by J. V. Jones
“After he arrives in Ness, I would have him followed more carefully. Bevlin lurks not far from Ness. If our knight visits him I want to know about it.”
“As Your Eminence wishes.”
They arrived at the archbishop’s chambers. Tavalisk opened the door but prevented Gamil from following him in. “You are excused now, Gamil.”
“But Your Eminence there are more matters to discuss.”
“Bore me with them another day, Gamil. I am about to eat and I intend to do so alone. If you want to make yourself useful, go back to the chapel. I think I left my gloves there.” Tavalisk watched as his aide began to walk the long distance back to the chapel. Once he was out of sight, he pulled his gloves from beneath his belt and closed and locked the door.
Tawl had been giving a great deal of thought to the archbishop of Rorn of late. Why would such a powerful man have bothered to imprison and torture him? He was a knight, that was true. But why him? There were many other knights in Rorn: ones who monitored incoming ships for illegal trade, a few who acted as envoys and couriers, and some just passing through. So why choose to jail him? He had not been involved in any political intrigues, he was no spy, so why had he been followed? Tawl sighed deeply. And why was he still being followed?
He had noticed many times since leaving Rorn that he was being watched. He and the boy would ride through a village, and no matter how small, Tawl felt there was always someone amongst the villagers who was making note of their passing. In Toolay he had the distinct impression he had been followed once he’d arrived in the city.
“Tell me,” he asked the boy, “what do you know about the archbishop of Rorn?”
“He’s a slippery one and that’s the truth.” The boy wiped his nose in way of illustration. “Course he’s well liked in the city. Everyone says that Rorn has never been richer since he came to office.”
“What did he do before becoming archbishop?”
“That’s a bit of a mystery by all accounts. Apparently he didn’t go the normal route, you know, priesting and the like. He just sort of popped up overnight and took power. I don’t know too much about it. After all, it happened before my time.” The boy steered his pony around a group of rocks; his riding was improving. “I can tell you that he is rich beyond belief. Me and my friend slipped into his house once, near the place you delivered the first of those letters, d’you remember?” Tawl nodded.
“Well, we were doing a bit of staking out . . . I wasn’t always a ’pocket; I used to work for a man who robbed houses. I’d go in first and make sure they had stuff worth robbing. Anyway, I slipped into this place, nice building, nothing that special. Once I was inside I couldn’t believe my eyes: rooms packed with gold, silver, diamonds, and emeralds. Treasure, too—paintings, carved boxes, jewelry, tapestries, anything you could think of, piled to the rafters. It was one big warehouse full of loot.
“There’s no need to tell you I was pretty excited. I sneaked out and gave my friend the nod. He was all set to do the robbing when a man arrives carried in one of those fancy litters. As soon as he stepped out into the street we could see it was the archbishop, there’s no mistaking his chubby profile. Well, he let himself into the very place we were about to rob.
“As soon as my man realized whose place it was he backed off the job. No one wants to mess around with the archbishop.”
“So you think all the loot belonged to him?”
“I don’t think it belonged to the litter carrier!” Nabber grinned knowingly. “Of course it was the archbishop’s booty. He’s been skimming the cream from Rorn since before I was born.”
“Surely he has little need for money in the future. An archbishop is appointed for life.” Tawl was trying to remember his history lessons.
“That’s never stopped the people from getting rid of anyone they don’t like. The people of Rorn are well known for their violent streak. They’ve run archbishops out of town before now, not to mention beheading their fair share.”
“It seems to me that the archbishop is a vindictive man.” Tawl thought of the old man kicking the sand beneath his feet. Sand where once had been a lake.
“You speak the truth there, Tawl. I heard that he had one of his servants and her family beaten to death just because the woman went around telling her friends that the archbishop was a glutton.”
“So the archbishop has ways of finding out what is being said about him in the city?”
“Don’t you know anything about Rorn?” Nabber tutted scornfully. “The city is crawling with Tavalisk’s spies. They say if you’re not spying for the archbishop, then you’re being spied upon by the archbishop.”
“How is it you know so much?”
“I listen and learn. People don’t pay much attention to a young boy in a room; they talk as if I’m not there.” The boy suddenly looked a little offended. “You don’t think I’m a spy, do you?”
“It crossed my mind.” Tawl turned and looked west to hide a smile.
“If you think I’m a spy then I’m heading straight back to Rorn.” Nabber brought his pony to a less than graceful stop and said indignantly, “After all I did for you, saving your life and providing coinage, and you have the nerve to say I’m a spy.”
“I never said you were one, I said the thought had crossed my mind. I would have been lying if I had said otherwise. Now you can either return to Rorn or follow me. I have no time for argument.” Tawl urged his horse forward, leaving Nabber behind him. After a few moments he heard Nabber’s voice shouting out:
“Very well, I’ll follow you.” Then a moment later, “Wait for me.”
They traveled a distance further, and then about midday they came across a fair-sized village. The place looked pleasant and well kept, so Tawl decided they would break the monotony of sea biscuits and drymeat by taking a meal at the inn.
The tavern was a small but clean place, with fresh rushes on the floor. A few local men stood in a group and one man sat alone at a table. A young girl was about to make her way to greet them when an older man stopped her. The girl went back into the kitchen and the man came to serve them instead.
“What can I be getting for you two?” The man’s tone was not unpleasant, merely wary; strangers were notorious for bringing trouble.
“I will take a jug of ale and two helpings of whatever food you have to offer.”
“I have roast leg of goat and goat’s cheese.” The man seemed to dare Tawl to object to the offered fare, and was surprised when he said:
“They both sound good, bring plenty.”
As they waited for the food and ale to be brought, the man who was sitting alone began to hum a tune. He looked toward them, his bleary eyes taking time to focus. As the innkeeper brought the ale, the man burst into song. His voice was loud but the men standing in the group did not turn to look. Tawl murmured to Nabber to ignore the man, who was obviously drunk. Unfortunately the man had other plans; he stood up and stumbled toward their table.
He came and leaned against the table as he sang his song. The innkeeper hurried over with the food and asked in hushed tones if the man was disturbing them. Tawl shook his head. He wanted no trouble.
The drunk finished his song and then rested his eyes upon the jug of ale. “How about a drink for another song?” His words were slurred.
“I will give you a drink if you promise not to sing again.” Tawl shot a warning glance at Nabber, who was sniggering.
“Friend, you have a deal.” The man sat down uninvited. He took the proffered cup and seemed to go into a drunken daze, staring at the ale. Tawl and Nabber ignored him and ate their food.
The roast goat was stringy and a little tough but the cheese was delicious, soft and pungent. They spread it onto warm bread and sprinkled freshly cut chives on top. They were happily eating when the drunk appeared to rouse himself. He put his hand out and went to grab the remainder of the roast goat. Tawl’s arm shot out to prevent the man from taking the meat. He grabbed the man’s wrist, not ungently. The dru
nk raised his eyes to Tawl’s. He slowly focused and then looked deeply into Tawl’s eyes. He seemed to recognize something he saw there.
He broke away from the hold and stood up, murmuring words that Tawl could not make out. The man tried to get away as fast as he could, but his drunken body could not properly form the moves. Tawl went after him and the man cried out wildly. “Leave me alone, you devil.” The men standing in a group, obviously used to the man’s drunken ravings, took no notice.
Tawl grabbed the man’s arm. “Why do you run from me?” he demanded. The man struggled in vain.
“Let me go.” Spittle foamed at the corners of his mouth. “I want to be gone from you,” he said wildly, trying to free himself.
“Why?”
“Larn! You have the mark of Larn in your eyes.”
Tawl let the drunk go and the man lurched uneasily away.
As Melli walked she felt the familiar soreness of breast and belly that marked the onset of her menses. She felt strangely pleased at this reminder of her womanhood; it brought a breath of normality and continuity into a life that was lacking in both. The menses seemed to be a symbol of hope and renewal for the future. Their predictable cycle was a comfort.
It was more than that. It reminded Melli that she was a woman, no longer a child, in charge of her own destiny. Now she was away from the castle she had the freedom to make her own choices, choose her own path, and set her own pace.
Melli turned and walked back toward the farm, drawing the blanket close around her. She would go as far as Annis with Jack and no further. Her destiny was her own. She knew that Jack had his own destiny and she was aware that his had a strong pull, and if she were not careful, she would lose her own and become part of his.
The sky was low and oppressive, bearing but not relinquishing rain. She could never go back to her old life in the castle. The past weeks had changed her in many ways. She was not the same girl as the one who used to sit and braid her hair, worrying over which ribbon would become her the most. She had endured much and survived. No, not merely survived, she thought, thrived and grown strong.
She lifted the rusty latch and let herself into the farmhouse. The old woman, whose name was neither asked for nor offered, was tending to Jack’s wounds. He was naked from the waist up and the firelight shone upon his flesh. He looked strong and handsome. He, too, had changed, she thought. He was no longer the awkward boy who came to her aid by the roadside many weeks ago.
Melli suddenly shuddered despite the warmth of the kitchen; her skin became cold and the hair on her arms prickled. She saw with great clarity that Jack had an unsettling future ahead. She saw a temple and a city and a man with golden hair. Images crowded about her like beggars at a market. There was blood, war, death and birth. For an instant she even saw herself in the snarl. She forced herself back to the present, drunk with the heady wine of fate, yet scared by its aftertaste. To cover up her confusion she went over to Jack and took the blanket from her shoulders. “Here,” she murmured, placing the blanket in his arms, “keep yourself warm.” He noticed her troubled expression and caught hold of her hand.
“What is it Melli? What are you afraid of?”
“Better to ask who I am afraid for.” She turned quickly, not wanting to look into his hazel eyes.
She joined the old woman by the fire and tried to warm her chilled body. The woman gave her a canny look. “Time for a drink of herb tea, my dear. It will warm and refresh you.”
“I have no love of herbed tea.”
“You have need, girl.” The woman’s voice was pitched low. “You are in your menses; it will take the cramp from your belly.”
“Very well.” Melli found herself feeling weak; she needed to sit down.
“Get yourself a seat, girl.” The woman then turned to Jack. “Time you got a little fresh air, lad. Stay close to the farm.” Jack put his tunic on and left the kitchen. The woman busied herself making the tea.
Melli lost count of the varieties of herbs that were put into the gauze. Some of the herbs she could not even name. With deft hands the old woman chopped or scored or deleafed the herbs. Satisfied that she had the right selection, she gathered the gauze by its corners and tied it with a length of twine, forming a pouch. She then popped the pouch into the pot of boiling water. She let the water boil for a minute and then set the pot away from the heat. “It must be left to stand for a few minutes to ensure the greatest benefit.” The woman then came and sat by Melli.
“My mother always said the best time for a tale is while the tea’s brewin’.” She fixed her light blue eyes firmly upon Melli’s.
“I have no tale to tell.” Melli looked down at the table. The woman appeared to have expected this reply.
“Then I shall tell you one,” she said simply. “I had a sister once. Oh, she was nothing like me. She was beautiful and good-natured. Her laughter was the most heart-warming sound you could imagine.
“She came to her menses late, later than any other girl in the village. Once the cycle was upon her she changed. She became a different person. She was troubled and listless; she withdrew from us, even me, her own sister who loved her dearly. She began to have visions, terrible nightmares; she woke up screaming night after night, ranting about doom and destruction. She would fall into trances during the daytime. One minute she would be normal, the next she would be in a daze. When she awoke she would tell of what events would happen in the town. Things such as which girl would bear a child, whose sows would take the fever, when the rains were likely to fall. She even predicted our mother’s death. The poor girl was in torment.
“We tried to keep her problems hidden from the people in town, but word soon got out. At first people begged her to make predictions for them, even offered her money though she never took it. It didn’t take long for folks to turn nasty—there is always more bad news in the future than good—and the people blamed her for it. They began to hound her, saying she was a witch.
“Then one day as she walked home, a group of men from town jumped on her and beat her close to death.” The old woman rubbed tears from her eyes. “Her beautiful face was battered and bruised, both her arms were broken and her ribs were crushed. Somehow she managed to make it back to my father’s farm; how she did it I will never know. As soon as we saw her, I was sent to bring the wisewoman.
“By the time I arrived back with the wisewoman she was dead.” The old woman took a deep breath and paused for a minute, looking carefully at Melli. “I suppose you are wondering what this tale has to do with you?”
“I didn’t realize it had anything to do with me.” Melli felt her voice sounded a little cold.
“Once the wisewoman saw there was nothing she could do to help my sister she came and comforted me. She told me never to think badly of my sister, despite what other people said. She said that all women when they come to their menses have a little foretelling in their blood, some more than others. My sister was an extreme example, but most women have experiences with it at some time or other. To some it comes as intuition, others it comes as a hunch or feeling of foreboding. Its potency is strongest when a woman is losing her blood. It is a natural part of being a woman; there is no need to be afraid of it.”
Melli was saved from replying when the old woman stood up and began to pour the tea. She returned with a brew that was surprisingly fragrant. “Here,” she said, handing a cup of the steaming liquid to Melli, “this will make you feel better.” Melli took a sip; it tasted nothing like she expected. “Good, eh,” prompted the woman.
“Very good. It is not at all like—” Melli was about to say “the tea they brew in the castle,” but stopped herself. The old woman covered up the awkward silence.
“Girl, you should not worry if from time to time you have feelings of premonition.” Melli was about to protest, but the woman waved her arms. “No, girl, don’t deny it. I saw it on your face when you walked in. You saw something in the boy. Don’t worry, I will not ask what.”
They finished the
ir tea in silence. Melli began to feel a little better; the cramps had gone and the strength returned to her legs. The old woman smiled, seeing that she had drunk the whole cup. “Come, girl,” she said, “we have sewing and baking to do if you are to leave by the morrow.”
Maybor was feeling very pleased with himself. He had just secured the position of lady’s maid to Lady Belynda for the lovely Lilly. Of course the old crow Lady Belynda had given him a hard time, claiming she was most satisfied with the lady’s maid she already had. Maybor had not been fooled; it had merely been a ploy on the old hag’s part to squeeze him further. He had ended up settling a handsome pension upon the aristocratic but impoverished lady.
He hoped the tempting minx appreciated what he had done for her—it had cost him more to reel her in than his two former wives combined. She’d better be worth it! She was a charmer, just the sort he liked—a saucy vixen.
He could not prevent a smile from stealing across his face. Old Lady Belynda would be no indulgent mistress. The old crow would give the girl hell. There would be no parades around the garden in her best ribbons for Lilly. With Lady Belynda as her mistress, the girl would be much more likely to spend her entire day cooped up in the ladies’ hall doing embroidery. And that, thought Maybor, suited him very well indeed.
He was no fool. He knew why the girl wanted to be a lady’s maid. She wanted to show herself off in her finery until she attracted the eye of a minor nobleman. A nobleman who was either so stupid or so in love as to forgo his prestige by marrying a common servant. Maybor knew there were men who married for love or infatuation. He considered them to be unadulterated idiots—a man should only marry for social gain or land. A lord who married a commoner was beneath Maybor’s contempt. Anyway, he thought, the avaricious little Lilly would find her plans sadly curtailed by her aged mistress.
Still, Lilly tempted him like no other woman had done in a long time. He always valued highest the objects for which he paid the most. He quickened his step. It was already dark and he was late, she would be waiting for him. He rubbed his hands together in expectation of her gratefulness.