Leiyatel's Embrace (Dica Series Book 1)

by Clive S. Johnson

  Laixac, of course, had none of that in mind but was, instead, wishing the king had called his council much earlier. It meant retracing their steps, back past the Royal Courts and on into the private precinct of the Lords Demesne. It was fortunate attendance at court had steadily fallen away, during the king’s madness, for it meant they’d all be safely ensconced in their family seats.

  Countess Ragskin had her elegant and sprawling estate in the highest part, the most easterly and hence the first to be encountered. He raced along passageways and corridors with the speed of a cat, at times coming out into open cloisters flooded by the sunlight of yet another fine day. It took him less than an hour before he was sweeping his way through the Demesne’s upper gate and onto its broad private road. That dropped steadily westwards until a sharp and steep turn brought him his first glimpse of Countess Ragskin’s extensive estate.

  Neatly manicured, the broad sweep of its lawns gently dropped to pleasant copses and formal gardens. The verdant peace, beneath a cloud flecked azure sky, framed the impressive rear elevation of the Countess’s grand pile. It had huge multi-paned windows at the ground floor, closely spaced and framed with pediments and pillars. A continuous transom ran between them and a line of smaller, first floor windows.

  It was encircled by an ornate balustrade, except where the rear door’s circular entrance tower rose above the roofline to a dome. Beyond the balustrades were terraces, backed by a further storey of windows and all topped by a deep and richly ornamented gutter wall. A shallow-pitched slate roof hid behind it but its ridgeline boasted tall and elegant chimneystacks that rose to fancifully spiralled pots.

  Beyond the hall, its attendant outbuildings, conservatories and quarters, the estate dropped away and out of sight to further landscaped parkland below. Laixac knew the hall’s main entrance at the front was even more splendid. It formed a vast circular building in its own right, almost detached from the hall, with a great rise of steps all around it. The whole entrance was sumptuously carved from the purest of white marble.

  The road to it, and upon which Laixac now hurried, slowly dropped lower and finally fell before a long hedge of clipped and shaped laurels, obscuring the estate and its hall. Laixac soon came before its handsome gatehouse. Through its gates he could see the start of the long driveway that ran in a great curve around the hall, to its main entrance.

  The gates were shut and barred, as he fully expected, not to gainsay entrance but from long disuse. Access was actually through a small door in one of the gate’s flanking turrets, the usual and expected way on foot. When he pushed at it, it swung inwards, easily and noiselessly, giving entry to a small dark room.

  Although lit only by a single small window, he could see it was largely featureless, poky and unfurnished, but for a simple counter that ran across it. At its middle was set a small gate, no higher than the counter top, and fastened with a simple latch. On the counter sat a lone bell push, its dome shiny from long and frequent use, which he then continued with a sharp strike of the palm.

  There was no sound, not there. He knew its summons would have rung out loudly enough below, in the servant’s quarters adjoining the hall. All he could do was wait, which he did with ill-practiced patience.

  He kicked his heels and idly watched the industrious activity of a large spider, busily weaving its web across the window. He was beginning to lick his lips, thoughtfully, when the door beyond the counter swung open.

  In breezed a wizened, hunched and bald old man, his eyes darting suspiciously about before finally resting, steely and taut, upon Laixac. A quick flash of recognition crossed the old man’s face before it resumed its blank look. “Yes? What d’ya want?”

  “You know me to be Laixac, the King’s Aide. I have important and urgent business with your lady, the Countess. Very urgent business.”

  The man eyed him with some reproof and then tutted. “Yes, yes, I know who you are, and it doesn’t take a genius to work out you’d be wanting to see t’Countess. Didn’t think me fool enough to expect you to be calling on t’Chambermaid, did ya?”

  With no further word, he flicked the catch on the small gate, swung it open for Laixac and then, with an unnecessary slam, closed it behind him. He smartly stepped ahead and led the way from the room.

  Laixac knew they’d cut across the park and straight into the gardens, at the rear of the hall. They were soon walking briskly between flowerbeds and herb borders and then on through orchards of unripe fruit. When they came through the garden wall’s doorway, they found themselves in a yard and were soon at a small door to a long vestibule.

  The servant held it open for Laixac and then closed it behind, as he followed in. “If you wouldn’t mind stepping this way, sir, I’ll take you to ‘er Highness.” He turned, straightened his tunic, rubbed his spattered court shoes on his breeches, and led off, purposefully, down the vestibule.

  They came out into a large and sumptuous hallway, at the foot of a great winding, rectangular stairway, glossy with polished rosewood balustrades and handrails. Although a little worn and threadbare in places, the staircase was carpeted in what had been a deeply piled and intricately patterned specimen – a famous feature of the house.

  Little did Laixac notice, though, for despite having visited, and seen that carpet on many occasions, his nature was shallow and unrefined. It wasn’t stirred by beauty, or rarity, for his spirits never soared in ecstasy. No, he was made of baser stuff and had sterner interests, stirred by little if anything.

  Although vain and hardly well-endowed with intellect, he was intelligent enough, at least, to know his own shortcomings. He certainly recognised the importance of what little reflected glory he received in the king’s service and, for him, that was enough.

  They both climbed the famous carpet but left it onto the first floor landing, where they exchanged its rich-pile luxury for scrubbed and polished broad, oak boards. Their passage was now heralded by loud creaks and groans which continued on into a wide corridor running the length of the hall. On both sides there were an inordinate number of doors, all but one leading to long unused apartments.

  The one still occupied, however, contained the private rooms of the Countess and her partner, a retiring minor member of her distant family. She’d become smitten with him in her youth, although ever since he’d kept himself secreted away and rarely, if ever, ventured forth.

  The servant rapped at the door, loudly. “Your Highness, ‘tis Gramshack. I have Master Laixac with me, earnest for audience … Ma’am.” There was a long wait only punctuated by the slow and ponderous ticking of a long case clock, at the very end of the corridor.

  Eventually, and faintly at first but growing louder, Laixac could make out the rustling of crinoline and linen, of lace and taffeta and the swish of satin and chiffon. Finally, the door was snatched open a small way and a face could dimly be seen peering out. After a brief scrutiny, the door was fully wrenched open.

  Before Gramshack and Laixac there appeared a conglomerated mound of folded and splayed, crimped and ballooned, pleated and ruffed fabrics. They all rose to a summit where a stark and deep, white ruff orbited a wizened and gnarled old neck. It was strung with pearls and diamonds, in great drifts of necklaces, and supported a head almost lost beneath a vast and powdered billowing cloud of a dress wig. Had it not been for the sharp beaklike protrusion of the nose, and the deeply hooded eyes, then the face set below that monstrous accumulation of borrowed hair would have easily been overlooked.

  The Countess was certainly not a shrinking violet, was undeniably adamant and forthright, a presence it was impossible to ignore. Her attire and bearing shouted it at the top of their voices, so the actual voice that then came from that shocking apparition was a surprise in itself.

  It was thin and a little shrill, high but cracked, and it seemed to fall from her mouth like dribble. “So, ‘tis indeed Master Laixac, ‘tis indeed. D’ya hear that, Bunty?” She directed that last behind her, into the unseen room. There was a short pause, whilst she
listened. “And to what do we owe this rare visit I wonder, eh, to what are we indebted, hmm?” Again she listened but then seemed to relax. “Well?” she barked. “Cat got your tongue?” before chortling, cruelly.

  Laixac always felt uncomfortable in the Countess’s company. It wasn’t so much her overpowering appearance but more her disquieting comments. Being well educated, quick thinking and with an ear kept close to the ground, they were often directed well above his head. They always seemed to be cleverly contrived to impinge upon his confidence and ease, though, robbing each of a little of their robustness.

  ‘Cat got my tongue, indeed.’ He thought, before ignoring her taunt. “Your Highness, pray forgive my unarranged visit but I have an important message from the King. The King, Madam, the King who has recently thrown off his illness and is now the same Liege Lord to whom you swore your fealty at his crowning.”

  He quizzed the Countess’s eyes with a steady and plaintiff stare whilst allowing the import to sink in. He could see, deep under the hooding brows, within the specks that lay there, a machination, a weighing of argument and assumption. All the time, her mouth sat frozen to a thin line with the beak of a nose casting it in deep shadow.

  There! There, Laixac spotted the glint of a decision, the flicker of resolution sparking within the black beads of her eyes. “Welcome, Master Laixac, my house is your refuge, my person your company. Prey, enter, do come in.”

  She moved aside, as a gesture of welcome and to encourage him across the threshold into her private world. However, her vast garmented bulk precluded such a simple act without she backed away. As she did so, she peremptorily dismissed Gramshack who then retreated, backwards and bowing.

  Having previously been there only on planned and forewarned business, it was his first opportunity at discovery, the first chance he’d ever had to see into her own private world. In the event, it brought no great revelation.

  The room within was small and quite bare, excepting a round table set at its centre and up to which four chairs were drawn. The room’s only other feature was another door, set in the opposite wall. The room was quite obviously nothing more than an antechamber.

  The Countess sailed majestically to the far side of the table and there beckoned him to its other side. “My good Master Laixac? If I do faithfully extricate the veracity of your earlier comment, concerning our beloved Liege Lord, then am I correct in hoping that we can owe you a great debt of gratitude, in so delivering tidings most hoped for by us all, that the King, our Lord, is now, once more, permanently cured of his malady?”

  “Your Highness, my most illustrious and respected Countess, I am most happy to be able to swear oath upon the truth, that our noble and beloved King is the very man he once was, before illness so cruelly took him from us. This I can vouch for, and this I do now so vouch, to you, most sincerely, my Lady.”

  He bowed but also cocked a sly peek at the Countess. He knew that the power, esteem and position of all the court hung precariously on the fragile hierarchy that, until now, had clung so tenuously to the king. He knew that each and every lord and nobleman, every lady, every courtier and all the households of the royal court down to the most minor of the manors, all drew their substance and warrant from his authority.

  Without him, without his active invigoration of the whole ruling system, their positions were all at risk and, with it, the very order and civility of Dica. So, it was no surprise that her relief and joy shone through so unguardedly from her normally restrained face. Her eyes lit up, despite their beady blackness, and made her face almost, but not quite convincingly pretty.

  What he was now sure of was that, within a very short shrift, the whole of the Lords Demesne would be flooded with the joyous news. It was therefore with some considerable regret he remembered the bad news he brought, and the King’s alarming Command. “My Lady, I know you’re most overjoyed by the good tidings but I fear I’ve need to, nay, I am commanded by the King to deliver most ill and worrying tidings, tidings never before uttered, not since the founding of Dica, nor even of Galgaverre.”

  The Countess’s eyes clouded a little, her face becoming puckered and her overhanging brows closely knitting with suspicion. “I’ve heard rumours, Laixac, distant and as yet unfounded, but I’ve heeded them little. Not until now, that is, not whilst the worry of the King’s condition surmounted all. However, in your words I hear echoes of those rumours. Yes, I do, I see deep import arising from where before I chose to notice naught. What have you to add now?”

  Laixac swallowed. “My Lady? I cannot dress the news in fine words but must speak it straight and to the point, so please forgive me my crudity when I do plainly say we … we are … invaded!”

  The room stood still. The Countess’s face remained passive but he noticed movement at her sides. When he looked down, he saw her hands repeatedly clenching and then opening, clenching then opening. His gaze drifted back to her face but found no change. Then, from between slightly parted lips came an even thinner voice. “Invasion? Do you mean … invasion, as in legends of yore? Invasion, when an … an … an enemy … an enemy comes against …”

  She slumped forward with her hands whitely gripping the back of the chair before her. Uncertainly, she drew it from under the table and lowered herself, with difficulty, onto the edge of its seat, the great volume of her gown allowing little better purchase.

  With a rustle of many layers of many fabrics, she leant back and looked up at him. “The rumours, I heard, I did not believe … could not believe. It is true? You do not deceive me in some foul jest? Be honest, Laixac, tell me truthfully, is it jest?” One look at his face was more than enough.

  For a few minutes more they both remained still, as the muffled tick of the hall clock seeped into the room’s stagnant air. The Countess had turned to stare at the blank wall and breathed lightly but in a measured way. The clock then struck the hour, seeming to announce a new age in the long sleep of Dica.

  “Where’s the King now?”

  “Err, he’s to the Eastern Gate, Madam. To see if he can reconnoitre the army’s movements and divine their intent, to measure their strength and mettle.”

  “Good. Exactly what I’d have done in his position. Do you have King’s Command?”

  “I do, my Lady. His Majesty instructs you to meet him at the Royal Apartments, at the head of the northern arm of the Eastern Gate, and to permit no delay in your so doing, for whatever reason.”

  Countess Ragskin looked him full in the face and smiled, an almost unearthly expression in one of her collection of features. “I will leave as soon as I’ve changed into attire more befitting a journey. Marrion? In here at once, gal.”

  The door she’d turned to call through almost immediately burst open and a lass of about twenty rushed in, all flustered, rosy faced, pretty and buxom. She wore a low necked bodice with puffed sleeves, pettiskirts revealing shapely legs and trim ankles slipping into fine satin bootees. A small bonnet was pinned to her flaxen hair and she had a dimple on her chin. Laixac further noted how her milk-smooth neck arced, like a swan’s, to her flawless shoulders.

  Before his sap could rise further, the Countess barked, “Marrion, make ready my travelling kit, the one I used for the beach picnic we had last month, and put together an overnight bag with my usual needs.”

  Marrion looked flustered, took a glance at Laixac, shuddered and then met the Countess’s face. “Of course, ma’am, right away?”

  “Of course, right away, sooner if possible. I’m in haste. Oh, and before you vanish off, send Pushpen to me, I’ve need of my scrivener.”

  With Marrion gone, the Countess turned back to Laixac. “Right! Who else did the King command?” He hesitated. “Come on, Laixac, I can easily reason the King will want broad counsel at hand. I’ve many servants at my disposal who can be sent out at once to deliver the command you carry. It would save you considerable time, you know.”

  He hesitated a moment longer. “You are wise, my Lady, and I must put trust where I must to ser
ve my Lord’s interests the better.”

  He peered at the ceiling, his tongue beginning to protrude ever so slightly. “Now, let me see, my Liege ordered the delivery of his command to…”

  “Hold your haste, Master Laixac, my scrivener will be here shortly and he’s best equipped to note down your list.” Just then, there was a servile knock at the door and Pushpen entered at her command.

  “My Lady, you called for me.”

  Pushpen was a round and shiny, middle-aged man, thinning of hair, moustachioed, slightly bandy-legged, with a puckered mouth, high voice and swollen eyes. He waddled to the Countess’s side and nodded, the best he could do for a bow. “I did, Pushpen, I did, and that’s why you’re here, because I called for you. Now, there’s urgent need of your scripting skills, so I trust, given that’s your sole purpose in my service, you’ve pen, ink and paper to hand?”

  Pushpen blushed slightly and let a small grin pass across his lips before they puckered. He then whipped the tools of his trade onto the table, as though performing the finale of some magic trick or other. “Very good,” she continued. “Now, be so good as to seat yourself and take down the list of nobles and courtiers that Master Laixac is about to regurgitate.” At that she nodded at Laixac who stared at the ceiling again.

  “It begins with the Baron, Baron Stormangal, and then Lord Que’Devit, as they’re near neighbours, or near enough given the size of their estates. Yourself, madam, and then there’s…”

  Pushpen squealed. “Not so fast, for sooth, slow down, or at least delay your haste a tad. These pens weren’t designed for speed but for elegance and trueness of line. I am certainly not, in any degree, a mere stenographer!” He finished with disdain dripping from his voice, and so Laixac halted and waited.

  At Pushpen’s nod he carried on. “Now, where was I? Oh! Yes, your good self, m’Lady, and then the King included Lord Lainsward, then Chiffenger Basjob…”

  “Basjob? Why on earth him?”