Excerpts
From Sunday of Third Weekend
"Left! Left! Left, right, left!" called a voice in peasants' English.
Ryna turned to the sound. At first she couldn't see anything. Then, after a few moments, the crowd gave way. "Oh, dear Goddess."
Five rennies marched by, their left feet bound to one long board with rough rope, their right to another. A tall peasant with a topknot headed the procession, with a shorter, burlap muffin-capped peasant behind him. That peasant in the dark brown cloak and hood had been strapped to the middle of the board, followed by the once-white garbed peasant who had pulled Ryna out of the mud. A petite brunette, her lengthy chestnut hair in two braids and a kerchief on her head, brought up the rear as the token wench - though she wasn't flaunting nearly enough to merit the title.
"Ack! Blow out!"
"Halt!"
The procession came to an abrupt stop, everyone grabbing the rump of the person in front of them to keep from toppling over. The second from the last peasant crouched to retie the rope around his ankle. His action offset the end peasant's balance; her arms windmilled wildly for an instant before she went down with a plop in the mud. Ryna winced, but at least it wasn't a puddle.
"Finished," the fourth peasant proclaimed, rising.
The one on the end scrambled upright.
"Ready?" called the brown-cloaked peasant in the middle. "On the count of three, start with the left. One, two -"
"Which one's the left?" inquired the one who had just fixed his rope.
"That one," the remaining four chorused. Two of them were pointing to their other left.
"Are you sure? I thought -"
"No, I'm pretty positive -"
"Well, I could be wrong, but -"
"This one, then! We'll start with this one!" the middle guy decided for them, though Ryna couldn't see to which board he had pointed.
"Um, which one?" inquired the lone female.
"The left!" her companions chorused.
A pause. "Oh." She shrugged.
"One, two, three!"
The group lurched as some of the peasants started with one foot, and the rest with the other. A couple tried to start on the count of two. They would have fallen on their collective faces if it hadn't been for another round of grab-ass.
"Leper!" a couple voices accused.
"So which foot is it?" cried the second peasant from the end.
"This one!" the other four chorused. For a wonder, they were all pointing at the same foot. Granted, it was the one on the right, but it was still the same foot.
"Oh. Well, all right then. You should've said something."
"Peasant Precision Marching Squad - one, two, three!"
This time they stumbled into motion, squelching along in the muck.
"Puddle!" warned the fellow in front as they approached a small lake.
"Pud-dle! Pud-dle!" agreed the one in the burlap muffin cap.
"Squish! Squish! Squish, splash, squish!" they chanted as they plowed through, spraying muddy water in all directions.
"Peasants know that it is true!" yelled the girl.
"Peasants know that it is true!" came the response from the squad.
"Privy water, it is blue!"
"Privy water, it is blue!"
"We shall go a-reveling!"
"We shall go a-reveling!"
"Burlap goes with everything!"
"Burlap goes with everything!"
"Sound off!"
"Squish, squish!"
"Sound off!!"
"Splort, splort!"
And then Ryna had lost them behind their mob of attendant patrons, giggles and exclamations drowning out the marching squad's chant.
Gods. Where did they come up with this stuff?! Shaking her head in bemusement, the Gypsy slogged onward, keeping an eye out for children she could offer to buy.
