One good thing came of Magdalene’s fruitless waiting for Bell—she finished her embroidery. The next morning when Bell still had not appeared after they had had breakfast, she wrapped her work in a clean cloth, swathed her head and face in her veil, and set out for the East Chepe. It was a long walk, across the bridge and up Fish Street to the Chepe, but since both sides of the bridge were lined with stalls selling all kinds of baubles, trinkets, and household wares, Magdalene did not mind a bit.
The cries of the vendors calling people to their stalls mingled with those of the sellers of sugared fruits and flowers, of hot breads, rolled savories, and yes, less fortunate women of her own profession. Not that one could concentrate solely on the proffered wares. Traffic moved along the center of the bridge, and a failure to dodge brought shrieks and curses and could result in bruises or real injury if one were too absentminded.
Magdalene bought a cup of violets in crystallized honey. Dulcie’s were probably better, but there was a kind of joy in having a half farthing to spend and knowing she would not need to sacrifice some other desire.
That made the fruit all the sweeter. She stopped to look at embroidered bands ready to be sewn onto the collars and facings of gowns and shook her head firmly at the mercer’s apprentice. They were poor things compared with her own work. Even Ella could do better.
A bolt of linen so soft and fine one could see through it on the next counter held her attention. She fingered the cloth, held it up to the light, pressed a fold of it against the inside of her wrist. A lovely, soft green that would have flattered her skin and hair, but when the journeyman murmured a price, and not unreasonable, she still sighed and turned away. She had no occasion for any garment made of such revealing cloth and never would have. The last thing in the world she wanted was to tempt a man.
That thought woke a small echo of her hurt over Bell’s neglect, but she told herself she should be grateful for it. The light prick would save her deeper pain later—and one could not be sad in the midst of so much color and noise. In fact, before Magdalene was a third of the way across the bridge, she had forgotten her hurt and pique and was studying a pair of brass torchette holders that she thought would look very well at either side of the door of the Old Guesthouse. That time she stopped and bargained and came away with what she felt was a prize.
Fish Street distracted her in another way. Here, too, were stalls, but these were less attractive, with heaps of herring and mackerel, great mounds of cod, baskets of eels, piles of flounder. Magdalene’s nose, inured to the smell of hard-worked, hard-riding, unwashed men, wrinkled against the overwhelming odor of fish. Far worse than the stalls was the gutter down the center of the street, where pigs and feral cats and dogs snatched at and fought over wares too ripe for even the poorest to buy, leftovers cast away amidst the dung and urine of horse and man.
Magdalene clutched her torchette holders under her arm and tucked her veil firmly into her collar to free her hands so she could lift her skirt well off the ground. It took careful attention and quick footwork to get around the people haggling at the stalls, avoid stepping into the muck in the gutter, dodge the animals, and escape being splashed when others were not as adroit and landed in the sluggish puddles cursing and shouting. Next time, she promised herself, she would walk the extra street west to Gracechurch, where the shops were mostly those of pepperers and mercers.
She was cheered, however, by escaping with no more than a few small spots on her garments, and her interview with the mercer who sold her embroidery was also soothing. From her speech and manner, he had deduced that she was a lady of good birth who had fallen on hard times, or had a niggardly male guardian and was forced to sell her handiwork. That did not make him any more generous in payment for it, but he treated her with great courtesy, and it was a pleasure not to need to study a man to say just the right thing. He also had several more orders for her, one for an altar cloth.
To that offer, many months’ worth of work, Magdalene shook her head. “I cannot do it for that price,” she said.
“But the buyer will provide the cloth itself and all the embroidery thread, even the needles, if you desire.”
Magdalene laughed. “Come now. Master Mercer, you know that half the beauty of my pieces is in the quality of the cloth, the thinness and rich dyes of the thread. I cannot trust another to purchase those for me. If the buyer wants the quality I produce, he or she must pay at least forty shillings. For that, I will provide cloth and thread and the very finest work, and either do the buyer’s design or present a design of my own.”
“That is too much,” he said, looking disappointed.