The Young Master Had Changed

Brodick had lost its former prosperity, especially with the island's lords away at war with their soldiers.

But today was, after all, Allen Island's semiannual Wool Market, so the town still had a measure of bustle.

The market town stood near the mouth of Glen Rosa Valley, where a gravel road led straight to Stackport. The Glen Rosa River flowed past the town and into the sea. Several wooden huts stood upstream—the largest distillery on Allen Island.

The town, laid out around a crossroads, was no small place. There were a good hundred and eighty houses in the market town, for this had once been a "prosperous" hub of maritime trade.

But on closer inspection, weeds ran rampant around half the houses on the town's outskirts, while many of the crude wooden huts at the very edge had already collapsed halfway.

Apart from a wool-bundling workshop and a small slaughterhouse-cum-tannery beside the pond, everything else had become a paradise for stray cats and dogs.

The town had once held five or six hundred residents. Now, only a little over a hundred lived there year-round, making their living through wool and sundry trade.

The central district had been preserved fairly well, but two days of relentless rain had fallen on the island, leaving the streets muddier than open wilderness.

At the end of the market town's main street, atop a gentle slope, stood the Baron of Allen Island's castle. Its high walls and fortifications hid its full appearance from Roger. From the hazy memories in his mind, the castle mainly contained a church, barracks, warehouses, and the Baron's residence.

Roger led Little Horseherd and the three thugs down the muddy road into Brodick.

In this half-acre mire, islanders brought what little meat or grain, hides or eggs they had left to trade for things they needed but could not make themselves—pots and jars, plowshares, ropes and shoes, candles and salt.

But since today was the Wool Market, wool was naturally the chief commodity. Wool merchants from Argyll in the north, Ayrshire in the east, and other places all came here to sell wool.

Many years ago, Allen Island had been the second-largest wool-processing center on the western coast, second only to Glasgow.

The town's wool merchants had pooled their money to dig an artificial canal, diverting water from the Glen Rosa River into the great pond outside the market town to meet the enormous water demands of tanning leather and washing wool.

The used water was then led out of the market town through another canal, returning to the Glen Rosa River before flowing into the bay.

Once, five or six large wool and leather workshops had stood around the great pond. Now, only two small workshops remained, responsible for simply processing or bundling the wool purchased at the market before the island's lords shipped it to Ireland for sale.

Malicious haggling could be heard everywhere in the market town, along with neighboring stallholders needling each other and cheap pastries meant for children.

Bards and wandering performers loudly hawked themselves beneath the stone pillar at the center of the crossroads. Before the low, dilapidated houses by the roadside, two busty women with faces caked in makeup flirted shamelessly with passersby.

Roger's nose had long grown accustomed to the stench that filled this era, but standing in the market town now, the reek of human and animal dung mixed with body odor still stung his eyes.

He closed his eyes and tilted up his head, letting his nose adjust for a moment before waving for them to keep moving.

After only a few steps down the street, a fragrance cut through the sky-filling stench and caught Roger's attention.

A crude food stall leaned against a collapsed wall. Four wooden posts supported a slanted roof. Behind it burned a large fire, above which a leg of lamb slowly turned on a great spit. Beside it sat a large pot bubbling away, while several wooden bowls filled with mutton broth rested on a counter made from a broken door plank.

It was nearly noon, and the tiny space was packed with people, most of them small traders who had come to the market town to sell wool.

Roger jumped down from the donkey and fumbled at his waist, just about to spend a few silver coins on a taste.

The One-Eye food-stall owner turning the lamb looked up and glimpsed the bald man in green on the road. With another sweep of his eye, he saw the tall Roger walking toward him.

After staring for a moment, One-Eye recognized the man approaching his little stall as the second young master of Lord Colin's household. He immediately let out a shrill scream. "God, he's out!"

Roger truly could not understand why a grown man could make such a piercing cry, but that scream successfully drew the attention of half the street.

The young stall assistant reflexively covered his face and crouched trembling at the foot of the ruined wall.

Several nearby vendors hurriedly swept their sour pears and rotten apples into wicker baskets. Women strolling the street ran off into the distance one after another. Even the two utterly hideous prostitutes ducked into the broken house and pulled down the grass curtain...

Roger froze on the spot, still holding the two silver pennies he had just taken from his purse.

"What the fuck did they do to deserve this?" Roger finally could not help cursing aloud.

"What are you pieces of trash doing? What are you hiding from?" Baldhead had already begun berating everyone around them, while the two thugs beside him pointed and cursed at those fleeing.

Still cursing under his breath, Baldhead stepped past Roger and headed for the fire roasting the lamb outside the food stall.

"Young Master Roger has taken a liking to your lamb. That is an honor for a lowly wretch like you. What are you shouting for? Do you still want to live on this island?" Before he had finished speaking, he had already torn a huge piece from the golden-brown roasted leg. Scalded until he bared his teeth, he hopped several steps back to Roger.

"Young Master Roger, have a taste first. If it's good, I'll bring you more." Baldhead presented it with both hands, as generous as if he were offering up his own property.

Roger had recovered from his initial shock. This scene was not unfamiliar; similar fragments often flashed through his nightmares.

He took the roasted lamb and bit down. It did not taste as fresh and fragrant as it smelled. The unseasoned meat carried a strong muttony reek. "Take it and divide it up."

Baldhead in green ran gleefully to the back, tore the large piece of lamb apart, and handed it to several companions. When it came to Little Horseherd, Baldhead pretended to pass him some, only to suddenly pull it back with a lewd grin and stuff it into his own mouth.

Little Horseherd pursed his lips, his face full of disdain.

Ignoring the movements of the thugs behind him, Roger slowly walked toward the large counter at the food stall.

One-Eye thought Roger meant to snatch the hard-earned money in the clay jar on the counter. Terrified, he lunged forward and shielded the jar, his voice trembling on the verge of tears. "Please spare this lowly man, Young Master. My wife and children depend on these scattered coins to survive."

The surroundings fell so silent that one could hear a needle drop, as though everyone feared even the sound of breathing might draw an evil ghost's attention.

Roger ignored him. He walked over, stretched out his hand, and opened his palm. With two clinks, two silver pennies bounced on the counter and spun to a stop beside the clay jar.

The crisp sound of the silver coins striking the counter shocked everyone.

Only after Roger had left the stall and headed for the castle did One-Eye snap back to his senses. He blinked his one eye, trying to drive away the illusion before him, only to discover that the coins lying on the counter truly were silver pennies. "Y-Young Master Roger, that's... that's too much..."

Young Master Roger had actually paid after taking something. This terrifying news swept through Brodick Town like a tornado.