THE WIND WAS CUTTING and Arne urged his mount on, covering the few miles between Ertpurch and Vienna at a brisk pace. He was pleased to see that it was a market day, for that should make it easier to buy what he needed. He remembered just in time to remove Richard’s costly gloves, tucking them into his belt, and took care to avoid the moneychanger’s stall. He gave a coin to the ragged beggar again, getting a blessing in return, then headed for the cook-shop, where he bought more fish tarts and wafers. After that, he browsed the marketplace, looking for food they could pack into their saddlebags. He settled on loaves of bread, hard cheese, almonds, and strips of unappetizing salted herring, not bothering to haggle with the vendors, for he wanted to leave Vienna as soon as he could.
But then he saw the girl. She was admiring a peddler’s merchandise, her blue eyes caressing his finely woven cloths, delicate lace, and bright ribbons, and Arne thought she was the prettiest sight he’d ever seen, her cheeks scarlet with cold, the tips of her blond braids peeking provocatively from beneath her veil. As if feeling his gaze, she glanced up and for a moment their eyes met; then she looked modestly away, but he was sure the corners of her mouth were curving in a smile. He sauntered over and casually began to examine the peddler’s wares. Reaching for a ribbon, he held it up for her appraisal, murmuring, “This is the very color of your eyes.”
“You think so?” She gave him a sideways glance, and this time he definitely saw a smile.
The peddler was in no mood to indulge their flirtation, though, sure that they hadn’t a pfennig between them. Snatching the ribbon back from Arne, he growled, “Do not put your greasy fingers on the goods! As for you, Margrethe, you’d best be on your way ere I tell your father you were making calf eyes at this bedraggled knave.”
Arne flushed darkly and glared at the man. “If this is how you treat your customers, no wonder you are doing so poorly!”
“Customers are people who buy things, boy,” the peddler said with a sneer.
“Well, that is what I am doing,” Arne snapped, grabbing the ribbon and several items at random. “I’ll take these.” The peddler named a price so high that several of the bystanders nudged one another and snickered, but Arne was too angry to calculate the true worth of the ribbons and lace. Pulling out his money pouch, he flung a handful of pfennigs at the other man, who looked so flustered that their growing audience laughed and applauded Arne. Only then did he realize that they’d drawn a crowd.
“This is for you,” he said, with all the dignity he could muster, offering the ribbons and the square of lace to Margrethe. “Please accept it as an apology for involving you in this unseemly row.”
She blushed, but reached out to take the gift as some of the bystanders applauded again. It was clear to Arne that the peddler was not a popular figure in Vienna. It was also clear to him that he’d attracted attention he could ill afford. Making the girl what he hoped was a courtly bow, he turned and began to push through the crowd. He was still flushed, but now it was embarrassment and not indignation that colored his cheeks. Thank God Almighty the king and the others need never know about this foolishness.
He’d gone only a few paces, though, before several men stepped in front of him, barring the way. “We do not often see a stripling who looks like a beggar but spends like a lord,” one said. “How did you come by so much money, lad?”
Arne took a backward step, but people were thronging around him and there was no room to retreat. “I am no thief, if that is what you think,” he said, as steadily as he could. “My master sent me into town to buy goods for him. The money is his, not mine.”
“I doubt that your master told you to buy ribbons for pretty wenches. He ought to be told that his servant is so high-handed with his money.”
Arne had won the crowd’s favor by standing up to the peddler, and a few of them now came to his defense, telling the men to “let the lad be.” Arne’s interrogator scowled, but his companions seemed to be losing interest, one of them saying, “Get his master’s name, Jorg, and let him go. It’s colder than a witch’s teat and if we stay out here much longer, I’m going to freeze the body part I’d least like to lose.”