The Rightful Heir

The Market

Limited Edition
Copyright © Tanin Hale Young, 2008

Please note this is a work in progress.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons; living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The Camelot Series
“The Rightful Heir”

The Market

“Herbs and spices from the Holy land!”

The sharp cry had come from a stout man with dark hair and skin who was waving a bundle of dried something-or-others at a young man who grimaced at the smell and waved his hands almost defensively. Market day was always an exciting one for Tristan with the sounds of people bustling here and there and the occasional shout from an enthusiastic merchant from his booth. Even as he passed the copper-skinned man with his dried herbs, a woman began trying to push a loaf of “the finest bread out of Cambridge” into his hands. He flashed his teeth at her in an apologetic grin as he walked away without her wares.

The aroma of other exquisite foods from all over and beyond the country filled the air. The sharp odor of cheese from Beaufort mingled pleasantly with sizzling, steam strips of venison that was being sold on sticks nearby. Tristan took in a deep breath as he walked past but his nose wrinkled and he pulled a face as he passed a stall from which a man was selling a quite old and, from the smell of it, quite sick horse. He wasn’t having much success and, looking around; Tristan noticed that he wasn’t the only one who believed the man had picked a very inopportune place to tie his horse. He hurried past the stall until he was able to slide the grimace from his features and continued looking around.

And there was so much to look at. On this day that came only once a year, a time when Tristan was able to escape from a mundane life, nothing was more exhilarating than simply walking the square and taking everything in. Naked fowl hung from one stall, silk scarves and lace gloves from another. Foreign men called in curious customers with charming accents, and exotic women lured them with dangerously low collars and long, unbound hair. Tristan treasured these things—these moments—above all others. This was the only time he was able to get away from his insignificant, dilapidated hut far out in the middle of nowhere; this was when he could actually see the world, or a small portion of it anyways.

But this time it was slightly different; this time he had a purpose for wandering about the village. On his way to the market earlier that morning, he had managed to get a rock in his shoe, which was not an unusual event, by any means. He’d stopped to sit down on the ground and removed the scrap of leather padding he called a shoe.

It had felt good to sit. The market was almost two days’ travel, and Tristan had almost been able to smell the briny, leathery, coppery, smoky smells that accompanied the festival.

He’d dumped the shoe upside down, dislodging a small pebble. It had rolled away and he’d watched as it went. It had stopped a few feet away and he’d noticed something glistening in the sunlight on the ground a slight distance away. He’d shoved the leather pad back onto his coarse foot and quickly hurried over to the side of the dirt path to inspect the sparkling stone.

He’d hardly been able to believe his eyes. A whole shilling lay on the ground, unclaimed and exposed to the elements. It was more money than Tristan had seen at one time in his entire life.

Far from greedy, Tristan had glanced around to see who might have lost it, but the only people around were his small caravan, which was now quite far ahead of him, and he already knew that it couldn’t have possibly belonged to any of them.

Quickly picking up the shiny piece of expensive metal and clasping it tightly in his dirt-smudged hand he’d allowed himself a smile. He’d known exactly what he was going to do with it.

That had been only a few hours ago, and now he was intently examining each booth for the perfect gift for his little sister, Davenia. He imagined how her eyes would shine when he handed her his gift, though he didn’t have a clue what sort of gift he would buy for her. She was going to be 7 years old this year and Tristan wasn’t entirely sure what seven-year-old girls enjoyed.

She would soon be helping around the farm. She was already doing some of the more basic chores. The thought of it reminded Tristan of the day he’d had to quit school and begin working for his family.

“Good, sir,” someone with a thick accent interrupted his thoughts. “You will like to try fancy cloak?”

Before Tristan could protest, a large soft cloth had been thrown around each shoulder. “It suits you well.” said the overly eager merchant as he spun himself into a series of persuasions.

“Winter coming soon and thick cloak very good for you.”

Tristan had to admit how nice it looked and felt. He ran his finger down the smooth hem.

The merchant noticed and said, “Made from wool, warmest of warm cloth. Very thick, good for travel.”

Tristan looked a little thoughtful at this. He didn’t doubt that it was good for travelling, but he was never able to travel unless it was to trade.

The merchant noticed this as well and, fearing the loss of a sale, quickly said, “Make nice blanket, too. Many, many uses.”

Tristan thought. With a little bargaining, he could easily buy the cloak and still have plenty left over for Davenia, but how would he explain how he had gotten it? No, whatever he chose, for either himself or his sister, it would have to be something discreet.

He slowly removed the cloth and handed back to the merchant and shook his head. Without skipping a beat, the merchant hurried to the next passerby.

He continued down the center of town looking here and there, but finding nothing in particular that perked his interest. What could he possibly buy that wouldn’t draw negative attention from the Duke, the master of the home, or his stern guards.

Slowly the booths began to thin as he neared the far end of the village, and still he had nothing to show for his efforts. Suddenly a strange booth, set up alongside a small gypsy wagon, caught his eye. A small, tattered, canopy extended from the cart that desperately needed a new coat of paint. Underneath the canopy he saw several tables filled with objects too small to determine from across the busy street. A trinket seller, he thought He was just about to head over to examine their wares a little bit more closely when he heard some on yell.

“Come on Tristan it’s getting late. We’re setting up camp.”

TO BE CONTINUED: A WORK IN PROGRESS