The Mill

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  The priest was killed in the crush, although he had been one of the first to leave. One of the brothel customers, refusing to leave until he had secured his codpiece was finally thrown into the Corn, and battered by the bricks that fell after him. An elderly couple, still holding to each other as they tumbled, were drowned without a murmur, and four of those who had been crossing the Bridge, one on horseback, died beneath the crush.

  It was an hour later when the last brick fell. The river was clogged and could not flow, so was rising in flood waters near the palace. It was not until the following day that two wherries and their owners were discovered dead under the piles of debris that hid them.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Finally asleep, Symon dreamed deep. He heard mighty crashes, he heard the thunderous waves of the Corn rise and splash, and he heard himself snoring. For some moments he slept on. Earlier that day he had emptied the small cask of ale beside his bed. Now, finally half awake, he reached down for it, and the tap which might bring him half a cup for a second breakfast. But he could not find it and although his fingers stretched and grappled, it seemed the cask had rolled somewhere, or he had thrown it out himself when empty. But now it was himself he found empty, and needed to wake, for the dreams were clearly absorbing him into madness. Indeed, all he could touch as his fingers stretched further, was water. Which made no sense at all. The water was cold, seeping up towards the mattress, and since Symon lived two floors up, this was wildly absurd.

  He opened his eyes. Symon then discovered that there was something very obviously different about his small bedchamber, and presumably also the Molly House beneath it. Either his island had sunk – most probable – or the Corn had risen beyond capacity. His depression of the night before leaked back as he gazed down at the water attempting to float off with his bed, and reminded himself that he could hardly swim, but might have to try anyway.

  The shout from outside was loud but only tipped the other nightmare of noise. Symon heard banging and crashing, the hurtle of rubble and destruction, the cascading echoes of ruin, the screams and wails, and the continuous pound of one destruction after another. So Symon splashed from bed to door, managed to kick it open even against the splurge of oncoming water, and headed outside.

  It was not all water and he did not have to swim. He had to climb. Huge pieces of plaster sat on wooden planks and over them all was a chair, still looking comfortable in brown leather, a table broken down its middle, a bed frame upside down and its mattress soaked, a floating cauldron still bubbling with pottage, and the face down corpse of a woman, arms outstretched. Symon climbed and ignored his bleeding knees which scraped constantly, and were battered as he scrambled, battered more as he fell.

  Then he heard the voice, two voices, then three, and the shouting of his name. He looked up, bemused. A tall man, a short man, and a man so short it had to be Udovox, stood on the northern bank. Gradually Symon crossed the chaos, and eventually stood beside them. He was delighted when it was Jak who came first to put both hands on his shoulders and welcome him back to flat land and sanity.

  It was nearly an hour later when, at a considerable distance from the Corn and its once grand Bridge, the large group huddled in the tavern, trying to catch their breath and dry off. Jak, Tom, Symon and Udovox sat with Sossanna, Edilla, Edda and Maggs. They all drank streaming hippocras and answered the endless questions from the tavern owner and his wealth of customers.

  “Yes, all gone now. Totally destroyed.”

  “Some dead. Not many. I don’t know the number.”

  “No, not the council house. That’s too far upstream.”

  “I imagine,” this was Tom, “it will take many ten-days to clean up. And some of the islands have sunk or split.”

  “Sounds daft to me. Ain’t no way to break a Bridge. Musta bin old age. Feels the same meself most times.”

  “You surely don’t seem to be in the process of breaking up, Symon,” Jak said, nose in his cup. “And unfortunately bridges, houses, streets and anything else can suddenly prove some weakness, and collapse.”

  Edilla was more fascinated by the wriggling pocket of Udovox’s doublet. She pointed. “A fish? An eel? Did you fall in the water?”

  “A lacine baby.” Udovox kept Raani tucked safe, but two fluffy ears and a well clawed paw peeped from the top of his pocket. “Not illegal since her mother was dead. She’d have died herself if I hadn’t rescued the poor little thing.”

  “He or she?”

  “He. I think. I think he has a dangly bit.”

  “Dangerous when they grow up.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Evidently not as dangerous as Bridges.”

  Stretching and leaning back in the little wooden chair, Jak raised his refilled cup, smiled, and said, “So it’s off to the unknown mill for all of us tomorrow morning? I have one more visit to make first.”

  “Where do we sleep in the meantime?” demanded Sossanna. “We got no home left. And I ain’t going to fix up with no new whorehouse neither.”

  “As a licenced Madam,” sniffed Edilla, “I shall approach the Law-Maker for a new licenced premises. But I doubt they’ll be as quick as I’d like.”

  “They’ll stuff you into some make-shift stables,” sniggered Maggs. “”And I’m not coming back to work neither.”

  “I doesn’t care none,” said Symon into his cup. “I’ll sleep on the bank upstream where it ain’t flooded. Or find an alley.”

  But Jak shook his head as Tom looked frantic. “You three,” he said, “including the cat naturally, will find space at my lodgings. There’s room for us all although not in spacious luxury. I sadly have too small a home to allow for three additional women. I shall find something suitable nearby, and you will doubtlessly sleep better than we do.”

  Maggs looked sorrowfully at Edilla. “You got our monies due, Pearly. I didn’t even grab my purse when I ran. No time. Besides, there were only a couple o’ pence.”

  “Do you think I had the time to carry out my whole money chest?” Edilla gazed around her. “I am entirely penniless.”

  With a purse cheerfully clutched in her hand, Sossanna held it high. “I got coin from both the last Sticky Balls,” she said, then blushed and looked to Jak. “Sorry ‘bout that, yer lordship. Tis the same name we uses fer them all.”

  “There’ll be riches amongst all that rubble,” Tom sighed. “The weight of coins sinking to the Corn bed, sacs of wealth and wonder.”

  “I’d wager there’s a fortune sunk from the chapel, and the priest died too. We’d better learn to swim under the water after they’ve cleaned up.”

  “Doesn’t help us now.”

  “I have no complaints,” Jak said, smiling faintly, “but I’ve every intention of paying this night’s bed, and no doubt for many more as we travel. And already the day has almost collapsed with the Bridge. I have one place to go, and it is important, so now we must move on. My lodgings are around the corner, and so is an inn which supplies rooms for the night. Once you have finished drinking,” and he set down his empty cup, “we must move on. Both my page and the inn will supply an evening meal. We seem to have missed the usual midday dinner. Too busy knocking down Bridges.”

  Settling the four women in the snug little inn involved a simple smile and the passing of four small coins. Everyone had now heard about the dreadful fate of the Bridge, and both taverns and inns were filling with men and women in wet and bedraggled clothes, having little or no money, and in need of hot food and a warm bed. Then leaving Symon making up the fire in Jak’s lodgings, Jak showed Tom and Udo the truckle bed in his own bedchamber, and the spare bedchamber with a bed wide enough for two. The kitten leapt from Udovox’s pocket and sniffed the hot pies now arranged on platters with fresh bread and spiced cheese, tried one of the cups of hippocras but disliked it intensely, and finally fell asleep on Jak’s bed, where his page sat staring, refusing to move as the lacine purred.

  Tom was washing off the fine layer of cracked paint which had
rendered his cheeks pink, his mouth red, his eyes black-lined, and his eyebrows almost white. Udovox was plodding into the salon with more kindling from the box in the corridor, and Jak, without much explanation, left his apartment saying he did not know when he would return, and to make themselves comfortable.

  The city was still in turmoil with folk running along the main streets, or standing in horror gazing along the riverbanks. There were fights. Disagreements on blame and fault, or simple misery at the loss of everything. The cause of the collapse was not yet known, but now the builders and workers of the Lower City were gathering, discussing what might have happened, and what should happen next.

  Jak hailed a wherry up stream and disembarked quickly at the council island, showing his badge, and striding to the huge black building where he expected to find a meeting of constructive ideas already taking place.

  But the meeting was not yet constructive. “Silence,” roared Number Four. “Decisions must be made with accord, not with fisticuffs.”

  Jak was not the last to arrive.

  The seats were occupied except for Number One and Number Nine. Jak sat in place, looked up and asked over the scramble of noise and argument, “So, what decision has been made? What are we going to do?”

  Number One stared down the length of the table. “Something, sir. I can only assure you of that. We will accomplish something. One day and somehow. Your companions do not seem capable of decision.”

  Some of the voices had faded, and the great black hoods turned towards Jak. He said, “There are three distinctly separate situations and we need a decision on each one. First what to do with those who have been unhoused and have lost their belongings, their monies, and even their relatives. Many owned their own homes at great cost, and now do not even own a mattress. Secondly we need a decision on how to clear the Corn, since that blockage will continue to flood the entire length up stream, including the palace grounds, if left too long. Wherrymen will lose their livelihood, islands and their businesses will sink, and the city will gradually become ruined. The third decision is whether to rebuild the Bridge. If we wait too long, no one will be able to cross to the south unless by boat or train. The rebuilding is the least important, I believe, but imperative at some future time.”

  A short silence seemed a little strange after the squabbles, some council members having actually stopped mid-sentence. Then Number One stood and raised one solitary finger. “We shall take a vote on this,” he said. “Who wishes to support Number Ten? Raise your hands. If this carries the majority, we shall concentrate on the deprived citizens first, following quickly by clearing the Cornucopia.”

  A flurry of hands were raised, shaken, and generally indicated agreement. Only Number three did not raise his hand. Nobody asked why he was the solitary grump.

  Number One stood once again, a faint glimpse of smile within the hood’s shadows. “Very well. I am most pleased.” He had also raised his hand, fingers quivering. “I therefore suggest a warehouse on the river’s northern side be indicated as empty and suitable for twenty or thirty people in need of shelter. We have pallet beds, enough straw stacked in the palace outhouses, and certainly enough food can be found and brought in. But we need a few loud voices to walk the city and pronounce the plans. We also need someone to somehow make sure we aren’t besieged by beggars and thieves who have never had anything to do with the Bridge, but like the idea of free food.”

  “There won’t be much to steal except the food. These poor folk are entirely destitute.”

  “I shall set all that in progress,” said Number Four. “It will be easy enough.”

  “Once they’re all fed and into a warm bed complete with blankets,” Jak continued, “it’s easy enough to move on to the next stage. That surely means recompense, according to what they’ve lost. A home, owned or rented? A business, either owned or rented, and how profitable? How much stock was lost? How much furniture, and of what quality? There is also the chapel, but that can be left until the Bridge is rebuilt.”

  A general muttering was uninterrupted and swept through the hall. A discussion of where the money for recompense should come from appeared to be the biggest problem.

  Number Four suggested, “The king? Tell him this is essential, and other monarchs before him have taken such a position. Gradually, we’ll bleed him dry. Jak grinned. Several others cheered.

  Number One again raised one finger. “Are there any other ideas?”

  The rustle at the doorway appeared less important. No one took much notice as Number Nine bustled to his seat. He murmured to Jak beside him, “Have we rehoused the folk of the Bridge? Including the brothel?”

  “A suggestion, not specifically for the brothel, has been set, and accepted,” Jak told him, his smile invisible.

  “Good,” said Number Nine. “Now then, since I already know who you are, Lord Lydiard, how about coming to the tavern on the bank with me now, and let the rest tangle themselves in knots. They’re talking about money. That means they’ll be here all night.”

  And Jak agreed.

  The tavern had been built on the Upper City rover banks not far from the palace. It was a small low series of rooms, the first room to doff coats in, sit beside the fire and drink a quick ale before returning to work, the second room for those who intended to stay much longer, and the third room for deep conversation, food and wine. It was here that Jak sat with a man he did not know, and talked more of the past than the present. They compared their opinions of the Bridge collapse but had other more interesting stories to tell.

  “I am Logon,” said Number Nine. “And I was a member of the Council long, long ago, when my number was higher, my rank and importance higher, and my opinions considered higher. But, and this is the story of higher importance, I was then arrested both for crimes I committed, and crimes that others had committed. And I spent many years in the Island Prison.”

  “I have known someone,” said Jak, “with experience of imprisonment. I presume it was a vile experience?”

  “Mostly,” Logon said, “it was a hell when asleep, and a nightmare when awake. But I met one man I learned to admire, and I hope to meet him again since he has also been freed.” Logon raised his wine cup. “You would like the man too, I am quite, quite sure.”

  Jak raised an eyebrow. “Why so sure, I wonder?”

  But another man, quite drunk and quite lost, was staggering from his chair, missed falling into the flames of the small fire beside the chairs, and began to make his way to the door. Staggering across the floorboards, the man failed to avoid the table where Jak and Logon sat. They had not seen him, since they were engrossed in their own tales. With a lurch and a trip, firstly over the legs of the table and then again over his own feet, the man toppled quite slowly at Logon’s knees. He sat there a moment, looking around and seeing only feet, legs and boots, and decided that he now sat on the ground and not on a chair. He heaved himself upwards and the table with Logon’s cup of wine slid across the floor towards the hearth and smashed into the mantel. The cup spilled, and Logon stood, looking down on the drunkard’s body. Flat on his back now, the man stared up. Then he rolled over and vomited over Logon’s right foot.

  Logon kicked. The man squirmed backwards and gulped. “You can’t hurt me,” he said, his speech garbled and sibilant from booze. “I been fighting fer my rights. I lost it all, I did. Resident on the Bridge. Now as poor as a centipede without legs.”

  “You seem to have paid for a good deal of wine,” Jak said, unmoving. Logon marched off to clean his boots and Jak drained his own cup.

  The drunkard looked up. “The folks bought fer me. I need help. I need sympathy and I needs – a man to understand. D’you understand, mister?”

  “I doubt it,” said Jak softly.

  The stranger wedged himself up on one elbow, partially leaning in the trickles of alcoholic vomit. The landlord came hurrying over with mop, broom and bucket.

  “Get this fool out,” he called to his apprentice. “Throw him back into th
e river to sober up. I don’t believe he’s destitute from the Bridge, and I’ve seen the fool here before. He’s been thrown out before and all.” He kicked, as the man toppled from his knees back to the floor. “What’s your name, you pissed fart? Tomorrow I’ll see if you’re on the list for charity.”

  “My name’s Bembitt,” wailed the man, clambering up a second time. “And I need sympathy. I’ll report you to the council, yes I will.”

  Jak sank back as Logon joined him once more and the vomit was sluiced away, the vile stench melting into the general smell of wine, sweat and grime. “I have an important journey to begin in the morning,” he said, “and friends waiting for me in my own home. That must come first. But I shall remember everything you have said, friend Logon, and look forward to continuing our conversation when I return. We shall, I assume, both meet back at the Council Chamber,”

  “Oh, indeed we shall,” Logon said, once more kicking Bembitt out of the way as the landlord hauled him up and dragged him to the door. “But,” said Logon, “although I have plenty more to say on many subjects, it is what I have to say about Freya that I consider most interesting.”

  “I never forget what I am told about Freya,’ said Jak.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  It was the morning poppy drink that was troubling Freya most. Sometimes she woke to fountains of crystal and flying blossoms, streamers of dawn pastels, and the kiss on her cheek of familiar breath.

  Some mornings she woke to the darkness of bleak unknowing, of threat, or of emptiness.

  It depended on the poppy drink.

  Hawisa said, “I get what I can, lass. And what I can’t get, won’t be coming.”

  “Perhaps,” Freya wondered, “this will help the addiction fade. Or at least I’ll be able to accept less. Something even half strength.”

  “Down south, this Morse Market don’t tell you the strength. They gives you a packet of powder. Pay the same and mix it with water. Like the cheap rubbish in Bog Dock. If you’re happy, I know it was strong enough. You turn as grey as the Lydiard skies, then I know it weren’t a full dose.”