Beck: a fairy tale

by Nina Clare

  “Taste bitter to you, do it, young master?” she said, when her coughing had subsided. “It won’t be tasting bitter to your friend.” she nodded at Bellchior.

  “It tastes of honey,” said Bellchior.

  “Honey?” said Felix. “You had a different drink from me, I’m sure mine was of wormwood!”

  The old woman chuckled. “The more a man has suffered and not grown bitter, the sweeter the cup. You be too young to know suffering, my young lord. But it comes to all. We all have our time.”

  Felix wiped his mouth and sucked his cheeks to try and assuage the bitter taste.

  “You asked me to come and see you before I set off on a journey?” he said, suddenly wondering why he had come. It seemed a strange thing to do, visit an old hermit woman because she had asked him to years ago. But the compulsion he had felt to come had been overwhelming.

  “You said you had something to give me?”

  The old woman looked as though she were trying to remember. She swayed from side to side still plucking abstractedly at the basket of leaves in her lap.

  Felix drummed his fingers on the side of the wooden cup. He wanted to be on his way, a long and exciting journey lay ahead, he did not have time to waste standing in an old, dark hut waiting for an old, strange woman to remember something from years ago. Why had he felt so compelled to come? Bellchior stood still as a tall tree and seemed unhurried.

  “I do believe I’ve already given you what was waiting for you,” she said at last.

  Felix frowned. “And...what was that?”

  She pointed at the empty cups and chuckled.

  “The cup? The cup is for me?”

  She shook her head, still swaying from side to side on her little stool.

  “The mead, not the cup. ‘Tis very potent. ‘Twill leave a memory inside your inners.”

  Felix looked at Bellchior to see if he understood any of this mad woman’s ramblings.

  “Well, I thank you, madam,” said Felix, trying to stand up straight, but finding he had to keep his head bent to one side so as not to bang it on the sloping weathered boards. “And I will bid you good day. We must be on our way.”

  “Not so fast, young master,” said the woman with a near-toothless grin. “Young ‘uns always rushing to go headlong into the future, never heeding what older an’ wiser folks have to say that will save them trouble.”

  “I have a very long journey to make,” said Felix.

  “I knows you have a long journey, did I not tell you that four years past? The mead you just downed, “tis a good, strong potion. When you come to your trials and your inners are full of bitterness and despair, you recall, young master, you recall that Old Mother Wheedle told you what she’s telling you.”

  “What are you telling me?” said Felix, feeling frustrated with her nonsense.

  “I’m telling you that bitterness will come, and you’re to recall that Old Mother Wheedle said you would come back one day and find it turned sweet as honey.”

  “I see. I thank you, Mistress Wheedle,” said Felix, not seeing anything of the sort but anxious to get away. He remembered the sovereign in his purse at his belt and he rummaged for it. She might be a mad old woman who had wasted half his morning, but he had promised himself that he would leave her a sovereign, as a mark of charity to one who dwelt in poverty on his family estate. Or very nearly on the Foxeby estate. Come to think of it, he was not sure if his family did own Wilder Woods. Or if anyone owned them. But no matter. Getting on with his journey was all that did matter.

  He drew out the sovereign and placed it with a clink on the tree stump table. The old woman’s eyes gleamed when she saw it.

  “Thank ‘ee, young master,” she said, reaching forward to take it, and squirrel it away beneath the rags that clothed her.

  “I hope it will be of help to you,” said Felix, feeling magnanimous. “You could buy food with it, or pay for someone to repair your dwelling?” He reached for the door. Bellchior bowed to the old woman.

  Felix paused in the doorway, blinking against the daylight, gloomy though it was beneath the thick canopy of trees overhead. He spoke over his shoulder. “There seems to be a large creature near to your dwelling, Mistress Wheedle. I see it in the undergrowth yonder. I am concerned it may pose a danger to you.”

  He heard a cackling laugh that ended in a cough.

  “Never you fear for Old Mother,” called back the old woman. “You be on your way, and don’t be fearing shadows and rustlings. You be on your way and recall what Old Mother has told you.”

  “Told me a lot of nonsense,” Felix muttered as he walked past the one-legged chicken that squawked at him. “A waste of my time. Lead the way, Bellchior, for every tree looks the same as the next to me, I cannot perceive how it is you see a path. I cannot understand how anyone finds their way to the old woman’s door.”

  He kept his hand upon his dagger and his wary eyes upon the dark undergrowth as they made their way back to his Uncle Lopo.

  Kat was sitting glumly on the wall surrounding the well. She had filled her pails, but she was feeling sorry for herself, and sat for a few minutes brooding over the loss of her charm. Perhaps she could get another one from the old herb-woman? But how would she find her, and how would she get away from the manor long enough to seek her out? The only time Kat was allowed to be away from the manor was to walk the short journey to church on worship day.

  “You have more freedom than I do,” she muttered to a sparrow that hopped onto the well wall and sat regarding her with a shiny eye. “And more food no doubt,” she added.

  She allowed herself the indulgence of her favourite daydream for a moment, the one where she was a young lady of means, perhaps a merchant’s daughter, wearing satin and silk skirts over her hoops, no, she would rather not wear hoops, she would like to be able to ride side-saddle and take long walks up Abbeymont Hill and spend her summer afternoons lying in the flower meadows at the top of the hill with a basket of fruit and fresh baked cakes beside her for an outdoor dinner.

  And of course she would not have had to carry such a basket all the way up the hill, for she should have servants to do all the disagreeable work that she did not care for, except she was not entirely comfortable with the notion of ordering someone around as she had been ordered around all her life, no – she would have a donkey, or a pony – yes, a pony to carry her basket, and perhaps a boy to lead the pony, for that was not an unpleasant task, and... “Ow!” She was jolted out of her reverie by a swift blow to the side of her head.

  “Sitting out here staring into the air like a half-wit loon while the mistress is waiting for the water to be heated for her bath!” said the enraged voice of Mistress Catchpole.

  Kat put a hand to her throbbing ear and stared at the hard face of her assailant.

  Mistress Catchpole stared back at Kat’s ear, and then put her arm out and stared at it also.

  Kat jumped up from the wall and hurriedly picked up the pails, putting her neck under the wooden yoke. She staggered away to the kitchens, trying not to spill too much.

  “There’ll be acorns for you come dinnertime, you good-for-nothing, idle wastrel!” were the words that followed her across the courtyard.

  Portgua

  “Is it really you?” cried a deep and velvety voice.

  Felix looked up to see a woman standing on a balcony above him. She shook a black, lacy fan at him in a gesture of excitement and disappeared from view.

  Uncle Lopo let the way through an archway, tiled from floor to ceiling in dazzling colours of deep blue and yellow, and into an inner courtyard where a fountain flowed and sparkled under the hot sun.

  Felix put his hand in the arc of fountain water, and longed to stick his head underneath it to cool himself off. They had travelled for many weeks through the kingdoms of southern Franca, making their way through Etaly and on through the barren lands of Espino. The further they journeyed, the hotter the air grew, until they reached the most intense heat of all in the kingdom of
Portgua.

  The woman with the fan came hurrying down the stone steps that led from one side of the courtyard to the floor above. Felix’s senses were suddenly enveloped by a rush of scarlet and hibiscus flowing silk, glittering rows of pearls, silver streaked black hair in elaborate coils, the smell of orange-flower and lavender and a stream of fast-flowing words of endearment. Plump, silk covered arms covered his ears, so that he could not make out much of what was said over him, spoken in a interchangeable flow of Portguan and Etaliano. Finally he was gripped by the shoulders and thrust back from the orange-flower and lavender scented body that was his Grandmama, the dowager Marquise de Baranza, who now called herself by her pre-marital title of Marchesa di Folino, for she considered an Etaliano marchesa was worth two Portugan marquises.

  “Is it really you!” she cried, touching his hair, pinching his cheek, stepping back to look him up and down before lunging forward again to squeeze him in another hug. Kisses were rained on his forehead and cheeks, “It is really you! My little Felix, darling boy of my darling Magdalena – it is really you!”

  “Have you a kiss to spare for your darling son who deigned to give his name to this young upstart?” Lord Amando asked his mother with a travel-weary smile.

  “Lopo! You were the most handsome and best of boys in all the known kingdoms until this delight of a young man came into my home!” She kissed her son. “Bellchior! Is that really you after all these years!” Bellchior gave a respectful bow to his former mistress. “Ah, Bellchior, those happy days when you were last here – with all my children about me, and now you see me, a poor widow with no children, Magdalena gone, and Rufino so far away from me that I do not see him and cannot know his wife and family, and Lopo will not marry a good young maiden and give me lots of grandchildren to give life to my days, but here – here is my only grandson – the most handsome of boys that I have ever seen!”

  Felix thoroughly enjoyed his days and evenings at Casa Roma, even if his grandmama was a little overpowering in her affections. Still, it was nice to be adored, he had not yet met a woman who did not adore him – his mother, Rosie, Madame Labelle, all the servants at the manor and Beck House, the ladies at court he had met when Uncle Lopo had taken him there. But the work that Uncle Lopo assigned him, as part of his education, that he might take the proffered role of future ambassador for the king – that was not so enjoyable. It involved meeting lots of serious-minded men from many different offices of the Portugan court. It involved lots of study at dry subjects such as law, and diplomacy, the studying of treaties, of rhetoric, and of Latano – his least favourite language.

  After many months of this he was starting to wonder if he wanted to have a career as an ambassador after all. Being back at Foxeby Manor managing the horses and the estate – for news from home had told him Percy had still not returned – taking Percy’s place, if he did not want it, now seemed a very attractive life. But then Arthur would never permit that. He hated him. Perhaps he could manage an estate here in Portgua?

  “Grandmama, do you have any estates that need managing?” he asked her one evening at supper.

  “I have many vineyards,” said the marchesa, raising her goblet of wine. “And many orchards, and probably the largest flock of Ifrikan sheep in the kingdom. Why, mio caro? Why do you ask?”

  Grapes and sheep were not what Felix had in mind.

  “I was just wondering.”

  But just at the point when Felix was ready to fall into despair at the tediousness of diplomacy and Latano studies, it was then that a bright and exciting door seemed to open wide to him.

  Felix was at the baths. Public baths were still a great novelty to him, why ever did not the people of Angliana have public baths? He went every Tuesday and Thursday he could, those being the days that men had the sole use of them. It was very agreeable to him to soak in the hot springs, being brought cups of sweet wine and plates of cherries by the servers. He enjoyed the idle conversations he struck up with fellow bathers. That particular Tuesday afternoon he began talking with a very jaunty man by the name of Danilo Afonso who regaled him with gripping accounts of his travels across newly charted waters – crossing kingdoms of deserts and great rivers to where there was an abundance of gold and salt and precious gems and rare spices, all to be bought at the cheapest of prices and brought back to be sold at a vast profit.

  Felix was entranced.

  “And where are you from, and what is it you do, my good fellow?” Danilo Afonso asked, when he had finished his tales of exotic travel and foreign gold.

  “I come from Angliana,” Felix told him. “My family have an estate there, and we guard the northern border. Or, rather, my brother runs the estate and guards the marches. I’m the youngest son. I shall be an ambassador for the court of Angliana when I finish my education.” His last words were said in a flat tone.

  “An ambassador, what do you want to be an ambassador for?” said Afonso, catching at the discontent in Felix’s voice and expression. “A young man like you could make a fortune in trading – routes are opening up – trade posts are being established – these are times of great opportunity, a man who has the courage to seize the new opportunities is a man who will make his fortune! A younger brother like you who will have no inheritance to speak of – you don’t want to bury yourself in a backwater court – you want to be making your mark – making your fortune! There’s gold, my boy, there’s spices, salt, and sweet salt too. There are riches, young man!”

  “How does one become a trader?” asked Felix hopefully.

  “Come aboard a trading ship, such as my own,” said Danilo Afonso. “Learn the trade. Work hard, and get a share of the profits for your labours. Then you invest your profits wisely in purchasing goods for the next voyage. You double, treble, quadruple your money, and then you invest some more and so you go on till you’ve made your fortune! A quick lad as yourself would not take many years to make himself a very rich man.”

  “Would you take me on your next voyage?” asked Felix, a stirring of excitement beginning to well up inside him – he could see the gold, he could see the camel-loads of salt and spices, he could see the smiling faces of the strange and foreign inhabitants of the lands of Ifrika and beyond, all adoring him for his worldly-wise ways as a skilled trader, all gladly taking his glass beads and pouring pounds of spices and nuggets of gold into his arms.

  “I leave a week today, from Barkenon dock. We leave on the dawn tide.”

  Felix could not wait to tell Uncle Lopo of the exciting man he had met at the baths that day and the wondrous ventures that were just waiting to be seized – the great riches to be made, and the wonderful new kingdoms to be seen!

  “Such a man should not be filling your head with foolish notions,” was Uncle Lopo’s disappointing response. “There’s no easy route to riches, Felix. Trading can be a dangerous profession. It is true that much gold is coming into the kingdom through these new trading routes, but there are pirates and slavers to boot. A ship is no place for a gentle-bred boy such as yourself.”

  Felix felt riled at hearing himself called a gentle-bred boy, he considered himself a man. He had no fear of pirates and slavers, he’d been well trained by Bellchior, he could handle a sword as well as any other man.

  He made up his mind.

  He would make his fortune. He would see the world. He would come back with gold in abundance, and then they would see he was a man, and not a boy. He was going to be on board that ship next week. Though he could not tell a soul.

  Felix packed by candlelight. He stuffed a leather sack with as many of his clothes as he could cram in. He would not be in need of his best doublets, nor his shoe ruffs or velvet capes. His sturdy riding and travelling attire would be more appropriate for where he was going. There would be no courtiers to impress, nor any young damsels to admire him aboard a ship, or while traversing trade routes down rivers and across deserts. All his finery would be waiting for him when he returned to astonish everyone with his success.

 
He could not resist wearing his feathered cap, however; it was a little showy to be sure with its peacock feather, but ever since he could remember he had had a fondness for a fine plume. As he completed his packing something dropped out of a rolled up pair of thick woollen hose; he bent down to pick it up. It was a small stone, a piece of quartz, perhaps. He looked at it lying in his palm. It must have come all the way from Foxeby Manor, for he had not unpacked this pair of hose since he had left there, they being too thick and warm for the climate.

  A sudden remembrance of his mother flashed before him and caught at his heart. Dear Mama. She would be missing him terribly. And dear Rosie. At least Rosie would have Mama with her, thanks to Felix leaving when he did. He felt a pang of homesickness. But he would not let it linger. He tossed the stone up and down in his hand. It was a piece of home. He would keep it as a memento. One day he would go home to Mama with jewels in his pockets for her. For now he would keep this in his pocket to remind him of that day.

  All at Sea

  Bellchior woke at dawn from his bed outside Master Felix’s chamber. He took up his cloak that had been rolled into a pillow, and he took up the thin pallet from the floor. He sat very still and listened. He could hear the dawn chorus from the marchesa’s dove cote; he could hear the insistent call of the cuckoo above the soulful trills of the doves; he heard the braying of a donkey, the clattering of a servant passing through the lower courtyard. But he could not hear the sound of his young master moving in his chamber. He opened the door. One glance showed him the empty bed, and the open window.