“Well, she saved Milldy’s life.”
Thribb thought a moment. “Want meet her,” he gulped. “Save me too.”
Thinking this a rather stupid and impossible request, Welba raised the cup of ale to Thribb’s mouth. “Her majesty is speaking with our chief nurse,” she said. “And I don’t think she’d agree. She’s already spent such a lot of time on Milldy.”
Still scowling, still struggling to speak, Thribb managed, “I know her. Past. Knows me. Important.”
Pausing, sitting, and thinking, Welba first shook her head, and then briefly nodded. She said, “I’ll wait until her majesty is leaving. Once she’s finished her own business, then I shall try and ask her. Does her majesty know you by name?”
“She does,” coughed Thribb.
Within the snug semi-comfort of the medicine room, her majesty stretched her boots to the fire and continued to delve the various possibilities for her future. “I hope you realise,” she told Tandy, “that if I give birth to a living child, which the king sees and knows full well cannot be his own, I will almost certainly be executed, and the child beside me.”
With a defiant snort, her majesty hid the shivers and the tears, but the probability of having her head sliced from her neck was not likely to fool Tandy into thinking her queen unaffected. “Your majesty,” she said, “I will gladly do whatever I can. For instance, together we could invent a condition, and attempt to convince both his majesty and whatever doctor resides at the palace, that this condition produces virgin births. Or a birth which has lain asleep in your womb for two years, being a rare but known condition.”
“His majesty is a pig-turd of considerable malice, but no fool,” sighed the queen. “He’ll never believe either.”
“Then,” smiled Tandy, “permit me to accompany Milldy when she comes to the palace to work as you have promised her. When the time comes for your majesty to give birth, I will be in attendance, and so will Milldy. We will then state that the baby is hers. But she will look after it, and you can see your affectionate little bump whenever you wish.”
Immediately standing, Denda threw her arms around Tandy’s neck. “That’s the solution,” she said. “The perfect solution. I’ve even heard of that happening successfully before.”
Chapter Twenty-One
With the deep snores of Toby beside him, Symon lay flat on his back gazing up sightlessly at the grime over his head, thinking of other matters entirely.
Beneath his bedchamber, the Molly House squatted in ruins. Interior walls were missing, and one exterior wall blew in the Probyn winds, the vibration echoing to the top level where Symon’s old bedchamber shuddered and tipped.
His bed had never been comfortable but lavish comfort had never confronted him since birth, so he had not thought to challenge discomfort, nor hunger, nor general pain.
It was different now.
Warm and sleeping deep at his master’s side, Symon’s arm across his back, Toby snored softly in absolute contentment. Symon wondered what such an emotion would be like, and whether a man was capable of a similar pleasure. His last months with Lord Lydiard had forced him to think of things which had never crossed his mind before. The affection which he had grown for Freya was not the first care he had ever known, since he had cared for almost every boy living below, and many others, both men and women, whom he had led and trained, yet never before had he known the care and respect he had learned for Jak Lydiard.
Being born of different worlds, caring for different standards, and breeding different ambitions, Symon did not sink into either envy nor any desire to emulate the man he could now call friend. But contemplation led to doubt, and Symon wondered if he had ever liked himself, and further, whether self-liking would be an advantage.
With a slowly forming list, at first intending to be one of pride, but then advancing into memories of those achievements of which he was more ashamed than proud, Symon felt a weight of dislike for himself which had never burdened him before. He had never contemplated or judged himself. He did, and had always done, what seemed right at the time. He did what he said he would do. It had been his only aim, for all else had not been his concern.
Now self-dislike swirled like Probyn winds, and at more than fifty years, he was not entirely sure how old, he was discovering shame, deep disappointment and even – just a little – self-loathing. There were tears, unshed, in his eyes. It was not self-pity, nor new-found guilt and shame, although both those trickled bleak through his thoughts. It was the discovery of self-analysis, and the realisation that his life would never be the same, never as simple nor as obvious as it had seemed. It had been one choice – one path – one decision – one consequence. Now that faded as clouds formed but dissolved before they could be judged, and nothing would ever be simply right – or wrong – again.
Symon rolled over, the arthritis in one hip beginning to scream, and Toby twitched, then cuddled tighter.
The horses were brought around to the front of the building, the guards reformed, the drummer took up his drum, the pipers raised their pipes ready to blast their call, and the two ladies in waiting came rushing from the kitchen fire, and were helped once more onto horseback.
As the queen, cloak well wrapped and hood up, came from the main building, the Good-doer Welba, a little fearfully, hurried to her side and curtsied. “Your majesty, I have a patient named Thribb. He says he knows you and must speak to you urgently.”
The queen tapped her foot. “He’s sick? Good. Yes, I knew Thribb many years ago in the south, and disliked him exceedingly.”
Welba was taken aback. “I understood he was a great hero,” she murmured. “He was horribly injured in one eye when saving the lives of others.”
“Nonsense,” said the queen. “He lost that eye when he tried to rob three young women in the south, killed one and almost killed another, taking their jewels and possessions. Then in desperation one of the small children threw a sulphur sparkler at him, and it exploded in his eye.”
Somewhat shocked, Welba stepped back. “Then forgive me, your majesty. I should not have spoken. But the man said it was urgent.”
“I suppose I can spare a minute,” said Denda, and marched back into the hospital. The priest was hovering, but she walked past him and strode to the bed where Welba led. Thribb had managed to sit, supported by pillows. Staring down at him with the haughty arrogance of a queen, which she often practised but never felt, she said, “You. And why do you think I might have any wish to speak with you, Thribb. Do you forget what I know about you?”
He was smiling faintly, one eye glinting as he turned his head, showing the thin scar than still stood red between the stiches. “Denda,” he murmured, voice muffled, more croak than words. “Know bad of me.” She nodded, frowning. Thribb still smiled. “Me – know good of you.” Again she nodded. “Bad of son.”
“Yes. Sir noble Kallivan.” Denda nodded once more.
“Need good home. Bargain.”
Her frown turning to scowl, Denda said, “No attempt at blackmail?”
“No.” Thribb sank back, exhausted. Speech was an effort. “Tell king – me and Kally. Need home. Need food. Will do – what – you say. Get me money. Get me bed. I get you – everything.”
She was now sitting on the side of his mattress and the Good-doer had stepped back from earshot. Denda leaned forwards. She was thinking fast. “You could be useful. Life at court has its complications.” She did not say the word pregnancy. “But you are one of the least trustworthy men I have ever met.”
“No more.” Thribb attempted to shake his head, but this proved too painful.
“Then I shall accept the bargain you offer,” said the queen. “I shall send for you in a ten-day when your injuries should be mended. You will be brought to court, although I shall not be warning Sir Kallivan of your arrival. That can be a pleasant surprise for him, and something I shall look forward to.” She paused, and stood, brushing down her cloak. “But believe me, Thribb, should you ever break my trust,
even by one word, or give me the slightest cause for regret or disappointment, I shall have you killed immediately. And I now have that power. I have learned to be remorseless and my husband has taught me a considerable amount concerning treachery, and how to punish it.” She leaned over, until her chin almost touched the patient’s forehead. Now Denda whispered, “And you will make no attempt to contact either my elder son or his deceitful wife.”
It seemed the entire bed shivered, and Welba stepped tentatively forwards. But the patient managed another smile. “Bargain – agreed,” he whispered.
The queen left the hospital, mounted her horse, and looked down briefly at where Tandy stood waiting. Denda spoke very softly. “My dear, I shall see you in a ten-day, unless I send for you earlier. I will have rooms prepared. Bring the woman Milldy, and there will be another patient, Thribb, male, at the moment under the care of your nurse Welba. I shall send a small troop of guards and a litter. You must bring whatever you feel necessary.”
Tandy curtsied, and the small cavalcade moved off into the windswept horizon. Horseback was not the most delightful way to travel for a heavily pregnant woman, but the queen did not wish to be days on the road and four hooves moved faster than four wheels. Besides, everything had changed, plots and plans were forming like candy in a mould, and she was perfectly happy.
“I have no idea,” said Valeria, not for the first time.
Bored, stiff kneed and yawning, Jak sank back in the chair which he had wedged in front of the door. One of his stepmother’s elderly female companions was outside in the corridor, rattling the door handle and wailing. She attempted the occasional kick on the other side of the door, but Jak had laughed and told her not to damage the wood or the landlord would make her pay.
“Tell me one simple but interesting fact about Freya,” he said now, “and I may just decide to leave you alone. It’s so damned tedious. You may be lucky enough to make me drift away from sheer lassitude, a great achievement by the way, since it’s hardly something I choose often. I am usually one of those simple little ‘do it or die’ sort of idiots, never giving up and stubborn as a long-distance train. But sadly, my steam seems to be running low. I am learning the value of sleep. So, madam, one last detail to please your bored stepson, and I may decide to leave you alone.”
She stared back at him. “Pay me. And I’ll tell you everything,” she said abruptly.
He laughed. “I’ve always disliked the idea of bribery. I much prefer threat. How about – tell me everything or I’ll issue a warrant for your arrest on suspicion of murder?”
Valeria tapped her foot. “Don’t be foolish, Jak. Don’t threaten what you can’t achieve.”
Without explaining that since he now sat on the council, he could achieve exactly what he threatened, Jak leaned forwards. “Let us return to the problem of deep and utter boredom. First madam, let me introduce you to my sword. Not a badly made weapon, I would suggest. Sharp and flexible, good steel in a well-balanced blade, and a hilt that fits my hand rather nicely. Secondly, let me remind you that whether or not you diminish your chances of inheriting the Lydiard property because of aiding my marriage – I have every intention of ensuring that you never receive a ha’penny. And thirdly, although Kallivan is of royal blood and has the king’s ear, they have long disliked each other. Now, I wish to know Kallivan’s present whereabouts, and I wish to hear whatever you know of Freya and her present home. Tell me something and I may leak such rivers of boredom that I leave without questioning further.”
She decided that his eyes spoke different words, but she snapped her fingers and sat straight. “Very well, stupid boy. For what good it will do you, I shall tell you this. Kallivan has been back to his recent home in the south, Morse I believe, but intends to return within a few days. Your beloved whore Freya became just that. She worked at whoring in some brothel on the Bridge, until they threw her out. She begged Kallivan for help, and he was kind enough to take her to some water mill owned by friends, where she could clean in exchange for food and board. I presume she is still there.”
“North or south?”
“In the north. Now go away,” Valeria said, her voice rising to an angry shriek. “It’s all I know anyway, so even if you stuck that horrid sword into me, there’s nothing more I can tell you.”
“Clearly you’ve switched the blame,” said Jak, standing slowly and stretching, “But since I know already that you have never had the faintest glimmer of imagination, so I believe the basic facts. It’s of no matter. I’m delighted to leave,” and he dragged his chair from the doorway, “but be very careful, madam, especially when your lover returns, since I sadly appear to have lost the skill of patience.”
The wind-blown streets from his stepmother’s apartment to the Bridge were neither many nor tedious and Jak once again entered the brothel doors, and reintroduced himself to the madam. Edilla was delighted to see him. Jak once again apologised for his appearance without the slightest intention of using the brothel’s services, but Madam Edilla was simply enthusiastic and secretly knew that others, noting his arrival, would incorrectly assume the reason for it. He would be donating the house an unexpected reputation. She brought wine, but she warned Jak that both Tom and Udovox would be busy for fifteen minutes at least, and Symon had gone to his own home which was above the deserted Molly Shop on one of the islands. Jak decided to wait.
The larger salon was always well swept and had been decorated with care. As he sat, drifting into daydreams, Jak gazed around and saw beyond the gloss to the sadness below. The walls had been painted with the usual murals of ancient myth, erotic imagery of King Dain and his mistress, of King Ram and a young boy, a general tapestry of men and women, lovemaking and raping, dancing, and bathing together. But the work had been less than perfect, and the artist clearly lacked the skill of those who had decorated the houses of the nobility. Some walls were splashed by old stains, and one wall was partially ruined by a long and vicious rip in the plaster. The chairs were well padded and cushioned, but badly marked by dropped food, red wine, and other less obvious marks. One bright and pretty seat cushion in blue satin was sticky with patches of a pale substance, which Jak had no intention of examining.
He stood abruptly and walked to the hearth and its wooden slab above which cups of many sizes were stacked. The fire was not so encouraging, but its warmth was pleasant enough and helped to hide the dismal background smells of permanent sweat, exhaustion, fresh vomit and stale semen. The last two causes also seemed to exist in scrubbed spots across the carpet, and Jak turned his gaze back to the fire. The charcoal spat. He thought they would have done better to burn wood, and so further disguise the unpleasant perfumes.
Imagining Freya here seemed ludicrous. And humorous. And excessively heart breaking.
Jak turned as the door opened and Tom danced in, arms out flung, and his face dazzling in exotic paint. Yet as he ran, skipping with exuberance, and Jak grinned, saying, “I see you’re in a better mood than I am, Tom,” a shudder ran through the entire building, as though the Bridge itself was shaking. Tom rushed to the window and Jak strode outside, looking up then down the Bridge road. The cobbles beneath his feet were shuddering.
Returning in two strides to the Pearly Webb, Jak grabbed Tom’s arm. “Call Udovox and anyone else you know to be here. The Bridge is breaking.”
Tom was white faced, his paint cracking, and turned to run the stairs, his short legs leaping two or three at a time, meanwhile screeching for Udovox. “And everybody,” Tom yelled, “Out, out, out.”
Now at the doorway, Jak shouted, “Danger. Collapse. Get out.”
The chapel bell began to clang. The small priest appeared frantic at his door and as his hand left the bell rope, the clanking alarm continued in tuneless reverberation. The priest escaped along the road, running south as the Bridge continued to shake.
Hurtling from the brothel, Sossanna ran, her hand stretched, grabbing Maggs and Edda as she raced half clothed. Still at the doorway, Jak pointed north, “Ru
n hard.” He told them. “We have only a few minutes.”
Udovox scurried, almost falling, the lacine kitten crammed into his front pocket, Tom pushing from behind. They rushed out onto the road and Jak joined them, striding north as every cobblestone vibrated and began to fall, clattering and bouncing down the Bridge’s slopes. A mighty creak and jolt shook every building and walls began to collapse. Edilla grabbed at the back of Jak’s cape, pushing beside him. He took her hand. A small house, crammed between a haberdashery and a bakery, tumbled in huge boulders, the roof in bundles of thatch, lying then in a wreck of wooden slats and bricks, as the shops on either side began their own collapse. Now beneath the Bridge, the pillars were breaking. One pillar split in a cloud of dust and the Bridge above disintegrated where that pillar no longer supported the base. The noises of screaming and crashing drowned out all else but Jak, Tom, Udovox and Edilla were close to the northern bank, and now the Bridge’s slope was shallow, leading to flat ground.
Below, where the crashes hurtled and shattered, the waters rose and surged, piled with rock and splintering wood, slabs of marble from the chapel and the stone of the edging walls. Then abruptly the two central pillars broke, one halfway and the other down to its foundational plinth beneath the water.
The river swamped its banks. The waters surged as every fallen scrap floundered or sank, not only the great stones, bricks, cobbles and beams, but also the furniture from the houses, the metal rods, the chamber pots and rugs, the cushions and carved wooden beds, sheeting, clothes, chests and boxes, the pots and platters from kitchens, the remains of meals, the papers and huge splashes of ink from the pot, and the floating pillows and heads that once lay on them.
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