The Corn

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  It made no sense to me. I looked back to the scarlet and golden man. “Have you any idea what all this is about?” I handed his paper back to him.

  “Naturally, madam,” he informed me, and his chest swelled with pride. “Indeed, I have been commissioned by the High-Council with the information which must remain highly secret from now until after you have attended the coronation itself. The new king’s identity is of extreme importance and cannot be known yet, neither by the lords nor the common citizens, the date of the king’s first appearance is also utterly private and cannot yet be announced. You do not know either, but your knowledge exceeds others, since you know the name of the king has been decided, and a sovereign will soon rule Eden once more.”

  “So I can’t tell anyone? I don’t mind. It’s all a puzzle anyway. But, the biggest puzzle of all, why me?”

  “That is one thing I do not know myself, madam.” He stared back, unperturbed. “But if you accept, you must sign your name to the bottom of this paper. If you cannot write, you must either write your initial, or leave a cross.”

  “Since I read the paper,” I glowered, “it’s fairly plain I can write too. But I’m not sure whether to accept.”

  The official, after all the bother and hassle, looked extremely impatient. “Why not?” he demanded, sounding considerably less authoritative.

  Actually, I didn’t really know. It was just all so strange. I had nothing to do with kings, and although I had met, treated and almost cured King Ram, he had died anyway. I thought myself under suspicion rather than waiting for reward. Besides, there must surely be many others living in my area, others, who were far more important. Some even who worked at the palace. I had too – but only as a laundry girl. And did I want rows and rows of dressed up strangers staring at me? Including a king. A king, for pity’s sake? “What would I have to wear?” I asked.

  “Your costume would be supplied,” he told me. He regarded my long grey tunic devoid of any decoration except a stained white apron, and almost smiled. “This would be a gown of luxury, which you would be permitted to keep.”

  That was tempting. I still had money, but expensive clothes could cost a fortune, and I had no reason to own one, except for my own pleasure. “And I’d just dress up and come and sit at the palace, and then go home again?”

  “You would,” said my visitor, “present his majesty with a small object of some kind, which would be given to you before you entered the great hall. You would say the words which you would first have to learn by repetition. But this would be easy. Just six or seven words. Then curtsey to the king, back away, and sit down again until the whole thing’s over.”

  I began to think it might be fun. With a small hiccup, probably insecurity, I spoke quickly before I could change my mind. “Alright, I’ll do it. As long as it’s not tomorrow or anything.”

  “It will not be within such short notice,” he said. “So sign here.” He pressed one bulbous finger-tip to the paper I now held.

  I signed. The ink smudged. The official thanked me, turned, and left. I immediately locked the door behind him and sat back down beside the hot ashes of my fire. It was distinctly odd, but I could see no reason to mistrust any of it. No one would murder me in front of the king, surely. And why would anyone want to murder me anyway? I might even become memorable and gain more good customers at the shop.

  Secrets. It had to be utterly secret. So I told Feep the next day.

  “But you can’t tell anyone,” I insisted. “It’s really important, Feep dear, so please, please, please don’t tell another soul. Not even Symon.”

  “He ain’t here to tell nuffing.”

  I wished he was. “No. But he’ll be home soon. In the meantime, I had a most unexpected visitor last night.” And I told Feep all about it.

  “Bloody walloping pig’s liver,” he exclaimed. “Be that true? Or was some fiddler making a flaming tease?”

  “It’s true.” Well, I hoped it was now I’d signed and accepted. I had a vague hope which drifted at the back of my mind. I wasn’t going to speak about it, and I didn’t even want to admit it to myself, but I couldn’t help wondering if Lord Lydiard, Jak himself, would be at something so important as a coronation. That idea began to fizzle in my head, if he sat amongst a hundred of the nobility, all dripping in velvet and lace, I still thought I would see him. He would be as handsome as always, and how could I miss him!

  Even more positive was the likelihood that he would notice me. If I walked up to the throne with some silly nonsense in my hands to present, then Jak must see me. And if any crumb of interest remained, he might then be reminded, and ask who I was and where to find me.

  For two nights, I went to bed as happy as a child with new shoes. All over again, those same old hopes tumbled into my mind like bubbles, as brightly coloured as a lord’s clothes. Even had I been demented enough to forget, I would have been reminded by Feep, who constantly grinned, called me Proper Mistress of the Coronation, and asked me if I’d be popping the crown on the new king’s handsome and honourable head. “Reckon they orta ask you,” he said, “there ain’t no one else wot’s done saved a king’s bloody useless life.”

  “Since he died anyway, my act of magnanimous clemency was fairly pointless.”

  “Don’t be daft. You dun says them big buggering words just fer muddling me up,” he cackled, “I knows. I ain’t bloody stooped. Asides, since we dunno who this next king gotta be, I reckons tis gonna be a right ugly bugger. Just as long as ain’t the pale man.”

  A shivering thought, but too absurd to worry me.

  It was on the third day that two more visitors came into my open shop, although not together, and I didn’t want either of them.

  Firstly it was my increasingly boring suitor who pushed his way in. Bryte was looking rather pleased with himself. I asked him what the big grin was for, and he shrugged. “My delight at seeing you, Freia my dear.”

  I let this sickly over-affection pass and told him I was busy. I was. Three customers were poking their noses into my jars of herbs, and one woman was helping herself to a pinch of cinnabar. But as I moved towards her, Bryte put out his hand. Annoyed, I brushed him off, and served each of the women, all wanting something different. Unfortunately, when I had finished and the shop seemed empty again, I looked around and the wretched creature was still there, arms crossed, leaning back against the wall. “You can see I’m busy,” I told him. “And I couldn’t accept any invitations, I’m afraid. There’s too much to do.”

  “My invitation is far too important to ignore,” he said with obvious satisfaction. “I’ve just completed an extremely good business deal. Money galore, my dear.”

  “I’m not your dear,” I said with increasing rudeness. He was getting on my nerves as usual. “And congratulations on your business. That’s very nice for you. But honestly, Master Bryte, I shall have to end this friendship. I’m not after your money, and I’m not after your company.”

  His eyes snapped and clicked cold. His smug smile had been warm. Now his mouth was a small slit in a hard face, and his eyes were ice. I’d never seen him look like this before and the sudden change ensured my rejection. “Madam,” he said with echoing clarity, “I have spent a good deal of my time at your side and spent a fortune on you at the recent festival. I have no intention of disappearing, and I suggest you understand something most important. I am well aware that you have an abundant wealth yourself, and now that I also have a growing balance, together we could live a prosperous and comfortable life.”

  My own voice now matched his, clear and cold. “I told you before, Master Bryte, I had no intention of marrying you or anyone else. And since it now appears that we don’t even like each other, I hardly think our life together would be at all comfortable.” I walked forwards. “Now I’d appreciate your leaving.”

  He grabbed my wrist. Swinging me around to face him, my wrist twisted, and I gulped. “We’d be comfortable because we’d hardly ever see each other. You’d continue to work here during
the day, and I’d continue my own work. I’d be back here at night of course, supper ready and into bed, I’d fuck you most nights, then leave you alone. Your brat Feep would have to go, of course.”

  “Have you any idea how revolting that sounds?” I yelled at him, managing to free my wrist. “A comfortable life together? It sounds more like torture. Now get out.”

  With his long sharp nose in the air, Bryte left without another word. Two more customers entered so I barely had time to think about anything else. It was an hour later that I sank down on the chair and nearly burst into tears.

  But I was interrupted. “Bloody Hell,” sneered Bembitt. “Snivelling little chit making a fool of herself as usual. What’s up now? Stubbed your poor little toe.”

  I jumped up so fast, I nearly knocked over the chair. “You’re the last person I want to see,” I shouted, trying not to sniff. “What do you want now? Can’t you leave me alone?” I felt such a victim, and that annoyed me more than anything else. Then I remembered I had been chosen to attend the coronation of the new king, representing the whole of Eden-Lower-South, and that made me confident again. I wished I could tell Bembitt, but I wasn’t quite that silly.

  He said, “A friend asked me to come. Just to see you and tell you a couple of things.”

  “I’ve nothing to do with your friends – if you have any,” I said, sitting down again. “I’m entirely uninterested.”

  “Wait.” He shook his head. “Your own filthy friends might be mixed up in this.” I was about to push him away when he grinned. “I’ve got a partner in a business deal. It’s going well, and there’s good money in it. Plenty of good money. But I reckon you might want to help.”

  “I never want to help you.” Which was true.

  “It’s a prison break-out,” he said, watching my face as my expression changed. “Planned for tonight. It’s all set up with fire and a group of ready men from the lower quarters. The Island Prison, that is – and we’ve got a wherry too, all ready to go.” We stared at each other, and he was still smiling, whereas I was shocked. Almost open-mouthed. “So, you gonna be involved or not, little miss perfect and pure? For you’ve a friend as dirty as any in gaol, and that I know for sure. And he’s one will be jumping from his rotten little hole and over the dead bodies and will need a place to hide.”

  With my head in a whirl, I said, “If you mean Symon, then of course he can come here. But he’ll know that already. I don’t need you to tell him.”

  Any such horribly illegal plot would be dangerous, and I despised Bembitt for being involved. Yet here was me, perfectly ready to be even more involved, and hide one of the escapees in my own home.

  Bembitt said, “You meet me tonight on the Corn banks,” and he leaned right into my face, leering like some hungry predator about to lunge, and already imagining his dinner. “Just downstream, where you can see the prison from the land. Midnight.”

  Feep was upstairs, cleaning up after one of his pillows had popped. The feathers floated like tiny clouds and found every hidden corner. I pointed upwards. “I will,” I said, now soft-voiced. “And I’ll bring Feep.”

  “Don’t”. Bembitt glared. “Stupid kid would alert his filthy Molly-boys. No kids, no shouting, this will be secret. Quiet and careful.”

  “Feep isn’t daft, and he obeys orders,” I complained.

  “No,” Bembitt insisted. “Don’t tell him. Make sure he stays at home to let Symon in when he turns up.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  So winter ripened with the fruit on the trees hanging dark and heavy and the showers turning to sleet. Then with each day’s musky dusk drifting later and later over the Corn, Feep waited until nightfall and then crawled to his little narrow bed, pulled the handful of blankets around his shoulders, stuck his thumb in his mouth once he thought that I was no longer watching, and in minutes was asleep. Yet tonight I did not follow him to my own bedchamber, and I waited downstairs until the sky was pitch and I guessed midnight had bloomed.

  The night’s silence was so shiveringly full of menace and secret movement, that I hovered on the riverbank for a very long seeming hour, desperately dreaming of very different possibilities.

  Symon back and in my home, hiding for a few days, was an interesting thought. I was extremely fond of him and owed him everything. He’d be good company, I hoped. And he would get rid of the vile Bryte for me, even probably Bembitt as well. Feep adored him and would be happy. And since Symon claimed to be innocent of the crime he had been imprisoned for, even if no doubt guilty of many others, it would be a fair escape. But the night was cold, and I squinted, wind in my eyes, as I looked across to the silent building they called Eden-High-Prison.

  Then I wondered if the escape, apart from releasing Symon, would set free many other terrible criminals who would bring the worst danger back to the city, killing, stealing and fighting again. With my hair in my eyes and my heart beating ever faster, I felt ridiculously vulnerable, almost guilty, and extremely cold. The slap of the water grew rougher as the wind whined. I stepped back and stared up at the moons. Neither was visible, presumably hidden behind the clouds. Without moonlight it was harder to see, and careful of secrecy, I carried neither torch nor candle. A candle would have blown out anyway. But with what little I could see, it seemed the prison building stood in its usual silent threat. No movement flickered and no wherries crossed. But I continued to stand there, knowing how delays could pierce any plan, and a secret and illegal one could easily be interrupted, needing something longer than a simple delay.

  I continued to wait. Drifting from Symon to Jak, my thoughts dulled, becoming ever more absurd. I wondered if Jak would yet know of his father’s death, whether he had discovered how it had happened, and whether he had planned his revenge. Yet since the death had now been some time ago, he must surely know. His father’s mistress would have told him, or would she be a secret still? Then his step-mother would have told him. And did he miss his father? Whatever revenge he’d planned would now be over. I could not be sure, but it seemed that the pale man and the step-mother were those to blame.

  Somewhere above and behind me, I could hear the call of an owl, and then another answered. I loved the birds, but this sounded weary, or perhaps it was a warning. Then a mouse scuttled across my toes and over towards the lapping tidal slush of the Corn. It was the only sound now, that slurp, slurp of water.

  Passing time should be a silent business, but now it started to shriek. Standing there in the chill, constantly alert and ready, began to seem absurd. I hummed, then tapped my feet, almost dancing to my own tune. But tiredness over-slumped everything else.

  After all, Symon knew exactly where I lived. Heavens above, the building belonged to him.

  Quite abruptly, I’d had enough. I had never trusted Bembitt, so why should I start now. The story had sounded true, but now it shouted of lies. I began to hurry. My house wasn’t far. In order to breathe, calming my fears, I slowed. and only realised how much time had passed as I saw the glimmer of light above the peaked rooves all around. That tiny glow of dawn was a pastel sheen in the black. A small bankside shop was opening, the young man unlocking his door, taking down his window shutters and clicking them into place as a counter, the glassless window now the opening to his spicery.

  It was just to pretend everything was normal, and that I was foolish to worry, that inspired me to buy two twists of cardamom and pounded ginger, sheltering in the depths of the shop while pretending an interest in all varieties of spices, watching as a slight drizzle sprang prisms of colour outside. Jak’s colours! Within only a moment the rain had stopped, although in an intermittent dazzle, drops cascaded from beneath the houses’ jutting upper storeys in a tiny sunlit waterfall. Other shops were opening. The night’s silence was a small growing bustle. Another shop, then a third opened. Cutting through the door of the Finally I bought the pie I’d promised Feep for supper the evening before but had never brought him. The rainbow spangled its reflections in the puddles at my feet, and at f
irst the air smelled washed.

  But as I came close to the corner of the street where my own shop stood, the smell changed. At once I recognised that smell which I hated, and which was growing stronger than either rain nor the sweet perfume of the hot pie I carried would disguise. But the laneway was too narrow, and the walls to either side were too high, so I saw nothing until I reached the end and turned the corner.

  The smoke hit like a fallen cloud, a bruise across the road, black and foul and stinking. I stood bent and quivering, staring at the broken shell of my shop, the place where my skills had brought a whole new life. It was no longer there, the building barely holding to its blackened frame, the smoulder still in strewn ashes and flying soot, and the hopeful future burned out and utterly destroyed.

  There was still a small crowd staring with a buzz of interest, concern, worry and curiosity, anything to alleviate the drudgery of boredom and see the misfortunes of others as worse than one’s own. Rushing backwards and forwards with buckets, throwing water and shouting for the crowd to keep clear, some, including guards from the Upper-City, continued to douse the smoulders. Blinking away the horror, I pushed forward, struggling with someone who tried to pull me back.

  But absolute hell had happened and was nearly over. Only the earlier drizzles of rain and the vicinity to the river had kept the fire from spreading. A host of officials had been sent, and six guards to put it out. It had not spread but had not saved the shop.

  They wouldn’t let me too near, even when I screamed that this was my own home. It was dangerous, the guards said, from falling timbers and damaged floorboards and the still flying flakes of smouldering ash. So I began to run instead, searching among the crowd, back to the riverbank and then along the alley, looking and calling desperately for Feep.

  The contingent of liveried guards now surrounded the squelch of black embers doused in river water; the apothecary’s treacle’s, spices and herbs now a ruined mulch of soot. The smell hung thick, but very little remained to recognise. Two of the crowd heard me shouting, screaming that a boy was missing, that I must be allowed to search within the destruction of my home for the child who might still be alive. One man, telling me he was a priest, aged and soft voiced, took my hand and patted it. “Calm yourself, mistress. There is no one alive. No one could have survived such a conflagration. See the extent of the ruin? Your son will have already run to safety. Perhaps he alerted the neighbours. Perhaps he is waiting somewhere for you.”