“Except her.”
“And where is she? You expect her to rush in and complain? We haven’t seen her for more than a year.”
“We can’t live in Jak’s quarters forever. Ain’t right, is it?”
Mandell was the season of rich growth when the wheat grew high, roots spread beneath the earth, and grain crops were budding in a thousand fields when Udovox paid for the first two months of their new venture and clambered up all the stairs to his new bedroom. With legs short and stunted, stairs were not anything he relished, but these felt like his own steps, the bedroom was his own chamber, and he would be fucking no one in it except his own beloved Tom. The business had not yet begun, but it was to be his own business, and he refused to complain of stairs.
Jak had always loved the arrival of Mandell’s dance through the fields and vales, and the high tumbling swirl of martins across the cloudless sky cut by the hunting peregrine falcon, fierce with her own hunger and the sharp cries of two new chicks in the nest. There was nesting where there had been icicles, and bird song where there had been great white silences. The herons came to the fisheries to steal and were shot for luncheon, ducklings appeared like dots of golden fluff along the streams and the first swallow was seen, arrow fast, high in the dawning blue. The hounds had whelped and there was a new generation of tumbling wet tongued pups to roll with in the short grass by the kitchen garden among the flourishing perfumes, the scatter of pollen and the sprouting leaf. They chased the little brown mice across the courtyard sunbeams, tripping over their own outsized paws before racing back to the shade and mother, attaching like whelks to her swollen teats and the complacency of warm milk and heavy-eyed panting.
But while Jak dreamed of Lydiard and his own land, of Freya again as the woman he loved, and of killing the man he loathed, he knew that he was now bound to the city, the Council, perhaps even two councils, and the uncovering of Kallivan’s plots and conspiracies. Keeping his own knowledge secret was easy enough, but discovering Kallivan’s misconceptions might require a faint friendship, even trust, which would be both excessively unpleasant and excessively difficult to build.
A lie was often a wise basis, but an entire fabrication would never be fully trusted by a man who knew himself the enemy.
Then Jak thought of something else, and he returned to his own rooms within the city. He found them blissfully empty, and without the laughter of five mixed whores, and a baby lacine. The gentle silence seemed ideal for his relaxed thoughts, and he sank down into his favourite chair, high backed and deeply cushioned. Clearly the rooms had also been cleaned, either by the guests themselves, or his own cleaning woman.
The sunshine slanted through the window like the slash of a spear, and Jak shut his eyes. He now knew what he would do, and whether Kallivan would be at home with his wife or not, did not generally matter. For if Kallivan was at home, Reyne would be sitting with her parents. Therefore, it was Reyne, in private if she would allow it, that Jak wished to see, and then discuss the whole subject of Kallivan’s travels south, and what he had suspected of the quarry-mine.
As the woman who had once asked him to be her husband, inviting her into a private conspiracy seemed a trick of unjust advantage, but Kallivan’s plans needed to be known. Reyne would benefit, Jak knew, if Kallivan were removed from her life, whether by death or another means. Not that Jak had intentions of taking Kallivan’s place. But a woman expecting another man’s child would no doubt be satisfied with friendship rather than a new marriage.
Whether she would yet know Kallivan’s intentions was doubtful. But a wife had the capability of eavesdropping when another man or woman might not.
The Lower-City was the older part where houses had been built at the same time as the great wall which surrounded everything. The inner section of the wall, of stone slabs which would have been impossible to lift by one man alone, as high as a tree, and jagged built along the thick top edge, backed onto many buildings which used the wall’s safety as more impressive than their own. Even the great castle-palace used the city walls as an extra bolster to its own.
Yet neither Pod nor Freya were looking for a new home, not even a place of shelter to sleep overnight. They were looking for an opening sufficiently close to attract those of both the Upper and the Lower City, where all the citizens of Eden might hear the new music and the incredible singing, the theatrical performances, and the various invitations for entertainment.
Freya said, “It has to be along the riverbanks.”
“Long and narrow,” Pod said. “Not easy to watch nor easy to listen with the rush of the Corn behind. I reckon on the market square.”
“It belongs to others. They won’t welcome us.”
“But we might attract more customers. They should be pleased.”
“They won’t want us until the advantage is proved. And it won’t ever be proved if they don’t want us.”
Pod laughed. “Logic. Who cares about logic?”
“Alright,” Freya whirled around. “We walk. We walk the city streets, Upper and Lower, around the palace and around the parks, along the river and across the market, and we keep walking. It doesn’t matter if people tell us to go away because we’ll already be going anyway. We keep walking till we’re worn out.” She looked up suddenly. “Can you sing while you walk, my love?”
“Yes I can, and I love the idea,” Pod said. “You’re brilliant. And I have a brilliant idea too. We’ve talked of marriage before. Now we’ve survived all the dangers of the south, and we know what we want means being together. So marry me, my gorgeous darling, and we could do it right there on the banks of the Corn, holding hands. A true Hand-Fasting and speak the oaths we know.”
Her decision was as abrupt as her doubts. “I will,” she said. “We want the same thing with the music and the acting. And it’s the same thing we don’t want. No bedding. No – well we know that. Not you. Not me. Never again.”
Pod took her hand and they began to walk quietly through the back alleys and shaded lanes, avoiding the gutters, and saying nothing until Pod said, “It’s been my dream for such a long time, my beautiful angel. And I’ll keep you safe and love you always. That I promise. I’ll make that part of my oath.”
“We can both say the same thing,” Freya smiled. And they walked on.
The bright open blaze of the streets to the river made them pause. “Where shall we do it?” Pod asked. They stood at the lower end where once the Bridge had given house and home, career and even comfort.
“There,” Freya said. “On the bank there, where the Bridge used to be, and now it’s all bright with sunflowers and those wonderful golden saffron hollyhocks.”
“There’s a nesting Knobby duck,” Pod was also pointing. “It’s so pretty, but its eggs haven’t hatched yet. We shouldn’t frighten it.”
“Then we’ll move up the river bank a few steps,” said Freya, but as she turned, she stopped so abruptly that Pod bumped into her. He saw her face, white with shock, before speaking, and shut his mouth at once. He followed her gaze.
Crossing from riverbank over the pale road to the city alleyways, was a young man of average size, whose eyes seemed glazed and vacant, but who walked with a stiff back and clenched hands at his side. Pod did not recognise him, but it seemed that Freya had. What’s the matter?”
Confused, she shook her head. “Nothing. Well – something. I know that man. No, he’s not a special friend, but I knew him well enough.”
“Talk to him if you want to,” Pod pushed at her shoulder. “I don’t mind and I’m ot jealous.” Had it been Jak – but it was not.
“It’s Ruffstan,” Freya answered, almost whispering. “And he was on the casualty list. He’s supposed to be – dead.”
“Just a simple mistake.” Pod was impatient. “Hardly important, my love. We have something far more essential to do.”
She was wiping the hair back from her eyes and gulped, seemingly out of breath yet had not been running. “No. It doesn’t matter, not in the slight
est,” she said, partially true and partially a lie. “But it startled me. Well, it reminded me of the past – the parts I don’t want to remember. And there was that plaque listing all the deaths. So sad. I was looking on the list for any of my friends – you know – Sosa and Edda, all of them. Tom and Udo. They weren’t there and I was so pleased.”
“Nor Jak.”
“My darling,” she stood still, staring at him. “I haven’t seen Jak for a hundred years. I never think of him. And this man wasn’t even really a friend. Just someone very much alive who was supposed to be very much dead.”
“Mistakes happen,” Pod assured her, “and there must have been such chaos when the Bridge fell. There’s sure to be other mistakes. So don’t let’s make a mistake ourselves. We marry. Now. Right here. Take my hand, dearest, and we’ll say the words.”
She took his hand, feeling the ridges lining his palm, the strength in his long fingers, and the warmth of his grasp. Then she remembered Jak’s hand. A wider palm, also ridged, but not from lute or guitar. Jak’s callouses came from sword and bow, spade and reins. The strength in his long fingers had been greater, and also the warmth. But Freya banished absurd thoughts and smiled up at Pod.
THE END
Also by Barbara Gaskell Denvil
Historical Mysteries Collection
Blessop’s Wife
Satin Cinnabar
The Flame Eater
Sumerford’s Autumn
The Deception of Consequences
The Stars and a Wind Trilogy
A White Horizon
The Wind from the North
The Singing Star
Box Set
Crime Mysteries
Between
The Games People Play
(A serial Killer Trilogy)
If When
Ashes From Ashes
Daisy Chains
Time Travel Mysteries
Future Tense
(The Barometer Sequence)
Fair Weather
Dark Weather
Cornucopia
The Corn
The Mill
Children’s Bannister’s Muster Time Travel Series
Snap
Snakes & Ladders
Blind Man’s Buff
Dominoes
Leapfrog
Hide & Seek
Hopscotch
Box Set One
Box Set Two
About the Author
My passion is for both late English medieval history and Norse legend. These form the background for much of my historical fiction. I also have a love of fantasy and the wild freedom of the imagination, with its haunting threads of sadness and the exploration of evil. Although most of my books have romantic undertones, I would not class them as romances. We all wish to enjoy some romance in our lives, there is also a yearning for adventure, mystery, suspense, friendship and spontaneous experience. My books include all of this and more, but my greatest loves are the beauty of the written word, and the utter fascination of good characterisation. Bringing my characters to life is my principal aim.
For more information on this and other books, or to subscribe for updates, new releases and free downloads, please visit
barbaragaskelldenvil.com
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