—and another by the hand, a little girl of three or four who was staring at the ribbons as if they were a stack of gold. When the child reached for one, her mother pulled her back. “Nay, Beth. Do not touch.”
All of a sudden another little girl peeked out from behind her skirts and wrapped her chubby little fist around a handful of the ribbons. Before the mother could stop her, she turned and darted off into the crowd.
The young woman shouted after her in a panic. “Meggie, no!” Seeing Mary standing
there and obviously assuming she was the merchant, she shoved the baby in her arms and put the little girl’s hand in hers. “I’m sorry. I’ll fetch them back for you.”
It had happened so fast, it took her a moment to realize she was now holding two children. Mary didn’t know who was more shocked, she or the children. Both the baby and the little girl were staring at her with wide eyes, as if they couldn’t quite decide whether to cry.
She felt a small twinge in her chest. She remembered so precious little of those few months she’d had with David after he was born, but that look was one of them. It had terrified her. The baby had terrified her. She’d been scared of him crying, of every sound he’d made in his sleep, of how to hold him, of whether he was getting enough to eat from the wet nurse.
Of him being taken away from her.
She pushed the memory aside. That was a long time ago. She’d been so young. And now …
Now it was in the past.
But the twinge sharpened when she gazed into the baby’s soft blue eyes. David was younger than this when he was taken from her, and she didn’t think she’d held another baby since. She’d forgotten what it felt like. How they instinctively latched against your chest. The pleasant warmth, and the soft baby smell.
Apparently deciding she wasn’t a threat, the baby gave her a big, gummy smile and started to babble at her like a sheep. “Ba, ba …”
Mary couldn’t help smiling back at him. He—or she, it was impossible to tell at this age—was a cute little devil, with big blue eyes, a velvety cap of short brown hair, and bright, rosy cheeks. Brimming with healthy plumpness, he was quite an armful.
All of a sudden, she felt a tug on her hand. She looked down, having almost forgotten about the little girl. Apparently, she’d decided not to cry either. “He wants his ball.”
Mary bit her lip. She thought she was too young to be talking, but the girl possessed a confidence Mary would have envied at her age. “I’m afraid I don’t have one.” She looked around, not seeing anything that resembled a toy on the table. Recalling the coins the merchant gave her, she dug in her purse and retrieved the small leather bag. “How about this?” Holding it up before the baby, she started to shake it and was rewarded when he flapped his arms and started to laugh. He grabbed for it, and she grinned as he mimicked what she’d done by jingling it up and down, albeit with far more enthusiasm. She hoped the bag was tied tightly.
The little girl—Beth—must have read her mind. “Careful he doesn’t open it. He puts everything in his mouth—especially shiny things. He nearly choked on a farthing last week.”
Mary frowned, realizing she hadn’t thought of that. This little girl knew more about babies than she did.
She was also older than Mary had realized. “How old are you?”
“Fournahalf,” she said proudly. Reading Mary’s mind again, she added, “Da says I’m small for my age.”
Mary noticed her cast another longing glance toward the ribbons. “It’s all right,” she said. “Would you like to hold one?”
The girl’s eyes widened to enormous proportions and she nodded furiously. Not giving Mary a chance to reconsider, she immediately reached for the bright pink one embroidered with silver flowers. She took it between her tiny fingers so reverently Mary couldn’t help smiling.
“You have an excellent eye. I think you’ve picked the prettiest of the bunch.”
The child’s smile stole her breath. Longing rose up hard inside her before she tamped it firmly down. In the past …
The mother returned in a flurry of excited breathing and excuses, the wee bandit clamped firmly by the wrist. “I’m so sorry.” She placed the purloined ribbons back down on the table and relieved Mary of the baby with her newly free hand.
Mary was surprised by how much she wanted to protest. She felt suddenly … bereft.
Forcing the oddly maudlin moment aside, she managed a wry smile. “You seem to have your hands full.”
The woman returned the smile, relieved by her understanding. “This is only half. I’ve three lads helping their da with the livestock.” Suddenly, she noticed the bag the baby held in his hand. Her eyes widened like her daughter’s had. “Willie! Where did you get that?”
“Don’t worry,” Mary said, taking it back. “I let him play with it.” Anticipating a similar reaction to the ribbon in Beth’s hands, she added, “I hope you don’t mind. But I should like Beth to have this.”
The woman started to protest that it was too much, but Mary insisted. “Please, it is a trifling, and she—” she stopped, her throat suddenly thick. “She reminds me of someone.”
It hadn’t struck her until now, but the girl bore a distinct resemblance to her and Janet when they were girls. Wispy blond hair, pale skin, big blue eyes, and fair, delicate features.
Seeming to sense the emotion behind the offer, the young woman thanked her and hustled her children away.
“I leave you alone for a few minutes and you are giving the merchandise away for free? That’s it, I wash my hands of you. You will never be a tradeswoman.”
Mary turned, surprised to see the merchant standing there watching her. Though his words were chastising, his tone was not. From the glimmer of sadness in his eyes, Mary could see that he’d seen more than she wanted him to.
She gathered the frayed ends of her emotions and bundled them back together. That part of her life was over. She’d been both a wife and a mother—even if neither had turned out the way she’d planned. There was no use dwelling on what was past. But the brief exchange sent a ripple of longing across the quiet life she’d built for herself, reminded her of all that she’d lost.
She might never be able to get David’s childhood back, but she was determined to have a part in his future. The handful of opportunities she’d had to see him the past few years hadn’t brought them any closer, but she hoped that would change. Her son would be leaving the king’s household soon to become a squire, and Sir Adam was doing his best to see him placed with one of the barons in the north of England, close to her.
The merchant handed her a small wooden box.
“What is this?” she asked.
“Open it.”
She did so and gasped at what she saw. Carefully, she removed the two round pieces of glass framed in horn and connected by a center rivet from the silky bed upon which they rested. “You found them!”
He nodded, inordinately pleased at her reaction. “All the way from Italy.”
Mary held them up to her eyes, and like magic the world had suddenly become larger. Occhiale, they called them. Eyeglasses. Invented by an Italian monk more than two decades ago, they were still quite rare. She’d mentioned them once when she’d realized how much of a toll the long hours working by candlelight were taking on her eyesight. It was getting harder and harder to see the tiny stitches. “They are magnificent.” She carefully placed them in the box and threw her arms around him, giving him a big hug.
“Thank you.”
He blushed, chortling happily.
Such displays of emotion weren’t normal for her—at least not since she was a girl—and she was surprised at the emotion welling in her chest. She realized she felt more affection for the old merchant than she had for her own father.
Just for one moment, her arms tightened as if she would hold onto him for dear life.
Then, suddenly embarrassed, she pulled away. What must he think of her? But her usual reserve seemed to have deserted her. “How much do I owe you?” she asked.
He bristled, waving her off as if she’d offended him. “They are a gift.”
She eyed him sharply. “Giving the merchandise away for free? You should be ashamed to call yourself a tradesman.”
He chuckled at her attempt to sound like him. “It’s an investment in future returns. How can you sew if you cannot see? I intend to make quite a healthy profit off you, milady.”
Mary’s eyes felt suspiciously damp. “Careful, old man, your reputation as a ruthless negotiator is i
n jeopardy.”
His eyes seemed to be shining a little brighter than normal as well. “I shall deny every word. Now you’d best take yourself away from here, or mine isn’t the only secret that will be in jeopardy.”
With one more hug, Mary did as he bade.
Though she would have loved nothing better than to enjoy the bright sunshine by wandering around the fair for a while, she knew it was better if she did not. The instinct not to draw attention to herself went deep.
If there was a slight wistfulness in her heart after the exchange with the children and the merchant, she knew it would pass. She had everything she needed. If at times she felt as if she were missing something, she reminded herself to be grateful for what she had.
Finding the groomsman waiting for her where she’d left him, Mary mounted her horse and started on the long ride back to the castle.
With the silver in her purse, the sun shining on her face, and no longer the need to look over her shoulder, she felt a sense of peace that she would have thought impossible three years ago. Against all odds, the frightened, sheltered, overlooked wife of a traitor had built a new life for herself. On her own.
Mary’s hard-won contentment turned to barely restrained excitement when she saw who awaited her on her arrival. Sir Adam! Did he bring news of her son? Please, let him be squired nearby …
She burst into the room. “Sir Adam, what news of—”
But the rest of the question fell abruptly from her lips when she realized he had not come alone. Her eyes widened. The Bishop of St. Andrews? What was William Lamberton doing here? The former Scottish patriot, who most thought responsible for Robert Bruce’s bid for the crown, had been imprisoned by the first Edward for over a year before making peace with the second last year and given partial freedom in the diocese of Durham. In her mind, Lamberton was inextricably connected to the war.
Unease wormed its way through her excitement. She suspected, even before she heard what he had to say, that the day she’d feared had just arrived.
After a quick exchange of greetings, it didn’t take the men long to tell her what they wanted. Her legs wobbled. She fell to the bench, which was fortunately behind her, in shock. Just like that, the walls of the life she’d built for herself came crashing down.
The Recruit Page 3