Ascalla's Daughter

by M. C. Elam

  ***

  Glynmora did not fall. What Peter Brenan assumed would be an easy defeat, failed. His Owlmen had returned without the total victory he sought. Yet each raid extended his borders until lands once belonging to Glynmora shone like decorations on a growing map of Lawrenzian conquests. For Elly, each raid brought desperation, and Christopher tried to cheer her when her hope that someone would come for them turned to depression. Two years and two dead babies, both girls, did not increase her favor with the king. He barely spoke to her, and when he did, his words bore threats of what would happen to her if she failed to give him an heir.

  “Come, Christopher, tell me. What transpired? Did he say anything at all?”

  Christopher turned his head, and she saw his wounded cheek.

  “He struck you! Why, for the love of God?” She stood, took her handkerchief and moistened it with water from the ewer and basin across the room. Her touch was gentle when she washed away the blood.

  Christopher covered her hand with his. He dared not speak a word of love. The risk weighed too great. Her ladies, if they were her ladies, worked at their embroidery mere feet away.

  She bent closer and whispered to him so that none could hear. “At least he will leave my bed and seek his whores. I am not to his liking except in the matter of getting an heir.”

  “Thank the Gods. The idea of him with you, that disgusting old pig, sickens me.”

  She dropped her head. “And me? I wonder that you still love me knowing I have lain with him.”

  “Never doubt my devotion. Should I fail you, it will not be for lack of love.”

  “He takes from me, Christopher. I give him nothing,” she said. “The smell of him bears the stink of disease.”

  “I know, love.”

  “I long to hear you speak words of love to me,” she whispered.

  “I wish I could shout them,” he looked from her to the circle of ladies. “Careful now, they watch us.”

  She sat up a little straighter. “There you are. The bleeding ebbs. You must take care not to anger the king. Tell me quick, now. What did he say?”

  “He said nothing, milady.”

  “He will know when the doctors make their examination official. Pray with me that the child is a strong, healthy boy,” she said loud enough for the ears of anyone in the room and then added in a whisper, “He may leave me alone from now on when the heir he wants is a living child.”

  Ellyanna pressed a note into his hand and watched it disappear into the top of his boot.

  “For my mother,” she whispered.

  “Do you desire further service of me this day, milady?” he said.

  “Nothing, Christopher. You may go.”

  He made a formal bow, turned, and withdrew.

  17 - The Slave Pens

  Billy Runderly walked sentry duty along the perimeter of the Brendemore slave pens while mere feet away the stink and degradation of human misery echoed in the muffled voices of the captives. Here men fought for a crust of bread, and the comeliest of women lay upon their backs in the dirty straw for the promise of something extra to feed their starving children. But services rendered gained only meager rations, and the children died anyway, their little bellies swollen and grotesque from malnutrition. Tonight marked Billy’s first important assignment since Sergeant Willis pulled him from the common workers’ barracks to train for sentry duty, and he meant to do a good job. Perimeter duty put a few coppers in his pocket, and Billy could always do with a few coppers. A small dog trailed behind, sitting from time to time and scratching at a flea. Sergeant Willis said as how he expected the dog be an asset as long as Billy saw it didn’t bite any of the gents headed into the whores.

  “Nay, Sergeant, Zip’ll no bite. Swear to that.”

  Clay had eyed the dog. He knew Billy set great store in the animal and figured it was a comfort to the boy. He bent low and extended his hand. Zip wagged but stayed put beside Billy.

  “Be good, Zip. Sergeant means to give you a scratch and tickle.”

  Zip looked up at Billy through the brown mask that covered both eyes and ranged over the top of his head making it appear as though he wore a helmet. The rest of his fur was white.

  “Smart little mite. I’d say you the two of you be good to go.”

  Billy was glad Sergeant Willis hadn’t put a ban on Zip. Devon said as how he could shut him up in the stable while he walked his duty, but he didn’t see how that would work to well for either of them. Never let on how much he cared for Zip, but he figured Devon knew anyway.

  The crunch of his footsteps over loose gravel startled a rat from hiding, and despite his considerable size, Billy made a lunge to stomp the miserable creature and add to a collection of tails he kept stowed under his cot in the sentry barracks. Unfortunately, the rat alerted a swifter predator, and a scrawny cat darted between his feet. A low growl and frantic screech told him the cat would feast on stringy rat meat. He saw it slink into the shadows, teeth clamped deep in the throat of the limp rat that bumped along the ground between its forepaws. Maybe he’d take a look around at daybreak and see if he could find the tail. Cats never ate the tails.

  Competition for gathering the most rat tails in a month had run high among the sentries ever since Sergeant Willis came up with the notion and backed it with a bit of coin from his own pocket. The pot grew even richer when the sentries began to wager with each other on the number of tails they could accumulate by the end of each moon cycle. Billy didn’t get in on the game until Burt Chandler, the tavern keep, matched the coin with service, and awarded the lucky winner a night’s leisure to eat and drink free. A free night in the tavern made the effort worthwhile to Billy. So, for two months running, he carried away the prize money, ate and drank his fill, and slept off the ensuing stupor in front of the blazing hearth in the tavern. If he decided to spend some of his off time searching for rats, no one would doubt the value of the enterprise. He looked around to mark the cat’s exact location before resuming patrol and spotted the dark figure of a man who made his way past the skilled worker’s barracks. Still some distance away, Billy might have missed him if he hadn’t turned at the exact moment that clouds shrouding the moon parted, and a beam of pale light bathed the stranger.

  Billy waited. No point in making more steps when the intruder came straight toward him. He could tell the man focused on the path. Funny how most folks didn’t see what lay smack under their noses. Here come a dandy fella, just stumbling along like the world owed him, straight for a taste of some kind of trouble, and Billy did like to think he was some kind of trouble, at least to an intruder. He was used to folks that looked through him. Didn’t make him no never mind. Just sometimes, when he made them jump, it gave him a good old laugh. The distance between them shortened, and Billy stepped across the stranger’s path. A heavy mace rested across his meaty arm, and he stood straddle-legged blocking the way. A satisfied grunt escaped him when the stranger stopped short and took a step backward.

  “Halt, and state your business.”

  “I seek Sergeant Willis.”

  Tinge of a quiver in that voice, thought Billy. “What be your name?”

  “I am the queen’s man, Christopher Tyndall.”

  So, Tyndall, Billy eyed him. He knew the tales the others told but, until tonight, had never set eyes on Tyndall. Maybe he ought to test out the rumors for himself.

  “What business that be?”

  “I’ve business with the sergeant. Let me pass, please.

  Polite enough, or was he scared? Spit out that brag ‘bout being the queen’s man quick enough. Guess he thought it gave him some kind of power. Stood his ground, though. A minute passed, then two. He watched Tyndall reach into his doublet, retrieve two coins, and hold them out. Coppers, thought Billy. From what he knew, Tyndall could do better than coppers. He stood fast. After another minute, Tyndall extended his hand again, a silver piece added to the coppers. The coins disappeared inside Billy Runderly’s pocket. He mumbled something unintelligible and
stepped back leaving a narrow space between his body and the stockade wall, a measure calculated to create discomfort in the visitor. He watched Tyndall turn sideways, inch past him, and disappear in the darkness.

  Billy laughed, stuck his hand into his pocket, and jingled the coins against each other. More than a day’s wages, quick as you please. He’d lay odds on the rest of the stories, too. What other reason would Tyndall have to come creeping along in the dark unless he’d come a whoring? As for paying for what he wanted, well, Billy had proof in his pocket, didn’t he? So why shouldn’t he believe the rest? Weak-willed coward, or so the story went, Tyndall bent a knee before old King Peter and betrayed his country to save his own pathetic arse. Heard that straight from old Sterling Pincus, he did. Pincus ought to know since he was there that night. Claimed he be the one done in that Merrill fella, on account a he had to—poor old Sterling. Blundered one too many times. He'd end his days in the pens. From what Billy saw, that time weren't far off. Had the stink on him. Billy figured they put Sterling to doing the selection on account he was a fair hand at numbers and letters. Devon wouldn’t much like the way he bamboozled Tyndall out of that coin. That was for good and sure. Always talkin' about when they got home. Billy didn’t remember much about home or his mam or pap. Only place he knew be the pens. Grew up right here. He guessed taking a bit a coin didn’t hurt a body.

  Billy snorted. Couldn’t cast stones at Tyndall, even if all Pincus told be true. Leastways Tyndall didn’t kill no one. He’d take a knee to that old bastard, Peter Brenan, any day if it meant saving his hide. So what was all the fuss? Tyndall lived better shut up inside the palace than nary a man down to the pens, Billy thought. As long as he got him a bit of coin to spend on a few more tankards at the end of a shift, Tyndall could dally his time away with the wenches, and Billy Runderly wouldn’t bear him no grudge. After all, a man hungered. Why, hadn’t he ventured inside a barracks now and again looking for a willing partner among the female stock? ‘Course he had. True now and true when he lived among them, slave instead of free. Little gals liked Billy. Yes siree, they did. Didn’t pay nothing then and didn’t pay now, ‘cept sometimes a bit a food and some drink. Tyndall, now, that be another story, right enough. He didn’t hunch his back between any pretty pair of thighs. His whore came from the private stock. Wife she was to that dead ambassador from Glynmora. Tyndall, so they said, bounced her bones regular. She must be something special indeed.

  Private whores were none of his business. Sergeant Willis had charge of Tyndall’s wench, and the others like her. Every sentry respected the off limits order. Sure as certain if anyone of them tried to slip by Clay Willis, why the sergeant would see that man paid with hard duty or worse. ‘Course, some bragged they’d got in and told about the jaunt. He’d even chipped in a tankard or two for a well-told tale, but crossing the lines Clay Willis set was much too dicey for his blood. Why a man would lose his freedom sure as certain and end up back inside the pens.

  Freedom, Billy slammed a fist against his rock-hard thigh and felt anger rise like bitter gall. He liked to call it freedom sometimes. All of them what worked the pens did. Truth told, when he walked out of the pens and into the compound, he traded one kind of slavery for another. Even Chandler’s Tavern lay inside the boundary. Billy knew the whole thing amounted to a wicked deception. No use thinking more about it because nothing good come from dwelling on the place. Might as well make the best of what he had. He stood another minute jingling Tyndall’s coins around inside his pocket then ambled over to the place he last saw the cat barrel past, and scuffed up a little mound of gravel with his booted toe to mark the spot for later. Finally, he turned, and whistling against the darkness, walked back along the perimeter for his second pass of the night. He’d be acting relief for Sergeant Clay in a bit. Zip sniffed the mound and hiked his leg, hightailing after Billy when he finished.

  ***

  Christopher quickened his pace. He didn’t want to give the sentry time to think of another reason to detain him. He recognized most of the sentries but not the one patrolling tonight. He could be a plant, one of King Peter’s spies. Paranoia he supposed, seeing a spy in every action, but he carried more coin than usual and could not afford risks. He must concentrate on the role he played. The last barracks loomed out of the darkness at the far end of the enormous compound. A low hum, the combined sounds of the population, hung in the air, hushed and vague like the rustle of a night bird’s wings. That sentry coming out of the dark took him off guard, but the sentry was young and Christopher thought he had recovered quick enough to fool him.

  He and Elly never discussed how he managed to see her mother, or how he succeeded avoiding scrutiny because of so many trips in and out of the compound. He was glad to carry messages that made the dismal days and endless nights bearable for mother and daughter. What could he say if Elly asked, ‘they think your mother is my whore’? Despite his resolve to focus on tonight’s mission, images of past events snatched him from the present and awakened his memory.

  ***

  Nearly a year went by from the night of the banquet before King Peter gave permission for Christopher to leave the palace grounds and go into the city. Neither he nor Ellyanna held out even the smallest hope that Lady Millicent might still be alive. As far as the two of them knew, they were all that remained of the Glynmora caravan. Christopher knew Peter loathed him and surmised the reason for granting the controlled liberty was a ploy to get him to attempt escape. Admittedly, escape did occur to him, but he didn’t take the bait.

  The first time he ventured outside the palace grounds, he kept looking behind him to see if someone followed. After subsequent outings, with no incident, he began to relax and explore the city. The day he wandered into the market district, enticing smells of fresh baked pie and roasted meat filled his senses in a pleasant way. For a while, he strolled in and out of the small shops that lined the crafters’ avenue, looking for a trinket to take back to Elly.

  “Fine, watered silk, come closer. Examine the texture, the sheen.”

  “Will you have a new pair of boots, sir? Made of the finest leather. Yours for five silver pieces. Your feet will sing.”

  “Fresh bread and a pint to quench your thirst, both are yours for a mere two coppers.”

  “A songbird for your true love, she will be so pleased.”

  Despite his fine clothes, he had only a few coppers, far too few for a songbird, even if he did dare buy one for Elly. He tried to tell the woman, but she tugged at his sleeve, and though reluctant, he followed her inside. Old and bent she hobbled along toward the back of the shop.

  “This way,” she called. “I have just the one for you. I keep her in the back, away from drafts.”

  Her walking stick tapped along the floor, and she disappeared behind a curtain-covered archway. Christopher had stopped short of following her inside.

  “What’s keeps you, lad?” she called.

  Christopher sighed, lifted the curtain, and entered. Darkness swallowed him, and he stood still waiting for his eyes to adjust. The woman lit a solitary candle, and Christopher looked around expecting to find a rare bird of some sort.

  “Millicent, I call her.”

  “What? Of whom do you speak?” Christopher could feel his heart pounding.

  The old woman poked a bony finger into his chest and then lifted it to her lips, a sign he should not speak.

  “I am a keeper of birds. I know the habits of many, their needs, and abilities. Though meant to fly free, some dwell in captivity. Such a bird, we say, has superior instincts, a bird that bides its time and waits. Millicent waits. Seek her in the place of captives.”

  “Who are you?” Christopher asked. “Explain what you mean.”

  “I am only an old woman, at home among birds. I can say no more.”

  “But how do you know me? How did you recognize me?”

  “Recognize?” The old woman lifted the candle and turned to face Christopher. “I recognize no one.” Her eyes looked milky white
, with no sign of pupil or iris. “I am quite blind.”

  She pushed Christopher back through the curtain and into the small shop where songbirds warbled happy tunes in the sunlight.

  “Please, won’t you tell me how you know me?’

  “Be gone, now. I have no bird for you after all,” she said.

  She pushed him harder, and he stumbled out of the shop and into the street, where he bumped into a woman carrying a basket. The basket flew into the air and a variety of newly purchased fruits and vegetables lay scattered about.

  “Buffoon! Stupid, lumbering dolt!”

  Christopher gathered the spilled items and apologized for his clumsiness. The woman stalked off, unimpressed by his efforts at gallantry, and he turned to go back into the bird shop.

  “Bloody hell! Where the devil did it go?”

  He must be mistaken. He must have stumbled further away from the spot. The store was not behind him. He searched up and down the narrow street, but the old woman and her birds had vanished. Not possible, he thought, simply not possible. He must be overlooking something, but no matter how often he walked the length of the crafters’ street, he found no sign of the bird shop. He knew he didn't imagine the whole thing. The old woman, her birds, everything was too real, but if he had not imagined it, where was the shop?