Six
Nay, nay, nay! This canna be happening. Shite.
Laurel looked at the rent fabric of her sapphire-colored satin skirts and wished to cry. She had attempted to remove an embroidered panel from her finest gown, but the material was old and worn. She tugged a mite too hard and done more than split the seam, she’d torn the satin.
Now what? I canna go to the feast in aught less than a gown like this. Today would have to be the Lady Day in Harvest. Why did I join the others for the morning walk? I should have stayed here and worked on the gown despite being told otherwise. Mayhap this wouldnae have happened, or if it did, I would have more time to fix this.
Laurel hurried to her chest and kneeled beside it. She sorted through the various swaths of loose fabric and trim, but she had nothing that would both match and hide the tear.
There’s naught for it. I must go into town again. But I didna want to spend the coin. Ye dinna have much choice though, do ye? If ye dinna want Monty or the king picking yer husband, ye’d do well to show yer face and make nice. And ye canna show yer face with yer arse blowing in the breeze.
Laurel stripped out of her day gown and hurried to change into one of her plain kirtles. She poured a few coins into a small pouch, fastening it to the girdle around her waist before she snagged her veil as she shut the lid of her chest. Easing open the door, she peered down the passageway in both directions. With no one in sight, she hurried to the servants’ stairs and wound her way through the keep until she reached a door leading to the postern gate. She put her veil on and slipped outside, hurrying across the narrow stretch of the bailey before ducking through the portal. She didn’t stop to look around, making her way to Simon, the merchant to whom she’d recently sold her needlework.
As Laurel approached the shop, she glanced up at the sky and estimated that it was just past midafternoon. She would have three hours to make her purchase and repair her gown. The torn satin would be hard to make inconspicuous without several alterations. She wished she had the time to pull it apart and start fresh, but there was no way—even with the amount of sewing she’d done in her lifetime—that she could sew a new dress in a few hours. She breathed easier when she realized she was the only person in the shop.
“Goody Smyth, I didn’t expect you back so soon,” the shop owner greeted Laurel as she hurried to the counter. She’d chosen a generic name and proclaimed herself a widow years ago to ensure her anonymity.
“I’d like to buy a couple of yards of garnet satin, if you have any,” Laurel requested. She forced herself to speak evenly and to take deep breaths. If the shopkeeper, Simon, realized her desperation, he would gouge her.
“I have three yards of this bolt right here,” Samuel pointed to the end of the counter. “Would this work?”
Laurel examined the satin, impressed with the quality and the color. Only minutes ago, she’d been panicking that she wouldn’t be able to salvage the gown well enough to hide her blunder. Now she grew excited at the prospect of redesigning the kirtle that awaited her.
“This is very nice, Simon. But it might be a bit dear for what I can afford. I only have what you paid me earlier,” Laurel said innocently.
“That isn’t enough, Goodwife,” Simon grew serious, all pretense of charm gone now that he no longer saw a potential sale.
“Have you sold my work already?” Laurel asked as she looked around.
“Aye. You weren’t gone five minutes before a lady bought all of it,” Samuel grinned, unaware that he’d just fallen into Laurel’s trap.
“Then you already have the profit you made from my labors, and I’m repaying you what you paid me. That more than covers the cost of the satin.”
“That isn’t how it works,” Simon argued.
“It is if you’d like to keep making the tidy sum you do from my embroidery. If not, I shall go to Samuel down the way.”
The wizened old man glared at Laurel, trying to make eye contract through her thick veil. He threw up his hands and abandoned his attempt. “Very well. It isn’t worth arguing with you since you’ll outsmart me one way or another. It’s best to give in now and have you on your way before you rob me blind.”
“I’m glad we could come to an agreement,” Laurel chirped. She poured the coins onto the counter as the shopkeeper measured and cut the fabric. Laurel pushed the coins toward him as soon as he finished folding the satin. “Thank you,” she called over her shoulder
Laurel stepped into the street and turned back to the castle. She hadn’t taken more than three steps when a woman’s voice called out before a chamber pot emptied just in front of Laurel. She had the wherewithal to push the brand-new material behind her back, but malodorous sludge splashed down the front of Laurel’s kirtle. She released a slew of curses in Gaelic, including one about the woman’s grandmother, that she knew no one understood.
“Cursing the woman’sseanmhairwillna do ye much good since she’s likely been dead a score-and-ten years.” A baritone voice wrapped around Laurel, the brogue comforting and familiar even if she didn’t know who it belonged to.
“Mayhap her grandmother should have taught her to wait a moment before tossing turds at people,” Laurel grumbled. She looked up as the woman above stood gawking at her. “In case you didn’t understand since you’re daft as a brush, I’m ‘avin a right cob on. Aye, stand there gormless, having just chucked shite on me.”
“I thought no one was below,” the woman called down.
“Aye, and do you ken what thought did? He followed a muck cart and thought it was a wedding.” Laurel stepped around the fresh pile of refuse, ignoring the deep laughter coming from behind her left shoulder. Laurel huffed and nearly pulled her arms back in front of her until she remembered her gown would ruin the satin. With another aggrieved sigh, Laurel began walking back to the castle. She had no idea how she would sneak back into the keep without leaving a trail of foul odors behind her.
“Lady Laurel?”
Laurel missed a step and pitched forward. With her hands behind her back, she stumbled. Strong hands grasped her shoulders and helped right her. “Thank you,” she mumbled before trying to hurry on.
“Lady Laurel,” the man repeated. “We both ken I know who you are.”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” Laurel muttered as she continued toward the keep.
