Free Queen's Ransom by Fiona Buckley

morning was cool and overcast. When I first sensed that someone was following us, I took it for my imagination.
    I was alerted by a skill I didn’t know I possessed. Amid the busy sound of feet on the cobbles, mine and Dale’s and those of all the other people, my ears by some means picked out the one pair of footsteps behind us that kept exactly to our pace, slowing down when we stopped to let a cart turn into a yard, speeding up again when a gust of fresh wind made us quicken our steps to keep warm.
    Halting abruptly in front of a bakery, half-turning to face it, I pointed out some particularly inviting pastries to Dale and from the corner of my eye I shot a glance back along the street. I caught the quick movement as someone, a man, wearing a hooded cloak with the hood up, also stopped and turned sideways to stare in at a shop.
    “Come along,” I said to Dale. She glanced at me questioningly, and made a half gesture at some cinnamon buns.
    “I know, they’re mouthwatering,” I said. “But I really stopped because I thought someone was following us and I think I’m right. He’s wearing a brown cloak and hood.”
    “What? What’ll you do, ma’am? Will you speak to him?”
    “No, I can’t do that. Whoever it is has only to say I’m talking nonsense. I don’t want an embarrassing scene in the street. But we’ll cross the road. When we get to the other side, we’ll go into that place selling leather goods, and I’ll peep out and see if he’s crossed after us.”
    We did this, dodging around another cart and a small boy who was busy shoveling up horse droppings, no doubt for use as garden manure. The leather shop, like most of the others, had an open front and a table jutting into the road, laden with a display of wares. These were guarded by a fat woman, seated on a chair beside them. Behind, was a cavernous room where the proprietor worked at a counter under a skylight, busy with punching and stitching. Various items including saddlery were on racks within the shop.
    Dale and I plunged straight past the display table, as though to examine some saddles. Then I edged back to where I could see the road, and there he was, his face still hidden by the side of his hood, studying some silk fabrics on display next door.
    I pulled Dale out to the street again. “We’re just going a few yards,” I said into her ear. “Then I want you to stumble and pretend you’ve almost lost your shoe. That’ll give me a chance to swing round and I’ll see if I can catch sight of his face.”
    “Oh, ma’am,” said Dale protestingly. “I’m no good at pretending. I just can’t abide it.”
    “Nonsense, Dale, you’re wonderful at pretending. Just do as I say. Now!”
    We were passing another shop with a display table, this one laden with pots and pans and other ironmongery. Dale tripped, quite artistically, and hopped on one foot, leaning on the edge of the table and grabbing at the heel of her shoe. The table rocked and I turned at once, helpfully steadying a pile of cooking pots. I was just in time to see the hooded figure melt smoothly out of sight among the leather goods.
    Grabbing Dale’s elbow, I hustled her back to them. With luck, I thought, our pursuer had made a mistake in taking refuge there, since he had walked into a dead end.
    But there was no sign of him. There was a back door behind the workbench, and it was ajar, tapping lightly as the wind disturbed it. I made for the bench.
    “Excuse me, but did someone come through here just now?”
    The proprietor glanced irritatedly up from his work. “No, madam. Why should I let any member of the public through into my private yard? This is a shop. It is not a thoroughfare.”
    “Thank you,” I said, and, once more, led Dale back toward the street. The woman in charge of the table asked us as we went by whether any of her wares interested us, and feeling that we had probably annoyed these people quite enough, I stopped and bought a pair of new riding gloves.