Usurper

by David Waine

  There was a loud, firm knock on the door.

  At once Lissian cooed, “Come.”

  The door opened and Callin’s groom, Keck, entered. He stopped, aghast, at the sight of a naked Mussa right in front of him. Mussa, crimson with mortification, hung her head in shame. Mirial and Angma continued their tasks as if nothing had happened.

  Apparently oblivious to all this, Lissian called Keck over and instructed him to deliver a letter for her. From his new position he was able to admire every part of the girl without any obstruction. He assumed a posture of disinterest, but the leer in his eyes gave all away.

  Tears coursed down Mussa’s face. Mirial was now measuring parts of her that could have no bearing on her calculations at all. Simultaneously Lissian was reading the letter aloud to Keck, “Lest there should be any mistake.”

  Finally, after measuring Mussa’s toes, Mirial stood to one side and announced that she had measured everything that she could. Her voice was respectful but her eyes were cast down, lest Mistress Lissian notice the disgust they showed.

  Lissian completely ignored her, continuing instead to read her letter aloud to Keck. The content was very long, but utterly inconsequential, and allowed the groom plenty of time to admire the girl’s form while he pretended to listen.

  Lissian sealed the letter laboriously, and very slowly, then delivered it into his keeping with an apparently endless series of instructions as to precisely when and where it was to be delivered and to whom. Keck bowed and departed, lingering at the door so that he could have a final uninterrupted squint at Mussa’s rear. Noticing this, Lissian kept him there by repeating his instructions all over again. Mussa was openly crying now, her humiliation complete. Finally Keck left, his instructions delivered so completely that not even a donkey could have confused them, and a broad grin on his face.

  Lissian finally turned to Mussa and smirked. “Thank you, Mussa, that will be all.”

  Without waiting for a further word, Mussa gathered her dress about her and ran from the room, howling.

  That night a solemn faced Mussa made her apologies to Master Callin, complained of a headache and disappeared as soon as she had prepared his bath. A bewildered Callin slept alone that night for the first time in weeks. It took him ages to drift off to sleep.

  She prayed that neither Mirial nor Angma would blab her misfortune around the servants’ hall, being as disgusted as she was. They had been paid for their work, in accordance with Avalind’s instruction, but both had given their earnings to a blind beggar on returning to their regular duties. They had then jointly cornered Keck and threatened him with immediate emasculation if he breathed a word of what had happened to a soul. This they communicated to Mussa late that night, together with their apologies and infinite sympathy. Reluctantly, she told them the whole sad story.

  “And all that,” she concluded, “because Master Callin likes me.”

  “She wants him for herself?”

  Mussa nodded. “She’s been trying to make a play for him ever since she come to Brond. I think he found it embarrassing sometimes.”

  “What does he think of her?”

  She shrugged. “If you was a man, would you want her?”

  Both seamstresses shuddered.

  “But what of you, Mussa?” asked Mirial, concerned, “What do you think?”

  “I love him,” she replied simply.

  “What are you saying?” cut in Angma, “He’s high born!”

  “I know, I’m not stupid,” she replied, “I ain’t never told him — and it’s just between us three, right?”

  “Right,” they nodded. “But what now?”

  Mussa leaned forward, the plea open on her face. “Don’t make me a laughing stock. I couldn’t stand that. I’d have to leave and she would get what she wants.”

  Mirial took her gently by the shoulder. “It’s safe with us, Mussa. If Keck breathes so much as a word of this to anyone, I’ll have his balls for breakfast! He knows that.”

  Mussa smiled her thanks weakly through a thin film of tears before taking her leave. She was under no illusions as to her chances of ever catching Callin for herself, but she clung to the faintest of hopes that Providence may yet shine on her. If she conceived a male child, she could beg Master Callin to enrol him in the academy when he was old enough. When he graduated, he would be a noble in his own right and could claim retrospective nobility for her. The chances of Master Callin still being unmarried by that time were, she knew, remote, but she had to cling to something. Even so, she would not be the first lady of the court who started out by scrubbing floors and keeping well chosen beds warm.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Callin took Mussa into his bed and rutted with the little slut regularly. Protocol would prevent him from doing the same with her, even if he wished. She would have to be chaste, virginal and intact for him on their wedding night, or he would be within his rights to repudiate the whole agreement. Lissian fumed inwardly that the same constraint did not apply to him. The thought of it was galling, but even she had to admit that she was at a disadvantage. For all her lowliness, the girl had what she lacked: beauty.

  “Examine your fortune, Lissian,” she told herself that night, staring doggedly into her mirror, “The princess likes her and so does he. Neither of them likes you.”

  The hated princess was correct. To replace Mussa, she had to become Mussa.

  *

  Master Gallen returned the gnawed chicken leg to his platter and pushed it away. The serving maid would remove it later. He did not eat with the others in the refectory, had never done so. His training was based on fear. How could he perpetuate the myth of his own invincibility if they ever saw him red nosed and steeped in ale?

  Gallen’s real life ended nightly when the academy shut its doors, signalling the onset of the alcoholic haze into which he descended night after night. If he were truly honest, the only period of his life when he had been properly happy was when the Kingdom was at war. On the battlefield he could command knights. At peace, they outranked him. As Brond had seen barely a skirmish in years, thanks to King Rhomic’s all-powerful peace, his happiness had long since evaporated.

  The tankard drained, he set it back on the rough table. His eyes then moved to the huge pitcher of ale that dwarfed most other things in his squalid, dusty room. The maid never dared disturb his privacy other than to deliver and remove his victuals, and he could rarely be bothered to clean or tidy it himself. By midnight the pitcher would be drained and he would be snoring in his chair, although he usually managed to climb into his bed after evacuating his bladder in the small hours.

  His was a miserable existence. There had never been a Mistress Gallen or any little Gallens whom he could turn into knights so that they could claim retrospective nobility for him, which would have been a fitting reward for his service in the wars. Many, many years had passed since he had last rutted with a woman and he could no longer remember much about it. The almighty tyrant of the training field saw himself as a failure in his life.

  There was a soft knock at his door. He looked up sharply. It had been a quiet tap, a woman’s knock, not the authoritative rap of a soldier. It was much too early for the maid. The pitcher was still three parts full.

  “Go away!” he barked. “It’s much too early yet.”

  “I beg your pardon?” The voice, though female, was not the expected one. “Who do you think you are talking to?”

  Gallen rose uncertainly to his feet, rubbing a calloused hand over his bristly chin, unnerved by her tone.

  “Hurry up, man! Do you expect me to wait all night?”

  The voice had none of the local accent about it and was obviously used to being obeyed. This was a high-born lady. An unfamiliar feeling of panic rose in his throat. He never received visitors. A glance around his room made him grimace. While drinking himself stupid, he had never noticed just how squalid he had allowed it to become.

  Outside stood a short, fat, but not exactly ugly young woman, in an exp
ensive dress, with her arms folded and an expression of rising displeasure on her face.

  “You took your time,” she snarled, “I am not accustomed to being kept waiting.”

  Without another word, she swept past him into the room, took in its dusty shabbiness without comment and seated herself in the only chair.

  “My name is Lissian Dumarrick,” she stated, “and I understand that you are the physical trainer at the academy.”

  He nodded. “That is my office.”

  “You recognise my name?”

  “I know who the Dumarricks are, My Lady, but I don’t know why one of their women should come to see me. I haven’t seen your Bram for some time.”

  “Bram was dubbed over a year ago.”

  “Does he still keep up his disciplines?”

  “To the best of my knowledge, yes,” replied Lissian blithely, “but that is not why I am here.”

  Gallen realised that he still held the door open. He shut it fast and approached the table. “You realise, My Lady, that this is my leisure time?”

  She raised her eyes to the rafters and scanned his room with the microscopic acuity of her woman’s eye. “And I can see what profitable use you make of it. Was that pitcher full when it was delivered?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then kindly do not imbibe any more until I have left.”

  Gallen was in retreat already. His students he could intimidate, but this was not one of them. He lumbered across the room and sat on the edge of his bed. “What would you have of me, My Lady?”

  “That’s better.” She stood up and twirled for him as if she were modelling a new dress. “What do you think of my condition?”

  He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  She faced him squarely, hands on hips. “It’s a simple question. You are a physical trainer. How is my physical condition?”

  Gallen gulped. He could see that very well.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, I train men.”

  “Is a woman’s body so different that you are unable to give an honest assessment?”

  Gallen took a deep breath. “An honest assessment?”

  The stare became more intense. “A ruthless assessment.”

  “You will not be offended, regardless?”

  Lissian stopped twirling. She understood his reticence. Under normal circumstances, she would have any man who dared to criticise her appearance flogged. But, then, how would she ever learn the truth? And it was truth that she needed. She sat down once more, still facing him squarely, but without any haughtiness in her expression now.

  “Very well, Master Gallen,” she said, “I need an accurate, truthful assessment of my physical condition. You have my personal guarantee that I will not be offended by anything that you tell me, so long as it is truthful and without malice. Will that suffice?”

  He looked her hard in the eye, as he often did with his students. The difference was that she did not flinch.

  “Your personal guarantee?”

  “The word of a Dumarrick. Do you wish it in writing, sealed with my ring?” She held forth her hand, adorned by the Seal of the Dumarricks.

  “No, My Lady,” he replied, reassured, “your word will be enough. May I begin by asking you a personal question?” She nodded. “Are you pregnant?”

  Her eyebrows shot up in shock. “I — am — NOT!” she cried, “How dare you?”

  “Well, you look as if you are.”

  That stopped her. Remembering her pledge, she enquired, “What do you mean?”

  He shrugged. “You wanted an accurate assessment, ma’am. Here it is. If you say you’re not pregnant, who am I to argue? But your belly sticks out further than your tits and your arse sags; you have more chins than I have notches on my sword and your hands are podgy. Your skin has an unhealthy colour and there are deep shadows under your eyes. I would say, as a trainer, that you are about twice as heavy as you should be and in a generally very poor condition. You are still young so you probably don’t feel the worst effects yet, but you will, and I doubt that you will live to a great age because your heart won’t be able to haul that fat carcase of yours around forever.”

  Lissian stared intensely at him, scarcely able to believe what she had just heard. Her latent common sense, however, told her that the man would not have spoken so had he been dissembling. Was she really so grotesque?

  “That is your true assessment?” Her voice was faint.

  His reply was flat. “You asked for my ruthless assessment, so I gave you what you asked for. I trust you will honour your commitment not to take offence?”

  She nodded, thoughts elsewhere for the moment. “What can you do for me?”

  “In what respect?”

  She looked up at him, straight in the eye this time. “Can you make my physical condition what it should be?”

  He shook his head. “No, My Lady, only you can do that.” He leaned back on the bed. “I can provide you with a training programme and a rigid diet that will, in time, remove the excess fat and tone up your muscles so that you will look and feel much better than you do at present. You will also probably live longer and will certainly enjoy better health. That, however, is my limit.”

  She leaned forward. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that it is just words. To put it into action requires your full and unremitting cooperation.”

  “So, if I do as you suggest…”

  “You will achieve your aim, but you must do exactly as I say, and do it consistently, day after day, month after month, without deviating even for a moment.”

  She leaned back, considering. “And if I do deviate?”

  “You will be wasting your time — and mine.”

  “Will it be difficult?”

  “Extremely. There will be times when your stomach will believe you are dying of starvation; when you are so exhausted that you would happily sleep in a muddy ditch instead of making your way back to your warm bed. If you adhere to the programme properly, you will feel like that most of the time until you achieve your goal. You must ignore it; harden yourself to it.”

  She nodded. “Will it hurt?”

  “Intensely.”

  She considered for a moment. “Master Gallen,” she resumed, “if I undertake this discipline and achieve the sort of physical condition that you describe, what then?”

  “Then you must continue in a disciplined fashion, for, if you fall back into your old ways, you will return to your present condition faster than you ever dreamed possible.”

  “Must I continue the entire discipline?”

  “For the ultimate condition, yes. That, however, would be more appropriate for a knight. Once you have achieved it, you should be able to relax it somewhat and still retain your looks and health.”

  A long silence fell between them. The flaming brand in its bracket on the wall guttered, causing a few sparks to flutter to the floor. Both turned to look at it as the small noise distracted them. Her mind finally made up, she turned again to the trainer.

  “Very well, Master Gallen, how soon can you have this programme ready?”

  Gallen leaned back, his arms folded. “Who says that I will do it at all, My Lady?”

  She gaped at him. “I beg your pardon?”

  He explained. “I am expressly commissioned by His Majesty to train students — male students — in the academy. Nowhere in my contract does it mention anything about private training sessions for the daughters of barons. What you ask would have to be done in my own time.”

  “You mean what is in it for you?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I will pay you.”

  He considered this option for a moment and then rejected it. Casting his eyes round his shabby quarters, the wastage of his life came into sharp relief for him. Was there any way in which he could reverse his torpor? If such an opportunity was ever to befall him, this was it.

  “No, ma’am. I don’t want your money.” He paused dramatically, stretching out the moment. “I will do it, though, o
n one condition.” Her eyebrows rose. He leaned forward earnestly. “I want a title. Nothing grand, not a baron or a count. I don’t want a castle and thousands of vassals and I certainly don’t want to be in line for the throne. Just a title. I am a full general, yet I am still a commoner. A knighthood would do. I want my name entered in the scrolls of nobility. I want my students to know that when they graduate from the academy, they emerge my social equal, not my superior.”

  She smiled easily. Although she had little personal influence with King Rhomic, the same could not be said of her father — and Master Gallen’s request was reasonable, given his service over the years. “Do we have an agreement then?” asked Lissian.

  “My Lady,” replied Master Gallen, rising to his feet, “we have an agreement.”

  Lissian made her way to the door, then turned and confronted him again.

  “When do we begin?”

  “We can commence basic fitness immediately. That will enable me to compile a more accurate picture of your true condition and to tailor exercises specifically for you.”

  “After school tomorrow, then?”

  He thought for a moment. “Yes.” He opened the door for her. “The academy closes for the day just before supper time. Order a light supper to be delivered to your room for eight o’clock, and then eat half of it.”

  “What of the other half?”

  “Give it to your maid, throw it to the dogs. Just don’t eat it yourself. Do not mistake me, you will want to — desperately. That will be your first test. Do not fail it.”

  She nodded. “Do not underestimate the determination of a true Dumarrick, Master Gallen.” Stopping, she paused in thought for a moment. “What should I wear?”

  “Nothing from your present wardrobe, that is for certain,” he replied drily. “You will wear regulation training uniform, specifically designed for the task. Some of our larger tunics should fit you round the chest and we have trousers to fit your waist. The arms and legs will be too long, but you can roll them up.”