Argus Laraunt? Had Celie become such an awful judge of character that she couldn’t see a killer before her?
‘He killed her for the money?’ Celie asked.
‘Not just the money,’ Beattie said. She grabbed a linen and held it up. Celie stepped out of the tub and wrapped herself in the cloth, shivering from more than the cold.
‘He did it for the Duchess of Dirt. Because you know what another word is for the Lord of the Main’s ward?’
Celie shook her head.
His bastard.
* * *
Celie couldn’t fathom the idea of joining the others for supper. She had no idea what to believe and the longer she stayed on this damned isle, the fewer people she could trust. When there was a knock on her door later, she thought not to answer, but opened it with trembling hands.
‘They want you in the great hall, Lady Celie,’ the guard advised her, not to merely inform her, but to accompany her.
Whose orders, she wanted to demand. A murderer of young wives or a murderer of those guilty of nothing but being the bastard children of the Duke of Ferragost? Would this guard protect Celie from the malevolence of this castle or was he there to carry out another’s wicked instruction?
For the first time, Celie was frightened for her life. She had no one to trust. Perhaps the King’s Man, but he seemed to be in thick with the Castellan and was sure to know she was a suspected palace spy by now. First chance Celie had, she’d escape to Beattie and her people in their hovels. They’d protect her, wouldn’t they?
She entered the great hall to see the Castellan standing in the centre of the room before a trestle table, his arms held rigidly at his sides. Sitting behind the trestle table was the Duchess, Argus Laraunt and the King’s Man. It was the presence of the Cook and the groom and the Castellan’s nursemaid and the two foot guards that alarmed Celie more.
At the sound of her entrance they all turned to stare.
‘She saw it! She saw it!’ the Cook said, her voice shrill, pointing to Celie. ‘He’s a demon and she saw it.’
‘Demon!’ the groom bellowed.
Celie stared at them, stunned and realized quickly who the demon in question was. He was the only person present in the room who hadn’t turned to acknowledge Celie’s presence. His nursemaid spat at Celie’s feet and she heard the first sound of regret from Banyon.
‘Oshie!’ he reprimanded as the two foot soldiers hurried to restrain the woman from further attacking.
Argus Laraunt approached Celie retrieving a kerchief. She took it with trembling hands, unable to meet his eyes.
‘There are things you know, sly girl,’ the Duchess said. ‘About this man and his practices.’
What had Celie seen that morning in his gatehouse residence? The sight of a chair upturned, a bowl of milk cracked in two. The crazed stare in his eyes.
‘What alarmed you, Lady Celie?’ the King’s Man asked gently. ‘As a representative of the royal party I must act as Seneschal here. What did you see that caused you to express such fear to Mr Laraunt?’
What did she see?
When Celie was a child, the royal family of Lumatere was slaughtered. At first, it was suspected at the hands of the forest dwellers. Not because they were enemies of the King and his family, but because they worshipped a different goddess. What took place in the days that followed the murders would change the lives of her people for years to come. Even now they hadn’t healed. Celie’s beloved Queen, the only survivor of her family’s deaths, would say it again and again. Curses don’t kill people, Celie. People do. Ignorant people. Cunning people. Curses happen as a result of the cunning and ignorant.
On Ferragost Isle Celie was amongst the cunning and the ignorant.
She stared at the Castellan, but his expression stayed impassive. Why could he not send her a look of desperation? Even hatred. But there was not even a question in his eyes. Perhaps there was resignation. She looked at Argus Laraunt. Thought of the fisherman’s grip. Thought of every word Beattie had spoken. Everyone had a secret on this island, including herself. Didn’t she have a chronicle that needed to be smuggled out for her Priestking?
‘Lady Celie,’ the acting Seneschal prodded, his eyes glancing at the Castellan with regret. ‘What did you see that frightened you?’ He turned to Argus Laraunt. ‘Were they her words, Mr Laraunt?’
Argus Laraunt nodded.
But it wasn’t the image of the Castellan’s body bucking wildly around the earthen floor that Celie suddenly remembered. It was his nursemaid’s words.
‘I’m here, sweet boy. I’m here.’
As if she had lovingly spoken the words all his life.
‘Tell the truth,’ the Duchess demanded. ‘Isn’t it enough that poor Borealis has lost his life? Must we all?’
‘He knew,’ the cook shouted, pointing a finger at the Castellan. ‘I saw him. I saw him arguing with Mr Luby the day he arrived. I saw him. He’s a demon and Mr Luby, he knew.’
‘If I was a demon, don’t you think I would have cut off your annoying tongue by now?’ the Castellan said, his voice a strange comfort to Celie’s ear.
She held two hands to her flushed cheeks and closed her eyes.
‘Lady Celie?’ Argus Laraunt spoke the words gently. A murderer of a young wife shouldn’t have so harmless a voice.
‘He…was…’ Celie began.
They all waited.
‘… naked,’ she blurted out the word.
There was silence. Celie nodded, as if convincing herself of a truth.
‘And I’ve never seen a naked man before. Naked and…’
She walked to the Duchess, bent and whispered in her ear. ‘Erect.’
The Duchess pushed her away. ‘I’m sick to my stomach.’
Every pair of eyes in the room was on Celie. And then the King’s Man, no longer acting Seneschal, stood with a great sigh of relief.
‘Well there you go then. Back to work I say. If we’re going to accuse every naked and… ah… man on the island of being possessed by demons, then we’re all heading for damnation.’
* * *
Celie thought it best not to attend supper that night. From the dark looks thrown her way by the Cook and the Duchess she believed it was in her best interest to find solace in the Chamber of Chronicles instead. She was relieved to find it open. Less relieved to see the Castellan sitting at the trestle bench taking notes. It was too late to retreat so Celie entered, her cheeks aflame. She sat down on the only other stool in the room, directly opposite the Castellan. An uneven column of chronicles stood between them.
‘Where were we?’ he asked as if they had just completed a conversation moments before.
She found herself smiling.
‘Back to our suspects,’ she said.
She pushed the pile of chronicles out of the way so she could see him.
‘The Duchess?’ she asked quietly.
She wished he’d look up. She understood now why he didn’t. I’m here, sweet boy. I’m here. How long had he endured the fits? The looks of accusations? His teeth clenched on a piece of timber to stop his tongue from choking him.
‘The Duchess was married to the King’s uncle, the Lord of the Main,’ the Castellan said. ‘She never had children, but her husband did. Quite some. Now, in Belegonian tradition a bastard son or grandson can make a claim to an estate. Even make claim to a throne.’
‘Not a bastard daughter though?’ Celie asked.
He finally looked up.
‘No, and their rules not mine so don’t purse your lips so disapprovingly, Lady Celie. We all can’t be Lumaterans and enjoy the rule of a woman.’
Celie continued to scribe.
‘You know the rest,’ he said quietly.
‘Not really,’ she said. ‘Only that the Duchess was said to have ordered the murder of anyone suspected of being an heir to her husband’s estate… and to the crown.’
Celie studied what she had written. ‘But why kill Borealis Luby? As you said, who with enough powe
r would care for the truth?’
There was no response.
‘Next suspect?’ she asked.
‘Your friend Argus, of the house of Laraunt,’ he said, his voice cool. Would Banyon forgive her for hinting to Argus Laraunt that she had seen something strange in his residence that morning of her arrival.’
‘You threw in at least three very unimportant words,’ she said instead. ‘In Lumatere, we’d say Argus of Laraunt.’
‘Silence, or I’ll send you back to the embroidery room with the Duchess.’
‘I’ll be a mouse, Sir.’
She saw the slight twitch of his mouth.
‘Beattie from the isle told me about the disappearance of Mr Lauraunt’s young wife,’ Celie said.
Banyon nodded. ‘And perhaps Borealis Luby knew something that he didn’t want anyone else to know. And he paid with his life.’
‘And perhaps Argus Laraunt knew you were investigating a murder, Sir and used your…’
‘Demon tendencies…’
‘… to have you arrested in case you were to discover anything that would point to his guilt.’
‘Well, he’s not,’ Banyon said firmly. ‘Going to stop me, that is.’
And still, despite Borealis Luby’s murder, it all seemed wrong to Celie.
‘Why so important to solve this crime, Sir, and not that of the Duke’s poor bastards?’
Banyon’s eyes met Celie’s briefly.
‘Because the Duke’s poor bastards didn’t get their skulls crushed in the castle library under my watch.’
He spoke the words with a passion that surprised her.
‘Oh, Mr Banyon, you remind me so much of my father… except he has a personality and sense of humour.’
‘Very overrated attributes when you’re trying to keep a kingdom secure, Lady Celie.’
Celie sighed.
‘Next?’
They continued their list deep into the night until their candles burned low and Celie’s yawns turned indelicate.
‘It’s best you return to your chamber,’ he said.
She collected her journal and went to retrieve the Yut Chronicle from the shelf.
‘I’d prefer that you leave that,’ he said, his tone cold. ‘It’s not your property to remove from this room.’
She made a show of placing the chronicle back on the bench and he watched her, hawke-eyed.
For most of their walk back to her room, they didn’t speak. He extinguished each torch they passed until it was just the two wicks they held in their hands that lit the way.
‘You lied,’ he said quietly outside her chamber. ‘You saw something in my residence that morning and you lied.’
He was criticising her. No appreciation, but criticism. For lying! To save his life from whatever they did to suspected demons on this isle.
‘Do you know anything about my Queen, Banyon?’ she asked.
‘She’s young. And besotted by her Consort. And smart. And has a strong will to survive.’
Celie nodded. Her Queen was all those things and more.
‘But the major tension between her and her Consort is truth. She believes that by omitting certain facts it’s not quite lying. It’s a sort of truth. Absolute truth is dangerous and gets in the way of progress.’
‘And what does that have to do with what you saw that morning?’ he asked.
‘I didn’t lie,’ she said, feeling quite bold. ‘I spoke part of the truth.’
He suddenly looked uncomfortable.
‘You were naked, Mr Banyon. And erect. And it was quite frightening.’
She closed the door softly in his face.
Five
* * *
Somehow, the previous day’s events had made Argus Laraunt a suspect in Celie’s eyes. Not only because of Beattie’s accusations about the death of his wife, but also his attempts to have the Castellan arrested.
‘Was the ward a favourite of the Duchess?’ she asked Beattie while they scrubbed the napery together on the rocks.
‘’Course she wasn’t,’ Beattie snapped as if Celie was an idiot for asking. ‘The girl was a favourite of the Duke. He had done all he could to have her moved to his residence.’ Beattie’s eyes watered. ‘She never forgot us here on the isle and we’ll never forget her.’
‘How did poor Argus Laraunt lose his wife?’ she asked the King’s Man as she helped him count the crates of ale in the buttery.
‘The way I heard it, Lady Celie, they were set upon by a band of brigands on the road between the Duchess’s home and his village in the north. They never found her corpse,’ he added in a reverent whisper.
‘Does dear Mr Laraunt live with you the whole year round, Your Highness?’ she asked the Duchess as they embroidered. Celie had even gathered her hair in a crispinette so it would make her brow look higher.
‘Of course he doesn’t, you fool of a girl. He’s a merchant, always travelling for Belegonia.’
‘A merchant, you say?’
‘He suffers for Belegonia, poor Argus,’ the Duchess said, ‘Spent the whole of winter in the snow-capped mountains of Yutlind Nord convincing the King of Yutlind Nord to invest in Belegonian fleece,’ the Duchess added. ‘It’s the best in the land, of course.’
‘Yes, in Lumatere we pray to the goddess for Belegonian fleece,’ Celie lied.
‘It’s such a pretty island,’ Celie commented to Argus Laraunt as they stood on the parapet staring across at the still-raging sea. ‘Although I’d love to see snow one day. I’ve read about it in the Yut Chronicles.’
Argus Laraunt seemed distracted. No one seemed more desperate than he to get off the isle.
‘Never seen it myself,’ he murmured, ‘but I could imagine it being a stunning sight.’
‘Was the Castellan acquainted with Argus Laraunt prior to our arrival?’ Celie asked Banyon’s nursemaid, Oshie, whilst she helped her carry kindling up the steps of the gatehouse.
‘The Castellan is acquainted with very few,’ the old woman said. ‘It makes life easier for him.’
‘Is it an illness?’ Celie asked quietly.
‘Some people call it a demon. There’s no demon in Tien. He’s always been like that with his fits and ways. It’s made him even more determined. But sometimes, it’s harder to hide. Here, on the island at least, he gets his solitude except for in the spring.’
‘Tien?’ Celie asked. ‘Is that his name?’
‘Valentien.’
Valentien Banyon. Who would have thought?
* * *
‘The thing is,’ she told Valentien Banyon that evening in his residence. ‘I do believe Mr Laraunt is lying to the Duchess about where he travels each winter.’
‘Hmm,’ he said, not looking up. The King’s Man had left him with the entire list of the King’s entourage and the accommodation of the guests seemed to have taken precedence over Borealis Luby’s death for the night.
Oshie came in with a bowl of pottage and a half loaf of bread, placing it before Banyon.
‘Is she bothering you?’ Oshie asked.
‘Is she bothering you?’ he asked his nurse without looking up.
‘Can’t understand why she’s running around unattended,’ Oshie said as if Celie wasn’t there. ‘Why aren’t you married?’ she then demanded to know. Celie had come to accept the woman’s abrupt ways in the past days and Oshie tolerated Celie with a grudging respect.
‘Why aren’t you?’ Celie asked, seeing as everyone was answering questions with questions.
‘The Lumateran Queen has other needs for her inquisitive subject,’ Banyon answered on Celie’s behalf. ‘Apart from getting up to no good here in Belegonia, there’ll be some useless Prince or duke to marry her off to. Lady Celie might be good enough to exchange for the building of a goods road between two kingdoms.’
Insulted by Banyon and his nurse, Celie said her goodbyes and left. She was never one to linger in rudeness.
In her haste, she hadn’t taken a candle but there were enough of the torches lighti
ng the courtyard to guide Celie across to the west tower.
When she reached the steps leading up to her chamber, she regretted her decision not to turn back for at least a taper. She heard the footsteps behind her and saw the shadow of a flame flicker against the wall.
‘Slow down,’ she heard Banyon say. ‘The gods only know what you’re treading on in the dark.’
She suddenly thought of Argus Laraunt cursing Banyon’s hound and it reminded her of the heel of his boots.
‘Could you indulge me Banyon,’ she asked quietly. ‘Show me where Borealis Luby’s clothing is.’
He studied her a moment.
‘You’re a strange one, Lady Celie.’
She wasn’t quite sure what sort of response that was.
‘They’re in the Cook’s chamber. But if you’re searching for blood clues, his tunic and trousers have been washed.’
Celie shook her head. ‘Not blood. Soil.’
She heard him sigh and knew he already regretted his decision to accompany her back to her chamber.
‘Take my hand,’ he said.
* * *
The servant’s chamber was miniscule. Cut into the wall was a space to sleep, padded with bedding. The room stunk of piss and Celie saw the pot in the corner. There was another tall narrow cavern dug out of the opposite wall partitioned with a piece of cloth serving as a curtain. Banyon pulled it across and held his lamp close to the garments hanging there.
Celie crouched to where the boots sat. Banyon hitched his trousers to crouch beside her.
‘Well, the thing is,’ she whispered, ‘that my good friend the Queen of Lumatere spent some time during exile in Sendecane. It’s where her Consort first found her and that very meeting began our journey home to our cursed kingdom.’
‘Yes, we’ve all heard the story, Lady Celie,’ Banyon said. ‘But is this the time and place for reminiscence?’
‘The thing is, Banyon, that she described Sendecane to me. Finnikin, her Consort, was irritated that he didn’t see the red earth of Sendecane in his travels. You see, he journeyed there through Sarnak. She also journeyed there through Sarnak, but she did get the opportunity to see Sendecane from the south.’
Review of Australian Fiction, Volume 3, Issue 4 Page 4
