He pushed thoughts of Graciela and his father aside. His stepmother was part of the reason he was out here in this godforsaken little backwater. He would not think of her now.
The girl’s head sprang forward at Hines. The auctioneer lurched away suddenly, yanking his hands from her as though she were afire. “Ouch! The little ’ellion bit me!”
The crowd laughed in approval.
“Och! There be some spirit in ’er!”
Marcus grinned. Served him right.
The auctioneer glared down at her crossly, nursing his wounded hand.
A man suddenly cried out, “Take off ’er dress!”
The auctioneer flipped her cloak back off her shoulders, revealing her in her ill-fitting brown wool gown.
Despite his disgust at the sordid scene, Marcus couldn’t look away. He should turn and leave. One voice commanded that, but another part of himself was rooted in place, taking it all in . . . taking in her, this proud girl with fire in her eyes.
The auctioneer gestured at her. “Aye, she be endowed well enough, gents! More than a ’andful there!”
The crowd had fallen eerily silent. Lust gleamed in the eyes of the men and several licked their lips. Every man here was evaluating her, stripping her of her modest attire and imagining her on her back, deciding if she would be worth the coin.
The auctioneer persisted. “Wot say ye? Ye’ll ’ave ’er to use fer life. This be no temporary investment, lads!”
At that, the girl’s face went even more pale, if possible. She’d suffered all the insults and indignities thus far with admirable mettle, but that declaration made her look as though she might disintegrate into the boards of the platform.
A man called out from one of the stalls at the edge of the square. “Sixteen pounds!”
Marcus examined him. He wore a tanner’s apron covered with blood and gore and bits of offal. His skin had a waxy yellow appearance that bespoke of a poor constitution.
When the auctioneer’s voice rang out in approval, “John Larkin, my good man!” the girl’s pale face turned a shade of green. “Of course ye ken a bargain when ye see one, fine businessman such as ye be!”
The tanner was at least twice her age. Younger than her husband, but still somehow less appealing. He was cadaver-thin, mostly bald with several long greasy strands of hair stretching across his oblong-shaped skull. He smiled at the auctioneer’s compliment, revealing brightly yellowed teeth.
“Now do we ’ave any other bids? Anyone else unwilling to let John Larkin beat them and win such a prize?”
Marcus stared at the girl again. Several strands of long brown hair dangled around her face. Her eyes were large beneath a set of eyebrows several shades darker than the brown of her hair. She looked so young.
Those wide eyes scanned the crowd anxiously as though still searching for someone, still hoping for rescue. Escape.
She was nothing to him. Just a peasant girl, but he wished that for her. Wished that she could escape. That someone would rescue her. Anyone.
“Nay? Verra well then! The lass goes to John Larkin fer the sum of—”
“I’ll give fifty pounds for the girl!”
Chapter 4
And the dove finds herself freed from one cage and placed in another . . .
Sold!
The word reverberated in her head.
Sold like livestock. Like goods at market.
Like a slave.
Slave. As awful as that word was . . . the other words were more awful. All those words shouted by the jeering crowd that made her feel less than a person.
A man had bought her. This fact was no small thing that went unabsorbed in her consciousness. The knowledge of it bitterly coursed through her.
He was out there somewhere. A face in a crowd of hundreds. He’d stared at her. Evaluated, judged her and found her worth the coin. Perhaps his voice was one of the many who yelled horrible, demeaning things at her.
Her heart raced. Her pulse jumped at her throat. He’d bought her for fifty pounds. A significant amount. More than anyone else was willing to spend and that was its own form of embarrassment. So very few had even wanted to bid on her.
These friends and neighbors she had lived beside all her life had stood by as she was haggled over like a piece of property. A few had bid, but most had not. Most had averted their eyes when she looked at them—as though sharing her shame.
No, the men to bid on her had been strangers. Men with leers on their faces and lasciviousness in their eyes. They had come from other villages. Maybe it was easier to buy a woman when you did not know her. When her father had not been a respected member in your community, a teacher to the village children.
All except John Larkin the tanner. She shuddered. Sadly he was no stranger. She had known him all her life, much to her regret.
“Come on, lass.” Mr. Hines tugged on her halter. The rope cut into her throat, the rough hemp abrading her skin, forcing her forward. She grabbed the lead and tugged back. He tossed her an annoyed look as though he were the one being mistreated.
She held on to the lead as she followed him down the platform steps, lifting her gaze to scan the crowd, searching . . .
As though she would somehow know him when she saw him—this man who had claimed her to wife. As though there would be a sharp moment of recognition when she clapped eyes on him.
She may not have seen who bought her, but his voice still resonated inside her ears. She knew instantly he wasn’t from around here. He had been English, his voice deep and impenetrable as a dark wood calling out: I’ll give fifty pounds for the girl.
She hadn’t seen his face but sweet relief had rushed through her to have escaped the clutches of John Larkin. The tanner would not own her. Her fate would not be with him . . . it would not be that.
Her nostrils twitched in memory. She could almost smell his stench even now. He always reeked of coppery blood and rotting animal carcass.
Another shudder rolled through her.
Fifty pounds. It was a small fortune. Mr. Beard’s eyes had bugged out from his head. She sent him a quick glance. Even now his eyes gleamed with avarice. He shifted anxiously, clearly eager for his money. She knew he had never seen a sum like that in his life. She always budgeted the household accounts and she knew he could never call that amount of money his at any one time.
She was good with numbers. Always had been. Papa had schooled her from a young age. From the time she had learned to walk, she had been taught Latin and French. Her bedtime stories had been Chaucer and Shakespeare. There were only a few books in the Beard household but she had read them countless times. She missed books.
She had been looking forward to moving to London where she could visit libraries. She’d heard they had libraries where anyone could walk in and have access to books. It boggled her mind. When Yardley had abandoned her, he had taken that dream with him.
She swallowed against the lump in her throat. Now she couldn’t even imagine what her future might be.
“This way.” Mr. Hines led Alyse and Mr. Beard to the rear of the platform near the animal pens where a small table was positioned. Mr. Hines’s son sat behind it with ledger books spread before him. He wouldn’t meet her gaze. He busied himself scrawling inside one of the ledgers.
She glanced around again, wondering if any of the curious onlookers watching the proceedings could be him. Her salvation or doom.
“Where’s the buyer?” Hines demanded.
“Here he is!” an anonymous voice called.
The tiny hairs on the back of her neck prickled.
Anyone is better than the tanner. Anyone is better.
The mantra whispered through her and she grasped for it, needing it for strength.
For all her curiosity, she could not turn. Could not look. She was too nervous. She felt ill.