by Kim Wilkins
Bowing her head, she began to pray. Hoping so hard her ribs hurt. Maybe they would speak to her tonight. Maybe Maava would come close to her again. Please. Please. Please.
Exhaustion and frustration overwhelmed her. She lifted her head and called, ‘Maava, please!’ Reaching for the triangle to pull herself to her feet, the flesh of her left palm caught the exposed nail. It tore like fine cotton. Willow stared at the jagged gash on her hand. Blood ran out and dripped onto the dirt floor.
The air began to shake. Willow’s heart sped. Pressure gathered against her ears, and Maava’s own sweet voice boomed, ‘Willow!’ as if under water. Then a sharp, sudden silence.
‘My lord!’ she cried. ‘My lord? Are you there?’
There was no answer. She put her palm to her mouth and sucked the blood away, tears prickling her eyes. But at least she knew how to bring him closer now. Chaos and blood. Well, Willow could manage that.
Eighteen
On the morning Hilla was meant to return, a messenger came to Ivy instead. Hilla’s sister was now dead and Hilla would be staying on to raise her children, and not coming back to Sæcaster. Ivy bit her tongue so she didn’t vent her outrage at this inconvenience because somebody was dead, after all, and children were now motherless. But still. Inconvenient.
Pressure from Crispin had led her to arrange a meeting with the merchants’ guild that afternoon. Something about changing trade and tax agreements. She could not miss it. Crispin was already frustrated with her because she had kept him out of her bedroom, pleading an unexpectedly early visit from her monthly bleed. She could not miss the meeting, nor could she postpone it. So she asked one of the serving girls, Ymma, to watch the children while she was away. It wasn’t an ideal solution, and the problem of who would take Hilla’s place diverted much of her attention. Without a nurse, Crispin might insist the children go away to school. She had to find somebody and have them in place before the wedding.
These thoughts tumbled through her mind as she left the bowerhouse. A gusty wind had risen off the sea, heavy with the scent of seaweed. The sky was dark grey and low, and a storm of golden leaves swept across with hectic fury. Ivy’s hair, carefully arranged in loose curls as Crispin liked it, was instantly in disarray and her cloak nearly tugged off her shoulders completely.
At the hall, she entered the tower and closed the wind out. It howled over the roof and shook all the shutters. She ascended the stairs to find she was the last to arrive. Four men sat around the table, and the vellum manuscripts where all the city laws and agreements were written down had been stacked between them. Crispin looked up, gave her half a smile – which was better than no smile at all – and she greeted everyone and joined them.
Within seconds, she was so bored and restless that she could have slapped all their faces. Droning on and on, citing obscure old laws from other ports around the country. Crispin seemed interested so she let him keep up, and turned her mind instead to the problem of finding Hilla’s replacement. Nobody too young and pretty, but certainly nobody too old and cranky. A good trimartyr, yes – she had learned the hard way that SÆcastrians expected her to keep the faith – but not too moralising or fanatical. Somebody who would love the children and let them be themselves, and perhaps bring under control Eadric’s unappealing pride and Edmund’s endless whining.
‘Ivy?’
Ivy realised everyone was looking at her.
‘Yes?’
‘Yes?’ Crispin said, his voice growing dark. ‘Yes, you agree?’
‘No. I mean, I neither agree nor disagree. Yes, I would like to hear more.’ Preferably hear the whole question again, because she hadn’t a clue what she had been asked.
One fellow, who looked far too young to be so senior on the merchants’ guild – his skin was still puckered with spots – said, ‘What more can we tell you? Sæcaster’s population is dropping. We need a reason to stay, and that reason is no longer that we fear retribution from Ælmesse.’
‘Retribution?’ She had a vision of Bluebell bursting in, demanding with her sword that they all stick to their trade agreements. It was laughable.
‘Retribution in the form of heavy taxation in Ælmesse’s ports,’ Crispin said.
‘Ah.’ A much more boring form of retribution. ‘Would Bluebell do that?’
‘She already has, to many trade syndicates,’ spotty-face said in exasperation, and Ivy felt renewed admiration for Bluebell, who could both cut people’s heads off and twist their balls on trade taxes.
Still, Ivy wasn’t sure what she was being asked so she turned to Crispin and said, ‘What do you think?’
‘I laid it out in quite some detail five minutes ago,’ he said.
Why was her heart beating faster? Why was she afraid of his opinion? ‘Yes, but … sum up for me.’
Crispin leaned back in his chair, looked around the room with a smile. ‘The duchess agrees with me. We will meet your request until midsummer next year. Then we will renegotiate depending on … what happens in Thyrsland. These are times of great upheaval.’
The one with the rich black beard spoke. ‘We cannot do business confidently with such short-term measures in place. We cannot secure loans, we cannot mount long trade expeditions …’
‘Three years then,’ Ivy said definitively, desperate to reinstate her power. ‘Agreed?’
Spotty-face said, ‘Yes,’ so quickly that it gave Ivy pause. She risked a glance at Crispin who was staring at the tabletop, stony faced.
‘Let’s have it written up for signature today,’ black-beard said.
‘Crispin?’ Ivy asked, her voice almost cracking on the fear.
‘I will arrange a scribe,’ he said, and he sounded mild and moderate enough, so Ivy let herself relax.
But then the door to the state room burst open and Goldie stood there. Cold air that had gathered in the stairwell puffed into the room and stirred the papers on the table.
Crispin leapt to his feet. ‘Out!’ he shouted.
‘Goldie, is all well?’ Ivy asked.
‘Ymma told me to fetch you,’ she said, her voice quiet and apologetic. ‘Edmund won’t stop crying. I offered to tell a story but Ymma said I had to –’
‘Out!’ Crispin bellowed again, this time louder, and this time with a hand over Goldie’s shoulder.
Ivy rose. ‘Crispin, be gentle.’
He pushed Goldie roughly out the door, and she fell, landing in a heap on the top step.
Ivy called, ‘I will be there soon,’ as Crispin slammed the door.
Ivy remained standing, her heart thudding. What an idiot Ymma was. Even Goldie could tell it had been a poor choice to interrupt the meeting.
‘Sit,’ Crispin said, returning to his seat. Then when Ivy did nothing, he said again more forcefully, ‘Duchess. Sit. Let us finish our meeting.’
Ivy lowered herself to her seat and forced herself to listen to the rest of the discussion. It took many long moments for her pulse to slow.
Finally reunited with her children, Ivy told Ymma she was an idiot and sent her home. Then she took Goldie into her bedroom and quietly closed the door.
‘Were you hurt?’ she asked, unable to use Crispin’s name. She didn’t want to make things seem worse than they were.
Goldie nodded and pointed to her shoulder.
‘Let me see.’
With a wince, Goldie lifted off her pinafore and loosened the laces on her undershirt. She pulled it aside and Ivy leaned close in the candlelight, then recoiled with horror when she saw the bruise in the shape of Crispin’s handprint.
Ivy pulled Goldie’s shirt back over the bruise. ‘What about when you fell?’
‘No, I’m fine,’ Goldie said. ‘I fell on my bottom. It didn’t hurt.’
‘I am sorry. It wasn’t your fault and you didn’t deserve … to be … treated roughly.’ By Crispin.
Goldie shrugged, and Ivy collected her in a hug. ‘You are a lovely girl, and so clever.’
‘Will Ymma be our nurse?’
; ‘No, absolutely. No. I will find somebody good and kind and who knows how to make Edmund stop crying. He does cry a lot.’
‘He does,’ Goldie said. They both laughed as Goldie dressed herself. But Ivy was laughing over a dark, deep discomfort. Crispin had been as violent with Goldie as he might have been with a grown man.
The door to the bedroom opened and Eadric stood there. ‘Mama?’ he said. ‘Crispin has come to visit.’
Ivy realised her entire body snapped with tension. What did he want? When had she become so apprehensive of him? It had happened so slowly over time she could hardly remember the days when she loved his visits. She forced herself to be calm. It was only Crispin. Her lover. Her husband-to-be.
She rose, her hand firmly around Goldie’s, and left the bedroom. Crispin crouched by the hearth, his knees spread and his hands stretched towards the fire. Firelight glinted in his dark curls, and she caught her breath at his beauty. He looked up and she tensed, but then he smiled. A real smile. He stood and approached.
Goldie flinched, but Crispin bent down before her and said, ‘I am sorry. I was too rough with you today.’
Ivy tried to hide her surprise. Goldie said nothing.
‘I was very tense,’ he continued. ‘Ivy and I have very difficult and worrisome things to deal with every single day. You would never understand. But know that I am sorry if you were hurt.’
Goldie nodded slowly and Crispin smiled at her, but Goldie could not muster a smile in return.
‘Now, may I take Ivy for a moment? We won’t go far. Just outside the door.’
Goldie released Ivy’s hand and Crispin grasped it, and pulled her gently outside.
The wind was too much to bear on this side of the bowerhouse, so they dipped around the corner between buildings. Here, Crispin turned her to him.
‘I was a bear today.’
Ivy was too afraid to respond.
‘There are so many problems to solve, Ivy. I can’t sleep for worrying about them.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I understand. You feel a great deal of pressure.’
‘I do,’ he said. ‘I feel as though the future of the city rests with me, and now that you have offered the merchants’ guild such generous tax respite for so long things have only grown worse. We are running out of money.’
Guilt hardened in her belly. What had she done? She had made more worry for him, simply because she hadn’t been listening properly. And her self-centredness had stopped her realising that anxiety drove him to the edge of his temper. All along, it wasn’t him mistreating her; it was almost the other way around.
‘I am so, so sorry,’ she said.
‘Ivy, things have not been gentle between us for some time. Let me woo you again. Let me show you the man you fell in love with again.’
It was as though harps sang all around her. The relief. The relief. ‘Crispin, I am still in love with you.’
‘But you have been wary of me and rightly so. It has led to disharmony, to us not being honest and open, and today’s debacle in the meeting … well, it is a direct result.’
Again the guilt. ‘Let me woo you too. Let me be the girl you fell in love with.’
He reached for her face, placed his fingers under her chin. ‘Ah, she’s still in there. The girl. Still needs her captain.’
‘Yes, yes, I do.’
He leaned in and kissed her. Years fell away. She felt young again.
But then it was gone and he stood back and said, ‘I will leave you be with your children. Tomorrow, you really must find somebody to replace Hilla.’
‘I will, I will. It’s my first concern. I must get back to work.’
‘Good girl.’ He kissed her cheek, and for some reason this coy, chaste gesture made her heart light. He strolled away. She thought she saw lightness in his step too.
Perhaps all would be well after all.
The next evening, Crispin came by again. He ate dinner with Ivy and the children, remained light and gentle. He clapped when Edmund sang him a song, very out of tune – Edmund did love to sing – and played soldiers with Eadric. Goldie hung about the edges and could not be persuaded to play too.
So it continued for more than a week. Crispin seemed determined to prove that he could be kind and warm with the children. Ivy understood that this was sometimes difficult for him: children were children, and they could be whiny or irrational or noisy. She admired Crispin all the more for forgiving them and coming back, evening after evening, to show her he would be a good husband after all.
It was, perhaps, the happiest week she had experienced in many years.
Then the grand gesture. So silly and delightful. He turned up with a harpist.
‘So, young Edmund,’ Crispin said, as he gestured for the harpist to sit on a stool beside the hearth. ‘You can sing for me with accompaniment tonight.’
The harpist, a young fellow with wild blond curls, strummed the strings once and looked at Edmund expectantly. Edmund was so overwhelmed by the moment that he started to cry.
‘Oh dear,’ Ivy said, reaching for him. She thought she saw, from the corner of her eye, Crispin setting his jaw impatiently. ‘Edmund, Edmund,’ she said. ‘Please. Crispin has gone to all this trouble and –’
The harpist, sensing the tension in the room, began to play a jig. The music created a sudden change of mood. Eadric leapt up and began to kick his legs around, making silly faces. Goldie began to laugh, and Edmund, index finger crooked in the corner of his mouth, abruptly stopped crying to watch. Eadric, inspired by this reaction, began to exaggerate the kicks, nearly bending himself in half. Goldie laughed until she couldn’t breathe, and Edmund finally laughed too, then joined in.
Crispin began to clap in time with the music. The boys kicked and jigged like mad things, while Goldie looked on, laughing. Then Crispin grabbed Ivy by the waist and twirled her into a dance.
The first thing she was aware of was how tight his grip was. The second was how fast she was spinning. She started laughing too. She had never danced with Crispin, and he was quick on his feet. Up and down the bowerhouse he swept her, practically lifting her off her feet to turn the other way. His body was warm and strong, and she let herself fall into his arms, let her weight be carried by him. The music rang on, and even Goldie started spinning, as the harpist played faster and faster.
Abruptly, the music came to a stop as the song ended, and they all clapped and cheered. Ivy glanced at Crispin in the firelight, and he was beautiful but he wasn’t smiling like the others. He was looking at her with hot intensity. She knew that expression. Hungry. Determined.
‘Time for bed now, children,’ he said, giving the harpist a coin and pushing him towards the door. ‘Come now, say your prayers.’
‘It will take them an age to get settled after that,’ Ivy said.
He leaned close, whispering in her ear, ‘I will be back. Unlock the door. I’ll be waiting.’
She nodded. Her body felt strange, full of both desire and apprehension. ‘Come, children. Perhaps Goldie will tell us a story to calm us down.’ While Goldie told the story, Ivy slipped away to unlock the secret door.
After an hour, the children were finally asleep and Ivy slipped into her bower and closed the door behind her. Crispin lay on the bed, completely naked. He had stoked the fire, so the room was warm despite the creeping sea wind outside. He sat up and patted the blanket next to him. His fire-lit skin looked so inviting. She lay down and reached for his chest, her fingers meandering through the coarse hair.
He kissed her. Gently.
Then the words returned to her mind: I’m going to stick her like a pig. Her body tensed.
‘Is all well, my love?’ he asked, drawing back. So gentle. So kind.
Surely the whole week had not been some kind of performance?
Ivy berated herself. How could she think such a thing?
‘Yes, yes. I am fine.’ She forced herself to relax.
He brought himself over her, one elbow either side. ‘Ivy, I want to fu
ck you.’
She wanted that too. But she also didn’t want it. She wanted to know if his love this week had been genuine. She wanted to know which version of Crispin, precisely, was going to be doing the fucking.
So – curious, brave, frightened – she said, ‘No.’
Everything changed in a moment. His body was a stone on top of her, his hands flat on the insides of her elbows. ‘I think you mean yes. Don’t you?’ His tone allowed no disagreement.
‘We should wait until after the wedding.’ The words came out so evenly, but she felt far from even. Her body shrank from him. All desire had evaporated. She knew his face but felt as though she was looking at a stranger’s eyes. ‘Crispin,’ she said. ‘Get off me.’
He sat back, and immediately guilt rushed in where fear had just been.
It lasted only a moment. He flipped her over, one hand in the small of her back pinning her roughly to the bed, the other pulling up her skirt.
‘No!’ she cried. ‘No, stop! Stop!’
The bedroom door opened and a little voice said, ‘Mama?’
What happened next was a blur. She felt Crispin’s weight leaving her, and flipped over in time to see Crispin had seized a blanket to cover his nakedness, and with his free hand smacked Eadric under his jaw. The lad went flying.
Ivy gasped and fell to her knees next to her son. ‘What have you done? What have you done?’
Eadric fought her off and jumped to his feet, and rammed into Crispin as hard as he could. Crispin caught him, but this time he was gentle. ‘Wait, wait, little fellow. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t …’
Ivy stared up at Crispin round-eyed, wondering how he was going to make the blow seem less than it had been. She hoped fervently that it would be a convincing excuse, even while knowing in her heart that no such excuse existed.
‘I think we should …’ Crispin trailed off again, lost for words. ‘Let me get dressed,’ he said, and closed the bower door in their faces.