The Corn

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Freia turned her back. “I’d kill you first.”

  Bembitt glared. “It may interest you to know that my other interests put your paltry profits far into the shade. Indeed, I am involved in a business of significance and political hierarchy. You could never understand such subtle matters, of course, but you should at least recognise the value of those who do.”

  “I don’t believe it. You’re as subtle as an ox.”

  “You are only a woman,” sniffed Master Bembitt. “How could you possibly understand? I should not even have told you, but no matter. Get back to your cook pots and your noisome recipes, madam, while I return to recipes of a very different kind.”

  “So why,” Freia demanded, turning once more to glare at him, “did you come here to visit my shop, since we no longer have any shared business and you know exactly how much I dislike you?”

  Managing a one-sided leer, he said, “I’ve got a reason, A damned good reason. You’ll find out soon enough.”

  Freia frowned into her cauldron. “I’ve no wish ever to see you again, Master Bembitt, and you have no reason ever to come here. Symon must have thoroughly explained the situation to you, and I believe he must also have explained what would surely happen to you if you disobeyed him. As for your intention of assassinating some lord or other, I don’t wish to know. I simply hope you’re caught and imprisoned or executed.”

  He stared, his face pale. “He had no right to tell you that.”

  “And,” Freia looked up, “you have no right to do it. “

  She had expected a slump in business over the colder winters season for the short days and long nights kept the city folk tied to their fire-warmed homes,, but the new young apothecary sometimes saw the lords and their ladies boating on the river in their bright gilded barges, or the ordinary folk walking past in the brief glimpses of winter sun. And both rich and poor came to the shop too, looking for cures for overindulgence; the curse of the season. Then another visitor, entirely unexpected, altered everything.

  Feep called, “There’s a proper dressed up lord to see you, mistress.”

  Freia had left Feep to mind the shop. Indulging the sin of idleness, she was sitting upstairs in her bedchamber, warming her hands at the brazier and staring, blank eyed into the coals as they spat soot. Her thoughts were of Jak, of her mother, and of the world’s wickedness which sent disease, raped little boys, and had murdered a good woman who had saved more than a hundred dying victims like Jak.

  Feep’s voice spun her back. “He won’t let me serve him. The lord says he’ll talk only to you, mistress.”

  For a moment, Freia stopped breathing. But it could not be him, so she pinned up the curls tumbling loose, and hurried down the stairs. Then she stood and stared until she realised her mouth was open, shut it with a snap and quickly nodded to Feep. “Wait upstairs,” she told him. “Tend the brazier.” Then she turned back to the man before her, clasped her hands at her waist to keep them steady, and inhaled deeply. He had not changed much, but then, it had been less than a year. He was a little wider perhaps and more loose jawed, but his eyes remained cold and hard. He was grandly dressed, the trimmings of his gown were marten, and his doublet was brocaded velvet with heavily slashed sleeves.

  “You’ve been asking after my son,” said Lord Lydiard.

  It was, at first, hard to answer. It was hard to breathe. She didn’t trust him. “I have.” She stared, making no polite attempt to avert her eyes. “But I would not expect you to help me. You risked his life when you dragged him away. And you knew they’d killed my mother.”

  “I had no hand in that,” said Lord Lydiard.

  “I know,” Freia said. “But you were our lord and the overseer of justice. You could have stopped it.”

  Lord Lydiard shook his head and scowled. “The people needed to cleanse the village of the pestilence. There’s only one way to ask any god’s mercy and forgiveness. Someone had to carry the guilt. You must know that.”

  “You love your Church and call yourselves civilised. Then you practise cruel sacrifice on the innocent.”

  “I haven’t come here to discuss religion,” Lord Lydiard said. “I’ve come here to tell you something. It’s important.”

  He was looking at her face to face, for he was not a tall man, she glared back. “To tell me to stop looking for Jak? And to forget my mother? I know what she was and what she did. You know it too. You made very good use of that in the past.”

  “More use than you know.” He held out his hand and she saw he was holding her own key. He had locked her door behind him. “Take it. But I have certain things to say and we must not be disturbed.” He walked past, his bulk pushing against her, and strode to the back of the shop by the wide hearth and away from the rattle of the front door and any peering customers. Lord Lydiard then seated himself in the one stiff-backed chair and looked into the fire as she so often did herself. She stood behind him, waiting. “Yes, I’m here to tell you to leave my son alone,” he said to the little flames. “It’s been some time I’ve known you were living here, and I’ve been informed of your questions. A few have come, smiling, telling me the new little apothecary chit on the edge of the Lower City has taken a secret fancy to my handsome son. Damned women and their damned determined intrusions.” He paused and sighed. “I’ve done my best to keep my son away from you, but sooner or later he’ll discover you’re here. Bound to. You’re too close.” Godfrey Lydiard looked up suddenly, twisting around and staring up at Freia where she stood. He was glaring. “Jak maybe thinks himself in love. But that’s just youthful foolishness for he’s a duty to marry someone of his own rank and knows it. He’ll be pledged to wed before the year is out. He’s my heir, so I intend arranging a good match.”

  “He’s pledged to me,” said Freia quietly.

  “So I understand,” said Lord Lydiard. “He informed me. But it does not stand. He’s admitted there was no actual marriage. Youthful nonsenses, no more. But naturally, he has been searching for you too.”

  “I hoped – I thought he would,” Freia whispered.

  “He’s resourceful. And you, my girl, you’re a damned sight more visible than you were before,” said Lord Lydiard. “I came south last summer, dragging the boy from his sick-bed to keep him safe from you – then dammit, found you’d set up business right here. So I packed Jak off north again. He returned to Lydiard for a month or so, but then came back here for the winter season. Now – well, where he is now is my business.”

  “I swear,” said Freia, words tumbling, “if you only let us, let him find me, allow us to be together – I swear I’d be the most dutiful and loyal daughter-in-law you could ever possibly imagine. I’d do anything in my power to serve him and all your family. That may not seem much, but I’m respectable now. I wouldn’t be such a humiliation. I even have a little money. Would the shame be – so great?”

  He let her finish, and then the pause lengthened into silence. Finally, he turned again in the chair and looked at her more calmly. “You’re a pretty child, Freia,” he said, “as I’d expect from Hyr’s daughter. Have you ever wondered about your father?”

  Freia shook her head. “I have none,” she said.

  “Of course you have one,” snapped Lord Lydiard. “And for that reason, you must never again search for my son, or pretend you’re pledged to him, or in any way try to reach him. And if he finds you, you must tell him you’re no longer interested. Tell him you’re not free to accept his courting any longer. You must do all this for his sake, but also for your own.”

  “I can’t be threatened – or bribed,” whispered Freia. “And I think you’re quite mad.” She gulped. “Did you – hate my father, then?”

  The fat lord didn’t even smile. “No, I’m remarkably fond of your father, as it happens, child. And once I was more than fond of your mother.”

  “Mad,” spluttered Freia, swallowing back the wild guess.

  “Not mad, child, nor even threatening.” Lord Lydiard stood suddenly, throwing back the
sleeves of his gown, its long open skirts swirling away from his heavy calf muscles and the brocaded swell of his belly. He stared at Freia before striding again to the front of the shop. There he stopped, and turned, speaking softly. “There is a reason, which I can no longer prove now that your mother is dead. But you could never wed my son, not simply because a foolish peasant wench cannot aspire to marry a lord, nor just for fear of my disapproval. But because the sin of it would mean eternal damnation. The worst sin, that of incest. Do you hear me, girl? Do you understand? You will have to take my word for it. But I do not lie. This is hardly something I would lie about.”

  “I don’t understand you,” Freia whispered.

  “I think you do,” said Lord Lydiard. “You’re not a fool and I think you follow me perfectly well.” The corners of his mouth relaxed a moment as if about to smile, then hardened again. “When I threw you out of my house after finding you in Jak’s bed, did you simply think me morally outraged? Absurd. I’d have been pleased enough to find a strumpet in my son’s arms, proving his health finally on the mend.” Once again his mouth softened but his voice rose. He said, “I am your father, witch’s daughter. I sired you, and even thought to love your mother, many years ago when Jak was small and very sick. I called her to his bedside, but it was not the first time I’d met her. Your mother nursed him, cured him, and enchanted me. You are my daughter. You are my son’s half-sister and you must never again try to find him.”

  Freia shook her head wildly, curls tumbling, whispering, “You must be lying. It can’t be true. Why did you never acknowledge me before, then? Why did my mother never tell me? Lords accept their bastards. But you never accepted me. If you loved her – why did you hate me? Why?”

  “I’ve not come here to explain myself,” Lord Lydiard straightened his back, stared at her briefly, then strode to the door. “Back then, there were rumours – my wife – murder – poison – and acknowledging you would have brought up suspicions of other – worse sins. Besides, your mother was a vixen. She wanted no man’s hand in her mothering and at first, she never told me.” He stood a moment, then took the key from her limp hands and unlocked the door he had recently locked himself. “But as I’ve said, it’s not myself I’m speaking of. I’ll neither explain nor excuse myself. Quite simply, you’ll listen, and you’ll obey.” He handed her back the key. “Remember, and be warned,” he continued quietly, close into her ear, so the coarse stubble of his cheek scratched hers. “If you ever tell this story to my son, or to anyone else, I will deny it. But it is the truth, and although you may not have much regard for the High-Priest’s sermons, incest is considered the most loathsome of all crimes against all the gods and all humanity and those who commit such a crime will be eaten by demons at their death. You may not even care about your own soul, but if you’re the cause of my Jak’s everlasting punishment, then you will be lost indeed. Remember that, as long as you live. I do not ever expect to repeat it, and will not see you again, unless your actions force me to it.”

  He had gone into the alley’s shadows before Freia could reply. She stood on her doorstep, clutching her key and trailing her skirts in the mud.

  It was the blinding sparkle from the light on the river that finally aroused her, and then Feep’s hand, tugging at her gown. He said, “You’re gonna have to tell me all about it. Otherwise, I won’t know how to help.”

  She continued to gaze at the water, the sudden deep billow of ripples as a swan fished, tail up, and returned to air satisfied, creamy perfect, scarcely a glitter of wet feather on its long neck. How strange for the world to continue as usual, when it should have come to an end.

  “It’s far too late for help,” murmured Freia. She sighed then and looked down at Feep. “I suppose you listened attentively from upstairs. And I’m sure you heard everything. If you don’t understand it all, it doesn’t matter. Like you used to say to me, I don’t matter.”

  “So you had a lover? So what?” Feep was tugging her back beside the fire’s warmth. “No harm done anyhow. Girls is always falling in love. They seems to like it that way.”

  “Jak wasn’t my lover,” said Freia, just whispers lost in the shadows. “He wouldn’t let me be. I was always so sorry about that, but now I suppose it was for the best. At least I can still love him. Once I loved him as a friend, and now I can love him as a brother.”

  “I never had no proper friends,” smiled Feep. “I never had no brother, neither.”

  “Nor did I. But now I have even acquired a father,” said Freia, “though he is one I don’t want. And I think the nightmares are back.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  He stood with his back to them, hands clasped behind him, and looked out from the great glassed window to the river beyond, it had been snowing for a ten-day.

  The slightly older man sprawled on the settle, legs stretched to the hearth, staying silent, chewing his lip. His thumbs were hooked into the fastenings of his doublet, the laces loose.

  The third man leaned against the mantel, his elbow to the great wooden slab supporting the height of the hearth. His face was underlit by flame, turning his smile cerise. “Oh, come on, Jak.” The third man’s voice remained soft. “Where’s the Lydiard laugh we all love? You know every man at court would be as envious as hell and determined to hate you for your looks if it weren’t for that laugh. Infectious good nature, Jak dear, and faithful Lydiard humour even in the face of disaster.”

  Jak Lydiard said, “Or simple bovine bluster, perhaps, but wear the purple velvet and the green striped stockings again, and I promise to laugh tomorrow.” But his voice remained expressionless and he did not turn around.

  The second man remained relaxed, stretched one foot further towards the flames, and inspected his fingernails. “Such disapproval, my lord. Such youthful naiveté. So who is it, I wonder, who has abandoned the manners of the court, my lord? You accuse me of speaking beyond my powers, out of turn, and in place of your father where your father has failed to speak. But I put it to you, my lord, that what I say is from kindness, and because of your mother’s concern.”

  “My step-mother,” Jak murmured, “who has no concern for me.” He did not turn. “And I must point out that your attitude of elderly, even paternal superiority is naive in itself sir, since you are not yet turned thirty.”

  “Ten years older than you, Jak. And ten years more of life and wisdom.” The older man not yet in his thirties shook his head. His hair was dull like unsieved straw or hay from the horses’ trough, sun-bleached perhaps, or simply devoid of tint. Cut a little short in a fashion now out-moded it did not gleam in the candle-light nor catch the fire’s sheen. His lips were colourless, and they moved very little when he spoke. He said, “Forgive me for suggesting, my lord, that indeed it is not myself who ignores the manners of the nobility on this occasion. Is it another, I believe? Perhaps yourself, sir?”

  Unmoving, Jak appeared frozen and continued to stare through the window, where the corners of each small pane were now frosted, collecting snow crystals in their leaden angles. Outside the snow had banked along the little used lanes, a dark foot patterned sludge where people walked, a deep white hedge where no one passed. Between road and sky, a dithering dance of falling snow obscured the shadows and turned the silent world white. But within the chamber, the world was crimson as the warmth sparkled with firelight and candle shimmer.

  “Mereck,” Jak said quietly, addressing only the younger man behind him, “these are your quarters, and I apologise for an abrupt departure. But at this time, and proffered in this manner, I am uninterested in your proposition, as I beg you will explain to his lordship. Any future alliance between my family and that of Pitten, Lord Verney should be first presented to my father, Lord Lydiard. I do not consider propositions put to me by Sir Kallivan, who is no member of my family and who does not command either my trust or my friendship.” Jak turned abruptly, swept up his gloves and hat from the table, and with a swirl of soft wool and sable, he left the room. He closed the door gently
behind him. A little draught floated past as the door closed. The candle flames in the little chandelier bounced and blinked, and the fire spat sudden soot.

  It was several hours later, and still snowing. The Grey Hair was almost empty, and those few men drinking kept as close to the tavern’s hearth as they might. Across in the shadows where the chill was acute, the alcove, with its three stools and one small table, was occupied. Two men sat. Jak had his feet up on the third stool and leaned back against the wall. His cup was empty. “I won’t deal with the man, Kallivan. What in heaven’s name made you go through him?”

  “Verney,” said Mereck simply. “He knows I know you. He knows Sir Kallivan since the wretched man lives in the next court apartment along. What’s more, he knows Kallivan knows you. Happy families, and all that. And with our good King Ram now quite dead and not yet replaced, Verney wants honest, noble sons-in-law, titles for his grandsons and a little additional wealth and property hopefully included in the bargain. So he’s testing the wind’s direction. Pickled parsnips, Jak, with all the richest daughters already married off to any worthwhile proposition across the entire country, there’s not many of us left of marriageable age.”

  “I’m not disputing my damned tedious eligibility,” Jak snapped, reaching for the jug of ale on the table. “It’s Kallivan I’m objecting to.” Jak refilled his cup and passed the jug to his companion. “So come through my father in the usual way – don’t sidestep through my step-mother’s damned lover.”

  Mereck looked interested for the first time. “Is she? Is he?”

  “The man irritates me,” Jak frowned. “I’ve resented the woman for long enough. Now there’s her wretched prick-player poking his long white fingers into my affairs. He has no right within the family circle, but he sits in judgement, and he appears at every opportunity. He pretends a genial concern. But I neither trust it, believe it, nor want it. Indeed, I’m suspicious of his supposed attraction to my step-mother. To Valeria, may all the gods shake their heads. She’s twice his age or damn near it.”