The Mill

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “The word of a whore against that of a knight and a sadly widowed lady?”

  “Don’t risk it, sir. And I’ve never trusted a Fixer. Get them both out.”

  She stared at Freya, then flung her across the chamber. Kallivan smiled with a certain amusement. He said, “I shall travel with Bembitt and the whore. We’ll take a boat over the river as soon as the southern gates are locked. It is nearly time. We’ll travel upriver, and eventually, I’ll hire a horse and cart. The girl will remain unconscious. I don’t want noise, and I don’t want risk. I’ll knock her out.”

  “Hurry, my dear. And where will you take her?”

  The pale smile washed over the pale face without warmth. “Whether she dies and how she dies is my concern. Upriver, as it happens, but you need know nothing else.”

  “For instance,” Valeria pouted, flushing a little, “all those nasty whips and knives, as you described the other day? But not with me watching after all?”

  “You want to watch? What a lying strumpet you are, my dear.” Kallivan hauled Freya up again, gripping her left arm, and kicking her into place beside him. She gulped as his boot caught her ribs and she lost her breath He turned back to his mistress. “You’ve been dreaming for a ten-day of sitting as audience while I rape, abuse and finally kill some whore at your feet?” And the rape with abuse is no doubt exactly what I shall be doing, but not with you as witness, my dear Valeria. This is my business alone and I have more than one motive. More than one plan, indeed. And more than one simple desire. The wench will die in agony, and only after she’s admitted every damned word I want from her.”

  Freya had already closed her eyes. She wished she could vomit over the wretches’ expensive leather boots, but she no longer had the energy.

  Chapter Six

  Waking from many hours of enforced unconscious nightmares, Freya felt only the dismal pounding of her head and at first thought herself blind. When the tumbling confusion began to unravel into believable vision, she was staring up at a dirty ceiling, rough beamed, and a spider sitting fat in its web. A noise persisted, a faint rhythmic whirring which seemed threatening. The pain continued, so she knew she was alive. Moving each toe, up to the leg, the knee, the thigh and the hip, then trying to sit and stretching out her arms, she also knew she had broken no bones, nor was she gagged or in any other way restrained.

  Lying on a mattress of hard woollen lumps, and beneath it the stumps of four wooden crates, she saw nothing else except huge unrecognisable shadows and the spider. It was extremely cold. She wondered if spiders shivered. The room was small and infested with dirt, as though painted with many years of grime. There were two tiny high windows, one on either side, inset into the thick plastered stone.

  Although unbound and unhurt, she moved with difficulty, yet the worst pain was concentrated around the jaw and the sides of her face where she presumed, she’d been beaten repeatedly, keeping her unconscious for hours. With no way to lessen the pain, she stretched slowly and carefully, massaging the muscles of her calves and arms, rubbing her hands and feet to thaw the freeze, until finally she managed to rise from the bed.

  On tiptoe, she reached one window and, clinging to the sill, peered out. It was not sealed and, like a castle’s arrow-slit, allowed limited vision and magnified draughts. Far below, she saw the fast tumbling flow of water. Hawthorn and holly bushes glittered like crystals along the slope. It would be pretty, she thought, in spring. Immediately outside the window, a huge wooden splayed wheel churned and clattered through the water, scattering spray. The wheel was still turned by the force of a fast-flowing stream, but the wheel was battered, very old and missing some of its slats. Freya recognised the endlessly repeated sounds she had heard when opening her eyes, now knowing they held no threat. She was in the upper room of a water mill, closed for winter or, more probably, long abandoned.

  A locked door, windows too small to climb from and feeling beaten into temporary submission, made her realise she was trapped already. But there would be more. Somewhere a guard must live, and hopefully someone would bring her food. Freya feared it would be Bembitt. Already hungry and with a thirst that rasped in her throat and dried her tongue, she lay back on the bed and closed her eyes, summoning thoughts of sweeter things.

  The sky outside was sullen and threatened blizzard. Inside was just as dreary. There were no sacks of grain for milling, nor stores of flour. The room was empty of all but thick dust and a little straw. She sat again, leaning her head back against the cold wall beneath the second window. This was the home of the spider, which watched from the web, splayed, vibrating a little, and pale bodied, like Kallivan.

  Outside, leading up from the banks of the galloping waters, a stone cobbled courtyard led to a heap of piled rubbish. Next to that, looking onto the water and the mill from across the rime smeared stones, a small cottage blew smoke from its chimney, and sat snug in an otherwise barren countryside. Several small barns backed the low roofed cottage and were tucked behind hedges with a kitchen garden bedraggled by gales. There was no village. If the miller still worked his trade and served customers, then they came from afar and not during winter. Proved by the smoke from the cottage chimney, dispersed by the wind but puffing dark, the cottage was occupied. And presumably, the principal occupant was Freya’s guard.

  The cold numbed movement, but the stream was fast flowing so had not yet frozen solid. Freya’s clothes no longer kept her warm. She had only one stocking, ripped across the heel. The other was gone, its garter snapped. She no longer wore shoes, and her gown was torn at the neck and hem. Yet she still wore her cape which remained warm, as it was thick wool and fur lined. Freya wrapped it ever tighter around her and pulled up the hood. It snuggled her in fur and deadened the pain in her jaw while softening all sound.

  Above all, she missed her morning poppy drink. It was years now of drugged acceptance and warm safety. Yet in such a place and the knowledge of probable death, she yearned for the poppy even more than she yearned for escape.

  Then she heard the door open. It creaked on rust caked hinges.

  The hopeless misery and desperate terror of the unknown shattered into expectation and she stumbled up, waiting. An elderly man entered, silver bearded and silver haired, eyebrows bushed silver, shadowing small bright eyes. He was neither short nor tall, looked neither kind nor monstrous, was dressed neither well nor raggedly. But his hands were calloused and grimed.

  At the first rattle of the lock, she had scrambled up. When she heard the key grate and turn, she had run to the door. But as the man entered, he slammed the door hard behind him and looked at Freya with such cold contempt that she stumbled back. “Please,” she whispered, now choking on the sobs, “I am dreadfully thirsty.”

  For many years she had become accustomed to men of all kinds, lustful, eager, impatient, hungry, laughing or angry. Most were stupid, and some stared with contempt at the whore before them. But this man ignored her words, looked her over, and after a moment and without speaking, turned away and left the room, locking the door again behind him.

  Later he returned. By then Freya had become quite ill. She no longer had the strength to cry but was frozen and wracked with opium denial. Stabbing knives wracked and jabbed in her head, behind her eyes and down through her neck to her spine. Her stomach was so cramped with nausea that she heaved dry vomit.

  This time, seeing the same man enter, Freya made no further attempt to clamber up or to speak.

  But the man held a bowl and, believing he’d brought soup or ale, she sat and reached out. He wrenched her arm away and shoved the bowl to her face, forcing its brim between her lips, her chin tipped up, yet she drank willingly. The tin clanked against her teeth, but, sick with thirst, she did not care if it was water, wine or poison.

  Although poison, of a kind, it was also bliss. The familiar taste slapped against her tongue. Her mouth was instantly cleansed, and her heartbeat raced. The poppy drink birthed a flush of unbelievable delight which warmed her from throat to toes, the h
eadache began to fade instantly and the cold shivering eased. The tiresome prisoner was being drugged to keep her quiet and amenable. The man did not realise it was the best gift she could be given.

  When he was sure that she had finished each drop, the man let her go, and Freya fell face down into the blanket’s unyielding lumps. She stayed there. It seemed wisest. This was not, after all, a kind man.

  Once she heard him leave, Freya sat up again and stretched back into her body. In just a few minutes she once more knew the euphoria she needed, the knowledge that she could achieve whatever she wanted, followed by the knowledge that there was nothing, in fact, that she lacked. Saying a gentle goodnight to the spider, Freya lay back and immediately slept.

  For two days she was given some stale cheat fit only for trenchers, flat scummy beer and the morning poppy juice. The old man stopped forcing the drug when he saw that she took it without complaint. Unaware that she was already habituated, he was vaguely surprised that the drink had not made his prisoner either ill or comatose. During those days, when she counted the birth of the new moons as they rose, crossed, grew from black shimmer to full pearlized crescent, and then inched towards two blazing circles, no one spoke one word to her. She listened instead to the wind rattle in the wheel’s rolling slats, the murmur of rainfall and the soft call of the owl.

  During the afternoon of the fifth day, she heard voices on the wooden steps outside. Kallivan’s voice, “Brainless fool. You haven’t made it strong enough then. The scut should be barely alive.”

  “My lord,” a gruff, almost guttural voice in answer, “she’d be dead indeed if I strengthened the dose. Already be far more’n guessed a body that size could take.”

  “Get out of my way,” Kallivan said. “I’ll see her myself.” The door was unlocked, and he came striding in. Freya was standing beside the window, looking through the narrow slit to beyond the churning river. She had always liked windows. But this one was uncomfortably high, and she now stood on one of the bed crates.

  He stood in the middle of the room and glared. She didn’t look sick or cowed, and he was not pleased. The other man, half as tall and twice the width, stood square behind him, clutching the keys.

  Freya managed to smile. “What a pleasure,” she said. “Company at last. A good morning indeed.” She’d practised that, knowing that sometime he would come. In fact, she’d practised it so long that she now got it wrong, for it wasn’t morning at all. It was at least late afternoon, and the winter twilight was already slinking into hushed dove grey through the trees. There were ghosts among those disappearing trunks, ghosts who whispered to her of love, and memory and retribution. “Do come in,” she held the smile steady. “Please sit down if you can find anything to sit on.”

  She had planned to annoy and was not surprised when he hit her. He liked to slap with the back of his hand, enjoying the force of the knuckles and the scrape of his square-cut amethyst ring. “Quiet,” he said. “I’ll tell you when to speak.”

  He had knocked her back against the window ledge but not to the ground, and she used the wall to brace herself. “Tell me, my lord,” said the shorter man, “and I’ll beat the trollop unconscious.”

  Sir Kallivan was no happier with his allies than with his enemies. “Fool,” he said, “and how do I question her then? Stand still and be ready for my orders.” Then he turned back to Freya. “There are dungeons in the cellars of most of the country’s great houses. Some lords also use their wine cellars or build other premises. Those great nobles, like myself, who prefer to keep order, may also employ guards who have studied torture and many forms of degradation. The man who now acts as your guard worked for me as gaoler when I lived in the south, grandson of the rightful king who now truly sits the throne. He had his own guards, all accomplished in the skills of the rack, the whipping post, and the fires. Rudd was the man I trusted, and he has stayed with me ever since. There is unfortunately no rack here since I would enjoy seeing you stripped and bound to such an interesting implement. But Rudd is sufficiently skilled to achieve whatever I ask without needing the use of machines to add to the pain. Sometimes I may choose to watch, perhaps to assist, or Rudd will assist me. But you are older than I would prefer, and I shall leave you to Rudd’s devices when I am busy. He now lives here since the mill was sold after the miller’s death, and he will ensure you do not escape.”

  Eagerly watching, Rudd’s eyes glittered as if a starving man watched the spit roasting of a piglet and knew it mostly for himself. “My lord, you knows wot I can do.”

  “Indeed,” Kallivan said. He turned, bent a little, and punched Freya almost casually in the stomach, staying, “Listen carefully, scut bitch. You are here to answer my questions, and you will answer each one. But you are also here for punishment and for Rudd's pleasure. Remember your place, or you will suffer more than you have ever imagined. Tell me what I wish to know, and you will pass many days free of pain.”

  Straitening up from the punch and once more breathing steadily, Freya glared back. “I’m used to pain. And I’m less of a fool than you seem to imagine. When I escape, and I will, I shall go straight to the City-Fister, and from there to the High-Lawmaker. I also have friends who will find me and fight for me. I warn you to be very careful what you do to me.”

  “What stupidity,” Kallivan’s snigger was threatening. “Since while you claim not to be a fool, you act the idiot, giving full advance descriptions of your intentions. But you’ll not be escaping. Nor will any of your brothel friends discover your new home.” He turned away as though bored and spoke again to Rudd.

  Expecting a slap, Freya interrupted. This was prevarication since she knew nothing new and had nothing new to tell him. But she said, “I’ve no objection to answering any and all your questions. They aren’t secrets. I know you’ve been named as a murderer, and I know you are guilty. I know your cruelty to the girls you pay for, and I suspect greater cruelty to younger girls that you leave destitute or dead. What do you need to ask me? You naturally know the same, and your mistress also knows.” Evidently, he suspected a whole mountain of powerful secrets which did not exist. She had no care for speaking the truth and was prepared to tell a mountain of lies either to help herself or to trouble him. Yet she no longer feared death and was expecting it. Perhaps better sooner rather than later. In spite of the morning poppy, she was frozen, starving and in pain.

  The gaoler grinned. “Might not be freighted o’ death, my lord, but of the way I bring it about, she bloody will.”

  Pulling his knife from his belt, Kallivan rammed its heavy wooden hilt across her nose. She clutched her hand over the immediate pain and felt her palm fill with blood. Kallivan’s pale eyes concentrated only on Freya’s face. “Tell me now,” he said, “one pertinent and important piece of information, as proof of good intentions. Then I’ll consider improving your conditions.”

  But Freya couldn’t think of one. “Give ‘er to me,” insisted Rudd. “I’ll make the harlot talk, I will.”

  She bit her lip, the tip of her tongue removing the last of the blood trickles. Jak, Lord Lydiard, has arranged a warrant for your arrest on the charge of murder,” she said, half whisper. “Murder by poison of Lord Godfrey Lydiard. The charge goes some years back and has never been activated because of King Frink’s coronation. But it remains valid, and he knows.” Some of this was true, some a lie. Freya had no way of knowing such things. But her guesses were believable. They might also be true. She stared back at her captor.

  His intake of breath was immediate and raw. “Very well,” he said eventually. “If I decide to believe you, I’ll have you taken downstairs and kept in some greater comfort. Minimal comfort, since that’s all that’s available here. And you’ll remain tightly confined, don’t doubt that. There will be no escape. Rudd here will remind you of it from time to time, I’m sure. Then I shall be back with the rest of my questions.”

  He turned, his heels stamping dust, and strode out. The other man, again expressionless, followed him and the doo
r was locked.

  The next morning a thin blanket was thrown over her when Rudd brought the poppy drink. Within an hour, Kallivan returned and leaned against the wall just inside the doorway, folded his arms across his padded coat, stared without expression and spoke at some length. “One attempt to escape, one attempt to attack any of my servants, one piece of insolence,” he said, “and I reverse my decision. Do you understand?” She was slumped on the floorboards, leaning back, eyes half-closed. Her moods still swung between fury and misery, but the long inactivity and bleak chill had now left her forlornly hopeless. Without looking up, she nodded. “Then, I intend having you taken downstairs and kept below. You will continue to be drugged, and I warn you not to aggravate Rudd into retaliation. He will do as he sees fit and he’s remarkably easily aggravated. I have given him full permission to do whatever he wishes with you, short of sufficient violence to kill, should you rebel and need punishment. I shall return from time to time to question you. You will supply every detail I ask or will suffer for it. I have other matters to attend to, but I intend returning frequently. It may even prove entertaining. Do I make myself clear?” She nodded again. His face changed, becoming avid, almost hungry. “One more thing,” he said. “You are not my type, which you already know. But you are certainly Rudd’s. Inexplicably, my servant finds you attractive. I have ordered him not to assault you while you are cooperative. Beware becoming uncooperative. You would find it most uncomfortable.”

  “I said I’d tell you everything you want to know if you allow me to live in peace and warmth,” Freya said. “Threatening me isn’t part of that.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” Kallivan answered, eyes cold. “I shall do exactly what I wish. Your life now belongs to me, and I shall order the quality of it. Rudd is my servant and will obey me, but there is someone else here who may be interested in seeing you, and who will question you during my absence since he knows all my business.”