The Wicked and the Just by J. Anderson Coats Read Free Book Online Page B

even a bunch of violets tied with twine arranged on the broadcloth.
    For a while, the only sounds are chewing and the snick of meat-knives. I wait till my father has emptied his mug and poured himself another. Then I clear my throat.
    â€œI regret that Nicholas almost got amerced. I’ll ask his pardon when he’s back from the Boar’s Head.”
    My father snorts quietly. “What in God’s name were you even trying to do, you silly creature?”
    â€œMy garments are a mess. I thought to get some decent wool to make a gown for your burgess oath-taking.” I give him Salvo-eyes. “I would hate to reflect poorly on you.”
    â€œWhat a sacrifice for you,” my wretched father drawls.
    I stab at my supper. If he would mock me, I’ll not speak to him for a fortnight this time.
    â€œSweeting.” My father lowers his meat-knife. “Until I take the oath, we’re foreigners. It may seem difficult to believe, good English that we are, but until I have the privileges we’re legally no better than the Welsh.”
    â€œWhat of Mistress Tipley? Why can she market freely?”
    My father takes a heaping bite. “She cannot, unless she buys for this house. This house has privileges that we don’t. Not yet, anyway.”
    I spear a turnip cube with my meat-knife. Foolish town rules. Foolish townspeople.
    â€œSo you must mind yourself better, at least till I’m admitted to the privileges. You’re damn lucky the bailiff believed your tale of misadventure.”
    â€œI knew not, Papa. I truly didn’t.”
    â€œI know you didn’t, sweeting. Just as I know you truly did not expect me to pay fifteen shillings a yard for finespun.”
    I groan. “Very well. Let me put on a sackcloth smock and roll around in the midden.”
    My father laughs aloud.
    â€œIt’s not funny! They’ll all be watching. Do you not want me to look like a burgess’s daughter?”
    My father closes his mouth abruptly. Hitting him square in the pride rarely fails. I want to remind him that my favorite color is green, but I dare not risk his changing his mind. At length he licks his lips and mutters, “Mayhap . . . mayhap you might wear her vellet gown.”
    I gasp. “You’re jesting.”
    â€œI’m serious as the grave.”
    My mother kept the gown wrapped in lavender-sprinkled linen and took it out every quarter-day to brush it and flick it with holy water. It’s as close to indigo as the likes of us dare get, brought all the way from some southern place near the Pope’s front courtyard. It must have cost a small fortune.
    I’ve not seen it since she died.
    â€œTh-thank you, Papa.”
    My father grunts and turns back to his meat.
    She’d let me touch it only after I scrubbed my hands twice in the ewer and dried them on clean linen. The gown looked vast lying on the bed, yards and yards of sleek cloth, and it was softer even than newborn lambs or kittens.
    I’d beg my mother to put it on and show me how it looked, but she’d just shake her head and smile and wrap it back up, laying it reverently in the coffer, as if it belonged to a saint.

    Â 
    Â 

    C ANNOT get without the walls quickly enough. Step lively till the gray stone beast is all but gone among the trees.
    Through the doorway curtain, shoulder first. It’s stifling in the windowless steading. There’s a fire. Gruffydd is feeding it sticks.
    My little brother has fresh bruises across his forearms and his feet are black as soot.
    Little. Gruffydd hasn’t been littler than me in years. But he’s still my little brother, even if I must look up at him.
    Didn’t expect him till Sunday. He said he’d been hired to cart stone for a se’ennight, and the lads would be staying at the quarry to save the walk. The quarry is heavy work, but at least the wages are certain. Not like standing idle without the walls waiting to