Huge, lumbering carts pulled by plodding oxen and laden with firewood, bundles of reed for thatching and faggots of peat cut from the Fens clogged the middle of the path, while impatient horsemen and pedestrians jostled for space at the sides. There were chapmen with their packs filled with ribbons, buttons, needles and toys; there were pardoners wearing wide-brimmed black hats and carrying scrolls that gave the buyer absolution of all manner of sins; there were shepherds and drovers and geese boys, all driving their livestock to the market in squawking, braying, lowing, bleating herds; and there were soldiers, weary from a night of patrolling, with the mud of their travels splattered on their cloaks and boots. The faster Bartholomew tried to ride, the slower was his progress. Although it was only just past dawn, the crowds heading for the market did not want to waste a precious moment of the winter daylight, and Bartholomew was not the only one in a hurry. A man with several braces of pheasants slung over his shoulder gave Bartholomew a venomous glower when the physician’s horse bumped him, but backed away when he saw Cynric’s hand resting lightly on his short Welsh sword.
