Free Labyrinth by Kate Mosse Page A

and scissors for shearing sheep, before moving to the corner of the square where most of the live animals were penned. There were always lots of chickens and capons in wooden cages, sometimes larks and wrens, which fluted and whistled. His favorite were the rabbits, all squashed together in a heap of brown, black and white fur.
    Sajhe walked past the stalls selling grain and salt, white meats, ale from casks and wine, until he found himself at a stand selling herbs and exotic spices. In front of the table was a merchant. Sajhe had never seen a man so tall, so black. He was dressed in long, shimmering blue robes, a shining silk turban and red and gold pointed slippers. His skin was darker even than that of the gypsies that traveled from Navarre and Aragon over the mountains. Sajhe guessed he must be a Saracen, although he’d never me one before.
    The merchant had laid out his display in the shape of a wheel: green and yellows, oranges, browns and reds, ocher. At the front were rosemary and parsley, garlic, marigold and lavender, but at the back there were more expensive spices, such as cardamom, nutmeg and saffron. Sajhe didn’t recognize any of the others, but he was already looking forward to telling hi grandmother what he had seen.
    He was about to step forward to get a better look, when the Saracen roared in a voice like thunder. His heavy dark hand grabbed the skinny wrist of a cutpurse who’d tried to steal a coin from the embroidered purse that hung from a twisted red cord around his waist. He cuffed the boy around the head, sending him flying back into a woman standing behind, who started shouting. Straight away a crowd started to gather. Sajhe slipped away. He didn’t want to get caught up in any trouble.
    Sajhe wandered out of the square toward the taberna Sant Joan dels Evangelis. Since he had no money with him, at the back of his mind was the idea he could offer to run errands in exchange for a cup of brout. Then he heard someone calling his name.
    Sajhe turned and saw one of his grandmother’s friends, Na Marti, sitting with her husband at their stall, waving to attract his attention. She was a weaver and her husband was a carder. Most weeks they could be found in the same spot, spinning and combing, preparing their wool and threads.
    Sajhe waved back. Like Esclarmonde, Na Marti was a follower of the new church. Her husband, Senher Marti was not a believer, although he had come to Esclarmonde’s house with his wife at Pentecost to hear the Bans Homes preach.
    Na Marti ruffled his hair.
    “How are you, young man? You’re getting so tall, these days, I hardly recognize you.”
    “Fine, thank you,” he replied, smiling at her, then turned to her husband who was combing wool into skeins ready to sell. “Bonjorn, Senher.”
    “And Esclarmonde?” Na Marti continued. “She’s keeping well too? Keeping everyone in order as usual?”
    He grinned. “She’s the same as always.”
    “ Ben, ben .” Good.
    Sajhe sat himself down cross-legged at her feet and watched the spinning wheel as it turned round and round.
    “Na Marti?” he said, after a while. “Why don’t you come to pray with us anymore?”
    Senher Marti stopped what he was doing and exchanged a worried glance with his wife.
    “Oh, you know how it is,” Na Marti replied, avoiding his eye. “We’re so busy these days. It’s hard to make the journey to Carcassonne as often as we’d like.”
    She adjusted her bobbin and continued to spin, the rocking of the treadle filling the silence that had fallen between them.
    “ Menina misses you.”
    “I miss her too, but friends can’t always be together.”
    Sajhe frowned. “But then why—”
    Senher Marti tapped him sharply on the shoulder.
    “Do not talk so loudly,” he said in a low voice. “This sort of thing is be kept to ourselves.”
    “What’s best kept to ourselves?” he said, puzzled. “I only—”
    “We heard, Sajhe,” said Senher Marti, glancing over his shoulder. “The