“Sir Basil carried very little money,” said I, after I had recovered from my surprise. “He either hid your ransom, or sent it ahead to Steggerda, where he was bound.”
“Even dead,” said Utterback, “he remains an inconvenience.”
“But I rescued your slinkskin gloves, which I found in his luggage. If you call on me, I will restore them to you.”
He laughed. “Thank you! For sake of the gloves, I forgive your fault in not finding the ransom.”
“How does your lordship?” I asked. “Excellent well, from all I perceive.”
“Well enough.” He smiled. “Though my deeds have scarce equaled yours,” said he. “Capture of Lady Tern, sticking an outlaw like you stuck that stag at Kingsmere, capture of an assassin.”
“Yet strangely, the events at Kingsmere did not win me glory,” I said.
“What did you expect?” He shrugged. “I would not have stuck my finger in that hell’s pottage of conspiracy, and my position is far more secure than yours.” He gave me a searching look. “Indeed, I expected that you would be downhearted, and instead I find you leaping from triumph to triumph.”
“Hardly that,” said I. “In sober fact, you might find that my life has been cursed in quite a singular manner. Let me say that, when next we have a few hours, I can contribute much to our old discussion of Freedom and Necessity.”
“I will look forward to it. But I had hoped to cheer you by offering you a post, and instead you have already turned it down.”
“Have I?” I was surprised. “I must be the most inconsiderate wight on earth.”
“You declined the Knight Marshal’s offer to join the army,” said Utterback. “I am myself to be a soldier—my father has decided I am to command a troop of cavalry, which he will raise at his own expense.”
“I am sure you will be a great captain,” said I, though in truth I did not know what qualifications Utterback had for such a post, unless it were a rich, willful father.
“I had hoped you would join me,” said his lordship. “The Utterback Troop stands in need of a secretary.”
I laughed. “You’d hoped that I would be so downcast that I’d go off with you? A fine plan, were it not for the deadly war for which you are bound, and for the cavalry, which would bring into unnecessarily sharp relief my tentative relationship with the equine species.”
“Ay,” said he, “for knife fights with outlaws are so much more temperate and congenial than battles.”
“That was as close to battle as I hope ever to be. Yet”—I took his arm and spoke into his ear—“I have more news from Longfirth, which I hoped to deliver privately to his grace before I spoke of it in public. Yet the news might concern you as well. Perhaps we should go board the duke if we can.”
Lord Utterback and I made our way to the duke, who was saying farewell to a number of his guests. He saw us together and remembered, I guess, that I wished to speak with him, and he asked us to await him in his cabinet. So, Utterback and I took ourselves there, and amused ourselves by looking at the curiosities, the chalcedony statues, the enameled and gilded caskets, the ancient coins, and the carven cameos.
My lord told me of the Utterback Troop. He had raised men in Blacksykes, where his mother’s family lived, and his father was Lord Lieutenant, but they were all hopeful youths with no experience, and he hoped to leaven his troop with veterans, who he proposed to find in the capital. “You will see my heralds beating drums, posting bills, and promising bounties,” he said.
“What sort of bounties?” asked I.
“What do you care? You will not join me.”
Lord Utterback had received martial training, as did all men of the nobility, but he had never commanded any detachment of soldiers greater than the few country lads he had led into Ethlebight after the reivers’ attack. So, while Utterback would be coronel of the troop, a seasoned soldier named Snype would serve as his second-in-command, and would teach the men their drill.
This reassured me a little that Lord Utterback would not, at the first opportunity, ride straight into folly.
The duke presently joined us, and I unfolded to him and to Utterback the story of Royal Stilwell’s capture, and my fear that the Crown would reclaim the ship without paying prize or head money.
“We shall go to the Chancellor tomorrow,” he said. “I will send a message to him now.”
He proved as good as his word. Early on a cold, wet morning in which rain clouds prowled the sky, we went to the home of the newly raised Lord Hulme. The Chancellor lived in a house very large and rambling, with thatched roofs that straggled, like unkempt hair, down to the windows—it was not grand or imposing, for the house was a place of business, not a palace. Men of affairs already bustled in and out, amid and through an amiable collection of dogs which romped about the courtyard. We met his lordship in his private study, a place as dark and disorderly as his office in the palace, and he offered each of us a tisane that filled the room with a strong herbal scent.
We informed the Chancellor of the capture of Royal Stilwell, and of our concerns. He listened gravely, and then leaned forward with a frown.
“My understanding of the privateering commissions is that they were intended to aid Ethlebight by allowing its seamen to make captures,” he said. “How is establishing a prize court here in Selford, and awarding monies to sailors here and in Longfirth, intended to aid your city?”
“The owners and officers,” said I, “and many of the men of the Meteor, are drawn from Ethlebight. Much of the money will come to our city because we live there—we will rebuild our homes, commission new vessels in the shipyards, and ransom our friends, who will return home and amplify the wealth of the town.”
“In that case, why not apply to the prize court we have already established in Ethlebight?”
“We have two great prizes,” said I. “Both Lady Tern and Royal Stilwell are too large to enter the port of Ethlebight. We would have to sail to Amberstone, then carry the ships’ papers, et cetera, by land to Ethlebight for judgment by the court.” I saw Lord Hulme raise a hand to begin an objection, and I spoke quickly to head him off. “Which is a mere inconvenience, I agree. But what is more to the point is that this will cause delay.”
The Chancellor raised his eyebrows, and again I answered the question before it was asked. “Both Tern and Stilwell are great galleons suitable for war. We had intended to lease these warships to the Crown, for her majesty’s use in securing the sea against any further incursion by Clayborne.”
There were three classes of ships in the navy: royal ships owned by the Crown; ships owned by nobles and prominent men, who at their own expense, and from gallantry or hope of royal favor, allowed the Crown use of their ships in war; and the most numerous category, ships contracted to the Crown for the duration of the conflict. Most of these were small vessels intended to support the larger ships, and to carry supplies and troops, but it was not unknown for large warships to be made a part of the fleet in this way.
The Chancellor’s eyebrows were still lifted, like the leaves of a drawbridge raised to allow a boat to pass beneath. “You propose to lease her majesty’s own flagship back to her?” he said.
“A court has not yet ruled whose flagship it is,” I pointed out. “According to De Jure Praedae, any ship taken by an enemy, and retaken before noon of the following day, is considered a recapture, and not a prize of war. But Royal Stilwell was held by the rebels for months, and therefore was not a recapture, and is therefore a fair prize of war.”
“De Jure Praedae is a learnèd exposition,” said the Chancellor. “A classic of legal literature and theory, but it is not the law.”
“For myself,” said Lord Utterback, “I like the title. The Law of Booty is fine, straightforward language, is it not?”
The Chancellor refused to be diverted, so I continued my exposition. “There is also the matter of precedent,” I pointed out. “Soldiers and sailors both fight out of self-interest—soldiers for pay and plunder, and sailor
s in hope of prize money. Neither sailors nor officers will do their utmost if the Crown denies their reward.”
“Yet,” said Hulme dryly, “they all proclaim they fight out of purest love for her majesty.”
The privateers have never made such a claim, I thought, but I decided it is best not to say so.
“There is also the matter of Lady Tern,” said I. “For if her majesty wishes to condemn that prize quickly—for reasons of state of course, as the ship belongs to one of her greatest enemies—then a prize court could be established here, and if it proceeds with despatch, the Crown will have its twenty percent soon. But if the Queen does not care to expedite that process, we will send the ship to Amberstone and have it condemned by the prize court in Ethlebight, and the Crown must wait for its money. And I will send to Master Spellman, who owns the Meteor, and have him send Royal Stilwell to Amberstone as well.”
For there was little doubt that the Ethlebight prize court would happily condemn any ship brought before them, for the benefit of the city and its citizens.
“Well, well.” Hulme placed his gloves hands together, his jeweled rings softly shining in the dull light coming through the narrow window, and leaned back in his chair. “Well, well.”
We waited for a long moment, and then Hulme said, “Well,” again. Then he looked at Roundsilver and Utterback in turn.
“I will speak to her majesty. You will support me?”
“I will do anything to bring help to Ethlebight,” said Lord Utterback. Roundsilver nodded his agreement.
“Very well, then, let us go. You will allow me to sound her majesty first, to see if she is in any way inclined to receive your proposals?”
Again the two nodded. Hulme then turned to me. “Goodman, I think it best you not come to court with us. I regret extremely her majesty’s prejudice, but on a matter this delicate, I think your name is best unspoken.”
I said that I understood, though I found it disheartening at how my part would be underplayed. It seemed that I should be congratulated for the capture of Royal Stilwell, not spurned.
The three lords set off for the palace, while I slumped away toward my lodgings in a spattering rain. A short distance from the Chancellor’s house, I passed by Allingham House, the Selford residence of the Marquess of Stayne. It was a fine place, of the brilliant white sandstone common in Selford, with niches for martial statues of Stayne’s ancestors. I passed beneath their stern, threatening eyes and looked up at the high windows spangled with a fine jeweled scattering of raindrops that reflected the warm golden light within. I wondered if Amalie was there, and whether she was looking down at that moment. Suddenly, I seemed half mad with desire, and for a moment I dreamed of climbing the front of that building by fingers and toes and going from window to window in order to find her chamber. I stared up, rapt in this inner vision, but then the clouds opened and a hard, cold winter shower pelted down, and my fantasy dissolved like sugar-paste in the rain.
I drew my overcoat up over my ears and ran for home.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
* * *
he meeting with the Chancellor bore fruit. Whatever words Orlanda might have whispered into Queen Berlauda’s ear, they were out-argued by three peers of the realm. The news of Stilwell’s capture was celebrated by a salute of cannon from the ramparts of the castle, bells rung in all the monasteries, and criers sent into the streets. I was heartened by this demonstration of Orlanda’s fallibility, and grateful to find her less than completely omnipotent, and unable in every case to move people about like pieces on a chessboard.
On the other hand, I thought I recognized Orlanda’s style in the next announcement that came from the palace, which was that Captain Oakeshott would be knighted for the action, and given land and a modest manor near Bretlynton Head. Bretlynton Head, of course, was still in the hands of the rebels, but perhaps Oakeshott was meant to fight all the harder in order to make good his new estate. I was not unhappy for Oakeshott’s good fortune, but I was inclined to resent my own contribution being written out of the record.
Yet a prize court would be established in Selford, for the sole purpose of ruling on Lady Tern and Royal Stilwell. The legitimacy of other captures would still be decided in Ethlebight. I sent a message to Kevin that he should bring Stilwell to Selford when repairs were completed.
As for that letter of credit from Oberlin Fraters, I put it in my box at the Butchers’ Guild, until I could decide what to do with it. Orlanda had threatened me directly concerning that letter, and I thought it was best to forget about it, at least for a while.
I hope you have not been too disturbed by the tale of my dalliance with a married woman. If so, you may take satisfaction in what follows, for I have come to the scene wherein I pay for my pleasures.
More news came in the form of a messenger I found at my door one morning, inviting me to the eighteenth birthday dinner of the Marchioness of Stayne. The letter was quite formal, and contained no personal message, so I responded in the like style, and wrote a polite note stating that I would attend.
I visited one of my hoards at the money-lender’s, and found there a lovely pomander, gold in the form of ship, with white enameled sails, and the hull ornamented with garnet and silver wire cloisonné. A teardrop-shaped pearl hung from the ship’s keel.
This I wrapped as a present, and as a private message to Amalie of my continued affection, I wore on my belt the twin of the girdle-belt I had given her, the black jet cabochons set in the same pattern as her pearls. On the afternoon appointed, I presented myself, with my invitation, at Allingham House. The place already thronged with guests, and I recognized many of them from my days at the court. Searching the faces, I recognized many aspirants to office, or the bench, or to the generalship of the army, and I knew also that most if not all had been disappointed.
I soon realized that I was attending a counter-court, a sort of political gathering in opposition to the Queen, and I wondered if they supported Clayborne, or Stayne, or had a leader at all. I wondered also if it were dangerous to be here, if government spies were present, ready to denounce the guests. But then, I thought, perhaps I should be at home here, as another that Berlauda had spurned.
I found Amalie in a drawing room, lying on a divan. She was by now only a few weeks from giving birth, and she seemed uncomfortable in her bigness, with her swollen feet on a cushion, and her two women to adjust her pillows and bring her sweet wine. A cheerful face had been painted on her strained, weary features. Yet I saw the pearl girdle-belt at her waist, and I felt a rush of great tenderness that she had worn this token for me, and perhaps missed me as ardently as I did her. I approached, took her hand, and thanked her for the invitation, and handed her my present.
“You are welcome, Master Quillifer,” she said. “I hope that while you are here you will relate some of your adventures, perhaps especially that of Sir Basil of the Heugh, who held both you and my husband captive.”
“I will obey, my lady.”
Though I did not tell that story immediately, for a group of new arrivals came forward to wish Amalie a happy birthday, and I withdrew to engage in aimless conversation with a pair of elderly ladies who were some distant connections of Stayne, and who were overcome with joy at the imminence of Amalie’s child. While I listened to this conversation, I felt my nape hairs prickle as I saw in the hall my old acquaintance Slope-Shoulder, the orgulous gentleman who I had dunked in the slop bucket in Sir Basil’s dungeon. I doubted that he would make trouble for me at the party, not when it might offend Amalie and Stayne, but in case he was discourteous enough to make a fuss, I prepared some remarks that I trusted would silence him. For I knew that he would not want that story of the slop bucket known, especially in this company.
A few minutes later, Stayne came into the room to tell Amalie that dinner was about to be served. I recognized him from our brief meeting in Sir Basil’s courtyard, tall and longshanked, with graying dark hair elegantly curled down past his shoulders, and a small, disapprov
ing mouth amid his short beard. Amalie called me over to introduce me, and I bowed. He regarded me with his little mouth pursed.
“Pleased I am to meet thee,” said he. “I understand that you slew that wolf’s head Basil.”
That “thee” marked me as an inferior being addressed by a superior, but otherwise Stayne seemed polite enough in his interest—and distant enough, for I did not desire his attention.
“I killed Sir Basil in Longfirth, my lord,” I said. “He was fleeing to Steggerda along with one of his men.”
“I shall be pleased to hear thy story,” said Stayne. “But later, at dinner, for now we must go into the hall.”
The gong was rung a few minutes later, and Stayne helped his lady to her feet, and took her into the great hall. Her ungainly walk was far from the languorous undulation that had once marked her passage, and I felt sadness touch my heart. I took into the hall an older woman, the widow of a knight, who once seated managed to keep up both sides of our conversation, scarcely pausing to eat any of the dainties laid before her.
For my part, I saw Slope-Shoulder and his friend Fork-Beard, who sat next to each other and saw me at the same moment. I saw the shock of recognition on their faces, and then at once they put their heads together, and I watched their conference with interest, wondering what feeble scheme they were hatching together.
Stayne kept the same sort of abundant table as his grace the duke, with one extravagant remove after another, though his cooks had not the same sense of whimsy as those of Roundsilver Palace. Nevertheless, there was a dish called “infant’s toes,” and a suet pudding called “boiled baby,” which—though hardly at the epitome of taste—were probably intended to salute Amalie’s pregnancy.
The dinner conversation consisted almost entirely of criticisms of the knaves who ran her majesty’s government, for the guests did not dare to criticize the monarch directly, not in public. The Chancellor in particular was savaged as a thieving rogue who had wormed his way by guile into his position. The word “base” was used, and “barber-monger,” and “cullion,” all of which were reflections on Hulme’s common birth. So persistently were these used as insults that I began to feel a considerable resentment against these well-born lubberworts and loiter-sacks.
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