The Mill

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  His arms were now around her neck, her forehead pressed to his shoulder. “You won’t jump into the sea to drown, because I’ll be watching you. You won’t kill me, because I’ll be ready. And I’ll help. I’ll do whatever I can. I knew you had nothing left. Only a scrap this morning. I saw you. So I’m ready. But there’s no one to ask what I need to do, or how much you’ll suffer. We’ll have to just face it together.”

  “You won’t want to marry me after this.”

  “Yes I will,” Pod said. “If you give me your hand now, we could say the words right away.” But she shook her head against his shoulder.

  “I have to wait. I have to see how dreadful it is and you have to see how dreadful I can be.”

  With an urgency that he found made his heart beat like a pestle in a mortar, and his head ache like a cauldron on a fire too hot, Pod brought Freya every touch, every word, and every activity he could think of, making her last poppy day into a dance of happiness. They ran into the estuary shallows, grasping at the fish that dipped and leapt, shaking their fins as they escaped capture. Freya fell in the water and Pod helped her back onto the sand, her clothes soaked and clinging to her legs, her hair in dripping ringlets, the top of her gown so wet over her breasts that, even through the linen of her shift, the dark rise of her nipples showed, then basked in the sun as Freya lay on her back first, and then, dried on the sand when Freya turned. At first the water soaked her but as the frenzied heat blasted down, soon she dried like flower petals dry after the rain. “So no fish for dinner,” she laughed, as Pod reached down one arm to pull her up.

  So they hunted for crabs and Pod almost lost a finger between the bright red crab pincers, but they caught two and sat them in a pool of water while building a tiny fire, then popped the crabs in a pot of more water to boil.

  Pod chased Freya down the rivulets where the estuary faded into a hundred fingers, and each then joined the mother ocean, disappearing into saltwater. Then they sat higher on the dunes with the ocean stretched before them while Pod taught Freya the first delights of the lute.

  “The strings are in pairs. Not so easy but it is far more simple than this guitar. Your left hand here, at the end, while your right hands plucks.”

  “Like chicken feathers?”

  “What? Oh, I see what you mean. No – far more gentle – not that I’ve ever plucked a chicken.” And he started to play for her. Instead of watching to learn, Freya lay back again on the sand, closed her eyes and smiled herself into the dreams of flying in the warmth as Pod played, and then sang.

  They ate crab with their fingers, burning themselves and laughing at each other, washing their hot sticky fingers afterwards in the outgoing tide of pale ripples, and lying once more in the sand to dream.

  Freya woke to Pod singing, this time using the guitar. His voice reverberated deep, then high, spinning to the minor notes. But when he saw her awake, he changed the tune, spinning the music faster and faster until Freya herself, entirely unmoving, felt out of breath.

  While she slept, he had piled what he could around her for shade. Now her hair was dry, it shone in golden streaks, bleached from its gleaming brown into a shimmer of sunbeams. The heat had turned her blonde, but she had no idea how beautiful it made her, for she had no way of seeing herself. The water’s reflections showed only the moving distortion of eyes slanted one way and cheeks the other, hair as blue as the sky, and a white mouth bent sideways by ripples.

  They had left the theatre and what little remained of Slud with a cart piled with everything they could find which might build a sweeter and easier life alone on the sands. They had blankets and pots, firewood and pillows, food of many kinds and shovels, long handled forks and brooms, all Pod’s musical instruments and wide brimmed hats to shade them from the blistering heat. Then Pod had found what he knew he had to bring, even though he wished he might not. Where the market stalls lay wide, smashed and ransacked across the sandy paving slabs, he had discovered the packets of poppy syrup, enough in one tub for six days in small but sufficient spoonful’s, and the other in powder to mix with water, enough for another six days. When feeding Freya the morning wake-up she needed, he had kept aside just a grain or two, and just a smear of syrup. And so Freya had taken just a little less, but enough, for every day. The first ten-day slipped by with food and delight. Then the food was gone, but the poppy continued.

  Now both were gone.

  “We’ll still be happy,” Pod whispered as they stood together, arm in arm, bare footed on the sand as they gazed out to sea.

  Then he turned, and leaned forwards slowly, expecting denial. But she watched him as his eyes brightened and felt his breath on her face. He kept his eyes open, but she closed hers. His mouth was warm and dry and soft, and his kiss was so very sweet at first. She breathed him in. She sought his tongue. But he drew away too soon

  It seemed, very suddenly, as though she had tried to kiss her young brother. “Pod, I’m twenty-four. I’ve lost track of time, but I think I’ll be twenty five soon. And you – you’re just a beautiful baby. So should we -?”

  “Age doesn’t matter,” he murmured, “and I don’t know how old I am anyway. Eighteen, maybe. I could even be twenty. Who cares? We won’t do anything – wrong.” Now he was whispering, “Sleep in my arms, my beloved, and I won’t leave you for even a blink tomorrow, unless you want me to.”

  He drew her down beside him and she fell asleep without trouble on the last day of sweet drugged dreams.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The city slops, the piss filled gutters, the straining beams forcing each building to straddle its foundations without tumbling in a ruin of plaster and thatch, did not wave banners nor shout of welcome home, nor of how Eden City was the most beautiful place in the world. Jak was impatient. Settling Tom and Udovox into his own somewhat cramped establishment was the easiest. A flutter of girls in gossamer and silk stockings did not interest him and nor could he remember their names, but as Symon bundled up the over-excited Toby, who had rushed to the door at the first scent of his master on the other side and promptly wet himself in eager anticipation as his whip of a tail wagged so fast it looked as though it was in danger of spinning off and flying to the ceiling, instead Jak watched Udovox gather up the kitten from Edda’s embrace. The richly furred baby did not rush to its master, did not wag a tail, and neither pissed itself nor showed a single sign of excitement. But Udovox, clasping the snuggled parcel to his cheek, seemed in danger of all three, had he a tail to wag.

  Gazing into the huge watching eyes of the lacine cub, Jak stretched out one finger, and then his hand, stroking the small face and scratching beneath the fluff tipped ears. “I believe,” he said softly, “I could stay longer with that as a silent companion.”

  “Not silent.” Udovox grinned. “Purrs like a waterfall.”

  From his own now well filled quarters, Jak strode to the Lower City rooms where his stepmother lived, climbed the stairs and knocked. It was Kallivan he hoped to see, but leaving a message with Valeria should Kallivan still be travelling, would satisfy his impatience. Yet there was no answer and Jak swore, knowing that as she rarely left her home and sent her companions to manage all her shopping, it would be an unfortunate coincidence that he should arrive on the one occasion she was away.

  He knocked louder and saw that he had pushed the door ajar. Doors left unlocked were risky anywhere in the Lower City, even on the boarders, so he kicked open the door and called, then strode in. A rank smell of dirt and decay became stronger as he walked through the corridor and into the small salon. He stopped at once.

  On her own rug, Valeria lay smothered in dark dried blood. Her face hung haggard and blotched with rot. Her flesh was decaying.

  Staring brought few clues. Jak did not mourn, but the shock was true enough. At first he assumed his step-mother had been killed by her lover. Yet he had long accepted that assumptions were invariably either wrong, or partially so. Murder in the victim’s home was common enough, but not a daily occurrenc
e, and the woman had been loyal enough to her vile friend. He was a killer of general inefficiency but eager readiness. That proved nothing.

  The level of decay, in accordance with the warming weather and the fires so frequently lit in that small salon, suggested that death had occurred three days previously. Decomposition was patchy with discolourment and signs of rot around the mouth and down the neck of the gown. The visible ankles were small, scraggy and brown, while the stomach swelled beyond any normal bloating. She stank of decay and although no breath pulsed from the open lips, the stench did.

  Having turned at the sound of the door before he heard the voice, he knew who spoke. “What the devil are you doing here? She forbade you and does not want you. And where is Valeria?”

  Eyes cold, Jak regarded the man he most despised, the possible killer, and the murderer of others. His eyelids half closed, mouth tight, Jak said, “Valeria is quite dead. I estimate three days gone. She has not died of natural causes since there is dried blood across her body from a stomach wound, and her face, nose and chin have been smashed. The body has begun to decay.” Seeing the body, Jak had been shocked. Now Kallivan stepped forwards and gazed in horror, the shock too obvious to be false. Indeed, he appeared strangely upset. Jak gazed in faint amusement. “You genuinely cared for the woman?”

  “Well, no. But this is – and you dare ask me if I care, when it’s clear you have murdered your mother.”

  Sighing, now Jak felt the old boredom of nonsensical accusations. “Valeria was my step-mother. I disliked her. She murdered my father and was planning, with you, to murder me. I could not care for her, nor do I care concerning her death. But I did not kill her, as should be obvious even to a fool. Yet, as no fool myself, I did suspect that you had done it. Now I tend to believe you innocent – of this killing alone.”

  “I cared,” Kallivan muttered into his lace collar. “Not so much. But some – and some time. I accept you were not the killer. And nor was I. We should compare, whatever we can, and decide who did this.”

  But Jak shook his head. “I’ve no intention of working with you, nor of working to solve the murder. But when I came here, indeed, I came for you. I have questions before I leave the city.”

  The man standing close to him, now looking down at his mistress, was as always well dressed, but this time seemed more ragged, dust covered, and well-worn than previously. His skin seemed stretched until threadbare, like a bedrobe used too often and for too long. The white hair was growing thinner, and the lips were as white as his hair. Only his eyes showed colour with a blue so washed, it faded from the iris outwards. His one arm where the hand had been amputated, was now a bandaged wrist attached to an empty glove of brown leather which flapped a little when Kallivan moved.

  Now, still staring down, he said, “I – brought a girl here. And unpleasant but weakling creature, a simpleton, half whore. She could not have – I don’t believe it. Then Valeria had two regular female companions, but they were elderly, and one knew nothing about Valeria, and thought her a grand lady. The other – perhaps. But no. Yet where is she?”

  “I have no idea concerning Valeria’s enemies,” Jak said, waving one hand as though wiping away the question. “And,” he continued, marching to the door, “the reason I intended speaking with you has virtually flown. I am now returning to Lydiard and have no further reason to forbid Valeria coming north. As for you, sir, our vague attachment has quite gone, and I’ve no desire to see you again unless it is to kill you.”

  “After what you’ve done to me –,” Kallivan held up his arm and the empty glove fell forwards, “I shall drive you to the ground, my lord, before you have any further chance to take advantage of me. Your death is near.”

  Turning, and pulling open the door, Jak was still laughing as he walked to the stairs. He was halfway down the steps when two voices clashed. From upstairs Kallivan called, “I warn you –,” while below there were other footsteps and the call from a man as his ground level doorway slammed shut.

  “Excuse me, sir,” the voice wafted from downstairs, “but is it possible the Lady of Lydiard has – died?”

  Jack turned the corner into the lower corridor and faced a stranger, his expression almost frantic. Jak nodded. “She is, sir. Some days previously.”

  “I heard screaming and banging three days gone,” the man said in a rush. “When I went up to investigate, there was a plump dishevelled female coming from that door. She had tiny blood splatters, and she was rude and ran away. And now there is a most unpleasant smell which seems to come through my ceiling.”

  “It would appear,” Jak replied, “that you have solved a murder, sir.” He stared back up the stairs to where Kallivan leaned, having heard the same words. Jak called, “It would also appear that your simpleton girl, sir, was not so weak as you supposed her. And finally it appears that even though you did not commit this murder, clearly you must carry the blame.”

  He left the building and marched back to the Upper City, then north towards the principal city gates. Grass now sprang from the Probyn mud and the winter ice, and the slopes were green, studded with low houses built outside the perimeter, and sprinkled with wildflowers. As the green gathered and spilled over the hilltop, it rolled down once more into a glade of five or six trees, a water-well built up in brick and an iron lever at its peak, with several roads colliding into a partly paved square.

  Here the camp had meandered beyond the courtyard, and large oilcloth tents were wedged below trees and beside the well, and hid both road and paving beneath them. The men camped there sat outside their shelters, boiling water over small fires, or resting in the grass. Every one of them, thirty men in total, jumped to their feet as they saw Jak approaching. Jak nodded and walked past the camp to the enclosure where ten bored horses stood, heads down, grazing.

  The men were waiting. “We leave at dawn tomorrow,’ Jak told them. Have my horse saddled, waiting. And I need the larger horse for a companion. Have that ready too. And naturally, be ready yourselves. Break-fast early and be prompt to move out at first light. Bring everything with you, including food to eat on the way. I intend moving fast. This will be no slow meandering march. I daresay you all have someone waiting in Lydiard.”

  They grinned. “No fighting on the way, m’lord?”

  “I doubt it.” Jak stroked his horse’s nose and fed it carrots from his front pocket. “The problem I envisaged when I brought you south has not eventuated. But I cannot guarantee the future. It seems that life finds tedium too boring and prefers both progress – and chaos.” He left his horse in the compound and returned on foot to the city, then directly down to the banks of the Corn, and called a wherry.

  The Council Chambers were in a bustle. No man sat at the table, but Jak immediately recognised Logon. With an abrupt hand to Jak’s arm, Logon pulled him outside. “I’m glad you’re back. But you might not be as pleased as I am. Such delightful developments we have on the council, my friend.” He had not bothered to lower his voice although other well shawled figures stood nearby.

  “Not such a secret, then?” asked Jak. “So tell me this alarming news.”

  “We had a charming plot in progress, voted by all, for the king to slowly melt away. Not outright murder, you understand. But a fall to break a leg, followed by careful doctoring to bring in infection, aided by a small amount of continuous medicine with just a little spice added. For his majesty’s pleasure, of course.”

  “I have a slight prejudice against outright murder at present,” Jak apologised. “But I agree this king should go.” He frowned. “Yet considering his age, the death will be inevitable over the next few years. Why not wait?”

  “A few years more means a few years too long,” Logon said. “The king plots to overthrow us, and passes laws which are both absurd and undermining.”

  Jak laughed. “An example?”

  Logion also laughed. “The new examination and laying of all the older islands since the collapse of the Bridge. We have the oldest island on the rive
r. This is the only one we could call original.”

  “You can’t block it?”

  “We did.” Logon’s laugh turned to frown. “And the bastard has clocked our block. It’s law and will probably end in ruin. But there’s more news than that. You’re listening? His next law is that tumbleweed must never be used for garments, since the water weed is important for the new islands that need to be built. Therefore, any clothes already in existence made from tumbleweed must be donated to the ‘Bridge Cause’. Nonsense of course. Both laws are clearly directed at the council and have little meaning beyond that.” He paused, then continued, frowning ever deeper. “There must be someone on the council, who, for reasons of their own which I personally can’t guess, has turned traitor, for just a few days back his sweet majesty arrested our Number One. Arrested. Accused of plotting the king’s death and arrested with a trial planned for next year. You plan for a trial a year away? As it happens, I’ve no idea who Number One actually is, but having risen to the top place, he must be extremely elderly and extremely experienced. Now on another island altogether and in a prison cell.”

  Jak stared. “With no time limit?”

  “Not until the trial.” Logon shook his head. “Last piece of news. Without any explanation – no excuse – no mention of the birth parents, the queen has adopted a child. Newborn, I believe. And the king seems as happy as a child himself, playing with the gift of a puppet.”

  “I can tell you one thing – the identity of Number One,” Jak said. “I recognised him fairly quickly, but it makes little sense with the rest of the story. Number One is the unmarried second son of the king, name of Borg. The eldest alive, a bit of a stubborn old fool most of his acquaintances say, but he has no known quarrel with his father.”