by M. C. Elam
***
Despite the warmth of that early June day, a fire blazed on the grate. The stifling heat drained what little energy Ellyanna possessed, but her ladies insisted the casements remain closed against malevolent spirits that might steal the baby’s breath. Velvet draperies blocked the sun, and a gloomy light issued from three lamps filled with rose oil. The smell lay heavy in the close room. Ellyanna would remember and hate that odor for the rest of her life.
The heat made her drowsy, and time jumped ahead in bursts of wakefulness and sleep. When next she came awake, a ponderous, ruddy-cheeked woman patted her hand and offered a cup of cool water. The scent of rose oil was a vague memory, and daylight flooded the room. Fresh air streamed though the open casements. Trapped in the rippled panes of glass, sunlight separated into a dozen bright hues that bounced and shimmered along the walls and across the floor.
Elly rose on one elbow and reached for the cup. Three swallows drained it. “More please.”
“Nay, lass, not just yet. Best see how that bit sits before you take more.” The woman leaned closer smoothed the pillow and straightened the coverlet. “I be Maudie. Mister Christopher fetched me straight away from your mama.”
“Then it worked as he hoped? Peter sent him.”
“Not exact but same as. Two of those feathered bastids come pounding down the door. Never saw Mister Christopher, but your mama said be his word got them sent. Don’t mind saying I be some scairt, but they weren’t so bad.” She eyed two of the waiting women bent over their embroidery in the corner. “Here, take you another sip before those slugs with ears get to wondering what we be speakin’ on.” She helped Elly sit up and held the cup to her lips. “Your mama said I be sure and tell you not to fret. Laboring nigh on two days and kitten weak ye be, but Maudie’s here now. Next thing you know we be having us a baby.”
Elly’s eyes filled with tears, and she pushed the cup away. “Like the rest, dead or dying.”
“Shh, hush now. I’ll not be lying to you, Miss Elly. That babe be dead already. No help for it. The Mother’s got some peculiar ways. But the blessing you’ll hold be two days old and plenty strong. And this you got to know. Soon as he be in your arms, I got a salve you got to keep on them nipples so as he won’t suckle. That and some sage tea keeps the milk from flowing.”
Elly clutched her arm. “But he’ll die, too?”
“Nay, girlie, not a chance of that. Mister Christopher and your mama figures that wrinkle arsed son of a,” she paused before uttering the rest of the expletive. “Sorry, milady. Ashamed I be for speaking so in front of you.” She looked away embarrassed but continued in a low voice. “Anyways when I tell him you be bone dry and get him riled enough about it, I got to tell him I know a wet nurse so full a milk she be dripping.”
“The baby’s real mother?”
“Yes, love. And he’ll send them feathery fellows straight on to fetch her out the stable in the pens. Now you see if he don’t.” Maudie gave a low chuckle. “Thinks he’s so bitching smart he does. Black heart don’t make a wise man. Just you remember that.”
***
The infant, deformed like all the rest, had froglike legs. In place of arms, fleshy appendages devoid of bone hung limp like the broken wings of a featherless bird. Maudie wrapped the child in a soft blanket. She covered the bulging forehead and distorted little face before giving him to Elly. “Don’t be looking, sweet girl. Nothing you want to see.” She had urged Elly through the delivery with that same whisper soft voice.
The ever-watchful ladies, curious for a glimpse of a living child, crept to the foot of the bed. Maudie glared. The boldest of them challenged her position and pushed forward.
“‘Tis our duty to announce the birth and before doing so we must be assured the child is whole and healthy. Unwrap the babe that we may view it.”
Maudie’s soft voice turned harsh and forbidding. “I be the one says what happens with this child. Don’t need the likes a your foul breath coming down on that sweet one. Like as not you be the reason the queen saw two babies in the grave. Aye, must be the way of it. Shutting up this room to fresh air and burnin’ rancid oil stunk up with roses. All that clumping about and preening like as not be the bunch of you what done it. I be sending my own words to good King Peter bout what I suspect. Bet he’d be a might interested.” She dismissed their prying eyes with a stern gaze and herded them away from the bed. “Majesty be needing her rest. How you expect that going to happen, you chattering away like some goosey gaggle. Majesty, she be hard put to sleep, let alone give a fair teat. Get you gone.”
The women looked at each other.
“Go on now, like I told you.” Maudie opened the door and began to mumble under her breath but still loud enough for them to hear. “Got to get me that watch guard. Send word you be bothering Her Majesty so as she can’t nurse the king’s wee boy. Sure as anything her milk don’t come, blame be smack on you.” Maudie locked the door behind them and turned in time to see Elly pull the covering away from the baby.
A horrified expression crept across the girl’s face. “Take it, can’t you take it away?” She pushed the bundled body toward Maudie. “That came from me? By the gods, I’m glad it’s dead.”
Maudie was beside her in a step, lifted the grotesque little body and cradled it in her arms. “Shush you. Little fellow’s got no fault. Freeing up that wee thing be what you got to give. Freeing him of the dirty part of what brought him so as he can find his way to the Mother. She be sifting the bad away so his wee spirit mends. Love be what you owe here, milady. No more, no less.”
She handed the baby back to Elly, and full of remorse, the girl settled the body against her heart. She lifted the blanket away from the baby’s face. In the brief second when her lips pressed against the wrinkled cheek, his misshapen features turned serene and beautiful. A beam of light that an observer might have attributed to the open casements blossomed over Elly. Diving and dancing, millions of sparkling particles drifted inside the column of sunlight that spread over the tiny body she held in her arms. Like the soft shadows that come in afternoon, a spirit essence lifted from the grotesque casing that had held it earthbound.
“Did you see?” Elly whispered.
Maudie patted her arm. “I saw, milady. It be like I told you. Mother makes the goodness whole. But now, you got to listen. Got me a purpose sending those women out of here. We got an hour, maybe less, for changing things around. Ladies got to sic the guards on us soon as they see’s that door be locked. Gotta take him away so as I can change him for a healthy boy. Mister Christopher, been watching for that parade a ladies. He’ll come tapping on that door the minute it be safe. Give the little fella here, milady.” She reached for the baby.
“He has gone, hasn’t he Maudie?
“Aw, lady girl, he be gone straight away on the Mother’s light. You saw that for your own self.”
Ellyanna relinquished the body. The woman was right.
“That’s a girl. Now don’t start in weeping. Got to look happy when that old badger comes storming in here.” She covered the baby’s face, swaddled him in the same blood spotted linen she had used to wipe him clean and stuffed the tiny body into the bag she’d brought from the pens. “Now say you a prayer no one thinks to have a look at those birthing cloths.”
Minutes passed and then both of them heard a light tap. Maudie unlocked the door.
“Mister Christopher, ye gods and small fishes, seeing you be a pure relief.”
Christopher Tyndall hurried into the room. “Aye, Maudie. He set up a terrible howl down in the tunnel, and it took me a while to quiet him.” He handed her the squirming bundle. “Does Elly know?”
“Bout the switch? Aye, she knows. Better get shed of that bundle quick, Mister Christopher.” She nodded toward the dead baby.
“Christopher?”
Elly’s voice sounded frail, and he wanted to comfort her, but Maudie barred the way.
“Can’t now, Mister Christopher. Got to hurry afore those women come
back.”
He seemed reluctant, but Maudie stood firm. She opened the door. “Go on now, hurry. Lady Millicent be waiting. I expect that Ceri girl be hungry for word, too.”
***
Preston Fugate took a steaming towel from a basin and tested it against his cheek before placing it around the king’s face. He worked a silver handled razor back and forth against the strop. At sixty seasons, the valet had served Peter Brenan for thirty years, and like every other morning for the past thirty years, at precisely 10:00, he entered the king’s chamber, applied the towel and waited for the stream of epithets about his incompetence at not being able to carry out such a simple procedure. Today Brenan was silent, a condition that made Preston anxious, and he took special care that the straight raiser was particularly sharp and the lavender-scented lather whipped rich and creamy. Survival kicked in and close-mouthed he stood ready. Faith that he would go home one day and spend what remained of his life beside his wife died hard, but die it had, and for the last ten of those thirty years, Preston wanted one thing. He wanted to kill Peter Brenan.
He envisioned sharpening the razor, approaching the king’s towel draped head, standing in his usual position behind the chair. Then just as he was doing right now, he’d remove the towel. He felt his index and middle finger touch the king’s chin and tilt his head, the razor poised, ready to whisk away yesterday’s stubble. Except that in Preston’s vision, one slick motion of the blade and Peter Brenan, the king with two mouths and a lap full blood would gasp his last.
He angled the razor from just above the boney bulge of Peter’s Adam’s apple and cleared a path through the rich lather. Stroke after stroke, he moved the razor, once pinching off the king’s breath while he pushed his nose out of the way to get at his upper lip. Wielding the straight edge like a surgeon, he trimmed around a tuft of moustache that bushed below Brenan’s septum, entertained the idea of cutting it away, contemplated death and changed his mind. Dead ears heard nothing, and Christopher Tyndall depended upon his status. Status? Ha to that. The valet knew Brenan thought no more about him than the chair that claimed his royal arse. Preston Fugate, the king’s valet, cleared the remaining lather and applied a soothing balm before exchanging the shaving implement for manicure tools.
“I’m a happy man today, Preston, a happy man.” Peter Brenan smiled. Rather he mustered his own version of a smile. On his sharp-boned face, the expression seemed more like a snarl.
Preston weighed the notion of a response, decided silence was the safest choice, and lowered the king’s hand into a bowl of warm oil.
“Are you deaf? I said I’m a happy man.”
He must answer, then. But what should he reply? Before he had a chance, Brenan spoke again.
“I have a son off that pale skinned girl. Be glad you’re a single man, Preston. She is a true plague. Dry as the dog days of August that one. The lad might have starved if not for the midwife. Dragged a wench from the pens, robust little piece. Her taps run like an open keg.”
Preston lifted Brenan’s hand from the oil bath and began to massage each finger. He turned his thumb across the cuticle area of the nail several times before pushing back the softened skin.
“A smart one, that midwife. I gave her two gold crowns when I saw my boy and another when her news about the girl proved true.” He lifted part way out of the chair and eyed Fugate. “So I’m a happy man.”
“Aye, Your Majesty, you’ve a fine boy I’m told.”
Brenan settled back in the chair, and Preston continued working the cuticles. Both of them ignored the light tapping on the door. When it came a second time, louder than the first, Brenan shifted in the chair.
“See to that Preston. Better be a good reason for the intrusion.”
Before Preston Fugate had a chance to wipe the oil from his hands and reach the door, the guard lifted the latch and came inside.
“Majesty, forgive my intrusion, but Minister Calion demands an audience.”
“What the… Demands you say?”
Before the guard answered, Brenan’s minister of war pushed past him. “Majesty I bring news of Glynmora.”
Calion blocked most of Preston’s view, but he could see another man waiting in the corridor and knew him as the warrior captain that Brenan had charged with the invasion of Glynmora. Brenan sat up and jerked his hand free sending a spray of oil droplets across the floor.
“What news? Has Barclay returned?”
“Aye, Majesty, he awaits an audience,” said Calion.
“Then he waits no more. Get him in here, now.”
Calion motioned Captain Barclay inside. His muddy boots left a path from the corridor all the way across the room. He approached Brenan and took a knee. Brenan waived him to his feet.
“Quick, tell me Barclay. How went the campaign?” Brenan settled into his chair and Preston began to work on his hand.
“Majesty, do you wish private audience with Captain Barclay?” Calion glanced in the valet’s direction.
“Do you presume to tell me how to conduct business, Minister Calion.” Brenan adopted his typical obstinate resistance. “No need to concern yourself with Preston. Who would he tell?”
Who indeed, thought Preston? After all, he was nothing more than willing furniture.
“Come Barclay, what news? Did they offer resistance?”
“Aye, Your Majesty, they did for a time. We ate away small bites at first, swallowing the Glynmora countryside bit by bit. Nerdor fell without incident.”
“My Owlmen hold it?”
“A regiment holds it, sire.”
Brenan nodded. “Smart to leave a strong force there, Barclay. What of Heathgard?”
“We entered Heathgard a month ago. Once we stormed the palace gates, not a man stood against us.” He took a tattered banner from beneath his cloak and held it out to Brenan. “Robert Merrill’s own emblem, Glynmora is ours.”
“What of Merrill?”
“Fled.”
“Alone?”
“Nay, milord, he, his wife, and daughter along with three regiments crossed the border into Ascalla.”
Peter jerked his hand away from Preston and stood up. “What order did I give when I sent you to bring down Glynmora?” Three strides brought him directly in front of the Owlman captain. “What order did I give?”
“Give no quarter,” said the captain.
“And what does give no quarter mean to you?”
“They had already escaped when we arrived, milord.”
The back of Brenan’s hand sent him reeling.
“I beg pardon, Your Majesty. The rain fell in torrents and delayed our arrival. I pushed the men and horses. We missed them by a day.”
Brenan sat down and gave Fugate his half-manicured hand. “Aye, the rain. You blame slack leadership on the rain?”
“No, milord.” Barclay felt the heat rise from the pit of his stomach. Of course it wasn’t the rain, though he used its cover to devise a plan that slowed them long enough for the king to escape.
“I dare say you know what you have done.”
“Your Majesty?”
“Fool, you’ve given Ascalla three regiments, fifteen hundred men, to add to their own.”
Preston’s ears perked. Here was information Christopher Tyndall needed, conditions in Ascalla.
“You ordered us not to cross into Ascalla, milord.”
“Aye, true enough and so convenient that you choose to obey that order yet ignored my command to allow no escape. Fools, I am surrounded by incompetents and fools. Have you no good news?”
Barclay kept his gaze on the floor and rejected the urge to wipe a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. He searched his brain for anything the old bastard might not yet know that would suffice as news.
“Well?”
“A man, milord, one of my officers overheard a braggart named Luther Weams. He said he stole a woman from a village over the mountains. Brought her across the Arch before ice closed the passes.”
“Fr
om Baline?”
“Aye, Majesty.”
“So it stands?”
“Aye, Majesty.”
Brenan’s mouth curled into a vicious snarl. “What of this girl from Baline.”
“Not the girl, Majesty. It be what Weams said he heard before he took her.”
“Which was?”
“He said the old king was dead, and his son took up the scepter.”
“His son, ah, that weakling? What more did this Luther have to say?”
There was more, but Edward withheld the rest. “Nothing more, Majesty.”
Brenan eyed the two men “Now hear me straight, for I’ll tell you only once. With Glynmora secure, our next objective is Ascalla, and she’s prime for the taking with that puppy on the throne.” He crooked a finger at Minister Calion. “Form induction groups. Send them into Lawrenzia and sign every man you can find to serve the king. Make known the consequence for any that refuse. Train them, drill them and arm them. The regiments march before Ascalla can harvest fall crops. We’ll burn them in the field. A hungry peasant obeys the man who feeds him. I intend to be that man.”
“Across the Arch, milord?” Calion had hoped Brenan was done with his murderous raids. His position afforded way too much personal knowledge. When Brenan first appointed him, he had what he now recognized as a ridiculous notion, that he might stop the man from future assault. That idea faded the first time he attempted dissuading him when he ordered the slaughter of an entire family because their daughter failed to curtsey when he passed. Barclay’s report seemed to fire his desire for a new assault.
“Aye Calion, across the Arch and straight down their throats. I’ll have Ascalla and the sea beyond. And Calion,” he huffed, “none of your disdain. You draw breath by my indulgence.”
He took a handful of gold coins from a crystal bowl on the table beside his chair and threw them at Barclay. “You stand redeemed Barclay, by the words of Luther Weams. Now, in preparation, my fine captain, you shall lead a small party across the Arch.”
“Majesty?”
“Seize Baline. Burn it and leave no one alive to spread word of the assault. Then hold your ground. When my army comes off that mountain I want no resistance.”