She murmured something. It might have been his name. He had one, although he never spoke it. The Knave was as good a moniker as any. Others had used it as a pejorative before he had appropriated it and made it his own. Now everyone, even his parents, called him by it. Not that his parents had much interaction with him. The third son was expendable, an emergency necessity in case the unthinkable happened and the first and second heirs died. But, since his brothers were hale and hearty and the eldest had two children tucked away in his mansion, no one paid much attention to him or his actions. He was allowed to live as he wanted and that included indulging in practices his brothers would never think of doing - such as fucking one of the household maids.
It had all started out as a little bit of innocent fun. A year ago, when he had been three years shy of his Maturity, she had been assigned to him. “To see to his needs” - that was how his father had put it, although the Knave doubted the Duke had considered all the needs the girl would necessarily satisfy. Then again, perhaps the Knave didn’t give his father enough credit. His liaisons with Lynda had begun with teasing and groping and progressed from there. It had now reached a point where he found it difficult to sleep if he hadn’t satisfied himself with her and she wasn’t lying next to him. It was only a matter of time before she started growing big with his child. He was surprised it hadn’t happened yet, although she claimed she used a preventative poultice provided by The Knave’s favored apothecary. When the pregnancy occurred, there would be a scandal. Third sons were expected to sleep with maids. It was an allowable offense, even for one as young as The Knave. But having a bastard with them was a breach of the unwritten code of conduct. Marriage was always a possibility but not one his parents would readily agree to. Besides, was that what he wanted? Did he want to marry Lynda? Or was she just the latest in a long line of diversions? He doubted that a life with her would be a happy one. He knew that, even as attracted as he was to her today, it wouldn’t last. Even before her beauty faded, he suspected he would become bored with her - and what then, if he was married to her?
He didn’t want to go back to sleep for fear that the dreams would return. For most of the current year, those nighttime visions, a plague that had haunted him for as long as he could remember, had been absent. Last week, however, they had returned. With their images of fire, blood, and violence, they frightened him, and he didn’t know what to make of them. There was a sense of expectation, as if there was something he needed to do to make them stop, but he didn’t know what. The lack of sleep was beginning to grind him down. He had to find someone to unburden himself to. Most men his age would talk to a friend, but The Knave lacked confidantes. Over the years, he had never cultivated compatriots the way other noble boys did. He had kept to himself. The isolation suited his personality and lifestyle but there were times when it became lonely. Perhaps that was the reason why his attachment to Lynda had grown so deep. In a way, she was all she had.
“Can’t sleep?” Her voice was heavy.
He climbed back into bed. “It’s nothing.”
“The dreams again?”
“I said it’s nothing. Go back to sleep.” Irritation tinged his words. Odd that he could be equally resentful and needy where she was concerned.
The next day, he made a decision he had previously considered but had never acted upon: discuss his situation with a priest. He wasn’t the most devout of boys but he believed in the sanctity and puissance of the gods. Perhaps their human representatives might be able to lend insight regarding the demons that stalked The Knave’s nights.
Brother Rasputomus was his father’s personal cleric. In return for his services, the priest was provided with an austere chamber on the lowest level of the mansion adjacent to the cellars. The Knave had always believed it to be a damp, dreary place to call “home,” but it suited the ascetic Rasputomous. He claimed he liked being underground and the moisture-laden air was good for whatever conditions ailed his arthritic joints. He was present, as he almost always was when not leading prayers or giving alms, when The Knave came calling.
“There are some who would scoff at the belief that visions such as these could come from the gods,” opined Rasputomus after hearing The Knave’s description of his affliction. “I am not such a person. I have seen my share of days” – The Knave thought that to be an understatement since, at least by appearance, Rasputomus must be in his sixth or seventh decade – “and learned not to question the portentous nature of dreams. Although not every nightly fancy is a visitation of meaning, those that recur often are.”
“My dreams are of fire, death, and destruction. They are of me at the center of a great conflagration. I see shadows of beasts out of mythology. Dragons. Djinn.”
“I cannot interpret your dreams, My Son. They sound dire, to be sure, but I’m not trained in reading their meaning. Once, in a long ago age, it was said some wizards were gifted with the ability to dream and understand those dreams. But no wizard has walked the land in the last millennium. They are as much a part of the past as the creatures you mention.”
Not the most illuminating of responses. The bastard is probably senile.
With a snort of disdain and nothing resembling a word of thanks, The Knave quitted Rasputomus’ quarters and returned to the more civilized parts of the manse. The dark mood that had descended on him the night before clung like a decaying skin for the next several days. If anything, his visit to Rasputomus had turned his bile more bitter.
The Knave was still of an age when a portion of his days was devoted to learning under a pair of tutors. That was his father’s price for allowing him to pursue his increasingly rootless existence: “At least you can use the time to improve your education. The gods know it may sometime serve you well. You have a fine mind; it’s unfortunate you’ve chosen a path that doesn’t make use of it.”
The Knave’s teachers were as different from each another as might be possible. One was the sultry, earthy Madame Isabelle. Her lectures were boring recitations of history and poetry but The Knave generally enjoyed them. Madame Isabelle hailed from the northern city of Syre, where she had spent more than a decade pursuing a career as a courtesan. Although The Knave hadn’t yet sampled her wares (she claimed he was too young for such ripe fruit), he had little doubt the day would eventually come. He was used to getting what he wanted. Madame Isabelle was a handsome woman and The Knave enjoyed the peeks of flesh her wardrobe occasionally allowed. She enflamed him in ways the simple, plain Lynda didn’t.
Sir Bertram was another matter, however. At one point, The Knave had thought to learn something about the use of weapons from the doddering old soldier – after all, he was supposed to have been a knight. Bertram, however, was interested only in talking about martial skills. Normally, The Knave sat in a semi-catatonic state and let the elderly man’s monotonous lectures wash over him but, on this day, his patience, exacerbated by little sleep, was too thin to allow him to passively endure.
“Old man,” began The Knave, his tone dripping with condescension. “Are you ever going to teach me something worthwhile or are you going to continue prattling the way you have for nearly two years? I’m sure my father assumed I would be proficient with several weapons by now. Instead, the only blade I know anything about is the one I use at supper.”
Bertram was visibly taken aback by The Knave’s temerity. His shock, written on his weathered and lined face, gave his pupil a moment’s glee. But the knight was not known for taking insults calmly and he reacted with predictable heat, puffing out his chest and taking two threatening steps toward The Knave. He had the good sense, however, not to put his hand near the hilt of the short sword he wore in a scabbard at his waist. Such an act would have earned him a quick death sentence.
“You listen to me, you jumped-up little shit. At your father’s behest, I’ve sought to teach you the finer points of military engagements and martial expertise. Thus far, you’ve proven yourself a most unworthy student. By now, we should have been sparring in the yard but
your inability to absorb even basic facts about weaponry and tactics have stalled any progress we might have made.” Having said that, he reached out to place a hand on The Knave’s shoulder.
In earlier days, Bertram had been an imposing man but age had robbed him of his vitality and much of his strength. His back was stooped, he walked with a limp, and much of his musculature had degenerated into fat. Although The Knave was physically frail, he had been in enough scraps to have a fair knowledge about how to take down an opponent, even one as experienced as Bertram. In The Knave’s view, the physical contact was justification for a reprisal. No one touched the son of a noble – even the third son – without permission.
A kick to the groin and a punch to the face was all it took to send Bertram reeling. He almost lost his balance. “You forget yourself, Sir,” hissed The Knave, dropping into a fighting crouch in case the knight intended to engage him. For a moment, it looked like that might be the case but, after a moment, Bertram’s features hardened into a stoic mask and he turned stiffly to hobble from the room. That was the last The Knave would ever see of the man but there were repercussions for his actions this afternoon.
“You ungrateful whelp!” His father, normally a mild-mannered man - The Knave had referred to the Duke on more than one occasion as a milquetoast - was red-faced. “To treat an honored knight in such a disgraceful manner… what do you think your punishment should be?”
Having endured two years of that man’s tutelage wasn’t suffering enough?
The Knave said nothing. He did his best to look shamefaced - admittedly not an easy thing for one such as him to accomplish. Truth be told, he was rather proud of how he had acted where the “honorable” Sir Bertram was concerned.
“Things can’t go on like this,” continued the Duke, droplets of spittle spewing from his mouth along with his words. “I’ve tried to be patient with you for some time now but you’ve exhausted what little tolerance I have left.”
The lecture continued in that vein for some time but The Knave stopped listening. His father had made similar threats in the past but he was a master of not following through. As long as his son didn’t become a public embarrassment, there was nothing to be gained by exiling him. The Knave was cognizant that once his older brothers had sired a few more children that might not be the case. But he guessed he was still safe for the next two years while he remained shy of his Maturity.
Less than a week later, after an energetic session in bed with Lynda, The Knave lay on his back, his skin slick with perspiration and his breath coming in gasps. His exertions had been such that he felt almost dizzy.
“I wasn’t too rough on you, was I?” he asked once his breathing had stabilized enough to put voice to the question. Almost to his surprise, he discovered that he cared about the answer.
“You wasn’t gentle but I ain’t bothered. Got more pleasure out of it than I usually do. When you puts your mind to it, you can scratch the itch the way no one else can.” She was only two years older than he was but, when she spoke like that, the gulf between them seemed greater.
He grunted. It had felt a little different this time but not just because of the effort he had put into it. There was something else… something about her. Suddenly alarmed, he sat up in bed and stripped away the thin sheet covering her naked body. It was as he suspected.
“Your belly.” The words were an accusation.
“No woman’s blood the past two cycles. And I been having trouble keeping down meals. Wondered how long it would take you to figger it out.”
The Knave closed his eyes and willed back the wave of panic that threatened to surge forward and overwhelm him. Not now, dammit! Not so soon after Bertram! Even his placid father had a breaking point.
“I guess you ain’t pleased.”
“Not pleased? How could you consider that I might be pleased?”
“I ain’t the first maid to carry her master’s bastard.” That was a plausible defense for her but he didn’t think it would work for him with his parents.
Could they marry and legitimatize the child? For a fleeting moment, The Knave considered the possibility but it would never happen. There was only one choice and he had always known it would come to this. “You’ll have to get rid of it and soon, before someone figures it out.”
The expression of hurt on Lynda’s face was so acute that The Knave almost winced. Surely she hadn’t expected him to suggest something else?
“There are other ways. You can send me away to have it. Or you can pay off someone to pretend to be the father.”
The Knave shook his head. “Easier to just get rid of it. Go to the apothecary and get a draught. I’ll give you the coin for it, if that’s what you’re worried about.” It was, he thought, a magnanimous offer.
“Mayhap what he gives me will kill more than the babe. It’s been known to happen. Those things ain’t always safe.”
“There’s risks in everything. If you had it, you could bleed out. Now get it taken care of. The sooner, the better. The bigger it gets, the more of a problem it will become.” The greater the likelihood someone else will notice.
The Knave didn’t see his maid for several days after that night, leading him to believe she was doing his bidding. Her concerns had been valid - some of the concoctions used to rid a woman of an unwanted child could have unfortunate consequences for the person taking them. The more certain the remedy, the more likely it was to kill both mother and baby. The Knave had given Lynda sufficient money for her to buy the best drug available. It was up to her to obtain and use it. He had made it clear that he didn’t want her in his bed again until the deed was done. Then things could go back to the way they had been. And once the Bertram affair blew over, all would be as it had been. Considering his growing restlessness, he didn’t know whether that was a good thing.
It was hard sleeping alone. He had become so accustomed to Lynda’s constant presence at night that the emptiness beside him felt like a tangible thing. He was no romantic to believe his feelings for the maid tended toward the overused word of ballads and poems, but there was no doubt he craved her presence. Even as he told himself it was purely physical - that he missed the release she provided - he knew it was more than that. Sex was a part of it, to be sure, but there was something reassuring about having her warm body pressed against his during the darkest hours of the night - the times when the dreams most often came to him. Awakening from one of those alone was terrifying. At least if she was with him, she could succor him and coax him back to calmness.
Five days after revealing her condition, Lynda returned to his rooms. It was shortly past midnight when she let herself in through the side door. He was already abed when she came to him, head lowered and eyes hidden by the bedchamber’s dimness.
He made his voice stern to mask his eagerness at her arrival. “Is it done?” The answer seemed self-evident. What else would have kept her away for nearly a week?
Saying nothing, she disrobed then joined him on the bed. In the darkness, she was a sleek shadow. Her lips brushed his then her mouth began wandering downward. The Knave closed his eyes and waited for her to finish. She was acting unusual but he was content to allow this to play out as she wanted it. Once he was spent and lying on his back recovering, she spoke for the first time. “I’m leaving. I almost did what you asked but, when it came time to take it, I couldn’t do it.”
The Knave’s blood boiled. “Asked?? I didn’t ask anything. I told you what to do! And you’ve got the temerity to come in here as if nothing happened and tell me you’ve ignored my demands. Who do you think you are?”
She moved but not quickly enough. The Knave wasn’t the most powerful of men but he was cat-fast and had more than enough strength to hold her down. He moved into a position where he was straddling her torso. They had been in this position before but never for this reason.
“There’s no forgiveness for this,” he said. The words were ice-cold, devoid of emotion. Sensing her danger, she began thrashing about, s
eeking to throw him off. He clamped his legs against her body, pinning her arms. He then grasped her throat with both hands.
Killing was a surprisingly easy thing to do. At first, she struggled mightily but the harder he squeezed, the feebler her exertions became. In the end, she just laid there, eyes staring blankly into the darkness, her chest no longer rising or falling. In a strange way, it amazed The Knave. Only minutes ago, this body had been a vessel for a vibrant woman. Now, it was used meat, the rot primed to begin.
The trembling started once he moved away from the body. The weight of the situation struck him a blow. What have I done? Getting a maid pregnant was bad; killing her was criminal… but only if he was discovered.
Putting aside guilt and remorse for the moment, he concentrated on what needed to be done. The deed would have to be hidden by morning. Merely disposing of the body wasn’t enough; it had to be burned so no one could identify it. Lynda’s disappearance might incite curiosity but no one would suspect that she had died especially if she had confided her intention to depart. The only ramification The Knave would have to consider was how he would feel sleeping alone in the bed where he had slain his lover.
By dawn’s first light, it was done. The Knave, not used to physical exertion, was exhausted almost to the point of fainting. Even though Lynda had been petite, it had been hard work carrying her body through the mansion’s benighted corridors, dumping it into a wagon bed, and taking it to the field where he had lighted it on fire. In the end, despite the coolness of the night, he had been bathed in sweat and the smoke from the fire had tainted his clothing. When he lay down in his bed after the sun had crept over the eastern horizon, sleep wouldn’t come. Closing his eyes, all he saw were hideously distorted images of Lynda’s face. The darkness had prevented him from watching the light die in her eyes; his imagination sketched out the image for him.
The Last Whisper of the Gods Saga: Stories from Ayberia Page 5
