It was a female. A rope encircled her neck, the end held in the grip of a man who cried out to audience.
“. . . still in ’er prime. The lass will make a fine bedmate on these cold nights and in the winters tae come!”
He went still, watching.
Even Bucephalus stopped his restless pawing at the ground as though understanding something remarkable was transpiring.
It was unthinkable. Shock rippled through him. They were selling her.
Selling a woman. A human.
The auctioneer continued, “Now I ’ave ’er ’usband’s word that she is as pure as the day she came tae ’im. The lass is untouched an’ waiting fer a good man tae break ’er in. Now who will it be? Do I ’ear a bid?”
The audience tittered. Necks stretched, heads craning to see if anyone would answer the call to action.
One man broke the crowd’s reticence and shouted, “Wot wrong wit’ ’er?”
The auctioneer ignored the gibe and continued with his pitch. “A chaste bride, unplowed and ready fer planting if any one of ye fine men is willing tae pay the sum.”
A cry went up. “Four pounds!”
The auctioneer groaned and slapped a hand in the air in rejection of that offer. “Four pounds be an offense fer so fine a maid! We ’ave a virgin ’ere primed and ready . . . trained in the ’ousekeeping arts! Do I ’ear eight? Eight pounds!”
Marcus could never claim to be an exceedingly principled man. His life had hardly been virtuous. He wasn’t easily offended, but disgust churned through him as he watched the sordid scene unfold.
These salt of the earth villagers seemed conveniently void of scruples. This—the same village that had seen fit to cast him into the gaol for whatever infraction—had no qualms in selling a woman like she was some bit of horseflesh. Such was the hypocrisy of man. Marcus knew something of that. His own father had presented one face, but lived quite another way. Quite another dishonorable way.
As though to hammer home the depravity of the scene, someone called out, “Show us ’er titties! We gotta right tae see wot being offered.”
The auctioneer scowled and pointed a damning finger in the direction of the voice. “Mind yer tongue, Liner! This be a proper business. One more foul word from ye and I’ll ’ave ye locked up, ye ken?”
The threat must have done its task. There wasn’t another word from Liner.
The auctioneer continued to extoll her virtues, remarking on her youth and cooking skills. “The lass is fit and can labor along any man in the fields! She might be young, but ’ave no fear she be missish ’bout getting ’er ’ands dirty.” He grabbed one of her hands and held it up as though the crowd could see. “These little ’ands bear the calluses of ’er labors.”
Marcus studied the female. She stood with her hand gripped in the auctioneer’s grasp. There was no ducked head or lowered eyes. She stared out at the crowd. Eyes scanning. Searching. For what? Help? An escape? It seemed too late for that.
How was it possible for a man to sell his wife? It was slavery, pure and simple. And how could these villagers support such a thing? He felt as though he had entered another realm where all manner of bizarre things existed. For all he knew, elves might prance past him.
“Can we bid on ’er, Pa?” a boy nearby begged, tugging on his father’s coat.
The father looked down at his son before looking back up at the girl on the block. “Nay, lad. We canna pay such a sum.”
Marcus looked down at the man, unable to help himself from asking, “Is this normal practice?”
The father looked up at him. His nose wrinkled, confirming Marcus did, indeed, reek of a dung heap. Even so, the cut of his clothing and the fine horse he sat upon had the man doffing his hat. “A wife auction, ye mean?”
“I never heard of such a thing.”
“Oh, aye. Not verra commonplace but ’tis a way for a ’usband tae rid ’imself a wife. I seen it a time before many years ago. An older woman then.” He nodded at the slight figure on the platform. “No’ so young as this. She’ll fetch a fine price.” The man glanced at the girl wistfully. Marcus turned his attention back to the hapless girl. The bidding had reached nine pounds now. An old man stood beside the auctioneer. Her husband? Why would he wish to rid himself of a young wife?
The auctioneer’s voice boomed over the crowd, cajoling the men to dig deeper into their pockets. The onlookers chimed in, hooting and shouting encouragement as well.
“Gentlemen! Wot ye thinking to let this one slip from yer grasp?” He stood behind her and gripped her by the shoulders, forcing her to step forward as though they all needed a better view of her.
Something stirred in Marcus’s stomach at the man’s thick hands on the girl. Despite all his extolling of her hardiness, she was thin. She could easily break beneath someone bigger and ruthlessly inclined. A description that fit a fair number of men in this crowd.
The auctioneer snapped back her cloak, parting it to reveal her body, still mostly hidden within a sack-like wool gown. She snatched at the edges of her cloak and covered herself again, glaring at the auctioneer.
Marcus felt himself smile. There was fire in her. His smile slipped. How long would it last after this day’s unpleasant business? After she was crushed beneath the boot of a man who bought her as though she were a broodmare? How long until the fire was snuffed out completely?
“’Tis a fine body! She’ll give ye countless sons tae work in yer trade. At two and twenty, she ’as many a year left tae breed. No green girl ’ere, nay! She can work yer farm, run a ’ouse and care fer bairns.” He forced her to turn in a circle. She stumbled slightly as though her shoes were too big.
“But can she work a cock?” an anonymous voice cried out.
The crowd erupted into laughter. The auctioneer stomped his boot on the platform. “Wot scoundrel said that?”
A bent-backed old man in a vicar’s collar rebuked the crowd. “Mind yer tongues! I’ll not stand fer it!”
Marcus shook his head. But the vicar would stand for such an exhibition as this? As long as there were no obscenities?
The girl’s face was fiery red as she faced front again.
Marcus stared at that face, thinking of his sisters, Clara and Enid. Safe back in Town. Pampered and genteel, shopping and taking tea in the parlor and rides in the park. He hoped that would always be so. That this side of life would never touch them as it touched this wretched creature.
The bidding stalled and the auctioneer looked displeased. “Come, men! Ye would let such a fine lass go fer so paltry a sum as thirteen pounds!”
“Why didna ye plow ’er, Beard?” a man heckled. “Ye weren’t man enough fer the task or the lass be squeamish?”
The old man turned red-faced.
The auctioneer shouted, “Enough of that!”
“Bite yer tongue, MacDunn, or I’ll ’ave a word wi’ yer mam!” a heavy matron called out.
MacDunn wasn’t to be fazed. He hollered back. “Untried as she is, we’ve a right tae ken if the lass can perform ’er duties!”
“Aye, thirteen pounds should get us a sampling, Hines!”
Hoots of approval followed this. The girl actually looked alarmed, her gaze flitting over the surging crowd as though Hines might agree to such a thing.
Frustration flashed across the auctioneer’s face. He was losing control over the horde and he knew it.
In an impulsive move, he grabbed her by the chin and forced her face higher. “She be fair enough.” He peeled back her lips. “And a fine set of teeth. A proper sign of ’ealth!”
Marcus’s stomach squeezed anew and he had the urge to vault onto that platform and give the man a good thrashing. He never could stomach the sight of a woman being manhandled. No matter her rank. Farm girl or lady. He supposed his stepmother had something to do with that. She’d raised him to be a gentleman—more than his father ever had. His father always accused him of being weak. Too soft.