by Glenda Larke
“Indeed.” The man was incorrigible.
“Witan?” someone asked at Saker’s elbow. He turned to see the ten-year-old son of the courier who took his letters to the Pontifect. “My da said I was to give you this.” He handed over a slim packet wrapped in canvas and quickly disappeared into the crowded street.
He knew the handwriting scrawled on the cover; it belonged to the Pontifect’s elderly secretary, Barden.
“From the Pontifect?” Juster asked. “Open it up. I know you’ve been waiting for it.”
It contained a short note from Fritillary. He read it twice, stabbed through with surprise. It contained no thanks for his intelligence, and no instructions about what to do next.
I have considered your information and will be taking action. In the meantime, you’re to confine yourself to advising the Lady Mathilda to marry as she is instructed, and to continue to bestow your spiritual advice on her and his highness Prince Ryce.
She’d signed it using her full title, not as she usually did with her initials. Deeply annoyed, he folded the note and tucked it into his sleeve, unsettled. He’d just been put very firmly in his place. Fritillary was going to use other agents to deal with the matter. When it came to an affair of real importance, he was being relegated to the role of spiritual nursemaid.
The following week, Lord Juster Dornbeck feted his friends aboard his new galleon, Golden Petrel, to celebrate the ship’s completion.
The vessel rode at anchor on Throssel Water within sight of Throssel Palace, bobbing gently in the middle of a cluster of river barges like an elegant mother swan surrounded by fussing cygnets. Saker lounged against the taffrail, observing another crowd of bejewelled courtiers being rowed across on the royal galley to join the party. The flag at the stern told him they included his two charges, Prince Ryce and Lady Mathilda.
Watched by a nervous riverman, the Prince – having commandeered the sweep – was standing in the stern doing a reasonable job of keeping the vessel heading in the correct direction. The Princess, shaded by the silken canopy, ignored the antics of her brother and sat chatting with her ladies-in-waiting in the prow. Celandine the mouse, grey-eyed, meek and dull, dressed as usual in her grey widow’s weeds, watched expressionless.
Saker wondered how much longer Mathilda was going to stay compliant and accept she had no say in her future. When he’d tried to draw parallels between her and her mother, who’d been a Staravale princess sent to marry Edwayn, she’d given him a flinty stare, saying, “Yes, my mother was sold too. After all, a princess is never more than an offering made by one man to another, never more than a cynical gift from one monarch to another, all to secure a bargain that is rarely kept!”
He’d been unable to hide a wince.
Her laughter came to him now as she clambered up the ladder on to the deck, hampered by her copious skirts. He watched as Lord Juster bowed over her hand and raised her fingers to his lips while the grey mouse busied herself straightening the hem of her mistress’s kirtle. He looked away quickly, knowing how easily he could love Mathilda, if he allowed himself that liberty. Knowing how sometimes she looked at him, and the corner of her mouth would quirk upwards as if she, too, could have loved…
Those were thoughts better forgotten.
He ran a finger around his collar, not enjoying the last warmth of autumn on the windless deck. What I wouldn’t give to be back in the nondescript, comfortable garb of Saker Rampion, spy, with the comfort of a sword at my side.
Damn the Pontifect.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?”
He jumped, unaware until then that his private corner on the aft deck had been broached by Lord Juster, who’d abandoned the two royals to their courtiers. He waved a flagon of wine at Saker, and continued, “She’s my maiden, my virgin, my about-to-be bosom companion, everything a man could want in a wife. Look, Saker, at her slim elegance. And think of the dowry she’ll bring…”
“You forgot to mention the sharp angles of her rump and the rope wig of her hair. She’s a paunch-bellied ship, you moldwarp.” He grinned, though. Juster might play the fool, but his idiocy concealed a mind Saker appreciated. Pity he drank far too much. And whored too much too, either side of the bed depending on whether he was on shore or on board ship, by all reports. At least he was never boring. And boring was what his own life threatened to become if he was confined to his spiritual role.
“Tut-tut, such language from a witan. Can’t you at least admire her lines? That squared stern you speak of so disparagingly offers me more cabin room. Her sleek lowness, her narrow lines – they make her faster and more manoeuvrable. No high fo’c’sle that used to make the carracks such a bitch to sail close to the wind.” The slight slurring of his words and the extra care he took to enunciate more clearly betrayed his drunkenness. “Come, my clerical friend, put that empty goblet aside and toast the success of her maiden voyage.” He handed over the flagon.
Saker raised it and drank. Swallowing, he said, “Here’s to your safe return. If you have more of this wine on board, I’ll admit that a voyage would have much to recommend it.” He took another draught, savouring its rich, tangy tartness. “When will you be sailing?”
“Before the winter storms arrive, I trust. I already have the King’s signature on the letters of marque, but I’m still hunting for good officers. Can’t bear the thought of sharing a table with ignorant idiots for months on end. Don’t mind what a man’s ancestry is, but he must have good conversation.”
His quick frown didn’t escape Juster as he took the flagon back. “You aren’t going to get self-righteously Va with me, are you, my friend? Privateer, remember; not pirate.”
His tone was edgy, and Saker hid a sigh. A drunk Juster was more belligerent than he liked, yet he himself wasn’t in the mood to be conciliatory. “You could have the Golden Petrel sunk beneath you.”
“Bastards do it to us whenever they have the chance. ’S’truth, we’ve both been at this for nigh a hundred years. What’s the matter with you lately? You act as if you have prickles in your hose!”
“It’s called maturity.”
“Va forbid I catch it, then! No, I suspect you have a secret desire to escape to adventure and sail aboard the Golden Petrel.” He drained the last of the wine and flung the empty flagon over the stern. One of his servants hurried up with a newly opened replacement. “Tell the truth now! Aren’t you hankering after adventure in exotic lands?”
“No. My sailing is confined to the role of a passenger who prefers to arrive at his destination in the shortest time possible.”
“Look up there,” Juster said, pointing to the crow’s nest. “Imagine those masts straining under full sail, with ocean on all sides, the crew hauling on the sheets.”
Saker looked up and grimaced. “Imagine climbing up there in the rain, with the wind howling. I prefer not to imagine it, I think.”
“You could do it now, easily,” Juster said, and drank again. “We’re at anchor.”
A hand reached over his shoulder and took the flagon from him. “I dare you, witan!”
“Your highness,” Saker said, and bowed to Prince Ryce. “I believe I’m too old for dares.”
Juster pulled a face in his direction.
“Nonsense!” Mathilda had followed her brother up the ladder from the quarterdeck, her ladies-in-waiting giggling behind her as a gust of wind whipped at their skirts. “You could do whatever you put your mind to. Is not Va watching over you?” She dimpled at him, holding out her hand. Her overskirt, looped with panels edged with pearls, was so wide the men had to move away to give her room on the aft deck. Her only concession to being out in the open was a gauzy kerchief to protect her neck and shoulders from the sun.
She rested her fingers on his as he bowed low, and he resisted the temptation to kiss them. “Milady, I cannot imagine that Va is concerned with such trivial matters as my safety while performing a dare.”
“Witan, your safety is no trivial matter! However” – she clapped her hands
, still smiling – “if Va is not disturbed by trivial matters, the antics of one of his witans indulging in a harmless bet will be of no import!”
“Why don’t you and I have a race to the top?” the Prince asked him, grinning.
“I can hardly race anywhere dressed in clerical robes,” he said, hoping that would be the end of it.
“That’s easily remedied,” Juster cried, grabbing the arm of the servant who had been passing out goblets of watered wine to the ladies. “Tarker, go down to my cabin and fetch the britches lying on my bunk, will you?”
Alarmed by the turn of the conversation, Saker said, “Your highness, I can hardly race against your person. The King would rightly hold me responsible for endangering your safety.”
The Princess pouted. “He’s right, Ryce, you know. You can’t be clambering about those ropes like a common sailor.” She looked up at Juster. “You can, though, can you not, Lord Juster? A race between you and Witan Saker!”
“I’m not racing anyone,” Saker protested.
“Oh? Not even if I make it worth your while, witan?” Juster asked. “I’ll tithe my first captured cargo, and give it to a charitable cause of your choice – if you win a race to the topgallant yard and back here to this deck.”
“I don’t even know which spar that is,” he said truthfully, although he could guess. “Really, Juster, I—”
“See the third yard on the mainmast? The smallest, highest spar above the middle mainsail?” Juster pointed upwards.
They all looked, and the Princess gave a gasp of dismay. “Oh! I thought you meant just as far as the crow’s nest.”
Saker grimaced. The crow’s nest, an easy climb up the rigging to just beyond the lower mainsail, was not even halfway up. After that, it was straight up the mast, past the main topsail to the top gallant. No climb for a man not entirely sober.
“That must be a hundred feet!” someone exclaimed from the crowd of courtiers listening to the conversation.
“More,” Juster said. He and the Prince were now handing the flagon backwards and forwards between them. “From the waterline to the top of the mainmast is over two hundred feet…”
“You’re drunk, Juster,” Saker said amiably.
“Not a bit of it! On a single flagon of wine? One I’ve been sharing around?”
He forbore to point out that this was the second flagon. “My lord, I’m not afraid of heights. You might lose your bet, and I won’t go scampering around that spider’s web of ropes up there risking your life because you’re too drunk to hold on.”
“I resent the implication, witan. A tithe of whatever the Golden Petrel brings back.”
He shrugged. “I’m not interested.”
Prince Ryce, waving the flagon, intervened, saying, “But I am, master witan! And you shall not gainsay your prince – I insist. You and Lord Juster shall race to the topgallant yard! You would not dare to oppose a royal command, would you?”
He felt the blood leave his face. You idiot, Ryce. The Prince was far drunker than he’d thought. Refusing a royal command, when it was named as such, could give rise to accusations of treason.
Lady Mathilda spoke into the startled silence before anyone reacted. “Oh, that’s naughty of both of you – Lord Juster and especially you, brother – to tease my spiritual adviser. Is there no end to the foolishness of men in their cups?” She turned to Saker, undoing her kerchief and handing it to him. “Pay no notice to such wild words from the Prince and oblige me instead. Take my favour, and tie it to the topgallant when you arrive there.” She gave him a brilliant smile and turned, laughing, to her ladies-in-waiting. “Which one of you will bestow their favour on the oh-so-wicked tease Lord Juster?” Several of her ladies instantly untied their kerchiefs to oblige and the awkwardness of the moment dissolved into good-natured banter. Ah, Mathilda, bless you…
He still worried, though. Juster was definitely drunk. One day, my buccaneering friend, I’ll throttle you. If you don’t kill yourself first in a drunken wager like this one.
“Your britches, witan,” someone said, and thrust a pair of Juster’s trousers into his hands.
“Am I to pull these on in front of the maids?” he asked. As he intended, this led to ribald comments, teasing and laughter. The Prince held up his cloak in front of the ladies-in-waiting, and Saker dressed himself more appropriately for a climb. Fortunately, his undershirt was clean; unfortunately, it was sleeveless, which led to more feminine giggles and teasing about his muscles when the Prince whipped the cloak away.
When there was enough chatter to cover a remark to Juster, he said, “Why don’t we do this some other time when you’ve drunk a little less?”
Juster gave the faintest of shakes of his head. “Too late. Don’t worry, I just sobered up.” He moved away to take up his position at the foot of the main shrouds, where he removed his gold-buckled shoes. Realising that climbing in his stockinged feet would be easier, Saker followed suit.
The Prince offered to start the race. Saker moved after Juster, sure that the man was not as sober as he thought. Around the deck, he heard bets laid. From the suggested odds, it was clear Juster was favoured to win.
Juster pulled on a pair of leather gloves brought for him from his cabin. He grasped the rigging and grinned at his opponent. “You’re pompous enough to sour beer sometimes, my friend. You deserve what’s coming to you.”
Saker sighed. “And you’re a tipsy bilge rat who sails far too close to the wind on occasion.” He lined up beside the lord, and the Prince waved them off with his hat.
The first few feet were easy climbing, side by side. The shrouds narrowed in width as they approached the crow’s nest; and only then did he realise why Juster had chosen to climb on his left. The rope ladder to the lookout was on that side. They reached the top of the shrouds together, but it was Juster who had access to the crow’s nest.
Saker, seeing him fumble drunkenly with his feet for the new ladder, readied himself to grab the man if he fell. A moment later, however, Juster was safe, grinning at him over the edge of the lookout.
“You’ve lost the race, my friend,” he said. “There’s no way you can pass me now!”
“Crowing from the crow’s nest, my lord?” Saker asked sweetly. “I believe the race doesn’t end until one of us has his feet on the stern deck again.”
“That’s the poop deck, you lubber. Now, how long shall I leave you hanging there?”
“As long as you like.” He turned his head to look straight down at the deck. “The view is spectacular. Why, I believe I’m looking straight down the cleavage of Lady Sevaria’s ample bosom…”
Juster laughed and turned to climb from the crow’s nest on to the ropes leading upwards.
Saker hauled himself into the vacated lookout and studied the way up. He saw what Juster meant now. The rope ladder up the mast was narrow all the way to the tiny platform of the trestle trees, from where it would be possible to tie the favour on to the topgallant yard.
Damn. Juster was right: the first person to reach the crow’s nest had the race won. No, wait a moment. He had to come down again, but he couldn’t pass Saker, who’d be on his way up. So how was he intending to descend?
Only then did he realise how well he’d been tricked. The mainmast itself, and the area between the masts, was a thick forest of ropes of varying thickness and purpose, some taut, some slack, some looped, some tarred. Vaguely he knew they all had names: clewlines, buntlines, leech lines, bowlines, halyards, stays … He could only guess at their varied purposes, but Juster would know – and he’d know exactly which one he could slide down, all the way down, until his feet hit the deck.
The gloves. That was why he had wanted to wear gloves.
Damn, damn, damn. He’d been well and truly outwitted.
Odd, at first he hadn’t cared a whit about the race; he’d just wanted it over, with the drunken Juster down safely. Now that he knew he’d been so easily duped, he wanted to win.
He started up the ladder towa
rds the trestle trees as fast as he could move, glad to see he was actually overhauling Juster, whose feet kept slipping on the ratlines between the shrouds. While he climbed, he eyed the numerous ropes. The logical one to use ran from the mast at the trestle trees to the aft hull. It was, he guessed, a fixed stay for the mainmast. Tar-covered and taut, it would be ideal, as long as the person sliding down it had a pair of tough leather gloves.
He caught up with Juster as the man was tying his favour. Juster gave him a delighted grin and bent to grab the stay rope. “So long, ninny,” he said, and dropped, using his momentum to swing his legs upwards and wrap his ankles around the tarred hemp. Secure, he hung there for moment while Saker ruefully tied on the Princess’s favour. Then, loosening his hold a tad, Juster began sliding towards the deck.
Saker watched him go. Juster’s weight made the rope dip a little, enough to bring it in contact with a stay for the aft mizzenmast.
The idiot, Saker thought, suddenly alarmed. He’s going far too fast … “Look out!” he yelled, appallingly aware that Juster’s feet were going to hit the second stay as he picked up speed.
Juster, oblivious, let go with one hand to wave.
With the horror of inevitable disaster unfolding before him, Saker began to slide back down the way he’d come up. His gaze riveted to what was happening below, he didn’t notice the friction that burned the skin from his hands.
One of Juster’s feet was jerked above the second stay. His other foot slipped below it. The taut rope from the mizzenmast slammed into his crotch and all Saker could do was watch. When Juster screamed, a hideous, searing scream, Saker heard the collective gasp from the deck.
His own feet hit the topsail yard as Juster, still yelping in agony, was jerked from his hold on the mainstay. Saker crouched there, unable to think of anything he could do to stop Lord Juster Dornbeck plunging to the deck and certain death below.
16
Witchery and Taint
Juster didn’t fall. One foot remained jammed in the V where the two stays crossed each other.