Lady Changeling

by Ken Altabef

  “What is that?”

  “Whippoorwill probably,” Theodora said. “So these invitations of marriage…”

  Eric noticed the hint of jealousy in her voice. “Rich, unmarried girls. Only slightly disfigured, I’m sure. I mostly just ignore them. I was taught to value hard work over inheritance, and to tell you the truth I’d much rather spend the afternoon talking with a commoner than some pampered, pompous earl or duchy. My aide and best friend, Fitzroy March, is a commoner and proud of it. I’ll most likely even marry one someday.”

  “Really?” she said with a coy smile.

  “Believe it. I only want to build up my estates to what they were before the Rot. That’s the limit of my ambition, and hard work it is too. The Rot left Graystown in an awful state. You were too young to know.”

  This brought another snicker from Gryfflet’s tree. Theodora made a chopping sign with her hand behind her back. She sensed this was an important moment.

  A bittersweet look came over Eric’s eyes. “So many dead in town and on the farms. I’ve done my best to help them. And I’m proud of everything that March and I were able to accomplish. I couldn’t have done it without him.”

  Theodora couldn’t help but notice a note of guilt in his voice. He truly was unlike any other noble she’d ever known. “None of it was your fault.”

  “No, of course not. It was the work of faeries, at least that’s what people say. No one can know for certain I guess.” He punctuated the thought with a dismissive wave of his hand, “But really, I don’t think about faeries much at all.”

  Another weird noise cut across the meadow. This one came from Meadowlark, who had disguised himself under a wild rosebush close at hand. The sound was truly bizarre and disturbing, somewhat of a cross between a dying woman’s scream and the hooting laugh of a huge owl.

  “Now what the hell is that?”

  “Nothing, I’m sure. Now let’s eat.”

  Eric stood up and took a few steps toward the bush. He kicked absently at its stem until he was satisfied. He couldn’t see what Theodora saw, Meadowlark nimbly dodging every blow.

  Eric made the mistake of turning his back on the thorny bush and the even thornier faery. “It’s been twenty years since anyone’s seen or heard of a faery around here. Just a lot of superstitious talk, spread by old people and fools. Maybe they’ve all gone. Maybe there aren’t any faeries any more. No curse, no faeries.”

  At that, his belt snapped, or was deftly cut by an unseen blade. His pants started to fall down, tripping him up as they bunched around his knees. Eric stumbled, rolled, and wound up sprawled on the soft grass, his face square in the middle of their picnic lunch.

  Meadowlark guffawed out loud and, while Eric’s back was turned, Theodora gave him a hand signal to shut it.

  “Enough talk about the Rot,” she said. “Let’s talk of something nicer.” She knocked some crumbled cheese from Eric’s forehead. “It’s so beautiful out here, isn’t it? Everything is new and fresh. Just look at all these butterflies. Sap rising through the trees, buds on the stem ready to burst into flower. This is the best time, isn’t it? The moment just before the flowers spring to life.”

  He leaned in so that their lips almost touched. Theodora realized the two of them were caught in the moment just before a kiss.

  The swallowtail butterflies swarmed between them, getting much too aggressive around his face.

  Theodora waved them off. “Too many butterflies,” she said to the trees. “Thanks anyway.”

  Eric laughed and leaned back on his elbows. “Yes, I think you’re right. Simple pleasures are the best. On a day like this, it’s so easy to be happy.” He gave her a deep, serious look. “Be happy with me.”

  He took her in his arms and kissed her hard on the mouth. Before she knew it they were rolling across the grass, the white dandelion heads fluttering all around them. As she lay on her back Eric leaned over her, sweeping a stray strand of hair from her face. How handsome he was, in the amber sunlight. He kissed her again, caressing her shoulder and the curve of her breast. She felt his passion rising as he pressed against her and decided she could surrender to him, out here in the wild field, without a moment’s hesitation. Still, she pushed him gently away.

  He nuzzled her cheek, then leaned close and whispered, “Marry me.”

  It was as magical a moment as any she had ever experienced.

  She might have leapt at the chance, but then realized she still had a role to play. She must not agree quite so easily. “I can’t,” she said. “My father—”

  “I’ll put him in irons,” Eric said. She couldn’t be sure if he was joking or not. But then again, Eric couldn’t possibly know what cold iron would do to her ‘father’ Meadowlark.

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “I wouldn’t. But I’m not about to let him get in our way either.”

  “He’s my father. And I’m just a Stump. I can’t be the Lady of Grayson Hall. Look at what’s become of you—chasing around with me in plain clothes. You’re reduced to playing a commoner just to meet with me. That’s no good.”

  “You’re right. It’s all backward, don’t you see? Instead of me acting as if I was a commoner you should be a lady—a real Lady, I mean. You don’t have to be ‘just a Stump.’ You can be so much more. Look at you. It’s not about fancy clothes and perfumed hair. There’s such an elegance in your smile, a sense of grace to your bearing. You could be a queen. Anyone can see that. They’ll all see.”

  “My father won’t allow—”

  “I don’t care what he says! I’ll put him in irons.” This time she was certain. He wasn’t kidding.

  “I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. I don’t want to live shut up in the manor house, bound by rules of etiquette and polite society. This is what I love. Open sky, a boundless field of green. I want to be free.”

  “Fine. We’ll run away together! I’ll renounce my title and my name. I’ll be a commoner for real. No more pretend.”

  Theodora’s heart skipped a beat. He was serious. And he was right. The time for pretending, and playing hard to get, was over.

  “I could never let you do that, Eric. That wouldn’t be right for you.” She squeezed his hand. “I suppose I’ll have to marry you, for your own sake.”

  Overjoyed, he showered her hands and face with a hundred little kisses. She pushed him aside, but he refused to let go. They rolled across the grass. Theodora came out on top. Straddling him with both legs she unbuttoned the coarse fabric of his shirt and bent to kiss his chest.

  Relations with Eric offered the best of both worlds—the intense passion of faery lovemaking combined with the substantive meaning it lacked. Eric handled her with a depth of passion she had never realized was even possible. And she had returned those sentiments in equal measure. They were soul mates in the deepest sense, a bond that took physical form in the birth of their children. Conception was much more difficult for the fey than mortal women. James and Nora each represented a minor miracle, wrought through great effort by the faeries. Moon Dancer and Katydid and all the others spent endless nights under the light of Mother Moon, performing every fertility rite the faeries could think of in order to aid Theodora in her cause. And finally the children had arrived and they were so precious to her.

  At last, thinking once again of happier days, she fell off to sleep.

  Chapter 12

  Amalric stepped lightly along the path from the guest house, taking in every detail of the fine summer morning. The birds were singing. The sky was a clear, luminous blue. The air was light and fresh. It hardly seemed possible the end of the world was only a week away.

  He entered the main house through the servant’s door at the rear of the kitchen. A teenage boy nearly ran him over on his way out to empty a slop bucket. A dollop of the slimy refuse splashed one of Amalric’s fancy shoes. He watched the boy scurry away down the path, without even a word of apology. Amalric envisioned a series of fresh red welts blossoming across his tight little backside. Som
e other time, perhaps. Besides, the situation is partly my own fault, stealing in through the back door like a common scullery maid.

  He stepped into the kitchen, keeping a keen eye out for any dish-rag or low-hanging tail of drapery on which he might wipe his foot. Breakfast had already been served and the kitchen staff was mostly preoccupied with straightening up. The delicious smell of fresh-baked apple pie drew his attention to a baking girl arranging steaming little six-inch pies on the ledge. The aroma struck his nostrils like sweet perfume.

  “May I?” he asked.

  “These are for the Lord and Lady, good sir. Not the houseguests.”

  Amalric placed a small silver coin on the counter and covered it with his thumb.

  The girl edged one of the pies close to the edge. “But, for a fine gentleman such as yourself…”

  After the exchange was made she leaned close, allowing an ample view of her cleavage, and whispered, “Anything else I might do?”

  “Now, now,” said Amalric. “Shame on you. You know that I am a happily married man.”

  He passed through the kitchen and down the servant’s back hallway. As he descended two flights of stairs, he poked a finger into the pie and hooked out a sliver of warm apple. He savored the sweet molasses flavor for a moment then rearranged the crust to look as if nothing was missing.

  Arriving at the basement, he gave the pie to the guard standing outside the holding area. “Fresh from the kitchen with my compliments, captain.”

  The man was no captain but he took the pie gratefully anyway, letting Amalric pass into the narrow stone-walled hallway. When he reached the guard stationed outside Ketch’s holding cell, Amalric held up a broad copper coin.

  The guard shook his head. “No one is to be admitted. And you can’t bribe me with tuppence, neither.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Amalric, “but it’s a pretty penny isn’t it? Look how it catches the light from the brazier.” Amalric circled the coin rhythmically in front of the man’s face. “It’s a very shiny coin, the best I could find,” he explained in a soothing voice, “So shiny and new. A very pretty coin.”

  He flipped the coin in his fingers, over and over, casting shadow and light into the man’s eyes in rapid succession. “Don’t you agree?”

  When the guard’s features had grown sufficiently stupefied Amalric made the perfectly reasonable suggestion that the man might find some rest for his weary legs by sitting down in the chair. He might even, since he was so very tired, close his eyes for a quick moment. Amalric replaced the copper in his vest pocket. He smiled to himself, seeing as he had managed to bribe the guard with only a little sleep, an item of considerably less cost than the two pence the man had so haughtily refused.

  Amalric adjusted his voluminous white wig and entered the cell.

  He found the alleged pirate sitting on a wooden stool in one corner of the room, his head sagging on his chest. But at Amalric’s approach he woke up immediately. His eyes snapped open, or one of them did at any rate; the other was swollen shut. His nose was also swollen and had a bloody break in the skin at its bridge. The skin over both cheeks was bruised to a deep black and Amalric fancied he still could see the impressions of Fitzroy March’s knuckles on them.

  The prisoner wore a pair of heavy shackles on his wrists. In addition, one of his ankles was secured to the floor plate with a length of thick iron chain.

  Amalric pulled up a stool to a safe distance opposite the wretch and sat. He took a moment to rearrange and smooth the skirtlets in his lap.

  “Who are you?” he asked the prisoner.

  The prisoner ignored him.

  “Who are you?” he repeated.

  The prisoner scowled at him, squinting his swollen eye painfully. “I don’t remember. Who’re you?”

  Amalric smiled, tipping his head slightly. “I will gladly answer your question, sir. I am Amalric Signi de Francavalla. Since you appear to have some spare time, I will explain. I began my life as an orphan, a stray dog running on the streets of Milan, scuddering across its rooftops with all the other vagabonds and roof rats. When I was a boy of nine, a wealthy skin-merchant thought me pretty and took a liking to me. He paid my way—”

  “Gave you a good buggerin’ didn’t he?”

  Amalric sneered slightly. He did not like to be interrupted. He cleared his throat and said, "Under his generous auspices I was able to obtain an education. I attended finishing school at the Sorbonne in Paris where I specialized in the physical sciences. I am a member in good standing of both the Royal Society of Natural Philosophers and the invisible League of Alchemists. I know everything there is to know about herbs and medicines, a good deal of current mathematical theory, and can chart the orbits of all the planets and the stars.”

  “Good for you,” growled the prisoner.

  “Rest assured I don’t tell you these things for my own pleasure. I have no desire or need to impress you. But now you know me. This is essential in order for me to know you. We’ll get into that in a moment. But first I would ask what kind of pathetic sailor grounds his ship on a reef?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “What happened to your crew?”

  “Not my crew. I was only a passenger, taken off an Antiguan ship, pressed into service.”

  “Name of the ship?”

  “Can’t remember.” The prisoner hazarded a half-smile, revealing the tips of an irregular row of crooked yellow teeth.

  “The ship’s Captain?”

  “A Dutchman. Von Vorst or somethin’ like that.”

  “Their colors?”

  “Black.”

  “Pirates?”

  “I’d say.”

  “What happened to the ship? The crew?”

  The prisoner tossed his head. “I don’t know anythin’ more.”

  “Run out of lies, more likely.”

  “Never. I just bore easily.”

  “You speak English well enough. But do I detect a hint of a French accent oozing off the roof of your palate? Not Parisian, not Versailles. It tastes a bit like coconut to me. Martinique?”

  The prisoner was impressed. “I’ve been there.”

  “And where does Draven Ketch hail from? Isn’t it Martinique as well?”

  “That devil? From Hell itself, I reckon.”

  “A hell of his own choosing or one thrust upon him, I wonder?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Uh-hmm. Lots of slaves in Martinique, aren’t there?”

  That got him going. The prisoner gave his manacles a fierce tug. “I don’t kneel before any man!”

  “I believe you. So what was it then? Sugar cane? Coffee?”

  No answer.

  “Uh-hmm,” said Amalric. He drew a small silk pouch from his coat pocket, untied the drawstring, and poured some white powder onto his open palm. He gazed thoughtfully at it for a moment then thrust it in front of the prisoner’s face.

  “You see this?”

  When the prisoner bent to take a look, Amalric blew forcefully across his palm, spraying the powder into the man’s nose and eyes. The prisoner yelped his displeasure and jerked his head back. He tried rubbing his irritated eyes against the shoulder of his blouse, as the manacles prevented him from using his hands.

  “You scumsuckin’ bastard! What was that?” he demanded.

  “Powdered opium, delosperma nubigenum, some crushed myristica and a dash of red-spotted mushroom. You’ll begin to feel its effects in a moment or two.”

  The prisoner spat a thin stream of foamy froth across the floor of his cell. “What the hell do you want from me?”

  “Answers.”

  “I don’t have any.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Amalric dipped his little finger into the residue on his palm and brought it to his open mouth, delivering just a little between his cheek and gum and rubbing it in. The bitter taste stung the tip of his tongue. He took several deep breaths, already feeling the heady effects of the mixture. His legs became wo
bbly and sent him flopping back down on his stool.

  The room spun and the gray stone walls changed color to bright blue. Amalric struggled for control, using deep breaths to center himself. Each breath seemed impossibly profound as if his lungs had suddenly become a set of tremendous bellows. The bellows in, the bellows out. He embraced the dizzying sensation in his head, letting the room spin faster and faster, the walls a bright blue blur.

  The prisoner had received a substantially larger dose. He was breathing raggedly, panting like a dog, foaming at the mouth. His eyes darted across the space between them as if demons and monsters danced there.

  “I’ve never worked on a plantation myself,” said Amalric. He shrugged his shoulders. “Not built for it. But I’ve seen it done. That’s hot, sweaty work, hoeing sugar cane.”

  He reached forward to lift the prisoner’s chin. He locked his gaze with the man’s wild, demon-haunted eyes.

  “Hot sun. Swinging that hoe back and forth, back and forth. You remember. The sun baking down. So hot. Back and forth. The hoe growing heavy as the day wears on. So tired. So very tired. Back and forth.”

  And the prisoner did remember. Amalric could see it now, the prisoner’s memory through his own eyes. A field of sugar cane impossibly green in the glaring sun. The smell of sweat and molasses. He felt the burn in his shoulders, swinging the hoe as the day wore on. Back and forth. Yes, this man had come from Martinique, had worked the farm just as he had suspected. He embraced the rhythm of the hoe, breathing in and out, swinging back and forth. Their breathing melded together as the bond quickened. They swung the hoe. They knew each other. Back and forth.

  Crack! Pain exploded across Ketch’s back as the cat o’ nine tails struck. Amalric howled in agony. Over his shoulder he could see his torturer’s cheesy grin, his arm swinging back and forth, back and forth. Another lash of white-hot pain. And another.