“Surrender now, my lord,” repeated the royal parador. “Or I shall call for reinforcements.”
“Stop,” Jak took one step towards them. “The man at my side is unknown to me as I met him only last night over the wine jug. If I am under arrest, strange as that is, that certainly does not apply to this new acquaintance.”
The other stomped forwards, glaring at Jak. “Orders is orders, my lord. “You and all companions is under arrest.”
Starting to speak, Symon said only, “You can’t arrest no fellow, and I reckon you must know it – wivvout says wot tis for – like ---” but was interrupted.
“What the king says, be law,” the captain announced.
Then the guards rushed them. It wasn’t royal-parador protocol. Jak responded automatically with his sword unsheathed and his dagger in the other hand. His mare, once he had dropped his hold on her reins, snorted, panicked, reared, and bolted. Jak heard as she raced down the alley and was gone. He hoped, briefly that she would find her own way home. Then he focused only on the men around him. “You’re frauds, all of you,” Jak shouted, “for this isn’t the way of the Law. Those uniforms must be stolen.”
There were eight, and the captain too. He knew, even with Symon beside him, that he could not outmatch nine experienced fighters. The high, shadow from the stables and tavern behind was deep. But no help came from the ostlers or the tavern’s staff and customers, for they saw the royal livery, and supposed this to be a legal arrest, or a skirmish between the official and the ignorant.
Jak struck first, slicing up with his sword, the point through one man’s chin, his knife straight through the same man’s eye. He had no further opportunities as the other three wrestled him down. He kicked out, lost his sword, stabbed with knife and knuckles, but was quickly and inevitably flat on his face, heavy boots to his back, stamping, grinding, and forcing his face into the mud. A leather heel slammed against his pelvis from behind. Another blow to his head above the ear. He was breathing mud. No time to think. Long training brought reaction, and Jak fought even from the ground. Rolling over made his body vulnerable to greater abuse, but he could more easily retaliate. He slashed up, his knife blade across someone’s calf and then the hilt slammed into another’s groin. Then Jak crawled forwards as his attackers stumbled back, discovered the sword he had lost before, and swung it, the edge cutting through an old cord tied doublet, opening the belly which bubbled like a cauldron over fires, spilling guts and shit and the putrid stink of death. The body pitched back across another still alive.
But Jak was down again beneath two ruffians, face in the bloody filth once more, a boot hard on his wrist and the sword wrenched from his hand. Jak coughed phlegm and felt his pulse pumping. He twisted desperately, throwing off the hands and feet that held him, and now unarmed, used his fists. But he was already finished, outnumbered and badly hurt. He punched up, knuckles barely scraping one man’s chin, and as he followed with his elbow, they kicked him again, and were on top of him, his lungs crushed against the ground. He felt his own blood trickling fast from brow to cheek, the hot tickle fading as the waves of pain overtook all else. He heard his heart pounding like a tabor behind the panting of the men on top of him, still with enough power left to pummel him senseless.
He did not see Symon, nor could be sure what he did, how many he killed, and if he remained alive. Jak saw a body, the face crushed through at the centre and the brains soaking both eyes, and he heard Symon’s voice, swearing and shouting. But he could be sure of nothing else.
The last sounds floated past as he lay quite still, with the sun golden on his face, listening to what seemed like the little peep, peep of disturbed water birds, the scamper of the rats perhaps and the gentle shush of the wind. Then he thought, quite aimlessly, that the sounds were only of his own failing breath and the music of death.
It was sound which returned first. Sight still had not. It was the sound of wheels over packed and rutted earth, the steady patient hooves of a horse, the creak of the boards beneath him and the rustle of straw around him.
Smell returned next, the plodding digestive disturbances of the horse, the musty, sour smell of the straw and the rancid musk of dead flies and mouse droppings. He could smell his own sweat. Sense and touch were already alive with the scratch of the bales and his wounds and bruises thudding through his body. He felt the bump at every rut and his head was pounding. Experimenting, he discovered he was trussed, and tightly, his arms behind his back, knees drawn up, something tight around his mouth, the jolt of a wooden cart and the sudden lurch of wheels against pebbles.
Last, absurdly, he realised why his sight had not been restored. There was nothing to see. He was deep buried between straw bales, and no light reached him, so he kept his eyes shut, safe from the scratch of straw, and his senses alert as he began to think with as much coherence as the situation permitted. But although he could not yet see, he knew that Symon was not beside him in the cart.
Either Symon was dead. Or remained in the tavern’s stable yard. Or had been carted elsewhere. Jak was sorry and hoped his new friend was not so quickly and unjustly dead.
He had expected retaliation from the man he had threatened with accusation and exposure yet had not expected Kallivan to react so quickly. Nor was sure why royal-paradors had been sent to do the dirty work, as the king would likely want his own reputation clean, despite whatever his grandson demanded.
One thing occurred to him as the headache became more blindingly uncomfortable and unaccustomed stomach cramps reminded him of hunger, that this was an indication of how long he must have been travelling. Another incontrovertible fact was that absolutely no one would be looking for him or even have noticed his absence until two days or more had passed. Only Symon, if he remained alive, which now seemed unlikely, would have the faintest idea of what had happened. At the tavern perhaps his groom and the assistant had seen the royal arrest in shambles and would know that something illegal had occurred. But they would not know where he had been transported. Jak himself had no guess as to where, why or by whom he was being taken.
Then Jak smelled the sea. It was a shock. He had not anticipated it. The cart continued on, and high in the background behind the sounds of horse and wheels and the effort of his own breathing, he heard the gulls and breathed in the salty brine.
Struggling against the ropes that held him and the baled weight on top of him, Jak built back traces of energy, a growing consciousness and the renewal of his usual determination. Then, with a jolt that sent his head spinning and the straw bouncing, the cart stopped. The horse was wheezing and emptying its bowels. Someone was shouting, and then someone else shouted in answer. Footsteps. Shouting again. “Get the bastard out then. And straight into the back. Hurry.”
In a sudden blast of sunshine as half a dozen bales were thrown aside, Jak was hauled out, gasping, struggling and close to vomiting. The suddenness disorientated him, he was starved and wild with thirst and fury. His mouth was tied with a kerchief so tight between his lips that it cut the corners of his mouth and bound his tongue to his jaw. Grabbed by the feet, his boots already having been removed, he was lifted end up, so his head fell back and hit the planks. The pain made him blind.
Someone had him, strong arms under his shoulders and he was heaved across cobbles and through the open door of a low building, the absurdity of honeysuckle perfume sweet around the porch and the hiss of a goose, then hurled back to the ground and a cushion of hay. It was a stable.
“Knock him out again,” said one of the voices. “He’ll be less trouble.”
“How long before the tide’s in?” asked a deeper voice.
“How the shit do I know?” said the first one. “Nor care. That’s not our problem. Knock him out and leave him for the next lot to take up. Do it. Or I will.”
Twisting, he knelt and straightened. He needed water and had no way to ask for it. But he sat, gazing up, with a hearty desire for his captors’ faces to remain in his memory forever. He saw the cudgel sw
ing directly towards him. He crumpled. Then it was blackness again, a lulling black stench within a permanent night of airless discomfort.
He had no way of knowing how long it had been, but finally awake, he knew the problems had increased. He was lying down, but this time there was no straw. There was no horse. He lay on rough boards covered in sacking. There was no pillow, but a coarse woollen blanket had been thrown over him. He was still bound as before, hands behind him and ankles tight-roped, but now he lay on some kind of rudimentary pallet. Eventually, he realised there was straw after all. Straw stuffed into hessian. Strangely, inexplicably, everything moved beneath him. He felt ridiculously ill. The lurch and bump of movement could be, he thought, his own sickness and the dizziness of fever. Then his brain slotted into place.
This was a small carvel, Jak realised, since it smelled of herring, fish scales, and rolled in the deep water without the unpleasant swaying pitch of a narrower boat. Now he knew he lay on a thin piece of bedding slung within the keel of a ship at sea. In crates beside and around him, he smelled, as well as fish, the unmistakable reek of untreated sheepskins, goat hides and urine. The stink of brine out-stank everything else. The war of stenches was intense. Then he added to it himself and vomited. Remarkably, after that, he felt better and could breathe again.
It was only after retching that he guessed, remembering his previous state more clearly, that the cloth around his mouth had been removed. Then he struggled to sit up and managed to ignore most of the pain, able to hoist himself a little with his back to the curved inside of the hull, and so noticed that, blissfully, there was a jug of ale on the ground beside him. It had already half spilt but enough ale remained. There was only the problem of how to reach and grasp it since his hands were tied behind his back. It took him some minutes.
Getting his arms down past his ankles, knees tightly bent up to the scrunch of knotted stomach muscles, slotting his feet back through the circle of forearms to wrists, and then bringing his arms up in front of him to grasp the pitcher two-handed and bring it to his lips, enabled him to drink slowly at first, sipping and cautious, not in fear of poison but for the state of his belly and the heaving wrenching bilious thirst. Gradually over the following hour, he drank it all and did not spew it back. It brought the pain in his head into a state of acceptability and the state of his guts into fairly ordered discomfort. Finally he lay back and closed his eyes. With his bound wrists now in front of him, he found it easier to curl and try to sleep. Not knowing whether it was day or night nor where he was going, sleep seemed the most appropriate option. He was going to need his strength.
He woke with someone bending over him. “Very well,” said a voice, though distant and indistinct, “get him to his feet and untie his ankles. Keep his wrists bound. Then bring him up.” Adapting slowly to the grey light and the slip-shifting of the boat’s shudder, Jak fought against the dizziness and allowed himself to be hauled upright. Three men held him, or he would have fallen as the cords at his ankles were cut. They half carried him past the rows of crates, the long pale corpse of a spare mast, coils of tarred ropes, folded sail cloth musty with mildew and endless barrels of food, ale and water, strong roped and stacked against rolling. At the far end of the unlit shadows rose narrow wooden steps. Jak was dragged up as he gradually found his footing. He wondered how long he had been tied up like a sheep for the spit. Since the initial kidnap, no doubt, and that would surely have been some days ago. He had not eaten then for a considerable time and had drunk only in the last few hours. But he was curious. Curiosity, they said, was a young man’s palsy.
It was a cabin they took him to, half the size of a kitchen table and darker. Someone reached out pale fingers, holding a lit sulphur spill to the wick of the hanging lantern. It swung easily and the flame spluttered. With light, the tiny space billowed into the sudden clarity of passing faces. Everything appeared to move with the creak of the timbers. The tallow spat, sank, and light sprang out again. A narrow man sat down behind the central desk and regarded him with interest. It was sometime before he said, “Lord Lydiard? I should welcome you aboard. The crossing will take one day more. Then our business will begin.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
She stood at the casement window overlooking the rising tide, took a deep breath, and flung the window wide. The bustle of air with its raging torrent of river stench filled her lungs. Freia slumped there a moment, breathing it in as if the smell of filth had become part of her. She had been crying for some time, but her weeping had been contained, almost silent. Now she squeezed shut her eyes, opened her mouth, and screamed at the winds, the tides, the rooftops and the church steeples that soared above them. She was holding a small tin cup, now empty of beer. She hurled it with all her force from the window and into the water, shouting, “Why do you hate me? How dare you take everything from me! That’s for Feep. And that’s for my mother. And that’s for Jak.” Then she sank down on the padded window seat and sobbed.
It was Sossanna who heard and came running. She knelt and took Freia into her arms. “Oh, my lovely. What’s the matter? Did the bastard hurt you?”
“Yes. No.” It took her a long time to answer, the tears as wet as river water down her cheeks. “But it’s everything, Sassa, and I’ll never fit in. It’s who I am, and who I’m not, and the people I’ve lost. I so desperately want them back. It’ll never happen, but I can’t stop wanting and wanting and wanting.”
“Remember, sweetie, when you gets what you wants, it ain’t never worth it.” Sossanna held her tight. “Get used to life being a bloody big disappointment. Then you’ll not be so disappointed next time.”
“It was good once. For just a little while.”
“So you’s bloody lucky, Fray.” The other girl, prettily blonde, hugged her and asked, “Is that the Jak, what you was yelling about?”
The door swung open, and Pimping Tom stood half frown, half smiling. Over Sossanna’s hunched shoulder, Freia stared across at him. “Please, not that particular one anymore,” Freia said. “He was so unpleasant, I don’t want him again.”
Tom’s half-smile turned fully into a frown as he twirled the hanging tassels of his doublet lacings. “He hurt you, Symon’s girl?” She shook her head. Tom looked her over. “If any man hurts you, you call for me.” Freia shook her head again. Tom said, “You’re mighty squeamish for a whore, my dear. You sit there in your shift, which is, by the way, almost transparent to any more interested eye, but insist on being treated as – what? No whore, indeed. A proud lady, perhaps?” Freia blushed. Tom continued softly. “I know the customer I sent you. He pays well, and I consider him safe, but is, let us say, a little demanding. But, you see he was no leader, a coward in battle, and now his wife rules him. Therefore when he can escape her, he comes to a stewe where he may act the tyrant. He pretends to be who he wishes he was and demands to be served with a respect he has never received elsewhere. They come to a stewe and pay for what they cannot receive freely at home. All men swive for reasons beyond the fuck, and weak men seek admiration through pretence.”
Freia swallowed hard. “Pretend? Women do that too. I do that. Which is why I don’t want to act the whore even though I know that’s what I am. And I don’t want a customer who commands me – and frightens me – and threatens to punish me.”
“Then you will refuse more than half the men who come to us,” Tom said.
“Can I refuse them?” She looked down at her bare toes.
“Sadly, no, my dear,” Tom said. “If that were allowed, then either you would bring no profit worth your board to the house, or you would take a greater share of the kinder customers, so leaving the other girls with only those less appealing.”
“So what do I do?”
“Madam Webb would care, my dear. You are not stupid. So learn the game. Learn to manipulate and pretend, learn to understand, even to sympathise. Learn the whims and weaknesses of your customers and how to satisfy even those you despise. “
“I despise them all,” Freia
said. “And especially myself.”
“Above all, learn how to make yourself rich.” Tom sat beside her, taking her hand. His own hand was still silken to touch, and the three rings he wore were beautiful. His sympathy seemed like accepting the affection of a king.
“I was once. Just a little rich. And not by whoring.”
Tom sighed. “You expect my respect? No, Symon’s friend. Every one of us dreamed as children of grand futures, of wealth, of heroism in battle, of high reputations and romantic love. No child dreams of being a pimp or a harlot. But only kings live their dreams. Make your truth comfortable, my dear, and learn to live with it. You are no trollop, nor whore by nature. But I don’t ask you to become one in your heart. Only to pretend and prove yourself a better actor than the simple stewe-girl. We must all grow older and wiser.”
“I was forced – you know the story,” Freia whispered, her arms across her breasts, and shivering now. “That man raped and hurt me and ruined my life. He murdered Feep and burned my home and my business, and he stole my money. That’s not growing out of a dream, that’s wicked and cruel, and I shall never, ever forget.”
Tom smiled. “Ah. Revenge, now that I can appreciate,” he said. “I can approve that, Symon’s lady. It tastes slow and sweet, and the slice of a quick knife between a villain’s ribs is a cultivated pleasure when it means vengeance satisfied. If you need my help for that one day, my dear, then let me know. Vengeance fulfilled makes my cods tighten and those that practise it go home to a warm bed.” He still held Freia’s hand. Then suddenly he leaned over her cheek, wiping her tears away with his fingers, and whispering, “And I do respect you, my dear. Your courage in accepting this horror has taken all my admiration. Oh yes, I respect you, Symon’s lady. But until Symon returns with the generosity he has described and promised, I cannot help. You must survive and plan your revenge.”
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