The Corn

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “I really would like to know your name,” said Freia. “You’ve done me a huge favour, you know. Can your master, whoever he is, really get me a shop of my own?”

  “He ain’t my master,” said the boy. “But Symon will if Symon says he will. Symon does what Symon says, and what he does, happens proper. There’s plenty needs to remember that, too. Every bugger knows ‘bout Symon and treats him careful, but those as don’t treat him careful don’t always live to regret it.”

  Freia blinked but hid her alarm. “And your name?”

  “I don’t matter,” said the boy.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Autumn sunshine, turning beech leaves golden through a glitter of rain, still clung to the high eaves of Eden Palace, but Sir Pentaggo, velvet sleeves in a swirl and his hat feathers flat back in the wind like the ears of his hunter, galloped from the palace stables as if once again riding into battle, heading directly up Royal Street and straight along the Banks Road to the river. He was accompanied by only one other rider, a tall man, straight in his saddle, and riding very close.

  There was a rainbow arching like faded ribbons across the Cornucopia, but his lordship did not look up nor slow his pace. At the riverbank, he waited for no one. The wherrymen were shouting their business “Thruppence for the crossing to the south,” “Tuppence up to the Bridge,” “Best comfort and as far as you wish to go, cushions and conversation for them as wants it, and all fer half a stripe.” The wooden pier was a scuffle with a queue for wherries and smaller boats out from the islands, but his lordship’s mighty horse swept past, flicking its tail in their faces as they tumbled back from teeth and hooves. His lordship raised one many-ringed hand and called to the wherry approaching the pier. “Here! I require immediate transportation to the Great Council Hall.”

  He dismounted, flung his reigns to his companion, and stepped aboard the small rowing boat. He was quickly ferried to the one natural island in the central current, and there he was set down. He walked ashore and pushed open the great black doors.

  Without even removing his hat nor looking at the squires and stewards who hurriedly followed, the lord strode straight to the principal chamber, banged his knuckles twice on the long but empty table, and called loudly, “Numbers One, Two, Three and Four. To me. Now.”

  From the shadows behind darkened doorways, the councillors appeared, pulling their hoods to their eyes, and gazing at the man who had called them. There were not simply the top four who scrambled into their chairs, but all nine, each one far too curious and buzzing with anticipation to stay behind.

  Sir Pentaggo, who had long occupied the mighty post of chief squire and Head Steward to King Ram, now sat in the chair marked Number Five, but did not bother to disguise himself. He wore neither hood nor robes and sat easily beneath his feathered hat.

  “We have a great deal to discuss,” he said, not bothering to keep his voice low, “and every word is urgent.” He paused only for breath. “All of you are aware that his majesty the king, has been suffering from the Black Death. He was near death’s door when a woman recommended to me one of the recently acquired servant girls, saying that she was the daughter of a medicine-woman, and knew much of the same magic herself. I told the girl to do whatever she could to save our sovereign’s life. I expected no gain but wished to attempt everything on offer. She began, and very quickly, there were signs that her tonics had an effect, and his majesty was just a little recovering. This continued, and those of us who could watch the gradual improvements were excited and hopeful.”

  It was Number Two who mumbled, “So the king is improving? He knows he will survive?”

  “On the contrary.” Pentaggo grasped his hat and flung it from his head to the table. “Last evening his majesty was remarkably better and asked me to make the girl an honoured doctor with a high position at the palace. But then this morning I hurried to the king’s chamber, expecting even greater improvements, and instead discovered his majesty lying quite dead on his pillows. What is more, the small purse he always kept beneath those pillows for giving minor gifts, tips and tokens of gratitude was also missing.”

  “The girl?” spluttered Number Three.

  But the steward shook his head. “Why should she? Why spend so much time, effort and sweat attempting to make a man better, wait until her efforts are proved and about to be appreciated, and then kill him off for a piddling little handful of money, when she was bound to receive at least a hundred times as much from the king’s hand?”

  Number Two frowned. “You, sir? We have all plotted to kill this king and the last one from time to time.”

  “I did not,” Pentaggo sat at once, suddenly angry. “Because of his immoral habits, he was not always loved. But he was a good man and a good king. I considered him my friend, and now we are left with chaos and no true heir.”

  “Who killed our king?” growled Number Two “Bring the girl here for questioning.”

  “She’s run,” said Number Five. “With the whip at her heels, who can blame her? Finding his majesty suddenly dead, she’d be terrified of suspicion towards herself and some terrible punishment. I’ve no idea where she’s gone. I’ve sent out a troop of guards to find her, not for punishment or even for questioning, but for reward. So far, no one has found her.”

  “But you suspect someone?”

  “I do.” His lordship leaned forwards, velvet elbows to the table. “The Head Doctor at the palace. He has no magic, no skill, and no brains. But he’s a bitter and envious man. He hated that girl on sight and was furious when he saw the king recovering. I am sure he used poison, stole the purse under the pillows, and has run to the south. I intend catching him, flaying both his hands, castrating him and throwing him into prison.”

  “After you find him.”

  “You don’t think I can?” Pentaggo paused and sank back in his chair. “All that is important. But it’s by no means the most important of all. What matters most is the appointment of a new king, since King Ram had neither children nor close relatives. There’s no obvious replacement. This will start more battles, rebellions and conspiracies.”

  “There’s the old bastard Frink,” said Number Three, rubbing his nose.”

  “But that’s the whole point,” said Number Two, Frink’s not a bastard, whereas King Ram’s father was exactly that. Frink has some rights.”

  “A vile choice. And he’s too old. Will likely die within the year. Nor has he a legitimate son, since he’s rumoured to have killed the only legal one.”

  There was a scuffle of feet beneath the table, each man cleared his throat, some coughed, and finally, Number Five stood up, waving a piece of paper. “I make a suggestion,” he said. “I’ve written here a list of those I consider have some claim to the throne. Some are not men I’d recommend, but you all have a right to vote. I’ll pass this paper around, and if each of you could cross the one you approve, we can see how many votes each receives. Then we discuss how to approach the winner.”

  The chair occupied by Number One was slightly different from the others, being high backed, and dense with leather padding. The cloaked figure sitting there spoke very little, but his eyes seemed to spring like torches from his own shadow. His voice, rasping and soft, was only heard when Number Two, sitting to his right, thumped on the table for quiet attention.

  “There are only two claimants, as far as I am concerned, Master Five.

  The Lord Pentaggo narrowed his eyes. “Indeed, your lordship. But there are others. If I may pass the list?”

  It was studied, crosses scribbled, and fists thumped, but it was Number Eight who leaned back, whistled through his teeth, flapped the paper, and called one of the squires who stood back in the shadows against the wall. “Wine, boy, for all of us. And now, I wish to read this list. I’m not even sure who some candidates truly are. There’s Frink. Well, we all know about him, wretched old fool. Then there’s Borg and Ross Yes, I know there’s also another – King Dain’s grandson via his daughter. But now I can’t remember his n
ame. And I know nothing of Ross or Borg either. I have never met nor heard of them at court.”

  Number Five looked up. “Borg’s still a child, Lord Frink’s son by his second wife.”

  “Didn’t know he had one.”

  “Legal, I believe.”

  “And the last? Named Prad,” snorted Number Eight. “So who the devil is that?”

  “Not anyone notable these days perhaps,” Lord Pentaggo explained. “But he is a direct descendant of King Dyr, back at the beginning of our royal line, the son of the daughter of the daughter of King Dyer’s younger son himself.”

  “There’s no need for all this son of this and son of that,” wheezed Number One.

  “Surely the true king, whatever we may think of him, is the old Frink himself.”

  “And he has two adult sons,” interrupted Pentaggo. “Not children themselves, indeed, and you are quite wrong, to call Borg a child. Ross, the younger of the two, is married with adult children of his own.”

  “Well, that proves that Frink is too old, and no suitable king,” said Number One.

  Back at the royal palace, King Ram’s infested body was washed, dressed, and prepared for the pyre. It was seen that the rash of raised bruises across his chest, which had been recognised as the Pestilence and marked as so highly coloured and threatening to cover the entire upper body, were almost faded and now appeared as faint pink spots. It was also seen that the fat purple buboes that had given his majesty such pain, squashed between thigh and groin on each side, had also shrunk to little more than tiny pustules, light in colour, and covered in a sweet smelling salve.

  It was quite obvious to all who viewed the corpse, that his majesty had been close to recovery. His sudden death was a puzzle.

  “Poison, I believe,” the examining officer decided. “I see no cuts. No wounds. No holes or dents. No smashed skull or stab to the heart. Must have been poison of some sort.”

  “There are other sudden causes of death,” suggested his apprentice assistant. “Dysentery or influenza.”

  “Neither kill overnight, idiot,” his master told him.

  “Find some other cause,” yelled Ram’s ageing mother, tottering from her own bed. The lady had been refused all hope of visiting her dying son since there was too much risk of being infected, but then she had heard his recovery was imminent. The next morning he was dead, and she was furious. “I never got to see my own little darling, and now he’s as much my darling son as the roast chicken I had for break-fast.”

  “Your majesty –,”

  “Oh pooh,” said her majesty, “find the culprit. My baby has been murdered, Find the killer and bring me his hands.”

  Ram was set upon the grandest pyre the council could order built and entered the heavens in great swirls of coloured smoke and flame, but still, no decision had been made concerning his rightful heir. Bembitt, his much disliked valet, was one of those suspected of the poisoning, but it was pointed out that although he was capable of having stolen whatever he could grab once the king was found dead, it was hardly in his interests to murder his master. Doctor Errin, who had promptly disappeared, was the most popular suspect. He had been both useless as a medick, and unpleasant into the bargain, so surely had to be the culprit. After three days he was named, officially accused of high treason and of having poisoned the king himself and was sentenced to death.

  It was somewhat confusing when an elderly man wearing the label clearly saying Doctor Errin hanging around his neck, was indeed found executed, but not in the way that had been intended, He was discovered face down in the river beneath the Bridge, both arms tied behind him with wire, and his ankles also wired tight so that he could not swim. He had drowned and was partially eaten by the little blue sharks that infested the river where it ran deeper further up towards the Falls.

  “Not him then.”

  “Might be. Could have gone into a fit of guilt and killed hisself.”

  “After wiring his arms and legs? Wot arms did the bugger use to wire his arms, then?”

  There was still no decision regarding the next sovereign.

  Various suggestions were made, including a vote from the entire population of Eden. Since Lord Frink might be proved as the rightful monarch, in spite of his lack of friends and supporters, it seemed possible that he would have to be chosen in the end. Yet going to the legitimate heir of some years back involved the embarrassing and difficult necessity of subsequently admitting that the last two kings, coming from an illegitimate line, should never have been crowned.

  “Oh, choose the street sweeper down the road. He’s a nice guy.”

  “Choose me dad, He’s always said he’d make a good leader.”

  “Have no king at all. Stick with the council, whoever they really are.”

  “Pirates, probably.”

  All across the city, the ladies were ordering their gowns for the upcoming coronation, grand and sweeping sleeves to the ground, trailing headdresses, and deep cut necklines. Lace insets and collars, velvet shirts with a hundred pleats, fur trimmings and golden tassels, gossamer veils and bright jewelled ears, fingers and broaches to hold the neckline a little more closed after second thoughts. Hidden pockets kept flat, in case they hung loose and looked like a lady’s swelling stomach. The men were supposed to wear their uniforms, if they had one, and get a pretend uniform made if they didn’t. Children were told to stay at home, behave themselves, and stare from the windows at the grandest parade they were ever likely to see. And Doctor Errin, now officially dead much to his own fury, was politely asked to stay anonymous and out of the way.

  Unfortunately, no one yet knew who was likely to be crowned. No day had been chosen for any coronation, and all the expensive clothes would probably be too small for their owners by the time they were called to wear them.

  “Tis yours, lass,” said the man. “I done it. If I says so, then ‘tis done, like I says.”

  Freia held the dog Toby in her arms but nearly dropped him. “Excuse me Master Symon, but what’s done and what did you say?”

  Taking back the heavily stitched and bandaged hound, Symon regarded the girl who looked almost like a dwarf compared to his own size and tried hard to speak more clearly. “Well now, lass, I says as how I would do it. ‘It’ being the business you done wanted, and you told me where it were. There be others, but you says this one, so I done this one. Tis overlooking the Corn, and all ready fer an apothecary’s, if that tis wot you wants to do. There be two chambers upstairs and one big’un downstairs, and a cellar what used to have ale in mighty barrels. I guess there still be one or two old tubs. Now tis your shop, like I says. Up, down and down again, with all them rooms wot I says.” He waited, hopeful that this time she had understood him.

  “The same place I saw, where they didn’t want me and wouldn’t tell me the cost?”

  “Well, I reckons so,” said Symon patiently. “Tis where you says it were, lass.”

  Freia felt her own face burst into sunshine, she pulled the small leather bag of coins which Symon had originally given her from her central pocket and handed it to the large man. “How – wonderful,” she gasped. “I am so – so terribly grateful. And how much is the cost?”

  He shook his head, black curls tumbling over the bald patch and into his eyes. “And there ain’t no cost. Tis yourn. That coin be your’n, lass, and I reckon you gonna need it fer buying all wot you needs fer mixing and selling.”

  “Bought and paid for?” Freia was aghast.

  “Well,” answered Symon carefully, “’tis bought. As fer being paid fer, well in a way it is, and in a way it ain’t. But that be fer me to sort and not fer you to worry yer pretty little head about.”

  She had to stand on tiptoe and make a small leap, but then she managed to fling her arms around his neck and kiss his unshaven cheek. “You are a man of incredible charity and kindness,” she said, breathless and thrilled. “What a glorious gift. If you are now my landlord, then I must pay you, each ten-day of course, but in the meantime, I am a
bsolutely delighted. Thank you, thank you, thank you, and of course if you ever need a medicine or a doctor for you or the dog or your little boy, then just tell me, and I’ll do everything I can to help.”

  Blushing a deep crimson, Symon was patting the kissed cheek, as if to preserve it, “Ain’t no cost, and belongs to you,” he said, still blushing. “But I’ll take you up on that offer fer when any of us is sick. Tis a mighty useful offer, that is, and thank you fer it, lass, though I hopes we never needs it.”

  Although Toby had two long scars instead of two ears, he seemed perfectly happy, and Symon had accepted the advice of never putting him again in a dog fight. Freia’s own future glowed. She moved in that same day. And she explored her new domain.

  Upstairs now stood a bed with worn wooden posts and a roped base beneath a mattress of fleece so thick she could not lift it to turn. It was soft, however, and would welcome her each sweet night. She had already ordered brand new clothes from the tailor, a simple smock but of good linen with a lace collar, a sleek gown of cotton with a high waist and sweeping sleeves for special occasions, a very warm cloak, and bright new shoes from the cobbler. She bought second-hand furniture from the warehouse near the Bridge., platters, bowls, a basin and mortar for pounding, saucepans, a separate cauldron, knives and spoons, and a huge pile of herbal ingredients for sale once prepared as medicines. Freia also bought blankets, feather pillows, bed linen, and a thick tasselled canopy to top the posts for protecting the sleeper from small unwelcome things that tumbled in the night, those residents of the roof cavity; cockroaches, slaters, lice, mice and spiders. She did not bother to buy bed-curtains, since she had no need of them and felt no desire to close herself off from the world, nor to increase the darkness around her. The second upstairs chamber was very small, so this she used as a garderobe, bought pegs on which to hang her new clothes, and a warm rug on which to perch her chamber pot.