Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [67]
The progress of Sybilla though a market was the progress of worker bee through a bower of intently propagating blossoms.
Everything stuck.
From the toy stall she bought two ivory dolls, a hen whistle, a rattle and a charming set of miniature bells for a child’s skirts: all were heroically received and borne by Tom, henceforth marked by a faint, distracted jingling.
From the spice booth, set with delicious traps for the fat purse, she took cinnamon, figs, cumin seed and saffron, ginger, flower of gillyflower and crocus and—an afterthought—some brazil for dyeing her new wool. These were distributed between Christian and Tom.
They listened to a balladmonger, paid him for all the verses of “When Tay’s Bank,” and bought a lengthy scroll containing a brand-new ballad which Tom Erskine read briefly and then discreetly lost. “No matter,” said the Dowager cheerfully, when told. “Dangerous quantity, music. Because it spouts sweet venom in their ears and makes their minds all effeminate, you know. We can’t have that.” He was never very sure whether she was laughing at him, but rather thought not. They pursued their course purposefully, and the Dowager bought a new set of playing cards, some thread, a boxful of ox feet, a quantity of silver lace and a pair of scissors. She was dissuaded from buying a channel stone, which Tom, no curling enthusiast, refused utterly to carry, and got a toothpick in its case instead. They watched acrobats, invested sixpence for an unconvincing mermaid and finally stumbled, flattened and hot, into a tavern, where Tom forcibly commandeered a private space for the two women and brought them refreshments.
“Dear, dear,” said Lady Culter, seating herself among the mute sea of her parcels, like Arion among his fishes. “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten which are the squashy ones. Never mind. If we spread them out, they can’t take much hurt, I should think. Unless the ox feet … Oh. What a pity, Tom. But I’m sure it will clean off.”
They sipped their wine and chatted. The sun, doing its best for an October day, threw the crow-stepped shadow of the Town House on the quantities of gay little booths, the bunting and the coloured wares; and the drone of professional singers made comic counterpoint with the chorus of street cries and exhortations, the gypsies’ pipes and tambours. It was bright, airy, innocent and gay.
“Ribs o’ beef!”
“Fine, skinned hides!”
“Crusty pies, hot as hell!”
“Rushes green!”
“Fine broken geldings, stark and stout!”
“Hoods for my lady!”
“Guts for your playing, six shillings the dozen!”
“A rare pretty parrot in a cage …”
“Well. Ce n’est pas tout de boire; it faut sortir d’ici,” said the Dowager. “There’s a cloud over the sun, and if the saffron gets wet, Tom, you’ll be or as well as gules, and very likely rampant as well. Come along.”
They left the tavern.
Almost immediately, Christian, pulled along by Erskine’s hand-clasp, felt a tug at her gown. A voice, very close to her, said in a sort of whine, “Tell your fortune, my bonny mistress!”
“Wait!” she screamed above the din to Tom, and felt the strain on her arm slacken as he stopped.
“What is it?” asked the Dowager over his shoulder. “Oh, a fortune-teller, how delightful. Of course. Wait a moment,” she said, cocking her head in its blue velvet hood to one side. “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? Of course! It’s the gypsies who were in Culter last August. Aren’t you?” she ended in triumph.
The would-be fortune teller flashed beautiful teeth at her. “Of course, my lady; and had the pleasure of performing for you as well.”
“Of course,” said Sybilla. “And what are you doing? Fortune-telling—”
“Tumbling, dancing, singing …” The gypsy waved an airy hand. From a scatter of bright mats behind him, a group of black-eyed young people were watching their leader. “Every kind of entertainment.”
The inevitable thought struck the Dowager. “Tom! Christian! Why shouldn’t they come to Bogle House tonight? Buccleuch’s never seen them, nor Richard, nor Agnes. We’ll get Dandy Hunter in, and the older Fleming children …”
Polite