Music for My Soul by Lauren Linwood Page A

amiss.”
    “No,” Garrett assured him. “I was merely interested in its purchase.”
    Pascal visibly relaxed. “Would ‘ee like to see it, my lord?”
    Garrett nodded and the vendor reached under his displayed wares. He brought out the ring and handed it to Garrett. As he’d suspected, the gems were of high quality, catching the sun’s rays and sparkling in his hands.
    “Name your price.”
    Pascal seemed taken aback but quickly recovered, giving Garrett a figure. Garrett narrowed his eyes. “’Tis what you gave Madeleine for the ring?” he asked icily.
    “Nay, my lord. I’m just a poor trader and must make a profit. O’ course, I gave the girl the best she could get under the circumstances, this not being London an’ all. ‘Tis not just anywhere that ye can sell a ring the likes of this one”.”
    Garrett reached into the purse at his waist and withdrew a handful of coins. He casually tossed them upon the table, noting the gleam in Pascal’s eyes. The old man lifted a gold coin and brought it to his mouth. Turning to the side, he bit into it. Satisfied, he scooped up the remaining coins and placed them under his table.
    Pascal nodded to Garrett. “You’ve made a fine purchase, my lord. Your lady will be proud to wear such fine stones.”
    Garrett kept his remarks to himself and moved away. He wound his way through the intricate stall area, where everything from salt to weapons were being bartered and sold. The late afternoon sun was beginning to dip low in the sky, and many people were trying to conclude their transactions.
    He found the last play of the day being performed. The troubadour narrating was talented, but his song had none of the depth that Madeleine’s voice had held. He wandered around behind the stage, where the group was in a frenzy.
    He spied a fat monk emerging from one of the many tents pitched in the area.
    “Were you here to see Gwenith?” Garrett asked.
    The monk looked surprised. He studied Garrett carefully before answering, his eyes disappearing into slits within the folds of his face. “Yes, my lord. You know the woman?”
    Garrett nodded curtly. “How is she?”
    The monk shook his head, the rolls of fat now jiggling. “Not good, my lord. Her condition seems to be deteriorating rapidly. Her fever runs hot, and there’s blood brought forth with every cough.” He crossed himself. “May God be merciful.”
    “What would she need to become well?”
    The holy man took a step back, then tapped a fat finger against his jowl. “I’m not sure she can be made whole again, my lord. It could be the sweating sickness. More than likely ‘tis scrofula. She would need total bed rest, of course, and none of this moving about from place to place. Constant care, too.”
    The monk narrowed his eyes. “I’ll pray for her, my lord. ‘Twould be right to light a candle for her.” He hesitated, eying Garrett hopefully.
    When Garrett did not respond, the monk shrugged. “’Tis only a thought, my lord. A small donation, and mayhap God will relieve her burden.”
    Garrett scowled, not believing a coin offered and a lit candle would make even a ghost of a chance. Yet for reasons he could not explain, he tossed the monk a gold coin. Ignoring the thanks lavished upon him, Garrett dismissed him with a wave of his hand and quietly entered the tent he’d seen the man come from.
    He hovered in the doorway, his eyes adjusting to the faint light inside. Propped up on a pallet was a woman who, although pretty, was obviously quite ill. Her eyes burned unnaturally bright in her wan face. Her pallor contrasted sharply with the vibrant red hair cascading around her shoulders.
    Madeleine sat by her side, murmuring soothing words to her. She held Gwenith’s hand in one of hers, the other pushing the hair from her brow. A young boy, his face stained with tears, huddled next to Madeleine, clutching her skirts tightly.
    Garrett stepped back outside the tent, his emotions too close to the surface. He