The Baker's Boy

by J. V. Jones

  Lord Maybor was beginning to feel much improved. His breath still came in wheezes and his throat burned hot and sore, but he knew he was feeling better when the queen's wisewoman rubbed warm oils into his skin. The wisewoman was not a great beauty, and she had passed her prime some years back; however, when her skillful hands worked on Maybor's body, he began to find her most appealing.

  With a firm touch she worked the fragrant oils into Maybor's flesh. She noticed the lord's reaction and smiled pleasantly, showing small, white teeth. "I see you will be up soon, Lord Maybor," she said softly. She leaned over him, her breast brushing against his face. He could not resist and squeezed the roundness gently. The wisewoman smiled on, moving her agile hands lower. Maybor drew more bold and squeezed the breast vigorously.

  The woman laughed: a bright, pretty sound. "I do not think, Lord Maybor, that you are quite ready for a tumble yet. Maybe in a few days." Maybor was disheartened; the wisewoman was looking very attractive to him now. "It is a good sign though-when a man's urges return, his good health will soon follow." She stood up and smoothed her dress. "I must be off now. Be sure to drink your honey balm." She patted him lightly on the shoulder and left the room. There is a lot to be said for older women, thought Maybor regretfully.

  When she had gone, Maybor called his servant, Crandle, to bring him his minor. Maybor had always been very proud of his appearance; he considered himself to be strong boned and handsome. His greatest fear now was that the terrible sores that blighted his face would leave scars. He regarded his reflection carefully. There seemed to be a slight fading of the redness. His face was hideous; the sores had formed mostly around his nose and mouth. Some of the sores had started to heal, but some were still open and wet. The wisewoman had given him some herbal water, and it appeared to help a little.

  He was still contemplating his reflection when Crandle rushed into the room and announced the queen. She followed directly after the servant, her beautiful face pale and unreadable.

  "No, Lord Maybor, do not try to rise." She turned to Crandle and bid him leave. The servant scuttled away quietly. "It is indeed an honor, Your Highness." Maybor was trying hard to keep his voice and breath steady. He did not like appearing ill to the queen.

  "I have come this day because I have just spoken with my wisewoman, and she has advised me you are much improved."

  "Your Highness was most gracious to send her to me." Maybor succumbed to a fit of coughing. He held his handkerchief up to his lips-he did not want the queen to see he was coughing up blood.

  The queen waited until the coughing stopped before continuing, "My wisewoman is better than any physician. I am glad to see her remedies have helped you. You seem much better than when I looked upon you last. I am well pleased."

  The queen moved away from Maybor and began to pace the room, her back rigid and her head high. "Lord Maybor, I must ask an unpleasant question and I require a straightforward answer."

  Maybor began to feel a little apprehensive. "What would you ask, Your Highness?"

  "I would know the truth about your daughter, Melliandra. I have heard say she has run away from the castle." The queen turned and looked Lord Maybor in the eye. "Is this true?"

  Maybor instantly realized that if he lied and told her his daughter was in the castle, she would demand proof. He had no choice but to confess. Sick though he was, he rallied his wits about him. The queen was already sympathetic to him. His best defense would be to play on that sympathy. "Unfortunately, Your Highness is right. My daughter has run away. She has been gone seventeen days now."

  "Has she run off with a lover?" The queen's voice was hard and unyielding.

  "No, Your Highness. She has had no lovers. Melliandra is a virgin."

  "Why did she run away, then? Was it because she didn't want to enter into the betrothal with Prince Kylock?" Maybor thought quickly, glad that his affliction had not affected his sharpness of mind. "No, Your Highness, her fleeing had nothing to do with Prince Kylock. At the time she left, she knew nothing of the match ... I thought it better not to mention the betrothal until the matter had been fully decided."

  "So why then did your daughter flee, Lord Maybor?" The queen looked skeptical.

  "Regrettably, Your Highness, I am to blame." Maybor hung his head low, coughed pathetically, and tried hard to bring a tear to his eye. "I have not treated my daughter as well as a father should." A single tear glistened forth. "I have been a bad father. All Melliandra ever wanted was my love and affection, for she is a sweet and lovely girl." The tear made its noble descent down Maybor's cheek. When the salty tear encountered one of his open sores, he winced in pain-a gesture easily mistaken for a shudder of remorse.

  "Melliandra would come to me, begging for my attention, wanting to play me the latest tune she had learnt on her flute, or to show me how pretty she looked in her newest dress. I would send her away, unregarded. My sons were all my eyes could see. I am ashamed to say I neglected her badly." Maybor was warming to his theme: a second tear conveniently welled in his eye.

  "It was I who drove her away. All she ever wanted was a father's love. I failed my daughter, Your Highness. I all but sent her away. She fled purely to gain my attention. I would give up my lands for just one chance to tell her that I love her. I would give up my life to have her back, safe within the castle." The second tear dropped, with perfect timing, off the end of Maybor's nose.

  The queen came over to Maybor's bedside and placed her cool hand on his shoulder. She appeared deeply moved. "Lord Maybor, I am ashamed for having doubted you. We will find your poor daughter together. I myself will send the Royal Guard to look for her. I will not rest until she is brought safely back into your arms. Have no fear, the betrothal will go ahead as planned once she is found." The queen bent and kissed Maybor's forehead lightly before leaving.

  After she left Maybor slumped back against his pillows. He smiled broadly, disregarding his painful sores. He would be father to a queen after all.

  Jack watched as Traff laid Melli on the cold earth. He longed to be able to go and help her. He could see she was in a terrible state: she was hot and fevered, her face covered in a film of sweat. The worst thing was her back, where six welts were seared into her flesh. Two of the welts were scabbed with blood and badly swollen-a sure sign of infection.

  The mercenaries had done nothing for her, save provide her with a blanket to draw around her tom dress. They appeared not to realize the seriousness of her condition. All Jack wanted to do was go to her. He hated to see anyone suffer, but to watch Melli's rapid descent into fever was almost more than he could stand. There was one point yesterday, when the mercenaries had laid her on the ground, heedlessly banging her shoulder against a hard stone, that he'd felt something building up inside him. Anger at her treatment became tension in his head. It was the same sensation that he'd felt two days earlier. He tried to hold onto it, knowing power was at its core: so close, he could feel the bum at his throat, so overwhelming that he nearly lost himself to it.

  Traff had been the one who unwittingly brought him to his senses. The leader came over, holding out a cup of water. "Boy, see to the girl." And that was it. The power was gone more quickly than it came, leaving Jack with a sickening headache and a tangible sense of loss.

  Since then, he'd had little chance to consider the importance of what had happened. His time was taken up with thoughts of Melli, not himself, which was probably a good thing, for Grift had warned him many times that "thinking leads to trouble." Armed men dragging him back to Castle Harvell was trouble enough for the moment.

  They had traveled west three days now, and Jack expected they would reach the castle in a day or so. He was almost anxious to return, for Melli could then be looked after. It was obvious her wounds needed cleaning and tending.

  Melli was in a weak, dazed state. She appeared to have little strength, and Traff had ridden with her leaning heavily at his back. This arrangement had forced the pace to be slowed, as Traff's horse was greatly burdened. Jack h
ad managed to catch Melli's eye on one occasion; she seemed to recognize him, but could do no more than return his gaze.

  They had stopped to eat and rest the horses. Traff, seemingly ignorant of Melli's worsening condition, placed the girl against a tree and left her to join his men. Jack was untied from his horse and was brought a cup of water and some drybread. He watched as Melli was given the same provisions. She was barely able to register their presence and made no move to drink. Jack was extremely worried about her; she was sweating and feverish and needed water. With his wrists and ankles tied he could not approach her, so he shouted to the mercenaries: "Help her! Can't you see she's sick with fever? She can't even drink her water."

  The mercenaries looked around, astounded at his outburst. The one named Wesk came over to Jack and kicked him hard on his legs. "Hey, boy, don't tell us how to do our job. The girl will survive till we get to Harvell. After that we don't care." This statement was met with grunts of approval from his fellow mercenaries.

  Traff, however, looked toward Melli and shouted "Cut the boy's ties, Wesk. Let him tend to her. I for one don't fancy Lord Baralis holding me responsible for her death."

  Jack saw the treacherous look in Wesk's eye. "Go to it!" shouted Traff, and Wesk reluctantly cut the bonds.

  Jack wasted no time relishing being cut free; he hobbled to where Melli lay. Raising the cup to her lips, he forced her to drink. Once she had enough to satisfy him, he tore off part of the lining from his cloak and soaked it in the remaining water. With great tenderness he cleaned the welts on Melli's back, washing away dried blood and dirt. With growing alarm, Jack noticed that underneath one of the welts the skin was soft and bloated: it was badly infected and needed to be drained.

  "I need a clean knife," he shouted toward the mercenaries.

  Traff sauntered over, pausing to spit out a wad of snatch. "What d'you need a knife for, boy?"

  Jack was annoyed at the mercenary's casual manner and struggled to remain calm. "The wound on her back has become inflamed. It's full of pus and needs letting. It must be done now. " Jack gave Traff a hard look; he would not be hindered in this.

  Jack saw something close to respect in Traff s face as he handed over his knife. "I hope you know what you're doing," said the mercenary, staying put, ready to watch the operation.

  Tension that Jack had hardly been aware of made its presence felt by its retreat. His head was reeling as if from drink, and the bands of muscle around his stomach were as taut as a strung bow. The power had been upon him, and he'd hardly noticed its swell. He'd come close to losing control.

  Jack had to make a conscious effort to focus on the present. Melli was what counted now. It was a relief to dismiss thoughts of what might have been if Traff had denied his request. With hands that wouldn't stop shaking, Jack cleaned the blade as best he could.

  Thanks to Frallit's violent temper, Jack had a certain skill in tending wounds. He leaned over Melli and called her name gently. She did not respond. "I'll try not to hurt you," he said, more worried than ever. He felt her back, finding the spot where the inflammation was at its worst. He delicately sliced into the bloated flesh. Greenish-yellow liquid spewed forth from the incision. A fetid smell assailed Jack's nostrils.

  He lightly pressed the skin, forcing all the remaining fluid from the wound. When he was sure that it had all been drained, he called for more water and was brought it quickly. He cleansed the wound and then patted it dry. He finished off by stripping the soft inner lining from his cloak. He made a makeshift bandage, tearing the fabric into long strips and bound it around Melli's back and chest.

  Jack cooled Melli's brow with the remaining water. He looked up to find that he was being watched by all the men. Jack handed the knife back to Traff. "I think she should be allowed to rest for a while to give the wound a chance to scab over. If she were to ride now, it would take longer for the bleeding to stop." The men looked toward Traff for an answer.

  "All right," he said roughly. "We'll make camp early, we'll ride no further this day."

  Jack was relieved. He gathered the blanket around Melli. It was not enough to keep her warm, so he took off his cloak and laid it over her. He was pleased to see that she had fallen asleep-rest was the best thing for her. He regarded her pale, drawn features; they were glistening with sweat, and he knew the fever would get worse before it got better.

  Brushing a strand of hair from Melli's face, he settled down beside her. Night was nearly upon them, and Jack closed his eyes, hoping for sleep. It didn't come. The moon made a slow arc across the sky as he tossed and turned, unable to find peace. Images of what might have been tormented him. Only hours earlier, he'd been on the point of lashing out wildly. There was such potential for destruction within him: he knew it as surely as bread needed salt. It took its strength from anger, and when he thought he wouldn't get his way with Traff, it nearly consumed him. Who could tell what might have happened? He was unpredictable-a coiled spring. He could have hurt Melli, and although the mercenaries were no friends of his, he didn't want their deaths on his hands. He was a baker's boy, not a murderer.

  Jack turned on his back and faced the cold stare of the moon. He might not be evil, but he was dangerous, and it seemed that there wasn't much difference between the two.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Tawl looked into the distance. The mists shifted and he received his first glimpse of Larn. He could see little except rocky, gray cliffs. Seagulls flew overhead, their haunting cries the only noise to disturb the deathly calm.

  The sea, which had raged so the night before, was now still. It was early morning and a pale sun rose over Larn, its rays enfeebled by the low, restless mist. The sea was like liquid metal, heavy and slow, the color of silver. Tawl was filled with great apprehension.

  The crewmen were lowering the small rowboat over the side. He would be on his way soon. Captain Quain approached him, and the two men stood silent, looking into the mists for some time.

  When the captain finally spoke, his warm, gruff voice seemed to break through the spell of beguiling cast from the isle. "When you approach the island, head north around the cliffs. There is a rocky beach that you can land on."

  "I've never seen a sea so calm," ventured Tawl.

  "Aye, it sends the shivers down my spine. It's almost as if they know you're coming." Quain spoke the very words that Tawl himself was thinking. "I should be glad that the sea's calm. My ship's in no danger of running aground." The captain shook his head, speaking in a low voice as if he did not want to be overheard. "I know it's not right, though. A terrible storm like last night, and now, water as smooth as a maiden's belly. Take care. Lad, may Borc lend speed to your journey." Quain moved off, leaving Tawl alone once more.

  After a while he was called over by Carver. The redhaired man put his arm around Tawl's shoulder. "Rowboat's all ready, lad. In it you'll find food and a bottle of rum, courtesy of the good captain." Carver hesitated while he looked toward the faint outline of Larn in the distance. "I understand, lad, I've something to thank you for."

  "I don't know what you mean." Tawl was genuinely puzzled.

  "I was the one who was due to go with you in the boat. Captain says as you insisted on going alone. Not that I was afraid to go, of course. It's just that my elbow's been playing up, and a couple of hours of rowing would've played havoc with it."

  "Well, I'm glad not to be the cause of any further discomfort to you, Carver." Tawl spoke gravely, with no hint of mockery.

  "Well, just thought I'd let you know," Carver said brusquely, moving away.

  The mists parted for a brief instant and Tawl was given a clear look at the island-it was almost an invitation. He breathed deeply, rubbing his chin with his hand. It was time for him to be on his way.

  He climbed down the knotted rope ladder and into the rowboat. Once he was steady, he looked up to the deck of The Fishy Few, where all the crewmen including Captain Quain were lined up. They were silent with grave faces as Tawl took up the oars.

 
; He started to row, enjoying the feel of the smooth wood in his hands. He soon made his way from the ship and into the mist. Just before he lost sight of The Fishy Few, he heard the voice of the captain ringing out: "One day, lad. Back in one day."

  Tawl was surprised at how much of his strength had returned in the few weeks since he had been released from Rorn's dungeons. His arms pulled the oars with powerful grace. He soon fell into a rhythm; it felt good to be doing something physical. Muscle and sinew stood out against the flesh of his arms. It was the first time since setting sail that he'd rolled up the sleeves of his shirt he had taken the Old Man's advice about hiding his identity.

  The sea was yielding and Tawl made good time; even the current was in his favor. He watched the cliffs of Larn loom near. After a while he altered his course north, as the captain had suggested. The banks of mist were lifting and sunlight was allowed to nuzzle the water once more. Tawl looked over his shoulder. Although the mists were clearing ahead, behind they were still thick-swirling and reeling, hiding The Fishy Few in their lair.

  He rowed for some time and saw that the cliffs were lessening, gradually declining. He made his way around a rocky precipice and finally caught sight of the beach Quain had mentioned. Tawl rowed on, his arms growing tired, grateful that the tide was on its way in, bearing the boat forward in its push to the shore. As he approached the rocky beach, he could make out a solitary figure, black against the gray of rock and sky. Tawl knew the man waited for him.

  Minutes later, his small rowboat landed on the shores of Larn. The figure in the dark cloak did not move forward to meet him. Tawl dragged the boat from the surf and tied its mooring to a sturdy outcropping. He made his way up the pebbled beach to the cloaked man.

  "Greetings, friend," said Tawl. The man's face was hooded, casting his features in shadow. He said no word to Tawl. He beckoned him to follow by the briefest raising of his hand. Tawl trailed the stranger up the beach and onto a well-concealed path that led between huge slabs of granite. Part of the path had been hewn from the rock, enabling Tawl to see the many intricate layers within the stone.