by Shea,Lisa
All except one corner, which remained steadfastly tucked in shadows.
Jessame gently smiled; she knew who would be hidden away there. She walked forward to stand before him. His once handsome face was now creased by a jagged scar which began just over his left ear, zigged its way across his closed left eye, then crossed his brow to vanish into his greying sandy-blonde hair. His look was distant and haunted, deepening the wrinkles which lined his face. Even his clothing was somber grey, blending him further into the gloom.
She curtsied before him. “Roger. How did I know I would find you here?” she offered tenderly. “It looks like we are both the ignored ones tonight. You at least have a profession the townsfolk respect. For me, whether it is my look or my actions, the little ones are hurried off lest they be tainted by my breath.”
Roger’s eyes shadowed. “You can at least take off your dress, while I cannot undo my damaged face.”
Jessame’s laugh bubbled out of her rich and full. “You think things would go better for me if I removed my dress, then?”
Roger’s mouth quirked, and then a smile spread across it as well. “I imagine not,” he conceded with a chuckle.
“That’s better,” teased Jessame. “You are the only one who has been kind to me since I arrived; well, you and Mary, the seamstress who helped me with this new dress. I appreciate your welcome.”
“I know what it is like to feel the displeasure of these townsfolk,” he noted, nodding. “They are happy to have me make barrels for them or fix their shelves. However, when it comes to social events, they act as if my scar is catching.”
“They are just jealous of your skills,” she responded soothingly. She was fond of Roger; he was like the kindly uncle she never had. He smelled of sawdust and wood oils and, when she could get him talking, had shown a gentle, understanding nature.
“Well, apparently they want me to turn coal into gold,” he grumbled, his gaze dimming again. “Just last week Lord Cavendish waltzed into my shop and instructed me to create him a new dining table made of his favorite elm tree, which had come down in those wild rain storms we had last month. I had it pulled in to my shop – and the bug damage is immense. There’s no way to create the table that Lord Cavendish wants.”
He sighed, his shoulders dropping. “He is adamant; he thinks I am simply holding out for additional money. He thinks more gold will fix any malady. But I am not a miracle worker.”
Jessame’s eyes lit up with delight. “Come with me for a moment, and I will show you a miracle,” she promised.
Roger’s gaze was wary, but he followed behind her as they left the noise and brightness of the main hall for the secluded quiet of the library. It was just as Jessame had remembered it. Shelves holding codices and scrolls lined the back wall, and windows, with thick curtains drawn, faced them. A large desk stood before the shelves, its fine inlay and imposing carved legs making an impressive sight in the flickering candlelight.
Roger’s look became morose. “Oh, yes, the famous desk of Aldric. Is this supposed to make me feel any better?”
Jessame gave him a pat on the arm. “Bring over that candle from the shelf, will you?”
Roger retrieved the beeswax candle in its pewter holder, carrying it to the desk. In the light the desk almost glowed with its oak, elm, and birch inlays.
Jessame nodded her head at the ground. “Now sit on the rug with me.”
Roger’s lips pursed. “Besame,” he ground out hesitantly, “it is not that I do not appreciate your offer, but -”
Jessame shook her head. “I am not suggesting a tryst,” she countered with a chuckle. “I just want to show you something. Something about the desk. However, you must swear to me that you will never mention this to another living soul.”
Roger blinked, but nodded. “Yes, certainly. I promise.”
He paused a moment, then eased himself to sit on the thick brown rug which the desk rested on. Jessame sat alongside him, then leant back and looked up at the underneath of the desk.
She waved a hand to him. “Bring the candle over and take a look.”
Roger leaned over on one arm and held up the candle with the other. Then he stopped, took in a long breath, and raised the flame higher for a better view.
Twisted folds of intertwining layered wood shimmered in candle light. The burl of a tree could be discerned, sawn length-wise. The result shimmered in the light, almost moving before their eyes, resembling an oceanscape with curling waves and receding foam.
Roger’s voice was quiet awe. “Beautiful, simply beautiful.”
Jessame smiled. “I thought, of all people, that you would appreciate this,” she murmured.
Roger’s eyes drank in the grain of the wood. “I never would have thought it. Thank you for sharing that with me; it has changed my outlook on what I can do.”
Jessame’s eyes drifted to the heavy wood leg which was closest to her, and she froze. There, carved into the oak in a hand she knew intimately, was a fish. The elegant, curved shape drew a half a circle with its body. She put a finger hesitantly to the figure, tracing its lines, feeling a connection through time to the boy who had made it. It seemed like yesterday …
There was a loud voice-clearing sound from the doorway, and Jessame scrambled to her feet, with Roger close beside her.
Berenger stepped around the corner of the doorway, his eyes moving from Roger’s rumpled clothes to Jessame’s quick smoothing down of her dress.
His eyes were unreadable in the dark. “I was just checking that everything was all right in here,” he offered in a smooth voice.
Jessame’s throat drew tight; she was unable to make a sound. It was all so sudden, still, to see him before her, to see her dreams brought to life.
After a long moment Roger stepped in to the silence. “We were just discussing the nature of beauty,” he explained with a half-smile. “Nothing more.”
Berenger pursed his lips. “Nothing more, and yet the most meaningful of topics,” he returned, half to himself. “Beauty lies in the depths of one’s soul.”
Jessame found herself echoing the proper Latin version of the phrase without thinking. “In imo animo stat pulchritude.”
Both men turned to stare at her, and she hoped the darkened room hid her furious blushing. She leaned heavily on her accent. “‘Ot’s what my priest made me repeat – God’s Teeth, must’ve been a ‘undred times a night - to repent for my sins.”
“Yes, of course,” returned Berenger evenly. “Well then, I must return to my other guests. They must wonder what is going on in here.” He turned and was gone before she could say another word.
Roger looked after him. “He is right, of course,” he mused. “The moment we step out of here together, the talk will begin. If you wish, I can do my best to set them straight.”
Jessame chuckled. “Certainly, if you wish to help protect your reputation, I will do all I can.” Her eyes twinkled. “However, I fear my own is beyond salvation.”
Roger put out an arm to her. “In that case, let us face the callous town together and show them we are not afraid of their petty babble.”
Jessame smiled, taking his arm, and together they strode out into the brightly lit hall, once again bringing all conversation to a stuttering, mouth-opened halt.
Roger did not falter; he guided Jessame over to the food table and selected raspberries for her, gathering them on a plate. In a moment a middle-aged woman, slim, wearing a simple but expertly crafted dress of pale blue, came over to join them.
“Ah, Roger, Besame, there you are,” she greeted them with a smile. “I am so glad you both are here. I was beginning to feel quite alone.”
Jessame smiled tenderly at Mary. “You have clothed most of the visitors here,” she countered easily. “Of anybody, you should be the most welcome.”
Mary blushed and looked down for a moment. “You are very sweet to say that, Besame,” she whispered.
Roger handed the small plate of berries to Jessame, then assembled one for Mar
y. “You are well deserving of the praise,” he murmured.
At the other end of the table, Lady Cavendish strolled up, a portly matron close at her side. The blonde gazed over the offerings with an approving eye. “Berenger knows quality when he sees it,” she praised, “but no feast in London would be complete without a centerpiece of an elegant swan.”
The matron’s mouth went round with appreciation. “I have never tried such a dish,” she gushed. “What does it taste like?”
Lady Cavendish gave a vague wave. “Oh, I really am not sure,” she offered dismissively. “I hear they are a bit gamey. Their corpses are there for the display, for the show of extravagance.” Her eyes lit up. “I shall show you on Sunday, when we have our soirée. And you must come in that fine new coach of yours, so I can show it to my husband. I am sure he will want to have one just like it.” Her eyes turned to search the crowd. “Where is that man? Never around when money needs to be spent.” She turned and strode into the group, the matron hard on her heels.
Jessame put her cup of wine down hard onto the table, staring after the woman. “She would slay a swan, just to have its dead body lie on a table?” she muttered, reining in her anger with effort. “Surely she knows they mate for life. What poor partner was left behind, bereft, all to stoke her vanity?”
Roger shook his head, then turned to look at Mary. “And you spent the past week in the company of her and her vain sister? You deserve the highest honors indeed for what you put up with,” he suggested with a bit of heat. “Lady Cavendish’s younger sister is beyond extravagant. Three dresses finished in the past two days? Just so she could be sure to have backups on hand in case she changed her mind?” He let out a snort. “The girl is spoiled rotten.”
Jessame glanced around. “Is Cassandra here? I did not think I saw her.”
Roger rolled his eyes. “The woman is undoubtedly waiting outside for her opportunity to make a grand entrance. One that nobody could miss.”
Jessame bit her tongue. She had, in fact, done that very thing only a half hour earlier, although she gave herself dispensation for the cause in which she took the action. Cassandra’s sole focus was her own ego.
There was a flurry of noise by the front of the room. Roger looked up, a wry grin creasing his face. “Speak of the …”
It was indeed the blonde beauty, a stunning younger version of Lady Cavendish, her dark violet dress exceedingly proper and still exuding almost a scent of luxury and beauty. Her hair was the color of liquid honey, cascading down her shoulders and rippling against the velvet of her clothing. Her mouth artfully pouted into a smile as she drew her older sister into an embrace, and then …
Jessame’s heart pounded furiously in her chest, as if it were a trapped cat seeking to escape a cage sliding into a pond. Berenger had been brought forward. He was taking Cassandra’s hand in his own, bowing to her, drawing closer to hear her greetings, and Jessame could not watch any further. She poured herself a fresh glass of wine punch, downed it all in one long draw, and closed her eyes.
It was going to be a long night.
Chapter 2
Jessame scratched idly at her neck, the hives already rising in a bumpy constellation along the stretch of skin, then yawned. She had stuck it out until the bitter end. It was long past midnight, but finally the last of the guests were leaving and she could pronounce her appearance a resounding success. She was sure that every person in town would know of her presence and exactly where she lived by tomorrow afternoon. And then she would simply have to wait and see who showed up.
Darn her father and his penchant for Latin phrases; she had nearly given herself away in the library. Still, she felt she had recovered well from that minor gaffe, and the evening had drawn to an end without further incident.
She drew in a deep breath … and stopped. The rich aroma of leather and musk and … sandalwood, that was it … drew around her and she knew that Berenger had come up behind her. She waited for him to speak, but a long moment passed in quiet silence. Curious, she turned and looked up at him.
He was staring down at her with a distant look in his eyes, as if he were looking through her to another place. He gave himself a shake and offered a small smile. “It has been a long night,” he commented. “Is Roger not here to walk you home?”
Jessame nudged her head in the direction of the village. “Roger is a sweet man; he already offered to take Mary back safely to her own home. The two left about ten minutes ago. I was just about to head out myself.”
“By all means, then, I shall be your guide,” he stated, lowering his hand absently to the hilt of his sword.
Jessame smiled gently at him. “You may have come from the wilds of the crusades, but you are back in quiet England now. I will be quite fine. I can certainly make it from here to my own home without incident.”
Berenger creased his brow. “Are you sure? I thought I heard of some trouble in the next town.”
A wave of fury swept over her; the crimson heat of anger flushed her face. Her vision was filled with the sight of sweet Sabina’s body lying abandoned in the claustrophobic, rat-infested apartment the girl had called home. Some trouble. The sheriff had barely looked for the killer, not when a mere whore had been slain, a harlot who got what she deserved. And where was the justice for Sabina, gentle Sabina …
Berenger was staring at her with focused interest; Jessame gave herself a shake. What was she doing? She had nearly made it through the entire evening; now was not the time to unravel before his eyes.
She looked away. “Orch, well, that’d be the next town,” she demurred, struggling to hide behind the rumbly gutter accent as a tattered shield. “God’s teeth, t’was a slop-load of food. Much thanks, M’Lord.”
She turned from him, pushed open the carved front door, and descended the marble steps. She walked slowly down the stone path to the main road, her feet moving automatically toward the small one-room cottage she was renting. The full moon sent a shimmering silver light across her path, illuminating it clearly as she moved along the gently undulating fields of her quiet village.
Some trouble. The words spun like whirlwinds in her head. Millie, Sabina’s mother, had been the family cook since before Jessame was born. Jessame had grown up with Sabina as close as a younger sister. When Jessame turned twelve and was abandoned by Berenger, she had turned to Sabina as a friend and confidante. She remembered fondly the long, quiet afternoons the two would spend talking and dreaming.
However, where Jessame had been content to remain in her family home, caring for her ailing father, Sabina had chafed at the quiet life. Two years ago she had run off to experience the world, lured on by the promises of a handsome young stable lad.
Jessame still remembered the grief Millie had shown when she discovered her only daughter had run off. The months had drifted by in worry and anxious waiting for news. Then came the utter shock three weeks ago when the sheriff arrived on their doorstep. He barely batted an eye as he conveyed the solemn details. Millie’s daughter had been whoring in the next town. The young woman had been found dead – hit twice on the back of the head with a blunt object. The man had no leads, no interest, and no plans in further pursuing the case.
Jessame kicked at a stone in her path, fury sweeping over her again. She would see justice done. She would find who had done this to Sabina – and she would make him pay.
In another fifteen minutes she came around the bend to her own quiet corner of the world. She had invested a focused effort into sprucing up the home. She had planted rose bushes along either side of the front door, cleaned the aging shutters, and repaired the broken daub. She was proud of her little home-away-from-home.
She stepped inside with a smile. She briskly moved around the small area, lighting a taper from the embers in the fireplace. By its glow she placed and lit a fresh tallow candle in each window.
She felt something of a careful spider, spinning her web, setting every strand meticulously to lure in the unwary fly.
Once the
candles were lit, she neatened the straw mat which rested in one corner with a red tapestry cover. She tucked the two stools under the slim rectangular table which served as her only other furniture. Then she moved to stand before the wooden mantle over the fireplace, looking somberly at each of the four items which were spread across it.
Anger welled up within her again. It had been bad enough to learn of Sabina’s death – but in the days afterwards Jessame discovered that other girls had been killed in nearby towns as well. Their deaths had been just as ignored due to the girls’ common profession.
She could not risk putting any images in her lair. Still, she had talked with the victims’ families, learning what the women were like. She had then created symbols of who they were, reminders to keep her focused and attentive.
To the left lay a small sheaf of wheat. This girl was Estrilda, daughter of a poor mill owner. She was only trying to help her family escape debt. Next, a horseshoe represented Annora, whose family ran a stable. The girl’s younger brother was ill and the parents could not afford his medicine. A sewing needle was for Marianne, the daughter of a seamstress. She had been desperately racing time against her father’s gambling habit.
Her eyes moved to the final item on the mantle – a small oaken box, polished to a high gleam. She laid her hand tenderly on it, a mixture of regret, sadness, and weariness descending on her.
The bent-coin necklace within had been found on Sabina’s body, tucked beneath her chemise. A traditional lover’s token. After the burial, Millie had carefully taken down her small box, a favored possession, from the high shelf. She had owned the box for decades, using it to preserve the few treasured mementoes of her life. Somberly, Millie had emptied all else from the box and placed within it the necklace – the symbol of Sabina’s dreams for her future.
When Jessame had pledged herself to the quest for justice, Millie had entrusted the box and coin to her care. The grieving mother felt that the combination of items might bring Jessame some luck in the coming weeks.