“Speak for yourself,” said Maggs, “though I expect you were.”
“And that fluff ball of yours will surely attract customers. She’s adorable.”
“He’s adorable.”
Maggs was surprised. “You insisted she was a little girl.”
“One day during cuddles,” smiled Tom, “we found the lump. Quite a small but insistent lump it is, too.”
The Lord Chief Justice, Law-Maker of Eden and High Peace-Maker of the Realm, Lord Ambron, enjoyed his offices, and had indulged in a little unique decoration. His own scrivener was a desk of such huge proportions that he frequently marched around it as a form of exercise while trying to think. Ambron did not find thinking an easy occupation, but he found his position of power both useful and satisfying. There were three chairs on his side of the scrivener so he could move from one to the other, depending on which pile of papers he wanted to work on. On the other side of the desk were no chairs at all, since he believed those who visited him should stand, and keep standing while he made a decision.
There was a long bench against one wall, however, for anyone fainting, and a large window behind where he sat. The window was shuttered a good deal of the time since the entrance of sunbeams over his shoulder was a damned nuisance.
The walls had been the most interesting to decorate. They were painted red, the colour of blood he had pointed out, and were hung with ropes, whips, canes, handcuffs, finger screws, thumb-screws, tongue twisters, axes, special knives for castrations, and paintings of men and women put to the rack, hung on the gallows, locked into the stocks, tied to a post and stoned to death, and finally the small statue, nailed to the wall, of a man hung upside down with his hair being set on fire.
These adornments gave a taste of the man who had bought them, but light was invariably so dark that most people couldn’t see what they were.
Ambron sat now, quill in hand and a list before him. He was talking to the tall albino, Sir Kallivan, and since both of them had heard a good deal concerning the other, they were both speaking with great politeness. Ambron, with hair like fire, stared at the white streaks of hair before him as Sir Kallivan took off his black feathered hat.
“I appreciate your visit, sir. When some poor victim is killed in their own home, we rarely hear of it until neighbours complain of the smell. By which time the decay has covered all possibility of examination, and cause of death becomes guess work. I shall send men out immediately to the address you’ve supplied.”
“There are two suspects,” Kallivan offered, smiling. “One is Jak, Lord Lydiard. This was his stepmother, the second wife of his father. He loathed her and they quarrelled incessantly. Indeed,” and Kallivan’s smile grew, “he was a suspect in his father’s death too, but that was never proved.”
“Arresting lords is a hard task,” Ambron shook his head. “What’s the other fellow?”
“A woman,” Kallivan said, both hands to the desk as he leaned towards the High-Eden Justice. “Her name is Doria, and she’s ignorant and untrustworthy. I brought her here myself, so I know her character only too well.”
“And if you wouldn’t mind telling me, sir, why you would bring a murderess to a grand lady’s home?”
Kallivan stared, cold eyed, walked around the end of the scrivener, grabbed one of the small chairs on the other side, carried it around to his own side, and sat down. He faced Ambron, stretched his legs, folded his arms, and yawned. Half yawning, he said, “I shall explain, my lord, since you do not seem to have understood. Lady Lydiard was a friend of mine and had been so for many years. But she was not a wealthy woman and since her husband’s death and her stepson’s refusal to share any of the goods, chattels or property with his stepmother, she had become virtually destitute. I help when I can, but nor am I a wealthy man, and for a man to pass coin to an older woman can be seen as improper or patronising charity. When I found this girl Doria, daughter of a destitute owner of a broken watermill, I felt she could have a better home at Lady Lydiard’s apartments, learn manners and etiquette, and begin a better life. Whereas Lady Lydiard would gain a helper and cleaner without the necessity to pay her. And so I introduced them to each other. Yet very soon, unfortunately, it became clear that the two women did not share any possibility of friendship, and thoroughly disliked each other. I asked them to have patience, but I imagine Doria had neither patience nor the intention to build a friendship.”
The Justice listened, regarding the man he now fervently disliked, and tapped his fingertips on his wooden desk top. “And I presume no suspicion could fall on your shoulders, Sir Kallivan?”
Kallivan stood, gathered his hat and gloves from where he had left them on the bench along the wall, and said, “My lord, I have given all the help and information possible. Without my visit, you would not even have known the lady was deceased. I shall now take my leave. However, should you find the culprit, or the girl Doria, I trust you will inform me. I live at the Verney Household within the royal apartments at the Palace.”
And he swept from the room with the dignity he had practised most of his life, and slammed the door behind him, which was not dignified at all.
Ambron chuckled and started filling out the relevant papers.
Symon had slept one long night of floating bliss. He had never known the common hour for sleeping or waking, since what others did had never influenced him, and nor had the inevitable discomfort of a bed, the cold or the heat, both of which might interrupt, or the possibility of improving his surroundings.
As he walked into the room, which Jak, having thrust opened the door and led him inside, told him was his own sleeping quarters for the ten-days they were likely to stay at his Lydiard family home, for the first time Symon stood bathed in astonished delight. Symon had not heard Jak leave, nor the door shut behind him with a small click. He was too busy staring around. Their occasional beds in inns and other passing establishments had greatly impressed him while travelling with Jak. Yet indeed, it had been the sleep in a hell hole on the island of Giardon that had felt more like home, having a certain familiarity to the squalor of his one room home for many, many years, upstairs from the Molly House. Even the dungeons of the Island Prison had not bothered him much as long as he had sufficient strong ale to get a little pissed.
The Lydiard palace was no palace in comparison to that of the king at Eden City. But for Symon, the luxury and the spacious grandeur were difficult to absorb. Nor did he see the need for it. He did, however, love it almost to the point of stumbling to his knees. Entering downstairs had intimidated him, and intimidation was not a sensation he could remember feeling ever before. The stairs, as wide as a room, were polished wood and carpeted in soft green, patterned in black and darker green. The balustrade was carved. Difficult then, to slide down. But it was the bedchamber, as he had been told it was his own and his alone for the next ten-day, that amazed him. The walls were painted with scenes of gardens and trees, wild animals and coloured entwining creepers. The hearth was larger than his own bed on the island, and a fire crackled, spat, blazed and flared in huge flames up the chimney. The slab enclosing it was wooden as usual, but this was flat topped and held cups and glassware.
There were rugs on the floor – so many they overlapped – tables, well-padded chairs, and a bed of carved posts, a tessellated tester in rich blue silk, and curtains of the same blue silk with a gossamer lining. The covers, and in particular the eiderdown topping the lot, were so wondrous that Symon did not at first dare touch. He regarded his own very large worn out boots, up his muscled but visibly veined and scratched calves within black knitted stockings, unravelling holes in both protuberant knees, and to the very worn brown britches above, bulging with the muscles of his thighs. The stained codpiece and the ties of the britches were, thankfully, hidden beneath a long stained white shirt without decoration, sitting, too small and very stretched, beneath a coat of worn brown duffle. His hat was a cap, pulled down, black but faded by the sun, and beneath this Symon’s own uneven black curls see
med bedraggled as though ashamed.
It was some time later when he stood high on the mountains of Lydiard and looked down on the palace. More a castle perhaps, with stone battlements along a roof of brick-built walkways and wooden steps. Built on a hill, the many windows stared down at the vivid green slopes to the forests on one side, the brilliance of the western ocean beyond, or back to slopes, fields and gardens on the other side, with the rooftops of Lydiard town lower into the valley. This was the source of the Cornucopia, but here, newborn and childishly eager, it bubbled from the hills and spurted into a small waterfall of exuberant energy rushing from above the palace, past its eastern walls, and over the rocks to the slopes below.
He thought of Freya, more than of himself, and of Jak more than of Freya. He thought that from his birth in gaol, leading to the enforced entrance to a Molly House, quickly followed by his own determined escape upstairs before following the obvious course of Fixer, gang member, gang leader and eventually to virtual leader of the Lower City, it seemed a strange destiny to then make the most precious friendships of his life, first of a young girl with magical powers of medicine, and then a lord, a proper lord, of charm and generosity. A friendship which had now led, against all likelihood, to him staying at the lord’s palace, enjoying the lord’s hospitality, and with an apparent promise of the lord’s continuing involvement.
The wind, always chilled in the north even during the spring sunshine, ruffled his hair, and since he had taken off the cap, he knew his head would be even more unkempt than before. Yet nothing seemed to matter anymore beyond life’s miracles, and the so-named wheel of destiny which never turned in the direction you might suppose.
He adored climbing the hills, breathing an air so fresh it seemed to come from a different sky, and ease the ache of his legs by stretching them over the rocks, dips and rises, and stand gazing at the sparkle of falling water.
The battlements stretched, surrounding the Lydiard Castle, including the one squat turret, on three sides. The wind had increased, and a faint whine echoed from the forest where the breezes blew from the mountains, turning from gentle to a sweeping gale within minutes as they tumbled down the slopes, gaining courage and whipping through the leaves.
Jak stood alone on the higher battlements to the east, staring silently across the slopes to the farms and onwards to the township. He could see Freya’s cottage way down, nestled in a shallow valley where the hillside once more began to rise. The cottage was, as Jak knew, both deserted and ruined, but it seemed strangely close and it rebirthed so many memories.
Beyond that, the valley wrapped around the township. It had once been simply a village. But, thought Jak, that was probably true of every town and even of Eden City.
His hands were clasped behind his back as he braced against the wind. It bit into his eyes, but he did not move. Lids lowered, eyes as cold as the wind, he thought about his father, his unknown mother, his murdered stepmother, and the impossible decisions for the future.
As a child returning from his knight’s tutorage aged fourteen, Jak had been curious concerning his mother, but the curiosity had faded, and discovering other women had taken that place. Then he had found Freya. He wondered if his continuing passion was his own fierce stubborn opinion, or whether such a lasting love was true. He doubted whether he could know one from the other until he met her again. She had not been a whore by her own choice, but so many years of degradation would surely have changed her. He could help. But love might slip and drown beneath waves of sorrow for them both. And if she was his sister, then that would solve the problem, but ensure the help.
Lord Godfrey Lydiard had always been a fool. Once finding herself pregnant, Hyr would tempt the local lord into her bed in order to name him as the child’s father, which seemed a common and reasonable solution. It was more than probable that Freya was neither his sister, nor his future wife. But she rested as sweet as lacine fur, and as imperative as sleep, in his mind. It seemed neither a childish infatuation, although he had been a child when it started, nor the obstinacy of his heart, although he also recognised that in himself. And when he dreamed of her, and woke with her memory in his arms, it lit his day in sunbeams.
Few men could prove the fathering of their children. Freya certainly bore no resemblance to his unremarkable father. Jak closed his eyes, remembering the only time he had kissed the woman he adored, the only time he had dared touch her breasts, and had embraced her.
It was such an unbidden memory that made his groin tingle and brought great swirls of blue to the sky above.
With a deep intake of breath, he turned and strode back down the steps towards his own bedchamber.
Chapter Thirty-One
The sensation was hunger. The desire to satiate that hunger was delicious in itself. And there were several possibilities.
The new infant in his life gave him the wine, for it fulfilled more than hunger. It rekindled a love he had neither expected, nor had discovered in himself since his eldest son had died. He knew that he had killed the boy himself, and that made the misery more bitter. Atterick’s death had been his almighty regret and nothing had seemed the same since. Now there was a new love.
His wife said she had adopted the child and denied she had given birth to a bastard. Frink knew she was lying. It did not really matter to him and he was fond of Denda. But he had the woman Milldy brought to the dungeons. This was the hunger. He stood at the base of the rack, a flaming torch in one hand, a leather whip in the other, and the sensation of hunger to the pitch of starvation began to slither away into a strange satisfaction. He had pretended to be a good king for far too long.
At first, as she was brought in, the shadows disguised her. He had seen little of her after all. But she was pretty enough, in spite of the dull short hair and thick eyebrows. Frink stood very still as she stood shivering, the two guards beside and behind her. Her eyes darted first to the rack and then to the whip.
He asked her, “How long were you in labour, woman?”
She had already guessed what it would be about. Practising every possible answer to every possible question as soon as she had been summoned, Milldy was still terrified. Her only hope was that Queen Denda would discover what was happening and come to her help. She said softly, “I cannot be sure, your majesty. I did not see clocks nor ask anyone how many hours were passing. But it was short, compared to my expectations. I would guess an hour. Two at the most, I believe.”
“Humph,” muttered the king, displeased. “And I was told there were difficulties. What was difficult, then, madam?”
“Your majesty,” Milldy said at once, almost as though insulted, “every birth is difficult. No woman opens her womb without terrible pain. Many mothers die on the birth-bed. Others die a little later. I thought that would happen to me, for I was bleeding more than is usual. The pain was dreadful. But because it was quick, I survived.”
Finding no obvious accusation open to him, Frink passed the flaring torch to one of the guards, and faced Milldy more closely, raising the whip. “Those who lie to the king are executed for treason, woman. You will lie no longer. Now, before I lash the flesh from your back, tell me the truth. Is this infant a child of the queen’s? Was it my wife who gave birth, and not yourself?”
With open mouth and eyes of shocked bewilderment, Milldy stepped back, stopped by the guard behind her. “Your majesty, how can you think such a thing? I can only think her majesty would have been utterly thrilled to claim my baby as her own and show him to her husband. For this reason, I think, she wished to adopt him. I thought I was dying and agreed at once. And I don’t regret the decision, your majesty. My little one will have a far better life.”
The king snorted into Milldy’s face. Spit and snot spattered her mouth. He said, “You lie. Why else would some peasant woman give birth in the queen’s chamber?”
“My lord,” Milldy sank immediately to her knees, and surreptitiously wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “My beautiful baby Laximan is now yours. I have lost h
im although her majesty is so kind as to keep me as a nurse and help to my little boy. But I am sad for that, and always shall be. So I beg your majesty, do not deny my wonderful child. Whip me if you wish, sire, but do not deny my motherhood.”
Women, Frink thought, were bloody irritating. He was beginning to believe her and didn’t want to. “So, if you can, explain why you were there.”
“Oh easily, sire,” Milldy answered, still on her knees. “I have been her maid for some two months. And I deserve a whipping, your majesty, for I did not tell her majesty that I believed myself with child. Oh, truly at first I did not know. My husband had died in a fight outside the tavern, up near the hospital in the east. I must admit I did not miss him for he was abusive. I had been hurt by him, so I was taken into the hospital. They cured me, and when her royal highness came kindly visiting the hospital – a wonderful visit which greatly encouraged all the Good-doers and the patients too as I am sure you know, your majesty, she met me and was sorry for me. I travelled back with her and have attended her ever since. But when the labour started, I was already in her quarters. It was sudden, your grace.”
“Oh, pooh,” said the king with hissing irritation. “You could have staggered back to your own room. What hovel do you live in, anyway?”
“Um, a truckle bed in the queen’s chamber, your majesty.”
The whip hung limp. There had been not even a small pleasure to satisfy the hunger. “And you’re saying my wife sent for that other nurse creature you had in there?”
“As soon as we realised what was happening to me,” Milldy said to the rough floorboards beneath her knees. “I had told the queen that I expected a child once I knew for certain, more than a month back, sire. She was kind and permitted me to stay in her service.”
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