Quillifer

by Walter Jon Williams

  “You may choose whichever of these you like,” I told her, “and I will wear the other. It can be a secret sign of our affection.”

  She loved pearls above all other gems, and so I was not surprised when she chose the pearl pendant. “I will take the other,” said I, “and remain the dark shadow behind your brightness.”

  And like a shadow, I thought, I will follow you until the light about you grows too bright, until it is impossible to hide any longer, and then I will fade away.

  * * *

  Meteor sailed away, carrying my and Kevin’s combined fortunes. I attended court but found it supremely dull, everyone standing and chatting and waiting for the Queen to do or say something so that they could praise it, so I gave up attending unless the Master of Revels had devised some entertainment. I called upon Lord Utterback and repaid the ten royals for my ransom, and called also on Their Graces of Roundsilver, who were never less than exquisitely kind. I resolved to make use of the saddle I had been given and engaged a master for riding lessons, in hopes of resolving the conflict between myself and horse-kind. Perhaps I made a little progress in that regard.

  Amalie came when she could, bearing court gossip to which I otherwise had no access.

  I came to Roundsilver Palace one day bearing a gift to thank them for their kindnesses to me. It was a salt cellar of gold and enamel featuring the naked figure of some Eastern sea-god stretched out between vessels for salt and pepper, each wrought in the form of a sea shell. It was the first object I had seen at the jeweler’s that I thought reflected the duke’s taste, and I bought it even though I was a little shocked by the cost.

  The duke was very taken by the piece, and thought he could name the artisan who had made it, or at least his school in far-off Tabarzam. He brought it to the duchess to admire, and asked me at once to dinner in the Great Hall. Blackwell was also a guest, along with a singer from Loretto named Castinatto.

  Both they and their hosts were to journey to Kingsmere for the royal hunt, their graces as guests, and the others as performers. In an offhand way the duke asked if I would consent to be one of their party. I was flattered and accepted.

  “Though I am not as skilled an entertainer as these gentlemen,” said I, nodding to the actor and the singer, “yet I will endeavor to provide some amusement.”

  The duke nodded his fine golden head. “Try not too hard,” he said. “It is, after all, meant to be a holiday.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  * * *

  he royal lodge at Kingsmere is a mere twelve leagues north and west from Selford, but it took the court two days to reach it, for the Queen was accompanied by her mother, Leonora, her half sister Floria, her particular friend the Countess of Coldwater, as well as three dukes, four marquesses, nine counts, eighteen knights, and the two hundred servants of her household deemed most essential to the maintenance of her majesty. To these were added the wives and servants of the male guests, detachments of the Yeoman Archers, Roundsilver’s Company of Players, a band of monks, a boys’ choir, and assorted acrobats, minstrels, dancers, and the carters whose task it was to move the entire assembly from one place to another in more than two hundred carriages and carts.

  The Marchioness of Stayne, regally with child, rode in her own carriage and disdained other company, thus proving, at least in her own mind, her superiority to the court at large.

  Showing my fine saddle and indifferent horsemanship, I had rented a courser and was assigned a place in the column, behind the carriages of the guests and before the servants’ carts. I found myself amid a group of lawyers from the Chancellery, and they were pleasant enough company, though none were in a position to offer me employment.

  The bridge to Mossthorpe was closed to other traffic while the great convoy rolled over it, which took almost half a day. After a night at the royal castle of Shornside, where I slept in an attic with the lawyers, we continued to the town of Gilmorton Royal, where the inhabitants turned out to cheer the Queen as she passed. Most of them, I am sure, were employed at Kingsmere for at least part of the year.

  At the limit of the village we turned onto the manor grounds, and after passing through forests of quickbeam, oak, and ash, came to open grazing land, where we were greeted by a pair of giants—figures six or eight yards tall, one of which beat kettledrums while the other raised a great glittering trumpet to its lips and blew a call to welcome the Queen. (I think there were actual trumpeters hidden in its wickerwork breast.) These great puppets, worked by hidden cables and pulleys, wore tabards that showed the Red Horse, and bowed their leafy heads as Berlauda passed.

  Here Viscount Broughton and his lady wife stood by the road to greet her majesty, along with the steward of the house, the gamekeepers, and the foresters. The lover and the wife and the Queen must all have been civil, for I heard no shots fired.

  Over the course of the late afternoon the traveling fair that was the court disposed itself about Kingsmere. The old hunting lodge, bought by the Queen’s grandfather, had been enlarged and improved, and was now in the form of a long central building of golden sandstone, graced by a pair of long wings stretching forward and back on either side, the whole in the shape of an H. The central part was for the Queen and her noble guests, one of the large wings for their friends and servants, and the other wing was shared by the staff of the lodge and by a large stable block for the party’s hunting coursers. Lesser beasts were put up in barns, stables, and paddocks.

  The lawn before the house sloped down to the lake, both lawn and lake rippled by the breeze. The low sun outlined the ripples with gold. At the pier was a boat that Broughton had constructed for her majesty, built in the shape of a swan and covered with real swan feathers.

  After seeing to my horse, I was given a generous supper at a table set up in an outdoor garden—the Queen and her particular guests dined in the Great Hall inside—and then I slept on a rag-stuffed mattress, smelling of mildew, in a room reserved for the duke’s retinue, which in this case meant about half a dozen of the actors, none of whom I knew, but most of whom were already blind drunk, and had been for most of the day. There was little choice but to drink along with them, some sort of foul liquor which I hope never to encounter again.

  Next morning, as morning bells tolled painfully in my skull, I joined the Roundsilvers for a day of shooting. We hunters were arrayed in a line, while a legion of beaters, recruited from the village, drove past us great flocks of pheasant, quail, and black grouse. The duke and duchess, firing a pair of matched silver-chased calivers, brought down their targets again and again. I had been loaned a caliver myself, a wheellock venerable but well maintained, but I barely knew how to load it, let alone shoot. I struck down none of the flying targets, but I enjoyed myself, standing with the others on a fine autumn day with the bracing scent of gunpowder on the wind. Nearly three thousand birds were killed during the course of the morning, and we would dine on the fowl, off and on, for the rest of the week.

  That afternoon, the weather was suitable for a day on the lake, and so her majesty went out on Kingsmere in her swan-boat, this time with Broughton, whose wife disliked boats and would not go on the water. But her majesty was not entirely alone with him, for there were many other boats on the water filled with members of the court, and one barge with filled with minstrels, and Castinatto in the bow singing.

  Still, I could see their heads together as they sat beneath the canopy in the stern, as in full view of the court as they were being rowed about by six men in Broughton livery.

  Throughout the day I remained aware of Amalie, who had participated in the bird hunt, and who now lounged beneath an umbrella while being rowed about the lake by a servant. I’d had no opportunity to speak with her, let alone speak privately. Yet I was constantly aware of her presence, a kind of tremor in the atmosphere of which I was subtly aware, as if she were radiating some sort of invisible beams that prickled over my skin. She was always present, yet always unavailable. I was impatient and filled to the eyebrows with frustrat
ion, and it was in this mood that in the evening I viewed The Triumph of Virtue, the masque that Blackwell had been employed to write.

  Few of the company’s actors were involved, for most of the parts in the masque that did not involve singing were taken by members of the court, all dressed in extravagant costumes that no acting company could possibly afford. There was a good deal of dancing, and I saw Their Graces of Roundsilver in the ballet company, masked and enjoying themselves.

  The story was an allegory—which made it tedious—and involved the singer Castinatto as the demon Iniquity, who was rejoicing in the fact that he’d succeeded in capturing and imprisoning Virtue and her friends Honor, Purity, and Piety.

  Whatever dungeon he’d put them in, it was a place with a lot of music and dancing.

  Queen Berlauda played no part in the production other than watching it from her throne and nodding approvingly at the masque’s moral sentiments. The part of Virtue, however, was played by the little princess Floria, who to my surprise sang in a perfectly respectable contralto. Her acting I thought more mannered, for she delivered her moralizing speeches with a serene expression that seemed to combine complacency with self-satisfaction—and then, with a shock, I realized that Floria was doing a perfect imitation of her half sister’s vacant dignity, and doing it right in front of Berlauda and the whole court. At once my gaze snapped to Berlauda, whose expression mirrored that exact lofty self-satisfaction. She seemed perfectly unaware that she was being mocked.

  I turned to the rest of the audience, and their expressions were approving when they weren’t completely bored. It seemed the princess and I were sharing a secret.

  The masque had turned interesting. I watched till the end, when Virtue and her comrades broke free of the prison and celebrated with a galliard, and I joyously applauded Floria as she took her bow at the end.

  * * *

  Next day opened with a deer hunt on horseback, with hounds. My limited horsemanship kept me from participating fully—I was always at the rear of the hunt, and quite happy to be there, since the front bristled with reckless spirits and sharp weapons. I avoided the jumps when I could, and when a jump was unavoidable, it was my courser who took me over the jumps rather than the other way around.

  The deer hunt was for the most part a masculine pursuit, and most of the ladies remained at the lodge or followed the hunt in carriages. Yet there were women in the hunt, some unknown to me, and another known by sight—the princess Floria, who bent so low over her horse’s neck that her flying dark hair seemed an extension of the animal’s mane. She was so small and light that her steed carried her well to the front, and it was all her two grooms could do to keep up with her.

  Nor could they keep her from falling as her courser failed to jump a little creek—Floria’s little form, tucked protectively into a ball, was hurled like a roundshot into a dogwood and produced an explosion of leaves and bright red fruit. My heart gave a leap, and I spurred my horse toward the overthrow. I pulled up at the creek, dismounted, vaulted the obstacle rather better than had Floria’s horse, and found the princess upside down in the bush, her arms flapping as she tried to keep the burly grooms from picking her up and setting her upright.

  “Is your highness injured?”

  She did not answer but fixed at me with hazel eyes. “Pray leave me alone,” she said. Her words were enunciated with formal clarity. “I’ll get myself out of this.”

  Anxiety plucked at my nerves as I watched the princess carefully extricate herself from amid the dogwood’s daggerlike branches. At last she rose teetering on her high-heeled riding boots and plucked twigs and scarlet dogberries from her riding costume. Her tough cheviot skirt had been torn by one of the dogwood’s lances, but her long-sleeved riding jerkin of red leather had protected her from further harm.

  She took several breaths before speaking. “Morris,” she said to one of the grooms, “please fetch me my horse.”

  “Your highness will continue the hunt?” I asked. She fixed me with a birdlike glance from her hazel eyes.

  “It is either that or eat pudding, Master Groom,” she said, “and you have failed to bring the pudding!”

  It took me a moment for my mind to shift from that of a reluctant huntsman to Groom of the Pudding, during which time I stood flat-footed as a bumpkin.

  “I apologize, your highness,” I managed at last. “The cook has been damnably lax. What sort of pudding does your highness desire?”

  “Frumenty!” She snarled the word as the groom arrived with her courser. The second groom bent to catch her foot in his cupped hands, and hurled her up into the seat. As the princess was arranging herself on the side-saddle—petticoats billowed from the slash in her skirt—an open-topped carriage full of ladies drew up. I saw that one of those in the carriage was Floria’s mother, the divorced Queen Natalie, and I bowed.

  “Floria, my dear, please be careful!” called Natalie.

  “Why?” The princess gathered the reins and answered from over her shoulder. “Berlauda won’t mourn if I break my neck!”

  I pondered this truth as Floria rode off, then bowed again to the former Queen and returned to my own horse.

  I was well behind the pack, and by the time I caught up, the deer had all been driven into a great pen made of fences, hedges, and nets, all too high for the prey to leap. There were both red deer and fallow deer in the enclosure, and as the stags were all in rut, the air filled with the sound of clashing antlers as they fought each other for possession of the does.

  In vain, however, for grooms rode into the pen and carefully separated the females from the males. The does were driven through a gate, down a lane surrounded by high hedges, and into another enclosure, where they would be shot, for the most part by the ladies. The stags, on the other hand, would be despatched by the men with lance and sword.

  The does came first, and the Queen fired the first shot standing in her carriage, and dropped a fallow doe to applause and cries of “Well done!” I saw that Broughton was with her in the carriage, and that there was no sign of his viscountess.

  There followed a massacre conducted in strict order of precedence, the second shot being taken by Berlauda’s mother, the next by Floria firing her caliver from horseback, and so on. Such women as chose to fire seemed all to be practiced shots. The bracing scent of gunpowder floated free in the air.

  I was not bothered by the bloodshed or the butchery, as I had grown up with animals being killed and cut up as a matter of course, and the difference between this and my father’s occupation was one of degree, not intention. Yet in this ritual display that brought all these glittering people to the killing ground, I felt there was more than assuring a supply of meat for the night’s supper. I reflected on how these noble families had gained power, and for the most part it was war, as with Emelin who had slain other kings, or at least some form of combat, as with Roundsilver’s ancestor who slew the dragon. The nobles had achieved preëminence through combat, and this ritual bloodletting wasn’t sport only, but practice for war.

  I saw that the Duchess of Roundsilver was readying herself to fire, and I rode to join her indulgent husband, who sat behind her on his horse, which still trembled and sweated from the chase. The duchess fired from on foot, bent over and bracing her silver-chased caliver against the fence, and killed a red doe with a single shot.

  “Splendid!” said the duke as he applauded, and turned to me with an expression of blissful happiness. “Is my darling not perfect?” he said. “Hair of gold, skin like cream, the eye of an eagle, and hips just like a boy!”

  “It would be improper for me to notice her grace’s hips,” said I, “but your other remarks are more than just.”

  When the slaughter was over, an army of Butchers ran into the enclosure to clean the deer and prepare them for the night’s grand supper. The dogs were wild with the excitement of being left the offal. The rest of us went to the other enclosure to view the deaths of the stags.

  This was done with less protocol th
an the shooting—there was no standing on order of precedence, but any gentleman who desired to enter the enclosure and fight a stag was permitted to do so. Most came in on horseback and ran at the stags with a lance, and some with swords; but only a few entered on foot to fight a rutting stag as if in a duel.

  Even on horseback, this sport was dangerous. Some of the red deer were larger than ponies, and were far more aggressive, charging and then slashing with their antlers. The blood on the ground did not belong only to the stags. At least twice, horses were bowled over by a charging buck, and their riders extricated only with difficulty by the grooms. One horse was disemboweled and had to be killed. Those who entered on foot with their broadswords fought only the smaller fallow deer, and even so a number of them retired badly cut, either from the antlers or from slashing forefeet. One unlucky baronet was hurled down by a charging deer, knocked unconscious, and trampled. He was dragged from the ring feet-first, and left a red trail on the green grass.

  Broughton and the Queen watched from her carriage, their heads together, their words meant only for each other. Across the arena, Floria watched her sister from horseback. I was with the Roundsilvers, and our conversation glided from topic to topic, the hunt and the entertainments and the poems of Rudland.

  Again I thought of war, and how this hunt was as close to personal combat as civilized custom would allow. But this hunt was not merely the enacting of a near-martial ritual—it was a rehearsal. For the nation was now at war, and in a matter of months many of these gentlemen would be facing an enemy on the field, an enemy far more dangerous than a fallow deer. Better to learn here to face a foe in the field than to learn it against an enemy host armed for battle.

  I watched the fighters with interest. Most provoked the buck into a charge, then leapt to the side and tried a cut to the neck to break the spine. Sometimes this worked, but usually it had to be tried more than once.