The Mill

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Interrupted just once, when the dark figure seated at the table at the number four said, “My Lord Lydiard, this situation has been unknown to us, and at least to myself, is a shock of considerable displeasure. I trust you intend to accuse both his majesty and the royal grandson?”

  Jak raised his eyes, with the slightest twitch of the mouth. “I do, sir. I have now explained what occurred. Now I will explain what I intend doing. If I accuse Sir Kallivan he will simply deny every link to himself, and accusing his majesty would be even more absurd. I was kept, with my companion, on the Island Giardon for long months of discomfort and physical work. Let us call it slavery, although I discovered while there that the natives treat their slaves as virtual guests, with the sole difficulty being no escape permitted. I gather that during these months a rumour was set in circulation that I had died. Somewhere, somehow, no one knew, and yet they knew I was dead.” He looked slowly around the table, staring momentarily at each hood as though they were transparent, and as if he knew the identity of each man. Then he said softly, “It seems that in spite of the odd unexplained circumstances, and in spite of the supposed interest in myself as a future council member, no one on this council cared to investigate my supposed death?”

  The silence at first was complete. It was Number Four who again was the only one to speak. “You are perfectly right, my lord. We were investigating other matters. A little slow, you might say, to realise both the importance and the probable links between our interests and your position.”

  Jak shook his head. “I was rescued by two friends of my companion. I have called it both luck, and the fortune of circumstance. Had I been alone I doubt I would yet have been rescued. My friends, it seems, are not as – actively helpful – as some others.”

  Leaning forwards, Number Two nodded, saying, “Your criticism is justified, my lord. For my own inactivity, I apologise. I will gladly double my offer of friendship and trust for future developments, for your protection, and for your justifiable revenge.”

  “My lord, I thank you.” Jak remained as he stood, his hands very slightly clenched on the back of the chair. “I do not entirely call this revenge, although that element is undeniably attractive. But Sir Kallivan, as I know, also helped murder my father, is a man of cruelty and greed, and hopes to sit at this table one day.”

  “And how do you know, my lord, that he is not already here?”

  Staring back at Number Six, Jak bowed with fractional amusement. “Let us say, my lord, that I would have recognised Sir Kallivan immediately, had he already been present here. Nor do I suppose that most – or any of you – would have invited his company.”

  Number Six shook his head. “In which you are quite accurate my lord. So – revenge or otherwise – what are your intentions?”

  “My first intention has been to discuss the situation with you, my lords. Should you wish to make any decision, or criticise mine, I will be obliged. If you prefer not to become involved, then I prefer not to divulge my plans at this stage.”

  Eyebrows raised were all hidden in shadow, and Number Four laughed. “Very sensible, my lord. Let me tell you that I for one, will gladly involve myself in this. I will also admit that the difficulty of our king has been our most recent preoccupation.”

  Very close to Jak on his right hand side, Number Nine appeared to laugh, but smothered the sound of it, instead examining his fingers clasped loosely on the table. Jak momentarily regarded the heavy set of the hands and the skinless knuckles, the ridged palms and the short almost wounded nails. This was one of the council he did not know, and Jak was interested. He would, he was sure, remember those hands.

  Knocking his own knuckles on the table, Number Two once again leaned forwards. “I intend to invite Lord Lydiard to join our number, and take up the Number Ten at this stage. Since our Number One is at present absent, I take primary position, and therefore suggest an open vote of ‘aye’ concerning Lord Lydiard hereby taking Number Ten. Does anybody object?”

  A flurry of dark hoods all quietly denied objection. Number Nine appeared preoccupied, but then squeezed his hands together in compliance.

  “Then,” said Number Four, nodding towards Number Two, “shall we openly vote here and now? I suggest raised hands for anyone against.”

  “Agreed,” agreed Number Two.

  But no-one waved, no fingers thrust into the air, and the tabled men sat hunched and quiet. Number Two looked up with a hidden smile. “My Lord Lydiard, please take your rightful place at Number Ten. No doubt, as we ancient gentlemen tumble to our feeble deaths, your number will rise, although in general we do not consider every number a statement of importance. More a calendar of arrival. And of course, we know your identity, but a tumbleweed coat and hood will be provided on your next attendance, and from then on you will remain nameless. As new members join, your actual identity will be lost, forgotten or ignored.”

  “While with the advantage of knowing your identity, my lord,” said Number Two, the smile evident in his voice, “I may add, sir, that your invitation to the council was unanimous. You are considered a lord of honesty and strength. In spite of your age sir, which in some might indicate irresponsibility, you have taken over the rule of Lydiard with great intelligence and hard work, proving yourself not only responsible, but likely to become a valuable councillor.”

  “Welcome, my lord, to our council.”

  And, with a small nod and the scrape of chair legs, Jak sat at the end of the great council table and took his place as Number Ten.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The sound of ringing bells was rare. Indeed, unknown beside the mill where no church stood and no village clustered. Furthermore, these bells seemed absurdly light-hearted, and possibly, Freya knew, she was finally crazed and heard noises which either did not exist, being her own imagination, or were echoing from some sweet world after death, welcoming her imminent arrival. She rather liked that idea.

  Peeping from the door, now partially open and having been left unlocked since her cleaning duties that morning, Freya saw the shadow and heard the song. She heard a mournful song now, without the jangle of the bells, its familiarity more dismal than pleasant, but the young male voice was beautiful. The notes were pure, and the resonance also carried its own shadow, like the tall dancing figure.

  When he came into sight, Freya moved back. She didn’t know him, but she remembered seeing him before, once or twice. He wore a large brimmed black hat, the brim alive with the swing of hanging bells, some tiny, some larger. But now that the knackerer had stopped dancing, the bells no longer played their own music. Only the knackerer himself played the music he now chose, the mouth organ hanging around his neck as he played the lute with beautiful skill, long fingered and rhythmic. And as he sang to his own music, the haunting beauty of it seemed more the art of the choir rather than the simple harmony of the knackerer.

  He was, as she remembered, tall and thin, with a face that seemed all bone and heavy-lidded eyes, with all else hidden beneath the hat. But his eyes, even in the shadow, were a rich dark blue, and these also, somehow rang their bells in Freya’s memory.

  As usual, she thought first of escape, but did not know this odd man well enough to ask his help. Perhaps, she wondered, if he attracted the notice of Doria, with Rudd and Thribb interested in something new, she could simply run. She could be unwatched for as long as possible, even if less than she would like. She was no longer tied, and her door was rarely locked. But having no idea where she was, nor where the mill was, nor where any other place might be where she could hide, she could hardly guess where she might go wearing rags and without a penny for food or poppy. Freedom, even without those things she called essential, might be worth it. Well, of course they’d be worth it and she hated herself for doubting. But even without any definite decision, she put on her clogs, and slipped out to the side of the mill where the river now ran without ice, supporting spring’s new life.

  Freya reminded herself of one undeniable fact, that she would be ha
ppier to end her own life in peace and by her own will, rather than face a vile and tortuous murder from men she feared and loathed.

  “Escape might mean death. It could be new life too,” she whispered, then realised she had spoken aloud.

  Doria was running from the house, waving her arms. “Pretty music,” she shouted. “Mighty pretty too. We never see no soul here, so you’re a bloody nice surprise.”

  Behind her Rudd glowered. “Be off with you, fool,” he pushed Doria aside. “We want no guests.”

  But the skinny singer bowed, stretching out one long thin leg, and swept off his hat with a small swirl of bells. It was the first time Freya had seen him interact, since previous sightings had simply been by the Eden Bridge as he hopped past, playing his music. Although she had recognised him as a master at the lute, the mouth organ, the drum and the guitar, she had never heard him sing, nor play a sad melody, and although she felt he had been watching her back in the city long before, he had never spoken.

  Now Rudd lashed out, two fists and one foot, but the knackerer skipped back. He raised both arms as if in surrender but thrust one foot forward. Rudd, pushing at him and intending to haul him to the ground, instead tripped, bent to balance himself, and so never saw the brick smashing down from above. The corner of the brick pierced Rudd’s forehead and the squat bulk resounded between his eyes.

  Dancing backwards, the knackerer chuckled to himself with considerable amusement, and turned to Doria. She stood staring and confused.

  She said, “Wot you did that fer? You doesn’t know me dad.”

  “Indeed not,” the tall man said, his first spoken words, “and now, so sadly, it seems I never shall.”

  Having sidled from the door of the mill, Freya now walked into the open, and looked at the very unexpected visitor. She asked, “Is the man dead?”

  The long-pointed tow of the knackerer’s shoe prodded at Rudd’s chin. He groaned. “Unfortunately, no,” the knackerer said. “Shall I finish the exercise, my lady?”

  Smiling, Freya nodded. “Oh please do, it would be extremely helpful. But afterwards you’d better leave in a hurry, since Doria can fight too, and there’s another man in the cottage who can be even more brutal.”

  “How interesting,” smiled the knackerer, and pulled a heavy bladed knife from the inside pocket of his long black coat. Without hurrying nor evident doubt, he regarded the muscled body at his feet while it slowly regained conscious movement, eyes opening but glazed, then the knackerer lifted his fist and the knife it clasped. Too quickly to see, the point of the knife pierced the body just to the left of the solar plexus, thrust with enormous pressure between the ribs.

  Accurate, sudden and deep, the blow was almost soundless. Only a faint squelch sounded, and the thickset body relaxed.

  “All done,” grinned the knackerer and turned to Doria.

  It was a moment before she understood. Then she screeched, “My dad. You filthy bastard,” and raced towards him, hands outstretched. The knackerer held the knife point before him, and Doria impaled herself. Yet the blade struck only her upper arm, driving through the flesh to the other side above her elbow. Doria fell back, yowling like a white wolf and hitting her arse hard on the cobbles. The knackerer, making no attempt to wound her further unless she attacked, stood watching Freya.

  Freya was staring back. She whispered, “I don’t know you, but I must know you. Or you wouldn’t – do this.”

  Smiling through the shadows beneath his hat, the knackerer nodded. But Thribb appeared like a demon from the house, and raced, a burning torch in one hand and a sword in the other. He leapt on the knackerer’s back and pushed the burning twigs into his face. Yet before feeling the scorch of the flames, the knackerer hurtled down to his knees and Thribb tumbled aside. Half the fire was extinguished, but half flared. Thribb jumped again, this time using the sword and slashing across the knackerer’s throat. But he wore a high collar of rigid wooden slats beneath woven leather, on which sat his mouth organ. The sword bounced off, the mouth organ fell, and Thribb lurched backwards once more. He dropped the torch and it sizzled out in the damp.

  Doria was up. Her large palmed hands gripped Freya’s neck. “I’ll kill the slut,” Doria yelled. “You drop that bloody knife, or I strangle yer whore.”

  Without dropping his blade, the knackerer waited, careful, as Doria faced him and Thribb grabbed his arm, swinging him around to face the sword. “We got you, fucking bastard,” Thribb growled. One half blink following, Freya grabbed the front of Doria’s fingers, pressing her own broken fingernails into Doria’s thumbs. Doria squeaked but did not let go, so Freya kicked backwards, first with one large wooden clog to Doria’s knee, and then the other to Doria’s foot.

  Releasing her, Doria cried with pain as Freya clasped a jagged stone from between the cobbles and flung it in Doria’s face. They stood so close, the stone could not miss, and the sharp-edged cut into eyes, nose, mouth and cheeks.

  Freya turned and ran.

  Doria, blinded by blood and tears, rubbed her hands over her eyes, swirling in unseeing circles. The knackerer was fighting with Thribb. One man tall, thin, narrow shouldered, and a musician, the other solid muscle, lacking colour but with long arms and wide shoulders denoting strength. Yet the knackerer attacked, while Thribb, one eyed, floundered, spun and fell across the dropped clogs where Freya had leapt and run.

  The long-bladed knife of the knackerer entered to the hilt in Thribb’s empty eye-socket. The man fell forwards onto his face, smashing his nose on the cobbles. Grabbing his mouth organ, the knackerer raced after Freya. Half-starved and imprisoned for months, Freya ran, out of breath and without the speed she needed. The tall man caught up with her quickly. Both heard Doria’s thundering footsteps behind. The knackerer caught Freya’s arm. “Not that way,” he muttered, wheezing. “This way.” And pulled her aside.

  Thribb lay still in a pool of his own blood, whether dead or simply unconscious being unclear. Yet as the sword had entered deep into his eye socket and was withdrawn with a hint of brain showing at the tip, Freya hoped the man had died and not only fainted.

  Seeing only threats and the shadows of threats, Freya whirled, then thought she saw a cart, its wheels creaking and Doria sitting on the driver’s bench. Then, almost a faint of surrender, she tumbled into the knackerer’s arms.

  Calling, “Me dad’s bloody dead and reckon Thribb’s gorn too. I ain’t got nuffing. What’s I gonna do?” Doria stood on the edge of the courtyard, staring and sobbing.

  Then another voice interrupted Freya’s dream, as the knackerer carried her up three steps, and cuddled her next to the woman on the cart’s wide bench. Two large strong arms surrounded Freya, and a hearty wet kiss washed across her forehead. The knackerer, sitting numbly on the other side, grabbed the reigns and moved the small placid sumpter. “One last question,” the knackerer whispered to Freya. “My lady, is there anything you wish to take with you from here? Do you have important possessions at the mill?”

  Tapping her fingers against the chain around her neck, the ring and talisman both hidden beneath her tunic, Freya smiled gently to herself, and then shook her head. “No. I’d burn the whole place, but it wouldn’t be fair to Doria. She’s cruel and selfish and violent and totally ignorant. But she’s had a horrible life. She deserves freedom.”

  The cart rattled onwards, turning from the narrow river and its flowered banks. The frogs were calling, and the midges swarming.

  Then the other voice sounded gloriously familiar, saying softly, “Tis a long, long time. Is you alright, my lovely?”

  Already in the warm embrace, Freya jerked fully awake and looked up. She blinked, gazed, muttered, “Oh, is it truly you?” and flung her own arms around Hawisa’s neck. “I can’t believe it,” and in fact, she did not, sure she was dreaming. Poppy dreams could be more strange than her own imagination, more fantastic than fantasy. “If you’re real – how did you find me?”

  “Pod did.” Hawisa chuckled. “He’s bin searching fer mon
ths. Give the lad credit, I weren’t with him. Was his own idea. Two days back he saw you and came rushing to the Bridge. Tis Freya, Pod told me. Get a cart and come with me. So I done it. Only too glad. But I gotta confess, was all Pod’s idea. I reckoned you’d had enough o’ whoring, and had gone of yer own accord. I wished you luck. I always knowed you was no slut at heart. Tom – well he was injured in bed, and he thought same as me. We was glad. Udovox, he were away up north. I dunno why. Symon disappeared even more surely than you did, though we thought him in the south hiding from the law. And Edilla, she got proper sulky, thinking you’d run off owing her a ’s money.”