He pushed the key back inside its little pouch with an unnecessary flourish and scowled at her. “The fee’s now fifteen, Mistress Thread. I don’t like women with bollocks.”
They stared at each other.
If she did not get those buttons, she was in grave danger of having her reputation ruined. But tailors were not made of money, and she did not have fifteen deniers. How was she to come up with such coin?
Sell the pony. It was the only way.
“And if I cannot afford the fee?” she asked dimly.
Bent over the keyhole, Bayard looked back and raked a leer down her gown. “I’m sure we can find some means of payment, Mistress Thread. Come inside, and we’ll discuss it.”
Stunned but unsurprised, she went cold as he plunged the key into the lock.
“No,” she whispered. “I will pay the fee.”
“No you won’t,” said a low, calm, chilling voice from behind.
Bayard tripped backwards in shock and Magdalena spun to find a cloaked man had materialized from nowhere.
“Who the hell are you?” Bayard snapped, grabbing hold of the door handle to steady himself.
The man ignored him and looked down at her. “Is this man bothering you?” he asked.
Magdalena stared. He was tall and armed and dark in every way, anonymous as night, bearing no markings. He wore travel-muddied boots that reached to his knees and a long, heavy cape. A shapeless hood was pulled up over his head, shadowing his face, but little glints of the setting sun reflected in his eyes. At his wrists, silvery mail peeked out from under a long-sleeved tunic.
“Is he bothering you, mistress?” he asked again.
She dragged her attention to Bayard, whose jaw dropped, clearly not anticipating she would seriously consider the query.
“Occasionally,” she said softly.
The stranger grinned.
Bayard’s face flushed deep red. “See here, now, who are you?”
The man turned to him and said softly, “Do you not know?” as if he ought to know.
That brought a pause. Bayard considered him with his jaw half dropped, like a sail sagging on its mast, his breath loud and labored as he stared at this man who did not seem worthy of note, and yet felt so very…worthy of note.
The shadows had deepened, so it was difficult to discern much. His cloak did look costly, if travel-worn. But then, there were many travel-worn men on the roads these days, highborn and low, so that was unremarkable. More than the cloth, though, there was something about him, something that bid one to pay attention. Perhaps it was the tilt of his chin, or the confidence of his mien, or the cultured accent that spoke to at least a passing acquaintance with nobles and royalty.
Certes, assistant reeve Bayard thought the question alone a compelling enough case, and subsided from his puffed-up state with a wave of his hand.
“Of course, a thousand pardons, my lord.” He cleared his throat. “You seem to have caught us at an awkward moment, sir. Dame Thread and I were just finishing up some business.”
“Is that what it was?” The man smiled and put his hand on Bayard’s shoulder. “Stop, then.”
Bayard paled and took a faltering step back. The nobleman took it with him, his hand pressing down hard on the reeve’s shoulder, who stared in astonishment at this apparition of civic-minded dominance.
“Yes sir,” Bayard stammered.
The stranger smiled and abruptly released him, but Bayard backed up another cautionary step before clearing his throat yet again, then tugging down on his velvet tunic.
“Well, now, in consideration of your rather surprising interest in the matter, my lord, I’m willing to leave things go for the time being.” Bayard stabbed his gaze to Magdalena. “But don’t think any dealings with him will save you from the consequences of your impudence,” he muttered.
“No, of course not,” she said, despite feeling entirely as if she had very much been saved from her own impudence by the dark-eyed stranger.
Bayard cast her one last, revenge-filled look, adjusted his cloak, and trudged off like a fat vertical pennant against the pink slash of sunset that sat low and brooding on the winter horizon.