The peregrine falcon had seen her quarry. A jay flew, a little wild, cutting across. Again the peregrine falcon stooped, a drop of two hundred feet at least, and smashed the jay’s breast in her claws.
Alert, Jak watched. “I am a fool, of course,” he told the sky and the dark spread of raptor wings high above. “To love a girl I’ve not seen for so long. She could be wedded to another, she might be a mother, a rich doctor, or a poor market trader. But I love more than the memory of her. I love whatever she has become.”
He shaded his eyes against the sun as the bird returned.
“But watching you, I learn my own moves,” Jak murmured. “For your great strength is not your beauty, but your skill, and how, when you stoop, you strike not where the quarry was when you saw and desired it. You aim for where the quarry will be when you reach it. In an instant, you judge distance, the current of the air, wind and cloud, and most of all the speed of the thing you plan to kill. All this in a blink. And since I have flown you, you have never missed. It is this, then, that you must teach me.”
She had returned swiftly to his hand, and Jak fed her, smiling. “You are remarkably beautiful,” he told her, voice soft as the whispered folding of her primary feathers. “But it is time I went home.”
The Islander was striding over to him and nodded. So Jak nodded back, and again released the peregrine falcon, this time back to the wild. He took off the gauntlets and returned them to his visitor. “Well,” he said, half-smiling, “I once had a passion for falconry, and have enjoyed the last few hours. But what do you want of me now? Your king’s waiting, I suppose. But who are you? My prison guard?”
The chuckle seemed genuine enough. “My name’s Sprod. Sprod-Wandle, if you need it all. I’ve never guarded anything except perhaps my wife, and I’ll be escorting you, not dragging nor arresting.”
“I am here very much against my will,” Jak said.
“Perhaps.” said Sprod without noticeable interest. “But we buy all our workers since we don’t have enough, and we want good work in exchange. But we treat our workers well, don’t you think? And our island is no prison.”
“It’s beautiful. So why do you want Shamm as well?”
“It’s a long story,” Sprod said. “And it’s why we all have two names. But it’s the king who’ll tell you all about it. Come to enjoy the rest of your day as well.”
Chapter Five
She walked home without hurrying, for having been given both permission and motive to leave the stewe for some hours, she had no intention of arriving back too soon. Dragging her feet, she wandered back from the market, the basket of fresh herbs and other ingredients over her well-coated arm, watching the slurp and slop of the river beneath the Bridge, and the gradual passage of the grey clouds above etching their reflections on the surface of the Corn below.
Crossing the Bridge, she pulled her cape tighter around her as the squalls swept up from the estuary. The gulls were also in from the Eastern Sea, wailing their hunger and squabbling for scraps. She was nearly home. Then she heard the harsh voice directly behind her shoulder. “That’s the whore. Take her.”
Whirling around she faced Kallivan who stood there, narrow-eyed in the gusts of chill and blustering wind, encased in slate satin damask and fully armed, with his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Four men stood beside him. It was two of them who grabbed Freya. They were Bog Dock louts.
Freya struggled and shouted, hoping for the attention of shoppers and the alarm of those close by. Two women hurried over. “What’s going on? Bullies and thieves. Leave the girl alone.”
One of the men shook his head, not loosening his grip on Freya’s arm. Another lout, even larger, held her other arm. Two more stood behind, one of whom said, “I ain’t no bully, nor no thief. This be my sister’s daughter and a wicked lass what took herself to the stewes. Don’t you worry none, mistress. Tis a favour I does my sister, to take the naughty girl back to her proper family.”
But it was Kallivan himself who pushed forwards. “As the local lord, I have authorised this enforced return of the female to her family,” he gazed frost-eyed, at the buzzing crowd. “Out of my way now, or I shall enforce other arrests.”
“An arrest?” one man queried, frowning and puzzled.” Tis only kings and priests wot does arrests. Reckon the lass be old enough to make her own decisions. Tis a right good whore house, that one.”
Still yelling and pulling away, Freya screamed, “I’m not this man’s niece. It’s a lie.” A tall priest, his habit flowing through the puddles, looked, frowned, and turned away. A small crowd gathered but Kallivan was dressed as a lord and a lord was not easily contradicted. It was still too far from the brothel for Edilla or anyone there to hear, or to realise how the squabble had begun. Tom was still injured in bed, Udovox had not returned, and the guard would be marching the corridors listening for complaints from any of the girls.
One young man, no doubt aiming for the stewe, turned, perhaps recognising Freya. He frowned. “What’s happening?”
Freya kept begging for help. She managed to bite the hand of the lout who imprisoned her now, both his hands around her neck, and he yelped. But another stepped in, grabbing her wrists, his arms hard at her back, forcing up both her hands together, the pain suddenly violent. Then it all went wrong again.
Stepping forwards, Kallivan faced the young man. “Ah. I know you, I believe. The young Brin of Cobmoor, isn’t it? I trust you don’t intend interfering with my legal business here?”
Blushes deepened. “Sir Kallivan. Well, of course not, my lord. Legal business, you say?”
“He’s lying,” she screamed.
“This female is to be hauled before the magistrates,” Sir Kallivan informed the quickly increasing crowd. “She is a harlot and has been caught purse-cutting. Now, step out of my way.”
Furious and desperate, Freya swung her head free of the hand firm over her mouth, shouting, “He’s the one who should be arrested. He killed his mistress’s husband. Poison. He did it.”
Quite still and lowering his voice, Kallivan stared at the girl struggling in front of him. His face froze, pale eyes glaring. “And what,” he spat, “would a stewe maggot know about my private business?”
The cobbled thoroughfare had turned into growing chaos. Shopkeepers, a boy leading a donkey, and a dozen passers-by were now squeezing around, wanting to find out the truth, ready for gossip and dramatic consequences, action and excitement. But Freya could no longer explain herself nor beg for help since two men gripped her and she was silenced by their hands. She was hauled away. The crowd parted for them, staring, open-mouthed, and muttering. Someone threw a handful of dirt from the gutter, slopping down Freya’s skirts. Insults were shouted, for the grand lord’s accusations were accepted. The grip on her arms bit into her flesh. As she struggled, her hair tousled in her eyes, her head spinning. She couldn’t imagine what Kallivan wanted to do with her, except kill her. She heard the last echoes of the unknown voice shouting, “Don’t beat up all the whores. What’ll we do without them?” But Kallivan marched ahead, as though leading a procession.
The last person Freya saw was a wandering knackerer, piping his tunes and dancing across the bridge, shoes like polished silk and tassels swinging from his doublet skirts. He didn’t even stop to beg but continued to kick his heels and point his toes, both hands to his pipe as the little drum around his neck bobbed to the tune. He saw Freya and looked straight into her eyes. She thought for a moment that she knew him and that he knew her. Then she didn’t see him anymore. She didn’t see anything. But she felt the knuckled fist smashing into her face, and then a second thumping blow to her chin. The thump thundered into her temple, and after that she saw only darkness.
She opened her eyes to the flare of a candle, voices, high pitched and shrieking. “Why, in the name of all the saints, did you have to bring the slut here?”
“For you to see, of course, you stupid bitch,” said Sir Kallivan. “Then eventually I’ll get rid of her into
the river. I know her, but you know her better since you were once desperate to keep your pathetic stepson away from her. And I need to be sure of exactly who she is.”
“You know that already.”
“I simply saw her in the street. I remembered her from the shop, and the stupidly bad service she gave me. I have – other reasons – not to trust her. To dislike her. But I meant no further attack until she announced to the crowd that I had poisoned my mistress’s husband.” He glared at Valeria. “Now – how does she know that?”
“And how should I recognise the trollop, I’d like to know? Do I frequent brothels, my lord?”
“Perhaps you should. You’d learn a good deal.” Kallivan’s voice.
“I take it, sir,” answered Valeria, “that you do, sir. Is that why you beat this trollop? Because you know her from the stewe?”
Another woman said, “I really can’t imagine why you’re so aggravated, sir. Surely you’ve risked more, taking her from that place and bringing her here? Why was it necessary? Will you not now be implicated in her disappearance.”
“The disappearance of one strumpet amongst a thousand?” Kallivan was pacing the floor. Freya felt the vibrations. She had been hurled to the floorboards, not bound but gagged with rags. Once regaining consciousness, everything hurt. “No one even followed us. But the vixen had recognised me and was ready to bring trouble against me.”
“Recognised you? From where? And doing what exactly, sir?”
“Even harlots presumably have friends,” said the second woman. “The Madam may call for compensation. Perhaps an accusation of murder and kidnap? Or is that just acceptable practise in such places? I can hardly be expected to know how these things are managed.”
“Then stop twittering nonsense madam, and listen to me,” said Sir Kallivan. “This woman once ran an apothecary’s shop. I’d been advised that she sold poisons, and went there to buy one, and you know exactly what that was for, Valeria. If anyone demands to know her whereabouts, I shall simply say I punished the wench and then set her free. But I have not the slightest intention of doing so, for there’s a good deal more involved here.” He spoke between gritted teeth. “Even you, my lady, should be able to see the implicit danger.”
“Sit the creature up,” Valeria said. “Let me see her properly.”
Her once pretty clothes were now torn and dishevelled. Tucked between her breasts, Jak’s ring felt strangely hot, like gold straight from the forge. She hoped no one would see it, nor recognise it.
Kallivan’s hands under her arms lifted her and then slung her back against the wall. The raging headache increased. Freya tried to sit straight and curl her legs further up beneath her skirts. Then she looked at the faces glaring back at her. She knew this to be Valeria Lydiard, Jak’s stepmother. The other woman was some drab, elderly thing in faded puce. Freya babbled in fury, her tongue stuck beneath the rag in her mouth.
The dowager stared at her, peering closely, so that Freya saw all the little red veins in her protuberant eyes, the minute maze of encroaching years. The mole high on her left cheekbone was flat and ragged shaped, with a brown fuzz across its surface. “Yes, it’s her,” she said slowly. “Now I know exactly who she is, though it has been some years since I saw her last. She was one of Godfrey’s tenants, the local witch’s daughter or some such, and one of young Jak’s trollops, always trailing after him. But then, of course, she turned up in the city and worked in the apothecary shop. So that’s who you bought the poison from? How very stupid of you, Kallivan.”
His sneer was pronounced. “No, madam, I did not. I finally bought it from a Fixer, and never specifically mentioned poison to this trollop. And in any case, how would I have known her?”
“Clearly she knows you, sir.”
“Yet although I obtained the poison, it was you, madam, who gave it to your husband to drink. You murdered him, and I did not.”
“Hush, sir. What foolishness. You watch your words until the hussy is dead and gone herself.”
Kallivan frowned. “She will not survive. Exactly what I intend doing – well, I’ve several options,” he said. “But releasing her is not one. She already knows too much.”
The drab elderly woman shook her head. “I’ve never seen her before. She’s simply an ignorant whore. Get rid of her before someone traces her here.”
Kallivan drew up a small chair and sat neatly on the edge, running his hands back through the thin strands of his pale hair. He looked cold. The room was small, the solar of the shabby leased quarters, with meagre dark furniture and a barely sparking flame in a small hearth. Dust drifted like sand smears in the glow from the fire and the one cheap tallow candle. Freya remained on the floor, glaring up at everyone. Kallivan continued, “She claimed to know that a warrant was out against me. I believe this is a lie. My address at court is well known, but no guards have come, and my wife has never been approached. But it concerns me. What if measures have been put in place and information given against us?”
“I’d guess you’ve another reason, sir.” The dowager was suspicious. She turned to her elderly companion. “Graddia, my dear, this is too much of a private matter. I should appreciate your leaving us for a moment or two.”
“As if I don’t know your private business,” muttered the woman.
“Nevertheless,” Kallivan said, standing and opening the door for her to leave. The woman flounced from the room and Kallivan shut the door behind her with a snap. “I don’t see why you keep that absurd crow around.”
“Because your diligent and constantly cheerful companionship should be sufficient?” demanded the dowager. “Come here, sir, and explain more fully what all this is about. Although I believe I can guess. You say she recognised you. That would be of no moment unless she witnessed you involved in something illegal or improper. So the trollop saw you in some vile perversion with one of your little girls? Very well, she has to go. I’ve neither interest nor objection. But you dare bring her here, to implicate me too?”
“Why not?” his smile was unpleasant. “You once wanted her removed rather than permit your step-son’s marriage.”
“Naturally. Since his marriage and expected heir, even once he was dead, would remove me from the line of succession. Don’t be waspish, sir. You know my motives, and I know yours. You know why I wished to be sure Jak wouldn’t wed this little slut, so there are three motives, as I see it, for throwing this trollop from the Bridge.”
“I intend making far more sure than that,” Kallivan said, the frosty smile still in place. “I can promise you she won’t survive.”
“That’s what you said regarding my step-son,” Valeria said, stiff-backed. “Yet we still have no proof of his death. Not a whisper.”
“Now who speaks too much, madam?”
“Even more reason to kill this little slut quickly,” insisted the dowager “And get her out of my sight before the neighbours hear or see. Then wake up to your responsibilities,”
“I’ll find somewhere else to keep her,” nodded Sir Kallivan. “I’ve a dozen places where no one will ever find her.”
“Keep her? Why keep her anywhere?’
His eyes narrowed. “You’ve no right to question me, madam, but I shall answer this once, since the reason is important. And listen carefully, madam, since it involves you too. As I’ve told you already, the bitch speaks of a warrant for my arrest. I need to know the truth. Is she lying? Or does such a thing exist – unsigned as yet, perhaps – or simply considered? Does the king know of the slander against me? Yes, he is my grandfather, but I distrust him above most others, and we share no friendship. If he considers me a danger to his position, he will order whatever he likes against me. Therefore, I’ll keep the whore alive until I know the answers which may keep me alive. And you, madam, will be aware, and careful whom you speak to. Do not mention me in any sense while conversing with those in authority. In other words, my dear, keep your damn mouth closed.”
The dowager flinched. “Then hide yourself too,”
sniffed the Lady Valeria. “It is quite beyond me why you ever need to go to those foul corrupt places, which is the cause of all this trouble. So go to practise your nasty temptations elsewhere, my lord. Find out all you want from the trollop and no doubt you’ll enjoy the interrogation. Then strangle her. After that we can all sleep in peace again.”
“But I can hardly carry a bundle through London’s streets twice in one day. So I sent Ned to find the usual Fixer. It’s already arranged.”
“Another villain coming here? Bringing more gossip to my door?”
“Don’t be absurd,” he insisted. “The Fixer will take her where I tell him, or perhaps recommend some safe hiding place himself. He’ll do a good job, I guarantee it, and no one except him and myself will have any idea where she is. Once I get her talking, then I’ll kill the whore.”
“And who is this ruffian I have to admit into my house, sir?”
“It’s no concern of yours,” Kallivan said. “I’m going to send one of my men to call him now. His name’s Bembitt, and I trust him.
Freya thought she would vomit and closed her eyes. Then, with a very deep breath, tugging down the rags over her mouth, she screamed and struggled to her feet, her legs shaking. She was weak and in considerable pain and was easily caught. Valeria’s solid wedge of breasts tightly confined in their brocade and satin, squashed against Freya as she clutched at her shoulders. “Take the slut. But finish her, don’t play too long. She now knows enough to ruin us entirely.”
The Mill Page 6