The Wandering Harlot (The Marie Series) by Iny Lorentz Page A

and the hopelessness of her situation, until she no longer knew what to think. Returning to the tent, she lay down without saying a word.
    Hiltrud bent over her to wish her good-night and saw that Marie was silently sobbing, overcome with sadness. She wanted so much to help the girl, but she knew there were no words to ease her inner pain, so Hiltrud just pulled the girl close and held her.
    The next morning, Marie and Hiltrud took down the tent and packed it loosely onto the wagon so that it would dry in the sun. After a scanty breakfast of goat’s milk and dry bread, they hitched up the goats and silently strolled down to the road.
    It wasn’t long before a line of covered wagons appeared, each pulled by six strong oxen and with wheels almost as tall as a man. Hiltrud cleverly returned the drivers’ grins and suggestive gazes cast in their direction. But the grim-looking armed guards who were protecting the train of wagons from robbers snorted and turned away, showing no interest in the two women.
    Hiltrud went to greet the leader, a middle-aged, sturdily built man wearing the simple but durable clothing of a traveling merchant.
    “Here we are, Ulrich, and thank you again for allowing us to come along with you.”
    Ulrich Knöpfli glanced derisively at the team of goats. “You’ll have to hurry to keep up with us. We won’t stop and wait for you along the way.”
    “Don’t worry. We won’t hold you up.” Hiltrud laughed, tossing the towing rope over her shoulders in order to help her goats, and took her place at the rear of the procession.

VI.
    Though dusk had not yet completely given way to night, sparks from the campfires flew through the sky like tiny shooting stars before vanishing into the darkness. Marie propped her head on her knees and couldn’t help thinking how quickly her former life had vanished as well. She glanced at the four other prostitutes sitting around the fire, casting their flickering shadows into the grass. Hiltrud seemed as serene and calm as always as she held a stick into the fire with a piece of dough wrapped around the point.
    When the crust had turned black, she broke off a piece and handed it to Marie. “Here’s your share.”
    “Thanks.” Marie reached out for it, then sucked in her breath. The piece was still glowing hot, so she juggled it back and forth between her hands while it cooled. The bread consisted only of flour and water, but Marie gulped it down hungrily. Aside from a cup of goat’s milk that morning, it was the first meal she’d had that day, as the procession stopped only when the animals needed to drink.
    Ulrich Knöpfli had wanted to reach the inn before nightfall, and now he sat inside the brightly lit tavern with other higher-class merchants and travelers while the wagon drivers and servants were drinking wine in the courtyard. Since Hiltrud and Marie were turned away with indignant looks, they set up their tents near a hawthorn hedge outside the gate where they were soon joined by these three other women.
    While Marie was licking the last bread crumbs from her fingers, she observed the three strangers who, like Hiltrud, had been on the road for years. In recent days, she had begun to understand what it meant to be a wandering outcast, and she wondered how the women could tolerate such a life. On this short trip, they were not admitted into cities or inns, so they had to sleep outdoors or in Hiltrud’s tent somewhere among the bushes and trees, protected from prying eyes only by the foliage.
    A couple days earlier in Tuttlingen, Marie had been confronted with yet another kind of danger. A fat, bald man had approached them and warmly invited them to his inn. Laughing at the man, Hiltrud told him she had no desire to fall into the clutches of a brothel owner. In a rage, the man left and reported them to the city bailiff who then confronted them at their tent site with rude threats. That night, in the dark and in a rainy drizzle, they had to take down their