Skin Read Online Free Page B

from that cheat with four fingers. Get the elder honey from
that nice Dobunnii girl with a bit of a rump.’ Cookmother grunted as she got up.
‘Don’t forget the goat, of course, and Ailia, on the way back, pick some yellow dock
and meadowsweet from the marshes.’
    I nodded as I sharpened my harvest knife and slipped it into my belt. Cookmother’s
knees could no longer abide the steep walk, so Bebin and I went to market each moonturn,
though Cookmother was always convinced we’d be fiddled.
    Following the sound of market drums and bleating livestock, we made our way down
to the flatlands from the southern gate. Sellers from all of Summer were gathered
below, on the banks of our largest river, the Cam. We quickened our pace. The best
pickings went early at market.
    Neha tore ahead toward the sprawling pens of lambs and goat kids, where we found
her wolfing a fresh-cut calf’s tail from our favourite seller. We haggled over
the fattest of his young goats and walked on, dragging it on a rope past the ponies
and hunt dogs.
    Dried salmon and geese hung above tables laden with fresh carcasses. Beyond the flesh
stalls were sacks brimming with salt and herbs from the trade routes, and waist-high
baskets of grain and fruit. The air teemed with smells of blood, sweetcakes, dung
and smoke, and the shouts of sellers calling their wares. Bebin and I wove among
them, making our greetings and stopping to gossip. News of the Great Bear’s death
had spread through the township, but it could not dampen the thrill of the upcoming
festival and the whispers of who would be paired at the fires.
    Two young men jostled to watch us pass. ‘Hold the bulls,’ one called, ‘we have found
our Beltane lovers!’
    ‘Do you hear cocks crowing?’ Bebin asked me loudly as she pushed past them.
    It was only this spring that the men of market had been noticing me. I had grown
taller. Bebin came only to my shoulder, though she was as curved as a goddess, whereas
I had the chest of a knave. My bloods had flowed for almost a year, but I would never
be one with a wet nurse’s chest and I was glad of it. I was fair enough of face,
but too strong-nosed and sharp-chinned to be called sweet, unlike Bebin, who was
as succulent and wet-eyed as a baby calf. She was dark like our first people, whereas
I was of middling colour, with hair the hue of beech wood and eyes as green as moss.
Though I loved Bebin dearly, I would not have traded my strong shoulders for her
round hips. I could not help thinking there was more use in the first.
    We moved swiftly past the jewellers, toolwrights and potters to reach the sellers
of cloth. As well as honey, salt and a goat, I needed to buy ribbon for my hair at
Beltane. I had always worn blue. Tonight I would wear red.
    As I was stuffing the loops of ribbon into my basket, I heard Bebin yelp. I looked
up to see her darting around the next corner. The stubborn kid slowed me in following
her, but when I had cajoled it past the medicine sellers (and paid for the pots of
resin it kicked to the ground), I found her on the far side of the market, standing
with Uaine, watching the young men and women practising for the games tomorrow.
    I lingered, allowing them their whispers and laughter, as I watched the threshold
maidens shooting archery targets. A pang of envy shot through me as a fair-haired
girl raised her bow and drew back a sinewy arm. Ribbons of deerskin hung off the
belt around her narrow hips. She released the arrow and hit the trunk at its centre,
smiling as the crowd applauded. I marvelled at her mastery.
    Fraid had come down to observe the play, for the results of this contest would help
her choose which of the fresh-bled maidens would run first through the fires tonight.
    Neha nosed my palm and I rubbed her cheek. If it were a contest of commanding a wayward
dog I would win without rival.
    ‘Do you not join the games, Doorstep?’
    I jumped at the voice so close to my ear. Neha growled.
    In a tartan tunic pinned by