Red's Untold Tale (13 page)

Tucker slid his hand down the side of my cloak. Then he grabbed the other side of it and pulled me up against him.

“What are you doing?” I tried to push him away. The next thing I knew, Tucker Williamson's hideous face was in my face, and his lips were coming horrifyingly close to mine. I
smelled his wretched breath and got a close-up view of his snaggletooth. Screaming, I twisted and squirmed, but he had a death grip on my cloak. I forged just enough slack to unfasten my cloak and
shove him off of me. Next I kneed him as hard as I could, right in the crotch. He doubled over, groaning, as I hopped out of his reach, lost my balance, and tumbled to the soft, snowy ground.

“Why did you do that?” Tucker coughed. “I thought that's what you wanted. That's what she said you wanted—why you wear that red riding hood.” Gone was
the look of a predator, and in its place, utter bafflement. I, too, was confused.

“Who in the land would say I wanted that?” I asked breathlessly. But the instant the question left my mouth, I knew.

Thankfully, Peter and the boys had heard my cries and were trudging up the hill as quickly as possible over knee-deep drifts. Peter, pulling his sled behind him, would be to the top of the hill
in mere seconds.

“What the dickens is going on here?” Peter demanded, helping me up. “Tucker, you bastard, what did you do to her?” Peter took him by the collar of his coat and shook him.
Fury blazed in Peter's eyes, and he looked fit to be tied.

“N-n-nothing,” Tucker said, shrinking into his coat like a turtle. “I didn't do anything to her, honest.”

“Then why did she scream? Why was she down in the snow?” Now that the other three boys were there, Peter loosened his hold on Tucker and turned to me. He stared at me with an
intensity I'd never seen in him. “Did he hurt you?”

Careful not to have eye contact with Tucker, I refastened and brushed the white powder off my cloak. “No. He didn't hurt me,” I admitted.

Peter stepped closer to me and whispered in my ear, “Did he touch you?” He opened and closed his fist as he awaited my answer.

I shook my head no. “He touched my cloak, that's all.”

“I was only admiring it,” Tucker said.

“Well, next time, admire it from afar. Maybe this will help you remember,” Peter said, before hitting him hard, square in the jaw. Tucker groaned and rubbed the side of his face.

The whole thing gave me a rush of emotions from fear to pity to awe. The other boys turned their backs on Tucker, and Peter offered to take me home. But if I went home right then, I'd have
to part ways with Peter too soon.

“Not until I've had my turn,” I said, taking his sled. As I raced down the hill, my hood blew off, and my hair and cloak danced freely in the wind. I laughed as I careened over
the snow, going faster and faster until, finally, the slope flattened out and brought me to a gentle halt. I rolled onto my back and found the evening star. It was all alone, but I knew that in no
time, the sky would be sparkling with stars.

It was hard to make sense of my emotions, but even after Violet's snide comments and Tucker's unwelcome advance, I still felt cozy, safe, and beautiful in my new red cloak. The night
before, on my thirteenth birthday, I'd promised my granny I'd wear it—and, in a way, I'd extended that promise to my mother. And then, once I'd had my share of
sledding and Peter had insisted we head home, he said, “You probably don't care, but I think your new cloak is rather…becoming.” He kicked a clump of snow on the side of the
road.

“Thank you, Peter,” I said. In my heart, those three little words covered much more than the compliment he'd paid my cloak. I was thanking him for having stuck up for me and
for being my friend, then and always.

“You're welcome, Red.” My new nickname sounded so wonderful on Peter's lips.

Folks came from near and far
to sell their goods, perform, and have first pickings at the village market. Granny was aiming to sell more pies and cookies
than ever before, so we'd left the cottage as soon as I'd gotten home from school, hoping to secure a desirable spot in the center.

As we trudged along with our overstuffed baskets, Granny said, “I just don't understand.” Though I sweated beneath my cloak, she'd draped an extra shawl over her
shoulders and looked cool as a cucumber. “You say your schoolmarm didn't have enough money for the muffins. And yet, she has the audacity to ask me to bake her wedding cake. What kind
of flapdoodle is that?”

I could have told Granny what had really happened, but I chose not to. I had a terrible feeling she'd march right up to Violet and her whole clan and force them to pay up—or do
something even more drastic if she was in a particularly foul mood. Starting a feud between us and the Roberts family would not end well, that much I knew.

On the contrary, Granny would never confront Miss Cates about the muffins. My grandmother might not be the most devout woman in the village, and she was quick to make jokes behind the
vicar's back, but she knew better than to vex the betrothed of a man of God.

“Maybe you could ask Miss Cates for payment up front this time,” I suggested, but Granny shook her head emphatically and said, “No, no, that's not how I do it.”

“So make her the wedding cake,” I suggested, “and I have a very good feeling she will have more than enough money to pay. Besides, think of all the people who will see and
taste your beautiful creation. I have no doubt that a cake for Vicar Clemmons and his bride will earn you more business than you will know what to do with.”

“Yes, you might have a point there…” Granny said and then fell silent in thought as we plodded along. We'd almost made it to market when she stopped to set down her basket
and catch her breath. “Go ahead without me, Red. Set up shop on the shady side. I'll be right behind you.”

“Are you sure, Granny?”

She smacked the back of my head. “Of course I'm sure. Otherwise, I wouldn't have said a word about it. Here's a list of ingredients I need. Bargain and barter with the
sellers like I've taught you.” She dropped a slip of parchment and some coins into my hand. “Now, git!”

“Only if you let me carry this for you.” Before she had the chance to refuse, I picked up her basket and walked away.

When I finally arrived at market, my hands ached and throbbed with the threat of blisters. I wanted nothing more than to stake claim on a spot and relax while the other vendors fought for space.
A puppeteer troop in a ramshackle carriage, an old gypsy couple in a colorfully patched tent, a portly potter, and a few farmers had already arrived. Soon the space would be crammed with artisans,
entertainers, and merchants of every sort imaginable.

Distracted by the sounds and views, I didn't even notice the man blocking my path until it was too late. I came to such an abrupt stop I dropped the baskets. The man wore a ridiculous
three-pointed hat with a feather and had the gall to neither step away nor apologize.

“I didn't see you there,” I said, bending to collect the coins and buns that had rolled out onto the cobblestones.

A black boot slammed down on the coins. “Where are you off to, missy?” the man asked.

“I'm setting up my baked goods for market,” I replied, even more annoyed at the stupidity of his question than the fact that he'd almost stepped on my hand. “So if
you'll kindly move your foot, I'll gather my things and be on with it.”

He knelt beside me and picked up the money. With his free hand, he stroked his long black beard. “A prime spot in the market will cost you all of this. A spot over yonder, by the farmers,
will cost you half, and if you dare set up in the alley,” he said, nudging his head in the direction of the gypsies, “this much.” He dropped about a fourth of the coins into my
hand.

“You must be jesting,” I said. I tried to laugh, but it got stuck in my throat. This stranger had an air about him, and it smelled of rotten eggs. “Who do you think you are? My
grandmother and I have been coming to market for years, and not once have we been required to pay.”

Folks were arriving from all directions with their goods to sell. At the forefront was Amos Slade and his ever-loyal hound dog. As usual, the lanky old hunter had brought a cart full of venison
and an assortment of pelts to market.

The hound growled at the man in the funny hat—or perhaps he was growling at me—bringing me back to the present. Amos had stopped right beside us and said to the man,
“What's goin' on here? Leave the Lucas girl alone.”

The man stood and straightened his hat. “So you're the granddaughter of Widow Lucas?” he asked me.

“Perhaps. And who are you?” I retorted.

“My name is Hershel Worthington, and on behalf of the king, I'm to collect fees for market vendors, beginning today. See here?” He dug a scroll out of his satchel, unrolled it,
and held it up as if it were a fine painting. From my vantage point, all I could tell was that it was written in fancy script. As Amos read it, his bushy mustache fanned out, and he snorted like an
angry bull.

Mr. Worthington held the scroll higher, and a crowd began gathering around us. “Quite unfortunate that some villagers—this young lady's grandmother, for instance—”
he said, holding his other hand over my head, “are overdue on their taxes.”

Surely Mr. Worthington had Granny mixed up with somebody else. “What are you talking about?” I asked.

“It's quite simple. When I went to your house to collect taxes, she did not pay. Now, where was I? Oh, yes.” He cleared his throat. “This leaves His Royal Highness no
choice but to enforce decrees such as this. Our benevolent ruler apologizes for the inconvenience, and sends from the royal castle his best wishes for a prosperous season.”

As Amos reached in his pocket and paid the tax man, he let out a stream of curses almost equal to Granny's best. In turn, several other villagers surrendered their money. Sidling up to me,
Mr. Worthington asked, “And what option have you decided upon, Miss Lucas?”

“Give me back the money, Mr. Worthington,” I said between clenched teeth. “All of it. I will not be buying a vendor spot today.”

His squinty, bloodshot eyes dipped from my face to my neck and rested on my heaving chest. A hundred scorching baths with every last bar of Granny's soap wouldn't wash away the
feeling of disgust I felt at that moment. “As you wish,” he said, and dropped the coins one by one into my palm.

Holding my head as high as possible, I turned my back to him and began collecting the baskets. It would've been great if I could have stormed off for effect. However, my knees trembled,
and the baskets were so heavy and bulky I probably looked like a hobbled mule in a red blanket as I clomped away from him and down a side street.

As folks wandered by on their way to market, I tried to erase my mind of the tax man and how he'd publicly humiliated Granny and me. I asked the villagers if they'd like to buy a
cinnamon roll or a pie, and little by little, the baskets emptied, and I collected their meager payments. Every so often, I exchanged a half-dozen date cookies for spices or something else on
Granny's shopping list. Nevertheless, my heart sunk with the knowledge that even without having paid the tax man his outrageous market fee, and even if I eventually sold every last crumb of
Granny's baked goods, I wouldn't have enough money to replace our chickens. And now Mr. Worthington seemed to believe Granny owed him taxes.

An old farmer wheeled his cart around the bend, and as he passed the tavern, a big green apple rolled off the back. I tried to get his attention, but he was too busy pleading with his pouting
wife to notice. I shrugged and added it to my basket. One apple off of Granny's shopping list left us twenty-three shy.

Other than a pair of pigeons that appeared to be lost, I was basically alone on my little village corner. By then, Granny should have arrived, and I knew I should check on her. Plus I wanted to
ask her about the taxes. So I stacked the remaining baked goods into a single basket, stashed the empty one under some stairs, and began tracking her down.

The market was in full swing. The sounds of voices shouting and singing and the music of tambourines, horns, drums, flutes, and accordions blared. Shading my eyes with my hand, I wove in and out
of the crowd looking for Granny and pausing every so often to peddle a pie. Thankfully, the last one, an apple pie, found a new home. Granny would be pleased.

My grandmother had lived in the village her whole life, so even if someone hadn't met her in person, almost everybody at least knew of her. “Excuse me, have you by chance seen my
grandmother, the Widow Lucas, today?” I asked the tall woman hawking satchels and belts. Rather,
trying
to, as no one seemed interested in her wares.

The infant tucked into the woman's hip-sling cried, and she muttered, “Hush, now,” to him before turning in my direction. My heart warmed as I recognized the young
mother's eyes. “I'm sorry, what did you say?” Priscilla asked.