The Corn

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Jak shook his head, aware of being embarrassingly hatless. “A perfectly sensible wish, I agree,” he said, “except that we are not betrothed, and I confess, unlikely to be so.” He watched her frown and smiled. “Are you so eager to marry? You can’t be more than fourteen. And there are far better prospects on the market-slab than me, I promise.”

  Mistress Rayne clicked her tongue. “Is marriage just like a butcher’s shop then? Well, my mother wanted young Lord Mereck for me and King Ram for Jally, but it seems he went and died instead. So being older, she’s got Lord Mereck, and she said I’d get you. I wouldn’t object. You’re really nice looking.”

  “I am nice. But not nice enough for you.”

  She thought a moment. “I could stop eating for a few days if that bothers you, and then I wouldn’t be plump anymore. Jally says men don’t like fat girls.”

  Jak Lydiard suppressed a smile. “Some men do. And you’re not fat.”

  “I’m thirteen,” said Rayne, “so not that young. And you’re not old, are you?”

  Jak’s mouth twitched. “I wish you a happy marriage and a decent husband one day,” he said. “For the moment, enjoy the freedom of youth.”

  “Maman and Papa say you’re handsome and clever,” Rayne announced, refusing to surrender. “Well, you’re certainly very handsome. We could have plump and pretty children.”

  The girl was clearly extremely young, innocent and somewhat idiotic, but the fault was her parent’s. He was becoming bored and made a decision. “No more,” he told her. “We are closing in on dangerous topics, and your father will be cross if he catches us.” Privately he thought it quite likely that Master Verney and his wife were watching smugly from the upper casements, delighted to see him compromising himself with their daughter. “Besides,” Jak continued, “no girl should have children before turning fifteen. I’m delighted to have met you, but I’m marrying nobody and nor should you. Go back to your toys and dolls and bambolas.”

  “Puppets?” she declared. “At my age? How patronising.”

  “That just shows you,” Jak grinned.” I’m poor, pompous, pickle brained and patronising too. You don’t want me.”

  At the steps down to the little bobbing quay, Jak threw the coin to the

  wherryman, but turned and briefly looked back. The small girl was still standing on the garden path, bright hair curling almost to her waist, one hand shading her eyes as she looked out towards him. She waved once.

  While deciding whether to bother waving back, Jak realised that two squat men, wearing clothes he recognised, were trudging up the path towards the chambers next to the Verney’s. The thieves from the previous night who had nearly killed his friend were evidently visiting Kallivan. He continued to watch until they were no longer visible behind the hedges.

  Jak stood a moment. The wherry was waiting. He climbed down into the little boat, sat abruptly, and set off for the centre of the city.

  At the top of the stone steps to his palace quarters, Kallivan quickly paid the assassins he had hired, but gave them only a handful of quarter pennies between them. They had not succeeded and admitted it. He then returned indoors, slammed the door shut, and faced his mistress.

  Lady Valeria Lydiard sat naked to the waist on a well cushioned settle, her hair unpinned, and her hands clasped on her skirted lap. Only her large breasts sat smug and snug, the brown nipples pointing at her lover.

  “Damnation, shit and pigswill,” Kallivan swore beneath his breath. “The fools failed. Are your city gangs so pathetic?”

  “You think I know who controls the back streets and the brothels?” Valeria demanded. “I came here for something quite different, and it’s you, my lord, who did the bodice ripping.”

  “Not ripped,” Kallivan said, kicking at the grey material lying at her feet. “And much as I enjoy our games, my dear, I’ve now lost every desire, even to thrash your ripe pink arse or fuck you with the poker. It’s your step-son I want to murder and see him lying bleeding in the mud.”

  Although a considerable number of years older than Kallivan, Valeria’s breasts sat high and full, attending with a slight wobble to her lover’s words. “So we enjoy the same games,” she said. “And I’m very fond of you, Kallivan. But I’m not sitting here waiting until you get a hard-on. It’s a full erection I expect, or it’ll be the poker up your arse, my dear.”

  He turned away. “Don’t be a fool, Valeria, you know I’d kill you without hesitation. What I desire at the moment is to slaughter your step-son. Killing your grey-witted husband can be left to someone else. But I’ll arrange it. I’ll threaten some wilted whore at the Bridge Brothel and get the name of the best assassin in the Lower City. I believed I knew him, some ugly monstrous foul-prick I said I’d pay for a good job. He gave me the names of the two I hired, who fell flat on their stupid noses. I may go back to him or find another.”

  “Just get the job done as quickly as possible.” The Lady Lydiard sat bolt upright and pursed her lips as though tasting something sour.

  Kallivan looked up quickly. “And don’t imagine your fine self coming to me after your husband’s dead and gone. I’ve most definitely no intention of marrying you, my dear. There’s nothing less likely. I fuck you, yes. We both like the twists and the game-shit. But I dislike you, Valeria, which adds pleasure to the fucking but nothing else. I find your company boring unless my prick’s up your arse. I intend getting my own arse on that damned throne, and you’ll not be sitting beside me.”

  Blushing and almost controlling her temper, she spat her answer. “I don’t want you either. I want your prick and your hands, and your tongue, and the words you say when we’re both in the mood. As for wanting marriage, no, I do not. I want my husband’s title and wealth, and then I want my freedom.”

  “Then put away those flopping balloons,” Kallivan told her. “I’m going out to find a decent killer. And then I shall go straight to the one fool I know on the council. I demand backing for my claim to the throne. Time is floating too slowly.”

  He pulled his cloak from the peg, tied the hood tightly beneath his chin, and buckled on his long sword. He was, he knew well, immediately recognisable to those who had seen him before or had simply heard of him, for the matt white of his hair and the pale blue glass of his eyes was not seen on any other man. At the market of the commoners, run by the gangs, he intended remaining entirely anonymous, and equally when approaching the council.

  He still intended joining them one day and would wear the even heavier disguise of the tumbleweed gown, long to the feet and high to the chin, with the deep hooded tumbleweed cape over it. He would be king, council member, and ruler of the entire country. Life would change, not only for him, but for the rich and poor alike.

  With the grandest living quarters in the court’s secondary level of importance, quarters which almost qualified for the first level of importance, it seemed unlikely that any young lord would choose to live elsewhere. Yet Jak cheerfully relinquished his grand chambers and acquired something far less luxurious but far more private.

  He found court life resembled life in a back street slum, with everyone else watching, spying, knowing your business, and passing on the gossip and rumour. If he got pissed, which was happening more often, and stumbled home past the mid-hours of the night, the rumour would tell that he had been so entirely cupshotten that he fainted on his own doorstep, puked in the bushes, and didn’t get to his own bed until past dawn.

  More interesting and less pleasant were the conspiracies, the sniggering behind each woman’s back by the other women, and the plots bringing vice to the innocent. It was cheap. The king’s purse paid for accommodation, stabling, all food on the premises including feasts, firewood and an allowance of candles. But Jak didn’t claim poverty or reliance on the throne. He claimed freedom without gossip and bitter hatreds behind his back. He left the court, left his father, his step-mother and his friends.

  There was a tidy hearth in the principal solar and a smaller one in the main bedchambe
r, all reached by a narrow staircase accessed from the stable block at the back, or the corridor from the rear of the shop below. The four rooms were light with pleasantly sized windows, deep window seats, heavy beamed ceilings and a rollicking roistering bustle and hum from the busy streets below. No grand Hall, no kitchen quarters, and no space for live-in servants, but there was a bathtub which could be brought up from the barn behind the stables, a garderobe with a privy which emptied directly into the cesspit at the back, a comfortable adequacy of furniture and an iron cauldron hanging within the principal hearth, which could be swung over the open fire should the occupant nurse an unlikely desire to heat his own supper.

  Jak kept Giles his groom, who would sleep above the stable, and hired a small contingency of other servants, who would work on a daily basis, filled the cellars with a decent wine and ale from the nearest brewery, organised the local pie shop and bakehouse to deliver on a regular basis, and settled back to enjoy what he could of his freedom, even if it had to be alone.

  This was not a grand apartment, but Jak was not a grand lord. In comparison to the common man, he would be considered pleasantly wealthy, even wonderfully rich. But in comparison to the lords themselves, the great traders, bankers, royal emissaries and family, ambassadors, and the members of the Council, Jak was way down the list. Lydiard was not a prosperous state, being little more than hills, mountains and forest.

  At the front, peering across at the houses of trade and banking which tucked in between the shops like a purse hidden safe between doublet and coat, the haberdashery was all colour and pride with hats and feathers, veils and gauze, hosiery and ready-made shifts, kerchiefs and petticoats. Double fronted, gleaming with polish and silk, the shop did a thriving business. Jak lounged at the windows above, surveying the dash of customers entering below, the sudden black plumed shadow of a raven through the clouds, and the melting sludge of rain and rubbish across the cobbles. His father knew where he had gone but was unlikely to visit. Some friends were as always far too busy, but Mereck, once out of his sickbed, would come sometimes. Yet it was the youngest Verney daughter Jak first recognised passing by, strolling arm in arm with her sister and on the following day chatting happily to her accompanying maid. She began to shop in Pratt Street with unexpected frequency, especially enjoying the many delights of the grand haberdashery, buying more soft woollen stockings than she could possibly wear in a lifetime. Indeed, Mistress Rayne came almost every day to the vicinity and invariably glanced up, looking briefly, blushing slightly, towards the upper windows.

  “Why, the young lady bought garters, my lord,” explained the young assistant downstairs, surprised at his lordship’s question. “Mistress Rayne Verney is a discerning customer, my lord, and has twice bought garters this ten-day. We sell a superior quality, sir, of silk ribbons caught in a small bow that will not slip, nor protrude through the smooth lines of the skirts.”

  A little sunshine and sudden blossoming bushes and flowers brought an early spring. Golden rays peeked through the clouds and spangled across the first spiders’ webs and the slick of the previous days’ rain, tracing dragonfly sparkles on the river. Daisies clustered along the banks where grass grew through the flood lines, and birds searched for the first fat beetles and the tiny scuttling pink crabs. Tadpoles wriggled their tiny black tails, excited to be alive. But where the popular little apothecary’s shop fronted the river there was neither blade of grass nor flower, for the landing stage was paved where once wine kegs had been winched from barge to bank.

  Feep said, “Wary, mistress, if you’ve the sense I reckon you has. Sounds a mean faddle-riddle to me.”

  Freia said, “He’s probably a perfectly nice young gentleman.” But there was no point being prim with Feep, who already knew far too much about her. So she added, “But of course I don’t want him anyway, whoever he is. You know that. I don’t want any suitors at all.”

  “Then never mind the feminines and the respekibles,” sniffed Feep. “If you means no – so then you says no.”

  “I’ve no wish to offend anyone,” Freia sighed. “Hopefully if I don’t think any more about it, it will all just go away.”

  Feep snorted. “You ain’t no way dafter than most,” he declared, arranging the small labelled pots in the downstairs window. “And you makes yer own choices, mistress, and reckon that choice orta be a bloody big no.”

  “Well,” Freia said, pulling on her cloak, “I’d guess the suitor himself comes from Bembitt. If I knew that for sure, ‘my no’ would be shouted from the attic window. But I don’t want to insult a decent man who seems to like me.”

  “Women!” Feep dismissed the situation.

  “It’s more Bembitt’s fault,” Freia said. “So let us complain of ‘men. But in the meantime, I have shopping to do, and you must guard the shop.”

  “From Shammites and pirates,” sniggered Feep, “wiv me knife up me sleeve where me kerchief orta be.”

  But it was from the pale man she believed she needed protection.

  The very first time the pale man entered the shop, Freia was surprised. She had already seen him at least a dozen times passing by, watching the door and staring at her from the riverbank, and all without explanation. But when he actually strolled in, she heard her own heartbeat quicken and immediately stepped back into the shadows behind the cooking fire. She never sat in the doorway as many shopkeepers did, but the door always stood wide, with the window shutters tipped down into an outside counter, balanced on two uneven legs. There was no way to quickly shut someone out. But she braced herself, ladle in hand.

  The pale man was impatient and when no one came to serve him, called, “Here, girl. Can’t you see you have a customer?” He strolled to the firelight, his flat hair and bleached skin suddenly catching the ruddy reflections. Freia wiped her hands on her apron and hurried forwards. The man said, “So what do you have, girl, for the – gout?”

  Although never having claimed to inherit her mother’s magical senses, her predictions nor her insight, now Freia had a feeling of cold dread, and was frightened without even knowing why. “My lord,” he looked like a lord in his damasks and fine linens, though his collar hung loose, and his shirt was creased, “I might offer a tonic of colchicum and myrtle leaf, and I would advise the suffering limb kept raised when possible, massaged gently with goose grease – I have some recently churned – and then well wrapped in cerecloths. If your lordship would like –”

  “I will take the tonic and the salve,” the pale man interrupted, flipping a handful of pennies onto the counter. “How much, girl?”

  “Three kamps for the tonic, my lord, and a penny for the ointment.” He left the four silver pennies, turned on his heel and began to march from the shop. But at the door, he turned, as though thinking of something else less important, which had only just occurred to him. He said, “A friend of mine was recently ill, and suspected poison. Do you sell poisons, girl?”

  “Never, my lord,” Freia said, stuttering.

  “And if my friend was poisoned indeed,” the man said, “what might he have taken?”

  “As poison, or a cure, my lord?”

  “As poison, fool.” Kallivan stood rigid, staring without emotion.

  “I have no idea,” Freia lied. “I do not make poisons, my lord, nor do I know anyone else who does so.”

  “Fisheyes,” Freia said to Feep later that evening. “Dead eyes. Lustreless scales on the slab. If he comes again, Feep, you have to follow him.”

  “Get noddled?” objected Feep. “You reckon I growed up in the country fields wiv them mucky cows or sommit? Don’t be daft. If you want’s to know who the bugger is, then that’s wot I’ll find out.”

  Two days later, he came again. Courtiers without courtesy and gentlemen without gentle manners or charm were common enough. But somehow the pale and nameless man-made Freia shiver as though he brought winter with him. On the second brief entrance, he announced a new distemper and a new need for palliative.

  “Well, girl. The
dysentery. What cure have you to offer?” But he was looking directly up at the little dark green bottles on the top shelf where dust instead of labels spoke their contents to him.

  “That condition is notoriously difficult to treat, sir,” Freia answered, unwedging the stopper from a small jar. The sweet scent of mint mixed with rue vinegar rose like perfumed smoke from a candle. “This is a medicine which is not always perfect but comes with hope.”

  “Stupid female. I am not interested in hope,” the pale man snapped. “It is – hopelessness that attracts me, and the purchase of your more precious and secretive merchandise. For what will not cure, may perform some other more important service.”

  Immediately understanding and even more frightened, Freia shook her head, whispering “I sell no medicines of hopelessness pain, or death, my lord.”

  He stared back with uninhabited eyes. “Then you are of no use to me.” And he left the shop.

  Part III

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I’ve been so happy, and I love my shop, the customers and friendliness it brings me, the sunshine and the river outside my door. I love lighting my little fire and heating wine when it’s a cold morning or flinging open my shop window when it’s warm. Still hopeful of discovering Jak – or for Jak to discover me, sometimes I wake feeling like bubbles, floating or jumping. I have more friends than ever in my life. Not real friends, perhaps, since they don’t invite me to their homes, and I don’t invite them to mine. But they stand and chatter and ask me about myself and my son. Not my son, I tell them, but what they think really doesn’t matter.

  Money was no longer the problem, which was a blessing I constantly remembered, having coin boxes from my so-called father under my bed, coin boxes from Symon in my garderobe, and coin boxes from King Ram in my cellar beside the empty wine tuns. I bought Feep a new costume. “Livery,” I said. “Which makes you an official apprentice.”