The Mill

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “No money.” Freya sighed. “How long ago was it?”

  “Not sure,” Hawisa shook her head but remained cuddled tight. “Six, I reckon. Seven maybe. Could be eight.”

  “And now I’m free, after all that time?” She felt like crying, but turned to Pod, looking up into the knackerer’s eyes. “You’re a miracle man,” she whispered at him. “How did you find me? Why did you look for me? You are truly wonderful. As a knackerer I remember seeing you. But I don’t even know you.”

  Keeping his eyes on the road ahead, the steady clop, clop of horse’s hooves, and the flick of those brown ears in front, the knackerer said, “I know you, lady. I’ve known you since I was a kid. Same age, we are. I was a molly boy at Symon’s island house, but never wanted it. Hated it. Loved music, and knew I could sing. And it was you helped me leave, after the fight when Symon was in the Nick. And you gave me a little hug when you left, telling me I should do something else. Music, I says, and you said, Do it, Pod. You’ll have a good life. One day a girl will love your songs, and you’ll fall in love with her. I always remembered that. And Symon didn’t come back, so I made myself a knackerer, and made coin enough to live and eat and buy a good lute and an even better guitar. Then I heard you’d gone. I didn’t believe you’d go without a word to the girls at your place, especially Hawisa. I had all the time I wanted, so I started to look every ten-day, a little further each time.”

  Freya hugged him, thanked him, and hugged him again. “Are we going back to the Bridge?”

  He cleared his throat, again keeping his eyes straight ahead. “Do you want it? I reckon no. If you say yes, then we’ll go south. Way, way south. I came from the far south when I was a baby. Me mother and father were minstrels, southerners, but travelled as they all do. We was in the north when I was born. On the road, my dad said, and she lay there and died, with me squawling me head off. And he brought me up till he couldn’t cope no more, and left me on the island with the Molly Shop lads staring out the windows, and me sitting crying on the doorstep.”

  A large warm hand crept onto Freya’s lap, and patted her knees. “Don’t worry, lass. I’ll deal with your breakfast, long as we make enough money. Lest you’ve already broken the habit.”

  “Sadly no.”

  “There’s a theatre in the south,” Pod said. “It’s more a tradition down there, – they don’t do it up north, and think we’re crazed to prance around pretending to be something else. But I have the music, and you have the looks. How about a life on the stage, my lady Freya?”

  She wasn’t sure what a stage was, but murmured, “Oh yes.”

  “I’ll reach Symon whenever he comes back,” Hawisa nodded. “And them others. But we’ll be making more money than we ever did in the whorehouse.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’ll bet you,” Hawisa grinned. “And as far away as can be reached.”

  “Skoul on the estuary,” Pod said, “Drockewary, bigger, and opposite, just over the Corn, and there’s a little flat bridge that joins the two. Then further down, there’s Slud. Very small, but it’s growing. And then Downwey, a grand little town. Four places, and all ready to clap their hands every time we appear. But there’ll be no whoring since, when I was there last, there were no brothels.”

  “I sounds like you left before you were born.”

  “I’ve bin back. You'll find no brothels, no kings, no councils and no Kallivan. It is a place of peace, people who like music and theatre, and a market of fruit since it all grows there. There is no winter, no howling Probyn. Just spring, summer, spring, summer, spring, summer, and maybe just a twitch of autumn.”

  “I can’t believe it.” And so Freya slept, wafted on unbelievable dreams of rescue, peace, freedom and friendship. There was no pain and no hunger, no terror and no rape. And when she awoke, she was still as free as the gulls overhead.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Tottering toads and tadpoles, Jak, poor Reyne’s lost her little daughter, and hates that devil of a husband. Now I know you intend challenging the man, but just wait a moment. Are you really up to it? The king’s grandson and so forth. I talked to the king, you know. He wasn’t going to help – had no intention of it. What do you think, Jak, is the damned creature on the council?”

  “Not to my knowledge, and not if they have any sense.”

  “They should ask you, Jak.”

  “And if they ever do,” Jak smiled, “I might say yes. We’ll see. But although I have every intention of getting rid of Kallivan, there are other things of importance in my life.”

  “Kallivan killed your father and tried to kill you. Wanking wasps, Jak, you’d never just forgive the twisted turd, would you?”

  “My dear Mereck, I’m not saying I’ve lost interest in the creature. Indeed, I’ve never met anyone more vile in my entire life so far. But nothing is so simple. Does Reyne want her husband alive?”

  “No, she doesn’t.” Mereck was sure of that. “She believes he killed their daughter, though naturally he denies it. But he’s rough. He beats her.”

  Jak raised an eyebrow. “Genuinely beats? Like the Shammites?”

  Mereck thought so, “Though she won’t talk about it.”

  “I feel somewhat guilty. Had I married her myself – ”

  “Pointless guilt, my friend. You wouldn’t have been happy.”

  “But I wouldn’t have beaten the poor girl.”

  “And you’d have been rich.”

  “Being rich,” said Jak, “is not and never has been of any importance to me. Oh – I’ve no desire to lose everything and beg on the streets. But money doesn’t buy – so many things.” He thought a moment. “But Kallivan being rich is a damned nuisance. Gives him too much power.”

  “Kill the bugger.”

  “I shall. I meant to, ever since I first knew him. But there’s a ladder to climb before reaching the solution. This afternoon, I intend visiting my step-mother.”

  “Thought you hated her, or disliked her at best. Baffled beetles, Jak, you puzzle me saying things like that.”

  “Hopefully,” Jak said, “it will be the last time I see her.”

  “You’re not killing her too, are you?”

  Jak laughed. “Not yet, though she’s as much a murderer as her lover Kallivan. She plots, she schemes, and she kills. But killing her would seem somehow uncomfortable. An absurdity. I need to become more ruthless.”

  “Have her arrested. The rest being up to the court.”

  “Arrested,” Jak said, although only to himself. “No. Justice in Eden is laughable, and prisons are full of the innocent while the guilty ride the trains in comfort. We need – well, what do we need?”

  “Justicer. You said it yourself Jak. Proper justice and getting things right.”

  “A general policing force,” Jak waved a hand to the window. “Would our just sovereign consider such a thing, do you think? I have a slightly different idea,” Jak answered. “And I’m in no rush. But I shall warn her first.”

  From the sumptuous court apartments of one of the richest families in Eden, Jak arrived at the small back street rooms of the Dowager Lady Valeria. Now somewhat decrepit, the apartment had lost all gloss and it seemed that Valeria had sold one or two of the finer items she’d stolen from Lydiard Castle. It was one of her elderly companions who opened the door to Jak, and surprised him by clasping her hands beneath her chin and chirping enthusiastically. “Oh, my Lord Lydiard, what a delightful surprise. Lady Valeria, you know, thinks you dead. Quite terrible news, and now, thank the gods, here you are.”

  It appeared, however, that Valeria, the Lydiard dowager herself, was not so thrilled. Trotting from the salon doorway, she stopped so suddenly that she teetered, and then sank in a faint on the carpet. Brivetta rushed to her side, bent and clasped her hand, lightly tapping it in a feeble attempt to bring Valeria back to consciousness. Jak, meanwhile, stepped across his stepmother’s body and strode into the salon. He sat, legs stretched, and ankles crossed, beside the window where a spr
inkle of sunshine was edging through the cloud. Valeria finally entered, supported by her female companion. Jak remained silent.

  Brivetta, however, leading her employer to a large and comfortable chair, murmured, “See how delighted your dear mother is to see you, my lord.”

  “Step-mother,” corrected Jak.

  The stepmother was wafting in a gossamer bed robe, its endless sleeves sweeping to the floor in lace and purple ribbons. Beneath this she wore only her shift, white linen and shapeless. Jak regarded her with faint contempt. “Have you only recently woken from bed, madam?” Being midday, this seemed excessive.

  She pouted. “I can sleep when and how I wish, Jak, and what I do has nothing whatsoever to do with you. But on the other hand, to arrive unannounced without warning or appointment, after months and months of unexplained disappearance, is extremely badly behaved of you.” She stared, narrowing her eyes, and her mouth twisted slightly. “And would you mind explaining, Jak, just where the hell you’ve been this long time away?”

  “No more your business, madam,” he told her, “than it is mine to criticise the time you rise in the morning.”

  “Actually, I do believe,” chirped Brivetta, “it isn’t actually morning at all. A happy afternoon to all of us.”

  “So why have you come here, Jak?” demanded the dowager.

  “For the civility of informing you that I still live,” smiled Jak. It was a cold smile, and his eyes were also narrowed. “I am perfectly sure, madam, that at the very least you would have hoped me dead. but it is more than probable that you connived at my death, just as you did my father’s. Your lover has been plotting and planning since before I ever knew him. Both of you planned my father’s death and probably my own..”

  ‘Never,” breathed Valeria.

  “What a wicked accusation, my lord,” Brivetta said, blushing pink. Jak ignored her entirely.

  Valeria continued, “I do not love you Jak. You know this. Nor do I have any need of your affection. I know you dislike me and could not care less about your feelings. To accuse me of plotting murder is disgraceful, but nor do I particularly care about that. Had you died indeed, it would have been easier.”

  “Really? Easier?” Jak laughed. “You would inherit my estate of course. Unless – and here you should listen carefully, madam, unless I write a certified and witnessed final testament, leaving everything, down to the last earthenware cup, to someone else.”

  The dowager sniffed. “As yet you have neither wife nor children, Jak.”

  “But I have friends,” Jak replied. “One, whom I now trust entirely and who certainly would live a better life if he inherited coin and property, has been discovered thanks to you, madam, and I should thank you. So if you wish to arrange my death once more, I suggest you do so within this ten-day. I have already engaged a lawyer to witness my testament. You will gain not one rose petal from me, madam, whenever I die. Look to the finances of your friend Kallivan.”

  Fidgeting and fiddling, Brivetta looked repeatedly towards one deep set doorway which arched from the salon, and was then closed by a heavy-set door. Jak followed her gaze. Valeria stamped one foot. “Thoroughly illegal, Jak,” she screeched. “Your father’s widow should receive first honours, unless you have children.”

  “Not,” said Jak, “if she is unrelated. I should be obliged to pass on home and land only if she is my birth mother. Your understanding of the law is as feeble as your basic intelligence, my lady.”

  But his interest was now on the archway leading to the door which Jak knew must open to the bedchamber, since an apartment of this type and size would stretch only as far as a small salon and two bedrooms. Someone, Jak was sure, was listening behind that door. He waited while his stepmother sat in a semi-collapse and began to wail. Brivetta ran to kneel at her knees, hugging them and trying to console her.

  “What selfish attitude I have to suffer,” Valeria sniffed. “Jak, you may only be my step-son, but I cared for you and acted as your mother for many years, protected you and taught you, ran the household and – Jak – what the devil are you doing? Stop at once. This is my home – come here – ”

  Approaching abruptly but quietly, Jak kicked open the bedchamber door. Sir Kallivan was flung backwards and lost his footing on the slither of the rug. He grabbed the small table by the bed and avoided falling to the ground, then managed to steady himself, and glared back as Jak started to laugh. Half-naked, but clothed in short white braies and a fine white shirt, shrugged on but unfastened, his flaxen hair uncombed, Kallivan appeared flustered and confused. As he then crossed the room, quickly clipping the front of his shirt, he grabbed the door intending to slam it in Jak’s face. But Jak stood too far into the doorway, and the door could not shut.

  Still laughing, Jak was also intrigued by the festoon of hanging aids to sexual games which half filled the room.

  The bed was in wild disarray, sheets on the floor and a large padded quilt over the bed itself. On the quilt lay several metal chains and a leather strap. A whip of five cane prongs had fallen to the rug and hanging over the bed from the beamed ceiling were four metal objects designed to hold wrists and ankles, lifting the wearer into a hanging surrender. Other items lay around. A red painted object seemed somewhat like a shortened poker; a metal object seemed like a clip designed to hold nose, finger or nipple.

  After a moment, Jak walked back inside the salon, but first spoke to Kallivan. “I intend speaking with you, sir. Please dress and come from this chamber of absurdities. Otherwise I shall be obliged to – collect you.”

  Without answering, Kallivan turned his back and reached for his britches. Jak returned to his chair by the window and sat with a broad smile. “What a sad life you do lead, Valeria. But for the rich, I suppose there is little else to do. Or does your lover keep his new wealth to himself? Certainly your apartment is small and without lavish decoration.”

  Pink, sweating in her gossamer, and glowering, Valeria spat her words. “I do not charge for my services, ignorant whelp. I am a Lady of Eden and do whatever I wish. Sir Kallivan is certainly a man of wealth but that has no place within our affection for each other.”

  “Well said, my lady.” brevity clapped her hands.

  Kallivan strode from the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him. “Now, my lord, what needs to be said? I am not interested in your complaints, and I have no intention of complying with your wishes.”

  Jak began to laugh again. “If you were sweet enough to obey my wishes,” he said, “you’d jump from the Bridge and gurgle your way to the riverbed. No, sadly, it is something far more difficult which I want you to do. Indeed, I wish you to stop this game of slaughter. I am aware that you poisoned my father, or at the least you obtained that poison. I have the proof that you have only recently attempted my murder. You used royal guards to attack and ordered me thrown to the mercy of the ocean. Instead I have been enjoying a holiday on the Isle of Giardon. And interesting place with an amazing climate.”

  Valeria turned to Brivetta, dismissing her. “I need to speak with this foolish brat alone,” she said. “My dear Brivetta, go to your own room, and no eavesdropping.” She then turned to Kallivan. “I apologise for my stepson’s rude entrance and his entirely unwarranted interference in our affairs. I’m sure he knows that neither of us has ever hurt anyone, and simply wants to be outrageous and unpleasant. If you wish to speak with him, I shall go to get dressed. Then,” she glared at Jak, “we shall go out for a walk, and you, foolish boy, can do whatever you like. Burn this place down, perhaps. Know then I shall inform his majesty.”

  Jak hadn’t stopped laughing. “And what are those large metal clips for?” he asked, “I have a fairly good imagination, but that looked quite unpleasant.”

  Marching past him, Valeria hurried into her bedchamber and quickly shut the door. Jak was left staring at Sir Kallivan. “Don’t pretend with me, sir.” Jak remained seated beside the window. The faint slant of sunshine warmed him. “We both know what is true, and I can, at court,
offer proof of your complicity to murder of my father, and your attempt to murder me. But perhaps there’ll be no need to go to court.”

  Seemingly unconcerned, Kallivan walked to a damp stained mirror hanging on one wall, and began to comb his hair. “Is this an attempt to threaten, to warn, or simply to discuss?” Kallivan said into the mirror.

  “Ah, this is a man clearly much accustomed to threats and warnings,” Jak murmured. He watched as Kallivan bit his upper lip, and knew that he was, on the contrary, nervous and concerned, probably regarding the mentions of proof. Indeed, he wondered what other vile secrets the pale man held tucked behind the high brow.

  Yet Kallivan turned from the lead backed mirror, saying, “Absurd, my lord. You can prove nothing. And I must remind you that since my grandfather is sovereign of this entire realm, no court would ever uphold any ridiculous conviction against me.”

  “Unfortunately for you sir, you might be right.” Jak remained seated but smiled up at the man, almost his own height, who loomed over him. “Since it is possible that no court would dare find the grandson of the king guilty of both murder and of attempted murder, it seems I shall have to kill you myself, sir.”

  With a scuffle of hems in the doorway, the dowager returned to her own salon, and looked hopefully at her lover. Kallivan growled, “No, the fool is still here. But he will suffer for his enforced and unwanted presence, I assure you, my lady.”

  “But indeed, I came to inform my stepmother of my enduring existence, being still alive, which I was sure she would be delighted to know. I also intended asking where you were. And here you are! How opportune,” smiled Jak. “It was only a short time back that Verney was talking to me regarding the concept of, let us call it, – revenge and retribution. Strangely enough, that made me think immediately of you and you’ve been on my mind ever since.” He stood, as though prepared to act at once.