As he drew nearer the center, moving slowly because of the dense crowd, the smell of fresh bread made him take a deep breath.
A baker stood outside his shop holding a tray of bread rolls. A small boy, perhaps six years old and dressed in rags, stood at the corner of the shop, his head peeking around from the alley where an even smaller girl stood behind him.
He caught his breath. It was little Helena.
No, Helena had been dead for more than fifteen years. The sight of her bloody body, lying in the street where the horse had trampled her, flashed through his mind like lightning. Her bright eyes stared up, and her mouth moved wordlessly as she fought to draw breath into her crushed chest. He could still feel her body growing cold in his arms while heartless, frowning faces stared down at him, and a man shouted at him to get out of the street.
The tiny girl who now stood in the narrow side street was not looking back at Jorgen. Instead, she was looking anxiously at the little boy peering at the baker and his bread. The look of desperation in the boy’s face seemed familiar. Jorgen watched, knowing what the boy was about to do, but also knowing he would not be able to get through the people in time to stop him.
The boy darted around the corner and ran toward the baker, staying close to the wall of the shop. While the baker was handing two rolls to a woman who placed a coin on the baker’s tray, the boy ran by and snatched a roll.
Perhaps he had not seen the woman on the other side of the baker, but she had seen him. She grabbed the back of the boy’s neck with one hand and his arm with the other. “Thief!” she cried.
The boy dropped the bread and threw all his weight in the opposite direction, but the woman was too strong for him. Her grip held firm. The boy yelped.
From his view of the side street, Jorgen saw the girl child cover her face with her hands and her shoulders start to shake. Even though she couldn’t see the boy from where she stood, she undoubtedly heard his pleading for the woman to let him go.
“A few hours in the pillory will do you good, you little knave.” The woman gave his ear a twist. Though his face twitched in pain, he did not cry out.
Jorgen broke away from the crowd and stepped in front of the woman and her captive.
“Frau, pardon me,” Jorgen said, causing the woman to look up at him. “The child left home without his money. Will you accept this to pay for the bread he dropped on the ground?” He held out two coins to her, enough to pay for four of the baker’s rolls.
The dark cloudiness of her expression changed as she looked at his money and then back at his face.
“I’m sure the child is sorry.” He placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder and stepped even closer.
“I suppose . . . but if he learns to steal now,” she muttered, “he’ll be a thief all his life . . . naught but a thief.” She accepted the money, took three more rolls off her husband’s tray, and handed the bread to Jorgen.
“I thank you.” He nodded to her and nudged the boy as they backed away from her.
When they were a few steps away, with the boy staring up at the bread in Jorgen’s hand, he pulled the boy aside and squatted so he could look the child in the eye. “Here is the bread, but do not steal. Next time you might be punished.”
The little boy drew himself up, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin, as if trying to look taller. “I am not afraid.”
“Of course not. But your little sister would be very frightened if you were taken to the town square and fastened in the pillory.”
The little boy glanced behind him at the girl who was standing at the corner of the alley, sniffling and staring at them both.
The little boy’s shoulders slumped. “Can I go now?”
Jorgen’s heart constricted at the look on the boy’s face. “Do you have a mother or father?”
“I have a mother.”
“Where do you live?”
He pointed in the direction of the alley. “With my mother’s sister, but she says she cannot feed us.”
“If you need food, go to the gamekeeper’s cottage. Do you know where it is?”
“Outside the town gate, in the margrave’s forest?”
“That is where I live. My mother will give you food if I am not there.”
The expression in his eyes was much older than his years. Finally, the boy nodded. Jorgen walked him back to his sister, and the boy handed her a bread roll. They both put the bread in their mouths and bit into them. Then they turned and started down the alley side by side.
“Wait.” He couldn’t bear to let them leave with only a few small rolls. While he felt around in his pocket, he asked, “What is your name?”