Murkmere

by Patricia Elliott

  I wheeled him to the fire and propped his head with a pillow. The nurse lit some candles and poked the fire vigorously. Then she gave him another look. “He’ll recover, this time.” She looked curiously at me as if she’d like to linger and find out more, but I said firmly, “I’ll call you if I need you.” She went then, and I checked the door was shut.

  After a minute the Master looked up. The color had calmed in his cheeks and his breathing was quieter. “Has the nurse gone?” he asked in a low voice.

  “She’s in her room, Sir. Are you feeling better?”

  “I’m well enough now. Why did she take it so, my speech?”

  “I don’t know, Sir.”

  “You went after her?”

  “She said nothing, Sir.”

  “She made no comment, no comment at all?” His voice was pitiful.

  “I’m sorry, Sir.”

  “I was sure she’d say something, to you.” He sighed. “It must have been the shock. I should have told her privately beforehand.”

  “Sir.” I tried to find the right words. “I’m sure Leah’s happy to be your daughter, but she faces great responsibilities now. She’ll not only inherit when the time comes, but she’ll be one of the Ministration.”

  “I know that.” He sounded irritable. “Why else d’you think I’ve taught her all I know? She’ll be young, energetic — healthy.” He spread his hands ruefully, indicating his legs beneath the fur rug. “She’ll be full of my ideas, my learning. She’ll open their eyes in Council, she’ll bring about change for the better. Hah! I’ll get the better of them yet!” He began to laugh, but the laughter turned into wheezing.

  I leaped across to him in a great fret of fear and thumped his back. “Shall I call the nurse, Sir?”

  He shook his head feebly, smiling still. “Stop, I beg you, else I’ll be in my coffin — I’m half-dead already!” He subsided against the pillow. “I must hold on to my energy, I’ve much to do tonight.”

  “You’re not going back?” I said, horrified.

  “Of course. I must, I’m the host. Besides, I don’t trust Porter Grouted, never have. And here he is, in my house. He needs watching. What plot is he hatching this very moment?” He slammed his hands on his armrests, then looked at me. “But I wanted to speak to you alone, Agnes. Can you do something for me?”

  “Of course, Sir.”

  “I want no one to know of this. Do you give me your word?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Then go to Jukes — aye, and Pegg as well, he’s another good, trustworthy man, and I’ll need two of them. Tell them to come to the ballroom at midnight and find me there. They are to say they’re taking me to bed.”

  “I’m sure the nurse will want you sooner, Sir.”

  “But I’ll not be going to bed. I want them to take me to the watchtower and to work the lift for me.”

  “The tower? At that hour?”

  “Quiet, Miss,” he rapped out with such strength in his voice I jumped. “It must be kept secret. No one — not even Leah, not Silas — must know. Jukes and Pegg must understand this too”

  “Yes, Sir, I’ll tell them,” I said to calm him, though I was filled with apprehension.

  “Good. The nurse will bring me to the dancing shortly. Go and announce my full recovery to the company. Let them take it as they will.”

  And so I left him, grinning wryly to himself in the firelight. He seemed indeed to have made a miraculous recovery.

  I found Jukes and Pegg in one of the pantries, setting more clean glasses on trays. I delivered the Master’s message, and the three of us looked at one another.

  “The Master says no one is to know,” I said. “Not even Mr. Silas himself.” They nodded their white wigs at me.

  “Don’t let the Master do anything unwise,” I begged. “He’s feverish and troubled tonight.”

  Then I went to the Great Hall, to the assembled gentlemen. The ladies had gone to their chambers to repair their makeup and put on their bird masks once more; the gentlemen would follow them shortly.

  I felt very much alone as I went in through the door, pushing aside the heavy tapestry. The drowsy footman, leaning against the wall, looked as if he’d been at the liqueurs himself and leaped to move it too late.

  They were clustered around the top table, chairs drawn up, wigs close together, voices low, and on the table a great muddle of decanters and empty glasses. Silas was among them and had seated himself not far from the Lord Protector.

  No one saw me but the fool, still crouched behind Porter Grouted’s chair. He did a little caper, but the clinking of his chain wasn’t noticed.

  My feet faltered. There were too many men. But as I turned to slip away, I was seen.

  “It’s the wench Gilbert asked for,” someone said.

  Silas pushed his chair back and came striding over to me, his face flushed with wine. “What news?” His breath fumed in my face; he lowered his voice. “Why did he want you? What did he say?”

  Beyond him, Lord Grouted rose to his feet. I bobbed a nervous curtsy as the Protector’s hard gaze rested on me. “Come closer, lass,” he said. “Tell us, how is the Master of Murkmere?”

  “Better, My Lord,” I said, trying to sound fearless. “He’ll be rejoining you when the dancing begins.”

  Lord Grouted’s face moved not a muscle. “Excellent,” he said.

  In the passage Scuff rushed up to me. “Mistress Crumplin’s asking for you, Aggie. We need help in the kitchens. Can you find a parlor maid?”

  “I’ll come myself,” I said. “Has the mistress gone through to the ballroom yet?” Most likely Leah wouldn’t give me a thought, but perhaps I should let her know my whereabouts.

  “She went to the Master’s room,” said Scuff.

  “To the Master? Are you sure?”

  She nodded, wide-eyed with all the excitement. “I saw her going in just now.”

  In the kitchens I had no time to worry about Leah or her father. Servants ran in continually, laden with trays of used glasses from the Great Hall; water bubbled in the pewter bowls hung above the fire, and everywhere washed plates were stacked in dripping piles. The air was thick with steam, perspiring bodies, the smell of leftover food. Above the hubbub Mistress Crumplin stood shouting orders, her face flushed with ale and power.

  Out in the stable yard the great fire that had roasted the oxen had been subdued. Through the window I could see the glow of the dying fire against the darkening sky, as the youth in the hat damped clown the last embers with a cloth.

  I found myself a voluminous apron to cover my skirt and busied myself helping. A thread of music wound faintly into the room each time the door banged open. The musicians were tuning up again; soon the dancing would begin.

  A flustered maid tottered in with a silver tureen, which she dumped unceremoniously on the table. “Mistress Crumplin, they want the fire in the library stoked up and a decanter of port left for them.”

  “Slow down, girl. I can’t make head nor tail, ‘deed I can’t. How many’s to be in there?”

  “Only two,” panted the girl. “The Lord Protector himself desires a private word with Mr. Silas.”

  I felt my heartbeats quicken.

  “Well, go to, girl. Make the room ready.”

  “I can’t, Mistress. Mr. Silas says the Great Hall must be cleared urgent now.”

  “I’ll go to the library,” I said, trying to hide my eagerness.

  Mistress Crumplin eyed me suspiciously, but had no choice in the matter. I knew she was as curious as I was about this private word, but at least she stood a good chance of hearing it later from Silas himself, whereas I had none. My only chance would be somehow to hear it for myself. I was sure they would discuss the significance of the Master’s speech. It was something I should hear, for Leah’s sake.

  I took a decanter and two port glasses from one of the butler’s pantries and put them on a tray, then hurried to the library. Masked guests passed me, but I kept my head down as befitted a maid. I ho
ped none of them would notice the night-blue taffeta beneath my damp apron.

  The library was chilly and silent. Candles still burned from before dinner, but the fire was almost out. A few logs smoldered darkly.

  I put the tray down on the drum table and looked around. My eye lit on the bay of long windows, the curtains still drawn back. It was twilight now, the time when curtains should be drawn in a grand house.

  I freed the heavy lengths of velvet from their bindings and let them flop down over the diamond panes. Then I poked the fire and threw on more logs.

  I was brushing wood dust from my apron when I heard footsteps outside. There was just enough time to dart across the room, almost slipping on the polished boards in my haste, and slide in behind the nearest curtain.

  XXIV

  Evil Schemes

  The curtain was thick and smelled of dust. I turned my face sideways, so I could breathe. A whisper of damp evening air came through the badly fitting panes. My heart was thumping in my ears, and my dinner curdled in my stomach.

  They came in together without speaking, Lord Grouted and Silas.

  I heard the chink of the chain that meant the fool, Gob-chick, was being led by the Lord Protector, and the shuffle and slap of bare feet on the floorboards. There was a grunt and the stiff creaking of leather as Porter Grouted settled himself in one of the chairs, and a yelp from the fool, no doubt kicked away by his master, poor thing.

  I imaged Silas standing, not sitting, his pale, handsome face framed by the collar of his black silk frockcoat. He spoke first.

  “A glass of port, My Lord?” His voice was as deferential as always.

  There was another grunt from Porter Grouted, a pause, then I heard his voice, flat and nasal. “That’s better, now that the damned thing’s off!”

  There was the scratch of feathers across the leather-topped table as the great Eagle head was set down next to the decanter. I pictured Lord Grouted’s naked pate, bald and round as a pebble above his black silk suit, flesh bulging in rolls around the bull neck.

  “I’ve a mouth full of dust and fish glue. Pour me a glass, Silas. Have one yourself if you must. But you’re to keep a clear head.”

  There was a whimpering sound. Gobchick, begging for port too, or had his chain been pulled too tight? Then a slurping sound and a belch from Grouted. “Aids the digestion, don’t it, port? Nothing like it.”

  “Indeed, Sir.”

  “Now, Silas. We’ve much to discuss.”

  I held my breath. Silas’s hands would be clasped together as if he were praying, his dark, glossy head bent as he listened. I heard Grouted’s stubby fingers tap the table.

  “So the truth is out. That wench is Gilbert’s daughter and he means her to inherit his position. I feel the Ministration owes you thanks for alerting its members to the probability so long ago. You’ve done well to keep me informed of the girl’s progress and her general state.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “The remuneration’s been sufficient?”

  “Most generous, Sir.”

  “We’re grateful. I asked you to find any reason why she might be unfit to inherit. Your reports have been most useful. She’s clearly unstable, unsuitable for such rank.” Tap, tap on the table with those short, squat fingers. “We know why. She’s her mother’s blood running in her veins.”

  A noisy swallow, then another, fainter, belch. Lord Grouted’s voice went quieter. “Of course, it can’t be proved. There were always rumors about her mother’s nature, but nothing proved. But it’s the excuse we need to block Leah’s inheritance. Offspring of the avia cannot take on a Minister’s rank and property. If she came into the Ministration, she would desecrate it. There’s ancient law forbidding such a thing.”

  “I’ve watched Miss Leah closely, My Lord,” said Silas. “She’s no normal girl. Apart from what she may have inherited through her mother’s blood, her father has educated her to hold his own blasphemous views. She could be a dangerous influence in sacred Council, My Lord.”

  “Then, for the future good of Murkmere the estate should pass into other hands after Gilbert’s death. It’s what you and I have thought for some time, ain’t it so, my boy?” The Lord Protector lowered his voice further, so I could scarcely hear it.

  “I’ve always wanted this estate to be run by one of my most loyal men, Silas, someone who can keep an eye on the Eastern Edge for me. With no heir to Murkmere, we’ll have to have an election. It will be time for you to come into your own. I shall see that you do. Everyone will follow my vote, have no fear.”

  “My Lord, I hardly dared hope that I —“

  A loud chortle from Lord Grouted, his voice rasping. “Stuff, boy! You’ve known it all along. Don’t give me that! But I like ambitious young men who think the way I do. And you’ve done well. You deserve your reward.”

  “I can’t thank you enough, My Lord. I can assure you of my greatest loyalty in Council. I could be useful to you.”

  “Let’s drink to it.” Glasses clinked.

  “But what of Miss Leah, My Lord? Do you want her banished from Murkmere on her father’s death, the gates locked against her? I could give orders that she’s to be taken into the heart of the Wasteland and left there.”

  “I’ve other plans for Miss Leah.”

  “My Lord?” There was surprise and wariness in Silas’s voice.

  “I think we should take Miss Leah into our own keeping when the time comes. For her good, her protection, you understand. When her father dies, I think Miss Leah should become the property of the Ministration.” Lord Grouted paused, and I heard him crack his knuckles one by one. “We can make good use of her.”

  “How, My Lord?”

  “We will build her a cage. A cage large enough to hold a girl — or, indeed, to hold a bird — but small enough to be moved easily, to be transported from place to place, all over the country, wherever the need arises.”

  I felt sick with horror; I couldn’t breathe. I heard Lord Grouted get heavily to his feet, begin to stump about the room, dragging Gobchick after him. His voice was suddenly so close by me I could hear the spittle bubble in his mouth, the harsh intake of his breath. I shrank back, as thin as I could make myself. For a moment I thought I’d faint with fear and loathing.

  “What a trophy to show the people, she’ll be, eh, Silas? A reminder of the punishment the Almighty sends if they don’t obey me, His mouthpiece here on Earth.”

  “You mean we’d exhibit Leah as one of the avia?”

  I heard the whack of Lord Grouted’s hand on Silas’s back. There was triumph in his voice. “You have it, man. The people believe the avia are the stuff of old stories, nothing more. Think of their shock when we produce a living member of that cursed race! Yes, I think we can make timely use of Leah.”

  The fool’s chain rattled. I heard his voice suddenly, high and piping, so close he was almost under my feet. “You’ve forgotten one thing, Master.”

  “What’s that, my tiny Gobchick?” Grouted’s voice was good-humored, amused; he was pleased with his plan.

  “There’s another meaning to that story, Master. Punishment or …”

  “Yes, little man?” Grouted’s words encouraged but his tone was hard.

  “Some see the Almighty’s action as compassionate, Master. A fool has no knowledge of compassion. A difficult word to understand, for a fool.” He would be shaking his head dolefully, the garish red and yellow feathers fluttering. “Aye, Master, freedom’s the only word a fool understands, though he knows naught of that, either. ’Twas what the Eagle gave those other fools so long ago, the freedom to choose.”

  “Freedom?” Porter Grouted hissed it like a blasphemy so that I shivered where I stood.

  I heard Gobchick do a little shuffling dance. I saw him in my mind’s eye: his thin arms held out winningly, a lopsided smile on his old-young face. “Free, free! Not like me, Master! Not like me!”

  There was a roar from Lord Grouted and a frightened squeak from Gobchick. “Where is
your whip, Silas?”

  “Shall I fetch it, Sir?”

  “Don’t bother. I’ll cuff him instead.”

  Screams from the little fool, a mad scurry and a rattle of the chain, and then all of a sudden there was a face gazing at me round-eyed, and there he was, hiding behind the other end of the curtain. We stared at each other, mouths open, for hardly more than a heartbeat, then he was yanked away by his chain.

  I let out my breath very gently. I heard him slide across the floor, the dull thump of blows. Then a strangely sinister silence.

  Lord Grouted, grunting with the effort of the beating, settled himself back into his chair. The decanter stopper chinked as it was lifted, and then there was the rich gurgle of port being poured out. “The other interpretation of the story is not approved.” He was still breathing heavily.

  Silas’s voice, quickly: “Why, no, indeed, it’s not, My Lord.”

  “Not the version I permit in schools.”

  “Yours is the version the people believe, My Lord.” Silas’s voice was soft, placatory.

  “Tell me, Silas.” There was a leathery creak as Lord Grouted leaned forward in his chair. “Do you believe the story of the avia?” A pause. “Of course you do! I see it in your face! You’re a man of religion, ain’t you?”

  “I try to be, My Lord,” said Silas stiffly.

  “So do we all, but some are better at it than others.” Grouted chuckled briefly, his good humor restored, but Silas didn’t join in.

  “You believe the girl may change shape before the people’s eyes, don’t you, Silas?”

  “I believe it’s a just punishment,” said Silas earnestly, “not least for her blasphemous education. One might even put about the suggestion that it was you who punished the girl in such a way.”

  “Excellent, Silas, excellent! I like that.” There was a pause while Lord Grouted fortified himself with port. “We must wait for Gilbert to die before any of this happens, of course. He’s an ill man. It won’t be long.”