I had turned for home, resolving to do as Jack had urged and not stop to listen to what everyone was saying. But then there was a minor mishap – a little boy managed to evade his mother’s grasping hand, and, revelling in his sudden freedom, he sped away through the crowd and tripped up an elderly man, who fell heavily and banged his head. Lots of the stall-holders know me by sight, and I couldn’t have escaped even if I’d wanted to. Even as I put down my basket and crouched down beside the old man, someone was yelling, ‘Find that healer girl! She was here a moment ago, I just saw her!’
The elderly man had a lump on his head and was a little dazed, but otherwise unhurt. I sat with him for a while, holding his hand, and presently helped him to sit up.
‘Ooooooer, I feel dizzy! I need to rest here a bit longer!’ he moaned, clutching on to me and managing to squeeze my breast.
I bet you do, I thought. But he was my patient, he probably did feel dizzy, and the squeeze could have been accidental.
‘You mustn’t get up until you feel better,’ I said. ‘I’ll stay with you.’
‘Will you?’ He looked at me with trusting eyes, and I could see how grateful he was.
‘Yes,’ I said. Then, leaning closer so that only he, and not the small circle of goggle-eyed people standing round us, heard, I added, ‘But just you keep your hands to yourself, or I might change my mind.’
He gave a delighted chortle of laughter. But, all the same, he folded his hands chastely in his lap.
The small drama was over and our audience melted away. So it was only then, as the throng cleared a little, that first I saw the man standing on a box in the middle of the market square and then, as he flung his arms wide and launched into his tale, heard him.
I knew him by sight. He was one of those who earned a crust with their storytelling, turning up on feast days and market days, wherever there is a crowd to be entertained, and acting out the old tales, myths and legends. I’d often stopped to listen to him, for he was good, and had the ability to hold his audience’s rapt attention.
I had a feeling I knew precisely what today’s tale would be about; there was, after all, only one thing people would want to hear.
Jack had told me – warned me – not to listen. But, detained there still tending my randy old man, it seemed I didn’t have a choice.
This was the story I heard.
FOUR
‘There was once a greedy merchant who had been born with every privilege yet, as is often the case with such men, always wanted more,’ the storyteller began, launching straight into his narrative. A fat-bottomed woman in front of me shifted, and I saw him more clearly. He wore a new coat – business must have been rewarding recently – and he had been freshly shaved and barbered. His eyes were dark and shiny as a robin’s in his lean, tanned face, and he let them roam over the audience, making sure we were all attending. We were. Moreover, as soon as his light, carrying voice had begun the tale, more people had stopped what they were doing and joined the listening crowd.
‘The greedy merchant bartered and bargained,’ the storyteller continued, ‘he bought cheap and sold dear, and his fortune grew and grew, but still he wasn’t satisfied. He married a beautiful woman, and she gave him an even lovelier daughter’ – he paused to run lascivious eyes over the young women in the audience, some of whom simpered and giggled – ‘but he wanted more. He wanted more precious daughters to marry off to wealthy men who would reward him well for the privilege, and he wanted sons who he would force to work for him so that his enormous wealth increased still further. But his beautiful wife grew sick, and she died.’ A dramatic little pause, the storyteller’s face assuming an expression of deep sorrow.
‘Some said her death was from a weary, broken heart, for she knew her husband did not love her for herself but only for the children he wished to father on her. And then do you know what happened?’ He glanced around the intent crowd, eyebrows raised. A man said, ‘No! What?’ and there was some laughter. ‘Well, I’ll tell you,’ said the storyteller with a smile. ‘The greedy merchant was left all alone, for, no matter how many women he flattered and courted and tried to impress with his fine house and its rich furnishings, his elegant horses, his gorgeous raiment, his jewels and his gold, none would have him. He was growing old now, and his character showed in his face, and the ladies he wooed knew better than to accept him.’
‘Serve him right!’ a woman’s shrill voice observed in an indignant tone.
‘His beautiful daughter grew towards womanhood, and he put her in a costly litter lined with goose-down mattresses and pillows and the softest woollen blankets and hung with silken curtains, and he scoured the land with her, displaying her to all the richest lords and noblemen. Most of these fine men offered for her hand, for as well as a lovely face she had a sweet, gentle manner, and it was easy to fall for her, and so the greedy merchant decided that the only thing to do was to set up an auction, and let the competing suitors bid for her hand.’
There were several mutterings, and someone said, ‘The bastard!’
‘The day of the auction came,’ went on the storyteller. ‘It was summer and the sun was out, shining with a smiling face in a deep blue sky, yet right on the eastern horizon there could be discerned, for those who troubled to look, a small dark cloud. However, few could tear their fascinated eyes away from the spectacle of the greedy merchant’s daughter, up on a high wooden platform in the middle of the market square-’
Suddenly he paused, then, looking around, his eyes wide as if only then noticing his surroundings, he said, ‘Very like to this square, if not the self-same one!’
There was a gasp from someone at the front.
‘There she was, the beautiful daughter’ – he picked up the tale – ‘sitting on a silk-covered throne and dressed in the most gorgeous gown in a shade of sea-green which exactly matched her eyes. The marketplace thronged with people, and the suitors had a job of it, elbowing their way to the front so that their bids could be heard. Meanwhile,’ he added, lowering his voice dramatically so that as one his crowd all leaned forward to hear, ‘the dark cloud on the eastern horizon had grown bigger and closer.’
Several people looked nervously over their shoulders.
‘The bidding began. The opening offers were modest: the price of a good horse, or a golden circlet. Steadily they increased: the price of a manor, a small army, invading a neighbouring state. Still the greedy merchant was not satisfied, still he stood on the platform beside his beautiful daughter, yelling, sweating, exhorting, calling out again and again, More! More! It is not enough!’
The storyteller paused, just for an instant, raising his eyes and gazing into the distance, a faint frown on his face. Then, with a little shake as if forcing himself back to the present, he went on.
‘The black cloud now hovered over to the east of the market square. It had grown huge, stretching right to the far horizon. But still the bidding went on. I offer my patrimony, called out an eager suitor who stood right at the front, beside the steps leading up to the platform. My castle, my estates which are wide and varied, the men and women on my estates, the animals, the crops, the badgers, the squirrels, the deer and the hares, the birds and the bees, the spiders that spin and even the flies that buzz and bother.’
The storyteller’s eyes were wide with wonder at this wondrous list of treasures beyond belief.
‘It is not enough, screeched the greedy merchant. More! More! I must have-’
Abruptly the storyteller broke off. Then, arms spread over his head, voice raised, he cried out, ‘Suddenly the vast black cloud blossomed out like some foul fungus and it blotted out the sun. The crowd, the majority noticing the cloud for the first time, went silent, gazing up into the lowering sky with expressions of doubt, fear and apprehension. More! More! It is not enough! cried the greedy merchant into the sudden stillness.