The Bastard Prince

by Patty Jansen

  There was a thin book about The Birthing of Infants that started off by saying that women didn’t like it if the church interfered with their practical knowledge, and that the birthing process was a heathen affair during which practices by midwives could invite demons and lead to possession of the mother and child by evil.

  There were pages of illustrations of birthing positions and how those favoured by midwives—usually in a chair—were evil because the child was born “into darkness”.

  It then included positions that were approved, including—fully clothed!—women on elbows and knees and flat on their backs surrounded by men who looked suspiciously like priests.

  The illustrations were crude, and whoever wrote this had obviously never witnessed a woman giving birth.

  On one shelf, she even found the fabled Arts of the Arcane, the book mentioned by her father.

  It was a thick book that contained long dissertations about dark magic, about the church—the Belaman Church in this case—and the poisons and herbs with their effects and time before recovery—or death.

  There was a chapter on the different types of magic. Wood magic, wind magic and water magic were common, but other types of magic were mentioned that Nellie had never heard about. Apparently, some people derived their magic from the food they ate. About these people, the book said, They are often dangerous spies and in the employ of rulers. Not uncommonly, they turn on their rulers and are almost impossible to contain. It is an ill-kept secret that the great outbreak of illness in the Skandian town of Laivi was caused by a spurned food magician.

  The next chapter dealt with food magicians and how to use or detect them: one could detect the presence of magic using quicksilver, because it was repelled by magic. One could make potions that countered the effects of food magic.

  It had a chapter on exorcism, including images of how the victim might faint or vomit violently.

  Nellie shuddered. She had almost forgotten about having seen that during her travels with mistress Johanna.

  The next chapter was called Beauty in Death and it detailed how to dress up dead bodies for funerals, including a detailed description of sewing together a man who had been mauled to death by a bear. Of a woman perished in illness, it said to dress her up nicely and paint her pallid face in case the husband wanted to—

  Whaaaaat?

  Nellie turned the page.

  Necromancy.

  All right, that was enough for her.

  She put the book back, feeling sick, her mind whirling with disturbing thoughts. The church was right to keep all this out of view of the public. By evil books she had assumed books about magic, but that made up only a small part of the library and was mostly about herb lore, although there was a book called Manifestations and Banning Of Ghosts that she had no desire to see.

  Good grief.

  This place was the collection of everyone’s worst nightmares.

  A thin book with a plain cover contained mostly sketches of children, with an occasional picture filled in ink. Wait—that was Prince Bruno and his older sister Celine. This book had to have come from the collection of the court portrait painter.

  Nellie leafed through the pages, thinking of those happy memories and sun-filled days.

  The children in the drawings grew older, and then suddenly, an empty page.

  The pain of loss stabbed through her heart.

  Nellie was about to shut the book when she noticed there was another drawing on the next page, in a much more severe style. It showed a boy sitting in a cane chair. Nellie judged him to be about nine or ten. He wore a shirt that was too big for him, with the sleeves rolled up and thin, stick-like arms poking out.

  His face had lost its childish chubbiness, but it was unmistakably Prince Bruno.

  Nellie stared at the picture, heart thudding. It could be that the artist had tried to imagine what the prince would look like if he had still been alive. Or it could be that the prince was still alive, as Bert said.

  But if so where was he?

  The box. She was here to check if the church had the dragon box.

  She blew out a breath as if it would blow the disturbing images from her mind.

  The room contained a single glass-fronted cabinet with three sections containing three shelves each, displaying a variety of items that glittered in the light of the lamp. Nellie crossed the room.

  By the Triune, the infant’s skull with the red rubies was in the cabinet. The glow from her lamp made the stones glitter deep inside the eye sockets.

  When she came closer, the glow pulsated as if there was a beating heart hidden inside.

  Nellie took in a sharp breath, and froze, her heart racing. Was this thing alive?

  The light remained steady.

  She moved the lamp up and down and from side to side.

  Phew. The pulsating effect happened because of the way the light reflected in the cut facets in the stones.

  She stepped closer to the cabinet because she needed to see what else was in there. A dragon box would be about the size of her palm. If it was in this room, it would be in this cabinet.

  She peered in through the glass, holding up the light—and the red eyes pulsated. Was it really because she moved the light?

  The glow of the lantern reflected in the polished side of the skull. Weren’t skulls normally white? Why was this one black?

  She did not like this thing. Wherever she turned, it was as if those eyes watched her.

  The ruby skull had bewitched priests. It had enticed people to kill and attempt necromancy. The person who saw this thing and still said there was no magic was truly resistant to it. This skull embodied magic. It proved that magic was real. It oozed evil magic, through the glow of the eyes, and the throbbing of the surrounding air.

  It wanted her to take it out of its cabinet and into the daylight so it could turn daylight black. It wanted to be free from this prison and wreak havoc upon the world.

  She had to force herself to turn away.

  The cabinet contained all manner of dark and obscure items: teeth from all kinds of animals; the skull from a bird much larger than she had ever seen, the black hooked beak still attached; a silver cup with engravings of skulls and bones, blackened through age; a spindly metal instrument with a knob and a little arrow attached that you could move across a dial; a spoon-shaped flange that looked like it might have a medical purpose, but Nellie hated to think what; and a set of two cups made from a ram’s horns.

  No dragon box.

  But wait . . .

  On the left-hand side of the middle shelf in the third cabinet section, a spot was empty and a piece of paper with something written on it in loopy handwriting lay there. When she held the light up at a certain angle, it showed an octagonal shape in the dust, about the size of her palm, where something had been until recently.

  The note said:

  If you have removed this object from this cabinet, may the Lord of Fire have your soul and devour it.

  Nelly did not recognise the handwriting, but putting things together, she figured that it belonged to the Shepherd Wilfridus and that this was the item that someone must have stolen from the church.

  On the other hand, how could he suspect the beggars, because how would they get in here when not even Shepherd Adrianus had a key?

  Maybe a careless monk had left the door unlocked?

  But the thief must have known what they wanted, because if they were simply looking for evil, the skull would be the most obvious object to take. If they were after money, there were many silver and gold objects in this cabinet that were worth more than a wooden box, no matter how pretty.

  This thief would have had to resist the magic of the ruby skull to pick up the unassuming box instead.

  Where was it now?

  She looked around, not really expecting to find it. This dank room, the darkness and the sheer evil of the place pressed on her: she needed to get out, now. There was nothing here for her.

  She picked up the la
ntern, suddenly very afraid.

  She left the library, past the racks with the barrels of wine and the dusty bottles.

  Creatures rustled in the dark.

  Nellie went back to the crypt room, let herself through the gate and pulled it into the lock behind her.

  Phew.

  She strode through the burial chamber, climbed the stairs, but coming out at the top, a faint glow of light lit the wall in the staircase—there was someone else in the church.

  She peeked around the corner. At the statue of the Triune stood a monk named Gerard who had been helping the shepherd for a few months now, a young fellow with ginger hair.

  He sank on his knees on the padded bench and folded his hands in prayer.

  Nellie scooted out of the doorway to the stairs. She turned down the wick until the flame flickered out, placed the lamp where she had found it, picked up the bag with the bowl, and walked across to the statue, her heart racing.

  The monk looked up.

  “Oh,” he said. “I didn’t know anyone was here.”

  It surprised her how young he sounded.

  “I visited the crypt to pay my respects to my mistress.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’m sorry if I disturbed you.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Well then, I had better go.”

  Nellie turned to the aisle, desperate to get out of this place.

  “What is your name?” Gerard said behind her.

  “I’m Nellie.”

  “Nellie, do you believe the Triune always knows what is best for us?”

  “I do.” What was this? How did he know she had doubts about the church?

  He smiled. His teeth were white, but they stood at all kinds of different angles. With the light hitting him side-on, his face looked very soft, his chin still without wayward hairs that would eventually thicken into a beard. “Good. The Triune always knows what is best. It is not up to us to question His orders.”

  He knew something. He knew about her father’s book and his misgivings about the church. Or he knew about the rumblings in the kitchens that questioned whether the Regent would ever be crowned king, and that if he wasn’t, the church obstructed the process.

  Nellie nodded. Her legs felt like pudding. “Yes, the Triune knows what is best for us.”

  “Then be on your way, child. It’s late and tomorrow is another long day.”

  His blue eyes looked innocent, but Nellie couldn’t stop thinking about the woman tied to the table while men put objects in her private parts.

  Did he take part in those activities, too?

  She’d had enough. It was a bad idea to come here. As fast as she dared, she walked along the aisle back to the church door and into the freezing rain. In her imagination, she could hear Gerard laughing.

  Why had she even gone down there?

  That book from her father was nothing but trouble. She should burn it tonight.

  But what a position this left her in.

  If she had found the box there, she would have been happy that the church was looking after it, and that some people in the church might be disgusting, but they were not interested in dark magic.

  But the box had been stolen, and the shepherd wanted it back.

  She couldn’t burn the book.

  Chapter 10

  * * *

  THE PALACE LAY DARK and forlorn on the other side of the city’s main square. A tall fence with an elaborate gate surrounded the forecourt. It was open during the daytime, but the guards closed it at night, and anyone wanting to go inside had to give a reason.

  Two men stood by the guardhouse for that purpose, gilded by the glow of light from a street lamp.

  They greeted Nellie as she came up to them and opened the gate for her.

  Nellie walked through the deserted forecourt, past the side of the palace.

  It was dark in the corridor that ran through the servants’ quarters, except in the kitchen. A few of the workers sat around the table with a pot of tea between them, a group of weary faces looking up at Nellie.

  Nellie walked into the scullery and set the empty bowl—the one she had used to carry the food to the church—on the bench. It was dark and humid here and smelled of rancid fat. Creatures—mice probably—scurried in the corners.

  Back in the kitchen, she poured herself some tea before sitting down with the others at the table.

  “How was church?” Dora asked.

  “There were more people than before,” Nellie said. She didn’t need to explain. They all knew she was talking about the poor who came for shelter. “I spoke with the shepherd.” She wrapped her hands around the warmth of the cup.

  To her surprise Els was still in the kitchen. The two sisters normally went home after dark.

  Corrie said, “It must have been cold in the church, because you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Just tired.” She desperately didn’t want to talk about the crypt.

  She sipped from her tea.

  Dora and Corrie spoke about all the things that needed to be done tomorrow.

  Peeled potatoes sat in pans in the corner of the kitchen bench. Plucked ducks hung from the ceiling. A crate of carrots stood on a stool—off the ground so that the vermin would not find it attractive. There was no more room in the kitchen’s mice-free pantry.

  The bakers had set bowls of dough to rise near the fire. They would be the first to come in here, rising after midnight to start their jobs.

  Everything was ready for the arrival of more guests tomorrow, and compared to the things she had seen in the crypt, all this mundane normal stuff passed by her in a haze.

  Els was also quiet.

  “Why are you still here?” Nellie asked her.

  “I waited, because I need to ask you something.”

  “Oh?” That didn’t sound good, and the girl’s eyes glittered in the lamplight as she said this.

  “Come.” Nellie rose, gulped the rest of her tea while standing, put her cup down and walked to the door.

  Els followed her out of the kitchen, down the corridor into the linen room.

  It was cold here. Light from a lamp in a sconce outside the door fell into the room, revealing the folding table where, during the day, the laundry girls would fold serviettes into nifty shapes.

  “You know about herbs, right?” Els said.

  “A bit. I can help with some things, but if you want something special, you will have to go to—”

  “Please, I need to get juniper berries.”

  “You need . . .” Nellie stared at her. Those were used to bring on a woman’s bleeding if it was late.

  Most nights, Els’ mother could be found in the taverns in the harbour, traipsing up and down the stairs in the company of drunk sailors with fat purses.

  Nellie had taken the two sisters into the palace to save them from going down the same path.

  “It’s not for me,” Els said, seeing Nellie’s expression. “It’s not for my sister either.”

  “But for a ‘friend’?” Nellie asked.

  “No. Men are disgusting. I’d rather become a nun.”

  “You might try going to church first.”

  But Els’ mother was from Scandia. Scandian people were known to be heathens. In fact, the only one Nellie had ever known to visit a church was King Roald’s mother Queen Cygna.

  “Now you’re just being smart with me.”

  “You’re asking for a poison. I need to make sure you’re serious.”

  “I am. It’s for my mam. She has been vomiting in the mornings. With pap injured and spending all his earnings in the tavern, we can’t afford any more brothers or sisters. We scarce have money for ourselves. Last time I gave it to her, it worked real well, even if I had to wash the blood out of the bed. I was going to get some berries from the woman at the markets, but she stopped coming. But I’m not looking after any more new babes, and I’m certainly not helping my mam bring any more children into the world. Do you know how h
ard and disgusting that is, with all the blood and the screaming and trying to keep the young ones out of the bedroom because they don’t have to see that? It takes forever, and then the mess. What do people even do with all of it? It didn’t fit in our slop bucket, so I had to dump it in the harbour, at night to keep anyone from seeing me do it, because we can’t afford to pay fines for dumping waste either.”

  It was hard to believe that this girl was only fourteen.

  A careless youth was a luxury only afforded by the rich.

  Nellie went to the cupboard to the side of the laundry where the soaps and bleaches were kept as well as a supply of homemade remedies for common ailments.

  Nellie knew the most about herbs of the kitchen staff, so she had taken on the official role of dispensing the medicines and replenishing them.

  She took out a glass container with a fat cork stopper. A small layer of black shrivelled balls coated the bottom. “There are few left. Hold out your pocket and I’ll give you all of them. I’ll buy some new ones next time I’m at the markets.”

  She upended the jar into Els’ apron.

  “Make a strong tea and soak these in the hot water. Drink several times a day.”

  “Thank you. You are so good to us.”

  With that, Els scooted out the door, and Nellie watched her go down the corridor, her thick plait dancing over her back. Poor girl. Her family really wasn’t terribly fortunate. Work in the harbour was poorly paid, seasonal and dangerous, not in the least because the men who worked there were likely to pick up the sailors’ preference for liquor. Drunk men couldn’t work, spent what little money they had on booze, and neglected their families. They often took to the whores.

  Els’ mother came from a small village along the frigid northern coast of Scandia, was sold as captain’s pet and dumped in Saardam when she was with child.

  To Els’ father’s credit, he fell for the fair-haired beauty, married her and looked after little Els and all the other children she conceived while selling herself at the docks to feed an ever-increasing brood of ragtag brats from many different fathers.

  Els took after her northern captain father. Strong in body, strong in opinions.