by A J Callen
“And don’t you even try to pick it up.” Baxley stepped on it and ground it deep into the mud and feces.
Simon lowered his gaze in obedience; while he wanted nothing more than to stuff Baxley Pumberton’s bloody head into a sack filled with buzzing bluebottles, the brief satisfaction of having justly dispatched such a loathsome tormentor would be the only fond memory in his short, brutal life as a runaway slave.
After a few desperate days of growing hunger, thirst and terror, as sure as the sun would rise on that final day, the dogs would hunt him down by sunset and feast on his fresh guts until they could gorge themselves no more.
And whatever remained would be strung from the nearest tree for the birds to finish.
Simon hefted the pigs’ head sack back onto his shoulder, tiring of doing this same thing over and over. But if he continued to anger this young master, he would never taste a hot, comforting bowl of broth again. He lowered his head. “I beg your forgiveness, Mister Baxley. It won’t happen again, sir.”
Baxley grinned in triumph and raised his rings of chin fat. “Oh, how fate smiles upon your handsome face, Simon Blackfyre of Grimsby. Perhaps the dead witch protects you after all.” He cracked the cane across Simon’s firm chest. “Now stop your dragging your heels. I want my supper.”
Chapter 4
A Mysterious Woman
The nervous young seamstress did her best to satisfy Tarsilla’s growing list of demands; she worked diligently at sewing the finishing touches onto her Ladyship’s ornately embroidered red silk gown.
Tarsilla, admiring her slender body in the full-length mirror, tugged at the neckline to reveal more of her shapely bosom. “Your reputation is at stake, Sonat, and your skill dare not fail me this evening or you will be stitching sackcloth for those filthy, silent monks in a frontier monastery. I can’t imagine what would happen to a sweet, innocent little dove as yourself with all those hooded hawks circling about.”
Sonat bowed without raising her gaze. “Yes, my lady. You will be the most beautiful noblewoman at the feast this year as you always are. None will compare. Saint Kaja herself would turn away in envy.”
Tarsilla smoothed the silk over her alabaster breasts. “I didn’t think you were such a superstitious peasant. I don’t care what your fairy godmother thinks. Just be certain that this dress casts a spell on a manor full of gaudy, high-born harridans so that they drink in excess and berate their sheepish husbands in public for staring at me.”
“Yes, my lady.” Sonat wiped a tear from her cheek. “Forgive me.”
Tarsilla cinched the side of her waist with her long fingers. “And here. Take it in tighter. I will not be sitting at the feasting table gorging myself with greasy-fingered gluttons.”
Niclas exhaled, embarrassed for the young woman and not caring to hide his distaste at Tarsilla’s behavior. “Sonat is right, my lady. You vex yourself and her needlessly. All will be jealous of your obvious beauty and grace.”
“And what do you know about what truly vexes me? There will be a very important trading delegation from the Varza court. I need to discuss some private matters concerning the expansion of my shipping routes.”
“Trading alliances are fragile things, my lady. The Barons of Varza have been expanding their empire at the behest of their King. If they remain unchecked, they will soon enter the Darguza lands. That is the main reason I am petitioning the King's Council for much-needed repairs to the walls and increasing the number of active battalions.”
Tarsilla made a dismissive gesture with her hand and laughed. “And what do I care for the political intrigues of the King's Council? My only concern is whether I can leave you alone for a while without causing me a scandal.”
“I am now too old for causing scandals, my lady. That is a younger man’s pursuit. If you wish, though, I could assist you in your endeavors. The men of Varza are not as, shall we say, refined as those you are used to on Kardi.”
Tarsilla ran her finger down Niclas’s cheek. “Always the dashing gallant, aren’t you Niclas? That is indeed sweet… but I have handled churlish pigs masquerading as civilized gentlemen all my life.”
Niclas bowed. “I meant no disrespect. I have no doubt you are more than capable.”
Sonat was on her knees sewing the hem of the dress. “I am almost finished, my lady. Is there anything else you require?”
“No, no. Just finish the hem and make sure there isn’t a single loose thread.”
“Very good, my lady.”
Tarsilla picked at the silk on her flouncy sleeves. “Still, I cannot help but think you will commit some terrible blunder that will cause me no end of embarrassment,” she said to Niclas. “I wonder what Lord Maydestone must think of you now, not to mention—what was her name again? Oh yes. Juliana.”
Niclas betrayed no embarrassment upon hearing her name.
I will not give Tarsilla the satisfaction of baiting me with her misplaced jealousy; I am a better man than to allow that.
He walked to the brandy tray and steadily poured himself a glass.
“A noble on official Council business would never risk humiliating the Avidene Court,” he said. “The evening is part of my required duties, nothing more. Hopefully, the informal setting will allow me to speak with others concerning these many strange events of late.”
“Ha,” Tarsilla laughed. “Even a lowly seamstress knows what happened to those drunken louts.” Tarsilla adjusted her bosom. “What could you possibly hope to discover that is not already common gossip?”
“I cannot say, my lady, for that is why I need to speak with Count Borodin when he returns.”
Tarsilla dismissed Sonat with a wave of her hand.
“Well, my dear, if you are not yet tired of asking foolish questions, I can tell you that all of Kardi society is tired of answering them. Make an attempt at least—for my sake—to enjoy yourself before you have to return to the unbearable dullness of Avidene.”
Niclas swirled the brandy around in his glass.
A more welcoming sight I could not imagine.
He raised the glass in a toast. “For your sake then, my lady. I will endeavor to enjoy myself without causing you even a glimmer of embarrassment, just as you wish.”
“Will you?” She arched her eyebrow. “Though I do not doubt your word, my lord, I would much prefer knowing that your mind and body were both set on the same course… with little chance of distraction by the many temptations that may divert them from their proper destination.”
Tarsilla caressed his manhood beneath his cotton pants.
“I have always believed that a recently satisfied gentleman feels considerably more relaxed when around other tempting women.”
She kissed him slowly on the lips while her one hand wound downward, first pulling one leather tie loose, then the other, on the front closure of his breeches.
Niclas closed his eyes and enjoyed having his lingering passions subdued by her Ladyship’s swift and adept seduction. He was relieved, too, that he would be free to enjoy the festivities unconstrained by Tarsilla’s presence—for who could say what might arise in conversation when drink finally loosened tongues wound tight with secrets?
* * *
The Governor’s manor rose like a brightly lit beacon overlooking the sea. Around the outside walls, slim, swaying willows drooped over the tops of the stone.
The Kardian sky, still nocturnal blue, was not yet ready to yield to the color of night, leaving the myriad stars still faint and lost in its depths.
Arriving at the front door with the enchanting Lady Omarosa on his arm, Niclas was increasingly impatient after completing the obligatory greetings with the Governor and his frumpish, large-bosomed wife, Lady Wigberta Zonaras.
He followed behind Tarsilla and they pressed through toward the Great Hall where the minstrels could be heard playing a rousing gig.
Tarsilla, enjoying the envious gazes of other women—and, no doubt, the leers of their husbands—was by no means desirous to rush through t
he evening’s amusements. She gestured toward a group of four richly-attired noblemen conversing outside the door to the Great Hall. “Ahh, there they are. Already deep in their cups. How very fortunate.”
“Beware any bargain, my lady, struck by drunkards at night. It may not be worth its parchment and ink come the morning.”
“Sober or not, all is as binding as blood if the quill delivers the mark.” Tarsilla admired her striking figure in the large foyer mirror, allowing others the pleasure of her vanity, too. “This may not take as much time as I first thought, my darling Niclas, but there is much at stake. We will be secluded in the Governor’s chambers and I do not wish to be disturbed. I will send one of his boys to fetch you when I’m ready, but until then, enjoy yourself, won’t you?”
Without waiting for his reply, she pecked Niclas on the cheek and paraded directly toward the Varza noblemen, all of whom bowed in unison at her arrival. One-by-one they eagerly kissed her outstretched hand when it was presented.
Tarsilla gestured toward the hall leading away from the door. The Varza contingent bowed again, the two buttery ones almost tipping over, and followed her Ladyship down the torchlit hall toward the Governor’s chambers.
Relieved at once by Tarsilla’s departure, Niclas accepted a cup of wine from a serving girl and entered the Great Hall.
The gallery minstrels were in fine spirited form. Flute, viol, recorder, bagpipes, tambourine, and drum, each rollicking in rhythmic melody blended into such a joyful, carefree music that they reached deep into Niclas’s memory.
He couldn’t help but recall the wonderful banquets hosted by his parents at Delcarden Manor, when he and his younger brother, Wuldric, would peek behind their mother’s skirts at the turning and twirling couples all sweeping by as if on wings.
I cannot remember the last time I heard such happy sounds. Avidene is sometimes too staid for the old songs.
Not caring to draw attention to himself as an official of the Court, Niclas stood near the rear and blended with the gathered onlookers swarming around the buffet tables, where the smoked salmon, sea bass, and caviar were exceptionally succulent.
Fortifying himself with another cup of strong red wine, Niclas begrudgingly accepted Tarsilla’s rebuke; he decided he would not delegate himself to the fringes of enjoyment this evening, to a place populated solely by elderly noblemen and women who watched and clapped, observing the fading memories of their own long-departed youth as they twirled past as if in a dream.
And as to her Ladyship’s further admonition, Tarsilla was also without fault. In truth, he was equally exasperated from asking repetitious questions, as the local gentry were in delivering their parrot-fashion answers.
Count Borodin will be the last and then I’m finished. I’ve spent more time here than I wished already, he mused.
Niclas reflected on the collected testimony concerning one of the missing people, Xonsu, a highly-sought-after courtesan slave who had been severely beaten for trying to escape her master’s brothel; she would surely be condemned to the hanging tree if captured this time. The reason for her disappearance, then, was clear, and it gave Niclas no reason to doubt any of the sworn statements to the contrary.
He willed a silent prayer for the young woman’s safety, hoping she was now far from Kardi and way across the border. Perhaps she’d found safe refuge in Salak, and if not, then in one of the few distant kingdoms that did not engage in the wicked commerce of the land?
Niclas sipped at his wine.
And what about a freeman imbecile who’d drink from a poisoned well? Why do hellbent fools like Baerwald Flax insist on courting their fate in such a manner?
That was not a question he needed to answer nor one required by the King’s Council in his final report. He would conduct his last meeting with Count Borodin at his earliest convenience, then set sail for Avidene while the late summer sea still favored calm passage before the coming storms of early winter.
Niclas surveyed the feasting tables bordering three sides of the dancing couples. He understood, too, why Tarsilla would forgo the invitation of sitting at such a table.
Slobbering, porcine nobles, braying in drunken mirth, chewed wide-mouthed on roast lamb legs and pheasant; they rudely tossed the severed, saliva-smeared bones over their shoulders so they might paw at the nearest serving girl or boy before continuing to stuff their gaping maws with greasy fistfuls of smoked fish, squid, and caviar.
He noticed Captain Branok Grenfall, the tall, grizzled seaman, his bronzed face aglow with wine and the warmth of two women, one seated upon each thigh. He waved at Niclas to join him then nuzzled his face deep into the plump one’s breasts. Niclas thought better of the offer. I am certain that is not what Tarsilla had in mind regarding my enjoyment.
He accepted, instead, a small plate of roast venison and cheese. Surprised by his sudden appetite, he wolfed down the delicious food and took another cup of wine from a passing servant girl’s tray.
Among the curious onlookers, Niclas spotted Sir Razmig, the Governor’s attaché, on the opposite side of the floor. He was standing beneath the red winged heart and sword shield emblem of the Holy Order of Saint Kaja; the ambitious—if somewhat unctuous—knight, his beard several inches too long for his lofty height, studied the twirling dancers with the keen eyes of a scout, as though searching for a runaway slave hiding in their midst.
Niclas stepped back, not eager to gain the man’s attention at that moment and more curious as to the reason for the knight’s intense scrutinizing of the dancing revelers—or, more often than not, their uncoordinated stumbling around the floor. Sir Razmig’s presence was not unwarranted, yet the Governor’s failure to mention his man’s return upon first greeting Niclas seemed perplexing to say the least.
The furtive knight’s gaze appeared fixated on a single couple: a fetching young woman, her exceedingly long, reddish-auburn hair tied back with a single crimson bow, kicked up her heels with the gaunt, gray-haired Bishop Firimin Jubert who was garbed in a white ceremonial tunic. Their sprightly waltz was attracting more than the odd glance or two.
The young woman was of such fair and exquisite countenance, she might well have been the royal sculptor’s inspiration for the statue of Miradora’s mythic benefactor, Saint Kaja, on display at Gwendomir Palace in Avidene.
That might well have explained Sir Razmig’s eager gaze, for he was not the only gentleman following every graceful sweep of the woman’s marigold and juniper gown.
Niclas laughed, a heartfelt, deep, from-the-belly laugh that made those standing near turn and eye him with suspicion.
Such a scandalous spectacle could never have occurred at the Avidene Court in King Christoforus’s time! Hopefully, our new King will see fit to discard all foolish laws forbidding all such innocent enjoyment. The Bishop has the same right to enjoy himself as any man present!
At the end of the dance, several gentlemen asked for the young woman’s hand in the next. She untied her bow and, in rapid succession, answered each with a courteous refusal.
At the commencement of a lively polka, the young woman was seen tugging instead at the Bishop’s tunic sleeve, imploring her visibly-winded partner for one more turn around the floor. Off they went again, with barely a moment for the Bishop to catch his second wind.
Though a group of nobles and knights witnessing the inappropriate display spoke in hushed voices to each other, Niclas had nothing but admiration and respect for the young lady’s spirited disregard for stifling etiquette.
The heel-kicking couple completed two circuits around the floor before coming to a sudden stop close to Niclas.
The young woman’s deep, inviting hazelnut eyes enchanted him with their warmth and compassion, her beatific smile appearing regal without artifice or condescension. The woman’s dark reddish-brown hair cascaded down over her bosom and shoulders like an imperial mantle, shrouding her.
The Bishop bowed low to his partner.
“You must forgive me, my dear,” he said, breathless bu
t with sparkling eyes. “But I cannot dance as I once did. I must be allowed to catch my breath if I am to survive a full night on my feet.” He patted his perspiring forehead and neck with a blue cotton cloth and, without warning, turned to Niclas. “Perhaps our esteemed and honored guest, Lord Delcarden, would care to finish the dance?”
The young woman’s smile suddenly fell, the flush of joy draining clear from her face. She looked away, not wishing to greet Niclas’s eyes. She was uncomfortable, deeply so.
Caught off his guard, and momentarily speechless, Niclas offered a slow and respectful bow. When he straightened to introduce himself, the beleaguered woman was already making her way through the crowd toward the Great Hall doors.
The Bishop accepted a cup of wine from a serving boy. “It seems I am not the only person who has danced one too many steps this evening. It is comforting to know, however, that even the young realize they must forgo their enjoyment from time to time.”
Niclas struggled to regain his dignity and avoid embarrassment in the presence of the mocking expressions of the nobles standing near. “Bishop Jubert, please explain. How did I come to offend the young lady without a word?”
The Bishop finished his cup and took another. “I think it unlikely it was you, my lord. Someone else present may have been displeasing to her eye.”
Niclas searched the boisterous hall for the young woman but she was gone. “And if I may inquire of the young lady’s name and status on Kardi?”
“Euriel Glanduer. She is the daughter of a distant freeman relative, a mason, I believe, of Count Borodin. She resides at his seaside villa until the end of summer.”
Niclas offered a sly nod in quiet understanding and sipped his wine. “I see, and will Count Borodin’s wife be returning from Salak to the villa with him?”