I turned the corner and there she was, sat on the bench outside the inn. Alone.
By the way she dressed, I thought her a man. But closer, I saw her breasts, unbound. I swept a look round, fearful a child might see her so. Loose breasts beneath a skimpy vest, and trousers so tight they showed her crotch. If Uncle saw her, he’d cast her into the pound and send a runner to fetch the lord’s constabulary, though I’m not sure what her crime. Neither the name of her kind.
She upped from that bench when the innkeeper’s woman came at her with a threatening broom. ‘No market, no cash,’ the innkeeper’s woman said and waggled the broom at her. The strange woman ran.
What was she, who were her people? One of THEM, I suppose.
Written for What Pegman Saw