The Mill

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “Dashing around, Papa, and doing well at it, I promise.”

  “Good boy. You can run off now and play until dinner time.”

  In the council chamber there was wine and a fine set of twelve glass cups on the table, and the man sitting at Jak’s right hand, now known as Number Nine, poured him a full cup, and another for himself. They both drank as Number One rose from his armed chair at the table’s head and addressed the fully occupied space before him.

  “A good evening to you all,” said Number One. “We have a new member to welcome, being Number Ten, which has been empty for some months. We are all delighted it is now filled.” Although Jak had no idea who this was he knew it was neither Kallivan, nor anyone else he might recognise.

  Acknowledging the introduction, Jak bowed, just a brief nod of the head beneath the hood. He drained his cup. The wine was one of the best he had ever drunk, and he reached to refill his cup and that of the man next to him. Number Nine raised his cup, murmuring, “Release comes in many disguises.” Jak could glimpse the shaded glimmer of a smile. “And good wine is one of them.”

  Number One was still speaking. “And so to business. This has not yet been fully discussed, nor even mentioned to Number Ten. I shall now inform all of you that our principal concern is the removal of the present king from his throne. He was requested to sit the throne simply to eradicate the nuisance of his prime claim, being the principal heir. Thus we did our duty and the rightful king wears Eden’s crown. But he cannot be permitted to rule us. His death was planned to take place during his coronation, but unfortunately the young person chosen as most apt, indeed, entirely suitable to unknowingly perform this act, then disappeared. We had neither time nor the right person to deliver the poison at that last moment. We now must devise a different plan.”

  Papers scrunched, fingers tapped on the wood, glass cups scraped over the tabletop, and hands reached for the nearest wine jug. Number Four raised a long delicate hand. “My lord, I was never in favour of the original plan, although I am aware that I was outnumbered. But the young female chosen did not seem suitable to me. This is an act which must be devised and conducted by grown men, and if excellently programmed, as we are apt to do, not one of us will be suspected.”

  Number One gulped on his wine, then thumped down the empty cup. “Frankly sir, I am more interested in a quick decision than a slowly arranged plot.”

  “Surely speed,” said Number Nine, “is more dangerous. We are more likely to make mistakes, be recognised, or fail entirely. What makes speed so attractive, my lord?”

  Leaning back in his chair, Number One clasped his hands across the breadth of his belly and breathed deeply. “I do not make mistakes, sir,” he said. “Nor do I fail. I will certainly never be held responsible for murdering the king, although this is precisely what I intend to do. But I happen to know that Frink’s grandson is becoming more and more unscrupulous and may commit a number of killings in his own interests. His wife is an heiress, and if her father is slaughtered, all his vast wealth will be divided between his two daughters, one being that vile creature’s wife. He may even choose to annihilate her, once she has inherited.”

  For a moment Jak wondered if this was Verney himself, but the voice and the hands were wrong. Instead, he closed his eyes, planning his own contribution. Into a short silence, he said, “We speak of Kallivan, knight of the realm. I have no knowledge of why he was knighted but it seems unlikely to be awarded for heroism. This man has many crimes to his name, including my father’s death and an attempt on my own. I am more interested in killing him than the king.”

  “How interesting.” Number Nine once more raised his cup in salute.

  “Kallivan and I met only three days ago,” Jak continued. “Since we had a slight – disagreement, I must admit I chopped his right hand off at the wrist. He now only has one hand, but this should make little difference since the man has never fought with skill, finesse, or accuracy. Simply brutality. And the left hand is as capable of brutality as is the right.”

  The following silence was unfractured for some time. Eventually it was Number Two who said, “My lord, it seems that your own actions have been just as brutal.”

  “Sir Kallivan,” Jak sighed, “is not a swordsman, sir. I am. I could have killed him but did not. The murderer of my father and probably of his own daughter deserves more than a bloody wrist, but as yet I have not attempted more.”

  The meeting had begun as twilight slipped over the city, and the birds crept to their roosts. Now it was dark. The shadows outside were as deep as those sheltering each man at the long table. A scuffle of feet announced the first disruption and Number Eight’s voice sounded more like a growl. “I don’t condone murder. But it sounds like this Kallivan must go, and his wretched grandfather too. I’ve never known this Kallivan. Nor more than a brief look at Frink. But sounds liked shame on Eden if they live.”

  “Shame indeed.”

  Number Six nodded with emphasis. “My friends and companions here today know full well that Frink was never sane enough to be king. But out of the others in line, is there a single man deserving of the job?”

  “No king rules in truth,” Number One answered. “We rule. No other. But Frink is attempting to overthrow us. It is just as well he has no idea who we are, or I’m sure he’d have us killed off, one by one.”

  “Who would be the best king we could nominate after Frink’s death?” Number Two asked.

  Each looked at the others across the table, a shadowed hood gazing at another identical. “Frink’s eldest son, Borg.”

  “The madman killed his eldest son,” said Number Five.

  Jak said, “The eldest living son is Borg, but he has neither wife nor children. This would lead directly to Kallivan.”

  “No.” Number Two shook his head. “We will ensure he is dead either before or at the same time as his grandfather. And who knows this Borg? Is he as vile as the rest of the family?”

  “No.” Number Four seemed assured. “But he is somewhat simple. He would be easy to control, and with him on the throne we could rule Eden again without danger of attack.”

  “Is he here?”

  “He now lives at court,” continued Number Four. “Quiet, well mannered, obedient to his father whom he avoids, and quite passionate about his hobbies.”

  “As far as I’ve heard, the king can be passionate about his hobbies too. But Frink’s hobbies are slaughtering, insulting, and plotting to dismember,” said Number Eight.

  “Borg’s hobbies,” said Number Four, “are fishing and learning to knit.”

  “Then,” said Number One, “he shall be the next king. A legal inheritance indeed, once Frink is dead, and Kallivan too, to make the next move safe.”

  The stallion was fractious, smelling blood. But Kallivan rode on, one hand to the loop of the reins, knowing his wrist was bleeding once more. The open wound had been too wide to sew, but it had been well cauterised. Yet the ooze from his arm continued to soak through the bandages. This time, knowing haste to be of no particular benefit, he stopped twice overnight, and the second time called on the services of the local doctor.

  “My lord, how was this done? It is vicious indeed, and a cruel lash of the blade. The wicked thief is dead by your other hand, I hope, my lord. Or in prison at the least.”

  Kallivan sighed. “Naturally,” he said.

  With new bandages, he set off the next day, following the stream up to the point of its fastest current where he had drowned his small daughter, and onwards upstream to the remains of the water mill. The wheel turned, cranking and creaking, and there was a long-legged heron picking over a crab shell on the bank.

  The mill’s door was wide open, which annoyed Kallivan, but it did not seem overly important. He dismounted, tied his horse to the cottage fence, and marched inside.

  His father was lying on a mattress which had clearly been brought down from upstairs. Thribb’s one eye was closed.

  Having already considered his words on the j
ourney, Kallivan said, “Look, old man. You have only one eye. And now I have only one hand. It was a great battle, but I and my two companions fought for the entire day, dawn to dusk. One of my companions is sadly badly injured, and I have lost my hand as you see. But twelve of our attackers now lie dead, and their bodies were put to the pyre in one blazing heap.”

  It was Doria’s footsteps behind him that made him turn. “Oh, my Lord Kallivan,” she whispered, “your father nearly died, sir, and my father is quite dead too. I wish you had been here, sir. You’d have saved my dad, and yours as well.”

  His mouth open, Kallivan, amazed, knelt beside the body on the mattress. He touched the old man’s hair, a streak having fallen in the empty eye socket. “Alive? Dead? Or dying?” The flutter of the single eyelid spoke of life, and Kallivan leaned further over, his ear to the mouth. “I’ll get a doctor. There’s one not far.”

  “He came,” said Doria with a loud sniff, wiping her nose on the back of her hand. “Doctor Sprigg. Very young. I paid, but not with coin. Cos I never had none. But he says tis beyond help. He didna do nuffing which were a bloody waste o’ my blow job.”

  Regarding only his father, Kallivan said, “What has happened? Your father? And the female? Did you kill her?”

  “No.” Doria bent her head. “She were useful fer cookin’ and cleanin’ and stuff. But I wish we had done. This fuckin’ knackerer turned up, all jangling and such. Him and the bastard girl, they murdered me dad, and tried the same on your dad.”

  Staring at her, “And where are they now?”

  “Both gone. A couple o’ days past. Me dad were proper dead. Not that I’s that bothered. I reckon life’s better wivout the bastard. But where’s I gonna go?”

  “Get the old cart and one of the oxen from the back,” Kallivan said at once, standing and striding to the door. “I shall transport my father to a doctor of greater repute and leave him in that hospital across the other side of the stream. You will come with me back to the city. I have no idea what to do with you there but no doubt you’ll find work. A brothel. A kitchen. A quarry.”

  He looked more closely at his father, seeing the great weeping scar across his neck. Clearly, he could have died, but since after two days he was still alive, it seemed likely he could be sewn and saved. Kallivan was pleased, as this meant he could use him again. But the necessary waste of time was a disadvantage. He wondered if knackerer, a strange visitor indeed, could have been Jak in disguise, but thought not. No disguise would have been necessary, and the death of the old man would surely have been more successful. Kallivan had a violent dislike for the cart and ox and refused to drive it. Doria took the front bench as the ox snorted, and Kallivan climbed into the back where he had lifted his father’s limp body. His own horse was tethered to the cart’s side. He would reclaim the saddle once he deposited his father at the hostel for the sick and dying, run by the great chapel of the north. Doria, unless she chose to stay there, could drive the cart herself, and follow him to Eden.

  Tom dressed in a lapis doublet under-coat, many times slashed in gold tissue and laced with gold cord over a shirt of pale plum-pink linen embroidered in tiny gold rose buds, and under a sleeveless demi gown of heavily brocaded velvet in oblique marine blue folds, both lined and trimmed in thick russet fox. His round felt cap was decorated with two tall tail feathers from a splendid pheasant and held in place by a garnet brooch, and his britches were azure satin with ties beneath the knee of azure velvet ribbon. Beneath the britches he wore stockings of silk, striped in violet and black, showing a magnificently shaped, though diminutive, pair of calves, with the thighs above unexpectedly muscled, their strength pushing through the light material of his britches. His very tight and pointed boots were red leather, and a long sword was held in a jewelled scabbard. Beneath the tight little hat, his eyes were painted and outlined, his cheeks were roughed on their high points against the careful whitewash of his skin, and his lips were wiped with a gloss of honey. Tom always enjoyed dressing for the occasion, but rarely had he achieved such a devastating result. He was, however, now holding to the doorpost as though the weight of his feathers might pull him over.

  Udovox regarded the man he loved with a momentary hesitation. “Glorious, utterly glorious. But since this is a man you hardly know, do you think my dear, to make such a display of what is – after all – a matter punishable by – death?”

  Tom sighed. “What I cannot hide, I shall choose to display.”

  Udovox said, “And a grand display you make too, so fine and rich you might be a lord yourself. And after all – the previous king ...”

  “I am never afraid,” uttered Tom, sweeping the folds of his outer coat over his arm and marching to the door. “I will confront our new lordly friend and inform him that the woman who adores him now needs his help. And that even though we have denied knowing her, now that we know he cares, and we trust him, we must admit we know her well.”

  “You will succeed, my love,” his lover smiled, “as you always do. This was, after all, Symon’s idea and he knows this lord somewhat better.”

  “Isn’t a sea voyage half across the world long enough to know someone and call them more than an acquaintance?” Tom demanded. “And meeting someone in difficult times is more revealing than meeting someone at their wedding ceremony.”

  Raani was attempting to escape the cuddle, and Udovox kissed the lacine on the tip of its nose. “Symon knows best,” he decided.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Snug in the Upper city, Jak’s previous apartments had been taken by others when he failed to return or pay his rental for several months. He had now moved to another set of rooms, a little larger, in the banking quarter where business was noisier, but more sedate than the haberdashery, and for Jak, more interesting. The apartment was large enough for his groom and his page, both of whom were happy to do other jobs, and in any case, Jak was not always at home.

  He was at home, however, comfortably at home when his latest, somewhat eccentric, friend came to visit.

  “My lord,” the page said, hovering on the doorstep. Jak was standing, hands clasped behind him, at the window overlooking his own small courtyard below, where the groom was scrubbing down his horse. The page took a deep breath and chose his words carefully. “There’s a short and ever-so unusual looking gentleman to see you, my lord. He gives his name as Tom, sir, and says you know him. And he’s got information and reckons it’s important.”

  “Then let the man in,” said Jak, turning around quickly. “There’s always the chance that important actually means important, brat, and whether you approve the man’s appearance or not is of not the slightest interest to me.”

  Tom was led up to the main chamber. He bowed, removed his hat with a flourish and smiled extremely widely, which set off his dimples. “It is,” he said, “the greatest of pleasures to meet you again, my lord. However, I now have to inform your lordship that if I don’t sit down immediately, I shall fall over on your nice rugs.”

  “My dear friend,” said Jak, gazing somewhat bemused at the tiny and beautiful creature before him, “choose any chair and sit on it at once. It’s a long walk from – the Bridge. And although I must say you are dressed somewhat differently to when I last saw you, I consider you a close friend whom I shall never forget. Damnit, Tom, you saved my life. Lie down and go to sleep if you wish. Now, wait a moment while I call for wine and cake, and then tell me what I can do for you.”

  Tom, sinking thankfully onto a cushioned settle, nodded and indicated his tight though extravagant shoes. “It’s somewhat of a shared favour, my lord, which I hope will please both of us. And I’m here not only for myself but also for dearest Udovox and for Symon as well. May I explain?”

  “Damnation, of course you can,” Jak said. “That’s exactly what I’m waiting for. And for mercy’s sake, drink your wine and take off those damned shoes.”

  Tom grinned, and kicked off the shoes, drank his wine with elegance, and said, “Freya, my lord.”

&nbs
p; His expression changed as Jak looked up, suddenly alert. “The woman you don’t know, my friend?”

  “My Lord Jak,” Tom was wriggling his toes in relief, “I was very careful not to say I don’t know her. After a bitter and terrible attack, she came to the Bridge, and quickly became the friend of every one of us. She already knew Symon, but before we met you, she had disappeared. Utterly, entirely, mysteriously, suddenly and suspiciously. We have searched. The girls, the Bridge guard, myself and Udovox, we have searched and searched again. Ah, but,” and here Tom held up one thin hand as Jak began to speak, “my dearest Udovox went all the way back to his parents, farmers in Lydiard, and borrowed a large amount of money purely and simply to help Freya. We planned a new life for her and ourselves, to leave the work we were beginning to despise, and start something sweeter. We thought of a building across the Corn where there would be an apothecary shop beneath, and many beds upstairs where the sick could come and be both nursed and cured. I know a good deal of medicine, my dear Udo is a kind nurse, and Freya, as you must know, my lord, is a doctor and apothecary of positive genius.”

  “But you still don’t know where she is?”

  “No, my lord. We cannot find her. I’m deeply afraid – she might be dead. And we fear it was the pale and sinister Kallivan from court who swept her away. Indeed, many months ago she went off to market, and never came home.”

  “Stop calling me lord, and call me Jak,” Jak insisted. “And now explain why you suspect Kallivan.”

  Feet padding in only stockings, Tom stood and began to pace. “Because he threatened her twice before, and she threatened him. She knew of a particular and shocking crime and knew he had supplied the means for the death. She seemed like a danger to him.” He turned, frowning down at Jak, then paced again. “A very brave girl, your Freya, my Lord Jak. And very clever. But he had the power.”