by Jack
‘Yet if not Cuachag, then something close,’ said Hawkmoor. ‘Something potent.’
And he described the ensuing events so evocatively that Mazarine felt as if they were unfolding before her eyes.
Water sluiced from the fuath’s brawny shoulders and from the grassy mane that grew right down its back. The face was ghastly in appearance, for where the nose ought to have been there was only a punched-in hole, like a miry puddle. This manifestation was clad all in ragged green garments that looked to be fashioned of waterweeds. Waist deep, it raised its enormous arms, splaying webbed fingers, and thrashed the water with a spiked tail. Clearly it was intent on doing harm to the King-Emperor, who perceived his danger. He knew he had no chance, but faced the monster bravely, prepared to wrestle it with his bare hands undaunted; ready to die like a true monarch.
It all happened quickly. As soon as the wight appeared, the Dainnan guards had dived into the pool. In that space — an eye’s blink — Hawkmoor perceived that the rescuers could not swim to the King in time, so he sprang to his feet and made a great leap off the cliff onto the fuath’s shoulders. The water-giant began to bellow and sway like a forest tree in a storm, but the young warrior wrapped both his legs about its neck and one arm about its great slimy skull. He hung on, though being jerked hither and thither like a fish flapping on a hook, meanwhile trying to draw his dagger from its sheath, for the banes of the fuathan included cold steel, which would vanquish them instantly.
At the very least, Hawkmoor’s object was to purchase more time for his men to reach the King. But as he pulled the knife from its scabbard, the fuath swivelled its head and sank its toxic fangs into his calf. He did not know if he uttered any sound — they told him later that he shouted with rage as he plunged the dagger into the wight’s eye socket, but he had no recollection of it. The creature collapsed, generating huge waves that almost swamped the men, but some reached the King and bore him safely to land, and others swam to the Dainnan leader as the waters were closing over his head, for he was drowning, half-insensible, still hanging onto his foe as if clinging to his very life, and its inky, eldritch blood was swirling through the gleaming waters. They could hardly prise their leader away from the monster, though it was dying, or metamorphosing — for those immortals could not perish, only diminish. Presently the fuath shifted into the shape of an insignificant water-spider and scooted away, leaving its vanquisher at death’s threshold.
They dragged Hawkmoor from the water. The King’s Chirurgeon tended his wounds, but advised there was scant hope the patient would live beyond a day. He lived, nonetheless, to make the journey back to court on a litter, and there he lay on his sickbed for three months in fever and agony, and it was beyond the power of the best chirurgeons and carlins to say whether or no he would pull through.
Hawkmoor laughed without humour. ‘Be that as it may, you know the outcome, Mistress Blythe,’ he continued. ‘I did live, but only as three-quarters of a man, for when I healed I was,’ — he paused an instant — ‘as you see me now.’
‘Fie! I beg you, do not do yourself such discourtesy, my lord!’ cried Mazarine.
‘Afterwards, the heart went out of me,’ Hawkmoor said quietly, ‘for now that I can no longer leap over a stick the height of myself, and stoop under one the height of my knee, and take a thorn out from my foot with my nail while running my fastest, or barely even walk straight, being forced to limp askew, like some old gaffer, I no longer wished to be Sir Rowan of the Dainnan brotherhood. They asked me to stay as an instructor and tactician, but I refused to be relegated to that status. I want the life of active service or nothing.’
‘Yet you live,’ Mazarine said earnestly, ‘and that is sufficient.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Indeed! Besides, your lameness is so slight it is hardly noticeable.’
‘Hardly noticeable to you, perhaps, but not so slight.’
She understood, then, that it was with great effort and pain that her companion forced himself to walk straight, so that none should perceive what he considered to be his weakness. At the same time she felt grateful and elated that he had allowed her to see past the bluff — it signified that he placed great trust in her; that he believed she would not betray his confidence by letting anyone else know what agonies it secretly cost him to play the part of a man who was fully hale.
‘As some compensation,’ she said, ‘you won Southdale Farm for your courage and quick thinking.’
‘Which allows me independence,’ he said. He did not need to add, from my father. Mazarine was well aware — for it was common knowledge — that there was no love lost between the earl and his heir.
The earl had, on occasion, declared he would cut off his son’s inheritance. This threat, however, had never exerted any effect on Hawkmoor, who desired only a roof over his head and food on the table. Jewels and gold held no allure for him. As for the titles, for which he cared scarcely a whit, they would always remain his by right as long as he was considered his father’s progeny, and who could prove otherwise?
Hawkmoor did not resemble the earl at all in appearance or manner. Mazarine had once overheard the servants whispering that the two were not, in fact, related by blood — a rumour which might have cast aspersions on Hawkmoor’s mother, had public sympathy not been largely on her side.
‘Little wonder she strayed, if stray she did,’ people murmured. ‘Such ill-treatment she received at his hands! Poor creature — no surprise she died so young.’
‘Some say the first Lady Rivenhall was forced to take a lover to fulfil her husband’s desire for an heir! He wanted to keep his title from going extinct!’
‘Really? What a scandal!’
‘For the master is barren, they say, barren as a mountain peak forever under snow. He could not get a child on any of his other wives, could he!’
‘Aye, and what happened to those wives, that’s what I’ve always wondered! It can’t be pure chance, to be made a widower three times.’
‘Hush! If Ripley should hear you — or worse, the master himself — your own husband will soon be widowed, I’d warrant!’
‘Well, who’s young Fleetwood’s real sire, d’ye think?’
‘I wouldn’t hazard a guess. Nobody knows. Nobody ever will, I s’pose.’
Mazarine banished the stale hearsay from her thoughts. A footman was stalking through the foliage of the conservatory, bringing another course on a silver-gilt salver, and the sour-faced butler was pouring more wine. Half-heartedly she wished he would not — she was unaccustomed to such quantities and it was going to her head, but it seemed to take the edge off her nervousness. Indeed, she felt flooded with delight to be in the company of this handsome young gentleman, whom she had quickly come to admire, trust and love as no other.
He was saying something about Thrimby, in response to which she said, ‘How I envy Thrimby his ability to make up rhymes on the spot! It is clever of him, to be sure!’
‘Do you have a desire to speak in rhyme, Mistress Blythe?’ her companion bantered.
‘Perhaps not to speak rhymes, but at least to write them. I used to compose poetry ...’ Mazarine broke off.
‘But no longer? Why not?’
‘I —’ The young woman wrestled with a sudden upwelling of sentiment. She could not trust herself to speak, being afraid that if she confessed the reason, she might burst into tears, and tried to mask her fragility by pushing a piece of glazed parsnip around her plate with her fork. Presently she regained control. ‘Forgive me.’
Her dinner companion gazed upon her with infinite tenderness. ‘Pray, let us speak of nothing that discomposes you, Mistress Blythe. Behold, I brought you a gift!’ From his pocket he took a small parcel, which he handed to her. ‘I purchased them from a passing pedlar on my way here. Is the colour permissible for those who wear mourning?’
Grateful to be distracted from her sorrow, Mazarine unwrapped the parcel. Out spilled a handful of shimmering silken hair-ribbons. Their colour was deep pu
rple, like a stormy sky.
‘Indeed, I have often seen this lovely colour combined with mourning-dress,’ the young woman said with shy delight. ‘Gramercie, sir! I will wear them tomorrow! Now in return for your kindness I will answer your question, for I have regained my composure. Writing poetry was once one of my favourite occupations. On that fateful day when my parents set off to call on a friend whose company I found excessively tedious, I begged to be spared the outing so that I could stay home and work on my latest epic. My mother and father met their deaths on that drive.’ She need not explain the manner of their passing; Hawkmoor knew the details only too well. As their carriage was crossing a bridge, a wheel hit a large stone lying in the road. The equipage overturned, toppled over the parapet and fell into the fast-flowing river. ‘Now,’ Mazarine concluded, ‘guilt prevents me from writing any more.’
‘Guilt?’ interposed Hawkmoor with a puzzled frown.
‘I cannot help wondering — what if my presence in the carriage had somehow been able to prevent the accident? My weight — slight though it be — might have balanced the equipage and stopped it from tipping over, or perhaps I would have been more alert than they, and foreseen the collision that was about to happen and warned the driver to swerve in time.’
Her companion shook his head. ‘You are too harsh on yourself, Mistress Blythe.’
‘Be that as it may, sir, since that day I have locked my books of writings in a chest. I will no longer be a poet.’
Clearly Hawkmoor perceived her returning distress, for he embarked on a more light-hearted topic. Their discourse grew more animated and playful, until by the time dessert was served, Mazarine was so exhilarated by the fragrance of the spice plants, the wine and the enchanting proximity of Hawkmoor, that she abandoned herself to jocosity.
‘It is your turn to talk,’ she said. ‘I am eating raspberry pudding. No, pray do not make me laugh — I have a mouthful. No please, that’s so cruel while I am eating!’
‘It is your turn, I insist upon it!’ Hawkmoor said amusedly.
‘Not at all! You see, the reason why our friendship is so amicable is because it is based around me eating while you talk.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. And you see, I eat raspberry pudding every day. That is why you will just have to make certain we are together every day!’
Mazarine’s supper partner was just about to frame a reply when a commotion from the direction of the kennels heralded a new arrival at Kelmscott. Abruptly, all gaiety ceased.
‘Who is coming in, Cottrell?’ Hawkmoor demanded, throwing his serviette down on the table. His features had settled into their former stern expression.
The head footman bowed. ‘I cannot say, m’lord. Methinks it is likely to be Lord Rivenhall.’
The imminent approach of Mazarine’s guardian was like a dousing of icy water upon the young woman’s mood. For a short while, in the company of Hawkmoor, she had managed to divert herself from the sad mood that had attended her since her bereavement. It had not been so long ago, after all, that the loss of her parents had changed her life forever. She started up from her chair, but Hawkmoor said, ‘Pray do not be disturbed on my sire’s account, Mistress Blythe. Let us finish our meal.’
She thought he spoke angrily, and if any of her merriment had remained, it now fled. Hesitantly she resumed her seat, though she could not eat or drink, or even speak, and in silence they waited. At length the rumble of voices and the clatter of boots announced the earl’s advent, and the man himself approached, shouldering past the branches of the orange trees, his valet and two of his bodyguards in his train.
He doffed his travelling cloak and threw it aside for the valet to retrieve. A gentleman of middle age, he was elegantly attired in a long, pleated surcoat split at the sides, dark blue cross-gartered hose, and a heavy coat, sumptuously embroidered. His head was ornamented with a rondelle hat of blocked felt, brimmed by a stuffed ring of cloth, gold-netted, tied beneath his chin with thin black ribbons. From beneath the hat a profusion of glossy brown ringlets cascaded over his shoulders. The earl was quite the fashionable dandy. His person, however, failed to match the gorgeousness of his coiffure and garments, for his face was heavily jowled, the flesh blotchy and veined in the places where his cosmetic powder had rubbed off, and his belly, though corseted in a stomacher, was swollen, through over-indulgence, to a solid paunch.
His eyes squinted at Hawkmoor from between flabby folds of flesh. ‘What are you doing here?’ he snapped, without preamble or greeting. ‘I thought you were to be absent for three more days!’
‘Good evening to you too, sir,’ Hawkmoor said calmly. ‘I finished my tasks early. And you? You seem a trifle ill at ease — you are well, I trust? You come late.’
‘And you have dined without me,’ said the older man. ‘You could not wait.’
‘For that I must apologise,’ said Mazarine, repressing her resentment of the intruder’s rudeness for courtesy’s sake and starting up a second time. ‘The fault was mine —’ Her guardian turned his attention to her.
‘Ah, Mistress Blythe,’ he said, grasping her hand and favouring the back of it with a moist kiss before she knew what he was about. He bared his flawless teeth in a smile. ‘Come, let us to the drawing-room. This wilderness is not a fit place for a man to recover his powers after the excessively provoking string of events to which I have been subjected this evening.’ Without further ado he propelled his ward away, his plump fist pushing at the small of her back, so that she had no choice but to go where he directed. She heard Hawkmoor striding unevenly in their wake, cursing under his breath.
As soon as they reached the drawing-room the earl dismissed his bodyguards. He bade his valet pull off his coat for him, remove his shoes and loosen the laces of his stomacher, though he kept his hat on, as was his wont. ‘The cursed coach broke down on a lonely road through the forest!’ he fumed, slumping in a chair before the drawing-room fireplace and throwing one stout leg over the arm of it. To a hovering footman, ‘Where is the mulled wine, for Providence’s sake? I called for it hours ago. And bring me my evening robe!’ To the chamber at large, scowling: ‘How such a mischance could occur I know not. Something came loose. As head coachman, Ogden ought to have seen that all was in order before we departed. It was his responsibility. Since he was not worth his pay I dismissed him and sent him packing as soon as we arrived home. Fleetwood, I charge you to hire a better scrivener than this idle coachman you got for me.’
‘I never hired him in the first place, sir. That was Ripley’s achievement, if you recall.’
‘Do not mince words with me, pray. I am ill-used enough as it is. To top off my woes, while I was waiting half the night for the acorn-headed footmen to screw the wheel back into place and make some repairs, we were assailed by a troupe of gypsies!’ The earl stared about the room with an air of baffled contempt.
‘Gypsies, my lord?’ asked Mazarine, who felt she ought to make some sort of response to fill the ensuing void of silence.
‘That is what I said, is it not? A great gaggle of ‘em in the moonlight, hopping about like fools to the hideous squeakings of their fiddlers. Gypsies near the borders of my land! I shall have them run off the estate if they dare set foot within my bounds!’
A butler entered with a jug of mulled wine on a tray. He poured some into a goblet while his master snapped his fingers, ‘Hurry up! Hurry up!’ after which the peer proceeded to refresh himself with deep draughts.
‘What did they look like, these gypsies?’ Hawkmoor asked. Mazarine glanced sharply at him. It was unlike him to contribute to a conversation with his sire unless forced by necessity.
‘Why would you want to know?’ the earl retorted gratingly. ‘They looked like all the rest of their kind, of course — half-sized, ragged folk, their hair long and straggling and greasy, clinking with silver bracelets and hoop earrings, limping and hopping as if they were all lame as three-legged frogs, ha, ha!’
Mazarine saw Hawkmoor wince at thi
s remark, but he merely said, ‘They drove no covered wagons?’
‘Did I say they had wagons?’
‘You did not, sir. Which makes me suspect they may not have been gypsies at all.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘By your description they were trows.’
‘Zounds! Sir, do you not have ears to hear? How many times do I have to repeat myself? Amershire is free from all sinister wights! Trifling oddities such as griggs and harmless types of waterhorses might hang around in certain places, but mere tricksy tom-fools, nothing perilous. Unseelie things simply do not come this far south-east. Any half-wit knows that.’
Mazarine wanted to interject, ‘You are deluded!’ She lacked the courage, however, to speak so forcefully, being a comparative newcomer in the earl’s household. Furthermore, she was alarmed to perceive that Hawkmoor was swiftly losing patience with his abrasive sire, and might at any moment cease to tolerate his uncouthness. If that should happen, bitter words would pass between the two, and she lived in dread of Rivenhall’s heir being banished from the house. Life at Kelmscott Hall would be far less bearable without him.
