I lie on the bed, splayed like an open flower, and wait for him.
When we are finished, he avoids my eyes. He slips, calls me Majesty. I laugh long and hard at that.
“Would you come back, Ma—madam? If you could?”
“Even if I wanted to, I would not, could not. Another sits in my place.” I fix him with a stare, blue and cold.
“Your step-sister, madam, she never sets foot in . . . ”
“My sister, Prycke, neither step nor half. Only full-blood can hate so well.”
“Your husband sent me.”
“My husband heard me called ‘whore’ and believed it. My husband heard his daughter called ‘bastard’ and believed that, too.” I hiss the words at him, spittle gathering at the corners of my mouth and curse that I still feel anything. “Five years together and I gave him no cause to doubt me, but the moment my sister swears to him that I had taken lovers he believed her.”
“Madam, I was not in the city when it happened. I would have counselled him otherwise,” he stammers. He feels badly for me. But he did nothing for me.
“For all the good it would have done. My husband brands me whore and takes my sister to his bed. So, I embrace my new title, Prycke. I am whore to whoever pays for me.” I sit up, step into my gown, lacing it tightly for I have earned my keep for today and tomorrow.
He dresses quickly, a handy skill. “Madam, your sister has a strangeness about her. She is peculiar . . . she does not attend . . . ”
I raise my hand. “No more, Prycke. No more.” He reaches for the doorhandle. “Prycke?”
He turns back, face hopeful.
“Tell the archbishop I will see him on Tuesday, at our usual time.”
“Illustrious company we’re keeping,” snipes red-haired Livilla, but it’s a half-hearted dig. She’s feeling generous after her early earnings.
Fra Benedict gives me a grin and flips me a gold coin. I more than double-charged Prycke and the spare is mine.
“My thanks, Fra.” I smile at Livilla, then take pity on her and snap the coin down the middle, along the little groove meant for such making of smaller change. Livilla, for all her ill liver, has stood me well in the last six months; this is a small price, to share with her.
“Pippet, moppet, dolly-doll-doll!” Bitsy sings from the crèche, where Magdalene has crawled onto her lap.
“Watch yer childer,” slurs Faideau. “Watch ’em after dark.”
“Shut up, you sot,” Livilla throws in his direction.
“Childer going missing, mark me.” Faideau subsides back to his stupor.
“Man at his finest,” sneers Rilka. “What a wonderful husband he’ll make.”
Livilla shrieks with laughter.
“When I remarry,” says Kitty dreamily, “I want that fancy bread they make. Queer shapes and all.”
“The girl, Emmeline’s her name, don’t do that no more and she’s the one you want. She moved in with some rich fella, the one whose wife choked on their wedding bread.” Rilka sniggers. “Sure that’s what you want?”
I had Emmeline’s breads at my wedding, but I don’t tell them that.
Kitty tosses her curls. “I want what rich folk have. Her mother still makes the fancy bread; not so good, but still it’s the best can be had.”
Grammy finishes the argument. “Stop yer yammers. Time to get ready, my girls, clients be here soon, almost five of the after.”
We troop upstairs to tidy ourselves. Those who’ve already earned their horizontal fee taking a little less care than those who have not.
Livilla and I will wench this eve; one of Rilka’s beaters is expected, Kitty and Bitsy have no appointments and so will take whoever they like.
Restless, I leave my bed and sit at the attic window.
Through the frost-dimmed glass I can see square after square after square, all the way up to the giant square that is the epicentre of this city. All the way up to the Cathedral with its vaunting spire and gothic towers, flying buttresses—as if all possible styles were thrown together with no thought for taste. Right next to the Cathedral lies the Palace, my once and former home.
A small palace but respectable nonetheless, perfectly appropriate for the size and wealth of our city, with sufficient halls and ballrooms and bedchambers and kitchens and wine cellars to ensure we were not embarrassed by the standard of our Palace. Gilt and glass and crystal in all the right places, the chandeliers kept shiny and bright, the wood panelling polished to a warm, rich finish, the brocades and tapestries thick and elaborate. Just the right number of winding staircases, deserted towers, and hidden passageways.
Above it all flies the full-faced moon, soft and cold.
I look at Magdalene, curled into our bed like a kitten. This is the child I did not want. She was the change in my life that was utterly undesired. Stellan, though, he wanted her, wanted an heir, proof of his potency. I spent my pregnancy in a stew of discontent, resentful of being subject to the rhythms of another organism, of a heart beating not quite in time with mine. It was Stellan who would rub my swollen belly, caress the hot distended skin and whisper to what grew within.
He made plans for her, told her about the little city that was her inheritance. He created a future for her then forgot it just as quickly.
In truth, for me it did not happen with speed, the change of heart. I resented her as much in the first few weeks of her life as ever; I shudder to think on the bitter milk she drank from me. I do not believe there was a single moment when it changed: I simply found myself going willingly to her one day, craving the serenity of the times when she fed and I simply sat, we two in our tranquil little bubble. And Stellan stood outside where he was prey to others, although I did not know it at the time.
Bitsy and Livilla and Livilla’s sons sleep in the room on one side of us, Rilka and Kitty and their respective daughters in the room on the other; they will hear her if she wakes. I drop a kiss on her sleep-damp forehead then slip a long black woollen dress over the top of my night-gown and pull on a heavy coat, belting it tightly around my waist.
Under Bitsy’s door I can see a splash of light—we have candlelight up here, only gas on the floors below. I tap lightly and go in. Bitsy is in bed, wrapped around a large doll with red hair. Livilla sits in a rocking chair, half-moon glasses balanced on her nose while she reads a scandal-sheet.
“Listen out for Magdalene? I’m going for a walk.”
“Bring her in here?”
“Only if she wakes.”
“Cost you half a gold coin.” She grins wickedly.
“I’d say I’m in credit.”
I hear her low laughter as I close the door. My boots I carry downstairs lest I disturb the others. Grammy Sykes is sitting by the fire, asleep, Fenric at her feet. Fra has gone to bed, leaving her to doze. He used to wake her up but sometimes she has fearful dreams and one night she almost took his right eye out, thinking he was one of the things that hunted her in sleep.
“Cold to be going outside, Theodora,” she rasps, surprising me and Fenric, who growls grumpily, rolls over, farts, and goes back to sleep.
“Got the wanders, Grammy, itchy feet, bed doesn’t feel right.” I sit next to her, basking in the warmth of the fire, trying to store up its heat as I put on my boots. “Livilla is listening for Magdalene.”
“Watch yourself on the streets. Not just children that go missing.”
“I’ll be careful. We’re not in the worst parts, Grammy, I can handle myself.” I lift the knife from the pocket of my jacket, its curved silver length gleaming.
She nods. “Beware all the same. There’s a little girl needs you to come back.”
I kiss the salt and pepper hair peeking out from under her white cap. “I promise.”
The cold steals the breath from my lungs, the winter nights far worse than the days, when we get sunshine to take off the chill. I walk up the middle of the street, trusting that I will see or hear anyone moving in the shadows. I make my way quickly along the cobbles, accompa
nied by the sound of my own footsteps, the occasional feline yowl, the barking of a stray dog, the rumbling anger of households in turmoil. I feel the houses reaching up, towering over me. I can see under entryways through to the courtyards at the heart of each block, all with a well or a fountain, some with dark gardens and sculptures, some as bare as a newborn.
Soon the Cathedral is in front of me, crouching like one of the gargoyles that embroider its roof. The doors are open, and lights burn inside although it is well after midnight. The archbishop likes his house of worship to be open at all hours; and he trusts that the wolf-hounds will discourage any vandalism. I hold my hand out to the closest one. A shiver passes through me as it pushes its wet, ghostly nose against my palm, and whimpers for a pat I cannot give. I call it sweet and handsome and it settles back to its post. I walk through the great double doors.
Up the aisle, then to the left of the enormous altar, into the small Chapel of the Thirteenth Apostle hidden by a rich tapestry depicting the growth of Saint Radagund’s very fine beard. Behind the elaborately carved prie-dieu my fingers find the catches carved into its underside and pull. Stone scrapes across stone and a hole appears in the floor at my feet, flagstones whirling aside like a child’s puzzle. I take a torch from the wall. The steps are familiar under my boots; the skeletons sleeping in the wall niches feel like old friends.
This passage leads into the Palace, into the rooms I once called my own, before my sister took my place. Specifically, into the fountain room, my fountain room. A misleading name, really, as it’s actually a bathroom, a marvel of white and blue marble, gold and silver tiles, and crystal and nacre inlays. The roof is made of a continuous sheet of rock crystal, so it seems open to the sky; it’s especially beautiful at night.
My boots make a lonely noise as the steps begin to rise, and so I go on tiptoe. I open the hidden door and step out from behind a screen of gold, engraved with a fairytale pattern: Hansie and Greta and their adventure in the cottage made of sugar.
My footsteps sound hollow in this place where once I used to tread so confidently. There are fountains to decorate each corner, cushioned couches and benches, a small wooden hut for steaming oneself, hot and cold plunge baths, and a big swimming pool right in the centre of the room; I stop at its shallow end. The water is dark in spite of the moonlight, almost dirty, thick as blood or treacle. I can see ripples, though, sluggishly coming toward me. I suck in a sharp breath and retreat, back to the shelter of the screen, peering out through the tiny pinpricks in the metal.
It heaves from the depths and shambles up the pool steps to stand in the milky-white moonlight. I can see it clearly: tall but hunched and twisted, straggly black hair, hooked nose, wrinkled skin, long fingers and teeth razor-sharp, empty dugs half-way down its chest, and a great shaggy pubic thatch at the junction of its thighs.
A troll-wife come out of the forest and into the city.
It sniffs the air, treads toward my hiding place with deliberate paces. I don’t want to take my eyes from it, but feel my bladder threaten to fail me. At last I look away and slam myself through the doorway; the panel clicks shut behind me with barely a whisper.
I rest my forehead against the cool stone, try to steady my trembling legs. On the other side I can hear cold, hungry breathing, sense uncertainty; sometimes they have trouble knowing how fresh a scent is but they have been known to follow an old one for days, to finally track a meal down, some unwary traveller who thought himself safely home.
There’s a low growl that becomes a laugh: knowing and ugly. I turn tail and run.
“Mama, you’re hurting me!” I’ve clung to my daughter so tightly that I’ve woken her. Morning light trickles in, grey and grim.
“Sorry, my love.” I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling, at the intricacies of the thatch-work that keeps us dry and safe from the weather but nothing more sinister. Magdalene falls back into a doze.
Downstairs, Faideau still snores in his corner; Fra must have given up trying to wake him and send him home. I pour out a measure of mulberry brandy and wave it in front of his nose, a treat. The smell wakes him as surely as frizzling bacon wakes Fenric and makes him dance on his hind legs.
“Breakfast?” I offer.
Red-eyed, he takes the pewter mug and tosses back its contents without a pause. I wince on his behalf but he seems to neither need, nor notice, my sympathy. He lets loose an eye-watering belch and I try to wave the fumes away, but the stench is stubborn.
“I swear your breath comes straight from Satan’s arse, Faideau.”
“Language, Your Majesty,” he waggles a finger.
“You’ll hear worse soon if you don’t drop that.” I tap the back of his hand to get his attention. A map is tattooed there. “Faideau, you said yesterday that children were going missing.”
He nods, sombre, if not sober, as a judge. “Six months or a peck more. From all the squares—but mostly from the poorer ones—families as don’t have much food and too many small mouths lining up for it. Sometimes they mind and report to Prycke’s Peelers, sometimes they don’t.”
“Any children from around here?”
“Not yet. Mind the inn’s childer, Theodora.”
I tip another generous slug of brandy into his mug and am rewarded with a smile. “Keep an ear to the ground, Faideau?”
He nods, asks: “Do you know anything, Theodora? Only you look afraid this morn and you never looked afraid the whole time I knowed you.”
“I . . . I think there . . . no, Faideau.” I shake my head. “I don’t know anything.” I turn toward the kitchen to begin the day’s breakfast, look back to him. “Faideau? Are you really a poet?”
His index finger rises and taps at the side of his nose. “Poets are folk what can’t write full sentences,” he says.
“After this, madam, just one more payment,” says the stocky man, handing me a scrappy receipt. “The house is in good repair, and the estate around it. You can hire labour from the village.”
“No need for that,” I tell him, tucking the scrap into the deep pocket of my skirt. In return I give him a pouch heavy with gold coins, the third such in the past few months.
“Thank you, madam.” He hesitates. “I must say I had no idea your particular line of work was so lucrative.”
“It’s amazing how much men will pay.” True, but also true is the fact that I have gradually sold off the gems and jewels I had sewed into the stomach of Magdalene’s favourite toy fox when I sensed trouble brewing in the Palace. And of course I have other means of funding our escape.
“One more payment, madam,” he repeats. “May I ask when . . . ?”
“Soonest, Mr Spittleshanks, soonest.” I stand, take a look around his study as I always do. “Your business is doing well, sir. I see another volume of Murcianus’s treatise on folk tales.”
He beams that I’ve noticed. Even a fallen princess is a princess.
“Perhaps madam would like to borrow something to pass the time?”
I laugh. “What a kind offer, but I have plenty to occupy my time, Mr Spittleshanks.” He reddens and I add, not unkindly: “Perhaps soon, sir, when my life . . . changes.”
We part on good terms. I go to his house for our transactions, entering by the back garden—I prefer no one to know my affairs, there might be questions—and we deal only about the house I am buying. None of my usual “commerce” gets done with him. If I thought it would decrease the cost of the house I would have no compunction, but Mr Spittleshanks is a canny businessman, with a plump, comfortable wife. I suspect he fears anything more—energetic—with me might stop his heart and he would certainly not think bed-sports worth a discount on a property.
I pass through the market at Busynothings Alley and buy the fruit and vegetables Grammy asked for, and a loaf of fancy bread shaped like a fine shoe to amuse Kitty and the girls. Some brittle sugar candy for the children takes care of the last of the pennies in my pockets, but there is always more can be earned so it bothers me not. The sunligh
t makes me feel happy, safe; I can almost forget last night.
I don’t go through the front door into the main bar, but pass under the archway into the courtyard where Fra’s two superannuated black horses stand with their heads over the half-doors of their stalls, hoping for a pat. I pull two carrots from the string bag and offer them up to eager teeth and tongues. I note that there are already fresh carrot and apple fragments on the cobbles. “Greedy.”
In through the back door to the kitchen, where Rilka is waiting impatiently.
“About time, Theodora.”
I poke out my tongue, dump the groceries on the large scarred table. I put the candy there, too, and point. “That’s for the children.”
She makes a rude noise. I pick up the bucket and go back out to the courtyard to draw water from the well in the centre. The bucket drops down faster than it should and there is a scrape and a splash. I draw it back up, and look into the water to make sure it looks clean enough.
Distracted, I examine my reflection. Still beautiful, strangely unmarked by my recent trials, only the eyes are cold now, pain frozen and held there.
Another face appears beside mine in the liquid mirror. I push away from the well, the pail falls and its contents splashes all over my visitor’s fine shoes.
My sister does not look pleased.
Did she ever move so silently when we were small?
“You’ve ruined my shoes, Theodora.”
“They were probably mine in the first place, Polly,” I say.
“I’ve long since finished with your cast-offs.” She reconsiders. “Well, except your husband. I’ll keep him a while longer.”
“You’re welcome to him, sister.” I circle away from her, uncertain why I am so unsettled, our recent history notwithstanding. Beyond the archway I can see the coach that brought her here, and two liveried footmen as well as the driver. I never used a coach in the city, I walked or rode my own horse. I smile in spite of myself; of course Polly would choose all the trappings, she thinks they make her legitimate.
Around her neck is the diamond necklace Stellan gave me on our wedding night. Strictly speaking, it’s part of the crown jewels so it was never really mine, but it still sickens me to see it on her. Its entire length is set with diamonds and the central stone is a ruby the size of a bantam’s egg. I tear my eyes from it. I have not truly seen her since the day she ruined my life. Prosperity agrees with her. Her face is plump, pink; she looks well-fed.
A Feast of Sorrows, Stories Page 18