The Mill

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  The stomach cramps began to fade as she tore pieces off the roll, stuffing them hot into her mouth to cleanse the desire for the poppy. Pod was back, sitting close, and that, being the only medicine she had, was sweet reassurance.

  They talked. “We have to move,” Pod said. “One more day to feel better, my love, and that will be the last of our food. I have ale for today, tomorrow, and perhaps one more day of travelling. But tomorrow the food will be gone. I’ve saved two chunks of cheese for our special gift to finish with.”

  “And we go north?” Well, there was no south unless they wanted to drown. She’d considered that sometimes.

  Now the poppy denial was intermittent, and the pain was far less. Even the cracks in her mind and the crazed flights of her imagination were less. In the morning she wanted the poppy. By the evening she knew she hated it and would never take it again, even if the overflowing cup sat beside her. There was still temptation, but it was a monster’s voice that called, and she was not such a fool as to believe a monster.

  “We go north,” he said, “and back to Slud. They know us there. Alright, so the village is a dump and the storm damage won’t all be cleaned up yet. But they know us and maybe if I play and sing to the people, and we sit around the campfire, someone will give us food. The market won’t be open yet, but even if it is, there’s no danger of you buying the poppy juice.” He looked up with sudden urgency. “Is there?”

  Even if it had been a lie, she would have shaken her head. But it was no lie, and Freya said, “Mostly I hate the stuff. With another day here and then at least three travelling back, even those morning cravings will be gone.” She laughed suddenly. “Mostly it feels worse when I’m hungry. I sort of forget what it is I’m aching for.”

  “So we start back tomorrow. And If you need a rest, you sit on the cart, remember. And don’t feel all guilty and feel you shouldn’t ask. You breaking an ankle would be much harder for both of us. Hopefully just four days and we’ll be back in Slud.”

  “But you said we only have enough food for tomorrow.”

  “Yes,” Pod nodded. “One more day here with good bread and cheese. Then off we go north. I’ll fish today and tomorrow, collect crabs and whatever else I can, and if we have a day short on rations, well – we’ve both had worse.”

  The idea of returning to Hyr’s cottage had been long abandoned. The last time Jak had slowly wandered that dismal slope, he had known what to expect, yet it had still been an unpleasant experience. There had been no sense of Freya’s presence and no smallest item to remind him of her. There was no scribble on a wall, no abandoned mattress with her imprint. The thatch had mostly fallen, and the sprigs left covering the roof beams were heavy with birds’ nests and scrabbling spiders, beetles and centipedes. He was about to step on a cockroach when a small black bird flew almost into his face, grabbed the thing, and darted back to its nest.

  Now Jak considered the absurdity of once again going to stare at the accumulated rubbish and wildlife, simply in order to further spoil his daydreams. He had decided not to go. He went anyway.

  The walk down was a gentle slope, with long grass and cornflowers thick at this time of the year. The scent of the flowers, the trees across the hill, and the sunshine in the grass was something Jak did remember and loved to breathe again. He could see the cottage below, its roof in straw holes, and the newborn chicks squawking for food.

  The doorway no longer existed and was now just a shadowed and gaping entrance to nothing. A bird flew into his face as one had last time, but now presumably to frighten away the intruder which might threaten its fledglings. And then he saw something else. Jak stepped back, startled as two legs emerged from the black swathes above, two hands grasping the wobbling handles, as somebody climbed down the broken ladder which had once led to the beds on the mezzanine. Steps were missing now. The intruder was slipping but his shoes were solid and expensive.

  Jak didn’t know the man. The man clearly did not know Jak. “My apologies,” he said, “I presume you’re local around here. Perhaps you even own this building? I was simply searching for someone who once lived here, or so I seem to remember.”

  “Remember?” Jak repeated.

  “Indeed. But more than twenty years ago, and you are certainly not old enough to know me. But perhaps, just perhaps if you’re local, you might remember Hyr?” He paused but Jak said nothing. The man continued, “They called her a witch, but indeed she was a healer of great talent. And when I married Hyr’s friend, I came to live here too. Oh, a little crowded, I admit. But in those days, I expected nothing better. I loved my wife. And in truth, I loved Hyr too, although in a very different manner. The house was hers. I hoped to find her still living here, but some of the local people told me of the terrible cruelty that was inflicted against her. I can only hope she left her body before the pain was too dreadful. I am sure she could do that.”

  Standing quietly, watching and listening, Jak also felt something strange, as though he had known the man once even if yet unborn. For the first time in his life since turning fourteen, Jak did not know what to say. But his frown was now a smile which woke the sunbeams in his eyes, turning green to hazel sparks. Finally he said, “My Lord Fraygard?”

  Fraygard beamed in return. “You do know me, sir? Or perhaps my dubious reputation came before me.”

  “I have never taken heed of reputations, my lord. They remind me of the ribbons which some men tie to their britches in order to hide their knees.” Fraygard’s britches bore neither ribbons nor lace.

  He laughed. “Then perhaps you know, my lord, why I am here? And may I know your own name, sir?”

  Nodding, Jak told him, turning and striding outside into the fresh breezes. “I’m the Lord of Lydiard, but even that title makes me utterly useless to you, sir. You are looking for the girl Freya. But I am sorry to tell you, so am I.”

  Fraygard had followed Jak outside and they stood on the slope, looking down towards the spreading township. “Then you know I’m her father? And you know my wife Chia is her mother? At present, tired and depressed, my wife sleeps in the room we’ve taken at the inn in town. Our baby was just one month old when Chia was forced to hand her over to Hyr for care in order to follow me to the city. I was already under arrest. I never saw my daughter.”

  “She’s beautiful, and looks a little like you,’ Jak said softly. “But when I last saw her she was fifteen years of age, and I was only two years older. I’ve heard some of her story since, but it hasn’t helped me find her. So come with me now, sir, and let me introduce you to my squire who has known Freya far more recently than either of us.”

  They were halfway along the crest and up into the hills towards the Lydiard Castle, when Fraygard said, “My lord, I’ve been told by your people in town, the chaplain and the innkeeper amongst others, that the Lord Lydiard has loved my daughter for many years. Can you love a girl when you’ve not seen her for – what is it? – ten or eleven years?”

  “Eleven,” said Jak. “Almost twelve. Yet you love her without ever having seen her at all.” Although nothing was solved, Jak felt the sun in his eyes and the lurch of pleasure. A decade of remembering love was not a fine basis for its continuance, and he knew it. Yet looking into Fraygard’s smile and seeing Freya’s smile seemed proof enough that love could continue even in such a way. He relished the surge of excitement, as if the wheel of fortune was turning within his own groin, and destiny was beginning to wake, and stretch, and face a new day. “It seems there are many who search for your daughter sir. But she remains illusive.”

  The man nodded. “I have come back here now on three occasions, hoping to see her or hear something more of you. Meeting you, my lord, is a step forward.”

  The Verney household, was a large series of rooms within the royal court but living within the palace did not mean seeing a great deal of the king, except during those few special occasions which included royal feasting when everybody turned up for the best food in the Kingdom. Otherwise Frink stayed in his ow
n vast level which included the battlements, and five enormous rooms, each equal to an average house in the Upper-City. Next to this were the queen’s apartments, and she had four huge rooms with windows looking out across the river. The nursery quarters were next door, somewhat smaller, but all joined together with a maze of wide warm corridors.

  The Verneys were downstairs. The younger daughter Reyne and her usually absent husband also lived there. The living was comfortable, friendly and free. But Reyne spent most of her life in tears. She cried principally because she had lost the most beloved thing in her life, which had been her daughter. The child, resembling her father, had not at first been gloriously welcome, but now Reyne felt the guilt of that, and missed the child more. She also cried for the interminable absence of her husband, and she then cried when he was present, for he abused or ignored her. He did not seem able to think of another form of existence.

  Reyne wiped her eyes and faced her sister. “All I wanted was a cosy husband and babies crawling at my feet. Life’s such a pig to give me exactly what I wanted and make it so sad and so horrid.”

  “You should have married Jak Lydiard.” Jally sat with her own plump son asleep on her lap. She was again pregnant, and her lap was barely wide enough for the little boy she cradled.

  With a renewed burst of sobs, Reyne covered her face with her hands. “I wanted to. He didn’t want me. Mama says Jak’s still in love with that silly peasant girl he knew as a child, even though he can’t find her. She’s probably married with ten brats herself by now. Either that or she’s dead.”

  As her unborn child kicked, Jally hiccupped and yawned. “Oh, honestly, Reyne, you never even knew the young man and he kept telling you that you were too young for him. It wasn’t just the other thing so don’t go getting bitter and twisted. You didn’t know each other. And you didn’t know that wicked Kallivan either. That was Papa’s fault, arranging that just for the association with royalty. You should never have rushed into marriage at all. To be entirely honest, you were so quick to accept Kallivan, I thought maybe you were secretly pregnant by Jak Lydiard, and desperately needed a quick husband so you could claim he was the father.”

  The blush was virulent. “Jak never touched me. No one did until Kallivan. And I always expected it to be wonderfully romantic. No one warned me it was going to be like this.” Reyne’s blush increased.

  “Like what?”

  “You don’t mean you actually like it?” demanded Reyne. “Or is it just to make babies?”

  “I – I mean, well it’s –,” Jally was embarrassed.

  Reyne looked away. “Alright, I understand. You like it and I hate it, so I’m the one at fault.”

  “No.” Jally hoped her son Brod wouldn’t wake too quickly. “I don’t just like it. I absolutely love it, and Mereck’s gloriously romantic. So it’s bloody Kallivan’s fault, not yours. He obviously doesn’t do the nice things.” Now she was also blushing. “Does he – hurt you?”

  Reyne nodded, cheeks crimson and eyes streaming.

  She had no intention of explaining further and had already changed the subject when Kallivan marched in. Both women sighed. Kallivan said, “Well now, my two dearest relatives, the honest women of Verney. What a pleasure. I had hoped you’d both be out.”

  “We knew you had come home,” Jally said, staring up at him. “You’ve been talking to my father in the main salon. And since you have been kind enough to call me honest, I should tell you here and now that you’re my very least favourite relative. I wish you’d go away.” The blush had turned white.

  Sitting, legs outstretched, on the higher writing chair beside the little scrivener, Kallivan grinned. Reyne wondered if he had ever loved anyone. Had he ever even liked anyone. She murmured, “I hear Lord Lydiard’s step-mother was killed in her own home. I think I’m right in saying she was a – friend – of yours. You must miss her.”

  “Unless you murdered her yourself,” Jally interrupted.

  Above the grin, Kallivan’s eyes were cold. “No, my dear. I was almost fond of Valeria. The killer was, as usual, a woman.”

  Reyne was startled. “You know who it was?”

  “I’ve informed the Law-Maker. The creature will be arrested and hung.” He gazed unblinking at his wife. “Have you ever seen gallows hanging? I may take you to watch one day. An experience of true fascination, my dear. Just a little – gruesome, perhaps.”

  Jally said, “I’ll come to watch yours,” stood, lifting Brod to her shoulder, and marched from the room. Leaving husband and wife glaring miserably at one another, Jally returned the little boy to his nurse and tiptoed into the main salon, hoping her father would still be there. Verney was sitting by the window, the long sunbeams shimmering across his face. But it was clear that he had also been crying. He turned to see his daughter enter and blew his nose in the large white kerchief he unearthed from his front centre pocket. “Kallivan?” she asked, and he nodded.

  He spoke very softly. “The wretch came to see me. He wants a raise in his allowance. I told him no. I give him ten Stripes a ten-day, his food and board is free, he has two good horses and free stabling, your sister buys his clothes for him, and he uses all the Verney servants for his own ends.”

  “So you said no?” Jally smiled.

  But Verney shook his head. “I did at first. Indeed, I told him I thought it was time for a divorce. He makes my darling daughter cry. He took her beautiful baby away. He hurts her. He does, doesn’t he?”

  “I’ve only just found that out. And yes, he does. He’s a bully and a pig and nasty and even cruel. We still don’t know what happened to darling little Cecily.”

  Looking up, eyes still wet, Verney said, “The wretch told me she’s still alive and happy in foster care. He believed our dear Reyne was spoiling the child. But she did no such thing. I don’t believe Kallivan’s story.”

  “What now?”

  Now Verney was crying again. “The brute says if we attempt divorce, he’ll claim that Reyne murdered her own child for jealousy because Kallivan kissed her so often. I started to weep at that. Would anyone believe him? Some perhaps. And he said he would tell the world that little Cecily was not even his own child, and that Reyne had been pregnant when she married him. Sadly, many would believe that story. It’s so common in our sad country. Poor darling Reyne would be tarnished for life, and once divorced, she could never marry again.”

  Now Jally was crying too. “So you’ve promised never to start the divorce, and you’ve promised a larger allowance?”

  “I had to. But I made the brute promise to treat my daughter with greater kindness, or I swore I’d stop his allowance altogether. I told him he’d not get another penny from me unless Reyne started smiling.”

  “So now he gets –?”

  “Ten Kamps.”

  “Papa, you’re crazy. And he’ll never make Reyne smile. Not unless he drops dead.” Jally stood closer to her father and grabbed his hand. “Papa, shall I try to kill him?”

  He wrapped his arms around her waist, sobbing loudly. “No, no, my love. Kallivan is too much of a demon. He’d kill you first.”

  “I’ll ask Mereck to help me. He’ll say yes at once.” Her tears were dripping over the top of her father’s head. “I could buy some poison. There used to be an apothecary’s where people said she sold poison. Or I could wait until he’s asleep and creep in and stab him in the throat. Mereck could come with me in case he wakes up. Or I could pay someone else. You can buy assassins down the Lower-City Market. They call them Fixers.”

  Verney gazed up in horror at his daughter. “Promise me you never will.”

  The outer door closed twice. The first time was loud and interrupted all the tears. The second snap of the lock was more moderate. Grallia bustled in, staring at her husband and daughter, dumped her basket and purse on the little table, and shivered. “In the small salon there’s poor darling Reyne bawling her eyes out. And in here there’s both of you. I feel like crying myself, What’s the matter? Has the cook died?”


  “Kallivan,” muttered Verney.

  “He’s not even here,” complained Grallia. “Reyne’s all alone in the next room.”

  “I’m going to kill Kallivan,” Jally said, wiping her eyes again. “I’m absolutely decided. You can help me Mama.”

  “Certainly,” said Grallia. “How shall we do it?”

  At first she had no complaints. There was a cup of milk and a platter of cheese slivers, a slice of stale bread, a quarter of hot pie, and several dried-up pieces of apple and squashed berries. Doria ate the lot within three gulps, stuffing berry, pie and cheese into her mouth all together. Then she looked up and was not so pleased.

  The two hump shouldered women each grabbed one of her arms, hauled her up from the table and marched her wordlessly to what seemed like a large square cage. The back three walls were dark metal and without window or decoration. The ceiling and the fourth wall at the front were of wire mesh, and the floor was stone with a wide hole in one corner. There was a bed, narrow and made of a pile of straw laid over planks, with a straw pillow and three threadbare blankets. Six steps in any direction brought the walker nose with wall.

  Here Doria sat on the bed and stared around her, no longer starving; she had expected a comfortable cell, or even release. The wire mesh disturbed her, as though she were on display. And now she heard the howls and sobs of other women from a distance. When someone’s footsteps echoed, she jumped up, facing the mesh. An aged man, hook bearded, had come to stare at her. “Wot is this?” she yelled at him. “I ain’t staying here, I tells yer now.”