The Gift by Alison Croggon

Author:Alison Croggon [Croggon, Alison]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 978-1-4063-3948-2
Publisher: Walker Books Ltd
Published: 2011-08-21T04:00:00+00:00

When they emerged from their beds the next day, the sun was high. They breakfasted generously on spiced sausage and beans and bacon; Mr. Dringold’s menu even ran to fried mushrooms, which pleased Cadvan. Dringold also arranged for their washing to be taken to the launderers, where it would be ready by that night. Cadvan and Maerad then made their way to the Fort market.

Maerad had never been in a market before and was fascinated. It was alive with colors and smells. There were huge orange pumpkins and green and gold squashes, and streaky yellow apples, sweet and slightly wrinkled from their winter storage; and she saw greens of all kinds, early spring lettuces and leeks, and dried bunches of parsley and mint and marjoram and nettles, and the purple-green of huge winter cabbages, slashed in half to reveal their intricate white innards. There were piles of dried beans and peas, and yellow lentils and brown grains, and bunches of garlic and onions, and sacks of hazels and walnuts and almonds, stippled the colors of autumn; and great round white cheeses wrapped in leaves or blue wax, plumped fatly on the wooden trestles. Over everything drifted the smells of freshly baked breads and roasting chestnuts, and sausages and onions frying on a brazier, and everywhere were the sounds of donkeys braying and cows lowing and goats bleating in stalls and dogs barking and the chatter of townspeople bargaining.

On the edge of the square two minstrels played pipes and a fiddle, with a hat laid on the ground before them for coins. They were dressed in bright clothes, with scarlet scarves around their necks, and they wore blue felt hats with bells that jingled as they danced. They sang about foolish farmers and lovelorn lassies, and a haunting ballad of a man who fell in love with a river sprite, and a funny song about a drunk blacksmith falling into a well. Maerad stood before them enraptured, until Cadvan told her she looked exactly like the idiot she pretended to be and dragged her off to do some shopping.

He drifted in a leisurely fashion around the market, chatting with the stallholders, and Maerad followed him silently, admiring again his ease with people, how he could make even the most reserved open up and talk. He bought a supply of dried fruits and meats, barley flour and grain, a little oil and vinegar, some tough bread that would keep for up to two weeks, and a small sack of oats for the horses. What struck her most forcibly was the fear that arose at any mention of Bards or Barding; stallholders would look around as if they thought someone listened and would say no more, or loudly change the subject. When Cadvan had finished making purchases, they went back to where the minstrels had been playing, because Maerad wanted to hear more, but there was an argument going on. A woman who was clearly a Bard — she wore the cloak and the clover leaf brooch of Ettinor — was shouting and confiscating the minstrels’ instruments.

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