by B. H. Young
Another quick slashing with her hand and she laid the quill down beside the paper. "Is that all, Faravus?" she asked with anticipation to continue the hunt.
"Lord Willem Mathayus will be arriving shortly as per your request my lady," he said.
"Very well, thank you, Faravus."
"Thank you, my lady. If I see Sir Lawrence I shall tell him you are looking for him."
Jillian paid him a modest smile under her eyes of jade. What would she ever do without him she wondered? "Faravus, you are so helpful and kind, thank you."
She knew it was not wise to appear so insecure in front of the help, but she could not help but to sulk in a pool of worry. Forty-four years in the world soon and she had not been able to bear Sir Lawrence any children in their three years of matrimony. All sorts of potions and spells provided by the savants of Theymonhal promised life but failed to deliver. Maybe it was for the best and it would be better for natural conception. The Gods would determine when to allow a life, not the concoctions of learned people, but when, she wondered. A man needs children, though, more than he needs a wife who could not bear them. Sir Lawrence Roberts was nine years her younger and she prized his youth and good looks like a trophy for all her friends locked in nuptials to men that belonged in crypts. The heart of a young man brings great effort to hold it, though.
Almost every room of the old castle had passed her frantic eyes over and over again by now. Jillian hounded servant after servant on the whereabouts of Sir Lawrence, a question some of them had heard twice already this morning. In the east hall, she paused, yelling his name once more before interrogating the old woman refilling the decorative flagons with more wine.
Before the servant could answer, Sir Lawrence startled Jillian from behind. "What is it my lady?"
She let go of the old woman, turned to his voice with relief, gave him a hug, and then pushed back. "Lawrence, oh by the Gods you are sweating," she said. Her youthful prize drenched like a peasant was not something she liked seeing.
"As are you, my dear," he said and dabbed his fingers above his brow.
She was well aware of her own wetness, but Sir Lawrence looked as if he had just taken a swim. His plump cheeks and forehead were flushed red and the sweat slicked the edging of his hair to the sides of his face. Jillian turned back to the old woman and said, "You there, douse all the fires at once." The servant bowed and scuttled off fearfully.
"It's quite all right Jillian," Sir Lawrence said rubbing his thumb at her shoulder.
"No, it is not, I ask for the halls to be warm, not scorching confines of torment."
Sir Lawrence stepped into her, placing his hands on her hips and gave a slight squeeze. "So what does my lady so frantically seek me for?"
"I've been looking for you all morning. Olevia has been waiting to fit you," she said.
"That's not any reason to go hollering up and down the halls interrogating the staff, Jillian."
"So you heard me?" Her eyes lessened and she jerked her head back.
"My dear, all of Theymonhal heard you." He smiled.
"This is no playful matter... if you heard me why didn't answer?"
"I'm sorry my dear, I was tending to a matter about the spoiled crop in the storeroom as well as a large stock of meats that have fouled."
"Why was I not informed about the problems with the stock?"
"I knew it to be a busy morning for you Jillian, and ordered the staff to not burden you with such trivial matters."
"Lawrence, a matter with our stock rotting is not trivial. How would the guest we are to have in a few days, react to spoiled cabbage and fouled beef? My celebration must be perfect, I fear to not look a fool to my people." She frowned.
"You won't my lady; it will be perfect so perfect that bards will sing songs of it for years to come. The matter has been handled so think nothing more of it," he said.
She perched her hands to his shoulders losing herself in his earthy eyes and sharp smile. "You are perfect Lawrence, wonderful, and all mine. One could only hope to be as fortunate as I have. I could run away from it all, take to the Knights Road, and never look back so long as you were by my side."
"And I would be my lady, for now until the end. I will go see Olevia at once," he said and placed a soft kiss on her lips and scurried off.
Jillian tasted of the berry mist from his lips and began to linger under the rising of questionable thoughts. It was all too common she found herself with such ill feelings. Insecurities that a young fawn would steal away her gallant buck came more often than before. It was not healthy to fester with distrust as often as the days grew on. She had supplied the berry mist to the staff with generous intent. They could never afford such a luxury. It was not hard to pick up an aura of the scent with the way the bumpkins caked it on with disregard that a little was all that was needed. She sniffed lightly at her shoulder; even she had managed to pull in the scent from her morning of interrogating the help.
The outer hallway filled with the radiant light of the morning spurring in as ghostly drapes in an unfelt wind. Jillian stepped up to the tall-embellished window and stared with fondness at her great city. Theymonhal's size and beauty were only second to Mystenthel of Kyngrol. Its structures all built of sky blue brick and tiled sallow tops. Large and great populus milk trees sat adorned throughout the streets, flushed with ashen crowns accenting the city's depressed stone. A clarion stream sprawled like tangled roots under the boulevards and alleys, snaking around the large castle and sprouting out under the outer city wall into the great Lake Mare.
It was not always of such beauty, though. Theymonhal was a dull city with one foot in the grave when she became steward. Jillian had spent ample amount of coin to bring the city back from its lost splendor, putting the province in debt with its Great Houses and nobles. Common as it were for Province Stewards to seek loans from outside sources, she attained historical new heights with the borrowing of coin. The only remaining sore spot of the city left was the slums of Barren Points on the east end. It seemed that was a part of the city's former self that did not want to be done away with. Crime was rampant and so common in The Points, that restorations became an unattainable goal. She dumped massive amounts of coin into the Barren Points and cared not for the ridicule it brought her, but nor did she acknowledge it was an endeavor destined for failure. She would not believe that, and all she could do was try she thought. Jillian was a Freethinker and proud of it, others just lacked tolerance for her vision and rule.
Born to a noble family, Jillian's life was an easy stride with no real effort needed, words of wild tongues said. Only receiving her stewardship because of the dignified name, she bared, and her affair with the king. Jillian knew she had worked hard to earn her place in the world, or at least convinced herself of such a fallacy. But for all the scandals that surrounded her, like an incurable sickness, the words of jealous minds could not shake her.
A light pitched voice from down the hall called out to Jillian as she dazed. "Good morning my lady," Liandra Mason said, gliding towards Jillian, her small frame, and dark hair showering under the beams of light.
Jillian's face lit up with joy to the sight of her. The poor girl was plagued from the heat as well she saw, just as flushed as Sir Lawrence was. "My dear Liandra, I have told you it's perfectly okay to address me as Aunt Jillian."
Liandra smiled and bowed her head with courtesy and said, "Oh no my lady. My mother always told me to address you proper."
"Oh, your mother was always stubborn with being prim and proper in manners." Jillian looked Liandra up and down and slid the back of her hand, gentle, across her cheek. So much of her late friend resided in Liandra's face of eighteen. "I bet she never told you about the time we got caught stealing biscuits from the bakery."
"No my lady," she said and chuckled.
"Your mother was as proper mannered as a stray cat to the guard, until he said we were to be thrown into the dungeon. Your mother snapped up right quickly with pleas of no sir's and yes sir's.
We were so young then." Jillian let out a soft laugh and then an empty stare gripped her eyes. "She was such a dear friend, I was so happy when you accepted my offer to come and stay with us after Bethany's untimely passing. You remind me so much of her." She ran her fingers through the side of Liandra's hair. "I remember the day you were born. It was the happiest day of Bethany's life. You were wrapped in a silk blanket and your mother held you for hours not wanting to let go of the moment."
"Yes my lady it was such an honor but I wasn't sure if I would be a worthy fit around such nobility," Liandra said, tucking her chin.
"Nonsense dear, of course you are worthy, and of course, you would fit in just fine. I wasn't going to have my dear friends only child lingering in the streets and dumping dishwater. You are as graceful and well mannered as your mother was and we are happy to have you," Jillian said.
"It has been a wonderful experience and I am eternally grateful for all you have done for me my lady."
"It is our pleasure, my dear. Now, seamstress Olevia is waiting in my chambers to fit you with what I'm sure will be a gown of such grace it will make the Gods cry."
"I was just on my way to see her my lady."
"Good," Jillian said and hugged her, taking in a heavier scent of the berry mist.
Chapter 13.
Most recruits feared the sparring grounds where the mangled face man waited to punish them. Instructor Aidan Maddox was a shrewd golem of hard values and painful lessons, defined in his youthful days as the best swordsmen in the province, some say the kingdom. The scarred instructor had turned away from knighthood and took the Iron path long ago, and was now responsible for training recruits in the skills of the blade. Whispers around the compound of the origins of his scars were plentiful among the recruits. From braving the Dust Lands of Shadengrell for three days, weaponless and at the mercy of the region's foul wildlife, to striking a bargain with devils for his combative skills. The dark stories made recruits enter his lessons with rattled nerves.
Martha parried Aidan's side swing advance as he circled her. With a strong footing and a firm focus on his eyes, she would not take the bait. It was a painful mistake other recruits would make too often. The sparring blades were blunt, but could still bruise and break the skin. He spun around driving his weapon with an overhand grip and she raised her blade to meet his, thudding a clash of metal. With Aidan, there was no reading of ancient books, no sleep inducing lectures, and no having to memorize potions and powders or any other boring duties. Hands on is the best form of learning, Martha thought, and she enjoyed his lessons the most.
Aidan stepped back and yielded with a bow. "Very well done Martha, your movement is fluid and your defense skills are coming along nicely," he said.
"Instructor Aidan," she said, bowed, handed him her sword and took her place with the other recruits.
"Before I dismiss all you mangy mutts, understand real combat is not graceful." He paced in front of the recruits. "It's faster, brutal and more chaotic. If you approach it like a drunken brawl you will watch as your entrails jump from your soft bodies before you leave this world." The patches of rough healed skin on his face and neck gave weight to his words. "What I have taught you will help you control it. But it is you who must adjust accordingly in battle to prevent your opponent from leading." He gazed at the recruits and said, "Dismissed!"
"Show off," Lacy whispered to Martha as they left the sparring grounds.
"I can't help it if I have a knack for battle." Martha looked to her friend with an upturned face. "Besides instructor Aidan likes to have me assist him since I'm the only one who doesn't end up busted and bleeding at the end of his lessons."
"Or maybe he just likes the way your butt shakes when dancing about." Lacy wiggled her fingers, sniffled, and Martha gave her a smile and a wink as they walked through the courtyard.
"Well he couldn't very well have you assist him, Lacy, not while you're sick." Anything short of being bed-ridden, recruits were expected to train.
"Good thing too, all that spinning around would throb my stomach. I'd likely spit up all over the ugly bastard before passing out."
"Has Meister Herion's elixir helped any?" Martha asked and placed her hand to Lacy's head. Her fever was holding.
"No, I'm afraid it's set in and will just have to run its course."
"You need rest, Lacy."
"Hard as Iron," Lacy said and then coughed. "Besides, I am to meet Bradley in the mess hall for lunch."
"I'm sure Bradley is planning on eating more than lunch." Martha wiggled her eyebrows.
Lacy's ailing eyes bulged and her mouth dropped open. "Oh, you are so bad! Though the pervert would think me easier to submit to him while sick I bet." Her face was drawn and beads of sweat were starting to show now. "I should too, pass this sickness on to him so he can see what it's like to have a scorching fever and runs of water."
Martha giggled and then said, "You are so gross."
"Well it's true and it would serve him right."
"I'll see you later." Martha reached over giving her friend a snug.
"You're not coming with?"
"And come between, what I'm sure will be a romantic lunch between you and your gallant man? No, I'm going to head back to the room for a bit and lay down before Ragnfred's alchemy lessons."
The truth is she had seen Nevy leaving the barracks when exiting the sparring grounds and wanted to check if Godzton had written her again.
"Very well then." Lacy waved as she headed off towards the mess hall.
Martha caught a glimpse of Overseer Hacan further down the barracks hall as he slipped from view. He was an odd little man always wondering the halls and never talked much, instead, he just glared at everyone as if he hated the whole world. And Gods forbid if an unfortunate soul drew down his wrath.
She entered into her room and saw the message from Godzton on the floor; the wax seal was crushed. "Oh Nevy," she said, reached down, and picked it up. He would always slide messages under the door when no one was there to receive them, crushing the wax seal.
"My quiet little mouse," Overseer Lisbet called out to her from behind as she stood.
Martha turned to see her standing in the doorway. "Hello Overseer Lisbet," she said and tucked the message to her waist.
"A message from afar?" Lisbet asked.
"Yes, ma'am, my aunt in Padenmor."
"Oh, I wasn't aware you had any kin."
"Just her ma'am."
"Hmm, well support beyond these walls keeps us strong dear." She placed her hand onto Martha's shoulder. "I just wanted to come find you to tell you that I've got a task I think we can handle."
Martha's eyes sparkled. She had been tossing and turning at night waiting, thinking about it, hoping Overseer Lisbet had meant to do what she said she would. Martha feared it may have been just a little lie told to get her to follow curfew.
"Oh, that's great news," Martha said. "What is the task?" She hoped it would be a good assignment and not some vermin hunt as Irons would sometimes do. She wanted to handle criminals, not primal minds. Suppose they were one in the same, though, she thought.
"The Belvenn Fort just south here is housing a couple of half-groat thugs that have become a nuisance to some farmer's, among other things." Lisbet brushed her bang from her eye. "Not a very bright lot to take up so near the Iron compound. I think some proper women of the Iron like us should be able to handle a few mean old thieves."
"I think so too, when shall we leave?" Martha struggled not to burst out into wild celebration.
"I've cleared it with Overseer Gelfradus and Hacan so when I return from Mystenthel we will head out there first thing." Lisbet could see a slight unsettling in Martha's eyes with mention of the delay. "Oh now don't worry my quiet little mouse, they'll still be there for us to deal with when I get back. Vagrants like that don't stray far from easy pickings."
"Yes ma'am, thank you so much," Martha said.
"Well, I shall leave you to read your message then, Martha. Unti
l I return."
Martha waited a moment after Overseer Lisbet had shut the door and then raced to sit on her bed to read Godzton's letter. A smile widened to her cheeks as her eyes strolled the last few sentences of his letter. Godzton's asking of her to help him astounded her to no end. Treating her like, she was already an Iron, what more could a girl want? Martha pressed the letter to her bosom, blurting with merriment, and kicking her legs.
It would be no easy task, though. Archivist Edverc was an old prune steeped in tradition. The old man took his role as the gatekeeper for the Crown List too somber and would never allow the black cupboard to be opened unless it was an official request. Godzton had told her once, that the last time it had been opened; he stood guard for the changing. That was a few years before she arrived at the compound. He would not have asked her to do it if he thought she could not succeed, she thought.
Martha jumped from the bed, pulled up the edge of the mattress, and placed the letter onto a flat collection of all his letters and then darted for the door. Wasting no time, she walked with swiftness out of the barracks and into the lounge, cutting down the center hall and passed the munitions bay. Bearing a smile that hurt her face the entire way until reaching the door to the Archivist Hall. Gasping, she took her time to gain composure before entering. She could not just barge in and demand to see the Crown List; Archivist Edverc would chase her out waving his cane with intent to do harm.
The room housed large shelves from floor to ceiling stocked with many books, some thin and some thick. Baskets of straw and bins of metal held mountains of scrolls, most covered in a sheet of dust she observed and others in webs. It would take two lifetimes to read everything here. The knowledge of many well-versed scholars and authors throughout history all kept in one room and if one could not find an answer here, then one did not exist.
There were no windows on the walls, but a dozen lanterns with a damping glow washed over the room. Martha peeked around as she crept through the room and saw Padenton Crius, apprentice to Archivist Edverc. A young quiet man, he sat hunched over the large book lost in its pages, with one hand gliding across the paper side to side as his head followed.