The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  As Jorn died, vague satisfaction skimmed through his blurred mind that he had not let Ylena down despite the chilling shrieks that escaped his throat. Suddenly the three words scratched on the cell wall came back to him. Avenge me, Wyl, they read and Jorn made the connection in a fleeting moment of clarity. He sent a dying prayer to Shar to preserve the Thirsk line and ensure his death was not in vain.

  The men were expected to use the crushing wheel over the entire length of the victim’s body but as soon as Jorn’s eyes clouded with death the two men stopped.

  ‘Enough!’ one said. He was good at his job but did not like hurting innocents and there had been too many of those in recent times. ‘I’m not crushing this one’s head for his majesty’s pleasure. He’s suffered enough — and with courage.’

  ‘It’ll be our own guts the King hangs us from if we’re not careful,’ his companion said.

  ‘Jessom wasn’t happy over it. He said to make it swift.’

  ‘Got nothing out of him though, did we?’ the other man said.

  ‘Nothing to get, probably. Come on, roll it back. At least if any family come to collect the body they can see his face is whole.’

  ‘Can’t say the same about the rest of him,’ commented his fellow torturer. He whistled, looking at the shattered bloodied mess before them.

  Later that day when Jessom visited the King’s chambers, the sovereign’s first question was of Jorn.

  ‘Did the page reveal what we wanted to hear?’

  ‘No, my lord King.’ Jessom did not have to work at being solemn; he was still in a distracted mood over the morning’s horrific events and the altogether unnecessary torture and death of a young man.

  Celimus glared at his Chancellor, hand poised over the parchment he was scrawling his mark upon. ‘Surely you jest?’

  ‘He took whatever secrets you feel he had to the grave with him, sire.’

  Celimus stood, angry at being beaten by a youth. ‘He was wheeled as ordered?’ he demanded. It was just short of an accusation.

  Jessom kept his voice even. ‘Yes, sire. Exactly as you instructed,’ he lied. ‘It seems the boy survived an interminable time. Not until the iron crushed the very beat of his heart did he relinquish his grip on life.’ Inwardly the Chancellor felt proud. This was one death he did not agree with.

  ‘He gave us nothing?’

  Jessom made a deprecating gesture, suggesting he did not believe there was anything to give.

  ‘He spoke no words at all?’ Celimus pushed, determined his oily Chancellor would keep nothing from him.

  Jessom kept his expression blank. ‘Just the usual assortment of shrieks and groans, sire. No words as such.’

  ‘Admirable,’ Celimus said, walking to the window. ‘For he was surely withholding something. Where is the body?’

  ‘Ready for burial, I presume, sire.’

  ‘I want you to think hard, Chancellor.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, sire?’

  ‘Think, man! I employ you for your sharp mind. What are we missing? There is something we have overlooked. Ponder upon it — find the solution for me by tomorrow and report back. We shall meet in the morning after my ride.’

  Jessom bowed. He felt a pit open in his stomach at the thought of awaking tomorrow with no answers for a King prone to tantrums that usually resulted in someone’s death.

  ‘By the way, no burial for Jorn. Impale him and have his body displayed on the main road to Felrawthy… just in case.’

  ‘As you wish, sire,’ Jessom said, weariness overcoming him. There was probably not much left of Jorn to impale anyway. Was there no end to this man’s brutality? He kept his voice steady. ‘I shall see to it now.’

  ‘And I shall see you tomorrow, Chancellor, with an answer to my question.’

  SEVENTEEN

  ELSPYTH HAD TAKEN ALL of that day and the following night to surface from her bleak state. When she did she knew it was time to leave the two kind families who had cared for her. She could tell her brooding presence unnerved the youngsters, and the once-lively chatter of the women was now guarded as they were careful not to impose on her sorrowful mood.

  The carts rolled to a pause at the Five Ways, where roads led to different regions of the realm, and Elspyth took her leave. She mustered a smile for the families and hugged both the women, especially Ruth.

  ‘I will worry after you,’ the kind woman admitted.

  ‘Don’t,’ Elspyth assured. ‘I’m really very capable.’

  ‘You know you are welcome to stay with us,’ Meg offered.

  Elspyth felt a surge of gratitude and reminded herself that the world was not such an evil place. ‘Yes, and I thank you. But I must find Koreldy’s sister — that’s where I was headed when I stumbled into your path.’

  ‘I’m sorry again, lass,’ Ham said, still abashed. He handed her a small sack of food they had put together.

  Elspyth took the sack and squeezed his hand to reassure him that she held no grudge. ‘You’ve all been so very good to me. Rather I hear it from kind souls than those who might take pleasure in such news. I’ll be fine, I promise. It was just such a shock, but once I deliver a message to the Koreldy family I’ll be able to get back to my own life,’ she lied.

  She hoped no one would ask where this elusive sister might be, or indeed where Elspyth’s home was. No one did and after another round of awkward farewells the carts rolled on their way, heading east towards Briavel’s border. Once they were out of sight, Elspyth took stock of her situation. She was aware that she could have continued with the families and reached Felrawthy more quickly, but she felt a strange relief to be on her own again. She turned towards the road that led northeast — a more direct route to Felrawthy. She still felt as though her mind was blank; first Lothryn’s plea for help and then the news of Wyl’s death had left her decidedly empty.

  ‘It’s up to me now,’ she said aloud on the lonely road.

  Hearing her own voice sounding so defiant gave her courage. First she would keep her promise to Wyl, find Ylena and hand her into the protection of the Duke of Felrawthy. That done she would return to Yentro and check on her aunt. Hopefully the old girl was still alive and might be able to offer some advice. Once there she would gather together whatever monies she could find before heading farther north and into the mountains. She did not relish the thought of facing the forbidding Razors at this time of year, but she remembered the terror in Lothryn’s voice and knew she could no more sit out the season than fly to Felrawthy.

  The only thing that really mattered to her now was discovering Lothryn’s fate. If she died in the process, so be it. His love had offered her the first relief from loneliness in a lifetime and she was not about to relinquish it without a fight.

  Elspyth squared her petite shoulders, lifted her chin and began her long walk to fulfil a promise.

  Ylena and Pil joined the straggling bunch of people and animals roaming through Dorchyster Green’s town square. It was market day and the smell of newly baked bread and steaming meat pies sharpened their hunger.

  ‘When did we last eat?’ Ylena asked, looking longingly at the wheels of cheese and the potted meats.

  Pil’s belly was growling. ‘I can’t remember, my lady,’ he said, avoiding the ponderous sway of a cow passing by. ‘But we should move on for we have no coin.’

  Ylena’s despair snapped to anger. ‘This is not right. I have money — I just don’t have it with me. I’m so sorry, Pil.’

  ‘Hush now,’ he soothed, taking her arm. He understood. She was used to fine things in life, not having to wonder where her next meal may come from. In truth, he too had lived a comfortable existence at the monastery where food was plentiful. ‘Come, let us continue on our way.’

  They had stopped by a stall of fruit and the bright colours arrested their gaze. Now their bellies groaned together as a new smell — roasting meat — mocked them.

  ‘We cannot go another day without eating,’ Ylena moaned.

  She was right but
all he could do in response was shrug. ‘Short of stealing, my lady — and I could never do that — I have no solution.’

  ‘Then we shall beg!’ She sounded so resolute that Pil’s protest died in his mouth. ‘Yes!’ she continued, ‘I shall sing. I have a comely voice, or so I have been told. I shall sing for our food… and you… you shall dance a jig beside me,’ she finished desperately.

  ‘All right,’ he said bravely, hoping his voice did not give away his dislike at the thought of her humiliating herself so. ‘Anything is worth a try and I am certainly hungry, my lady.’

  A vague attempt at a smile appeared on Ylena’s mouth but there was no warmth to it. ‘Come then, we shall position ourselves over there by the well.’

  He followed her, wondering how she thought she would be heard above the din of the market where people called out their wares, beasts mooed and bellowed and children ran helter-skelter.

  ‘Here,’ she commanded. ‘Lay your hat at our feet.’

  Pil did as asked, embarrassed. ‘You don’t surely expect me to dance, my lady?’ he beseeched. ‘I find it hard enough to walk without tripping over.’

  ‘You don’t have to,’ Ylena said, smoothing her tattered skirts and tucking back her untidy hair. ‘It was just a thought. But make sure you smile at the passers-by. We need their pity. It’s a shame you didn’t have your pate shaved — being a monk would have helped our cause,’ she said distractedly, going on to clear her throat.

  Pil steadied his gaze towards his feet and waited. When the first bright note emanated from Ylena, his eyes widened in amazement and his glance flicked sideways to watch her. Her voice was pure and beautiful, like a bird released to soar towards the sky where it had always longed to be. Pil recognised the song. It was a sorrowful ballad of two youngsters who had grown up together, become lovers and whose rapture for each other was blessed by the gods. But the man is murdered by a jealous admirer of the woman… and so the tale continued, pulling at the emotions.

  Pil noticed a small crowd had begun to form. Ylena had chosen well, for the song had many verses and was lengthy enough to attract attention. He stepped away from her, realising his presence was no longer needed. The gathering listeners had eyes only for the beautiful, albeit dishevelled woman and her song of grief. Ylena, lost in the telling of her tale and the music, hardly paid them any care and so she did not notice the coins being dropped into the hat or how large and silent the crowd became.

  Pil noticed it all, especially the appearance of a man who stepped out from the Dorchyster Arms, the town’s inn. He was clearly a wealthy noble from his garb and even in his winter years he remained a handsome, vital man. The once-yellow hair had dulled to a buttery white and was pulled back severely from his face, accentuating the wide square lines of his features. His beard, worn short, was a motley of yellow, silver and even reddish hues. It added to his attractiveness. Deep-set sea-blue eyes regarded Ylena and he held up his gloved hand to the man beside him to stop the fellow talking. This was a man used to giving orders and being obeyed; even the set of his generous mouth suggested he was powerful, a leader of men. He strode from the inn’s entrance deeper into the square. People stepped aside, pulling their goats and donkeys out of his way.

  Pil saw the noble’s eyes narrow in concentration as Ylena reached the peak of the song’s tragic consequences. Other men, the noble’s own no doubt, began to gather nearby. One risked interrupting his lord’s pleasure and was rewarded by the same gloved hand in the air. The man looked around at the others who shrugged. They all understood they must wait now.

  Ylena’s song came to its heart-wrenching end and cries of appreciation came from the crowd, people surging forward to toss a few coins into the hat. The nobleman shouldered through the crowd and Pil noted that they all moved aside easily, some bowing, the women curtsying. This was no petty lord.

  Pil approached carefully and bent to pick up his hat. Ylena had slumped against the well, her eyes closed, her energies spent and her emotions no doubt in turmoil as the song had so obviously been about her and the man she had loved and lost. The nobleman reached for her hand. It occurred to Pil that the man had recognised her status, despite her tattered dusty appearance, for he was touching his lips to her limp knuckles. It must be the clothes, he realised. Only a noblewoman could afford such quality garments.

  ‘My lady,’ the older man spoke gently. ‘You sing like an angel.’ His voice was tender but Pil felt sure his men rarely heard this tone.

  Ylena’s eyes fluttered open but held no recognition. She affected a brief curtsy of sorts. ‘Thank you, sir. I am hoping my voice will feed myself and my companion tonight,’ she said, glancing towards Pil and then back into eyes that were now the colour of a stormy sea.

  ‘Shar’s wrath!’ the man exclaimed. ‘But you need not sing for your supper, madam. Who is your family? I demand to know who leaves you in this state.’

  ‘My family?’ Ylena breathed, hardly above a whisper. ‘My family,’ she repeated, ‘are dead, sir. I am all that’s left, my lord, and I am on the run from those who would do me harm.’

  The noble made a sound of frustration. He signalled to one of his men. ‘She’s weak, pick her up!’ he commanded, taking off his cloak.

  The man obeyed and his lord laid his own cloak about Ylena, at which point Pil thought it necessary to step forward.

  ‘My lord,’ he said, bowing. ‘I am Pil.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I am a monk,’ Pil continued, ‘well, a novice in truth — and was instructed to stay close to the Lady Ylena. She is ready to faint from hunger. She has been recuperating with us for some weeks and I fear our journey across country has set her back.’

  He hoped he had made a good account of himself. Brother Jakub had always cautioned that brevity was a desirable trait.

  The man regarded him before saying, ‘Follow me.’ Pil found himself all but trotting to keep up with the elderly noble. The hat in his hand jangled with the coins weighing it down. They returned to the inn and were taken straight to its dining room. The noble barked orders and suddenly the room was a frenzy of activity. Men appeared and disappeared, taking their instructions from their chief and going about whatever business he required.

  Before long the smell of bacon wafted towards them; it made Pil dizzy in anticipation. ‘Eat first,’ the man commanded, ‘then we shall talk.’

  Ylena was given a posset of sweetly spiced milk which she drank without comment, although her glance towards the girl setting it down was filled with gratitude. Pil was given the same and he gulped the contents of the cup quickly, feeling its healing warmth hit the right spot immediately.

  ‘Thank you, my lord,’ he said. The excitement of seeing slices of fresh bread smeared liberally with butter accompanied by thick rashers of sizzling bacon stopped whatever words might have come next. He ate with gusto and in silence, his glance darting towards Ylena who nibbled hungrily on her bread, not yet daring to touch the meat. The noble ignored them for the time being, talking quietly with a man Pil presumed to be his second-in-command. Pil finished his meal and felt immediately drowsy. However, the luxury of sleep was not yet his.

  ‘Now we talk,’ the man said and beckoned Pil to a corner of the room where a tray of ales had been set down.

  ‘My lord,’ Ylena interjected, ‘I can account for myself, sir.’

  ‘Then do so,’ the nobleman said brusquely. ‘You may speak freely.’

  Ylena glanced at Pil and found a brief smile of sympathy for him. Both knew they would have to relive their trauma for this man. Pil nodded encouragingly, noticing the spark was back in her eyes and her expression had lost its despairing look. The food had already worked wonders.

  Ylena’s voice was steady and firm as she began. ‘We have come from Rittylworth monastery — we were forced to flee.’

  The old noble frowned. ‘Why?’

  Ylena sighed. ‘The news has not travelled this far north yet, then?’ The man glared from beneath silver-peppered eyebrows, keen
for her to get on with it. ‘The monastery was burned, my lord. Most of the monks were murdered where they stood, the senior ones were singled out for special torture.’

  Two mugs were banged down on the table by shocked listeners, sloshing ale on the fists which had held them. Neither man seemed to notice.

  ‘What?’ The noble’s voice was hard, disbelieving.

  ‘I speak the truth, sir. I saw it. We were hidden but we saw men flying the King’s colours cut down the monks one by one. They crucified and burned the senior brothers.’ Scenes flashed into her mind of that terrible morning and she felt sickened. ‘It is too terrible to speak of, my lord. They arrived directly as morning silence ended and we have been on the run since.’

  ‘Well timed to ensure they got everyone,’ the nobleman’s companion commented.

  Ylena looked at him for the first time. The easy smile and drape of bright golden hair shocked her — he was so similar to her Alyd it was heartbreaking. He also wore a close beard. She noted his resemblance to the older man. Were these father and son, she thought, not realising she had thought aloud.

  ‘Yes, this is my son Crys. My apologies, my manners have deserted me. I am Jeryb Donal, Duke of Felrawthy.’

  Ylena was stunned into silence, could only stare from Alyd’s father to his equally handsome brother. Then all the bravery she had found to temper the fear for her own life and despair at losing so many loved ones rose uncontrollably on a wave of emotion which flooded her body. Ylena broke down and sobbed. The two nobles looked at her aghast, entirely unsure of what to do for this weeping woman.

  It was Pil who put it into words. ‘Good grief, my lord, it is to you that we flee!’ he spluttered, looking towards Ylena. ‘This is the Lady Ylena Thirsk.’

  ‘Fergys Thirsk’s daughter! My son’s bride?’ the older man roared.