I had been aware of a disturbance over to my right, behind the storyteller on his box. I’d assumed vaguely that it was the storyteller’s assistant, whom I’d noticed starting to circulate with his upturned cap in his hands, but I’d been too enthralled by the tale to take much notice. Now, though, there were raised voices, and someone cried out in pain. People started moving away, walking at first, then, as they reached the maze of little streets and alleyways around the square, bolting like startled hares. Among them ran the nimble, light-footed storyteller, his box in one hand, easing his way through bigger, slower people, smiling, apologizing, and soon out of sight.
The assistant wasn’t so lucky. As I turned back from watching the fleeing storyteller, I saw him standing, blood on his face and his arms pinned behind him by one of Jack’s larger deputies. There were three more deputies, pushing and shoving their way through the rapidly disappearing crowd, yelling, ‘Where is he? Which way did he go?’
I felt a movement beside me. My randy old man, who had sat in silent captivation to hear the tale, was struggling to his feet. ‘I’m off,’ he muttered. ‘I don’t like the look of them deputies.’ With an agility surprising in one who had so recently been complaining of dizziness, he skipped away across the square and shot off along one of the smaller alleys.
I too stood up, reaching down for my basket of groceries and brushing down my skirts. It seemed prudent to follow my old man’s example and melt away, and I had almost reached the dark entry to the maze of passages that leads to Gurdyman’s house when one of the deputies called out.
‘Oi! You there, healer girl!’
I stopped. I heard pounding feet, and a hand grabbed my arm.
I reached up and pushed it off. ‘There’s no need to grasp hold of me. I’d stopped, or didn’t you notice?’
His brutish face clouded. Apparently he was sensitive to sarcasm. ‘None of that lip!’ he shouted. ‘I want to know what’s been going on and you’ll stay right here till you tell me!’
‘Certainly I’ll tell you,’ I replied. I thought I sounded cool; a lot cooler than I was feeling. ‘The market has been busy today, and a storyteller took advantage of the fact and set up his box to tell us all a tale. It was a very good one,’ some imp in me made me add, ‘you missed a treat.’
His colour darkened. He looked furiously angry, and he raised a clenched fist as if he yearned to punch me. Then, just about managing to control the impulse, he said harshly, ‘Storytelling’s forbidden.’
‘Since when?’ I demanded before I could stop myself.
He put his sweaty, greasy face right up close to mine. ‘Since Sheriff Picot said so,’ he spat. ‘It’s rumour-mongering, that’s what it is, and it’s bad for – for-’
‘Morale?’ I suggested. ‘Is that the word you’re fumbling for? Come on,’ I said furiously and very unwisely, ‘you can only just have heard the word and, although it’s clearly new to you, you can’t have forgotten it already!’
The blow came so swiftly that I didn’t have time to duck. His big fist caught me on the side of my jaw, and I saw blackness shot through with brilliant stars. As I fell, the agonizing pain began.
I was aware of running feet, loud voices, a scuffle, a shout of protest and a shriek of pain. Heavy boots rang out on the stones, quickly fading. Someone was holding me – tightly – against a broad chest, and I made out bare arms thick with muscle crossed over my chest. I leaned back, thinking no further than how much my jaw hurt and how wonderful it was to feel safe.
Someone muttered something – a question – and, right up close, a deep voice said, ‘No need, I can manage her.’
I was lifted up off the ground. ‘My basket!’ I managed to say, although it sounded more like mrssskt.
‘I have it,’ said the deep voice.
I closed my eyes, and Jack Chevestrier carried me home.
We were halfway along the alley leading to the house. I was rapidly returning to myself, so much so that, although it was very pleasant, I was beginning to feel embarrassed at being carried. ‘I think I can walk,’ I said. Inkicnllk.
‘I’m sure you can,’ said Jack. ‘But I’m enjoying carrying you.’
He reached out and banged on Gurdyman’s door. After some time – Gurdyman must have been down in the crypt – it opened. He took in the spectacle of Jack and me and I’m quite sure there was a swift smile on his face before he managed to smooth it away.
‘Oh, dear,’ he said, standing back so Jack could bear me inside, ‘an unruly crush at the pie stall?’
Jack had taken me along to the kitchen and was already pouring cold water into an earthenware bowl. He wrung out a cloth and pressed it gently to my jaw. For such a powerful man, his touch was light.
‘Ow,’ I said.
‘Is she all right?’ Gurdyman was leaning round Jack’s bulk to peer at me.
‘She can talk for herself,’ I protested. It came out as shkntlkhslf, which rather countered what I was attempting to say.
‘One of my deputies thumped her,’ Jack said. He dunked the cloth back in the cold water, then returned it to my face. I had done much the same many times for others, and only now did I discover how comforting it was.
Gurdyman sighed. ‘Oh, dear me! It is not the first time she has suffered such a blow, and I fear she has not yet learned to watch her tongue in the presence of mindlessly brutal men.’
Gurdyman was quite right. I would have grinned, but it hurt. Jack, however, wasn’t smiling.
‘She shouldn’t have to,’ he said. ‘It’s far too easy for men to hit women, being almost universally bigger and stronger and in no fear of reprisals.’ There was bitterness in his harsh tone.
Gurdyman noticed too. ‘I agree with you,’ he said gently. ‘I wasn’t condoning it. Far from it.’ He paused. ‘Why did the deputy hit her?’
‘Sheriff Picot decided that storytellers are banned, and when word came that one of them was in the marketplace, he sent Peter – one of his more bone-headed men – to enforce the order, together with the band of bullies he normally leads.’
‘And these men became violent?’ Gurdyman asked. Jack nodded. ‘It seems unreasonable to enforce so roughly a law that people don’t even know exists,’ he remarked.
‘It’s unreasonable all right,’ Jack muttered. He glanced at Gurdyman. ‘Peter and his men will be taken to task. The one who did this’ – he touched my jaw with his forefinger – ‘is already regretting it, I’d say.’
Good. I hoped someone had punched him as hard as he’d punched me.
Jack knelt down, looking into my face. ‘I don’t believe your jaw is broken,’ he said. ‘Can you move it from side to side? Gently now!’ he added as very tentatively I began to articulate my lower jaw.