Beck: a fairy tale

by Nina Clare

  “Your brother has come for you,” she told her.

  Then Bibi spoke.

  She had a sweet voice. Shula-Jane knew she would have a sweet voice, but she was still surprised by the sound.

  She said one quiet word. “Udo.” And then she ran to meet him.

  The redeemer had the documents written out, Shula-Jane had only to sign them to release her slaves. The redemption price was generous. She wrote her name on the papers. But she shook her head when the money was held out to her.

  “I release them freely,” she told the men. “But I have one condition. You must take Keita also.”

  “Keita?” said the brother. “Another slave?”

  “No,” cried Zinga. “Keita, come!”

  “You want me to take that great ugly dog?” said the brother.

  “He is not ugly!” cried Zeita. “He is a guardian-spirit dog.”

  “He is an excellent guard dog,” Shula-Jane told the brother.

  The brother shrugged. “Very well!”

  Shula-Jane held out Keita’s woven leash to Bibi. She had been holding it ready for some time that day, knowing that this moment would come.

  “He is yours now, Bibi. He always was yours.”

  Bibi held out a small hand and opened it. On her palm lay the stone Felix had given to her.

  “For you,” she said in her sweet voice.

  Shula-Jane took the stone and Bibi took the leash.

  “Go quickly,” she urged them. It was the time of day that Toufik came home from the palace. She did not want them to meet him on the road. She did not want the trouble of explaining, or of meeting with any resistance from him. She had the right to release her maids. Her father had bought them and given them to her. But Toufik was increasingly possessive about all things.

  She had never embraced her maids. It was not appropriate. But now they were not her maids and she was not their mistress. They were free. And so she hugged them tightly and kissed their foreheads and blessed them. She hugged Keita. And then she hurried away to grieve. She was truly alone now in all the world. But she would leave that night. She had decided.

  When the moon had risen, and the household grown quiet, Shula-Jane took the bag that held her father’s diamonds. She took the jewellery he had given her, and as many clothes as she could fit inside a leather bag, not too big to carry. She wore her heaviest cloak and hood and her strongest sandals, and she crept out through the archway of her room, across her courtyard, through her gardens to the gate that led to the path down to the road. She dared not take a donkey, for the noise it would make would betray her, so she went on foot, determining to hire a guide at the first light of day to take her to the river harbour.

  She slid back the bolt on the gate and was about to step out when she heard someone behind her. Her breath caught in her throat, she could not breathe for a moment in the awful shock of being discovered. She turned and saw Ibram.

  “Lady mistress,” he whispered, coming close. “Take me with you. I will be to you as I was to your father.”

  That day was a day of endless tears. Tears of hope, of sorrow, and now of relief. She would not have to make such a terrifying journey without some protection. If they were caught the consequences would be too awful to contemplate. A runaway slave and a girl who would be declared mad by her husband-to-be, would suffer greatly. But she clutched Felix and Bibi’s stone tightly in her hand and she felt that heaven was on her side. And so they left the house of Abu Sabri, which had long ceased to be their home.

  Forty days later a man arrived at the house known as formerly that of the renowned Abu Sabri. The man claimed to be offering a private sale of the finest imported silks. Silk so excellent in quality that it surpassed anything sold in the common market place. Only the palace and the finest homes of the royal city were offered such exclusive wares, and so he sought to speak to the young lady of the house.

  The young lady of the house satisfied her curiosity in coming to speak to him. But she informed him that her husband particularly disliked her wearing silk, and therefore sadly she could make no purchase. The man carried this news back to Portgua to be relayed to the Viscount of Arcado, who would direct him on to his nephew in the kingdom of Angliana. The news that the young woman he had been sent to secretly escort to the kingdom of Angliana as a bride-to-be, had already married a man by the name of Toufik Amir-Obi.

  Part III

  Sons and Daughters

  Lord Amando had shown foresight in not speaking the full truth of Felix’s circumstances when he and Bellchior had set out to track him down. They had sent word to Felix’s mama and grandmama that Felix had chosen to take an extended journey into the kingdoms of Ifrika to study the trade routes and merchant practices, and they had gone with him. They were not to expect to hear from them for some time.

  That was wise, for though Lady Beck and the Marchesa di Folino were increasingly anxious in not seeing or hearing news of their son and grandson for a full year and a half, the real truth told before his arrival back in Portgua would have caused their spirits to fail, despite the fire of their Etaliano blood.

  The Marchesa di Folino was appalled at the condition of her grandson on his return. He had left her home a young man of near fifteen years, handsome, eyes full of life and the eagerness of new experiences and adventure. A young man not yet fully grown in height and breadth, but already tall and showing the promise of a strong frame.

  He returned to her a young man of sixteen years, thin in face and weak in body, with a pronounced limp from an injury to his leg, and a look in his eyes that belonged to a man who had lived a lifetime of sorrow. Lopo told her he had suffered a terrible illness. The truth was Felix’s story. It was for him to speak of all he had seen and done since he had left his grandmama’s home. For now Felix spoke of it to no one.

  It had been a springtime month in which the dowager Marchioness of Stoneyshire had waved and wept as she watched her son leave on his journey across the sea. She and Cicely Rose had comforted one another as best they could.

  Madame Labelle had watched over the new young wife and the older widow, both of whom were full of sorrow. Madame Labelle could not help ruefully considering that in both cases the sorrow was caused solely by the men in their lives. She was thus reaffirmed in her belief that she had been wise in her choice to never marry, to never bear children, to never be under the yoke of a husband. Had she not devoted her life to her mistress, she would certainly have joined the order of the Clarites and spent her days at the abbey in the hills of Beaumont near the village of her birth.

  She watched as young Lady Cicely recovered a little of her peace of mind as the weeks following her wedding passed and she was not yet troubled by her new husband. Lady Beck was deeply puzzled as to what the cause of this estrangement could be between the newly married young couple. But Cicely would not speak on the matter.

  How could anyone have predicted the unthinkable, Madame Labelle and Lady Beck asked one another in the days that then followed.

  How was it possible that a lovely, sweet-tempered, high-born lady such as Cicely Rose, daughter of the Earl of Ormond, by marriage the Countess of Lothan and Marchioness of Stoneyshire, born with wealth, beauty and grace – who could have foreseen that just weeks before she reached the age of twenty summers that this blessed daughter should find herself a childless widow?

  It was Arthur’s servant, Sir Ambrose, who brought the news. It was a midsummer day, a day heavy with the portent of thunder. A day when the pressure in the air seemed to subdue everyone, making work seem slower and more wearisome. The horses were restless in the stables, as though they sensed the storm to come and resisted it. Even the chickens, busy in their attempts to get into the kitchen gardens to sample its delights, had a subdued note to their squawks and a lethargy to their scratchings.

  Sir Ambrose dismounted in the stable yard as a man who wore the heaviest of armour and was weighted down by a lance of brass. His face that of a man who had returned defeated from battle, a
man who alone had lived to tell of those who had fallen at his side.

  He stood before the young marchioness, who sat with the beautiful dowager. He could barely meet their questioning looks, but the young marchioness’s light blue eyes searched his and waited patiently for him to speak.

  “My lady, I bring you sad news.” He dropped his head as though the words were heavy in his mouth. “There has been an accident at the castle.”

  “Is your master hurt?” said Cicely.

  “He was training at the joust. He fell from his horse.”

  “Should I go to him? To nurse him?”

  He shook his bent head. “The fall killed him, my lady. I am sorry.”

  “Such a good and prosperous estate, but what will become of it without an heir to manage it?” Lord Orlan mused to his squire as he rode to Foxeby Manor to support his daughter and Lady Beck at this time of tragedy. His poor Cicely Rose, widowed so young, all his hopes for her and her children dashed to the ground by a jousting pole.

  He would ask Master Digby to return as steward, he had never understood why Arthur had sent him back to Foversham, Digby was the best steward he had known.

  But Cicely had no child, and Percival had not been seen since the morning of her wedding. Percival must be found. He must take his place as the new marquess. He would send out men to search for him, he must be found.

  An image passed before his mind. That of Lady Beck, dark-eyed and womanly in form. He saw in his mind the turn of her head, the grace of her movements, heard the sound of her voice when she sang at her harp. Now that Cicely was no longer the wife of Arthur, could that not free Lady Beck to be his own wife? If she would have him...

  No.

  The contract between the families still stood. He had sought counsel, and all he had spoken to were agreed – the marriage between Arthur and Cicely was to be annulled on grounds of non-consummation. Had Arthur lived, he surely would have fulfilled this duty. But now he never could. Lord Orlan was quite certain he understood why, it was due to the heinous allegations Percy had made on the morning of the wedding. Lord Orlan had never spoken of them, not to Cicely, not to anyone. They were too slanderous. He had been aware of the young couple living apart, but he had been certain Arthur would see sense in time.

  What wretched pride of Arthur’s had brought this situation about. And what a wretched lying, drunken tongue of Percy. And now this would be the talk of all the court – Lord Orlan’s daughter – refused by her new husband. He gripped his horse’s reins tightly, wishing he could crush the leery gossip that would now taint his child. But there was nothing more he could do. The matter had been inspected by the king’s lawyers, and the outcome was enforced by the king, and only he could overturn it. Arthur and Cicely’s marriage was to be made null, and when Percy was found he would marry Cicely to honour the contract. There was no other way. He forced the image of Lady Beck from his mind and spurred on his horse with the shout of a man in turmoil.

  “Whatever do you think will happen now?” Cook wondered aloud as she served dinner in the servants’ hall. “Lord Arthur dead, God bless his soul, though he were never a kind one even as a boy, and Master Percy gone nobody knows where, and young Master Felix gone abroad – who’s to take over the estates now?”

  “Lord Orlan will sort things out,” said Red Harry.

  “But what if Master Percy can’t be found?” said Cook. “What does the law say about an heir who can’t be found?”

  Red Harry shrugged. No one knew the answer to that question. But Red Harry had a question, the answer of which was much more important to him, “Shall our meals get bigger now the marquess has gone?”

  “That will be for the mistress to decide,” said Mistress Catchpole, coming in with her usual sour face. “If she asks my counsel I shall tell her you most certainly do not deserve more than you already get, you greedy urchin.”

  Red Harry scowled down at his meagre dinner.

  “But who is mistress?” continued Cook. “Is it milady or Lady Cicely? Everything’s gone topside down!”

  “Lady Cicely is the Dowager Marchioness of Stoneyshire and the mistress of the manor,” said Catchpole. “Lady Beck, the Dowager Marchioness, is mistress of the estate in the city.”

  “But if Lady Cicely has no son to inherit the title, who does that go to?” asked the confused Cook.

  “It goes to Lord Percival,” said the butler, joining in the conversation.

  “So what does Lady Cicely inherit?”

  “She will inherit whatever her betrothal contract states.”

  “Which is what? If Master Percy is to inherit the manor, then Lady Cicely can’t be mistress? All gone topside down!”

  “I think,” said Kat, “that Lady Cicely has to marry Percy, or she doesn’t inherit anything as she has no son.”

  Everyone stared at her.

  “How do you know?” said Red Harry.

  “I heard her speaking of the betrothal contract. It was years ago, when they were still but children. Master Percy used to remind her of it. He always did adore Lady Cicely.”

  “You heard her speaking?” snapped Catchpole, “you were eavesdropping you mean.”

  “I was not,” Kat said indignantly. She immediately regretted it as she saw Catchpole’s chin jut out at her impudence. She was saved from immediate retribution on this occasion by the sudden appearance of Madame Labelle at the entrance to the hall. Everyone stopped eating and stood up at the entry of a senior servant.

  “Red Harry,” said Madame Labelle, “come to the hall. Rapidement!” And then she was gone.

  Harry groaned, his dinner was pitifully small as it was; to have to leave it half uneaten was a double blow.

  “Hurry along, boy,” scolded Catchpole. By the time she had turned back to deal with Kat, Kat had wolfed down her own dinner so it could not be taken away.

  Red Harry entered the hall where Lord Orlan, his daughter, and Lady Beck were seated with solemn faces. He bowed to them, wondering what they could be wanting him for so urgently. The door on the west side opened and in trooped Tall Harry and Ned from the stables, their caps in hands, and looking uncomfortable at being called out of their usual domain.

  Then came Joseph and his brother Simon from the granary, and shortly after there appeared the ruddy faces of Cedric and Perkin the head herdsmen, and finally came Young Ben, the reeve’s son. They all stood in an uneven line, shuffling their booted feet and looking out of place and uneasy. Red Harry knew what they were all thinking, for he thought the same – were they all to be sacked? Had the bailiff found fault with them that they knew nothing of?

  “I have an undertaking for you all,” said Lord Orlan, breaking the silence. “I am going to send you out in pairs, with horses and money for your needs. You will go to the four corners of the kingdom to search out the whereabouts of Lord Percival.”

  The men looked at one another in surprise. This was not what they had expected; it had not even entered their thoughts.

  “You will enquire at every town and city marketplace as to sight or knowledge of him. And you will send back by courier any news you hear.”

  The Stranger

  “Try not to make Catchpole angry today,” Penny said to her sister as they dressed in the grey light of dawn.

  “I never try to make the old witch angry,” said Kat.

  “You did yesterday at dinner when you answered back. She’ll get back at you, you know she will.”

  “It doesn’t matter what I say or don’t say. She likes picking on me, and that’s all there is to it.”

  “You answer her back a lot of late.”

  “Do I? Perhaps I do. I just get so fed up with being pushed around, like an old donkey that has to work till it drops, and then gets a good kick for its trouble.”

  Kat sat down on the little stool with the wobbly leg that was the only piece of furniture in their sleeping antechamber, other than a cracked washbowl and a chamber pot.

  “Don’t you get fed up, Penny? Don’t you ever
think that life just isn’t fair? Why are some people born to be waited on hand and foot and have more time than they know what to do with, while others do all the work and never have a moment to themselves – why?”

  “It does no good thinking of such things,” said Penny, tying her apron on. “We can’t change anything. Best to get on with the life we have as best we can.”

  “How can you be so accepting of what doesn’t seem fair?”

  “We would have died long ago if the nuns hadn’t taken us in,” Penny reminded her. “And we were lucky to get a place here. We could have ended up in the laundries, or as fishwives, or on the streets. I think we’re better off than most. We should be grateful.”

  Kat sighed. “I know I should agree with you. But I’m not as good as you, Penny. I’m twenty-six years old – twenty-six! And I have nothing ahead of me but more work until I’m not fit for it and I’m kicked out like an old dog. Is this really all there is to life?”

  “Only in this world, Kat,” said Penny sadly, putting a hand on her sister’s shoulder. “Come on, got to get the breakfast trays done.”

  Penny’s words of warning proved prescient that morning, for Mistress Catchpole was in a black humour that day. Lord Arthur had promised her a handsome regular payment for her services in reporting to him all that was said and done at the manor while he was at the castle. Especially all that his wife did and said, and who she saw. She had made plans in her mind of what she would do when she had saved up the extra money. She had imagined a little inn to run where she would be answerable to no one but her own will. And now that dream was dashed.

  She announced to Kat that she would be responsible for taking over all of Red Harry’s jobs while he was away on the search for Master Percy. Kat would get up an extra hour earlier from now on so she could draw the water for the mistresses’ baths and the day’s washing and cooking needs; chop and bring in the wood for the fires; clean the mistresses’ boots and shoes; fetch the daily jugs of beer, and kill the chickens when required. And she was not to shirk her own duties.