The Corn

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Freia was standing by the window when Sossanna came tumbling through her chamber door. “I’ve got news,” Sossanna said in a hurry, flopping down on the bed. “Guess what! Symon’s back.”

  Did it matter? Freia was expecting company, was dressed for work, and did not wish to remember the past. She said, “Go away, Sassa. Come back this evening after my paying guest has left.”

  “Weren’t you Symon’s friend? Tom says you were. And won’t it be good if he’s around again? Protection – security!”

  “No. It’s a complication.”

  “I’ll talk to you after your customer’s gone. You might make more sense.”

  The man was small, stocky and dark, well dressed and well groomed. He wore a beard, something now dreadfully out of fashion, but as he came closer, she saw the reason. His chin was badly scarred, with another scar crossing his face as the Bridge crossed the river. He bowed slightly to her, which pleased Freia, and she smiled and invited him in. “My lord?”

  “Not a lord, madam, simply a tired warrior requiring your attentions.”

  Freia sat on the bed as she had been taught, hitching her skirts up a little to show her ankles and the sleek curve of her calves. She swallowed her usual nerves and said, “Then come sit beside me, sir.”

  Then he spoiled it all. “I prefer to do the talking myself, mistress, and I expect you to comply.” He stood over her, scars, beard, squared shoulders and the calm expression of a man expecting to be obeyed. Freia sat still and held her breath. He continued, “Now. Your name?”

  Quite suddenly, she did not want him to know it. She whispered, “Voxa, sir. And I’ll obey, and gladly sir – but I must warn you –”

  He smiled. “Oh yes, trollop, you’ll obey. And whether it is gladly or not, I have not the slightest interest. As for warnings,” he began to take off his gloves, slowly, finger by finger, “you will neither warn, nor complain, nor make any sound unless I command it. If you disobey, then I shall thrash you.” He now held both gloves in one hand. He stepped abruptly closer and lashed them across Freia’s breasts.

  She gasped, staring up at him. She stammered, “I have a protector, sir –”

  He interrupted her. “Oh, I’ve no intention of hurting you, girl. Simply ensuring your obedience.” He was still smiling.

  The gloves had stung, but no more. Freia lowered her eyes. She said, “Tell me what you want of me, sir. But I ask you to be kind. I am not – greatly – experienced.”

  “Which is what I asked for,” he said, still standing over her. “Now – lie face down on the bed and raise your skirts.”

  She blinked, now worried. “Did Thomas not tell you, sir – that there are some things I will not –”

  This time he did not interrupt with words. The man took her by both shoulders and tossed her over, wrenching up her gown at the back so that it lay crumpled around her waist. Freia struggled, remembering Bryte. But this man did not attempt to hit or hurt her further. He sat beside her on the bed, one hand firmly on the small of her back to hold her down while the other began to caress her, his fingers sliding lightly across her buttocks, down to her thighs, gentle, fingering, entering and discovering. She began to breathe again. It was sometime before he turned her again on her back, still sitting casually on the mattress at her side, demanding her unmoving silence but nothing more. He gazed at her with calm curiosity and demanded, “How many fingers do you take?”

  It was not a question she had ever been asked before, and at first, she did not understand him. Finally she whispered, “One. Two.”

  “Nonsense,” he said with impatience, “now open your legs. Wider. If you force me to punish you, I will have to mark you. So obey. Open your legs, as wide as you are able.” She obeyed, miserable and humiliated, felt instant pain and squeaked, frightened, but did not risk crying out. “Good,” he said, briskly pleased.

  She managed to wriggle a little away. “It hurts. Please, no more.”

  Again he was smiling. “Begging me? That’s good. If you beg, I shall allow some leniency.” She knew she was trembling. “I ordered obedience. I can take you over my knee in an instant. I have my riding crop, and I have my spurs. Shall I ride you?”

  She would beg, and beg again, since that was what he wanted. Her fear increased, and her shivering became almost violent. “No, sir. Please, sir.”

  Clearly, he was pleased and enjoyed her fear. He sat, watching her and smiling. “So, wench, be careful to do exactly as I say. Or I will treat you as a deserter on the battlefield. I’ve paid for a service. Now do your job.” He paused, looking her over. Then his voice became soft, almost malicious. “So,” he murmured, eyes hooded, “come here and I shall see whether you are worth the price.”

  There was no pain, and his threats were empty. But it was then that Freia knew exactly what she would do, and that was to leave whoring and once again become a person she could respect. She would grit her teeth, ignore his gaze of inevitable shock and contempt, and see Symon again. She would confess the truth and ask him for help.

  The Palace was bathed in sunshine, rows of tall windows reflecting all the gods’ glory. Having left his horse and groom at the stables and his weapons at the guardhouse, Jak did not stop to admire or to gaze and strode directly to the two small chambers occupied by his step-mother. Since he had requested no audience and arrived without warning, he half expected her to be out. But she was sitting, unoccupied and clearly bored, in company with the elderly woman who now shared her rooms. The despised Sir Kallivan was, for once, not present.

  She did not look particularly pleased to see her step-son. “It’s most irregular of you to keep marching in on me, Jak, without the slightest notification. I am not even properly dressed.”

  “Walking in on people without warning seems to be a growing habit amongst the young,” Jak said with casual disinterest. “Besides, I’m sure I must have seen you in your Blanchet a hundred times, drifting corridors back home. Now I’ve something I need to tell you.” He sat, uninvited, and stretched his legs, still muscle-sore. “I returned from Lydiard yesterday,” he continued. “A year back north gave me time to rethink my suspicions concerning my father’s death. But I thought the trail was gone cold, and too much time already passed. However, I cannot imagine my father’s sudden death benefited anyone except yourself and your frequent companion, Sir Kallivan. I’ve arranged to meet with the High-Justice tomorrow afternoon.” Jak paused, watching the dowager’s expression. She sat immovable and frowning but showing neither surprise nor shock. The other woman, however, although keeping her concentration strictly on her needlework, sat up white-faced, and shuddered.

  “Dear departed Godfrey bless his soul, and may the gods welcome him into the after-life,” said the dowager baroness, “died a natural death, Jak. I see no reason for you to wish such scandal on myself and my friends. You most certainly cannot have proof against me, and if anyone did indeed hasten poor Godfrey’s death, then it was that feeble-witted Jesha. I hope you left her in Lydiard.”

  “She returned to Eden with her husband a little after the funeral, madam, which you failed to attend at all.”

  “I imagine she knows better than to come anywhere near me, vile creature.” The dowager stared, expressionless.

  Jak said suddenly, “Sir Kallivan claims relationship with the new king. Frink is well versed in the use of poisons, I believe.”

  His step-mother’s frown deepened. “You’re becoming ridiculous, Jak. Your father actually befriended Sir Kallivan with an eye to learning about investments. Banking is no longer considered so shockingly immoral now, you know, even to the fervently religious.”

  “Pigswill,” remarked Jak happily. “My father never indulged in trade, knew nothing about banking, and considered anyone who played with coin to be dangerously retarded and probably criminal.”

  “Your father,” said Lady Lydiard with quavering insistence, “no doubt died from a glut of gooseberries, which he constantly overindulged. I could never convince him that raw fruit, e
specially eaten fresh, was a dreadfully unhealthy diet and would completely upset his digestion.”

  “Since my father,” said Jak with some impatience, “would most assuredly have been the first man in history to die of gooseberries, and I frankly believe that Kallivan Bryte has nothing to do with investment, nor was ever my father’s friend – but only yours, the suggestion that he had something to do with my father’s death remains plausible. Which naturally implicates you too, madam. But you’re hardly likely to confess it to me, so I’ll leave the accusation vague, and simply warn you I intend meeting with the Eden-Justice.”

  Lady Lydiard remained stiff, her back rigid. But she had started twisting her large diamond ring again, as though nervous. “Absurd, Jak. You cannot intimidate me, and Sir Kallivan, I am sure, would laugh at your accusations.”

  “My father spoke of Kallivan more than once. He spoke of enmity, not trade or friendship,” Jak said. Then he remembered something. “Incidentally, madam, speaking about my parentage, that ring was my mother’s.”

  The dowager remained momentarily speechless. Then she clasped her hands firmly and said, “Your father gave it to me some years ago. My possessions are none of your business.”

  “He had no right to,” Jak said at once. “It was hers and was handed down through her own family mother to daughter or son. After my mother’s death, all her lands and property should have come to me. The ring is mine.”

  Standing with a stare of menacing contempt, his step-mother stamped and spat her words. “I know only that your father gave this to me. You are probably lying. I’ve no proof and no need to believe you.”

  The pause was brief, and Jak smiled. He crossed one ankle over the other knee and tapped, as though with casual abstraction, on the front of his central pocket, where a secret knife was commonly hidden. “Madam, I think my word will have to suffice. Since I have no intention of wearing a woman’s ring myself, I’d not bother reclaiming it except that I am sure my mother would be horrified to know who now wears her most valuable possession. And I ask now, without delay, for it to be returned.”

  Valeria initially dismissed the threat, as usual thinking her own strength of will far more tangible than anyone else’s. But then she caught Jak’s gaze. He regarded her almost casually but the depth of threatening menace in his concentration turned her ice-cold with a sudden shiver of fear.

  Abruptly with a twitch in the eye over the mol, but very slowly, she removed the huge diamond from her thumb and handed it up to him. “You are insufferable, young man,” she said with a small hiccup. “I suggest you leave immediately before I have you thrown out.”

  “Doubt if you could arrange anything of the sort,” Jak smiled. “But I’m leaving anyway. I simply wanted you to know that I know – and will soon know more. I don’t threaten – but perhaps this might count as a warning.” He crossed to the door but looked back once and said over his shoulder, “By the way, madam, I’m sure you’ll be mollified by the knowledge that the ring will be most useful, although the negotiations are incomplete and the final arrangements are not yet in progress, however, I am considering becoming married to Mistress Rayne, one of the Verney heiresses, a young woman already known to Sir Kallivan, I understand.” Jak paused, watching his step-mother’s expression. It was strictly controlled, but the tightly pursed lips made him smile. He bowed and continued, “Though sadly, madam, I must inform you that I shall have no need of your company at the wedding feast.”

  “Then your marriage is of no interest to me, Jak.”

  “Yet,” and his smile widened, “surely the motive for my father’s death was to inherit his money, property and possessions. Yet, while I live, and in particular should I marry and have sons, your chances of inheriting even a single pair of his brais is remote.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Jak closed the door behind him but stood outside a moment, regaining his temper. He was wondering what the wretched woman would say if he told her he saw her as slime-grey lilac, with a bleeding outline that oozed into pallid spots. Then, as he turned towards the stairs, he heard the elderly companion’s voice from within the chamber. She sounded frightened and her voice, high pitched, resonated. She said, “We must be quick and do something about this before it becomes dangerous.”

  “I shall send a page for Kallivan,” answered the dowager, more quietly. “He will know what to do.”

  Still smiling, Jak walked quietly down the stairs and stood a moment in the fresh air before returning to the stables.

  He was already late for his next appointment by the time he left the palace. With the streets busy and only a short way to go, Jak did not ride but led his mare by her bridle, pondering once more on the cause of his father’s sudden death. He had arranged to visit Madam Jasha at her husband’s business premises. He saw his father’s long-time mistress as a slightly washed out green, a little apple-bright but blurred, even threadbare, in the centre as though she tried too hard, and had worn the colour away. Yet there gleamed a sweetness of effort, and of genuine care.

  This contrasted with the slime grey of his step-mother’s colour, which could not even rise into the clouds over her head but sweltered around her shoulders like the tattered wisps of a cloak once torn to shreds by wolves.

  The horse’s hooves were loud on the cobbles. Then from cobbles to soft earth as Jak ducked into a quicker path, leading directly to the Goldsmith’s shop. The sky above was a gentle blue in one long thin stripe between the tall buildings either side, a cheerful blue, a cloudless pastel uncommon in Probyn. It was the colour of the stream back home, leaf shadow and the fish leaping over the pebbles with a glint of rainbows in the ripples. Above all, Jak remembered keeping his eyes on his rod and line, the girl he adored beside him. He remembered refusing to stare at the curve of the girl’s breasts, the swell of the thin gown pulled taut across, yet imagining the flesh beneath the linen, and the faint tracery of veins around the nipple. He remembered how he would resist staring at the tight turn of her bare ankle as she picked up her skirts, running to meet him. Her hazel eyes like the newborn birch leaf, dancing with humour, which now haunted his dreams. But his thoughts, as usual, had now concentrated around his future and the decisions that would accompany it.

  He accepted a cup of wine and was pleased to discover that the goldsmith served a superior vintage. He sat, regarding his father’s ageing mistress. “The Lydiard house is always open to you, madam, and to your husband, naturally,” Jak said. “I’m sure you feel as at home there as I do.”

  Jesha blushed. “I never chose to take advantage of my position, my lord, nor would again. Indeed, I was very conscious of the second Lady Lydiard’s dislike, even though she came here often in recent times, and pretended to befriend me.” She sighed, brushing the greying wisps of hair back beneath her small headdress. “With your mother, of course, my lord, it was very different.”

  He supposed it had been, but had no intention of discussing such a matter with the woman who had presumably appeared as an intrusion into the household. So he said, “No doubt, mistress. Though I have little memory of my mother.”

  “Your mother.” Jesha shifted on her straight-backed chair, and kept her eyes lowered. “She was a great lady and remarkably beautiful. You take after her, my lord. I suppose you have been told that.”

  “It’s clear I look very little like my father.”

  Jesha nodded. “Indeed, my lord. And of course, your poor mother did not have an easy life, in spite of her beauty and her grandeur.”

  “Life is rarely easy for any of us, nor for yourself, I imagine, Mistress.” He was curious, knowing little of his mother, but this was not the person with whom to discuss her. He drained his cup, preparing to leave.

  “I have,” said Jesha in a hurry, and before her guest could make his departure, “some information I feel obliged to confess, my lord, if you would be so kind as to wait a moment.” She was blushing again. “I should not – nor wish to bother you, my lord. Yet although I have already confessed to the pr
iest, I feel I must also confess to you, my lord. And now, after your dear father’s passing, he is no longer here to tell you himself. Therefore I must surely do so on his behalf.”

  Jak sat very still, feeling suddenly cold. “My father’s death? Tell me,” he said. “I have already suspected a cause less than natural. But my step-mother, as you must know already, arranged for the funeral at the palace immediately after the death. I was not easy to find, I’m sure, but to set the body on the pyre before I was even aware of his death, let alone able to come to the funeral, seemed wicked – and unusually quick. As you know, madam, the pyre I lit in Lydiard was empty, but the flames rose in his memory, and you stood behind me, having loved him more sincerely than anyone else present. Valeria did not attend, which I was glad of at the time. You have seen the memorial stone which now stands amongst those of his ancestors. But the cause of death could never be examined.”

  “Forgive me if I speak out of place, my lord,” she said, almost whispering. She had not touched her own wine. Her voice sank even lower. “Lord Lydiard was not a – patient man, my lord. But he wanted children above all else, to carry on the title, as all men do. Yet after some years of marriage, there were no children, and it was assumed that your mother was – forgive me, my lord – was barren.” Jesha blushed again. “Then, quite unexpectedly, a child was conceived, and a son born.”

  “No doubt one of the few times anyone has been unreservedly pleased to see me,” nodded Jak, forcing a smile.

  “There was great celebration,” said Jesha. “However, your mother proclaimed how she had finally done her duty by your father, then locked her chamber door. It caused considerable discord and gossip within the household. Your nurses, Ulga and Alma, kept you in the nursery, my lord, and away from the anger and disruption. But after nearly two years you contracted the dysentery and became exceedingly ill. Ulga, your wet nurse, was immediately dismissed, but the sickness grew worse, and you nearly died, my lord. Alma and another woman nursed you back to health, but it was at this time that your father became sadly infatuated with – well, with someone else.”