Free Ring of Flowers by Brian Andrews Page A

admit it, Cromwell quite liked the idea of this gift. His ever-increasing waistline required the frequent loosening of nearly all of his garments.
    Vicars was no fool; he knew exactly why Cromwell wished to marry his daughter. He decided that his real wedding present would be Kathryn’s wedding dress. He would pour all his skill, and all his soul, into crafting a wedding dress worthy of Kathryn. A dress more beautiful than any the village of Eyam had ever seen, or would hope to see again.
    From a rectangular wooden chest under a window, Vicars retrieved a bolt of fabric, measuring one yard long, by one-half yard wide, by one-eighth yard thick. The exterior of the parcel was wrapped in brown burlap and secured with twine.
    “Here ‘tis,” Vicars said, holding up the package for Cromwell to see. “Direct from London. The finest white linen and lace that money can buy. Only the best for our Kathryn on her wedding day. Isn’t that right, Mr. Cromwell? This wedding dress will be my crowning achievement as a tailor. The finest dress anyone in the County has ever seen.”
    “It looks to be damp,” Cromwell interrupted.
    Vicars frowned. “I’m sure that’s just the wrapping. Not to worry.”
    Vicars cut the twine with a small paring knife and unwrapped the burlap. Cromwell was right. The linen inside was wet. Not dripping wet, but clearly it had been soaked through during the carriage transit from London to Eyam.
    “Oh, damn it, Vicars. You bumbler. It’s ruined!” Cromwell chastened, as he stepped in for a closer look.
    “Not to worry, Mister Cromwell. I’ll just unwind the material and let it dry by the fire. Tomorrow ‘twill be as good as new,” Vicars replied.
    Cromwell scowled and watched with growing agitation as Vicars began to unwind the bolt of fabric.
    “It’s ruined, Vicars. Look there, the mildew has already set in. I see black spots. They’re everywhere.”
    Vicars bent down and squinted to inspect the damage. The black dots were not mildew stains. He was certain of this because … they were moving.
    Fleas!
    The fabric was infested with black fleas. One of the little creatures sprang up, struck Vicars in the forehead right between the eyes and bounced off.
    “Filthy vermin!” Cromwell bellowed. How something as perfect as Kathryn Vicars could have sprung from George Vicars’ loins was beyond comprehension, Cromwell thought.
    Vicars shrank. The color drained from his face. It had cost him three months’ wages to procure linen and lace of this exquisite quality. There was no return policy on such things, and he could not afford a second purchase. He contemplated what to do, but no ideas came to him.
    Then, as if on cue, all the fleas began springing up from the folds of the fabric. They hopped in every direction, dispersing quickly and wildly, each tiny parasite voraciously seeking its next blood meal. Vicars felt a prick on the back of his neck—an introductory bite—and smacked the spot with his palm.
    Cromwell retreated toward the door, slapping wildly at his forearms and thighs as he did. Vicars grabbed the bolt of linen and followed him.
    “In God’s name, Vicars, what are you doing?”
    “Escorting my uninvited house guests outside. These little buggers are impossible to catch. I need to shake out the fabric before I dry it, or the whole cottage will be infested for months.”
    Cromwell kept moving away from Vicars and did not stop until he was standing on the dusty cobblestones in the middle of Church Street. He watched with grim dissatisfaction as Vicars waved and shook the expensive fabric the way one shakes out a dirty doormat. Vicars took his time, unfurling yard after yard, and he did not stop until all the material had been thoroughly agitated.
    The sound of wild, unabashed laughter—a girl’s laughter— caught both their attention. From around the corner of the church, Kathryn Vicars appeared, wearing a pale yellow summer dress. She was barefoot; her shining, gold-spun hair