Sheldrake was facing the lieutenant now, looking up from under furrowed brows. “Those two men escaped on your watch,” he said. “If they are not found – and quickly – there will be consequences.”
Walcott swallowed. “Aye, sir.” He saluted again.
Sheldrake’s sloppy salute turned into a dismissive wave.
Chapter Forty-Two
Edison knocked on the door of Meg’s temporary quarters and stood listening. There was no response. He giggled – partly because he was nervous, and partly because he had consumed the best part of a jug of wine. His heart beat loudly, and he glanced quickly up and down the narrow corridor, fearful of being caught by one of the Sea Hag’s crew. He slid a knife between the door and the frame and eased the lock open. He hurried into the cabin, and closed the door behind him.
He leaned back against the door, breathing heavily, waiting for his pulse to slow. The cabin was dark, the last light of day through the tiny port-hole only giving depth to the shadows.
Edison knew that Meg was having problems with the harbour authorities: she could not get permission to load her potentially explosive cargo, and a stalemate had been in place for almost a week. While this had done little to improve Meg’s mood, it had provided Edison with additional time in which to dream up some way of winning back her love. But even that time was fast running out, and action was called for.
The cabin was cool, and as Edison slipped out of his clothes, goose-bumps were raised on his flesh. He slid between the sheets and pulled them up under his chin: he would affect a more alluring pose just as soon as he had warmed the bed enough to stop his shivering.
There was a sound of footsteps in the corridor, and Edison readied himself, but then he heard a door close at the other end of the corridor. He giggled to himself and shivered.
Edison thought he must have dozed then, for when he opened his eyes the cabin was in total darkness. He heard a key in the lock: Meg. He sat higher in the bed, pulling down the sheet to his waist. And voices: she was not alone.
Edison scrambled out of the bunk, scooping up his clothes, and ducked into a closet just as the cabin door swung open. There was not room for him to stand and dress, so Edison draped his clothes around him as best he could to keep himself warm in the dusty darkness. He peered through a crack between the door and its frame as the room beyond grew suddenly brighter.
Meg was holding a lighted oil lamp, which she carried in the direction of the bed. Edison could not see the bed from his vantage point, but assumed Meg to have placed the lamp on the table beside the bed. He saw her cross the cabin again with two glasses of wine, holding one out to her guest. Then the two of them moved towards the bed, a whispered conversation going on between them which Edison could not hear.
“It is very cold,” a voice said, quite loudly: Anton Leyander.
“Then let me warm it for you,” Meg said, equally loud.
“Ow! Be careful, your fingernails – “
There was laughter then, and the sound of the bed creaking.
Edison tried to block his ears from the sounds. Tried also to stop his teeth from chattering and giving him away.
“It is good to see that your strength is returned,” Meg said.
“I am well recovered, and up for almost anything,” Anton said.
“So I see.”
There was more laughter and the timbers of the bed groaned.
“How does that feel?” Meg asked, her voice husky.
Anton sighed loudly. “You have magic in your fingers.”
“Your flesh feels to be entirely revived,” Meg said.
“Thanks in no small part to your own ministrations,” Anton let out another little groan of pleasure. “Try not to get it on the sheets,” he warned.
“It is some little time since I have had a man so helpless in my hands,” Meg said.
“But not for want of an ardent admirer,” Anton said.
“Edric Edison?” she said.
“He loves you,” Anton said.
“How could I love the man that caused this flesh such suffering?” Meg asked.
“I have forgiven him,” Anton said, “can you not do the same?”
“What is there to forgive?” Meg asked. “One does not forgive a donkey because it is an ass.”
“But you love this ass, I think,” Anton said.
Meg sighed. “Perhaps so,” she admitted. “Against my better judgement.”
Anton yawned loudly. “Forgive me, madam, but our exertions this evening have drained me somewhat,” he said. “Will you think me terribly rude if I now bid you goodnight?”
“Not at all,” Meg said. “It has been a very pleasant evening.”
“Goodnight, my lady.”
“Goodnight, Anton.”
From his hiding place, Edison heard the cabin door close, and then the lamp was extinguished. He put his ear to the closet door and listened intently. Eventually he heard heavy, even breathing. He waited a while longer, then crawled out into the darkened cabin. He picked up the lamp from the table and went to the end of the bed. He tried to suppress a grin: he had heard Meg tonight admit that she loved him. He wrapped his cloak around his naked body, then lit the lamp and placed it on the chest at the foot of the bed.
Edison stood at the bottom of the bed and raised his arms, pulling the cloak open like wings behind him, revealing his pale nakedness. “My love, I am yours,” he said. “Do with me as you will!”
Anton Leyander sat up in the bed, shielding his eyes from the lamplight. He regarded the naked figure. “Well, my love,” he said. “Just what will I do with you?”
Edison stood mortified.
Anton gestured that he should lower his arms. “Please, cover yourself, before you catch a chill and shrivel any further.”
“I thought you were Meg,” Edison managed finally.
Anton frowned. “But we do not even look similar.”
“But this cabin...?” Edison said.
“Ah,” Anton said. “Since I am all but recovered, I thought it appropriate to allow the captain to regain her own cabin.”
“But she was here,” Edison said. “Earlier?”
“She stopped by to rub balm into my muscles,” Anton said. “We took a walk along the beach this evening, and my legs grew stiff due to lack of recent activity.”
“I see,” Edison said.
“I hope you did not mistake our activity for something inappropriate,” Anton said. “From your restricted viewpoint in the closet.”
“You knew I was there?” Edison asked.
Anton grinned. “I saw your boot on the floor as we entered.”
“And you left me crouching in there, at risk of freezing to death?”
“I judged the risk to be minimal,” Anton said.
Edison looked down at Anton, whose body was only partially covered by the bedclothes. His hands and feet were returned to normal now, except for some discolouration under the nails.
“You are looking well,” Edison said.
“Thanks to you.”
“It was not my ‘magic fingers’ that soothed you,” Edison said.
Anton reached for the green metal amulet that hung on a leather thong around his neck. “But you did purchase the charm that speeded my recovery. Such rare magic is not sold cheaply.”
Edison shrugged. “Who said I paid for it? And the sooner you are healed, the sooner you can be on your way – out of my life,” he said. “I said before, I act only in my own interest.”
Anton nodded slowly, but said nothing.
“Meg did not know I was hiding here?” Edison asked.
“Who can tell what a woman does or does not know?” Anton said. “Whether she knew you were there or not, she did reveal that she loves you.”
“She did. And for that I am in your debt,” Edison said. “Now I have that knowledge, only an act of the gravest stupidity or the greatest of misfortune will keep us from rekindling our romance.”
There was a
knock on the cabin door, and it opened suddenly. Edison turned, startled, and the cloak fell from his shoulders.
“Anton, I...” Meg stood transfixed in the doorway, staring at Edison’s nakedness. She looked from Edison to Anton and back again, mouth agape.
Edison opened and closed his mouth, but could form no words of explanation.
“Forgive me,” Meg said, “I appear to be intruding. Carry on, gentlemen.” She backed out of the cabin, and closed the door.
“Did you say an act of stupidity or great misfortune?” Anton asked.
Chapter Forty-Three
The undertaker was dressed in his smartest black clothes and cloak. He led the two black-plumed horses that pulled the hearse. Lord Eòghan lay on a linen covered dais, arms crossed on his chest, seemingly in peaceful repose. Julianne followed the hearse alone, then a few paces behind her came the rest of the funeral procession.
The raft consisted of logs lashed together into a solid platform. A pyre of dry driftwood had been built on the raft. Lord Eòghan’s body was placed on top of the pyre, wrapped in the pure white linen shroud.
The raft floated some yards out from the beach, the waning tide increasing the distance as the ceremony on the beach continued. Friends and relatives each spoke in turn, sharing a memory of some conversation or adventure they had shared with Eòghan: it was a way of proving that although he was dead, his spirit would live on in the minds of all those present. Former enemies too were present, paying their respects, past enmities forgotten, and with only half a mind on the prospect of new business opportunities and alliances ahead when Eòghan’s successor was appointed. Standing at a respectful distance, a crowd of local people – gentle-folk, merchants and commoners – stood with hats in hand, remembering Lord Eòghan in their own ways.
A driftwood fire burned on the beach. Archers stepped forward, lighting the oil-soaked cotton bound behind the heads of their arrows. They took up their positions in a row at the water’s edge, drawing their bows, and – receiving the signal – fired at the raft.
The burning arrows lodged in the pyre, and the flames spread quickly.
The mourners stood watching the flames, allowing Julianne to be the first to move away once the ritual was completed.
A black lace veil covered Julianne’s face.
Sheldrake licked his index finger and smoothed his moustaches.
“Allow me to offer you my arm, my lady,” he said, catching up with her.
“You have no need of it yourself?” Julianne asked.
Sheldrake stood with his elbow presented at right angles to his body. He frowned. “You jest, of course, my lady.”
“Of course,” she said flatly.
“Have you had pause to consider my offer?” Sheldrake asked.
“Indeed.”
“And?”
“I think you would be advised to retain both arms for your own use: I have little need of another.”
“My lady mistakes me. I referred to my proposal, of course,” Sheldrake said.
“Of course. What did you propose?”
“Why, marriage, my lady.”
“What a wonderful idea. Who will you marry?”
“You, my lady.”
“But I am not in need of a husband. I am decided that remarriage is inadvisable, given the carelessness which allowed the loss of my first husband.”
“Carelessness?”
“To allow him to be murdered in a dark tower by some weak-livered coward who dared not face my husband in a fair duel. What breed of miserable wretch would resort to such craven tactics?”
Sheldrake noisily swallowed a lump that seemed to grow suddenly in his throat. “I know not, my lady.”
“When one man can resort to such dishonourable measure, I begin to lose my faith in all men. What is to say that you, captain, might not prove equally unworthy?”
“Do you compare me to a gutless murderer, my lady Julianne?”
“I ask only how I can judge how closely you and such a man might prove to be.”
Sheldrake set his head on one side, in a bird-like gesture, to regard her. “How close do you consider this murderer and I to be?” he asked.
“I am undecided on the matter.”
“You would have me prove myself?” Sheldrake asked.
“Prove yourself a murderer?”
“Prove myself worthy of your love, my lady.”
“But you do not have my love, captain.”
“In time, I might.”
“Not in my life time,” Julianne said.
Sheldrake frowned. “But, my lady, I thought you did consider my offer of marriage?”
“I considered your offer a joke. Was it not meant so?”
“It was seriously meant, I assure you.”
“Forgive me, I thought it merely an attempt to cheer me to laughter in my most melancholy moment. As such it was a worthy gesture.”
“And as a genuine proposal, how is it?” Sheldrake asked.
“Presumptuous.”
“How so?”
“You presume that I have desperate need of a new husband, and you presume that I would stoop so low as to consider marriage to such an odious non-entity as yourself.”
“You have received already a more attractive alternative?”
“I have received no other alternative, which is more attractive than your offer.”
“Then who will accept responsibility for yourself and our town?” Sheldrake asked.
“Perhaps I myself shall responsibility for both.”
“Now it is you who jest, my lady.”
*
“Bring me a chicken,” Sheldrake said.
“Immediately, sir,” Henrik said, pleased his master had recovered his appetite. “Will you have boiled vegetables with it?” Sheldrake looked at him as if he was insane, so Henrik bowed and edged backwards towards the door. Chicken was better than nothing, he could worry about scurvy another time. He had become increasingly worried about Sheldrake’s wellbeing during the past weeks: there had been a great deal of pacing and talking to himself; and an uncharacteristic indifference regarding personal hygiene, to the extent that there was a sour, sick-bed stink about him that was more than just unwashed armpits and stale piss.
Henrik returned from the Guard House kitchen with a will a silver platter containing a golden roasted chicken and a jug of steaming gravy seasoned with herbs. Waiting for it to be prepared, he’d helped himself to some supper and a mug of ale, and he was now looking forward to slipping under the bedclothes and having a nice long sleep.
“What’s that?” Sheldrake asked. Lit from below by the candle, his face looked even more gaunt.
“It’s a chicken, sir.”
“Why have you brought me that?”
“It’s what you asked for. A chicken, without vegetables.”
“I didn’t want it cooked!” Sheldrake’s voice became shrill.
“You didn’t?”
“Why would I want a cooked chicken?”
“Supper?”
Henrik flew out of Sheldrake’s chamber, ducking to avoid the roast chicken that was hurled out after him. Catching his breath, he ducked again as the silver platter whistled out like a discus and bounced off the wall opposite, spinning like a giant coin when it hit the floor.
The chicken’s neck was broken and its head lolled grotesquely, eyes glassy. Under the feathers, its flesh wasn’t yet cold. Henrik held it out in front of him, mouth twisted in a look of distaste. “Your dead chicken, sir.”
“Thank you. Do you have a knife?”
“You’re not going to eat it?”
“Yes, Henrik, I’m going to eat a raw chicken,” Sheldrake said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “No, I’m not going to eat it. I just want to open it up.”
“Of course, sir. How foolish of me.” Henrik fetched a sharp knife and handed it over. He watched with a sort of horrid fascination as Sheldrake held the chicken up by the neck and stabbed the knife into it and slit open its body. Giblets spill
ed out of it and hung down, swaying. Sheldrake stared at the chicken guts and frowned.
“I don’t really remember how this is done,” he said. “I saw my grandmother do it. What did she do? I seem to be forgetting something...”
“Perhaps you should have plucked it first, sir?” Henrik said. The sight of the chicken’s innards was making him feel queasy.
“Whatever for? I think I need to sit down,” Sheldrake said.
“I know the feeling, sir.”
Sheldrake sat down on the stone floor, legs crossed. He yanked at the chicken giblets, tearing them out of the carcass, and spread them on the floor in front of him. He peered down at that for several minutes. Then his hand shot out, smearing the guts into a new pattern on the floor. He stared at them some more.
“Can you see anything here, Henrik?” he asked finally.
“A heap of entrails, sir?” Sheldrake squinted up at him, and he guessed this was the wrong answer.
“My grandmother used to read them – find answers for people,” Sheldrake said.
Henrik’s face brightened as he finally understood. “Ah, your grandmother was a soothsayer!”
Sheldrake looked up, frowning again. “No, my grandmother was a goat-skinner. But she told fortunes on the side. She read chicken entrails. But I must admit I am seeing nothing in these...”
Henrik bent at the waist and peered down at the giblets spread on the floor.
“Those two bits look like pendulous breasts,” he said, “if you squint at them...”
“You’ve been smoking hemp again, haven’t you?”
“I never have,” Henrik protested. “Not at all. I wouldn’t. Well, just a pipeful.”
Sheldrake got to his feet and turned away from the eviscerated chicken.
“I’ll heat some water for you,” Henrik said.
“Why? I’m not going to make soup with it.” Sheldrake chewed on his thumbnail.
“For washing, sir,” Henrik said, nodding towards Sheldrake’s gore-stained hands. “I would advise against licking your fingers.”
Henrik returned with a bowl of steaming water and a towel. “What were you looking for, sir? In these chicken guts?”
While Sheldrake washed his hands, Henrik knelt and scraped up the mess with a spatula, putting it into a wooden bucket.
Fortune's Fools Page 25