A Tale of Two Castles(8)

“What a shame.” Letting go of his animals, who didn’t budge, and putting down his kitten basket, he opened his cloth purse. “The goodwife gave me three tins for your kitten. Here they are, maybe not the same three tins.” He took my hand and put the coins in it. “I have your kitten again. It’s an even exchange.”

“Thank you!” The exchange wasn’t even. I hadn’t returned the kitten or paid the tins. “You’re very kind.”

He hefted his basket and opened it. Only three kittens remained, one with a white ear. It extended a paw at me. “She knows you.”

I touched the pink nose.

“You should have her. Everyone has a cat. I’ll give her to you.”

“I have no way to feed her.”

“Too bad! Cats must eat.” He closed the basket and resumed his upward trek.

People must eat, too. If I were one of Master Dess’s animals, I would have no worries.

I started back downhill, hoping to question the cat teachers. But when I reached the corner, the two of them were gone. I wondered if they might have sent a cat to rob me and left when they had my coin. On the wharf, the young man had also departed.

Had they all been in league? Perhaps they’d noticed my capless self and singled me out as easy prey.

But my thieving cat had been under the table when I arrived.

I looked out at the strait, where cloud reflections moved across the water. White fishing boat sails bit into the bottom of the sky.

No more dallying. First food, whatever three tins would buy, then the mansioners. I headed uphill again. A grand lady outstripped me on a palfrey. I saw her and her mount only from behind: the lady’s straight back, her bright green kirtle, the dark hair spilling from her cap down her shoulders, the horse’s dappled rump, and its tail braided with scarlet ribbons.

How lovely it would be to ride, especially to ride to a castle or a burgher’s house, where a big meal was laid out for me.

I wished this were a food vendors’ street. Nothing sold along Daycart Way was edible.

Behind me, coming from farther down the hill, a bass drum of a voice boomed, “Make way! Make way!”

The crowd fell silent. Was King Grenville passing by?

The throng closed around me and pushed me until my back pressed against a vendor’s table. A woman and I were separated by her five young children, who leaned into her skirt and mine. Because the children were shorter than I, my view wasn’t completely blocked by the adults surrounding them.

“Make way.”

My neighbor, the mother, whispered, “Turn into a mouse.”

The ogre! My breath stuck in my throat. If he plucked me for his cauldron, what could I do?

“Very thin here,” I squeaked. “Not worth the trouble.”

The voice roared, “I want no broken bones or flattened heads.”

Flattened heads! Had that happened?

“Ogre coming. Dog coming.”

I heard the full, echoing bark of a big dog.

Count Jonty Um’s voice gentled to a rumble. “Hush, Nesspa.”

He smelled like a clean ogre, perfumed with cinnamon and cloves, pounds of them. As he climbed farther up the hill, I began to see him. First came a thatch of black hair, cut so haphazardly that his barber was blind or couldn’t keep his hands from shaking. Like me, the ogre wore no cap. Next came an ear as big as a slice of bread. He turned his head my way.

He was a young man ogre! Shrunk down, he could have been anyone. But as himself, he was eleven feet tall or more, puffed up as a pudding. His face might have been pleasant if it hadn’t been so red with anger or blushing. He had round cheeks, level eyebrows, a square chin, brown eyes, and freckles across the bridge of his nose.

“Freckles,” I murmured. I wanted to yell to Mother and Father across the strait. Freckles on an ogre!

Sweat lines streaked his forehead and cheeks. “Make way!”

An angry voice rang out. “We’re crushed, Count Jonty Um.” The voice paused. “Begging your pardon.”

The crowd squeezed closer. Behind us, the table fell over. The ogre drew almost even with me so I could see down to his chest. Of course his dog remained out of sight.

His tunic, dyed a wealthy deep scarlet, was silk. A silver pendant on a gold chain hung around his neck. The pendant and chain together probably weighed ten pounds and would be worth a hundred apprenticeships.

He passed on. People spaced themselves apart again. Someone complained that Count Jonty Um strolled only at the busiest time of day.

Behind me a familiar voice spit out, “Monster!”

The mending mistress’s table lay on its side. Piles of clothing had slid to the ground. I righted the table and began to pick up garments.

She took a tunic and attempted to brush it clean while making a sound of disgust in her throat.

I tried the accent again. “What a pity!” I folded hose for her.

“Don’t think you can pretend to help and make off with a cap.”

I raised my empty hands. My voice rose, and my attempt at an accent vanished. “As if I would! Lambs and calves! The ogre has more manners than you!” I moved away.

Her indignant voice followed me. “You compare me to an ogre? How is that for manners?”

I felt my face turn as red as Count Jonty Um’s had been. People gave me a wide berth.

One could speak however one liked to an unknown young person with no coppers in her purse. In a mansioner’s play, the impoverished unknown woman was often a goddess in disguise. If this were a play, the goddess (me) would transform the mending mistress into stone or into a deer. I grew more cheerful.