Daniel is at my side again, having paid a coin to stable Bonny and the cart for the day. He takes another from his purse, holds it in front of me, grins.

‘Young lass,’ he says. ‘I wish to purchase your services as dairymaid, for which I offer this token payment as binding of our understanding, that you return with me to Taylors’ farm and agree to work as such for a year to the day. If you find this arrangement to your satisfaction?’

I laugh, take the coin from him, drop a little curtsey. ‘I do.’ I hold the coin, warm and gritty in my hand, unsure whether it’s actually mine. ‘Is this how it’s really done?’

‘It is,’ he says. ‘The payment is yours now and a token of the agreement on both parts.’

‘Oh. Well, thank you.’ I look around at the rise and fall of the colourful crowds. ‘Then should we go back?’

‘Oh no,’ he says. ‘We’ve only just arrived. Besides, I need to search more thoroughly. I may yet find a better milkmaid than you. I may leave you here and take another back with me instead.’

I skip ahead of him, waving the coin. ‘Too late – the agreement’s been made on both parts.’

‘So it has. And what are you planning to buy? Shall we walk about the stalls?’

I feel my eyes widen and see Daniel’s smile in response.

He takes my hand. ‘Come,’ he says. ‘Stay with me. And stop waving that around, this place is full of pickpockets.’

I hide the coin in my closed fist, glance over my shoulder. Though I know too well how hunger can tempt a body to theft, we strive to live on the side of right, and I would not have my first earnings taken from me.

Stalls line the edges of the marketplace, and it’s here that the smells of food come from, the shouts of the stallholders advertising their wares. A small man, no taller than I, dressed in clothes made of bright rags and with his head bare and garish hat laid on the grass at his feet, throws and catches coloured wooden skittles.

I pull Daniel towards a stand where jewellery is laid out – fine rings gleaming in the sun, bands of polished stones and wooden pendants carved into the shape of flowers or animals. Leather purses and pouches. The village women wear such things sometimes but there’s nothing like this in our house. Mam once wore a thin wedding band, but she sold it to a pedlar in exchange for a worn petticoat each for me and her, and a little food besides.

The woman at the stall watches us as we admire her wares. ‘Trinket for your pretty lass, sir?’ she asks.

‘I’ve my own money,’ I say. Honestly earned. At least, it will be.