fail.
Hildegard lingered on the fringes of the crowd to hear what outrage he would come out with next. Two middle-aged men in front were discussing the possible effects of the powder and urging each other to make a trial purchase.
The mage noted their interest. “I despise money,” he announced. There were jeers, which he ignored. “There are many things worth more, my friends. Health, for one! The golden sun in the morning, for another. The patter of”—he paused and let the audience fill in the pause before adding—“rain on leaves. And love!” he continued swiftly. “Love! Where would we be without it? This”—he waved the phial about—“will give you love. Buy it now. Give it a try. I urge you. It’s worth a thousand crowns but I can let you have it for half that—no! For one fifteenth!”
There were guffaws from the crowd at this reference to the hated poll tax. The mage—cat’s eyes, a long nose, sallow cheeks and a liar’s lips—gave a complicit smile. He lowered his voice. “Let me tell you a little secret, my friends.”
Everyone leaned closer.
“The cardinals of Rome have paid ten thousand crowns for this same substance.” He displayed the phial again. “The nobility of France paid ten times that amount. And all the seigneurs of Spain have dipped into their coffers of gold and silver and offered up entire fortunes—”
“If they’ve paid you so much why are you wearing them old things on your feet?” demanded a voice at the front.
Everyone craned to see the mage’s boots. It was true they were worn down, but, like his cloak, they were sprinkled with silver stars that glittered when he moved.
“I’ll tell you why, my friend,” said the mage, “because I give away what I earn.”
“In that case, give us the love potion!” demanded the same wag.
“But like any man,” continued the mage imperturbably, “I have to feed my body and pay my way. Therefore … what do I ask of you? What little do I ask? I’ll tell you. I ask only two groats!” He shook the phial so they could see the powder more clearly. “Two groats!”
There was sceptical muttering from his audience.
He went on. “By the greatest good fortune I have a friend who is a famous traveller. My friend—a scholar, by the way—found this powder in the ruins of Troy. He had it sent to me by a secret courier. This friend also sent a little of it to John of Gaunt and Mistress Swynford—and you’ve all seen the results there!”
Laughter followed. Everyone knew Gaunt had lost count of the children he had fathered, in wedlock and out, some with his known mistress, Kathleen Swynford, others as a result of many other liaisons.
“I’ll have some of that!” shouted a grey-haired fellow, pushing his way forward in a welter of cheers and ribald comments.
“Two groats only! Who can’t afford that?” The mage reached into one of his sleeves and drew forth an identical phial, and on receiving a couple of coins, which slipped at once into the pouch chained to his belt, he bestowed the phial on the eager purchaser.
Several hands reached out now the ice was broken, and he did brisk business for some time, never ceasing his praise of the stuff he was marketing and the great good fortune of those who were now in possession of it.
“Ten days!” he declaimed, “you must remain celibate for ten days to give the potion chance to work its charm.”
Ten days, thought Hildegard. The mage would be long gone by then and unlikely to be called to account when his powder failed to deliver.
With a wry smile she was about to walk on when she noticed a familiar figure in the crowd. It was the master glazier’s brother. Baldwin.
His face was as black as thunder. His two companions wore similar expressions as if the mage had personally insulted them. She wondered what it could be about. Surely they couldn’t be taking him seriously? She saw them begin to mutter among themselves and throw violent glances his way. Maybe they
Hildegard lingered on the fringes of the crowd to hear what outrage he would come out with next. Two middle-aged men in front were discussing the possible effects of the powder and urging each other to make a trial purchase.
The mage noted their interest. “I despise money,” he announced. There were jeers, which he ignored. “There are many things worth more, my friends. Health, for one! The golden sun in the morning, for another. The patter of”—he paused and let the audience fill in the pause before adding—“rain on leaves. And love!” he continued swiftly. “Love! Where would we be without it? This”—he waved the phial about—“will give you love. Buy it now. Give it a try. I urge you. It’s worth a thousand crowns but I can let you have it for half that—no! For one fifteenth!”
There were guffaws from the crowd at this reference to the hated poll tax. The mage—cat’s eyes, a long nose, sallow cheeks and a liar’s lips—gave a complicit smile. He lowered his voice. “Let me tell you a little secret, my friends.”
Everyone leaned closer.
“The cardinals of Rome have paid ten thousand crowns for this same substance.” He displayed the phial again. “The nobility of France paid ten times that amount. And all the seigneurs of Spain have dipped into their coffers of gold and silver and offered up entire fortunes—”
“If they’ve paid you so much why are you wearing them old things on your feet?” demanded a voice at the front.
Everyone craned to see the mage’s boots. It was true they were worn down, but, like his cloak, they were sprinkled with silver stars that glittered when he moved.
“I’ll tell you why, my friend,” said the mage, “because I give away what I earn.”
“In that case, give us the love potion!” demanded the same wag.
“But like any man,” continued the mage imperturbably, “I have to feed my body and pay my way. Therefore … what do I ask of you? What little do I ask? I’ll tell you. I ask only two groats!” He shook the phial so they could see the powder more clearly. “Two groats!”
There was sceptical muttering from his audience.
He went on. “By the greatest good fortune I have a friend who is a famous traveller. My friend—a scholar, by the way—found this powder in the ruins of Troy. He had it sent to me by a secret courier. This friend also sent a little of it to John of Gaunt and Mistress Swynford—and you’ve all seen the results there!”
Laughter followed. Everyone knew Gaunt had lost count of the children he had fathered, in wedlock and out, some with his known mistress, Kathleen Swynford, others as a result of many other liaisons.
“I’ll have some of that!” shouted a grey-haired fellow, pushing his way forward in a welter of cheers and ribald comments.
“Two groats only! Who can’t afford that?” The mage reached into one of his sleeves and drew forth an identical phial, and on receiving a couple of coins, which slipped at once into the pouch chained to his belt, he bestowed the phial on the eager purchaser.
Several hands reached out now the ice was broken, and he did brisk business for some time, never ceasing his praise of the stuff he was marketing and the great good fortune of those who were now in possession of it.
“Ten days!” he declaimed, “you must remain celibate for ten days to give the potion chance to work its charm.”
Ten days, thought Hildegard. The mage would be long gone by then and unlikely to be called to account when his powder failed to deliver.
With a wry smile she was about to walk on when she noticed a familiar figure in the crowd. It was the master glazier’s brother. Baldwin.
His face was as black as thunder. His two companions wore similar expressions as if the mage had personally insulted them. She wondered what it could be about. Surely they couldn’t be taking him seriously? She saw them begin to mutter among themselves and throw violent glances his way. Maybe they
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