After a pause, “Damned poisoning heathen’s daughter.”
“Who cured me of the Great Death. Who saved my life?”
“Foolish boy.” Lord Lydiard stepped back to the shadowed doorway, the heavy key in his hand. “Your father knows what’s best, lad. Lie still, get some rest. No point ruining your recovery now you’re over the worst.”
He was unconscious when they carried young Jak Lydiard out to the litter, strapped him in, and set off east. Lord Lydiard rode, an uneasy eye on the litter’s bouncing wheels beside him. The ruts in the roads were puddled, and each rattle and squeak of timber and leathers reminded Jak’s father of the risk he was taking. The boy was too ill, too weak to travel. But there was no other option. The risk of staying was greater. At first, they were refused entrance at the wayside inns. A victim of the Great Mortality, albeit a recuperating one, was no one’s guest of choice. Within the ten-day Lord Lydiard, now also accompanied by his wife who had agreed to leave her family’s manor and join them, set off again south, and at their overnight stops along the way his lordship was more careful not to mention the cause of his son’s afflictions.
Jak’s health improved, and after a slow and tedious journey by litter, carriage and horse, Lord Godfrey booked the final few days at a much faster pace, agreeing to journey by train.
He had never been on one before, although it was not something he admitted when he arranged the passage. The largest public carriage was near the end, with only the open slabs behind free for those who were willing to jump on and sit open to the rain, wind and possibility of being knocked off, thrown off, or roll off.
In contrast, Lord Lydiard demanded the best the train company could offer. “I am Lord Godfrey Lydiard, and I travel to the royal castle in company with my lady wife and my son and heir. He is recuperating from a throat cough, so wishes a comfortable journey. Indeed, I intend to travel in luxury or not at all. And I shall not only occupy one of the closed carriages, but also one of the freight carts since I bring with me all the essential furniture and belongings I require for a prolonged stay at court.” This speech was interrupted several times by the low rumble of the train’s horn, and the rattling screech of its wheels on the track.
“These steam machines are so long,” it was said, “the driver arrives at one destination, while the last carriage is only just leaving the place of departure.”
The steam pump which powered the great metal contraption was manually levered by four drivers who worked two at a time for one turn of the press each. The strength required was too great to work constantly, and on exceedingly long journeys, the two teams were replaced halfway. The steam roared upwards from the squat metal chimney, puffing grey as a rain cloud and sometimes larger. The steam would hang in the air for some moments after the passing, so that the first freight carts rumbled permanently beneath the clouds before the steam finally condensed and was blown away or scorched into droplets by a blazing sun.
Once on their way, no train could stop suddenly or without the usual elaborate preparation by the drivers, who would lessen the speed of the pump little by little before the steam died and the train slid to its station. Crossing the lines on foot was always to be avoided, and although the train could be heard from a great distance, accidents frequently occurred and were always unpleasantly fatal.
Most people were still frightened of the trains. Many others found them exceptionally exciting.
The small party arrived at Eden City, entered the wide gates and clattered on towards the palace. Having sent a courier ahead to request a position and lodging at court and an interview with his majesty, Lord Lydiard was expected, greeted, and ushered into the cramped apartments prepared for them at the local hostelry. It was two days later that his lordship presented himself at Eden Palace and craved an audience with the Lord Wandong, the ageing lord of a small area north of the Falls, who was the official password for an audience with his majesty, and unofficially, required a bribe. Having completed the traditional arrival sequence, the Lydiards were finally accepted at court. They were then, her ladyship informed her female acquaintances, allocated little more than a trio of chilly vestibules, hardly better than prison cells, without private facilities or garderobe, and all situated as far from the warm hub of royalty as it was possible to squeeze anyone. Furthermore, they were given insufficient space in the stables for anything larger than a donkey, a candle allowance surely too meagre for a dairymaid, and a wine allowance which was positively an insult even to one of a fragile disposition. “I am, after all,” uttered her ladyship with a piteous sigh, “a lady. My dearest husband may not, as yet, hold positions of power or wealth, but we are a noble family with a title well respected for many generations. I intend petitioning the steward for greater comfort and consideration.”
“Good luck with that ambition,” smiled her new friend. “But I doubt you’ve much chance of getting more than an extra chamber pot. You will just have to scheme and plot and ingratiate your way higher and higher just as everyone else at court has done.”
“Humph,” decided Lady Lydiard, returning to her despised cupboards. “Considering my dear husband’s mental abilities, there’s very little chance of that.”
Three days later, Jak woke and stretched. He stretched again. The sensation sang as if music eased his limbs. He could feel the reality of each muscle, the toned obedience of sinew to demand, and the old familiar reliability of every movement. The pain had almost gone. The relief was delicious, a feast to the hungry man. His head barely throbbed, his back barely ached, he could hear without confused drumming in his ears, and his eyes saw clear substance without peering desperately through a window of pulsing bloodshot mazes. He was himself again. He could stand. He could even walk. He could think. He might even be able to ride. It was a good time to start getting angry.
“Your father,” her ladyship informed him, “is out hunting. He won’t be back for several hours. And don’t try cajoling me with your stupid stories, Jak, for I’m not interested.”
Jak regarded his step-mother with distinct distaste. “I have never in my life attempted to cajole you, madam,” he said. “I cannot imagine any action more repugnant nor pointless.”
“Then your imagination,” snapped her ladyship, “along with everything else, Jak, is sadly lacking.”
It was later that day over a private supper in their own quarters that Jak addressed his father. “As you know, sir, small thanks to the journey here, I am at last feeling considerably better. Now I wish to return to Lydiard. I intend leaving at the end of the ten-day, with or without your leave. I should like your permission to stay at the manor house, but otherwise I shall lodge at The Stag in the village.”
Lord Lydiard chewed his cold pork. He snapped a piece of blistered pigskin between his teeth, chewed further, and eventually spat it back out on to the platter. “Undercooked,” he announced. “Damned chef. Whole thing tastes like wet leather.”
“Father,” Jak began again, “whether you ignore me or not, I’m going. You can hardly chain me to the bedposts here at court.”
“Pass the custards,” demanded Lord Lydiard. “And as for you, Jak, I’ve a good mind to call in the court physician and have you declared dangerously pickle-witted and confined to bed, shackled or otherwise. And if you think you’re up to another journey of that length already, then you are pickle-witted.”
“The boy’s always been a loon, Godfrey.” Lady Lydiard passed the custards. “But let the ungrateful brat go. I certainly won’t miss him. And then we would have more space in these horrid cramped chambers.”
Lord Lydiard’s temper turned to sulks as he regarded his wife. “Not that cramped chambers should inconvenience you anymore, madam, since I believe you’ve recently found other far more spacious quarters to visit.”
The lady did not appear contrite. “I shall do as I wish, Godfrey, under the circumstances, since what you do and have always done, now I shall also do as and when I choose.” She spooned her own serving of flavoured custar
d. “And don’t pretend you care, because I’m fully aware that you don’t. My friends, both male and female, are my own concern. So let the stupid boy go and ruin his life with as much freedom as you demand yourself.”
“He’s going nowhere,” bellowed Lord Lydiard, shoving back his chair and standing in sudden heaving vehemence. He glared at his son. “I shall have respect and obedience in my own damned family, do you hear, if I have to whip you to get it. That wretched little trollop is safe back in her mother’s hovel. Maybe next year you can crawl up there with your tail between your legs and shag the wench – but not now. You’ll pay court to the king with due deference as a nobleman’s son should, and you’ll stay here till the winter season’s over. Your friend from Mandrake is expected sometime soon I hear. What was his name? Mereck? Old Harty’s boy, if I remember rightly. The witch’s trollop can damn well wait. She’s going nowhere. You’re staying at court, or I shall have you thrashed.”
“You’ll find I’ve grown a deal too old to whip, sir,” Jak said, teeth set and breathing fast. “I may still be a little weak, but not weak enough for that.”
“Whip you? I’ll flay you alive,” roared Lord Lydiard, brandishing his meat knife. “And don’t go thinking you’ll creep off in secret, for I’ll sell your horse and instruct the stables to refuse you admittance.”
“Then I’ll buy a pony and cart.”
Lord Lydiard stamped on the floorboards, frightening the family in the rooms below. “I’ll make sure you haven’t a penny to pay for it, my boy. Think I’ll go on making you an allowance, ungrateful brat that you are? I’ll not give you enough for a pigeon pie.”
“I’ll sell my cloak.” Jak knew he hadn’t indulged in arguments this childish since he’d turned six years old, but now he couldn’t stop. “I’ll sell my boots.”
“Then I’ll throw every damned piece of clothing you own down the privy,” Lord Lydiard bellowed, smashing his fist on the table and making every platter bounce. “You’ll stay worm naked in your damned bed, you damned cur, and have plenty of time to regret your damned impudence. Honour your father, that’s what you need to learn. And tomorrow morning, while I tie you to the mattress, I’ll send the damned priest in to remind you of it.”
Just over a ten-day later, the castle rooftops steaming as the brief arrival of the sunshine reflected in the raindrops, the Lord Lydiard inexplicably changed his mind. Jak was brooding in the window seat, hunched over a book. His father sidled over and stood with his hands behind his back, paunch extended, and a benign smile fixed across his jowls. “Well, well, my boy. Reading the Chronicles of Vox, I see. Never could get into it myself, but I’m pleased to see you’re putting your spare time to good use.” Jak appeared to continue reading and did not look up. “Still cross, are we then?” sighed his father. “Well, as it happens, I’ve had a slight change of heart.”
That made Jak look up. “Exactly what concerning, sir?”
Lord Lydiard’s smile spread. “Of course – if you’re not interested –”
Jak quickly stood, as was proper in his father’s presence, and attempted to look apologetic. “I’m all attention, my lord.”
“Well now, that’s a little better,” said Lord Lydiard. “So, where was I? Ah, yes. About your intended journey back to the manor. I’ve decided to permit it.”
Jak abruptly sat down again. “When? How?”
“I assume,” Lord Lydiard continued, studiously placid, “your motives for returning back north have little to do with missing your home and the beauty of the mountains? Yes, yes, I know, it’s the yellow eyed chit who nursed you through the pestilence. Well, I’ll arrange a comfortable trip for you leaving next ten-day, with outriders and that favourite groom of yours to look after you. The train again, perhaps. Travel slow, and don’t tax your health, my boy. It’s barely two months since you were on your deathbed, and Lydiard isn’t likely to fall into the river in your absence, so no point hurrying. Besides, the house was closed up. I’ll need to send a couple of men on ahead to get the place opened up and staffed before your arrival. Then – when you’re ready, without urgency that is, no doubt you’ll come back to your poor old Papa again. I shall be waiting for you, Jak.” His lordship paused, smiling, then added carefully, “Naturally you’ll stay inside within the court until then. No jaunting around town before that, my boy. Build up your strength for the trip.”
“I – I thank you, sir. I’m grateful.” Jak paused, suspicious and expecting a final stab from the shadows, but it didn’t come. He said, “But surprised, I must admit.” Lord Lydiard declined to explain. Jak nodded. “I’ll accept your arrangements with gratitude, sir. Freia will be safe with her mother in the meantime, and she’ll be waiting – expecting me. I assured her I’d come back for her whenever I had to go away. She trusts me. So thank you again, Father. I’ll be back before the roads close for winter, and I’ll bring her with me if she’ll come. But I’ll not choose to live at court. I’ll attend when possible, particularly if Mereck’s expected. But I’d prefer to stay in the outer city and lease my own lodgings where I can have Fray with me.”
Lord Lydiard smiled, patiently smug. “An excellent idea, my boy, excellent No need to squash in here at court. You must do precisely as you think best. We can discuss that when you return, but naturally, I shall trust your youthful judgement as to exactly how a young lord should behave.”
“I’m not that young anymore, Father.”
“Indeed, indeed,” indulged Lord Lydiard. “Just sixteen years old, and surely as wise as the great King Dyr.”
Chapter Twelve
Freia wore her cape over her head even when it was too hot for it and pleaded with all the gods for no one from the castle to see her and recognise the wench who killed the king and stole his purse. The passing horses and oxen also had their heads down, snuffling for spillage along the way, snorting dust and urine fumes.
The long road facing the Corn was a mass of colour and scurry as stalls set up, shops opened their doors and let down their shutters, stumps to the ground outside to form the counter. Further along from the affluence of the Castle and its palatial surroundings, through the narrow slaughter of the Butcher’s Square with its bloody gutters and chicken heads, bounded by the stink of Cockerel Alley where the Scalders bailed the feathers from the butchered poultry and the hair from the pigskins. The stench of Shambles Lane eventually overcame that of the meat market, and the ox cart rambled on towards the other side of the city where the herbalists, spiceries and medicines could be found. Eventually, they passed the great conduit and down towards the chilly sweep of the river lay before them. The business she now intended to buy was there, calling to her., singing of future contentment.
It was not quite as easy as she had expected.
Returning to the offices alongside where she previously spoken to the ecclesiastical clerk, with the information concerning prices, rent, lease or buy, Freia had both her coin and her decision ready. But it was a different clerk.
A short man half hidden in the shadows sat behind a desk of great size, completely covered in papers, all carefully piled according to content. The man squinted at Freia. “I doubt a girl child like you has the money required,” said the man through his teeth, half spitting.
“I have the money, not that you’ve told me how much it will cost,’ she said, glaring and wondering just how belligerent she was going to have to pretend to be in order to make the idiot believe her. She stamped her foot for further emphasis. “If you’re not the person I need to see, then tell me where the right person is.”
“Out,” mumbled the man behind the desk, “come back later tomorrow.”
“I spoke with one of your clerks yesterday, and now I am ready to pay, I have my belongings ready, and I need a roof over my head. So, how much is the official price, and without any extra demanded under the table?”
The clerk glared. Freia decided that her attitude of strength rather than female weakness had not helped after all. “We are looking for an outright sal
e,” he said gruffly. And that’s going to cost thousands. This is a position in great demand. So come back tomorrow and stop bothering me now. I’m busy.”
There was coin in her central pocket. “Please,” she told the clerk, who now ignored her with his nose to his papers. “I can pay. I have the money right here.”
With a twitch of the nose, the clerk looked up. “That’s not nearly enough.” He glowered. “And this is church property. We don’t accept prostitutes or swindlers.”
She had been called this before, as though no woman could manage herself or earn good money unless she dressed in velvets like a lady or worked as a whore. “I’m an honest apothecary,” Freia insisted. She had been excited and ready to change her life, yet now she felt like crying. “I was accepted by the other clerk working here yesterday.”
“He was a junior without authority,” the clerk now stood, becoming angry. “And you, madam, will leave this instant.”
It was a crushing disappointment. She had dreamed of sleeping that night in the sinking soft luxury of a real bed with real sheets. Now it seemed there would be one more night in the gutter. Even inns and hostels were wary of taking single females for the night since they would likely turn out to be whores, use the bedchamber as a brothel, and get the inn a bad reputation.
Freia resisted the temptation to sob, fall to her knees, or throw her money at him. Instead, hands clenched, she decided to return another day when another clerk might be on duty. She wandered off to explore the city.
Surrounded by a hundred battered barrows and carts, horses whinnying and the shouts of squabbling men, so the market filled; awnings fluttered in the sunshine and order sprang from chaos. Rows of stalls beneath the sky’s pastel haze, each in their proper licensed place, stallholders polishing turnips on their aprons until their merchandise gleamed. There was the sweet perfume of fresh strawberries and the sharp temptation of little brown onions in their thin flaking coats, dew still on the lettuce leaves and earthy straw still stuck to the roots of the leeks. But with a month to wait before harvest some stalls sold little more than cabbages, and these were stacked higher than anything else. A juggler took up his skittles beside the stall selling wooden whistles and tinderboxes, and the tooth puller wiped a large wet tongue over his iron pliers, cleaning his tools ready for the first customers. The calling had already begun, the music of the market, each man shouting his wares, his prices, and his quality.
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