The Lady of May Tulip (The Lynchman's Owl Adventures)

by B. Y. Yan

  As he towered over his rival, filling the room with his voice, which caused the staircase of books to shake and tremble, we witness for a short time the true might of the Steward revealed. But against his rival it seemed to be little use, for the little man sat unaffected, chewing idly on the end of his pipe to wait out the storm, and eventually Sir Boors was made to settle with him, begging once again for him to speak his mind.

  “I am only trying to help,” said Yonge at last, and without much evident concern. “But you are giving me a hard time for it. Show me both rabbits, and I will let you know what I’m on about.”

  Sir Boors worked it over in his mind, and certainly a bit of suspicion lingered there, but he did as he was told. The spoils of the hunt were brought in and Yonge had a long, uninterrupted look at them. He remarked after that he would like for Sir Boors to give them to him to keep.

  “If you won’t give me a reason,” said Sir Boors in annoyance, “then you cannot have them.”

  “I’m doing you some good by taking it off your hands,” said Yonge, though he would not explain further when pressed, for in that time he had taken three long puffs on his pipe, and it was going empty. Sir Boors struck a match and lit him up again in a hurry. To repay him for this gesture Yonge asked him to weigh the hares in his hand to see for himself if anything was amiss.

  Sir Boors did so, but was forced to admit that he found nothing out of the ordinary.

  When Yonge asked him about the stitching sewn into in the rabbits’ bellies he replied that the squire of Emberdain did a common courtesy by removing the intestines of their catch for easier management in the kitchen. It was common knowledge for hunters, butchers, anybody with a lick of common sense really. Yonge gave a little laugh, knocked out the ashes from his pipe against the side of the little table, and said nothing more.

  Fearing he had missed some crucial detail, Sir Boors looked over the hares again. This time he concluded that one was heavier than the other.

  “The white one,” he said, and before the knowing look of his rival he added to his own answer: “It is the one which is meant for the Yern of Ward.”

  “So you see now,” said the Wiseman.

  Truly Sir Boors did not, but he was eager to learn, for a suspicion had been aroused and he did not bother to put on a false knowing front. He waited for Yonge to explain.

  “There is more to be said about gifts we receive without sparing for a moment to guess at the intentions behind the hand which brings them. Thinking in the shoes of the Great Yarl, I suspect that if I wanted to pass along a secret message I might very well choose do so under the pretense of hunting, with the message concealed inside caught game in place of stuffing, and delivered to its intended recipient by an ignorant patsy.”

  Sir Boors began to go white in the face.

  “If I wished to facilitate a revolt, say,” Yonge continued unabated, “or provide a tool for an imprisoned prince to escape from captivity in order raise an army from people who might still harbor every reason to love him and wish for his return—”

  Sir Boors did not wait to hear anymore. He tore frantically at the stitches on the white rabbit. If he bothered to raise his head just then he might have seen Yonge trying to hide some amusement as he looked on. But patience and composure had by then fled from him. There was every intention to get to the bottom of the mystery just as soon as he was able to, and equally as much desire to keep Yonge from finding out any more than what he already guessed. If there was anything inside the desert hare which might implicate him in a conspiracy, it was very likely that Sir Boors intended to run off with it—out of a window if necessary—before anybody could get a good look. Thankfully he was spared any such apprehension when nothing more was discovered inside the rabbit other than twenty gleaming gold chips arranged neatly into two stacks.

  Sir Boors looked to Yonge in some confusion, and found his rival looking up at the ceiling, his shoulders shaking from mirth.

  While the Steward recovered from the frantic beating of his heart against his chest, Yonge explained in full: “The Great Yarl is nobody’s fool. If he wanted to deliver his brother from imprisonment, he should have by now twenty years to do so. How would it look for him now if he were to switch sides today, after all this time had passed?” He shook his head. “No, the Yern of Ward is going to stay where he is for the rest of his life, but it does not mean that his brother, who loved him dearly, and who performed such a great role in his isolation and imprisonment, might not seek to make amends where he could for the sake of his conscience and his blood.”

  The explanation was sound, and Sir Boors was glad to hear it. But so great was the toll taken upon his spirit, to be wrestled in such a short while from despair to relief, that he might have had an unkind word or two for Yonge for playing such a trick upon him. But he only professed gratitude to his rival. The most distinguishing quality of the Steward, as we have seen, is his ability to take everything in stride. He asked what was to be done with the rabbits now that the secret was out in the open.

  “I shall take them from you, as I have said, to spare you the trouble of getting rid of them yourself,” said Yonge. “You cannot very well give the hare to the Yern now that you know what’s in it, and you cannot keep it for yourself for fear of somebody telling the Great Yarl that you did not bother to do as you promised.”

  “But what am I to do if the Great Yarl asks after them?”

  “It should be simple enough to hide what was done from him, for you have in you still the power to grant him half-truths. It is only a matter of money, of which you possess much and me very little, as you have often reminded me. Therefore, you must spend an amount equal to what had been lost by the Yern purchasing some things for him that he would have likely wanted and might have utilized this gift for. It is no difficult task. You will only have to think of what I do not possess, and it is likely that he will not refuse either, for we are both of us poor folk. I can give you a few suggestions if you like.”

  “Please.”

  “My neighbor who lives three doors down is a candle-maker. His cousin is a blacksmith of good repute. Their mutual friend from childhood is responsible for most of the furniture you see—who made the chair you are sitting in, in fact—and his wife brewed the chocolate you have not had a taste. These are honest folk who do good work by all accounts with scraps, at a better going rate than what you are likely to find elsewhere. I have some free time lately, so if you gave me some money, I should be able to settle the business on your behalf with all of them.”

  Loath as he was in being parted from money, Sir Boors mistrusted more in placing any small part of it with his rival. He declined Yonge’s offer, and promised to take things up with the craftsmen himself. Yonge smiled knowingly and did not further press the matter.

  It was the best course of action to take, naturally. And now that the crisis has been averted Sir Boors could see the twenty gold pieces sitting on the table for what they were. Loathing had given away to longing, and he was reluctant to part ways with the unexpected fortune without having something to show for it. Indeed, he was on the verge of suggesting to the Wiseman that they should split the wealth between them, for it seemed to him then that it was unlikely Yonge would bring up the matter on his own (he had mentioned nothing of them since their discovery and they seemed to him now altogether invisible, despite the great golden shine they threw about his chamber). Sir Boors’ reasoning was that it was only fair since he had worked so hard without knowing to obtain it; and Yonge should be too impoverished to refuse. But one look into the eyes of his rival, who seemed to anticipate his mind at every turn, put him off the notion and he was convinced to wash his hands of the whole thing, however painful it may be. By then Marigold had come back into the chamber, making an elaborate fuss to evict him. There was a great feather-duster in her small white hands with which she swatted at the shelves and swept up the floor, looking all the time at his chair as if she would throw him out of it at a moment’s notice. Yonge acc
ompanied him out of the chamber, and only at the door he remembered to ask about his conundrum, for it had been forgotten during the excitement.

  “Come back tomorrow,” said Yonge on that matter.

  “But why?” asked Boors.

  “I’ve only half a solution for you now. But give me tonight to think it over, and I will give you a whole answer in the morning.”

  “But why not now? If you will forgive me, I am in something of a hurry and I reckon I should lose some sleep over it tonight.”

  “One more night waiting will make all the difference in the world for you. I know because I already have an idea as to how you should proceed so that everybody is still speaking to you by the end of it. That is what you are after, is it not? So come back tomorrow in the morning, but please be punctual.”

  On many occasions Sir Boors came away from Yonge’s library humbled, humiliated and harboring deep resentment (which he was careful never to show), but he had never been disappointed. Thus he put his faith into the brilliant mind of his rival without a moment’s hesitation. He left as he was bid, returned promptly at the time he was told to, passing the remainder of the evening uneventfully, buried in his work. And convinced the answer to his problem had been left in good and capable hands he slept soundly throughout the night save for the hour before dawn, when he fell into a terrible nightmare, dreaming of misplacing a great cache of jewels, for which his peers laughed at him behind his back; then Gainsworth his old king appeared and chastised him for being forgetful, and he awoke all over with cold sweat.

  Sir Boors woke early the next morning. He stood shivering before the great hearth in his chamber when there came two rapid knocks at the door, and a letter was slipped inside beneath. He had not the heart to look at it just then, however. Indeed, he had it in him to do very little with his time. He did not take coffee, refused morning pastries, and breakfast he only picked at sparingly. He spent most of the morning in his chamber, only seldom going to the window to look into the street below for a breath of fresh air, keeping a diligent eye on the hands of his pocket-watch. By ten o’clock he had accomplished very little. Indeed, the only time he seemed to come alive was in keeping with the appointment he had made the evening prior.

  It was morning still when they set out and the sun had not yet properly set in its place, for the weather was unaccommodating. A harsh yellow storm had rolled in during the night, though it was rebuked mostly by the tall citadel walls, and the landscape outside was covered in a murky grey sheet. Above it the sun could only faintly protest like a circle of cheese smeared over a dirty pane.

  When Sir Boors returned to the village it may surprise nobody to learn that he had been put in an irritable mood owing to his nightmares. He tried to compensate for this deficiency by increasing the size of his retinue in anticipation of another slog through the slums: double the numbers of footmen were placed in Basil’s hands to remove everyone his master did not like, which today seemed to encompass almost everyone. But were they not surprised, pleasantly so, upon their arrival to find that going was not at all difficult, with every misbehaving peasant of yesterday endeavoring now to wait upon them with proper amount of fear and respect. Quite a number of locals had turned up, and they busied themselves chiefly by clearing out of the way so that the gilt litter may pass unhindered, only consenting to follow it after at a distance with an air of expectation.

  At the library they were again surprised by a warm reception. From far away Marigold could be seen standing in front of the red doors in the street, stretching her long neck so that she would not miss their arrival. When the litter drew up she was already beside it, wringing together her hands in anticipation.

  “You are such a dashing fellow for saying so that I am blushing,” she replied shyly when Sir Boors paid her his usual compliments, and pinched his arm playfully. His mood became elated, and caught up in the moment he might have reached out to stroke her rosy cheeks with the back of his hand, but by then she had already led him into the library and sat him in the same chair as yesterday. “Half a minute, my lord,” she said, and left then.

  In no time Yonge appeared, covered again in smoke and ash from his pipe, and a pot of chocolate was set on the little table. Sir Boors was offered some, and partook eagerly for his good mood.

  Indeed, it could be said that Yonge was being nothing less than a stellar host. As a matter of fact, the only capitulation to his ego that Sir Boors was made to endure on that morning was his obstinate refusal to begin speaking until he was asked outright, and in this he was made to wait a long time, for Sir Boors was not at all accustomed to the courtesy he was being shown here, and forgot his own business for a time (or chose not to remember) in order to relish in it some more.

  At long last they got to it, and it turned out to be simplicity itself. Sir Boors was advised to oblige the queen first and foremost by purchasing a house somewhere within the citadel walls for her to live in secret.

  “It will not be difficult for you, I imagine, for your wealth is great, and you shall manage to find such a place easily,” said Yonge, and the Steward readily agreed.

  Afterwards he was advised to oblige the Great Yarl, second-in-all-things, by staffing this secret residence with guards from his own household, from whom he might learn all he wished about the daily activities of Amber to reveal as he pleased to the great nobleman.

  “But what am I supposed to do if she becomes suspicious?” he asked, and Yonge had replied: “Listen.”

  And last of all he was advised to do some good by himself, for he should maintain a safe distance from all this double-dealing in order to keep himself above suspicion. “Hire outside help and do not let on your involvement,” said the Wiseman. “Spend freely to ensure loyalty and discretion, but place a man in their ranks who has your confidence as a final check against duplicity. Do all as I have instructed and you will have gained the queen’s gratitude, retained the favor of the Great Yarl, and spared yourself of any hostility which may befall you should either one of them go away displeased.”

  Sir Boors struck the arm of his chair with his palm: “Marvelous!”

  In his elation however he did an unkind thing. He allowed, for a moment his true face to be shown in place of the mask of decency he wore. He stood up from his chair without being bidden, nearly overturning the small table, all aloofness and impenetrable countenance now that the consultation was concluded. He addressed his host in a tone of command, saying that he must attend to the task at hand, and therefore will not be staying any longer.

  “After all, we do not all of us have the luxury to early retirement. However little we may have contributed during our time, it is better than nothing at all. And however little we may have been liked doing what we did, at least something was put forth for the whole, even if it might go unappreciated often. Goodbye, Yonge. Try not to smoke too much. You have a pale complexion about you and it is worrying, for I do not wish to see you go to an early grave.”

  And without waiting for a reply he stuck out his chest and bowed out of the chamber, shouldering past Marigold at the door.

  He arrived at his litter delighted, clapping each man on the arm as he passed. Amongst them he chose five or six to procure gifts for the Yern of Ward, and gave them a free hand in the matter. “Living like he does,” he said to them, “it might be said that there is nothing he would not need or welcome having. I leave it to you so long as not a penny falls into unscrupulous pockets or goes unaccounted for.”

  Villagers gathered about them into a helpful throng, and overhearing these instructions promised Sir Boors—even though he was not paying them any mind—that nobody would be left wanting. They seemed to have some prior knowledge of his intentions, for they were well prepared to take advantage of his generosity, and came forward at once to show off their wares to his servants. Sir Boors, however, thought nothing of it at the time. He got into his litter and a great cheer was raised by the locals for his patronage and generosity. A youthful exuberance came upon him for
having for once bested his rival, and the love he was shown by the locals made him feel healthier than he had for years! As the litter left the lane he managed one last look behind him and found his servants overwhelmed with propositions for their business, and behind the commotion the faintest flickers of a lit pipe, glowing like embers in the mist before the red doors as Yonge looked on, forlorn and helpless.

  Afterwards they went to the Yern of Ward’s. And really, what can be said of that journey but for the fact that it was not an enjoyable affair (nor has it ever been) for the Steward. The Yern’s house was small, his walls were bare and his furnishings sparse. He has nothing to his name but for an old chest where he stores his clothes and a hard bed his dog lived beneath—Mutton it was called, an old hunting hound of the Yern’s who had followed him into confinement, and in the years since became melancholy. Little accommodations could be offered, though the Yern did his best and gave Sir Boors his own chair. But he made for a poor conversationalist, for he was always careful with his replies. When asked how do, he replied, “Content and complacent.” When he was asked if there was anything he would have liked done for him he replied: “All’s well, thank you.” And talk of that sort was common, except for when Sir Boors asked after his children—his son Unfrey Creed, a beloved and constant companion of the king, for they were of a similar age and his daughter Peony with a fierce spirit—and then he became animated. And so great was his love for his children that for a time his back, bent always like the spine of a willow, straightened out, and the burden upon his withdrawn shoulders vanished. He took for himself the lion’s share of the conversation then, his dark eyes alight with momentary passion, and Sir Boors heard in his voice the strength of kings.

  They spoke together until the presents procured by the Steward’s servants were brought in. These were mundane items, truly: a new writing table, some good chairs, a small carpet, hats and belts and candles, gas heaters for the long cold nights with tanks of fuel to keep them going, a fruit basket and a piece of jade worked into the likeliness of a crest of birds. But to the disgraced lord they were luxuries. The Yern of Ward thanked him sincerely, and he took his leave soon after, convinced that he had done a good deed.