Turning suddenly, Jak swung his foot into the stirrup and mounted, taking up the reins before answering. Then he said briefly, “My suspicions were aroused by the doctor’s report sent to me directly after my father’s death. I was also – let us say, disappointed – that my step-mother took it upon herself to arrange my father’s pyre without attempting to consult with me or with the family lawyer who then received my instructions. Was there a motive, I wonder, for such haste? A speedy funeral was, it seems, accomplished even before I received the news of his passing. Since then I’ve discussed the circumstances with the High-Justice.” And Jak immediately wheeled his horse, trotting across the cobbles to the road beyond.
“Suspicions? Oh, we shall see about that, my lord,” smiled the pale man to Lord Lydiard’s disappearing shadow. “You have as yet no idea what I am capable of, my friend, no idea at all.”
Having attended his friend’s wedding, Jak stayed in London for some time longer than he had intended. A brig sunny dazzle lit each morning, his small apartment echoed the warmth and he enjoyed lying in his deep feathered bed until well after dawn, watching the brilliance accelerate in the east, where the Bridge rose in its busy arch with the bustle and trudge of all those who passed from north to south, and south to north. There were also those who lived upon the Bridge itself, but he was too far away to see into windows, and simply watched the sunshine over his own home, as it paled from the rising virulence, faded to sweet, serene lilac, and then stretched out across the horizon in all its golden glory. There were two soft silver moons. He wished there were two vibrantly shimmering suns.
Mereck’s wedding had been as joyous as intended, with both bride and groom laughing, dancing, and raising their wine glasses in thanks to their friends and family. The minstrel’s music had been loud enough to drown out the rumble of the nearby train line, and even the even deeper boom of the whistle was barely heard beneath the chapel bells and their wedding melody. Having employed the royal troop, these minstrels were the best in the land and their music could make a grown man cry or a respectably religious young woman turn somersaults. The had a triple guitar player, using the rare bulbous instrument with its twenty-five separate strings, eight very long, eight across the centre, and nine short at the extended handle.
For Jak, however, the delight had been somewhat shortened by the bride’s parents, who both cornered Jak outside the chapel, demanding loudly whether he intended doing the proper thing himself by asking for their youngest daughter’s hand in marriage.
The cold green eyes returned, like rich emerald, hardened by immovable glass reflections. Jak answered briefly. “My Lord Verney, I respect your daughter Reyne, and wish her a happy marriage with someone of your choice and her liking. I am not that man. And although I have met your daughter on several occasions, I have never given her the slightest hint of affection. Indeed, once becoming aware of her interest, I made it quite clear that I intend marriage with no woman at the present time. I am not – let us say – on the market, sir.”
It was Lady Verney, elaborately dressed in white as the mother of the bride, who glared at Jak. “Reye tells me you kissed her, sir. That is a promise to marry, and shocking behaviour indeed if you didn’t intend an engagement.”
“I believe you’ll arrange to marry my daughter, sir,’ said Lord Verney with an equal pout, “unless you want the scandal and rumours that will come otherwise.”
“You had better speak to your daughter, sir,” and Jak laughed. But the emerald eyes stayed glass. “She has, I believe, exaggerated somewhat. No kiss and no promise has ever occurred between us. I intend no marriage, and I intend no secret assignations.” He leaned forward, his face entirely expressionless. “And if I hear rumours and scandal, I shall know its source, and I shall respond. I doubt very much that you would enjoy my response. Be warned, sir.” And he turned and walked away.
A tentative finger to his wrist turned him back. The bride was delicious in her gossamer gown, and she whispered, “Mereck’s best friend would be my choice as a brother-in-law, Jak. Wouldn’t you consider that?”
With a hesitant pause, Jak sighed, saying, “I would gladly welcome friendship, but not marriage, my lady. I will not be changing my mind. But I think you should, since I have heard the rumour of Sir Kallivan taking your sister’s arm, should I continue to refuse. And I should warn you, I know a great deal about that creature. Sir Kallivan is a brutal, perhaps even cruel man. You must not permit him to marry your sister.”
Her parents stood behind her, seemingly hopeful as she hung her head. “Then take her yourself, Jak.”
He didn’t bother looking back to judge their reaction, and instead walked to the chapel’s high gates, which stood open.
A young woman stood just inside the exit and smiled. Reyne, pretty in white, being a close relative of the bride, stopped Jak’s escape. “I saw you talking to my parents,” she said in a rush. “Were you, Jak dearest, talking about – what I hope you were talking about?”
Regarding her with less affection than usual, Jak shook his head. “In a sense, yes, but in fact, no,” he said. “Your parents accused me of having behaved improperly to you, my dear. And that is entirely untrue, as I’m quite sure you’re aware. I explained my feelings, and my decision. I am marrying no one, and won’t be pushed into it. I advised you to wait until you’re older, but it still won’t be me. A little rude, I’m afraid, but I need to make myself clear.”
She sniffed, clearly upset. “What’s wrong with me?” She muttered, not looking up. “Your eyes are all icy and you look angry.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you except your age,” Jak relented. “But, my dear, you’ve made it quite clear that you simply like the idea of marriage, perhaps just the wedding ceremony itself, and without any particular fondness for myself. Besides,” and he paused, considered, then said, “you’ve lied to your parents. You’ll not trap me, Reyne, nor trick me. Go and enjoy your freedom while you can.”
With an inhalation that expanded her breasts, almost into Jak’s face, Reyne smiled with a sideways blink of long eyelashes. She managed a seductive whisper. “Oh, Jak, no one’s looking. Come behind the chapel and kiss me. Long and slow.”
Jak sighed. “Since neither of us cares too much about what is proper or otherwise, I’m simply surprised you didn’t grab me before I could run.”
“Or climb into bed with you.”
“Improper is one thing, my dear, flagrantly suggestive is more difficult to face.” Jak held onto his patience, but his voice was tired. “Someone failed miserably in your upbringing – how old are you now, anyway?”
“Old enough.” Her fluttering eyelashes fell flat, and Reyne was sulking. “You’re mean to me, Jak. What about some chivalry?”
“Chivalry? A gallant knight should come riding in right now and carry you off, offering simple romance and saving you from ravishment while teaching what is acceptable, and what is not. What you suggest, my girl, would be horrifying should I accept. And your remarks might lead to blatant rape if you spoke so to other men in this manner.” He turned on his heel and walked past her through the open gateway. “Go back to your family, child. And forget me. Better still, forget this dream of romantic celebrations, and marry nobody until you actually fall in love.”
She did not reply. Instead, she looked eagerly across at her sister, dressed in bridal scarlet, the contrast to her family’s lace-trimmed white. “I want a dress like that too,” she mumbled. “And I’m old enough.”
“Freedom,” Jak said, “has benefits, and a husband who might force you, order you, or even hurt you with impunity, isn’t something to wish for yet.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
He smiled at Freia. She sat straight-backed, her cheeks as scarlet as any wedding dress.
Symon said, “Cheer up, lass. You bin bad dun by, that I know. Tis not your fault you be here, and it ain’t justice, no more than me being shoved in that right nasty Lock-Up fer months.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and the
black curls in his ears bouncing as though they helped him listen. “I knows you feels mighty uncomfortable,” he told her. “You’s a right respectable young lass, and here you is in a whorehouse. But I’s telling you, this be the best most profitable whorehouse in Eden. Honest, ‘tis a right good place to be, and there ain’t no way Tom’d keep no one here lest he thought she were proper special.”
This statement did not make Freia any happier, and she looked down into her somewhat luxurious silken lap, and muttered, almost whispering. “I never thought – I never ever dreamed I’d end up in – a place like this. I’m so ashamed. I was too ashamed to face you at first. I’m an apothecary. I know enough to be a doctor, but I lost everything, even my clothes. All my herbs and spices and the medicines I’d mixed. I lost my home and all my money. Most horrible of all, I lost Feep.” She blinked away tears and looked up. “Oh, Symon, I don’t want to stay here. So far Edilla and Tom are both so kind, especially Tom. But I couldn’t face being one of these girls for the whole of my life.”
“Well, you won’t,” Symon said. “I got ideas, lass, and there won’t be no delays neither. Firstly I got an idea wot to do with the Molly House. The lads have mostly gone for tis bin too long wiv me away and other gang leaders wanting to take over. I know wot I’m gonna do. Knock the whole fucking place down, I will, begging yer pardon fer the language, mistress. I’s gonna build a right nice respectable inn. Well, ‘course, t’will be a bar fer wine and all that, but nice rooms fer folks to stay. I doesn’t say I might not keep me finger on the local gangs behind the scenes, right. Well, it be me principal interest, ain’t it. But I will build big and grand, and I shall ask me pretty friend, Mistress Freia herself, to come and live there, do the doctoring if’n she wants, and be me manger.”
He grinned and Freia stared, “You mean me?”
“I ain’t got no uvor Mistress Freia wot I knows,” Symon chuckled.
With a swoop of excited surprise, Freia jumped up, flung her arms around Symon’s neck, and kissed his cheek. With a prolonged sniff, Symon gazed back in equal amazement, and promptly burst into tears.
“Fing is,” he said through sniffs,” I bin feeling so bloody guilty, lass, knowing as how I left you in trouble, and now here you is, stuck where you didn’t ortta be. But don’t you go feeling no guilt, fer none of it ain’t yer fault. Besides, I reckon you’ll be feeling that wot you does now ain’t proper fer no lady. But you takes me as I is, and I done more bad fings than you ever did, and that’s fer sure. You done the best wiv wot you got given, lass, like we all does.”
It was later that day as Freia, Symon, Tom and Udovox sat together in the brothel’s large and sumptuous dining room, that Freia remembered something else. She quickly swallowed the sharply spiced kidney codlings and smiled at Symon, who was nodding to Tom. Tom, cuddled close to Udovox, had been describing how he foresaw the front hall of the new inn which would replace the Molly House, and suggested a variety of possible titles. “Copper and velvet, my dear,” Tom said. “Not so expensive but looks as though it cost a fortune, all that gleaming polish. And you call it The Copper Candle.” Then shook his head. “No, The Devil’s Dungeon.” Symon had looked less than enthusiastic, and Tom continued, “Very well, my fine friend. We shall call it Lacine’s Lair.”
Which was when Symon grinned and nodded, and Freia interrupted. “Symon dear, earlier on you said you had two ideas, but you only told me about the inn. What was the other one?”
“Ah.” Symon tapped his spoon on the fingers of his other hand. “I weren’t proper sure if I should be telling you, lass, but I reckon I will. Tis yer business, after all. And if you doesn’t want me to, well, I might just change me mind.”
“Which is?”
The platters were empty. This was a paid feast at Pearly’s Webb, and that was not normal food. The house claimed you’d not get better anywhere in Eden except at the palace. This was certainly not the normal diet Freia received while working. Symon, mouth full of parsley and pear in layered potato hash and a thin drizzle of cream, gulped and nodded. “I ain’t gonna bore all an’ sundry wiv explanation of wot got done to me,” he said, “but putting it in the short and skinny of it, fing is, I got done by a nasty fellow called Kallivan. A bleached fellow wot we all knows a bit. He done paid me to kill a fellow. I sent off two o’ me men, wot was useless and failed – wot was my fault. This Kallivan creep, he come back and got nasty. So I says as how I’d do it meself, and he done paid again.” He smiled, almost apologetically at Freia. “Fing is, then I talked to me little lass here, and she done told me as how the fellow she wanted kept proper safe forever, were the same fellow as the bugger Kallivan told me to finish. Not that I tells my lass all o’ that, but I couldn’a do it mean like that, so I goes back to the white haired bastard and gives him back his coin and tells him as how I ain’t gonna do it. That were it, and I finds meself in the Clink fer murder, wot I ain’t done. Well – not recently nohow.”
Staring, Freia waited. It was then Hawisa, who pushed her way into the group and sat beside Freia even though the food had all gone, and said, “And that was when the lass got her shop burned. So was that this same bastard?”
“That was Bembitt and Bryte,” Freia mumbled.
“Maybe with that bastard’s help?” Tom suggested.
“Now,” said Symon, regarding his platter where a little cream remained spread over the surface, and wondering whether he could lick it without anyone complaining, “I canna start me rebuilding the Molly House yet, cos them prison guards is still on the look-out fer me. I gotta keep south or get outta town fer a ten-day or two. Asides, I gotta get me some more coin. So I has an idea. I reckon I’ll find this chap o’ yours, lass, this Lydiard fellow, and see if I can help him none, or maybe find out wot he’s up to.” He looked searchingly at Freia. “How’s that seem, lass? You likes it or you hates it?”
Blushing again, Freia didn’t dare kiss him once more in front of the others, who would all laugh, and Symon would probably run away. So she nodded, saying, “Oh yes, it’s a lovely idea, and come back and tell me everything. If he’s married, or if he’s unhappy after his father died, and everything else. Oh, but Symon, please, please, please don’t tell him anything at all about me. Most of all, don’t tell him where I am and what I do.” She clenched her fingers tightly. “Best not to tell him you’ve ever seen me.”
“Never fear, lass,” Symon assured her. “I’s pretty dumb, I reckon, but I ain’t that bloody stooped.”
After the slow mounting freeze of winter peaked as each new year blew in with the whining gales and the whistling flurries of snow, slowly they were tramped away by the little budding blossoms, the gentler winds and the drizzling sun streaks of Probyn. A tentative little season then burst into spring and the sun sprang like a newborn foal from the womb, leaping into new life. One last showery moment of hesitation as Mandell brought final encouragement to the crops, and then summer burst like a king with his sceptre polished gold with sunshine, and his crown tipped in spangles. The longest season of the year, sunshine promised a great deal, although did not always deliver on its promises.
On the last day of Mandell, Lord Lydiard rode north, leaving Eden City by the north western gate as dawn flooded the sky, while the gatekeeper was in a flurry to find his keys after a night of bad dreams.
But Jak had slept well and had enjoyed dreams of his bastard brother. A balmy day, with a small armed escort and the usual scant retinue, Jak was back on the road and riding once more. Easy in the saddle, warm in the sunshine and with no desire to travel hard, his thoughts drifted. Having tumbled into many different beds, he was wondering whether by now he might have bastards of his own, though no woman had ever told him of it. He met with no trouble, seeking his own solitary company on the road, his own thoughts, the casual pleasure in the passing countryside, the sudden dash of the fox into the hedgerows, the bird song from the shade of the trees, and the filtered sun on his back. Highway robbers rarely approached armed guards, and his party carried no ch
ests or heavy panniers. But with no love for the ache of his saddle-weary back and thighs, or the evening’s twilit wind gathering through the grasses, he stopped each night long before dark. The Old House was a tavern three nights north of the city.
The steaming horses were led away by the ostler. His own groom went with them to oversee, while Jak ordered a private bedchamber, supper, good wine and accommodation for his servants. He then strode straight to the small parlour at the back, stripped off his travelling gloves and cape, put his feet up on the low table, and shut his eyes. He was dozing when the fight broke out. It wasn’t the noise that woke him but the touch of cold steel at his throat.
For that one silent moment, no blade moved. Then, toppling in a slow slide, the height of shadow behind him crumpled to the floorboards with a grunt. It remained there, a heap of dirty, spluttering serge and leather. It was replaced by a strong smell of garlic. Jak twisted round, already halfway to his feet, his knife ready balanced for throw or thrust. He faced the unexpected stranger, a great hulk of a creature who had helpfully disposed of his assailant. The newcomer said, “I were speaking to your groom, my lord, and taking an interest, as you might say, so come to look for you. Seems you had another visitor afore me.”
Mountainous, with the eyes of a genial swine and the broken nose of a backstreet bruiser, he had removed the assailant with the flat of his hilt, a kidney dagger with the force of an ox’s shoulder behind it. The man on the floor barely lived and would not be on his feet again too quickly. Jak gave him an investigative kick and grinned up at his saviour. “Never met you before,” he said happily. “Glad to meet you now.”
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