The Mill

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “You’re a good doctor yourself, Tom. You healed my back when I first arrived. But I’ve taught you more since, and I’ve doctored nearly every girl in the house at one time or another.” Freya leaned forwards, glad of the subject change.

  “Goose grease,” he said witheringly, with a toss of his curls, “is hardly an art. And we are a house of pleasure, not a hospice or some miserable hermitage for the treatment of leprosy and the pox. Now, the twitch of a hot tongue and the twist of the fingers along the shaft of the erection, that is the art of bliss.”

  “I prefer a good bacon and vegetable pottage,” Freya mumbled, “which can be infinitely more exciting.”

  “Which is why, Symon’s lady, a woman is denied the more delightful experiences which are reserved only for those with the sensitivity to understand, to realise the thrill of touch, and the addition of a full imagination. All this only for the male, in other words, my dear, who understands the joys of such a game.”

  Freya had heard these explanations before and knew she was being teased, rather than insulted. She said, “The game? Tom, dear, you said you came to talk of other things. If not our horrible job nor the doctoring, what then? Are you hoping to throw me out?

  “What shocking lack of the tender feelings,” Tom complained. “Indeed, the one proof that some of our gods are good, is the creation of the arse. It is a purse of softest silk and even more subtly designed than the cods. However, it is the prick you should learn to appreciate since swiving tarse to tarse is beyond your feeble feminine appreciation.”

  Freya sniffed. “You men are so ridiculously proud of your pricks,” she said, “but believe me, it’s rarely their most attractive part.”

  “I assure you, dear child,” Tom tittered. “at least a quarter of all the religious folk of this land spend as much time on their knees doing the unspeakable as they do on their knees begging some wretched god’s forgiveness afterwards for having done it.”

  Freya abruptly swung her legs from the bed, threw off the covers, pulled on her warm cloak and wrapped her arms around herself. “Enough priests come here, certainly,” she smiled at her uncompromising visitor. “But if men were so superior as you’d like to think dear Tom, then why is it that most men want only women? Because we’re prettier. We’re nicer. We’re kinder. We don’t march off to battle or dream of sticking our swords into other men’s faces.”

  “Only of trapping some wretched man in his own dwelling and slicing off his cods.” So he had heard about her revenge on the man Bryte who had raped, beaten, and thrown her into prostitution. “Or was it his prick you beheaded, my dear? As proof of the kindness of females?”

  Freya was momentarily surprised. Then she said quickly, “I notice you haven’t dared claim that men also have brains.” She interrupted his probable reply with a derisive snort. “You’ve never yet sent me a man who gives me the slightest pleasure,” she continued, shaking her head. “But nor do I want one. I told you, I find it all boring.”

  “I am shocked, Symon’s girl. I am horrified.” Tom stared back, then stood and with great elegance, crossed to the door, where he turned, looking back at her with a superior smile. “I shall have to do something about this appalling lack of understanding,” he said softly. “Beware, my child. You have a surprise coming.”

  Freya had once again climbed beneath the bed covers and was sitting hugging her knees. “You can’t surprise me, Tom. I’m passed it. But I have to work. I know that. Send me anyone. I don’t care. Just make sure he isn’t a priest, a thief or a brute.”

  Smiling to himself as he strode back up the stairs to his own apartment, Tom realised that he had not even mentioned the one thing on his mind, and the only reason he had visited Freya that morning.

  He was missing Udovox since they were rarely apart, but he hoped to hear the good news soon. He and his lover had discussed this matter at great length during the past ten-day, at first enthusiastic, then doubting, nervous and reluctant, then discovering enthusiasm once more and making the final positive decision. And, even more determined than himself, Udovox had travelled that long way north to see his parents, to borrow his inheritance ahead of time, and make the final arrangements for setting up the apothecary shop in Lydiard, where Freya could both return home to a place that had never known her as a whore, and begin a new life doing the one thing she loved.

  It would be easy enough to explain this flame-lit plan later or another day, when Freya was feeling more complacent, even placid. Or perhaps even wait until Udovox returned with the full glorious explanation, money in hand, maybe even the premises rented and ready to begin.

  Chapter Two

  The Dowager of Lydiard had departed from her two small chambers at court with both reluctance and determination. Leaving had been both convenient and inconvenient. Her new chambers were no larger, however, and the furnishings which she had brought with her, no more elaborate. She had leased four small rooms above a potter’s shop in Splutter Lane at the far end of Goldsmith’s Row and was immediately and uncomfortably aware that not far off, her late husband’s feeble brained mistress now resided in considerably greater luxury than she did herself.

  Regarding the woman with casual amusement, Sir Kallivan shrugged. “Once, Valeria my dear, you might have been welcomed back into my rooms at court and taken up residence there beside me. The fools at court already assume you’re my mistress, of course, and the subsequent scandal would have been a delightful diversion. However, the motives for my refusing you the comforts of my small but luxurious home are quite considerable, and I’m sure you don’t need me to explain.”

  “Your silly little fiancé.” Valeria remained seated, hands clasped in her lap, and stared at her knuckles and the slight ridge left where once she had worn the large diamond ring she had admired, until it had been reclaimed by the step-son she loathed. She sighed deeply. “Though why you should bother either with the insipid child’s sensitivities, or with her plebeian need of propriety, I have no idea, Kallivan.”

  “For profit, madam, why else?” He clicked his tongue, impatient. “Because of my imminent marriage, I will now own my own house, instead of simply being a tenant in one of the smaller apartments at court. And my singularly rich and powerful father-in-law will continue to pay for my choices.”

  “And nor would I object to that,” objected Valeria, “if you’d just make sure that wretched step-son of mine is dead.”

  “He is dead.”

  “But it has to be proved, Kallivan, not simply suggested.”

  The pale man sighed. “You expect me to admit murdering the boy simply for your immediate monetary gain?”

  She pursed her lips. “I helped you when I had funds, sir. Now I’m impoverished. I need your help. Naturally I don’t expect you to talk of murder, that’s absurd, but a sailor perhaps, one of those ugly little boys who scrub decks or climb masts. Why can’t you bribe some whelp who’d swear he’d seen Jak fall headfirst overboard? Perhaps then being eaten by a passing sea monster?”

  “His sea trip is part of the secret, madam if you remember. Your step-son left – let us say – somewhat against his will. I have no wish to make his journey public.”

  “Then some other accidental death which might be witnessed?”

  “Falling from a tree, perhaps? But without leaving any noticeable corpse? Devoured by squirrels, I imagine?”

  “This is hardly the moment for levity, sir.” The lady again twisted her remaining rings. “If no one declares the wretched boy dead, he will be assumed still alive. And I shall remain in poverty for many a long year.”

  “Before, let us say, so conveniently disappearing, I believe he laid a complaint against me,” Kallivan said, turning away. “An accusation with regard to your husband’s death. I’ll not risk being implicated in another slaughter within the same family.”

  It was her new quarters where they now sat, the tentative sunlight translucent through the polished horn window. It was not a grand apartment. The dowager shook her head without
any movement of the very stiff little headdress perched atop it. “I have the falsified testament and codicil in my possession. With that, I have the right to all the farms, the forest and the scrubby hills around it immediately on John’s death. Only the manor itself is entailed, with some paltry surrounding land, and I’ve no desire to claim the ugly old place anyway. Bad memories. Gloomy and outworn chambers. But I’d gain sufficient funds and properties to start a new life. But first Jak must be legally pronounced dead for me to get my hands on it.”

  Kallivan yawned. “Since it was I who arranged the documents and organised the falsification of the codicil, you need hardly detail the situation to me, madam.”

  “But the accepted proof of his death, why not falsify that too if the actual death can’t be proved?”

  “Enough.” Kallivan turned, his expression abruptly cold. “Be careful, Valeria. I will not be chased or controlled. The boy’s death has been arranged and must now already be achieved. Assuredly he is dead. The proof of it will come in time, but not through me. You will wait, as we have all waited in the past. And until you come into possession of the Lydiard lands, you will sit quietly and be grateful for what I allow you, and for what I lend to you. You will not starve.”

  The lady bit her lip. “You despise me, Kallivan. You dismiss me. But after everything I’ve done? You tell me to be grateful, but where’s your own gratitude, sir? And remember, I am not so old nor so plain not to find another man should I wish.”

  He laughed. “Then do so. I would hardly care.”

  Her window overlooked the last shops of the busy alley, and she had acquired the habit of watching those who passed below, the fine citizens of Eden in their glorious winter furs. She stared again now, looking down from her seat. The window, not being glassed, gave less light through its thin horn covering, but she still saw and pined. “I am misused, Kallivan,” she said faintly. “I dare not even walk the lanes below in case the people see how my gown is patched and my shoes cracked and worn.”

  “You poisoned your husband. You ensured your step-son’s death. Yet you dare not order a few gowns from the tailor and fail to pay the tally? It is, after all, the habit of every other lord of the land.”

  “I – did,” she hiccupped and looked down once more into her lap. “And too often. My debts are known. There is no one else to turn to.”

  “What a fool you are, my dear.” He turned his back, walking to the door. But there he stopped and looked over his shoulder. He had taken the purse from his belt and now threw it towards her. It landed heavily on the little rug, its ties too tight to open. But it was full and fell with a thud that shook the boards. “Take it,” he said. “I won’t have it known that my mistress walks in patched clothes.”

  “You toss me coin, like a bawd or a whore?”

  “You are a whore, Valeria.” He again turned his back, one hand to the door handle. He did not look at her again, but said softly, “You have always been a whore. That was your attraction, madam, and the only reason I first took you to my bed.”

  “There’s no whore has the knowledge and skill that I have, nor offer you the outlandish experiments you enjoy so much.” Flinging up both arms, she raised her voice. “Shall I go and explain to your new little child-wife about the weirdly exciting games you insist on playing every night?”

  “There are two days before my marriage, as you know, Valeria.” Kallivan scowled, his hand to the door. “You will certainly not attend the ceremony, and I do not know when I shall choose to see you next. But you may explain whatever you wish to the child once the papers are signed and the Verney gifts are legally mine.”

  She had begun to cry, but as the door slammed shut behind him, she leapt up and grabbed the purse from the floor. Then she stamped her foot, her shoe being bright, soft and new, and said, “Very clever, my love, very smart. But I am a whole lot smarter. If you think you’ll enjoy your silly little wife’s inheritance all on your own, then you underestimate me, as you always have.”

  Her lover heard nothing as he marched around to the stables at the back, mounted his fine new mare, and rode back to court. But the dowager’s elderly companion, who had been listening at the door from the adjacent chamber, heard as was intended, and entered quickly.

  “My dear. The wretched creature has left?”

  “Oh, Graddia. How unkind the men always are.” Valeria flopped back onto the window seat, pulled the purse strings and tipped its contents into her scarlet brocade lap. “We are lucky to be widows, and at least have the freedom to make our own decisions – if not the funds to conclude them.”

  Mistress Graddia tittered. “We will triumph, Valeria dear, as always. In the end, we shall gain everything. And without the disadvantages of some male romping in our beds. Sordid and smelly with sweat and saliva and – semen.”

  Lady Valeria did not seem quite so convinced. “Indeed, Sir Kallivan, since his engagement perhaps – but even before – has seemed less inclined. It is not something I should lament of course, Graddia dear, but I cannot help feeling – and not wishing to appear yet quite so old – nor unattractive.”

  “But my dear,” watching as the dowager carefully counted out the clinking and tumbling heap of coins weighing down her skirts, “can you not find – that is, someone somewhat more of your own quality, my dear?” The dowager’s companion seated herself on the chair that Sir Kallivan had recently vacated. She spoke tentatively and with some care. “You have a knight of the realm, and a dashing gentleman, no doubt, Lady Valeria. But is Sir Kallivan not – a little – that is to say – strange? His hair is almost white, and it is so thin across his head. His skin is fashionably pale, it is true, but perhaps even too pale, and it is blotched in places as though diseased. And those eyes!”

  “Those eyes, madam?” The dowager stared, unblinking. “And what of those eyes?” Sitting straight and unmoving, she allowed the coins to slip from her lap to the floor, a steady jingle of silver which then rolled and found the shadowed corners of the room. The threat in her voice was undisguised. “Be very careful what you say, madam, and remember one thing which should always remain uppermost in your mind. I am at liberty to criticise this man and will do so. I expect your agreement. But you are not at liberty to make your own criticisms. You are my – paid – companion, mistress. Not the other way around.”

  The older woman hung her head. “But we are friends, Valeria, are we not? Though I am sorry, truly sorry if I have offended you, my dear.”

  “No matter.” The dowager stood, crossing briskly to the door. “I am going to my bedchamber to rest. You may think over what I’ve said while you are collecting the coins from the floor.” She turned once at the doorway. “And I have already counted them, Graddia. Don’t think to – mislay – a single one.”

  Valeria had already decided that it was time to find a new female companion.

  Most, indeed, were pleasant enough. Not all – but most.

  “Pretty Mistress of the web, let me introduce my closest friend. In fact, my Birdy.”

  “Your best friend, sir?”

  “Oh, yes, most certainly, mistress. I call him Ossall.”

  “Is there any special reason for your friend’s name, sir?”

  “Indeed yes, for my birdy is O – So – Satisfying, and – Loves to Lick.”

  “I shall remember his name forever, sir.”

  But not all gentlemen were so confident. It was, which was exceedingly rare, Mistress Edilla who brought him to Freya’s room. “Freya, my dear,” the bordello’s owner announced, “see what a charming visitor you have: A young gentleman who wishes the special pleasure of an hour with you.” She was already counting out the florins he had paid. Tom had escalated Freya’s charge: a good advertisement perhaps, bringing false acclaim. But she wondered if he’d also told this boy, as he often threatened he would, that she was a useless and inexperienced whore and quite as cold as a marble floor in winter.

  Instead, the boy seemed childishly eager, seemingly younger than she was her
self. Now nearly twenty years of age, Freya felt tiresomely aged, into her dotage perhaps, or at the very least too old to change her life. But this customer was well dressed without being over-extravagant in fur trimmings, no elaborate sleeve slashings or embroidered codpiece. His hair was neat with a well-washed gleam, and he had a sweetish look, plump cheeked and full-lipped. At least his teeth weren’t rotting, his breath didn’t stink of sour bile or his body of month-old sweat, but it wasn’t until her chamber door was carefully closed that he demonstrated any confidence. Then with sudden energy, he kicked off his boots, threw himself on the pink velvet bedcover, and began to grin. “Great Heavens,” he said cheerfully. “Here at last.”

  Wondering whether this boy was the gift Tom had promised her that morning, Freya smiled back. “Before we start,” she said, “I should like to know if you wouldn’t mind telling me, my lord, just how old you are?” It wasn’t the most seductive beginning, but she wasn’t prepared to start ravishing virgins.

  He said, still grinning widely which showed more teeth than she thought most people had, “I’m not a newborn babe, mistress and if you think I mightn’t know what to do, I can hopefully put your mind at rest over the next hour. Let’s start with you undressing.”

  “I don’t do that,” she said. “And there are other things I don’t do. If being naked is important to you, I can pass you over to one of the other girls.”

  He didn’t seem comfortable with the business-like emphasis. “I suppose not,” he mumbled, then brightened. “Until we get to know each other, that is. Of course, I intend to become a regular visitor, and so in time, you’ll trust me and undress every time. Maybe there’s a special thrill in tussling with all those skirts, but I must say I like the idea of willing naked flesh best. In the meantime, well, I’ll be patient.”