by Anna Kendall
Eventually good smells of cooking wafted on the soggy air. By now it was full dark. I made my way to the kitchen, stood behind a table, and bent my knees to look shorter.
“What d’ye want?” a harried servant snarled at me.
“I am Mistress Conyers’s page,” I said with as much dignity as I could manage. Certainly my clothing looked no worse than the widow’s: just as torn, just as covered with dried salt.
Instantly the woman’s expression changed. “Oh, I’m so sorry, sir, I didn’t know—won’t you step into the taproom? Matty will bring ye something to—Matty!” A bellow that could startle rocks.
“I prefer to eat here,” I said loftily, “away from the soldiers.”
“Yes, of course, just as you like, sir.” She dropped me a curtsy. Pages in rich houses usually came from quality. The woman scurried to set a small table by the fire. On it she put a meal such as I had not had since . . . No. I had never had such a meal.
Thick soup with little meatballs floating in it. Warm bread with new butter. Golden ale. And an apple tart, the crust rich and flaky, the apples sweetened with honey and spices. I ate it all. When I finished, my belly felt full and my blood swift in my veins.
“Sir,” the serving woman said timidly, “if ye’ve finished, perhaps ye’d like to take your mistress’s dinner up to her? It’s ready, finally. Matty will light the way.” Another curtsy.
I took the heavy tray, and saw that my own dinner, which I had thought so wonderful, wasn’t a button on Mistress Conyers’s. Roasted goose, the skin crisp and the scent so rich I could barely notice the currant jam, the red wine, the dozen other dishes, most of which I could not even name. It didn’t matter; I had had mine.
I followed Matty, who held a lantern high through dark corridors and up stairs. At a heavy door with an unsmiling man in armor seated outside, Matty knocked. The door was opened from within by the serving woman I had seen riding in with Conyers’s men.
Mistress Conyers sat in a carved oak chair beside the fire. She wore dry garments, a plain gown of dull black and a black cap: mourning clothes. She had been crying but now her face looked set and grim. When she saw who carried her dinner, she said, “You!”
“The cook asked me to carry this to you, mistress,” I said. It was impossible to bow with the tray; I might drop it. “As your page.”
“You are not my page!” she said, so fiercely that the serving woman started. Mistress Conyers said, “Leave us, Alice.”
The woman went swiftly, closing the door behind her. The room was spare but clean, and the wide bed looked comfortable, its hangings fresh and colorful. A table, two chairs, and a bright fire in the hearth, banishing damp and chill. I had no idea where I would sleep tonight. I set the tray on the table and then stood awkwardly, my hands dangling at my sides, not sure what to do next. I needn’t have worried; Mistress Conyers took charge of the situation.
“I don’t know what you are,” she said, “witch or charlatan or scoundrel. I don’t know how you know the things you said about my husband, or why you were with those men who wrecked . . . who wrecked . . .”
She turned her face away, but in a moment had regained control of herself. “I don’t know if you talked to my dead James or not. He—”
“I did talk with him! And he said he loves you very much!”
I was no better than Hartah, exploiting her grief.
She continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “—was a good man, the best of men, and I don’t need you to tell me either that he loved me or that his soul resides now in a better place than this. I want you to go, boy. Innocent or guilty, witch or not, I want you out of my sight. I cannot stand to look at you. Go.”
“Where will I go? I have no family, and I’m only eleven years—”
“You are not.” She stared at my chin, with its downy covering of hair, and at my Adam’s apple—things she had not seen in the dim light of the cabin. My lie had come back to prove me a liar.
I cried, “But I have no place to go! No people, no trade, no money—”
“Is that what you want from me? Money?”
Mistake, mistake.
“I’ll give you money,” she said contemptuously. “Then go.”
“If you give me money, mistress, it will be stolen from me at the first inn I stop at, or by the first ruffians who pass me alone on the road. And what will I do when it’s gone? Please, mistress, from compassion—”
“The same compassion you showed my husband and his crew?”
“It was not me!”
She studied me. Perhaps she thought my desperation, too, was an act. But always before, I had had the protection of Hartah’s big fists, even if they were sometimes turned against me. I had had his ready knife, his connections with other scoundrels like him, his knowledge of cheating and lying, counterfeiting and stealing. This pampered lady with her superior virtue—what did she know of the life I’d been forced to lead? Her money and her birth kept her safe. At that moment, I almost hated her.
She said, “I do believe it was not you who wrecked our ship, and with it our fortunes. But nonetheless, I still don’t want to look at you.”
“Then find me a job on one of your estates, some humble job where you will never see me!”
She laughed, a sound so bitter that I was startled. “You don’t listen, do you, Roger? Your uncle’s wreckers have taken everything I have. If I am not careful, I will be as poor as you. There is no estate.”
“But . . . I don’t understand . . .”
She rose, poured herself a glass of wine from the tray, and retreated to stand with her back to the fire. It threw her face into shadow. Her fair hair, washed now and curling under her cap, made a halo around her unseen features.
“You are very young,” she said, her voice quiet now, and weary. “And I can see that you have not lived much in the great world. My husband is—was—the fourth son of a minor baron. His brothers inherited such ‘estates’ as there were. James had his own way to make in the world, and he invested everything he had in the Frances Ormund. Our cargo from Benilles and Tenwarthanal, plus the passage money from a nobleman we were carrying to The Queendom, would have let us rent a house somewhere, buy another ship, finance another voyage. Now I am ruined.”
“But the cargo . . . I saw the chests carried in . . .”
“A little gold, enough to pay what we owe. The rest was cloth and spices, all spoiled by the sea.”
“But your family—”
“Cast me off when I married James against their wishes, ten years ago. And my brother, now head of the family, will help me only grudgingly and meanly. He belongs to the old queen. Now do you understand what devastation your uncle created? And why I cannot stand the sight of you?”
A long silence. Finally I whispered, “Yes.”
She came closer to me, then. As her features came clear, I saw the sad bewilderment on them, and something else as well, the same thing I had seen about her in the inn. This woman, whatever her personal sorrows, was incapable of unfairness. In the flickering light she studied me carefully.
Finally she said, “Can you really cross over to the land of the Dead?”
“Yes.”
“You could be burned for that, as a witch.”
“Yes.” My heart began to pound.
“Burning is a terrible death. Much worse than drowning.”
“Yes.”
Another long pause. Then, “I’ll tell you what I will do. A courier leaves from here tomorrow for court, because all shipwrecks must be reported to the royal advisors and recorded with the Office of Maritime Records. I will send you with him, with a letter of introduction to an old servant of mine. She is neither important nor influential, but perhaps she can find something for you to do at court. If you are wise, you will tell no one of your ‘ability,’ nor attempt to use it there. That is all I can do.”
“Thank you, mistress!” I was overwhelmed. No one had ever shown me this much kindness. Clumsily—I had never done it before—I fell t
o one knee in an attempt at a courtly bow.
“Oh, get up,” she said tiredly. “You make as bad a courtier as you do a prisoner. I’m going to write the letter now, so that I never have to lay eyes on you again. Ask Alice to send downstairs for pen and ink.”
I opened the massive door. Alice waited patiently on the other side. As she scurried down the stairs, I wondered what would become of her if Mistress Conyers had really lost all she claimed. How poor was a person who could still send a servant running for pen and ink? Mistress Conyers’s poor was not my poor.
Seated at the table, Alice again sent from the room, Mistress Conyers abruptly stopped scratching her pen across the paper and looked up at me. “Can you read?”
“No, mistress.”
“Can you cipher?”
“Only a little, in my head.”
“Can you do anything of practical use?”
If I said no, she might withdraw her offer of help. Wildly I sought for something plausible, unskilled but needing muscle. “I . . . I can do laundry, my lady.”
“Laundry? A boy?”
“Yes.”
“Very well.” She finished her letter and, having no seal, folded it tight. “My old servant is named Emma Cartwright. She’s serving woman to one of Queen Caroline’s ladies.” Her lips curved into a sad half smile at some sweet, lost memory. “I have not told her anything about you except that you are willing, biddable, and strong.” She gazed at me doubtfully.
“I am strong, even though I don’t look it!”
“Yes. Well. At court, you would do well to stay clear of the royal family, in the unlikely chance that your paths should ever cross. There are many strange things at court these days. Many there would consider you a witch. Say nothing to anyone, including the courier who will take you there. His name is Kit Beale.”
“How will I find him?”
“Sleep in the stable. He will find you.”
“I thank you, mistress, for all you’re doing for—”
“I don’t want your thanks. What I want is to never see you again. Now go.”
“Yes, mistress. Where . . . where will you go?”
She turned away, gazing into the fire. “I don’t yet know. And at any rate, it’s none of your concern.”
“No, mistress. It’s just that . . . that I wish you well.”
“Go!”
This time there was no mistaking her tone. I went, clutching the paper I could not read, the paper that would keep me from aimless begging on dangerous roads, the paper that would save my life.
Or so I thought then.
8
I SLEPT IN the stables, as instructed, along with a dozen Conyers servants. We lay in the hayloft, atop and beside thick mounds of hay fresh from harvest. Below, the horses stamped, adding their own scent to those of hay, wool, leather, and male sweat. I would have liked a place beside the sloping loft wall, but those were taken. So I lay in the middle of the men and listened to their somber chatter.
“Be turned off now, most likely. Master had promised me to Cap’n Conyers when he made shore.”
“Where will ye go?”
“Where will she go?”
“My cousin at an inn at—”
“My father, who might take ye on—”
“The Frances Ormund—”
“The wreck—”
“My sister’s husband, he farms near Garraghan—”
“The Frances Ormund—”
I sat up straight, trying to see in the gloom who had mentioned Garraghan. Cat Starling’s father farmed at Garraghan. But in the dimness of the loft I could not tell which man had spoken, and even if I knew, what good would it do me? Cat Starling could not help me, even if the man took me to her, which he would not do. And the man “promised to Cap’n Conyers” was now bereft of his future master and his expected livelihood, thanks to Hartah and his wreckers.
I lay down again, beset by thoughts of Hartah, of Aunt Jo, of the sailor Bat who did not know he was dead, of what I did know—that I had murdered. But exhaustion wrung my body, and eventually I slept—only to wake to the man next to me shaking my shoulder and others cursing in the darkness.
“What? What?” Dazed, I put up my hand to shield my face from Hartah’s blow.
“Ye cried out in yer sleep,” the man said, disgusted. “Get away from me, boy, I need my rest! Go!”
Others also yelled at me. Go, go, go—from my aunt, from Mistress Conyers, now from these men. There was no one on this Earth—or that other—who wanted me nearby. I groped for the ladder until I found it, and lowered myself over the edge of the loft. The men, grumbling, settled back onto the hay. At the top of the ladder I whispered to the man who’d woken me, “What did I say?”
“‘Bat.’ Ye were afraid of a bat. Now go and let me sleep!”
Bat. I had cried out the dead sailor’s name, perhaps in some dream. Never before had I called out at night; Hartah would have beaten me for disturbing him. Did my sleeping mind feel more freedom now that Hartah was dead? Or did more things haunt my dreams since the wreck? What else might I call out another time—and who might hear me?
I made my way to the bottom of the ladder. During the night the clouds had cleared and a nearly full moon shone through the open stable door. The air was cold and sharp, the silence broken only by the restless stamping of horses. I curled up in a corner, on a pile of not-too-clean straw, but no more sleep came.
At dawn a man entered the stable from the inn and stood over me. “Are you Roger Kilbourne?”
“Yes.”
He thrust a hunk of bread and meat at me. “Then eat breakfast. We start for court shortly. Faugh, lad, you smell! Wash at the well or you don’t ride with me.”
“Yes, sir.”
I did as he told me and hurried back to the stable yard. The courier had just finished saddling his horse. “At least you’ll ride light, lad. There’s naught to you but bones and eyes. Here, put this on. You can’t go to court in those bloody and torn clothes, what ails you?”
It was a tunic of green wool, clean and whole, and I guessed it was his own. He was just as thin as I, but four or five inches shorter. The tunic was too short but fit everywhere else. Almost overcome by this simple kindness, I stammered, “Thank you, sir.”
“I’m not ‘sir,’ I’m a courier. My name is Christopher Beale—call me Kit. By damn, you know nothing of court life, do you?”
“No, sir . . . Kit.”
“Then the skies alone know what will happen to you there. Come on.”
He swung easily onto the saddle, then reached down a hand to me. The truth was that I had never before ridden a horse. But I sensed that I would now have to do many things I had never before done, so I grasped his hand and half climbed, was half pulled up behind him. I almost gasped; we were so high.
Kit twisted in the saddle to look at me. “You’ve never ridden pillion before?”
“N-no.” The height was dizzying; I clutched his waist.
“And what is it you’re going to be at court?”
“A l-laundress.”
He stared at me a moment longer, shook his head, and we cantered off. I hung on for my life. But after a few minutes the rocking of the animal between my thighs came to seem more natural, and I lost some—not all—of my fear of falling off.
We rode all day before coming to a wide river. There was a fishing village here, large and prosperous, but we didn’t stop. Kit turned the horse west, on a wide, well-used road along the river. Just beyond the village, we stopped and dismounted to let the horse drink. My knees bowed outward, and when I tried to walk, I nearly fell. Kit grinned.
“You’ll get used to it. Or maybe not. A laundress, did you say?”
“Yes. Does . . . does the court lie along the coast?” I knew it did not, but I wanted to get Kit Beale talking, so that I might learn from him as much as possible. He shook his head and gave me a superior smile.
And yet I could tell you things about the country of the Dead, and then you would be th
e ignorant one.
Kit said, not unkindly, “No, lad, no. Don’t you know the lay of The Queendom, your own homeland? Look here.” He drew his sword and began to sketch in the dust of the road. “See, here is the coast. We came up from the south, the wild coast, from just before the border with the Unclaimed Lands. This river here”—he drew it with the tip of his sword—“is the River Thymar. The palace is in the capital city, Glory, on a large island far upriver, just before the Lynmar joins the Thymar. The Queendom is one huge valley. We’re surrounded by mountains to the south and west, hills to the north, and the sea to the east. The valley we’re in is all flat, fertile land. Easy riding.”
“Where is Hygryll?”
“Hygryll? I don’t know it, but the name sounds like the south. Maybe in the mountains of the Unclaimed Lands.”
“It’s on Soulvine Moor.”
All at once his eyes grew cold. “What business could you have with Soulvine Moor?”
“Nothing. I just heard the name once.”
“You’d do better to never have heard it. That’s no place for men to go, lad.”
“Why?”
Kit shoved his sword back in its sheath. “We go now. We’ve tarried too long already.”
“Why is Soulvine—”
“Be quiet,” he snapped, and I was.
He said nothing to me that night, nor the following day’s ride to the capital. Not one single word. I had closed off my only source of information.
Although I knew that Glory, the capital of The Queendom, lay inland, that did not mean that I could ever have imagined the city itself. Hartah had kept us to villages, small and isolated, where there was less chance of encountering soldiers. And yet as Kit and I first approached the capital, it looked to me almost like a village, a vast village of thatched huts and numerous greens, all set between fields now busily being harvested of their crops. I saw no shops of any kind. As Kit had sketched in the dust, the whole was ringed in the far distance, south and west, by mountains, those in the west sharply high against the blue sky and those in the south hidden in soft haze. To the north, the country rose gradually in gentle hills.