Domon had read them. Voluntarily. For days. I touched the books as little as possible, as if their foulness might rub off.
A different thought struck: were such books among the collection at Ferrant? Had Francis read them? Not ‘read’, of course; like all nobles, Francis could not read, but the pictures would suffice. Had he come to my bed, his head crammed with such images? My stomach pitched. That would...explain a great deal.
***
I heard Torrell bring a basket, but decided to keep on. After a day of reading filth, I wasn’t hungry. At least I was getting through them quickly.
The next one, though, slowed my pace. I understood why it’d been placed in that section; it was frank in its descriptions. But its perspective was utterly different. A woman, describing her enjoyment of her husband, seeming to genuinely love him and revel in his attentions.
I didn’t know what to make of it. Was it real? Women had been painted as sexually voracious in other books. But here the woman spoke for herself, of her experiences, of a deep and genuine passion in marriage. That was another difference between it and the others—marriage. Was it as much of a fantasy as the others, albeit of a different type? My marriage had been nothing like this.
But royal marriages were not concerned with love. For anyone with property worth protecting, marriages were for advantage, alliance, and control. How strange if it were otherwise. I tried to imagine the political chaos that would erupt if kings married where their loins led rather than as diplomacy dictated.
But sometimes love did follow, or so I’d been told. My parents had seemed pleased with one another, as much as I could recall, but my mother died young and my memories of her were few and unclear.
I thought of Mistress Baynor’s face as she spoke of her husband. But her match had not been political; indeed, having the ability to choose had been a chief reason she refused acknowledgement of her royal blood.
What of a truly political match? Did it ever work out well? I tried to imagine asking Lady Elsbeth, then shook myself. It was a measure of how much I did not want to work on these books, to be distracted easily into useless speculation.
I completed the manuscript, then rose to put it away. I stretched, considering whether to begin another. I should have, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t face another one that day. I left, walking past the tray, feeling guilty about Torrell’s wasted effort, not to mention the waste of food, but the bile churning in my gut left no room for anything else.
***
I found it difficult to settle to work the next morning. The book was no worse than the rest, but my mind kept slipping from it, wondering when I’d hear from Mistress Baynor, whether I’d learn anything from Oliver, whether Hal would return before I left, whether Magistre Poll had found anything in Vere’s books...anything other than the manuscript. I wasn’t even halfway through when the door opened.
It was too early for noon-tide. I leaned in my chair to look through the doorway.
“Doctora?”
Torrell jerked back as I met his gaze. What stories were circulating the palais? Apparently leaving a meal was utterly unlike speaking to the dread beast.
“Mistress Baynor has asked to see you, lady, if it is convenient.”
I stood. “Certainly, Torrell.” His eyes widened as he realized I knew his name. “I’ll come now.”
Chapter XXII
The kitchen was busy as ever, cleaning up after the palace’s breakfast and beginning preparations for noon-tide. With a bow, Torrell escaped to his place at the hearth.
Mistress Baynor approached. “Can you go now?” she whispered.
I felt my pulse quicken. “Of course,” I whispered back.
“You mentioned wanting to see more of Peran before you leave.” She tipped her head a fraction towards her staff so I’d know for whose benefit she spoke.
“Yes,” I played along.
“I have errands in the city this morning. Would you like to accompany me?”
“I’d appreciate that. Thank you.”
At the top of the stairs we turned right instead of left. Rather than to the main entrance, we came to a smaller back door, functional not grand, clearly used by tradesmen and servants. Another point of access! The clever, defensive but understated design of the palais’ small windows and decorated yet stout walls would keep out a moderate assault or mob rabble-rousing, but multiple doors meant it would take dozens of men to defend the palais against a well-manned and formulated attack. I followed Mistress Baynor along a dirt path around the side of the palais to the paved courtyard out front, somewhat mollified to find that the indifferent attention to controlling entry did not extend to having multiple openings in the wall.
Only once we’d passed through the gate did she speak. “I apologize for that bit of deception. Oliver does not want it known he spoke with you.”
I stiffened. “I see.”
“Not because of you.” Her hand flicked impatiently. “He is concerned for his safety and his wife’s. Everyone has heard something, however garbled, about a large ship at Boltar. Oliver thinks, and I agree, this is not a good time to remind folk of his odd origin. Especially when the boat pieces that washed up with him were unusually large.”
Interesting. I hadn’t heard that part of Oliver’s story before. No wonder she thought he might be from Saradena. But if he remembered nothing, what good would it be if he were?
She was still speaking. “His worry is reasonable. You know what could happen, especially if Saradena does strike.”
I did. People distrusted strangers, more so when they were frightened. Despite the years Oliver had lived in Ragonne, the Perani could turn on him if they were afraid enough.
Her lips thinned. “This makes it harder to learn anything from him. It’s in his best interest to remember nothing.”
“So we will ask ‘differently,’” I said encouragingly.
“Yes.” She did not take the hint.
What was she planning? “How well do you know Oliver?” I asked, wondering with a sudden chill if her political instincts told her he was expendable.
Her quick stride slowed as she considered. “His wife, of course, knows him best. But I’ve known him for many years and count him a friend. I can remember, barely, when he arrived. He was often with us. The king’s natural children, I mean. It was a good place to put him. He was too clearly noble to be fostered with a merchant’s family but not important enough to be reared with Philip. He’s usually at the Fields when I come to check the stores.”
I felt relieved. It was unlikely we were going to torture someone she considered a friend.
“We can’t go directly to him,” she said. “I said I was running errands. I have to make purchases or my staff will notice. I’m sorry to waste your time, dragging you around while I market.”
“I don’t mind,” I said. “It’s a good story, and I am glad to see more of Peran than the palais. Or its basements.”
A purr of amusement rumbled from her. We walked on.
***
The street narrowed, becoming more crowded. I kept close watch on my guide. The bustle was fascinating, but overwhelming. My eyes ached, trying to look everywhere at once. When a princess or queen needed a new gown or gloves, the household staff would make it. If something must be purchased, the merchant came to the castle to show his goods. I’d never seen anything like this.
“Most of what I use in the kitchen,” Mistress Baynor spoke louder in the increasing hubbub, “comes from Philip’s stores. But it is good policy to buy from the city’s merchants as well.” Her eyes went slitted. “George promised me lemons for Micela’s cake. He’d better have them.”
Lemons. I hadn’t tasted lemons, or oranges, since leaving Ferrant. The trees didn’t grow in Bruster or Elbany, only in more northerly but warmer Valenna. I’d never eaten either before my time in Ferrant. I recalled the tartness on my tongue, the smell in my nostrils.
Their scent had permeated the air in the castle garden in Ferrant, the
only place I was allowed to be alone. I stayed there as much as possible, from the earliest days of spring, coolness in the air and the sun’s warmth on my face, through late autumn, the crisp promise of winter belying the last heat, and shivered through as much of early winter as I could bear, re-reading in my mind every book my father owned.
Mistress Baynor stopped periodically, inspecting wares and placing orders. Her purchases would be delivered to the palais; the king’s head cook did not tote parcels like an errand boy. It took well over an hour, but at last we stepped from the final shop, the fruitmonger’s. Fortunately for him, he had managed to procure lemons.
“Now,” she angled a glance at me, “the Fields.”
The pieces clicked together at last. “Philip’s storehouses are outside the city walls?”
“The old walls, yes.” The streets had tapered farther, and she turned to let a man carrying two buckets get past. “Our grandfather built new walls, farther out. Before that, the Fields were outside—literally, a group of wheat fields just beyond the city walls. Our grandfather chose the site for his storehouses. Philip added the stables. Did I mention Oliver is his Horsemaster?”
I didn’t think so but before I could say anything she went on.
“Rogirn oversees Philip’s storehouses. He answers to the Steward.” She nodded a polite greeting as a passing woman swung her basket out of our way. “It’s a big job. He makes sure the crops are gathered and stored at harvest time, and manages the distribution of the grain throughout the year, while keeping enough seed for next year’s planting. Right now, of course, stores are low, with summer almost over but the fall crop not yet ready. In addition to the wheat, barley, oats, and beans from Philip’s fields, there’s salted fish, beef, and mutton from the fishponds and herds to account for, as well as the fruits and vegetables from his orchards and gardens. Ragoni apples are particularly fine,” she said, pride in her voice.
Having eaten them raw as well as in a tart, I had to agree.
We turned a corner, and I saw the street ended in a gated wall, fifty feet or so ahead. It wasn’t the city walls, I realized as I looked again, but an enclosure within the city. These walls were not quite as tall as those of the city. But they were stout, thick, and crenellated, more like a proper castle than anything I’d yet seen in Ragonne.
I followed her through the gate, the guard nodding at her as we passed. “I would rather face a siege here than the palais.”
She gave me a sidelong glance. “So would I.”
Besides being defensible, the Fields was well-designed in other ways. The walls enclosed a wide paved courtyard flanked on both sides by long buildings. Beyond the courtyard was a grassy meadow, clearly for the horses. From the sounds and smells, the left-hand buildings were the stables, which I supposed meant the buildings on the right were storehouses. Philip’s horses lived better than his books.
Just inside the gate, pressed against the wall, were three smaller buildings. Of these, the largest, Mistress Baynor explained, was the lodging for Philip’s guardsmen assigned to this section of the city, while the two smaller housed the storehouse overseer and the Horsemaster. Oliver.
I followed Mistress Baynor to the Horsemaster’s house. I didn’t begrudge the horses their fine treatment. But it pained to see money lavished here when so little would have been required to keep Ragonne’s books from damp and mold.
She touched my arm, and I turned towards the now-open door.
My distraction, perhaps, intensified the shock of him. Or perhaps not. Oliver—I realized after a long moment it must be the man himself—was the most striking man I’d ever seen.
Not handsome. Or not merely so. Certainly he was comely. Tall—a full head taller than myself, and I was not a small woman. Black hair, close-cropped, but not so close as to remove its waviness. Longer and it might curl outright. Blue eyes, startlingly bright blue, blue as Saradenian ink. Francis had been handsome, but nothing like this man. The steady gaze, the intelligence in his eyes, the strength both in arms and brow bespoke more, and deeper, than simply a man pleasing to look upon. He reminded me of my father.
I realized with a guilty start that he held out his hand to me. Mistress Baynor was already inside.
“Doctora Bann. I’ve heard of you, of course. I’m pleased to meet you.” His voice, too, recalled the High King’s, rich as dark wine and velvet.
He couldn’t have missed my rude staring, but he made no mention of it. His eyes betrayed no glint of amusement. Had he caught me gaping, I thought suddenly, Orlo’s eyes would have had been dancing, listing towards mockery but not fully there.
“Welcome to my home.” He bowed, and I returned his courtesy.
The house was oddly quiet. The home of a man of Oliver’s station should have had two or three servants around. I supposed he’d arranged for his household staff to be out, that we might meet unobserved.
Through a doorway leading into a large room I could see Mistress Baynor talking to a tall blond woman. A table stood in the middle, surrounded by half a dozen chairs, and upon it a pitcher and cups. Oliver gestured me through the doorway. “My wife, Ruth.”
She was not as stunning as Oliver but that was more his uniqueness than her beauty; she was an attractive woman, as tall as me but with straw-blond hair to my bark-brown. Her eyes were blue but the more typical blue-green rather than the brilliant sky-blue of her husband’s.
“This is Doctora Bann,” he said to his wife.
Ruth inclined her head. “Lady. You honor our home.”
Except in Rothbury it had been years since those words had been spoken to me with their meaning intact; usually the tone implied the opposite. Ruth’s voice held nothing below her words.
I bowed in return. “Thank you for agreeing to see me.”
Oliver sat, inviting us to join him. Ruth took the chair across from him. Mistress Baynor settled herself at the end of the table nearest them. I took the opposite end, closest to the entryway.
“What brings the Roth’s new clerk to see me?” Oliver said. “I’ve been in Ragonne more than twenty years. My story is old. I remember almost nothing of...before. What possible help can I give you?” He flashed a quick smile. “And in what cause?”
Mistress Baynor frowned reproachfully. “Do not play at being naïve, Oliver. You were raised in the king’s household.”
He frowned as well. He picked up a cup and turned it in his hands, his gaze upon it. Finally he set it down, reaching for the pitcher. He poured something into the cups and passed one to each of us, filling his own last.
I picked mine up but set it down again after a quick, surprised glance. It was water.
I looked around the table. The others were drinking. I hadn’t drunk water since coming to Peran. In a city you drank ale, small beer, milk, cider—anything but water drawn from the same streams where people dumped their filth. I brought the cup to my face and inhaled the water’s scent. It smelled fresh, like water from the mountains of Bruster. I sipped. It was good—cold and clean, tasting of rocks and earth.
I met Mistress Baynor’s eyes, and understood. Here was another crucial, hidden strength of the Fields. The old king chose his location with care. There was a well here, a precious source of fresh water. The walls guarded the well as much as the horses and foodstocks.
If I were Philip, I would have a tunnel, if there isn’t one already, dug between the palais and the Fields, and if trouble comes, retreat here. Then, as I held Mistress Baynor’s gaze, I knew. A tunnel was being built, but not by Philip. I whistled soundlessly. Mistress Baynor tipped her cup, almost imperceptibly. How could she have arranged it? The cost would be staggering... My head began to swim as I thought it through but I didn’t suppose for an instant I’d guessed wrong.
Oliver raised his eyes. “What I hear bandied in the streets made me hesitant about this meeting.”
“I understand,” Mistress Baynor said.
He shot her a dark look.
“Who was blamed if any of Philip’s little t
reasures went missing?” she asked.
“Me.” He paused. “Or you.” He made an exasperated noise. “But a switching for a lost knife is hardly the same—”
“I know,” she said. “Your concern is real. But if you’ve guessed the trouble Ragonne faces, you know we have no choice but to check everything that might tell us more.”
He leaned back. “Tell me what has happened. What you think is going to happen.” He looked between us. “I doubt I can help. But I will if I can. Even if I can’t, I would like to know...what is coming.”
“Fair enough.” Mistress Baynor nodded at me.
I hesitated, wondering whether I should, and then wondering whether I had any choice. I sighed, and described the letters that had come to Elbany, Ragonne, and Logan.
He nodded from time to time, slow nods of recognition rather than quick nods of realization, and no surprise sparked in his bright blue eyes. “Yes,” he said. “This is what I feared.”
“Because of something you remember?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Because of what I’ve heard.” He turned. “You know, Baynor, this cannot be kept quiet much longer.”
I tried not to gape. He addressed her, head cook and natural sister of the king, by her name as an equal.
“Yes,” she said grimly.
“The king is gathering his army and making weapons.” He paused. “Tradesmen and farmers do not worry about other kingdoms. But when the king readies for battle, everyone notices, and worries, and wonders who they’ll be fighting. When they realize the enemy is a country they do not know, across the ocean...that will be very unsettling.” One fingernail scratched at the tabletop. “What do you want to know?”
“What do you remember?” Mistress Baynor asked.
“Very little.” He closed his eyes. “There was a tall, blue-eyed woman. Her hair was usually coiled around her head. I remember seeing it down once, and being surprised.” He was quiet. “Wind. I remember wind, stinging my face, so hard I had to close my eyes.” Another pause. “Music. I remember just a few notes, but they sounded like nothing I have heard here.”
Homegoing (The Tall Ships of Saradena Book 1) Page 15