“He is a bloodthirsty assassin, and probably mad,” I said. “If he is not roused out of the Toppings and sent to the hangman, there will be more good people killed.”
“I am not responsible for the apprehension of criminals,” said the Chancellor. “You should apply to the Attorney General, once her majesty appoints one.”
“I will do it.”
“How did you escape?”
I had given thought to how I would answer this question, and decided that any mention of nymphs might bring my veracity into question. I gave the Chancellor the answer I had prepared.
“We were counted before we went down into the dungeon for the night. But I took advantage of some confusion, and managed to slip away in the growing twilight.”
“Very enterprising,” said the Chancellor.
“It was more enterprise than that great following of Stayne showed,” I said. “He had a small army with him, all riding off to join his warship in Amberstone, and they surrendered meekly as lambs, and even acted as under-footmen at the bandits’ table.”
A glimmer of interest shone in the Chancellor’s mild eyes. “Army?” said he. “Warship?”
I explained the Marquess of Stayne being captured along with much of his armed force, and the galleon Irresistible, its gunports filled with ordnance, that awaited the party’s arrival.
“How very unfortunate for his lordship,” said the Chancellor, and made a note.
Half an hour later, my cheeks flushed with wine, I bade farewell to the duke and Chancellor, both of whom had other business, and walked down the great stairway to the ground floor. I saw that it was raining quite heavily, and so I re-entered the Great Reception Room. Queen Berlauda sat quite grandly on her throne, and was surrounded by ladies and gentlemen, including the ever-smiling Viscount Broughton of Hart Ness.
Led by the viscount, the dance about her continued, the never-ending quest for office and opportunity. A few pigeons flapped overhead, and let their droppings fall on the grand folk below by way of comment on the proceedings.
Standing in the hall, I observed my hostess, the Duchess of Roundsilver, speaking with some gentlemen, and I walked in her direction. She was splendidly attired in a gown sprinkled with margery-pearls and yellow sapphires, and even in the dim light of the room glittered like a beacon. I put on a broad smile and approached, and took off my hat and bowed.
“I hope you will congratulate me, your grace,” I said, “for thanks in part to your husband’s efforts, I am to be appointed Groom of the Pudding, with the announcement to come next Wednesday.”
She blinked up at me in surprise, and then mischief kindled in her blue eyes. “How splendid!” she said.
“I am sorry, sir,” said one of the gentlemen. “I have not made your acquaintance, nor am I familiar with this office.”
I put on my superior-prefect face. “I am Quillifer,” I said. “And my office is new, for his late majesty was not as fond of puddings as our new Queen. But since her majesty is uncommon fond of fig puddings, and plum puddings, and suet puddings with raisins . . .”
“Blancmange,” added her grace. “Cabinet pudding.”
“O, her favorite!” I proclaimed. “As well as dock pudding, clafouti, frumenty, toffee pudding, crow’s nest . . .”
“Treacle pudding,” said the duchess. “Date pudding, groat pudding, pease pudding, flummery.”
“Baby pancake and clootie!” said I by way of a grand conclusion, and then turned to the gentlemen. “In fact, her majesty is devoted to all puddings, and she desires a pudding-bearer to be near her at all times.”
“Groom of the Pudding!” The duchess was great in her admiration. “You shall be at the Queen’s very elbow!”
I bowed. “I shall have that honor,” I said. “And rest assured, your grace, that I shall do my utmost to repay your kindness by advancing your interest with her majesty whenever possible.”
“I am sorry, sir,” said one of the gentlemen. “I failed to quite catch your name.”
The duchess and I continued to amuse ourselves with the poor ambitious gentlemen, and as we rhapsodized about my wonderful new office, I could see the news passing among the throng like a burst of hailshot. Not everyone believed the story, but to some it seemed possible, perhaps even likely. After all, the Groom of the Pudding was scarcely more absurd than the keeper of the King’s thunder-box, known more formally as the Groom of the King’s Close-Stool. This was an ancient, well-established office, originally the lowly servant who, when the monarch was performing his private office, handed the ruler his cleaning-cloths; but which became, on account of the groom’s intimate and private contact with the King, a powerful post much sought by the well-born.
I found myself the cynosure of at least a few eyes, and discoursed on puddings in general and the kindness of the Roundsilvers. I confided my hope that I could convert the Queen to the cause of savory puddings, and offered as an example my mother’s recipe for a pudding of minced lamb’s kidneys. When this line of discourse began to flag, I related my account of the sack of Ethlebight, and again the story of my capture by Sir Basil of the Heugh, along with my subsequent escape in its emended version.
I have mentioned elsewhere the necessity of my demonstrating my gifts to the people, lest they overlook me entirely. And here I found I was not ignored, for I was approached by a young woman wrapped in what looked like an elaborate, ruffled dressing gown of a brilliant satin green, its sleeved puffed and purfled, its hem embroidered with gold thread and cat’s-eye chrysoberyls. Pearls wound their way through her tawny hair, and a necklace of emeralds and diamonds held her long throat in a close embrace. A peacock-feather fan hung carelessly from one hand. She blinked at me with long, lazy dark eyes that made her look as if she had just risen from a luxurious sleep.
“You are Lord Quillifer?” she said. “I believe you have news of my husband.”
I did not make a guess at the identity of the husband, but at once I swept off my hat and bowed.
“Quillifer,” said the duchess, “may I present her ladyship, the Marchioness of Stayne?”
I rose and viewed the silk-swathed woman before me. “When last I saw your husband, he was well,” said I. “He was being closely guarded, but he was not shackled or otherwise mistreated.” I smiled at her. “You should also know,” I said, “that I rescued his signet from the bandit treasure-house, and have it in my possession.”
The lazy eyes widened. “Do you have it with you?” she asked.
“I secured it in a strongbox until I found a means of contacting you,” I said.
The marchioness smiled with small white, chisel-like teeth. “I shall be at home tomorrow afternoon,” she said. “If you bring the signet and more information concerning my lord and his friends, you will find me grateful.”
I bowed again. “Your ladyship honors me,” I said, and rose to find her sauntering away, her peacock-feather fan dangling by its cord from her wrist. I watched the lazy motion of her hips as she flowed across the floor, and turned to find the little duchess watching me with narrow-eyed surmise.
“Master Quillifer,” she said, “I think you have progressed from puddings.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
* * *
gain, sweet, I am compelled to honesty, and to state that four days later, the Marchioness of Stayne and I lay nestled like spoons on my new feather bed, in my apartment off Chancellery Road. A heavy rain drummed on the roof, and a fire glowed in the fireplace.
Her ladyship’s fingers toyed with the rim of a chased silver goblet while her long eyes regarded me from over her shoulder. “Your room is but half-furnished,” said she, “yet you have taken care to provide yourself with the most needful items.”
“A bed, fine sheets, pillows scented with lavender, wine, a fire,” I itemized. “The table and chairs, in the other room, I account pure luxury.”
She sipped wine from the silver goblet and passed it to me. It was a sweet Varcellan moscatto, reminiscent of another occasion, when I kiss
ed the wine from dark Ella’s lips. Inspired by the memory, I kissed her ladyship’s mouth.
“Yet what I shall do with the saddle,” I said, “I know not.”
“You could buy a horse.”
The saddle, beautifully tooled black-and-red leather, regarded me reproachfully from the table. The saddle, the set of four silver goblets, the silver hat-pin, the pomander, the rundlet of Varcellan wine, and the gold-plated medallion were among the gifts that had begun arriving at Roundsilver Palace the morning after I proclaimed myself the new Groom of the Pudding. They were frankly intended as bribes, and sent by people who hoped that I would use my influence with the Queen on their behalf.
I had not expected my joke to go so far, and when the gifts began to arrive, had not known what to do. I immediately sought the advice of the duke and duchess. The duke first reproached me for letting the matter get out of hand.
“If word of this reaches the Queen,” he said, “it may very well injure our efforts to aid Ethlebight. She is not noted for her love of pranks.”
I looked at him in horror. “What should I do?”
He lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “Write very becoming letters of thanks,” he said, “and assure the donors of your gratitude and friendship.”
“I should not return the gifts?”
“They were given freely,” said the duke. “It would be an insult to return them. But if one of your new friends asks for a gift to be returned, then by all means hand it back.”
“Oh, but it was so comical!” said the duchess. And she recounted the whole episode in detail, and in the end the duke was laughing as well as she.
Nor did the incident affect plans for Ethlebight’s relief. For, sitting next to the saddle on my table, was the black leather portfolio containing ten privateering commissions, signed with the royal seal and delivered to my care just that morning by the Chancellor. Along with these was my own commission to travel to Ethlebight and be the Chancellor’s agent in seeing the licenses well bestowed upon the city’s captains.
“A horse?” I said. “I should prefer not to ride a horse in this weather.”
Her ladyship turned onto her back, her head and her great mass of fair hair lying warm across my arm. “Ay,” she said. “You prefer to gallop indoors.”
I kissed her again. “I am more than happy to venture a ride out-of-doors,” I said. “But not in such weather as this.”
She smiled, revealing those small, chisel-shaped teeth, which against all likelihood I found perfectly enchanting. I rested my hand upon the rounded curve of her abdomen.
The marchioness had been born Lady Amalie Brilliana Trevil, the seventh child and fifth daughter of the Count of Culme. Such was the abundance of daughters in his gloomy northern stronghold that Culme rather haphazardly gave Amalie in marriage to his friend the widowed Marquess of Stayne, for the express purpose of breeding an heir. Married at sixteen, Amalie was now seventeen and had been carrying the heir for five months. The nausea gravidarum having passed, and her husband having ridden off with his army on an ill-fated attempt to overthrow the kingdom, Amalie now felt ready for her own adventure.
I had called upon her at her invitation, and found her with a small circle of friends. I presented her with Stayne’s signet, and she offered thanks and refreshment. We chatted most pleasantly for an hour—I fought myself looking in those long dark eyes for a sign—and by and by, I found it smoldering there. We first met at my apartment the following afternoon.
For the world she had adopted a style that was slow and languid, and in response I stroked her as if she were a lazy kitten. But when my caresses brought a rosy bloom to her cheeks, and her breath caught in her throat, the languid pose vanished, and she became a tiger-cat in my arms.
Pregnancy had strangely improved her. Her body seemed flushed with warmth and vitality. Her skin was smooth and rich as samite, and her breasts were exquisitely sensitive. The rounding of her abdomen was strangely attractive, and her condition did not yet preclude intimacy.
“It may yet be a long while before my husband returns,” she said as she nestled against my arm. “I have applied without success to a number of moneylenders.”
“The signet will not serve?”
“Stayne’s already in debt to up to his eyes, and he borrowed more in order to outfit his ship and crew. Many of his lands are off in Clayborne’s country, and he’ll have no rents till the war’s over.”
“How much is Sir Basil demanding?”
“Four thousand royals.”
I whistled. “I would not know where to apply for such a sum.”
“I have asked our steward and our man of business, and it seems the respectable bankers already possess an abundance of Stayne’s debt. I think in the end I must apply to a usurer—or more than one.”
It had occurred to me that Amalie might be better off if her husband did not return—she would be a free widow, mother of the heir, and at liberty to pursue a life of pleasure. Yet I did not care to suggest such a thing—I remembered poor Higgs, the captive whose brother had apparently abandoned him to the bandits, and I should not like to see anyone thrown on the mercy of Sir Basil of the Heugh.
Yet how could Amalie avoid these thoughts entirely? Surely, she understood her own situation. Yet I should be a bit uneasy if I found myself lying next to a woman who I knew had disposed of a husband. How much more lightly could she dispose of a lover?
I decided these thoughts were too morbid, and nestled closer to Amalie on the bed.
“Take us our pleasures while we may,” said I.
“And the less we consider tomorrow, the greater our pleasure today.”
She turned to me, and our lips met. She still tasted of the moscatto.
“Are you also then a poet?” she said.
“The verse is mine, such as it is. Though the sentiment is hardly original.”
Her arms came around my neck, and for a long time we kissed, till a hammering came on my door. I looked at her.
“You are not looked for?” I said.
“No one knows I’m here.”
The hammering continued. I kissed Amalie and rose from the bed. I threw on a cloak and walked into the front room, and there looked for a weapon—for it had not escaped my mind that here I was in adultery with a high-born woman, and that some nosy relative or in-law might be taking an interest in her whereabouts. I found no weapon but the fireplace poker, and so equipped, I approached the door.
“Who is it?”
A clipped voice called from beyond the door. “I come from the Count of Wenlock!”
I had not expected a messenger from Lord Utterback’s father, and so I hesitated for a moment before responding while I counted the days. Two days for my letter to reach Blacksykes, where Wenlock was Lord Lieutenant, and two days for his lackey to return.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“I have come for Lord Utterback’s ring.”
Well, that was simple enough. I looked at Amalie, who was reclining on a pillow laughing and blowing kisses, and turned back to the door.
“I don’t have the ring here. Come back tomorrow afternoon.”
My answer was a renewed banging on the door. “Open or I’ll break it down!”
I looked at Amalie and made my screaming-infant face. She laughed. The door began to jump in its frame.
“Very well!” I said. “I’ll let you in!”
I closed the door into the bedroom and then unbarred the door to the stair. Three large men entered, each wearing under rain-spattered cloaks the Wenlock livery of blue and royal gold. I felt a cold hand touch the back of my neck as I saw that each wore a broadsword on a baldric over one shoulder, and a sturdy dagger thrust into their belt in the back.
“Well,” I said, rather obviously naked beneath my cloak. “As you see, I wear no ring.”
The leader scowled from behind a grizzled beard. “Where is it?”
“Safe in a strongbox,” I said.
The leader nodded to one of h
is men, who walked to the bedroom door and opened it. I heard a gasp from Amalie, and saw that she’d had the sense to turn away from the intruder, pulling the bedclothes up to her chin.
“Naught but a whore,” said the lackey. I fancied that even through the bedclothes I could see Amalie’s spine stiffen in outrage.
The leader looked at me again. “Where is it?”
“Not here.”
He snarled. “Then you’d better take me to it.”
I considered my position. “May I put on some clothes? It seems to be raining.”
He sneered at me. “No tricks, now,” he said. “Or I’ll treat you like the bandit that you are.”
“Considering that I freely wrote your master and offered to give him the ring,” said I, “I consider that word harsh.”
“Did you steal it, or didn’t you?” One of his fellows snickered, as if this were the epitome of wit.
“I stole it from an outlaw,” I said.
“A man in a position to steal from an outlaw is naught but a thief who keeps the company of thieves.” Again his fellow guffawed.
I went into the bedroom and put on my clothes. “I’ll soon be back,” I whispered to Amalie, and squeezed her ankle through the bedclothes. Then I threw on my cloak, took my hat, and led Wenlock’s three lackeys into the rain. They trod close on my heels, as if to assure me of my helplessness.
When it rains, Selford smells like a cesspool. The filth lies in alleys and the street, and rain washes it into view, and down the public lanes. Eventually, it finds its way to the creeks and gullies that take it to the Saelle, but not before its odor rises to the nostrils of the citizens.
The hall of the Worshipfull Societie of Butchers, a refuge from the reek, lay just past the bottom of Chancellery Road, a fine high-vaulted building of the local white stone. Rainwater shot from the mouths of the carved beasts that ornamented the eaves, and lamplight glowed through the stained-glass windows that showed shepherds, stockmen, goatherds, and their charges. I had been a guest in the hall just the night before, as bells were rung and incense burned in honor of my father’s Leave-Taking.
Quillifer Page 22