Kate Mosse - Labyrinth

“I said, who’s going to make me?” repeated the boy, ready for a fight.

Words would have given way to fists had not an old drunk, who was slumped against the wall, woken up and started yelling at them to clear off and leave him alone. Sajhe took advantage of the diversion to slip away.

The sun was just climbing over the higher roofs of the buildings, flooding sections of the street with slats of bright light and glinting off the horseshoe outside the door of the blacksmith’s forge. Sajhe stopped and looked in, feeling the heat from the furnace on his face even from the street.

There was a crowd of men waiting round the forge, as well as several younger ecuyers with their masters’ helmets, shields and hauberks, all of which required attention. He presumed the blacksmith in the chateau was overwhelmed with too much work.

Sajhe didn’t have the blood or the pedigree to be apprenticed, but it didn’t stop him dreaming of being a chevalier in his own colors. He smiled at one or two of the boys of his own age, but they just stared right through him, as they always did and always would.

Sajhe turned and walked away.

Most of the market traders were regulars and had set up in their usual places. The smell of hot fat filled Sajhe’s nose the moment he walked into the square. He loitered at a stall where a man was frying pancakes, turning them on a hot griddle. The smell of thick bean soup and warm mitadene bread, made from half barley and half wheat, stimulated his appetite. He walked past stalls selling buckles and pots, woolen cloths, skins and leather, both local goods and more exotic belts and purses from Cordoba or farther afield even, but he didn’t stop. He paused a while by a stall offering knives and scissors for shearing sheep, before moving to the corner of the square where most of the live animals were penned. There were always lots of chickens and capons in wooden cages, sometimes larks and wrens, which fluted and whistled. His favorite were the rabbits, all squashed together in a heap of brown, black and white fur.

Sajhe walked past the stalls selling grain and salt, white meats, ale from casks and wine, until he found himself at a stand selling herbs and exotic spices. In front of the table was a merchant. Sajhe had never seen a man so tall, so black. He was dressed in long, shimmering blue robes, a shining silk turban and red and gold pointed slippers. His skin was darker even than that of the gypsies that traveled from Navarre and Aragon over the mountains. Sajhe guessed he must be a Saracen, although he’d never me one before.

The merchant had laid out his display in the shape of a wheel: green and yellows, oranges, browns and reds, ocher. At the front were rosemary and parsley, garlic, marigold and lavender, but at the back there were more expensive spices, such as cardamom, nutmeg and saffron. Sajhe didn’t recognize any of the others, but he was already looking forward to telling hi grandmother what he had seen.

He was about to step forward to get a better look, when the Saracen roared in a voice like thunder. His heavy dark hand grabbed the skinny wrist of a cutpurse who’d tried to steal a coin from the embroidered purse that hung from a twisted red cord around his waist. He cuffed the boy around the head, sending him flying back into a woman standing behind, who started shouting. Straight away a crowd started to gather. Sajhe slipped away. He didn’t want to get caught up in any trouble.

Sajhe wandered out of the square toward the taberna Sant Joan dels Evangelis. Since he had no money with him, at the back of his mind was the idea he could offer to run errands in exchange for a cup of brout. Then he heard someone calling his name.

Sajhe turned and saw one of his grandmother’s friends, Na Marti, sitting with her husband at their stall, waving to attract his attention. She was a weaver and her husband was a carder. Most weeks they could be found in the same spot, spinning and combing, preparing their wool and threads.

Sajhe waved back. Like Esclarmonde, Na Marti was a follower of the new church. Her husband, Senher Marti was not a believer, although he had come to Esclarmonde’s house with his wife at Pentecost to hear the Bans Homes preach.

Na Marti ruffled his hair.

“How are you, young man? You’re getting so tall, these days, I hardly recognize you.”

“Fine, thank you,” he replied, smiling at her, then turned to her husband who was combing wool into skeins ready to sell. “Bonjorn, Senher.”

“And Esclarmonde?” Na Marti continued. “She’s keeping well too? Keeping everyone in order as usual?”

He grinned. “She’s the same as always.”

“ Ben, ben .” Good.

Sajhe sat himself down cross-legged at her feet and watched the spinning wheel as it turned round and round.

“Na Marti?” he said, after a while. “Why don’t you come to pray with us anymore?”

Senher Marti stopped what he was doing and exchanged a worried glance with his wife.

“Oh, you know how it is,” Na Marti replied, avoiding his eye. “We’re so busy these days. It’s hard to make the journey to Carcassonne as often as we’d like.”

She adjusted her bobbin and continued to spin, the rocking of the treadle filling the silence that had fallen between them.

“ Menina misses you.”

“I miss her too, but friends can’t always be together.”

Sajhe frowned. “But then why-”

Senher Marti tapped him sharply on the shoulder.

“Do not talk so loudly,” he said in a low voice. “This sort of thing is be kept to ourselves.”

“What’s best kept to ourselves?” he said, puzzled. “I only-”

“We heard, Sajhe,” said Senher Marti, glancing over his shoulder. “The whole market heard. Now, no more about prayer,?”

Confused about what he’d done to make Senher Marti so angry, Sajhe scrambled to his feet. Na Marti turned on her husband. They seemed have forgotten all about him.

“You’re being too harsh on him, Rogier,” she hissed. “He’s just a boy.”

“And it only takes one person with a loose tongue and we’ll be round* up with the others. We can’t afford to take risks. If people think we associate with heretics-”

“Heretic, indeed,” she snapped back. “He’s only a child!”

“Not the boy. Esclarmonde. It’s common knowledge she’s one of them. And if it gets out that we go to pray in her house, they’ll accuse us of following the Bons Homes too and we’ll be persecuted.”

“So we abandon our friends? Just because of a few scare stories you heard.”

Senher Marti dropped his voice. “I’m just saying we should be careful. You know what people are saying. That an army is coming to drive’t heretics out.”

“They’ve been saying that for years. You are making too much of it… for the legates, these ”men of God‘ have been strolling around the countryside for years now, drinking themselves into the grave and nothing ever come of it. Let the bishops argue it out amongst themselves and let the rest of us to get on with our lives.“

She turned away from her husband. “Take no notice,” she said, putting her hand on Sajhe’s shoulder. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

Sajhe looked at his feet, not wanting her to see him cry.

Na Marti continued in an unnaturally bright voice. “Now then, were you saying the other day that you wanted to buy a present for Alais? Why don’t we see what we can find?”

Sajhe nodded. He knew she was trying to reassure him, but he felt muddled and embarrassed.

“I don’t have any means to pay,” he said.

“Well, don’t you worry about that. I’m sure we can overlook that j this once. Now, why don’t you take a look.” Na Marti ran her fingers over the colorful rows of thread. “What about this? Do you think she’d like it? It’s a perfect match for her eyes.”