The Mill

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Then she fainted, crumbling to the floorboards.

  Some miles south, Sir Kallivan rode through the mid-western sparse treed slopes and came to the dipping pebbled waters of the Palldon River, a little further downstream from the mill-house, where the sharp splash of water ran deeper and the current surged, escaping the ice while welcoming Probyn and the coming spring.

  The child was asleep against his doublet and held tight in the crook of his arm, her cheek snuggled warm by his velvets and the cloak, fur-lined, which wrapped her safe from the midnight chills. He had ridden through the night, without stopping for rest, for food or for bed, and the risen sun, now large in a clear sky, lit the exhaustion across his face. His daughter had slept for most of the long hours. At first she had been hungry and had missed the familiar faces of her nurses and her mother. She did not know her father as more than an occasional frown, and had cried when taken from the safety of familiarity. But as the wearisome miles lengthened, she grew too weak and too tired to complain. Finally she had stopped crying as the rhythm of the horse soothed her fears and eventually she had slept, warm wrapped and feeling secure once again with the moonlight a pale glimmer, reminding her of the last flicker of her nursery candle, and the wind in the leaves a reminder of lullabies and her mother’s last kisses.

  Then dawn had washed the dark sky in new light, banished the moonshine and welcomed the day in ruby and saffron. Still Sir Kallivan had ridden on across country, and Cecily had continued to sleep.

  It was as the mill wheel sat tremulous, still forlorn and stuck in the unforgiving ice, but not far downstream the wider flow of water had begun its melt, and, unseen from the mill or the cottage, Kallivan came to the place he had planned.

  His flesh, always without colour, now hung white in self-disgust, What Freya saw a little later, had begun here. But it would not finish here.

  Now the morning was full blown, and he dismounted slowly, stiff kneed and sore backed, standing for some time beside the river, boots to the soft mud of the grassy bank, his hat low over his eyes, shielding them against the sun, his child still quiet in his arms. Then he knelt.

  Cecily woke when he lifted her down and held her in the water. The sudden freeze shocked her from her gentle dreams. The child blinked, opened her eyes, and screamed. Cecily’s scream turned to wail. She lifted her hands, tiny, plump and desperate, reaching towards the man’s face, his half-closed eyes, and the long-learned knowledge that the adults in her life would protect her and remove the cold discomforts of the winter days. But the icy water began to soak through her clothes, and her small head, barely covered with the soft curls of babyhood was tipped back in the bitter wet. She was nearing her first birthday and could not yet speak clear words. She could only cry.

  Her father watched his daughter for some moments as the sunlight strengthened and the child’s screams became once more piercing in terror. “Are you my child indeed?” he murmured, watching her. “But would it matter, whether or not you carry my blood, although I accept, since you bear my colouring and resemble me in so many ways? I look in those unseeing eyes, and I see a mirror. Should I permit you to grow, you would grow as they all grow. Your eyes would tempt me, your soft rounded flesh would tempt me, as would those pouting lips and the gleam of your skin in the lamplight. With every movement and every smile, you would tempt me. The wickedness of your sex would haunt me. You, too, would seek to corrupt me. If I allow you life, you would lead me into a sin even greater than the sluts of the city alleys and the village children with their long hair and those wide gazes.”

  The child was struggling, frantic to escape the strong white hands which held her firm in the stream. “Foolish female,” Kallivan told her. “If you loosen my grasp, then the water takes you the same and you drown the same, though more slowly, battered by rocks as the current drags you down to the ocean.”

  The little girl choked on desperation, her strength fading. Her father stared down at her. “Do I care for you? Do I recognise affection and the blood of my blood? Do you recognise me as flesh of your flesh?” Below her body, the streak of dark fish scales snatched at the sunlight, then swam on. The reeds swayed but the water was deep and dark and fast.

  “But your simpleton mother,” Kallivan told the child’s staring eyes, “gave me a daughter instead of the son I needed, and a pretty daughter indeed, who will lead me into such depravity and smile as she bewitches me, and snigger as I try to turn away, and whisper as I try to ignore her temptations. And then after I succumb and the deed is done, she will run to her mother and her grandfather and her wretched nurses, and tell of my dark needs and blame me, as if the choice were mine and not hers.” He shook his head slightly, the white bleach of his hair escaping the brim of his hat as he held the little girl, forcing ever more firmly down.

  “This is also sin,” he sighed, “and the slaughter of my child will tell against me when I face the last judgement of my life. But will one moment of necessity be judged less culpable than would many years of incestuous desire? And since the fault is not mine, but that of the hundreds who gaze with the soulful eyes of youth, and of the children who expose themselves to me, then how can the Lord count my need as sin? And since my actions are forced on me by the Lord God himself who fashioned me in this manner, then I follow only His orders, and am the man He made me. And so,” he still spoke softly and slowly, considering and careful, while his words were smothered by the child’s weakening cries, “you, perhaps my daughter, must leave this life before you further damage mine.”

  One hand had held her down, Kallivan’s other hand cradling her so that she stayed only partially submerged, kicking and splashing and begging, wordlessly, for him to save her. But he shook his head again, conclusive and decided, as the hand at her back was pulled away, and both the father’s palms pressed downwards so the daughter slowly sank beneath the surface of the cold water. He spoke to her terrified eyes, and the tiny mouth gulping for air and discovering only water. “Once I had done what I know I would do, you would run to your mother. You would squeal to your grandfather, your nurse, and your friends. But worst of all, you would tell my own grandfather the king. Exaggerating, no doubt, and failing to mention how you had temped me, you would make that foul and stupid king of idiots send out a warrant for my arrest at long last. And this time I would be lost forever.”

  Kallivan remained on his knees and did not release his hold. The baby fists clawed, her arms beating against the current. Her eyes continued to stare upwards, but her cries were stifled as the waters filled her throat. The bubbles rose like tiny stars, then dispersed. And then there were no more bubbles, and the river took her life.

  With one hand pressing on Cecily’s face, he could no longer see her eyes. Her father let her go and watched as she floated downstream, pulled by the current, and swirling a little against the bank, quiet now, unmoving, faster, and then disappeared, gone into the dark depths.

  Sir Kallivan stood and brushed the damp earth and clumped grass from his knees. He adjusted his hat, pushing back the loose hair from his brow. Then he rubbed the doubt from his eyes, breathed deeply, turned only once to ensure that no living body floated to the surface or caught on shallow pebbles, then went back to where his horse waited quietly grazing.

  The lumps of ice from further upstream, where the mill was now dripping its melt, floated on the water’s surface, as if following the child.

  Taking the reins, he looked up once to the gathering clouds, and shook his head. “The priests say we have a choice. They preach that sin is ours alone, because we have the will to turn away from temptation. Yet there is corruption hidden behind every sermon, and the church itself succumbs. Should I be stronger than even the priests themselves? And if we are born already weak and bathed in the sins of the flesh and the wickedness of womanhood ever since the creation of the first whore herself, why struggle and so further exhaust what is already lacking strength?”

  He mounted and began to ride up stream until he saw the shadow of the mill on hi
s horizon. He spurred the horse forwards. He was hungry and needed food and ale. Then he would return to court, deciding as he travelled, on the tale he would tell and how he would explain the strange loss of his daughter.

  It would be easy enough, he thought, though his thoughts were vague. Having visited his baby daughter in her bed the day before, he had found her already dead. Glassy eyes. Unbreathing. Poor child. Clearly she had died in her sleep. Bed death was not entirely unusual for infants, they said, and this would be a case proved. And seeing her dead himself, he could not bear the thought of his poor wife seeing her beloved daughter in such a manner. So, riding all night in terrible misery, he had taken the little cold bundle to a cemetery and buried her with prayers and kisses. It had been the kindest thing to do, and no one could blame him.

  Except Reyne, who would not believe a word.

  The wheel of destiny took many forms and the child, since it had belonged to him, could bear no grudge in the afterlife. He had accorded her the full ceremony of baptism and eleven months of comfortable life. She might, if he ever met with her again in the clouds of heavenly grace after death, thank him for saving her from the agonies of further life and the venomous wiles of youthful femininity. He had, it was true indeed, saved not only himself, but also her. Young Cecily had borne his blood and although she would never be accorded a genuine funeral, she would be remembered kindly, and would be missed, if not by him, then by others.

  It was, perhaps, a consolation of another kind to remember that the child would be missed by her mother. And additionally, that his wife, whom he so much despised, would be heart-broken, as she deserved to be. He would be smiling when she cried. Because of her riches, which he craved, and her father’s household only one garden wall beyond his own, Kallivan was quite unable to treat his wretched wife as he would have preferred and dreamed of one day enjoying. And so one small punishment was a victory that would warm him during the cold winter nights spent quite alone.

  The sun continued to shine between the clouds. It was a chill day with a bite of frost and a wind that stung and slapped. But the pale rays of sunshine promised balm to come, as if already Sir Kallivan could believe in forgiveness.

  It was not long before he reached the mill. He would stay only long enough to speak with his useless father, take food and ale, warm his frozen fingers, and rest a little before setting off again. He must also rest the horse for there was none to take in its place for the return journey. But the beast would not be hard pressed back to the palace for he would travel slowly, stopping two nights at wayside inns and eating well at the taverns he passed. He would no longer ride through the night as he had done while carrying the child, and he would take the less direct route, enjoying the leisure of solitary thought before having to face the wearisome family and assure them of his story, to convince them of his absolute innocence regarding the disappearance and death of his daughter. One night, perhaps, he could pass at the mill.

  Guests were expected at his own palace apartment, but that did not at all interest him. His only disappointment was knowing that his damned wife would enjoy their company and the festivities, food and good wine far more without her husband there to glower at her. A shame. But he would let the dreary bitch wallow in undeserved happiness for one more day, before he then returned without her child, and told his story of the infant’s death.

  But the timid sunshine which had seemed to greet him earlier as the day dawned, now hid behind a colourless freeze, and the afternoon promised snow. His ride would be freezing, his horse would plod through snow drifts, and the spray would fly up into his eyes. It would be a dammed unpleasant journey back home.

  Chapter Thirteen

  As Probyn dawned, it heralded the end of winter, but Probyn was not a season of dancing amongst the flowers or of sunburn. The rain renewed the growth that had been frozen solid under the earth, and the warm winds from the south were blocked by the cold winds from the north. The winds fought each other over the Corn, and storms announced the winner while the trees bent their boughs and the gulls swooped down through the gales.

  “Well we all know what dear Jak is like when he thinks he’s on a crusade.”

  “So we inspire the men to act against the damnable Sir Kallivan?”

  “I think, perhaps,” admitted Mother Verney, “they already intend to. Where else would they be, all this time?”

  “They?”

  “Mereck, my dearest courageous husband – he’s preparing for serious combat. And surely Jak is too, since he’s disappeared.”

  “Well, Jak and whoever is fighting beside him. Even he isn’t conceited enough to fight alone against someone of Kallivan’s power. He’s the king’s grandson, after all.”

  Slunk into the shadows of her armchair, Reyne answered neither her mother nor her sister, and speaking of Jak of Lydiard, the man she had wanted to marry, was not in any manner about to cheer her. At least her husband was, as usual, not at home.

  Reyne’s mother clasped her hands in her lap, staring down. “Yes, my dearest, you cannot think of anything except your little Cecily. No, no, don’t cry. It is positively tragic, but these things happen, my love. I lost two babies before you and Jally were born. I thought your wretched husband would change when your own little darling arrived. She is such a delight.” The lady looked up again, sad-eyed. “I apologise, my dearest. I mean that she was so lovely. But we mothers all love our children, living and passed, unlike her father. Your Sir Kallivan seems to despise the child and ignores her. And I’ve said that wrong as well, my love. Forgive me. Don’t cry.”

  Reyne was crying into her kerchief, and did not speak, turning away into the cushions. Her mother patted her hand and her sister sniffed. “Some men remain unattached to their children for many years,” murmured Jally. “Even until the children grow into adults. Babies, you know, are not so easily understood by their fathers.” Her smile grew, and she leaned back with a sigh. “Mereck, to my great relief, is devoted to his son. He has loved our little Brod since he was in swaddling clothes. I am blessed with a good husband.”

  Grallia smothered a sudden giggle. “Mereck has spent the past month crawling the floorboards with my grandson. He objects that our little one is all noise and no brain, but they play together like two children of the same age.”

  “Then we are lucky, Mother dear. So let us ensure that my darling sister may also enjoy some better fortune, and remove the murderous Sir Kallivan from her life one way or another.”

  “Oh dear, dear, dear,” Grallia sniffed. “May I remind you both that your father and I arranged this marriage, and you Reyne, were perfectly happy with our choice. Yes, alright, I know you wanted Lord Lydiard, but you hardly knew him my dear, and frankly, he didn’t want you. And now he seems to go gallivanting all over the place and no doubt has a thousand affairs, so you’d be equally unhappy with him.”

  Looking up over the squash of her kerchief, Reyne whispered, “Kallivan is brutal and vile. He murdered little Cecily; I know he did, probably just to hurt me.”

  “My dear child,” her mother sighed, “we know that can’t be true. My poor little darling granddaughter died of bed-death, there’s no other explanation. I know you suffer. Of course you suffer, my love. But you must also be sensible. If you throw wild accusations around like that, you’ll end up in trouble with his majesty. After all, may I remind you once more, my dearest, that you are married to the king’s grandson.”

  Gazing at both sides where her mother sat by the window, and her sister by the fire, Jally said, “But Mereck has plans. He won’t see my dearest Reyne beaten and – an –”

  And Reyne whispered, “I am hoping, so very very much, that Jak and Mereck are already planning to get rid of him. He could be one of the god’s grandsons for all I care. He’s cruel and a murderer.”

  Lord Mereck returned to court, having once more failed to discover the meaning of his friend’s disappearance. Finally, after searching half the country, he made an appointment to speak with the king, an
d had been admitted into the throne room, once having passed the obligatory bribe to the head steward Pentaggo, who arranged all audiences, and admitted all visitors.

  “My lord,” murmured his majesty, leaning forwards, hands clutching the arms of his chair, and chin still buried in the lace and velvet collar of his coat. “I am delighted,” – cough – “to see you back at court. I hear you have been exploring the entire kingdom for some reason or other.” A huge fire had been lit across the enormous hearth, but being at the opposite end of the chamber, the king himself was shivering. Outside the wind whistled, and clouds of black smoke hurtled down the chimney and back towards the throne.

  His majesty coughed again and spat phlegm onto his ruby velvet sleeve. And Lord Mereck said, “Your royal majesty, I thank you for agreeing to see me. I have been searching for Lord Lydiard, who has disappeared in strange circumstances. I have the greatest hope that, as the king and blessed ruler of our great land, you know everything. You will therefore know where Jak Lydiard is hidden.”

  “Hidden? Hiding? Absconded? Buried? Why should I know any such thing, my lord?” The king sniffed and pulled his coat tighter around his small wrinkled neck. “I am the magisterial oligarch of this land, but not a counter of smiling faces in the dining room. Indeed, I have forgotten who this Lord Lydiard might be.”

  Which confirmed to Lord Mereck that the king himself knew perfectly well what had happened to Jak and had sanctioned it.

  Mereck took a risk. “Your majesty, I have a faint suspicion that Sir Kallivan may have had a hand in my friend’s disappearance.”

  “He’s your brother-in-law, isn’t he?” The king leaned back in his throne, tapping the fingers of one cold hand on the padding of the golden velvet arm. “Go question him yourself. My own hand, I assure you, rarely supports Kallivan’s less pleasant ventures.” He raised his fingers as if proving that hand’s innocence. “And no doubt your friend has simply gone for an afternoon stroll.”