CHAPTER ONE #3
Nelly let out a squeak of fright, and Isabel wheeled around at the sound.
The two brawling men - if "brawling" could even be used to describe their movements, clumsy and accidental as they seemed - had come reeling closer to them, still shouting.
One of them was brandishing a short knife in his free hand, which appeared to be what had frightened Nelly.
The other was backing in their direction, still slurring insults as he went.
The knife-wielding man swung at him, a gesture that went well wide of the mark, but it didn't matter; his intended victim attempted to spin around and run, tripped over his own feet in the process, and crashed headlong into Isabel, driving them both into the ground.
In a single, horrible moment, his presence was all she could see, hear, or feel - the reek of ale that seemed to pour out of his every orifice, the hot pants of his breath against her neck, and the awful dead weight of him on top of her.
She was not in the town square anymore; she was not nine-and-twenty years old, a widow with a small child.
She was sixteen and cringing in terror in her new marital bed, certain the very breath would be crushed out of her at any moment, too paralyzed with fear to fight off the man on top of her.
She thought, for a moment, she could feel her heart stop.
Then the sounds of the square began to filter in again: Nelly behind her, screaming "get off!
," others in the crowd voicing their disapproval even louder, the mutterings of the other man who - she assumed - was still on his feet, and bewildered as to what had happened to his prey.
The man on top of her grunted, one meaty hand pawing the ground next to her head as he tried and failed to push himself upright.
His bloodshot eyes, mere inches away from her face, squinted in confusion; he could not seem to grasp how or why his body was not obeying his commands.
Then there were footsteps close by, and a voice saying, "up you get, you oaf," and then - finally - hands grasped him by the shoulders and pulled him up and off of her.
The whole ordeal had only lasted moments, but it had seemed like a year.
For the first time, she was aware of a cold wetness soaking through her bodice: the man had somehow upended his tankard all over her when he fell, and now she was wet to the skin.
A hand appeared in her field of vision, extended towards her. "All right love?" a voice - a man's voice, soft and kindly - said. "There you go, that's it -"
"Don't touch me," Isabel snapped, scrambling backwards and pushing herself to her feet.
Her would-be rescuer - an older man, short and greying - rolled his eyes, snorted, and wandered off with a mutter about the thanks he got for being chivalrous.
When she looked around, she saw the man who had fallen on her, upright - barely - and supported by a man holding him by the arm on either side.
His pursuer was standing rooted in place, his face creased with puzzlement as he swayed as several people shouted at him.
Now that she was back on her feet, no one seemed to take any notice of her, which suited her well enough; she only wanted to get out of the square and go home.
Although - she glanced down at her sodden dress and felt her gut twist. What would Hilda say when she came home in this state?
She surely would not accept Isabel's explanation of what had actually happened; undoubtedly she would accuse Isabel of going out and getting drunk, and then insist that she was a slattern and a sot and no fit guardian for Walter -
Walter. His presence had escaped her mind entirely as she lay on the ground, too consumed with panic to think of anything but escape.
Now she whirled around, hoping against hope that he was standing where she'd left him at the weaver's stall.
He wasn't: the shawls and belts still fluttered in the breeze, but the spot where he'd stood was empty.
She wheeled on Nelly, feeling panic rise in her throat. "Did you see where he went?"
Nelly shook her head, wide-eyed.
"Walter!" She began to walk, then to sprint.
She had no destination in mind, for she'd no idea what might have caught his attention and caused him to wander - or where he would have run had the fight spooked him.
She only knew that she had to find him, driven by fear and instinct rather than any higher reasoning.
If she didn't find him - if some harm had come to him while she lay uselessly prone - she would rather have been stabbed by the knife-wielding man in the fight than live to see tomorrow.
# # #
It was the first time in weeks that an opportunity to go to market had presented itself to Constance, and she meant to take full advantage of it.
Jack's master had no work for him today, and so he was home looking after Peter while she was out - not that he either needed or wanted the help, what with his health slowly improving - and so she had hours of freedom stretching out before her.
She had been so harried of late, she hardly knew what to do with herself now that she wasn't beset by a half-dozen tasks demanding her attention.
Of course, there were still concerns hovering at the back of her mind - her purse, already light when she set out, was now nearly empty after a scant two purchases, and she had few prospects of further earnings in the near future.
But for now, she pushed those thoughts away: there was nothing she could do about it this afternoon, and she might as well enjoy her freedom while she could.
She was browsing the potter's stall when she heard the shouts and the subsequent crashing sound, but though she looked in the direction of the sound, she didn't run towards it.
She had never been one to stop and gawk at others' misfortune - and that had been before Peter's accident.
Now, just the thought of a nearby calamity made her stomach churn.
Given the circumstances, she knew the victim couldn't be one of her own – Jack and Peter were at home, and Matilda had been to market the week before – but a moment's instinctive fear still set her heart racing.
She took several slow, deep breaths to calm herself, staring down at the pot she'd been holding when the noise had distracted her.
The potter had etched small leaves all around the rim, and feeling the bumps and grooves under her fingers served as a welcome distraction.
She had almost made up her mind to buy it just for that, when the feeling of something small and heavy crashing into the backs of her knees once again took her thoughts away from the task at hand.
Turning and looking down, she was met with the sight of a small child – a boy, unless she missed her guess – staring up at her, mouth slightly agape in surprise. He grasped two fistfuls of her gown, seemingly to steady himself, and blinked several times. "Mama?"
Constance felt herself finally settle, her racing heart dropping back to its ordinary pace. "No, pet." She reached down to disentangle her skirts from his fingers, then knelt. "Is your mama here with you?"
He only went on staring, his bottom lip quivering ominously. Constance gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. "We'll find her," she said, "don't fret. What's your name? I'm called Constance."
He gave no reply but a whimper. Constance squeezed his shoulder again, then stood, taking one of his hands in hers'.
"Can you point which way you came from?" she asked.
"Perhaps your mama's still there." She didn't really expect a response, but she thought the sound of her voice might soothe him a bit.
She took the same gentle, coaxing tone she used with her nieces and nephews when they were at their most recalcitrant.
He was of an age with Sarah, unless she missed her guess, and Sarah was more than capable of making herself understood when she wanted to - but this child was evidently too frightened and too overwhelmed to answer her, for what he did instead was drop down to the ground with a small thump and begin to bawl.
"There, there," Constance said, "it's all right.
" If this child had been Sarah, she would simply have scooped her up in her arms and cuddled her until the tears passed, but she thought this little one, already overwrought, would not be soothed by an embrace from a stranger.
So she reached around to rub his back instead, still murmuring small soothing words as she scanned the crowd.
Despite her easy assurances, she was not entirely certain how she would find his mother - the crowd was large, and he could have come from any direction.
She didn't even know for certain that his mother was at market - he might have gotten out of a nearby house and wandered here - although she dearly hoped it was the case, for it would be nearly impossible to get him home otherwise.
"Walter!"
The voice came as if in answer to her prayers, sharp and shrill with panic and near to hand, though she couldn't see the source just yet. The little one - Walter, evidently - lurched to his feet at the sound, eyes as round as plates. "Mama!"
The woman who'd shouted came bursting out of the crowd at a run, only skidding to a stop when she saw Walter.
Constance took her hand from his back as he sprinted towards her, waiting only until his mother caught him up in her arms before he burst into tears again.
His mother clutched him tight against her breast, hiding her face in his hair for several long moments before pulling back to say, "I've told you a dozen times not to run off like that! What if I hadn't found you?"