The Corn

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “Tell me then, brat.” Frink sniggered. “Money? Or something more complicated?”

  It was easier now to be honest. “Both,” Chia said. “I need to explain something quite long-winded and detailed, but it’s an interesting story. But do we have to sit here in this horrid official place?”

  The throne room was not entirely private at any time, as even part from the grand occasions when it bussed with a hundred guards and three hundred over-dressed visitors, there were at least two guards at the far door, and often a scribe or two scribbling away in a far corner. A painted room, pink, scarlet and crimson, the red exaggerations seemed both majestically glorious, and somewhat threatening. Anyone else entering this vast chamber felt decidedly small. The vaulted roof echoed, and curtain, most of them red velvet or black with gold fringes, whispered, tittered, teased and cursed.

  “I don’t like it,” sniffed Chia.

  “Damned palace,” muttered Frink, struggling up from the sumptuous comfort onto his tottering old legs. “I never designed any of this damned twaddle. Come along then, girl. We’ll go to an annexe, if I can find one empty.”

  She told her uncle the story, leaving out the birth of a child and her own years of misery. But she repeated, “Fraygard, Uncle dear. And the accusations are too absurd for anyone to believe. So there was another reason. Someone twisted the facts. Someone with power demanded his arrest. Or some sick bastard from Shamm has paid someone here. So how? Who? And why? But most importantly, dear uncle, how do I get him out?”

  “You want the bugger out after all this time?” Frink was now stretched on the couch, mercifully green damask. It was a small annexe and no one else was listening. “The poor old sod will be brain-dead and prick-dead.”

  “Just twenty-two years in the prison, uncle, and not prick-dead, which I know full well since I see him one day every three months. He’s just forty-two years old, because I know I’m just thirty-four. We can still have a life together.”

  With a lipless grin and two rotten black teeth, Frink approved. The approval had been both quicker and easier than Chia had expected. “You like the idea of the investigation? You hope you can find someone who’s been nasty and conspiratorial, who you can punish and create a scandal. You hope it’ll be a shocking surprise.”

  “Even after all these years, how well you know me, little niece,” sniggered the king. “I’ll do some sniffing, and I’ll organise a release. It may take a ten-day.”

  “Oh, please, no longer.”

  Frink’s grin remained in place, the faintly rancid tang of his breath in Chia’s face. “Oh, I’m not usually too slow,” he said. “I like to act fast. I think you’ve just got time to move into the palace and buy some decent clothes” He thrust his hand into the large central pocket of his thin linen shirt and pulled out a wedge of paper. “New stuff. My idea.” He fluttered the slips of blue paper into his niece’s lap. “All that heavy business annoyed me. Coins! Spoilt every coat and every shirt, pulling the pockets out of shape. So now you can have Kamps and Stripes and Pennies, all in paper instead of looking like Kamps and Stripes and Pennies. Clever old king that I am!”

  Regarding the clutch of paper, Chia saw that she had approximately a year’s wages in her hand. “And to live in the castle? Where? When? How?”

  “Tedious questions,” muttered the king. “Just hover around a bit in the corridor, girl. I’ll call someone.”

  He clapped his hands and yelled, “Page. Or someone.”

  Within an hour, Chia had a new home, and it was considerably more pleasant, although not larger than the tenement flats downtown. It was also free, and the food would not only be more generous, but she wouldn’t have to cook it herself on a minute fire that smoked every room and kept her awake most nights.

  The horses, mud splashed, hung their heads in the deadening rain. Two of the men were speaking softly, Jak turned in the saddle with a squeak of wet leather but heard little. This was also close enough for a planned escape. Lord Jak Lydiard had no doubts about his capacity to do whatever necessary, his skills, or his determination. Instead of doom or depression, he was alight with exhilaration. He was entirely convinced that Symon would be feeling the same.

  Captain Garth disembarked, heavily cloaked, and trudged through the slide of puddles towards them. Two men rode forward to meet him, leading the other horse.

  Although Probyn had passed and spring was floating into Mantell, here on the small island of Giardon the trees were a spangle of fresh young leaf, fattening white bud, and the stretching fingers of eager growth. The sun was no blistering golden heat, but a mild warmth seemed to blow in from the sea.

  Not yet in the saddle and staring at the horse with fervent dislike, Symon was waiting for opportunity rather than someone to help him mount. He was far better dressed than usual, as if recent events had made him more conscious of his status. He wore black woollen stockings in the high fashion where the knitted material clung to the muscles of the leg, outlining the strength of each curve. Symon’s legs were as massive as tree trunks, but the admirable effect was spoiled by the large hole on one knee where the wool was unravelling into ladders, reaching almost to the ankles. His shirt was long and loose, but over this he wore an unlaced doublet of heavy maroon broadcloth, its cords dangling. High waisted, the doublet was a little shorter than the shirt beneath but was still a conciliatory expression of increased affluence and respectability. The picture was further ruined by the workman’s boots, huge, wooden soled, and thick with mud. He wore neither hat nor cape and Symon’s knife, which he always certainly carried, was either stolen by those on the ship or simply hidden.

  One of the sailors from the ship, stomping up to Symon, pointed to the patient horse. “She be a right good un,” he said, patting the horse’s rump. “Gentle, she is, for them as don’t ride much. And we ain’t going far. Less than an hour’s ride, it is.”

  Symon looked the small man over. “You’d best be bloody right, turd-face, or I’ll have your gizzards for supper.”

  Hearing the familiar voice, Jak looked over. “It’s a beautiful island if nothing else,” he called, “and I have a feeling this is going to be grand entertainment.”

  “Well, it ain’t Eden, is it,” said Symon with simple logic. “So stands to reason it ain’t bootiful and we ain’t gonna like it.” But he was laughing as he hoisted himself upwards into the saddle, landing with a bump that made the horse shiver.

  Surrounded by the sailors and their captain, Jak rode close to Symon’s side, half doubting Symon’s riding skills, and half expecting sudden attack. Each might rescue the other. The trees grew thicker and the land rougher with small ditch-like valleys breaking through hillsides, and puddle-like ponds alive with splashing crab handed fish. The sky hung colourless in hazy sea mists and condensation slipped from leaf and bark. Then, between six of the towering redwoods, the cloud misted so low and so thick that it appeared as a drifting white smoke. Then Symon whispered, “Six men. The buggers all got spears.”

  Jak tightened his grip on the reigns.

  The prison island was decorated with canvas banners that swept around the high stone wall, fastened to the wired spikes and iron claws which adorned the top from gate to gate. Twenty royal guards, each in their sparkling scarlet livery and golden caps, and three played strident celebrations on their golden trumpets.

  The shattering noises of trumpet, marching, shouting and creaking of doors around those in the general dungeon, rebounded from walls, echoed through corridors, and hurtled into every ear. But no one told the prisoners what was going on, and most sat mouth open, waiting for sudden collapse and death.

  Others in their small shared cells upstairs stared from their windows, puzzled and delighted, yet saw little else.

  As the trumpets blared the higher notes, as if proclaiming the coming of the gods, or the king at the least, so the liveried guards stepped aside, leaving an open pathway.

  It was Logon who blinked, the sounds more distant to his ears as his cell topped the
vast prison building, and wandered from hammock to window, although without expectation of interest beyond some half-crazed wherryman blowing a pipe.

  He saw the liveried guards, though little else. The angle hid what else happened below. “Fray,” he called, although half-hearted, “come here.”

  They both stood staring down as the parade lengthened and along the pathway between the guards rode four horses, trotting, each with a scarlet liveried royal page atop and looking very pleased with himself. Between them, the horses pulled a lightly sprung coach, its wheels high and silent. The coach’s body was dark blue and golden roofed, open windowed and blazoned with the royal arms.

  A woman sat in the coach. Both excited and terrified, Chia wore more of the endless red velvet, and there were pearled combs in her hair. She didn’t dare close her eyes in case she missed something, but she tried to close her ears.

  Still staring, perplexed, Fraygard and Logon stood by the window, and stumbled back, accustomed to threats, when someone knocked three times, very loudly, on their cell door. Fraygard laughed. “I wish we were able to open the door to you, whoever you may be,” he grinned, hiding the fear. “But they tend to keep these doors locked from the outside.”

  The opening of the door interrupted him. It swung open with the usual grinding creak of old wood and metal hinges, and two young men in brilliant velvet stood, and, to the astonishment of the two open-mouthed men within, they bowed, one leg stretched, the other bent, heads down.

  Logon said, “What the fuck?”

  “It is to his royal majesty’s great sorrow,” the older page announced, “ that the two gentlemen housed in the topmost prison cell, being a shared cell on the highest storey of the island, are discovered to have been incarcerated improperly and contrary to the law of the land. An investigation has begun to uncover the source of this injustice and compensation will be awarded where possible. “

  The younger page stepped forwards and held up a scroll, unwinding this as he read. “High-Eden-Master Logon, erstwhile of the High Council, and High-Eden-Master Fraygard son of Artos and related to kings are hereby released into the everlasting freedom of our great country Eden.”

  Without racing for the stairs, kissing each other and the pages, snatching up the scroll to test the wording, or in any other way acknowledging their release after more than twenty years of confinement, Fraygard and Logon stood quite still and stared first at the pages, then at each other, and finally at their feet.

  “Is this true?” muttered Fraygard, and turned back to the pages, asking with quiet disbelief, “Do we follow you? Do we go downstairs?” He could hear the tap-tap sound of someone coming up the stairs, someone trying to hurry but unsure of the steep and narrow. Fraygard feared some trick, or the acknowledgement of a mistake. He began to move out of the doorway, two steps, watching the pages in case they tried to grab him.

  Instead, he discovered himself tightly clasped in his wife’s embrace, her mouth on his cheek and searching for his lips, her breath against his chin and the sparkle of her eyes looking up into his.

  “This is no bloody mistake,” she told him, half-whisper. “This is real. Utterly, totally sodding real. And Master Logon, I’ve heard all about you but never met you before. Let me tell you both that his majesty the sovereign, King Frink of all Eden, has authorised your release and invites you to a grand feast at the castle tonight. My new apartment’s in the palace, and it’s large enough for you both to come along, wash and prepare, and send a brief message of – let’s say – appreciation.”

  Kissing her madly, Fraygard spluttered the words he couldn’t say. “Carriage? Love you? You did this?”

  “The carriage awaits,” said the older page with a rather pompous stiffening of the back, and then led the small group down the unattractive stairs, down to the cells on level four, further down to level three, to the second floor, and down again to the first storey. The trumpets blared louder now, and the prisoners most accustomed to quietness were getting headaches. So was Logon.

  “Excitement,” he said, voice vague, “can be an alarming business. Do I dream, my friend? Or shall I be drowned in the Corn if I attempt to leave the island?” He was frowning, trying to clear his head.

  “One time not to frown, my friend,” Fraygard told him, and climbed into the carriage. It was after the horses had cantered past both the high drop gallows and the blood-stained tree stump, they called the execution block, that he started to believe in what was happening. Logon sat opposite, unblinking and staring. Chia sat beside Fraygard, her head nestled on his shoulder.

  “The king’s going to try and find out who twisted the law and got you put into prison,” Chia whispered to her husband before kissing him again. “But he’s promised, my darling, truly promised, my beloved, you’ll never go back to that hideous place.”

  Now Fraygard was clutching her hair, pearls dropping, as if he needed to know what was real. “Is he such a good man?” he muttered. “I thought not.”

  Pressing one finger to her lips, Chia again whispered. “No. He’s a bad man and cares nothing for you, or Logon, or me. But this gives him an open door straight to what he really wants to achieve. You see, Frink intends destroying the council and taking back all the power for himself.”

  A wide bridge of temporary boards had been laid from island to island to banks, and the parade, with the insistence of the trumpets, continued onwards to dry land, and to the shining polished gates of the castle and the royal palace within.

  Chapter Forty

  The figures materialised from the mist as though they had only recently taken shape and had previously just been clouds.

  One at a time they stepped into visibility and stood in silence. When the last had come into the dull light from between the redwoods, there were twenty perhaps, standing very tall in a row of expressionless menace. Each held a spear, braced on the ground and the point shining upwards, held by each thin centre. Knives, half a dozen or more, were wedged into every belt. A long necklace of crocodile skins hung around each neck. They wore little else. Their belts were wide leather, held with leather buckles, but they did not hold up clothes or any other adornment. The men were naked except for their belts, their necklaces, and their weapons.

  The last to appear, a tall man with long black curls to his shoulders, stepped forward again, his spear pointing at the captain and other men. “Get off your horses,” he said. “They belong to us. And,” he stared at Jak and Symon, “Who do you sell?”

  Captain Garth indicated. “These two. But I’ve fed them for many days, and they’ve been of no help on the ship. I needs a fair exchange. Take them. But discuss your payment first.”

  Jak turned to the captain. “Interesting bargain,” he said. “And exactly what are they likely to do with us?”

  But Symon turned directly to the one with the spear. “And if I comes to you, friend,” he asked, “wot is yer gonna want of me?”

  Garth did not answer, but the other man did. “Dig,” he said. “dig long and hard and pack what you find.”

  Immediately intrigued, Symon asked, “And wot is it, so hard to dig but so good to find, eh, friend?”

  Jak asked the same question of the captain, but this time neither man gave an answer. Garth said, “We don’t know for the natives don’t tell us. We reckon rock for building their houses. There’s no wealth here, and the women work harder than the men.”

  And at the same time, the native leader looked down his nose, brandished the spear, and spoke in a reluctant growl. “Not your business, slave.”

  His accent was strong, indicating a probable difference in the native language, but he was clearly understandable, so Symon asked again, “You take slaves, so yer don’t reckon on diggin’ yerselves?”

  He was interrupted as the native turned to Garth. “I’ll pay in skins. Five each. Ten skins in total. No more. These slaves are inquisitive and may cause trouble.”

  “Never,” grinned Symon, “we’s as sweet and placid as a sow wiv her litter.�
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  But Jak was staring at the skins which another brought out from the trees. These were large, thick, and of many kinds. Most seemed to be horse. Two were the huge hides of white wolves. And one was a great black skin, thick, soft and glinting with a sheen of vivid gloss where the lower half was thickly striped in golden edged scarlet. It was the hide of a lacine.

  Symon said, “Reckon t’will be good if we finds they digs fer emeralds and diamonds. But if ‘tis just stoopid bloody stones, then we gonna get the bloody hell outta here mighty quick.”

  But Jak was staring at the thick fur of the lacine.

  Kallivan had neither knowledge or recognition, nor the slightest interest when he met Fraygard in the long golden corridor. Torches lit the patterned coils and curls of the wall painting and the thick scarlet comfort of the carpet. Fraygard stood aside for the other man to pass, but Kallivan walked only three steps and changed his mind. He saw a stranger but dressed in luxury and the height of fashion with the finest lace at his collar and the same at his wrists. This was no servant, yet he walked alone.

  Calling back as he turned, Kallivan asked, “Might I ask your name, my lord? It is rare at the palace to meet someone unseen before.”

  “My name is Fraygard, and I am no lord,” he answered, but walked onwards into the shadows of the opposite direction, and Kallivan was left frowning. The next stranger to pass him was considerably older, even a little bent, but dressed with the same grandeur in spite of the vague expression, as if this wealthy man had no idea where he was going. “May I help, my lord?” Kallivan asked. “I believe we’ve not yet been introduced. I am Sir Kallivan, his majesty the king’s grandson. And you, my lord?”

  Logon smiled, although without warmth. “Indeed, sir? How exceptionally – fascinating.” And turned, marching away down the silence of the carpet’s depth.