Thumping from downstairs roused me. I groaned, wondering what time it was. With no windows in the cubicle, it was hard to tell, but it felt like early morning, so I climbed to my feet and nudged Will. “I am going to see if there is bread and ale to break our fast.”
He grunted and looked up at me, bleary-eyed. “It cannae be morning already.” But a minute later, he was following me down the steps.
The proprietor served us a loaf of wheat bread, a mound of butter, and mugs of ale. Outside, the day had grown noisy, so I stuffed the last bit of bread in my mouth, washed it down, and hurried out.
Smoke rose above the thatch roofs, and the pleasant scent of ale being heated in taverns mixed with the rotten-egg reek of the wind off the river.
The street was already crowded with people heading for the mercat cross in the center of town. An oxcart trundled noisily by, piled with hay. Men and a few women pushed barrows piled with cabbages, carrots, and onions. Another was filled with live chickens, legs trussed. Fishermen from the Ettrick Water and the Tweed carried wicker creels of fresh fish. A woman marched purposefully past with a basket piled with eggs. Others hurried along with a goose or a duck held firmly under each arm. The shops were letting down their shutters. A blacksmith and an apprentice dragged a trestle table to sit up to display their cooking pots, kettles, ladles, fireplace racks, and pothooks.
The stablemaster had bought our mounts and sold us two sturdy garrons and saddles. We needed only a few more supplies, so we walked toward the tall stone mercat cross towering in the center of town. Around it, the whole market square was covered by stalls and booths. Some were just trestle tables, others more substantial and sheltered by colored awnings. A few even had plank walls. It was already crowded with buyers and traders and a few apprentices carrying trays of bread and sweets, shouting that they were freshly made. A juggler tossed colorful balls into the air. Usually, a market would have a holiday atmosphere, but today there were more furled brows and worried looks than smiles.
I stopped for a moment, eavesdropping on a dour-faced burgher. “An old friend passed through fleeing from Lochmaben. He said that King Edward Balliol has joined his forces with Percy’s.”
His well-dressed companion glanced my way and then put a hand on his friend’s shoulder to turn him, and they started walking away. “Better you nae name him king unless he is close enough to defend the title.”
I raised my eyebrows at Will.
He ducked his head toward the market, their canopies flapping in the chilly wind. A head taller than most of the crowd, I looked around, trying to spot a stall with what we needed. My height and the sword at my side drew curious and wary glances. Tradesmen cried their wares, touting the quality of their hodden-gray cloth, squirrel, and cat fur to line cloaks, their ribbons, needles, and medicines to cure every ill. Added to haggling over prices and uneasy gossip, it made a deafening cacophony.
Sure that just once having a pie before dinner would not send me to Hell for gluttony, I waved a baker’s boy over and dropped a halfpenny in his hand for two pies. “Where might we find a goldsmith?” I asked.
He pointed toward a shop on the far side of the square. The shutter at the bottom of the window was down, and an apprentice sat at it, polishing a simple clasp. Another was bent over a workbench in the rear of the shop. Unlike the other shops on the street, the goldsmith did not use the shutter to display his goods. They were too valuable to risk theft, even though a guard with arms crossed over his broad chest stood outside the door. However, the lower shutter displayed shelves of crucifixes, candlesticks, belt buckles, rings, and necklaces.
When I asked for his master, the youth turned and called, “Master Walter, someone to see you.”
A door at the rear of the shop opened, and a short, wiry man, gray-haired, with a pointed face, wearing a lustrous blue cotehardie that fell to his knees. “How many times must I tell you to come fetch me, nae to raise your voice?” A scowl at the youth indicated he had not finished his ire, but his face smoothed after looking me up and down. “Good morrow, sir. How may I help you?”
I gave a courteous nod. “I would see how much you would give me for this ring.”
He motioned me to the shutter and held out his hand. The apprentice placed a shiny black stone touchstone and a small scale in front of his master. The goldsmith rubbed the ring across it and pursed his lips over the line on the stone. He dropped the ring onto the scale, balanced it with tiny weights, and tutted. “It isnae bad quality, but nae of the finest.” He moved it on the scale with a forefinger. “I can give you a merk for it.”
Will shook his head vigorously. “Lady Agnes gave it to you herself. You shouldnae sell it. We can manage without.”
Master Walter picked the ring up between thumb and forefinger and held it up to the light. “Mayhap I could pay you a merk and seven shillings. But nae more.”
I chewed on my lower lip for a moment before I nodded. “I will take it.” My finger felt strange without the ring, but I could not let a ring matter with all we had lost. He handed me the silver coins with a brisk, “God go with you.”
Once out the door, I pointed. “I saw a stall where they were selling plaids yon.”
We wended our way through the crowd, Will still frowning over the sale of the ring until I stopped at the sight of a merchant’s stall.
The seller was stocky and looked in her late fifties, the front of her gray hair showing at the edge of her coif. She had a stern-looking mouth and sharp eyes that did not miss a thing.
A lass stood behind her, eyes modestly downcast, but that did not keep every man in the vicinity from staring at her. I joined them. Her blonde hair gleamed in the sun, and her cheeks glowed with health. The drape of her kirtle showed off the curve of her breasts and hips. When I realized my mouth was open, I snapped it shut just as Will elbowed me.
He grinned. “We dinnae have time for flirting, you ken.”
I strode to the stall, ran my hand over a plaid with soft yellow and green lines, and asked what it would cost. With a virtuous curtsey, she motioned to the gray-haired woman and said to speak to her if I wished to buy something.
It must have been her granny who was busy convincing a stolid matron of the quality of the hodden-gray cloth that could be used for a servant’s clothing. Smiling, I whispered, “What is your name, hen?”
As the customer carried her purchase away, the elderly woman gave me a disapproving look and said, “Joneta, straighten the table.”
The lass cast me an amused look from under lowered eyelids and turned her back, refolding a piece of hodden-gray.
“Good morrow, grandame.” I stroked the plaid. “How much for this?”
“God’s greeting, sir.” She looked kindlier since I was a customer. “Two merks.”
Sir William had provided my needs as his squire, but I had watched Lady Elizabeth when she shopped enough to know that you should never appear too eager or accept the first price. “I could drape myself in silk for that,” I said with a sniff. I put it aside and tilted my head, looking at the one that had been under it, darker green and buttery yellow. “I would pay two merks for both, though.”
She chuckled, her eyes gleaming in her big-boned face. After a moment, she said, “Three merks and 6 pence for both.”
“Do you take me for a belted earl rolling in gold?” I shook my head, putting on a skeptical face. After more friendly bartering, we agreed on three merks for both. A good wool plaid could be a blanket or cloak; we would need both. She sold me a canvas bag for a quarter-penny to carry our purchases.
I caught Joneta watching me out of the corner of her eye and smiled at her. She turned away to arrange the folded pieces of wool on the table. When Will grasped my arm, I tugged to pull free.
Will was strong and held on. “We need to leave. Let’s see what he has,” he reminded me, pulling me toward the blacksmith’s table.
I dug in my heels only to be tugged further along. “Let go!”
He did, and we walked side by side toward the table stacked with his goods. My breath caught in my throat. A ribbon of smoke rose to the west, coiling with others until it became a black column. I jabbed Will in the ribs with my elbow. “Look up.”
He froze, and his eyes widened. “How far do you think?”
“I dinnae ken, but we need to leave. I have nae desire to be dragged before some English lord.”
“Bring our horses while I grab what else we need.” I was sure they could not know we had been at Neville’s Cross, but seizing our armor and weapons as enemies would be certain.
He strode toward the tavern, and I rushed to the table. “That pot and an iron griddle,” I barked.
I shoved them into the bag when a rider galloped through the gate.
He shouted, “‘Ware! ‘Ware!”
Amid gasps and shouts of alarm, a gray-haired burgher in a thigh-length plum-colored tunic belted over his round belly, and a fur-lined mantle shouted for silence. “What are you shouting about, man?”
“Sir Eustace sent me to give you warning. Our scouts—” He gasped for breath. “An English army is less than an hour’s ride away. Hide what you can or flee with it into the forest. We cannae defend the town.”
Will trotted up, leading my mount and our sumpter.
“What is he going to do?”
“He will get the best terms he can for a surrender.”
The burgher turned. “Go to your homes!” But already, people were grabbing up their possessions, certain the town would be looted. Such was the way of all invading armies.
Traders were throwing armloads of goods into wheelbarrows, and some were already running for the gate. I shoved through the crowd toward Granny Matylda’s and her granddaughter’s stand. It was empty. Not even a single piece of cloth remained. I looked around, trying to find them in the chaos. People shoved their way through the panicked crowd, shouting. A dog barked as it chased at a boy’s heels. A bairn sat crying until its mother scooped it up.
“We should go. Now!” Will shouted at me. “Any knight is like to be met with steel.”
I jumped into my saddle and put my heels to my horse’s flanks. Will and I rode for the gate, plowing our way through the fleeing crowd.