It was the ladies’ turn to bathe. Ivy stood guard with a pikeaxe, more for cuttlefish than wolves. Only one mollusk had come this far upstream but no one wanted to let another surprise them.
Redinkle and Shellbutton had a surprise of their own for the bathers.
“Who wants to try an experiment?” asked Redinkle, holding up a small crock. She had to almost shout over the sound of the falling water.
“What is it?” said Lady Elderberry.
“Homemade soap. We’ve been trying different proportions. This one seems to work.”
She set the crock on a rock. Scooping out a handful of gray goo, she rubbed it on her face, neck, and farther down. Plunging into the pool rinsed most of it off. She scrubbed at the residue with her hands.
“Oh, my God,” said Elderberry. “I’ve been out of soap for weeks. May I have some?”
“Certainly. We want to know how well it works for everyone.”
Shellbutton brought the crock over to her.
Elderberry started with her hair, massaging the goo into her long mop. The excess went onto her face and ears. Then she stood in the waterfall, scrubbing at herself until the soap was gone.
When Elderberry came out from under the waterfall, Mistress Filigree asked, “Is it moisturizing?”
“Hell, no,” answered Elderberry. “My skin is wrinkling at the touch of the stuff. It’s damn harsh. But I’m clean. God, I feel clean.”
Shellbutton poured soap into Filigree’s waiting hands.
***
Duke Stonefist burst into his pavilion. “I’m an idiot,” he declared.
The padded gambeson he wore under armor was held closed with a dozen pairs of laces. The duke undid half of them before pulling it over his head and dropping it on the floor. A sweat-soaked t-shirt landed on top of the gambeson.
Duchess Roseblossom didn’t pause in setting stitches in a ripped jerkin. “What’s the matter?”
Stonefist poured some water into a towel and began a hasty spongebath.
“Remember that kid Thistle?”
“The food thief?”
“Yeah. After his second offense I threatened to flog him. Figured that would scare him enough to behave.”
She stopped sewing. “It didn’t?”
“No. Grabbed some venison and ran into the woods. They caught him when he came back. Court’s in an hour.” He dropped the towel on the pile. “An hour from when they found me at practice.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Roseblossom.
“God. First I’m going to make damn sure he’s guilty. Talk to all the witnesses.”
“And if he is?”
Stonefist knelt before a wicker chest, pulling out his “Lord High Executioner” outfit. Black linen pants, a white shirt, a black velvet Elizabethan doublet, and matching hat. She let him use getting dressed to delay answering.
“I have to make him stop,” said Stonefist. “If he gets away with it more people will start stealing. The ones he’s robbed will take food to make up for it. We’re too short on food. Everyone’s hungry.”
Roseblossom didn’t say anything.
He sighed. “Too many people know I threatened to flog him. If I don’t follow through I destroy my credibility. And then what happens? We have a dozen thieves and mobs lynching them. Anarchy.”
The last word was said with the horrified tone of a man describing the worst thing he can imagine.
“So you don’t have a choice,” said Roseblossom.
“I haven’t found an alternative that works yet. Damned well trying to think of one.” He pulled black shoes onto his feet. They weren’t the proper style for Elizabethan dress. Replacing them had been one of his priorities before . . . this.
Stonefist stood and checked himself with a mirror. He looked every inch a Lord High Executioner. The joke felt less funny today.
He put the mirror down. “If I wasn’t such an idiot I would have been coming up with options ever since I made the threat. Or not made it in the first place.”
Duchess Roseblossom came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist. “You’re a good man. You’ll find the best option. Even if there isn’t a good one.”
That produced a sigh. “That’s what I’m afraid of. If all I can do is the least bad it’s hard to call it justice.”
“If there has to be a flogging,” she murmured, “Sharpedge could do it.”
“No. I’m not going to make my squire do my dirty work. If I pass the sentence I’ll carry it out.”
He turned around and returned the hug. Then a quick kiss and he was gone.
***
Stonefist pushed himself to get to the court early. Trotting over drove his heart rate up again. He breathed slowly to relax. He’d taken it easy at the fighter practice, critiquing others more than he’d traded blows himself, but his body was still feeling the strain. Not the impression a dignified judge should present. He was hungry, too. Maybe he should have nibbled something from their cache to take the edge off. Didn’t want to be too harsh because of low blood sugar. Too late.
King Estoc was already waiting behind the royal pavilion’s curtain.
Lord Goldpen, one of the courtiers, slid through the overlap in the curtain. “Your Majesty, Your Grace, everything is in position. The petitioners are waiting.”
Estoc nodded. He’d been quiet in his grief.
“Thank you,” said Stonefist. His breathing was still faster than he liked. “One minute, please.”
“Water for his Grace,” snapped Goldpen. Another courtier brought a full mug.
Stonefist took a gulp. Ah, Court water. Not river water boiled and left to settle. Someone had gone all the way to one of the clear streams for this.
Half the mug was enough. He handed it back to the courtier and gave Goldpen a nod.
Lord Goldpen sprang into action. He waved a herald ahead of the monarch. He and a courtier each took hold of the overlapping portions of the curtain. A yank opened it wide enough for king and judge to proceed out side by side.
The herald declared, “The Court of the Lord High Executioner, under the authority of His Majesty King Estoc, is now open. Let those who wish for justice attend.”
The king took a couple of steps forward then turned to sit on his throne. It was tucked into a corner, letting him observe but not distract attention from the judge. His presence made the acts of the court official. He didn’t participate in the proceedings.
The judge’s throne was a fancy chair that Stonefist had acquired to look impressive at feasts. It sat forward of the normal position for the rulers, just within the shadow of the roof. Stonefist sat and gestured to the herald.
“Let House Chevron approach the Lord High Executioner.”
Duke Stonefist kept himself from smiling. The herald, at least, wasn’t tired of the title.
House Chevron formed a line abreast. The two strongest men held Thistle by the arms in the middle. They were a new house, formed by a merger when the Autocrat forbade cookfires for groups of six or less. Two couples and some strays were now united in pursuit of a firewood ration. The name came from the most common element in the arms of the founders.
Thistle was the youngest of the household. Supposedly eighteen, though Stonefist didn’t trust his ID. Clothes and hair were dirtier than those of anyone else in sight. The only bruises on his face were the faded remnant of when he’d resisted after his second offense.
“What is your complaint?” demanded the Lord High Executioner.
Lord Maximus was head of the house. He stepped forward, dragging Thistle with him. He was a fighter, both heavy and rapier, now cutting wood and hauling water. “Theft, Your Grace. This boy grabbed Ivy’s meat ration out of hand, ran off, and ate it all. When we found—”
“Let the victim speak.”
Maximus closed his mouth.
A woman not much older than Thistle took one step forward and curtsied. “I’m Ivy, your Grace. We were eating around the fire. I was nibbling on some arrowleaves.
I eat slow, because the faster I eat the sooner I’m hungry again. Had a bit of venison in my left hand, because, um.” She glanced at Thistle. “We’ve learned not to leave meat on our plate. Well, Thistle stood up and reached past Pritchel and just grabbed it out of my hand. I was so shocked I couldn’t say anything until he was around the next tent.”
“Thank you. Who witnessed this?” Stonefist raised a hand.
Most of House Chevron raised their hands in response. The judge pointed at the one on the end.
“Um, yer honor, I didn’t see him grab the meat, but I saw her holding it and then Thistle ran off and she didn’t have it any more.”
“Thank you. Next?”
A few offered more details but they all agreed on what happened. Stonefist let them all talk. Someone might have new information. And he wanted time for an idea to pop up.
When the last witness stepped back into line it was clear what had happened. Thistle stared at his feet. Tears dripped off his cheeks.
The judge waved Maximus back. The head of house reluctantly released his grip on the boy, leaving him alone before the throne.
“What do you have to say for yourself, boy?”
“I’m—I’m sorry.” Thistle didn’t raise his head as he spoke.
“Sorry for what?”
Thistle didn’t respond immediately. Stonefist waited.
“For stealing her food, I’m sorry, but I was so hungry!”
The Lord High Executioner said, “We’re all hungry.”
“I just couldn’t help myself, I’m sorry.” The boy was looking at the judge now, a desperate expression on his face.”
“Well. What punishment would help you help yourself from now on?”
Thistle paled. “I’ll—I’ll go away. Leave. You won’t have to put up with me any more.”
Stonefist kept his face in the solemn judge’s mask. “Exile is the Kingdom’s traditional penalty for most misbehavior. But here and now that’s a death sentence.”
He raised his voice. “Does anyone think this crime deserves death?”
No one answered. Some of House Chevron shook their heads.
“No exile then. But what will we do with you?”
This would be a perfect moment for the boy to burst out with a solution that would satisfy everyone. Instead he kept crying, eyes on his feet again.
Stonefist sighed. It was time to think of the next boy who’d be tempted to steal. “Thistle, take off your shirt.” He turned to his squire, standing in the back corner. “Sharpedge, bring me that rope.”
Sharpedge loosened the stay rope from a pole the pavilion didn’t need in good weather.
With a wail Thistle dropped to his knees. “Please, I’m sorry, I’ll never do it again, I’m sorry!”
The Lord High Executioner took the jute rope. It felt rough and scratchy under his hands. He slid the wood slider down to make it one long loop. “Take off your shirt,” he ordered.
Thistle pulled his tunic over his head, leaving him in only modern jockey shorts and leather moccasins. “Please, I’m sorry, I am.” He held his hands out as a beggar’s.
Inspiration hit.
“Are you sorry?” said Duke Stonefist. “Prove it.”
He dropped the rope into Thistle’s hands.
That replaced the terror with confusion.
“If you’re so sorry, show us. Give yourself the punishment you deserve.” Stonefist stood and walked to beside the penitent. A wave of his fingers brought Thistle to his feet.
The watchers, from king to commoners, were silent.
Thistle’s jaw worked as he stared at the rope in his hands. He let it slide down until his hands were just above the slider. Then he stood straight, drawing a deep breath. A long moment went by. Shoulders tensed. He flung the rope over his shoulder.
Stonefist could see the flinch on the boy’s face as the end of the loop hit his back. The next two blows were softer.
“It’s not a punishment if it doesn’t hurt, boy,” said the Lord High Executioner, his voice pitched for Thistle alone.
The blows became stronger, wilder. The swish of the rope and crack of it meeting flesh drowned out the gasps and mutters from the onlookers. Red welts multiplied across Thistle’s back. Blood drops appeared where they met.
A sloppy swing caught Thistle’s ear, sending him staggering to the side as he flinched. The next blow drew blood in two places.
“Stop!” cried Ivy. She was crying. When she’d started Stonefist didn’t know.
The judge ordered, “Halt.”
Thistle bent over, hands on knees, panting. The blood-stained rope dragged in the dirt.
“Lord Maximus,” asked Stonefist, “is your household content that justice has been done?”
Hasty nods encouraged the head to say, “Yes, Your Grace.”
“Then take him to the Chirurgeon.”
Maximus came forward to guide the boy away with a gentle hand on his arm.
Duke Stonefist took his seat again.
“Are there any others seeking justice of the Lord High Executioner?” called the herald.
No one moved. Stonefist had spotted a group in the crowd with the look of a lawsuit. Perhaps they’d changed their mind. Good. People working out their own problems found better results.
“This closes the court of the Lord High Executioner,” declared the herald.
Stonefist kept the judge face on. He was still being watched as the crowd dispersed.
“What do you want me to do with this?” asked Sharpedge, picking up the stained rope.
“Put it back on the pole.”
“Right there? Where everyone has to look at it?”
Stonefist said, “If they all see it and remember I’m hoping we’ll never have to use it again.”
***
The House Applesmile pavilion could be divided by a light canvas curtain. Master Sweetbread and Mistress Tightseam would put it up when they wanted some privacy from the younger members of the household.
Now Mistress Tightseam was sacrificing the curtain. Shellbutton’s fondness for light linen dresses hadn’t served her well in the disaster. Between kneeling in the dirt to gather plants and being washed on river rocks, they were tattered beyond patching. New clothes were needed. The curtain was the best fabric available.
Producing a dress was no test of Mistress Tightseam’s skill. The hard part was wasting as little fabric as possible. A few members of the Kingdom were spinning yarn from local plant fibers, but they were a long way from making enough for cloth. Fortunately she remembered some historic outfits designed more for thrifty production than a flattering appearance.
Thus when Lord Goldpen arrived at House Applesmile he saw Shellbutton lying contorted on the curtain as Redinkle marked where to cut with a bit of charcoal. This discomposed the voluble courtier enough he stood there in silence.
Mistress Tightseam eyed him warily. Goldpen was one of the late Queen Camellia’s favorites. No one wanted to punish him for his support of her, but Autocrat Sharpquill did stick him with delivering bad news.
“May I help you, my lord?” prompted Tightseam.
Goldpen started. “Oh, yes. We’re doing a roll call.” He checked his slate. “There are eight in your household, yes? Have you seen them all today?”
“We were all here at breakfast. Right?” Tightseam looked to her daughter.
Redinkle nodded. “Newman’s hunting, Goldenrod’s gathering, and the boys are at the charcoal pit. I don’t remember where Dad went.”
“He’s cooking at the common pavilion,” supplied Shellbutton.
“That’s all of us,” said Mistress Tightseam. “Why do you ask?”
Goldpen flinched. He carefully put a checkmark on his slate. “Um. A hunting party found a skeleton this morning.”
“A skeleton? Whoever it is must’ve been missing for a while.”
“Not decayed, Mistress. Eaten.”
Shellbutton said, “Ewww.”
“I must ask. Have any of you seen La
—I mean, have you seen Stitches today?”
“I haven’t. Girls?”
The younger women shook their heads.
“Thank you. I’m sorry to trouble you.”
The courtier went into the lane and stood a moment studying his slate. Then he looked around, studying the people walking about and checking the slate again. His eyes locked on a woman in a dark brown dress and he strode down the lane toward her. “Lady Belladonna!”
Redinkle said, “They must be making him talk to everybody if he’s asking her about the roll call.”
Belladonna turned to look at the courtier, met his eyes with no change in her expression, then turned away. He caught up and tugged at her sleeve. They couldn’t hear what he said, but Belladonna stopped and listened to him.
“Is she pregnant?” asked Shellbutton.
“No way,” replied Redinkle. “No guy would put up with her long enough.”
Shellbutton looked hard. “That’s a distinct belly bulge.”
Mistress Tightseam turned to look. “Belly’s bulging but her tits are shrinking. Not pregnant. I’d bet she’s hiding a vineroot under her dress so she doesn’t have to share. Back in position, girl. Gossiping won’t get you a new dress.”
***
Autocrat Sharpquill looked up from his laptop. “Good evening, Your Majesty.”
Everyone in the pavilion hastily stood.
“Good evening. May I have a moment of your time?” said King Estoc.
“I am at Your Majesty’s disposal.” That might not be an expression given the look on the king’s face.
Estoc took a seat across the table from Sharpquill. He made a shooing gesture, sending the staffers out.
The Autocrat sat back down. Lady Cinnamon slid onto the bench beside him, her thigh against his. He felt strength flow into him from the connection. If the king wanted her to leave he’d have to ask, and give a reason, Sharpquill decided.
Her presence didn’t seem to bother the king. Something else did. He wasn’t eager to bring it up.
Master Sharpquill broke the silence. “Thank you for supporting the theft trial this afternoon, Your Majesty.”
The Lost War Page 12
