As they slipped through the narrow gaps between vendors, Henry marked four different languages being spoken. The common tongue here was trade, and it was spoken over the jangle of coins and the exchange of markers. In the far-right corner of the market Henry found the merchants he sought. Weavers and tailors had suspended their wares on ropes beneath the soaring arches. Quieter commerce took place here as wealthy residents strolled between the merchants. Women for the most part, faithfully dogged by a household guard or a male family member.
He stopped to admire a bliaut of peacock green shot with gold. Delicate beads glistened along the bodice. He could picture Beatrice in a gown like that. The more sedate but lovely rose pink three bliauts across spoke to him of Faye. He would see his sisters again. It hit him in a dizzying wave. He would live to see his sisters wear these gowns. He attracted the attention of the merchant. At Anglesea seamstresses made all the gowns for the castle womenfolk. How they would stare at the notion of buying a gown from a market.
“Not those.” Bahir nudged him and pointed to a garnet red bliaut at the merchant beside them. “She would look better in that one.”
The merchant held both bliauts before Henry. Short and swarthy, he wore a flat cap over his head, the tassels danced around his ears with each move he made. “Excellent taste, sire.” He spoke in French. “From the hands of nuns these come.”
Bahir nudged him harder. “I said the red.”
Henry inspected the beadwork on the green gown. The beads formed delicate flowers joined together by finely stitched gold thread. “How much?”
Bahir growled.
Honestly, if Bahir would use words instead of the nudging and growling like a bad-tempered bear, Henry might feel inclined to explain. Since Bahir did not bother with civilities, Henry saw no reason to. Mother would give him one of her gentle lectures about the behavior of others having no bearing on his own. So long since he had admitted a thought of his beautiful mother into his mind, it twisted now in a sweet-sharp pain.
The merchant named the ridiculous sum of fifty marks.
Henry laughed. He waved the gown away and bent to examine the pink.
“For years, the nuns labored.” The merchant held the gown out for him again. “I could accept no less than forty.”
Henry turned to Bahir. “Show me this red gown you love so much.”
“Thirty.” The merchant leaped into their path again.
“Thirty?” Henry glanced at Bahir and folded his arm. “Thirty for this and the pink one.”
The merchant gaped. “Sire! Now you would rob my family of food. And my youngest laid down with a hacking cough.”
Rubbing his hands together as they moved his way, the second merchant rose from where he sat. Tall and slim, his skin a shade lighter than Bahir, he bowed. “I bring you silks from Damascus. Woven by the hands of the Sultan’s concubines.”
Bahir snorted and pinned the man with a stare.
The second merchant took a hasty step back. “Not the concubines themselves, you understand.” He gave a toothy grin. “But their serving maids.”
Henry hated to admit it, but Bahir’s bear behavior made a useful cohort as they worked. While Bahir grunted, glowered and growled Henry haggled. Together they came away with the green and pink gowns, the red one, and two others for Alya in blue and amber. Bahir had excellent taste as well. They moved on and acquired three silk chemises so fine they could see the light through them.
Alya’s slippers would be fine beneath them, and they wove their way back through the market.
Grabbing Henry’s arm, Bahir hauled him to a stop.
Henry clenched his fists, his laden arms the only thing stopping him from plowing his fist into Bahir’s face.
“There.” Bahir jerked his head at a tailor who sold men’s tunics and chausses. “For you.”
“For me?”
Shifting his packages, Bahir cleared his throat. “I have been thinking.”
“Blessed day!”
With a frown, Bahir cleared his throat. “I cannot present Alya to her family. You must.”
Bahir’s jaw clenched so tight, Henry feared for the man’s teeth. From what they had seen this morning, Bahir might be greeted with the same hostility they saw all about them. Henry glanced down at his raiment. Serviceable, but the dress of a servant. He chose a plain pair of leather chausses and a sedate black tunic. Bahir added a rich surcoat and they left the market.
In silence, they walked back to their ship. What would Alya’s family make of their foreign cousin? Henry’s vow to see her safe weighed heavily on him.
* * * *
It required a sketch from Henry before Alya could dress in her new clothes. Bahir proved adept at the lacing. Eager to show Henry her new finery, she took a step.
The skirts tangled in her feet and Bahir caught her before she went tumbling.
“I believe you must hold them up.” Bahir held his hands before him, thumb and forefinger pinched together, little finger raised.
“Like so?” She pinched the skirts between her fingers. Her ankles and legs showed beneath the hem.
“I think not.” Bahir frowned as he stared at her exposed limbs. “From what the slave said of modesty, I do not believe you should show your ankles.”
“Henry.” She grew tired of the constant sniping. “His name is Henry and he is no longer a slave.”
Bahir gave her an assessing look and then nodded. “As you wish.”
“What I wish”—Alya took a halting step forward—“is to be able to walk.”
“I shall fetch the sla—Henry.” Bahir disappeared up the ladder to the deck.
A large amount of her chest spilled over the bodice of the dress, and it clung to her breasts and stomach in a way that made her feel naked. Strange that a woman could show her top assets, but beneath her skirts needed to remain a mystery.
Heavy footsteps sounded above and then clattered down the ladder.
Henry entered, caught sight of her and stopped. His gaze swept her from head to toe and back again. The glint in his eyes bolstered her confidence.
Holding her arms wide, she swiveled for him, preening a little. “What think you?”
Henry cleared his throat and shoved his fists on his belt. “I think Bahir was right about the red. It looks well on you.”
Well on her? He could do better than that. She straightened her spine and pushed her shoulders back.
Henry’s gaze went straight to her breasts.
She liked that. His gaze tingled across her exposed skin like a touch.
“Alya requires your help.” Bahir stepped between them, his back to Henry. He glanced at her bodice and then raised his brow.
Alya refused to be admonished. Bahir insisted she dress thus, and he had no say in how much of her it left bare.
“I cannot walk.” She peered around Bahir. “I feel there must be a way to do it without looking silly.”
Henry smiled. He did it so rarely she could count on one hand the amount of times she had witnessed his smile. Every time it weakened her knees and