The Corn

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “Alma?” said Jak, startled into sudden interest.

  “No, no, my lord,” murmured Jesha. “A village woman. Within a few ten-days, she claimed to be carrying your father’s child.”

  Jak stared into the following silence. “You had best explain,” he said.

  “Of course, you were still little more than a baby yourself. Two years of age and so sweet. The other child was born secretly, and the woman took it away,” continued Jesha. “I believe your father paid a good sum for the infant’s upbringing, and his infatuation continued. He would have done anything for her.”

  “So I have a brother,” whispered Jak to the ceiling.

  “Or a sister,” said Jesha quietly

  Jak said sharply, “Do you know what happened to this child?”

  Jesha lowered her eyes once more to her lap. “They disappeared,” she said, “mother and child both. It was not long afterwards that your mother died, and you were sent north on your knight’s apprenticeship. But I felt I must tell you, for it has been on my conscience, even though perhaps you will be angry with me for saying it, my lord.”

  He frowned. “I’m not angry, madam, although I see no reason why your conscience should be weighed by something that concerned you not at all. Unless this bastard child was yours.”

  “Good gracious and may all the gods be kind.” Jesha looked up, her voice becoming shrill. “I would have dearly loved to birth my lord’s child, but I never did. I could not bear children. But what I know, my lord, weighs heavy, whether I had part in it or no.”

  “This woman, then,” Jak said quietly, “who carried my father’s bastard child. He married her after my mother’s death? Is it my step-mother?”

  “No, no, my lord. Your step-mother married your father a year or more later while you were learning your warrior skills in other households of the north. She was the elder daughter of local gentry, way out in Balm Town of course, but still within Lydiard, Valeria being young enough to give him legitimate children, and not a great match but a good one for they had been acquainted for some time, and there were no families of higher station living locally.” Jak, distracted, allowed her to continue. “Yet no children were born, and after coming to court,” Jesha said, “my lord and Lady Lydiard saw very little of each other. Dear Godfrey, with my husband’s compliance, usually lived here with me. Sometimes, when there was anything to discuss, her allowance to negotiate or other shared business, Lady Lydiard came here to see him. I always made her welcome, as seemed proper. I have no regrets on that score, for I knew my own position was inferior. But she came that evening, that last terrible evening, and of course I left them to speak in private. After she left, dearest Godfrey grew dreadfully ill. His lordship breathed his last the next morning.”

  “Damn the gods, she poisoned him, no doubt of it,” sighed Jak, sitting back in the chair, “You had better tell me everything.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Three times a failure, and that, Symon swore to himself, had never happened before and must never happen again.

  “He’s a bugger and a butter-headed pea-brained bastard,” Symon remarked to the man sprawled at his side. “You want out, Piefold? Well, ‘tis natural. I want out. But there be a right irritating difference. Thing is, I’s Symon, and what Symon says, gets done. Always. Only this time, it bloody didn’t.”

  Piefold took very little notice. Apart from his lack of interest, he was extremely pissed. “Umph,” he said.

  “And tis that bastard wot done it,” Symon continued, although speaking more to himself than anyone else. “Three times I done arranged the break-out, and three times the bastard done told them authorities. How do I know it’s him, you might ask.” Piefold had not asked, but Symon continued anyway. “Well, I knows because I knows. I had a little lad I were mighty fond of, and a young lass I were fond of too, and wanted to help. Well, how can I help when I can’t get outta this mucky heap?”

  “Umph,” Piefold said.

  “But,” and Symon lowered his voice, “I got a new idea, and tis gonna work this time. Tomorrow I shall be out. Proper out. Out fer good.” Symon grinned to himself. “You wanna come, Piefold?”

  Piefold seemed to follow this last sentence, and managed to nod, saying, “yeah, reckons, yeah.”

  “Dunno,” Symon considered the situation. “Maybe. I shall see when tis time. But you gotta help.”

  “Hmph,” said Piefold, and fell asleep.

  The first attempt at escape had been simple and involved one of the guards, placid after a bribe. But halfway up the stairs to the principal corridor, that same guard had been discovered dead on the steps, his throat cut and his blood dripping down every stair to the cellar.

  Symon had not been implicated, but he was damned sure he knew who had arranged that death and the failure of his escape which went with it. Sir Kallivan had been seen entering the prison the day before, and had visited the Chief, a man as dark as Kallivan was pale. Then the slaughter of the guard.

  Two other more ingenious and complicated escapes had failed over the next months. And Symon was not at all fond of failure.

  That night as the sky lightened with both moons crossing within a spit of each other, Symon wandered over to the small doorway through which black bread was thrown twice a day. It was little more than a heavy wooden flap, and no human, not even a young child, would have been able to escape.

  Under his arm, Symon carried a small dog, short yellow-haired, but with a remarkably fluffy tale. It appeared full-grown although slim and active. In a slow and barely noticeable move, Simon turned towards the wall, turned full circle, and immediately wandered back into the vast darkness of the cell. But he no longer carried a yellow brindle dog under his arm. He returned to his usual place, sat down and gave another man a slight nudge.

  “Dun it?” asked the man.

  “Corse,” said Symon, and settled to sleep.

  It might have been an hour or more later when the same dog reappeared, scampering through the crowds of moaning, tossing and grumbling bodies, asleep across the huge floor, having gathered the filthy straw into pillows where possible. The dog bounced across to Symon, who swept it up affectionately, muttering, “Well done, Toby lad,” and giving the dog a smacking kiss as he dislodged the metal key which had been tied, hidden within the hair, to the dog’s tail.

  The key immediately disappeared into Symon’s boot.

  Break-fast was served at dawn. The light of dawn did not enter the dungeon, but the wooden flap opened and a bucket overflowing with chunks of black bread was emptied through, the bread bouncing and rolling as every prisoner fought and scrambled, pushed and crawled for their share.

  Not Symon, nor two of his friends, Piefold was still asleep. Symon, Rimish and Viddy, virtually invisible in the lightless scrum, walked the short distance around the damp black stone walls to the only other door. Symon inserted the key which Toby had brought him. Very slowly, although not quite silently, the door opened. But the creak and squeak were unheard as the hungry prisoners searched for crumbs of fallen bread.

  Symon left, Viddy followed, and Rimish closed and locked the door behind him. He pocketed the key.

  It was a long dark corridor and the three men crept, hardly daring to breathe. Angles permitted shadow-hiding when guards passed twice. And then they were at the huge double doors leading to the outside and nearly to freedom.

  A single guard appeared. Symon stepped forwards. They all avoided touch, kept their silence, and waited. The guard pulled back the bars and pushed open both doors into the morning dazzle. Rinish handed back the original key, and the guard accepted this without a word. Symon and his companions slipped out into the first fresh air they had breathed for many months, and immediately immersed themselves into the lapping waters of the Corn. Toby led, swimming cheerfully to the northern bank. The men, however, kept their heads down underwater and unseen, noses briefly up for a gasp of breath, and then down again, swimming slowly with the minimum of splash or spray. It was sometime la
ter when they emerged further up the river, and, soaking wet, walked casually into the Bog-Dock lanes. For they had swum to the southern banks, where no law-giver existed, and no guards ever walked.

  The dog shook himself, spray flying, especially from his tail. Then he jumped around, looking up expectantly for his master. Symon was standing at a great distance on the other side of the river, but Toby saw him raise one hand. He leapt back into the water and swam until his skinny legs were utterly exhausted. Symon pulled him from the water, and cuddled him under his shirt, walking off past the shadows of the islands and towards the nearest tavern. They were free.

  The southern city was not patrolled by the Watch, neither day nor night, and the law-enforcing system which operated in the Upper City, never crossed the river. “The High-Eden Law-Giver, nor the High-Eden Law Govender with their myriad of assistants had no interest in an area where they were more likely to be ignored or thrown back into the water and told to swim north. Even the High-Eden Justice did not command his courts in the south. The Honest Profit was a back street tavern where honesty was not generally much understood, and the owner was an old friend of Symon’s. It was dark and the curtains, which had once been crimson, were now black with long streaks of brown and the stains of thrown food, drinks and blood. The curtains had been hung long past in order to cover and hide the far worse condition of the walls beneath, but the smell sometimes oozed through both.

  Bummer looked twice at Symon and remembered. “Me old mate,” he said, his mouth stretching with pleasure, “’Tis you indeed. I’ve not seen you fer years and heard as you were in the Clink.”

  “I was,” Symon admitted. “Not no more. Reckon you can see that. Now, Bummer, me old friend, I needs a place to sleep where them Clink-Runners doesn’t go.”

  “They surely doesn’t come here,” Bummer assured Symon. “You wanna proper bed, then?”

  “If tis easy.”

  “’Tis all easy, when you knows how. Stay here fer a few hours, then I reckon I’ll take yer home wiv me.”

  After six tankards of ale, freely given, Bummer nodded to Symon, trotted from the tavern, leaving it in the firm control of his wife, and led his friends through the slimy back streets to a slum of a cottage shoved well back onto a moss-grown part of the old city wall. A large twiggy nest protruded from a crack in the stones of the wall, but the roof of the house was thatched, a little stringy, and had probably provided the twigs.

  Symon grunted. “Good position, mate.”

  Bummer gave over his bed. “Take the wife too, if you wants,” he offered. “She be fair obliging. I’ll sleep back in the ale shop. I likes the smell. This be home, but the wife cleans the place up all the bloody time. I ain’t a bloke wot likes too clean.”

  “It don’t worry me,” Symon told him. “But not the wife. I ain’t much into that groping stuff.”

  “You likes the men?” Bummer was startled. “I would never have thought it. But I can gets yer one or two if yer wants.”

  “Nah.” Symon shook his head. “I ain’t into that neither. Just a bed, thanks, mate. Give us a couple o’ ten days, or maybe a couple o’ months, and then I’ll be off back north. Depends on wot folks says them guards be up to. They be lookin fer me, well I shall stay out the way fer a bit longer.”

  Jak stood, hands behind his back, and stared down at his step-mother. “The High--Justice agrees with me, as it happens, madam.” His step-mother’s tiny apartment at the Palace smelled of chamber pots. It managed, however, to hold four people in the recess by the window. Jak turned to Sir Kallivan, who stood a little behind the settle where the two ladies were seated. “Even though you wish to be present, I have come only to discuss family business, which is none of your concern, sir. Indeed, since it is the murder of my father which now concerns me, no doubt, knowing yourself as a willing collaborator, you are here to share whatever blame can be established.” He looked again at the younger of the two women. “I return north in six days, madam, which should be sufficient time for the Justice to finish his investigations and decide whether to prosecute.”

  Sir Kallivan said, “Her ladyship has already been devastated by this whole dreadful affair. His lordship’s shocking death came not only as a great surprise but was also deeply humiliating since it occurred in his mistress’s bed, and not in his own apartments. Her ladyship obviously finds it hard to discuss.”

  “And that creature,” wavered the dowager baroness, “have you also informed the Justice concerning her??”

  Turning, eyes cold, Jak regarded his step-mother. “Do not pretend the grieving widow, my lady. But you have two choices. You remain here and wait for the papers to be served summoning you to court, or you remove yourself from court to someplace where you’ll have to pay your own bed and board. I must inform you that you are not welcome back in Lydiard. He moved towards the door. “Nor will I return here, madam. This has been a brief warning and will be the last warning I give.”

  “How can you say so?” demanded Lady Lydiard on a broken sob. The dowager continued to sniff, pulling a fine embroidered kerchief from her sleeve and shuddered audibly. “But I’ve no desire to be a burden to my step-son at my age! I am still a young woman you know.”

  Jak eyed her in faint surprise. He said, “For pity’s sake, madam, you disliked me from the moment you saw me, and quickly taught me to dislike you. I’m sure you celebrated my imminent death when I was taken ill with the pestilence and have no more wish for my company now than I have for yours.”

  The dowager stopped wavering. She reached up for Sir Kallivan’s hand, which immediately clasped her own. Her female companion, an aged widow paid to fetch and carry, lowered her eyes and continued with her paper embroidery. The dowager baroness glared and said, “I have every right in Lydiard, Jak, and consider it my proper home. But since you’re so unpleasantly churlish, I can hardly look forward to returning there.” She looked up again at Sir Kallivan, then back to Jak. “But if I should ever decide to return to my own proper home, I shall come, invited or otherwise, and will bring with me whomever I wish.”

  Tapping his boot on the frayed rug of unravelling rushes, Jak raised one eyebrow and gazed down at the furious woman his father had chosen to marry. “You are mistaken, madam,” he said. “You will never return to my home at any time. As the Lord of Lydiard Manor, I can refuse you or anyone admittance for any reason and at any time. You have no claim since you are under suspicion of causing his death. And even should you, quite unjustly, be found innocent of that crime, you still have no right in my home as the second wife, never mentioned in my father’s final testament.” Jak turned and strode to the door. He looked back once, saying, “I make no apology, madam, for my appalling manners. You know the reason. But, in memory of my father, I wish you well. I hope you prosper on whatever path you choose, even with that man at your side, as long as neither of you attempt to embroil yourselves in my affairs. We’ll presumably meet again since I’ll attend court from time to time, but civility is all you can expect from me in the future.” He opened the door, stepped out into the unlit corridor, and closed the door quietly behind him.

  But as he closed the door, it opened once again, and footsteps followed him down the first few steps.

  Sir Kallivan said, “You are aware of my relationship with her ladyship, my lord. But your father died in his mistress’s arms. Is there so much difference? I see no reason for us to be enemies, sir.”

  They were of a similar height, but there were no other similarities. Jak looked back seriously at the pale unblinking eyes before him. Sir Kallivan’s skin was almost white, almost translucent, seeming over-stretched across his bones. Where the strength of the sun had touched him, the skin was blotched. But although his arms and legs were wafer thing, there was a layered swelling beneath the rounded chin, as though this belonged to a very fat man, while the rest of him belonged to a man of withering slimness. His hair was very straight and a lifeless colourless shade of pale, white without the silver. But Jak saw something else entire
ly. He saw the swirling storms of slime green, lighter than lime, tinged with scarlet and struck through with black, like daggers from the shadows. He gazed unblinking and said slowly, “Certainly your union with a woman unrelated to me is not my concern. Yet I believe you plotted to kill my father. and what I know of your life, past and present, makes you no friend.”

  “You are wrong on all counts, sir,” the pale man said. “Indeed, I was a very good friend to your father. Nor am I without influence myself. I may one day be king. My bloodline is, without question, of royal lineage.”

  “Who isn’t?” murmured Jak.

  “Before his tragic passing, I was a friend of his lordship your father.” They had begun walking together along the dark corridor towards the small staircase down to the outer courtyard and stables. “Naturally, I feel a great deal of sympathy for her ladyship during this time of bereavement and mourning. Now she has asked me to take an interest in the horrific accusations regarding her husband’s death. That is all, sir. I consider myself a friend, and am sorry for your adverse opinion.”

  Jak took the stairs, not caring to stop in the small passage below. A sudden glare of daylight slanted through the doors at the end. Jak pushed through, striding across the cobbles. One of the grooms recognised him and hurried to bring his horse from her stall. Jak glanced back at Sir Kallivan who continued to follow. “I make no apologies for my attitude, sir. At least I am honest.” The mare was kicking up her heels, impatient and snorting. Jak took the bridle and quietened her.

  Sir Kallivan stood his ground, although a soft silvery drizzle had started to mist the air. “But I’ve one question before you go, whether we part on good terms or bad,” he said. “I wish to know, sir, what possible grounds you have for suspecting your father’s death was not a natural failure of the heart.” He paused, looking earnestly at Jak as if hoping to discover the answer in his eyes.