The Quickening

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘Yes,’ the man uttered triumphantly. ‘The women had been there. It was the novice who brought the noblewoman to the family.’

  Oh, you poor fool, Jessom thought. This should have been the first item on the report. He feared for the man’s next few minutes.

  ‘Shar’s wrath, man!’ Celimus bellowed, leaning forward in his saddle to strike the man hard across his face. The mercenary toppled from his horse. The King leapt down from his own mount, all feline grace, and in one smooth movement kicked Shirk so hard he could not get to his feet. He lay there coughing, groaning in pain.

  ‘Where are they?’

  In obvious agony the man spluttered his answer. ‘The woman, Leyen, goes by the name of Faryl, sire. According to the novice’s information, she did not tarry long at Tenterdyn. There was no trace of the noblewoman. The young monk said he had delivered her and departed the duke’s hospitality almost immediately.’

  ‘Lies!’ Celimus roared. ‘Felrawthy protects her! I was right to suspect the duke. He was not loyal to me,’ he raved.

  Jessom thought otherwise. The duke had given no reason to date to be considered anything but loyal to the Crown. The truth of the death of his son might have changed that, but so far all that had been kept secret. ‘Sire —’ he attempted but was rewarded with a glare so fierce he closed his mouth and sensibly opted to remain silent.

  ‘Get away from me,’ Celimus spat at the injured man. ‘Crawl away from me, down the hill. Do not let me look upon your face again.’

  Shirk did as commanded, leaving his horse, no doubt eager to be away from the King’s wrath. Unhurried, Celimus reached behind and unstrapped his bow.

  Jessom felt pity for the man on all fours retreating down the incline. He had not been disloyal, simply careless. But then Celimus suffered no fools about him.

  He sighed. ‘Would you like to see me in your study, sire, after I clear up here?’ Jessom enquired, knowing the answer, his mind already racing towards how he would tackle the damage in the north.

  Celimus nocked his arrow and took aim. ‘Immediately,’ he said and loosed his anger towards the man who had failed him.

  Jessom watched his quarry alight from their carriage. He had decided to handle this particular item of business himself. Crossing the road, lifting his robe slightly so it would not trail in the general muck and damp of the busy market cobblestones, he angled his direction perfectly and artfully bumped the shoulder of the man.

  ‘Do forgive —’ Jessom began a solicitous apology then feigned an expression of delighted surprise. ‘Lord Bench, what a pleasure. I’m so sorry for knocking you just now. I was in a hurry to cross the street.’

  ‘No harm done, Jessom.’ Eryd Bench waved off the apology.

  ‘Lady Bench,’ Jessom acknowledged with a short bow.

  ‘Chancellor,’ she said, nodding, her hand tightening ever so slightly on her husband’s arm. ‘I’m so sorry you couldn’t attend our recent supper.’

  ‘Not as sorry as I, my lady,’ Jessom replied. ‘I am afraid our King keeps me on a hectic schedule,’ he admitted, permitting a rare smile.

  She felt its insincere touch, knew he suspected something. Also knew that so far he had nothing to level their way. ‘Oh, such a shame, Chancellor. I know how you like lamprey too — it was on the menu.’

  He made a soft noise of despair at missing out. ‘Are you home for long, Lord Bench?’

  ‘No, not this time. We are about to take a family trip actually.’

  ‘Oh?’ Jessom enquired, already knowing the general gossip. ‘Where are you off to — somewhere warmer I hope?’ and he chuckled, pulling his cape closer around his thin shoulders.

  ‘No, indeed.’ Bench smiled ruefully. ‘I am headed north in fact to meet a wonderful shipment of exotic goods coming into Brightstone. Helyn and Georgyana thought they might accompany me this time.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve decided it’s high time I saw what my husband does on these trips,’ Helyn offered with one of the chortles she reserved for intrigue.

  ‘And where will you stay?’ Jessom asked, all politeness.

  ‘Normally I’d stay at an inn, but with the ladies along we have a small holding up north, not far from Yentro and Deakyn in fact. Been in the family for donkeys years. I thought we might make them more comfortable in the house.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Jessom soothed. ‘A lengthy trip?’

  Eryd knew he was being interrogated, as his wife had been not long ago. ‘Not sure yet. With my family in tow, I suppose we can take our time. I thought we might travel up via the east. Perhaps catch up with that old rogue Jeryb and his marvellous brood before my shipment comes in.’

  Jessom was alarmed but did not show it. ‘Brr, it is cold out today. Can I offer you both a nip of shorron to warm our insides?’

  Neither of his companions cared to spend a moment longer with him.

  ‘Of course,’ Eryd answered. ‘I am never one to say no to a glass.’

  ‘We shall have to be swift, my love,’ Helyn warned, wishing Eryd had declined. ‘I have lots to purchase today for our trip.’

  Eryd patted her hand in reassurance and the trio headed towards the nearest shorron counter where the hot, bitter liquor was served in warmed glasses with a dollop of honey to sweeten its passage. Shorron was a local specialty of Pearlis so there were bars and counters aplenty. In summer the drink was serve chilled but its warming, softly aphrodisiac effect was best felt on a crisp, cold day.

  Jessom ordered three shots. ‘Would you mind, Eryd, if I suggest you don’t travel to Felrawthy,’ he said quietly as they waited. Helyn had already fallen into conversation with a friend at the counter.

  ‘Why ever not?’ Lord Bench asked, wondering at the Chancellor’s sudden familiarity.

  ‘Bad news up north, I’m afraid. Our King will announce it to the court tomorrow in fact. We only heard this morning.’

  ‘And what is it?’ Eryd felt a chill crawl through him.

  ‘We have received sketchy reports that the duke might have been killed.’

  ‘Shar save us!’

  Helyn turned at the exclamation and excused herself from her friend. ‘Eryd?’ she said, coming over.

  ‘That is not all,’ Jessom said sorrowfully. ‘We have had no confirmation yet but the same source reports that all in the family are presumed dead.’

  ‘This cannot be right,’ Eryd blustered, the chill extending to all parts of his body.

  Jessom shook his head. ‘We are not sure, as I say,’ he said carefully. ‘I have sent some reliable men to check. It is shocking, I know. The King is devastated, as you can imagine. He relied heavily on the duke’s counsel regarding the north.’

  ‘Not to mention his protection. But how could such a thing happen?’ Eryd said.

  ‘Drink this,’ Helyn said, piecing together the disturbing news. She handed her husband his shot.

  Jessom tipped back his head and downed the liquor, feeling its burning warmth. Eryd followed suit, genuinely appalled at the news. Helyn toyed with hers. She suspected — as did her husband — that they were being fed untruths, and yet the story was so shocking it would have to be based in reality, which meant that marvellous family up north probably had suffered.

  ‘Everyone dead, you say?’ Eryd asked.

  Jessom nodded. ‘We await confirmation. The barbarian King’s men apparently. The family was expecting reinforcements of their own and had left the gates open at Tenterdyn. It was so easy. We shall know more in a couple of days. I just think it’s best you don’t take your family to the scene of carnage in case it is true. The region is clearly dangerous now.’

  ‘Cailech! Why would the Mountain King be bothered with Jeryb?’ Eryd spluttered, signalling for a second shot.

  ‘I think the self-crowned madman of the north must have decided that the duke was his main obstacle. By dealing with Felrawthy he probably believes he has effectively crushed Morgravia’s northern defences.’

  Helyn could hardly help he
r snort. ‘You believe that the Mountain King has actually invaded and might head south?’

  Jessom put his hand to his lips to signify that they must be careful what they said. ‘King Celimus suspects as much. The duke had confirmed many sightings of Cailech’s men in our northern lands. I fear, madam, that it is only a matter of time before the Mountain King feels confident enough to try for an invasion.’

  ‘Well, thank you for the warning, Chancellor,’ Eryd said, holding out his hand in farewell. ‘This is dire news indeed. We shall certainly steer clear of that region.’

  Jessom blinked slowly and nodded before he shook Eryd’s hand. Helyn decided he reminded her of a vulture. ‘I am glad, Lord Bench. Be safe on your travels.’ He bowed and turned to Helyn. ‘Lady Bench, my respects to your lovely daughter. May Shar guide you all on your journey.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said sweetly, pulling her hand away as quickly as she dared from the vulture’s touch.

  They left, Eryd’s second glass of shorron untouched. Jessom drank it himself, pleased with his morning’s work. He felt quietly confident that he could call off permanent observation of the Bench family now. He would have their party followed on their departure for the north, and if they took the westernmost road towards the port of Brightstone rather than the road which veered east towards Felrawthy, it would satisfy him — and no doubt his King — that this family was no threat.

  Outside, Lady Bench hurried to keep up with her husband’s long and presently angry stride. ‘Do you believe him?’ she asked breathlessly.

  ‘That Felrawthy has fallen? Yes. Not how it fell, though. Cailech is not that bold. Jessom forgets I know the north better than most. No, this is darker work. I think Leyen’s warning, and your suspicion about our King, is right.’

  ‘What do we do?’

  ‘Nothing! Just observe for now — it’s what you’re best at.’

  King Celimus pondered all that Jessom had told him. ‘I am inclined to agree: the Bench family is no threat. Their watchers can be released. Now, I want you to have a letter couriered to Valentyna for me. It is obvious that Leyen or Faryl, whatever her name is, has not succeeded in dealing with Ylena and perhaps may not follow my other instructions to head to Briavel. We shall have to rely on Aremys to deal with the Thirsk woman. I’d prefer it if you copied this one yourself.’

  ‘Of course, sire.’ Jessom fiddled with parchment and quills, searching for the right one. ‘Ready, my lord.’

  Celimus strolled to his study window and glanced down into the courtyard. ‘My dear Valentyna,’ he began. ‘No, wait! Make that, Valentyna, my dearest,’ the King corrected. He listened as Jessom scratched away at the paper then continued slowly: ‘I do hope this finds you in good health, although no doubt as busy with matters of the realm as I find myself. Perhaps you have made some time to get to know the exquisite filly I gifted you? I gather she arrived in fine spirits at her new home and I know she has found the most generous and caring of owners. I would be interested to hear whether you liked the name I chose for her — she is the latest offspring of one of my finest brood mares. I am sure that you and she will enjoy sharing good times in that beautiful woodland surrounding Werryl.’

  He paused, waiting for Jessom to catch up.

  ‘Darling Valentyna — I hope that’s not too forward?’

  ‘No, sire, it’s perfect,’ Jessom replied, faithfully recording his monarch’s love letter.

  ‘Darling Valentyna,’ Celimus repeated, ‘I hope you know that it is my heart’s desire to formalise our union without unnecessary delay. Since meeting you I have thought of nothing else but our marriage and the bringing together of our realms in peace and harmony.’

  Jessom scratched furiously. ‘And now a gentle threat, sire?’ he prompted softly.

  Celimus chuckled. ‘You know my mind too well, Chancellor,’ he said. ‘Indeed, we must spice this note with a warning. Let me see now,’ he pondered, watching the comings and goings in the yard below. ‘Ah, yes. Time threatens our peace, my dear one. The upstart of the north — King Cailech, as he hails himself — has spilled the blue blood of Morgravia with his slaughter of the Duke of Felrawthy and his entire family. I am sure you will grieve with all Morgravians at the tragic loss of this fine and noble line. We are taking steps to shore up our defences in the north, but I sense that Cailech grows confident and with the smell of Morgravian blood in his nostrils will now push south. My fear is that when he meets our resistance — and it will be fierce, I promise — he will turn his attention to Briavel. I cannot — nay, will not — permit this savage to threaten you, my darling, or your land. Once sworn enemies, we must now cleave together. Let me help to keep you and Briavel safe. I will pledge my entire Legion to the defence of both our realms as soon as you confirm our marriage.’

  He turned and beamed at Jessom. The Chancellor wondered how Valentyna could ever resist that radiant smile. ‘Brilliant, sire. Perhaps we should suggest a date?’

  ‘Yes! Read back the last line.’

  Jessom did so.

  ‘Good. Go on and say, I have set a date of the last day of spring. I see you as a spring bride when the land is bursting with life again. It is how you make me feel, Valentyna, filled with a sense of new beginnings.’ He paused again to consider how to finish his letter.

  ‘My man carries accompanying paperwork for your signature and, once returned, I will begin to make preparations for our splendid wedding day, a day when all Morgravians and Briavellians will rejoice together. And our enemies will fear us, my beautiful one. No one will ever threaten our new empire.’

  He clapped his hands gleefully. ‘And then you can finish as you see fit.’

  ‘I shall get this away immediately, sire.’

  ‘Have the courier await the reply. A few days’ turnaround no doubt?’

  ‘Weather permitting, my King.’

  ‘See to it, Jessom.’

  The Chancellor began clearing his papers.

  ‘What’s happening at Felrawthy by the way?’ the King asked.

  ‘I have sent some reliable men to clear away all evidence.’

  ‘The bodies?’

  ‘Will be burned.’

  ‘Excellent. But you will leave some signs to suggest this was the work of the Mountain Dwellers?’

  ‘Already taken care of, sire.’

  ‘Thank you, Jessom. And I want news of your assassins soonest.’

  Celimus felt happy and in control. In this mood he felt it was appropriate to take his pleasure with a woman.

  ‘Have the Lady Amelia sent up.’

  ‘As you wish, sire. I believe her bruises have healed,’ Jessom murmured as he bowed and departed.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE MEN STOOD AROUND the pit looking deeply disturbed. Some scratched their heads nervously, others fidgeted and tried to hold their breath. No one was sure what to say. There were supposed to be four bodies but they counted only three stinking corpses.

  ‘Fetch someone who was here,’ their leader growled. A man was brought before him several minutes later. ‘How many corpses were there?’

  The man looked surprised. ‘Four — three men, one woman.’

  ‘Well, we’ve got only the three men. The duke and the two sons you managed to deal with.’

  The sarcasm was not lost on the man and he responded with defiance, not cowed by this second group who suddenly appeared today with new orders from the Chancellor. ‘The third son was not at Tenterdyn. The woman definitely was.’

  ‘Well, she’s not now!’ the leader roared. ‘Do you want to explain that to the man who is paying us a lot of gold to do this?’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’

  The leader sneered. ‘I’m suggesting, you idiot, that the woman was never fully dead. She might have looked it but she’s got away… or someone helped her.’

  The other man bristled at the insult, remembering how revolting it had felt to rape the dead woman. It was clear then she had taken her last breath. ‘She was dead I tell you,’
he snarled back.

  ‘Well, you find her corpse and let the paymaster know when you do. I shall be reporting that we disposed of three male bodies only. And I reckon it’s not just your purses you men should be worried about.’ He winked at the first man, who understood perfectly the underlying threat. ‘Burn the three men,’ he added, ‘and I suggest your people start searching Brynt and its surrounds for a dazed woman. Try the chapels, the hospices, anywhere they offer succour without questions. She will go to ground.’

  Not far away Aleda grimaced as she heard this conversation come to a close. If only they knew that she was barely a few yards from where they had done their ugly work.

  She had regained consciousness during the early evening of the day of the attack. With her wits had come memory and all the horror of what had passed. It was only then that she became fully oriented and realised she was lying on top of one of her sons in a pit covered by branches. Dusk allowed some dying light to filter through the leaves and twigs overhead and she screamed to discover Jorge beneath her. His eyes were open and it seemed to his mother that he wore an expression of anger, even though she knew that in death it was not possible to hold any look. He had died fighting for her honour. She began to weep and scrabbling further discovered her other boy, Daryn, as cold and lifeless to the touch as his brother. She remembered now how he had been cut down before her.

  To her despair her darling husband’s headless body lay at the bottom of this pit of death. She saw his head tossed carelessly at his feet. Her sobs grew louder. They would have laughed as they threw it in, she imagined. She had cradled the bloodied head of her husband in her lap and cried for hours as she stroked his dearly loved face.

  When her sobs finally subsided realisation had hit and she looked around frantically. ‘Crys!’ she shrieked. It was the absence of her eldest son that gave her the courage to claw her way out of the pit. She fell several times, sobbing and scrabbling at the earth that caved in on her and covered her beloved menfolk. Finally she made it and lay at the lip of the pit, keening with sorrow and trembling from her exertions. She did not notice her bleeding knees or torn fingernails.