During one of the pauses, when wine glasses were replaced and filled, I was called upon to relate the story of Sir Basil’s death, which I did with a minimum of embellishment. “I failed to recover my ransom,” I said at the end. “If Sir Basil was carrying a fortune with him, the governor and his soldiers must have taken it. If his hoard lies somewhere else, I know not where it is.”
One of our host’s friends then flattered him by saying that Sir Basil must have been fleeing Stayne’s vengeance, and had probably buried the money somewhere in the Toppings before departing.
“In that case,” said Stayne, “it will remain there forever, for the Toppings are such a tangle of hill and wood and dale that an army could vanish there without a trace. Indeed, I never even found the place where I had been held.”
“I was lucky to have found a track leading out,” I said.
Amalie gave her husband a brief consoling look, then turned to me. “We’ve heard of a battle at sea off Longfirth,” she said. “Do you know aught of it?”
“I witnessed it,” said I. “For I was in Longfirth at the time, with a ship of which I am part owner.” I related the story of Royal Stilwell’s capture, though before I got very far into my story, I recollected that I was speaking to an audience of people who were, or had been, Clayborne’s supporters, and I much reduced my own part in the capture.
The party listened with some interest, then forgot my existence and returned to their business of abusing the government. For once, I was pleased enough to be forgot.
The last of three desserts arrived, and the last health was drunk. Amalie’s two ladies helped her to her divan, and I thanked the voluble widow for the pleasure of her company and drifted after the marchioness. She was once again surrounded by well-wishers, so I was able to offer only a few polite compliments before her husband arrived, hovering over my shoulder.
“Master Quillifer,” he said, “I quite forgot to thank thee for the return of my signet.”
I donned my attentive-courtier face. “I did not wish that outlaw to abuse your ring,” I said. “If he’d started using it to sign writs and loan documents, that would have been mischief indeed.”
From Amalie’s last visits to my rooms, I knew that Stayne’s finances were in perfect disorder. He had borrowed heavily to outfit Irresistible and his expedition, and now owed his ransom to Amalie’s father. Irresistible had been seized by the Crown and was being used as a warship for the duration of the rebellion, and although Stayne was being paid for the use of his ship, the payment came in the form of bills on the treasury, which would be paid only when the treasury pleased. He could not collect rents on his property in Bonille, where Clayborne ruled. Creditors had begun to hound him, and though being a great lord he could turn most of them away, he could not bar the door against his own father-in-law, to whom he owed four thousand royals.
“My friends were stripped also of their signets,” Stayne continued. “Hast rings other than mine?”
“A number,” said I. “But I know not to whom they belong.”
“If my friends may call upon thee . . .”
“Certainly. They would be welcome.” I very much enjoyed the thought of Fork-Beard and Slope-Shoulder arriving to beg their rings of me.
While I was enjoying this pleasing fantasy, Stayne looked down at my waist, and his eyes narrowed.
“I have seen that somewhere before,” he said, and my blood ran chill as I realized he was referring to the pendant I wore on my belt, the black twin to the pearl-strewn girdle-belt his wife was wearing at that very moment.
“What, this?” said I lightly as I tossed the ornament in my fingers, “I hope it doesn’t belong to one of your friends, since I took it from Sir Basil’s strong-house. If you know the owner, I will return it.”
He tilted his head, his prim little mouth pursed in thought. My nerves sparked to full alertness, and I was aware of Amalie stiffening as she realized what was at stake.
“I have seen it more recently, I think,” said the marquess.
I shifted my position so that, Stayne following, he would have his back to Amalie and her girdle. My fingers still played with the pendant in hopes of disguising its true shape. “Perhaps another piece by the same jeweler? I know not who made this, but he may work here in Selford.”
Stayne did not move, but his narrowed eyes followed me as I stepped around him. And then his eyes made a slow, thoughtful, deliberate track to Amalie on her couch, and fastened on the girdle-belt and its pearls, lying on his wife’s brocaded gown.
“Ah,” he said. “I thought I knew it.”
“Your lordship has a good eye,” I said, inwardly cursing that eye.
Stayne took a step closer to Amalie, viewing the girdle-belt thoughtfully. “I don’t recall having seen that girdle, madam,” he said. “Where did you acquire it?”
“It was a gift,” Amalie said. I could hear the tension cloaked in her languid tones.
Stayne’s voice was soft, barely to be heard over the buzz of the room. “It is a striking piece. Who gave it you?”
I could see that Amalie was struggling to answer the question, so I answered it myself.
“I presented it to her ladyship,” I said. “I wished to thank her for having me to one of her afternoons here at your house, and having seen her at court, I knew her liking for pearls, and I thought this piece would complement well one of her ladyship’s gowns. Truth to tell,” I added, all offhand, “I have been somewhat free with Sir Basil’s possessions, for that girdle-belt came also from the outlaw hoard, and from it I have made many presents to my friends. . . .”
Stayne’s eyes moved from the girdle-belt to my own waist, to the gift’s jetty twin. His voice was still soft, pitched so that only I could hear it. “You have given my wife a valuable gift, it seems.” His eyes lifted to mine. “I must take care to repay the debt.”
“Your lordship need not be so scrupulous,” said I.
“I have always maintained that it behooves a man of high birth to be punctilious in matters of honor and dignity.” Still spoken in that soft, toneless voice. His mild eyes held mine, reflecting perhaps a slight curiosity, with no obvious hint of malice. Yet I felt the malevolence flowing from him, felt the chill oppression and weight of his thought. He turned back to Amalie.
“I fear you are fatigued, madam,” he said. “Perhaps we should bid our guests adieu, and go to bed.”
I bade them both good-even, and made my way to the door. My imagination filled with fantasies of Stayne taking his revenge on Amalie, of oppression and brute violence, poisoning and private murder, and I could think of no way to protect her. I had no standing in the household, or in law; and even if I somehow broke into the house and rescued her, we could not fly far, for she was heavy with child, and would soon be in childbed. Sea-Holly was carrying supplies to Longfirth, and there was no easy way to escape by sea. My anxiety for Amalie had me clammy with sweat before I left the house.
Night had fallen as we feasted, and as I stepped through the door, I saw row of carriages lining the road before the house, their lamps glimmering. The walk was full of footmen waiting to guide the guests to their carriages, many of them accompanied by link-boys with torches, and as I looked out from the front steps, I saw the silhouettes of Fork-Beard and Slope-Shoulder outlined by torchlight, the two still huddled together, and probably plotting some mischief against me.
I walked quickly out of the gate, turned away from them, and then marched along with great strides of my long legs, dodging between the parting guests and the throngs of footmen. It was a few moments before the two conspirators saw me, and then they scurried after. I waited for them to get within five or six paces, and then I opened the door to one of the carriages and jumped inside. I crossed the empty carriage and left by the opposite door, stranding the two hapless cumberworlds on the other side. By the time they realized I was not in the carriage, and had ducked around the horses in pursuit, I had vanished into the dark, and was on the way to my rooms.
&
nbsp; I spent a night sleepless with worry, and afterward walked armed, carrying my dagger, and with Sir Basil’s pocket pistol hidden in my overcoat. Yet I did not often leave my rooms, for I remained in hope that Amalie might somehow get a message to me.
That message did not come.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
* * *
he day before the Mummers’ Festival, I was awakened by artillery fire from the castle, soon echoed by guns firing from the city ramparts. When I opened my window, I saw there had been snowfall in the night, and that the city was cloaked as if with stainless white samite. I could smell gunpowder, and I began to hear the ringing of bells and the bray of trumpets. I thought perhaps there had been another victory over the forces of Clayborne, and so I dressed, armed myself, and walked through the white streets to the nearest square, to wait for the crier.
The herald arrived on a horse splendid with royal livery, and was accompanied by a mounted trumpeter. The breath of the horses steamed in the morning air. After a lively sennet by the trumpeter, the crier stepped forward to announce the engagement of Queen Berlauda to Priscus, Prince of Raverro, Duke of Myrdana and Inner Trace, and heir to King Henrico of Loretto.
As part of the marriage contract, the crier announced, Priscus had agreed to lead an army over the passes in the spring, and attack Clayborne in the rear.
“He can keep his army!” shouted one of the onlookers. “Just send the ransom he owes us for his uncle!”
The herald ignored the voice and called for cheers, which were duly given though I detected no great enthusiasm for the match. The trumpeter blew another sennet, and he and the crier rode off to the next square to repeat the announcement.
“It is the surest way for her majesty to secure her throne,” said the duke that afternoon. “I have urged marriage myself, as has everyone on the Council. Once her majesty produces an heir, she will be unassailable.”
I had been invited to the Roundsilver Palace for an afternoon of poetry, Blackwell and a half dozen others reading their latest verses while their audience sipped sherry and sampled cheese and lacy, delicate cakes. Their graces were kind enough to invite me to gatherings involving music, songs, poetry, and the mechanical arts, perhaps because they viewed me as a superior species of mechanical, apt for killing a stag, planning a naval battle, butchering a goat, or singing a song. These events usually took place in a room they called the Odeon, which was arranged like a small theater, with an elevated stage, rows of seats for an audience, and sometimes a lectern.
At this moment, we were between poets, having risen from our stiff, creaking chairs to the comforts of the sideboard. The poets gathered in a corner and murmured among themselves, no doubt judging the audience much as we judged their verses.
“Must it be the heir to Loretto?” I asked.
“That was her majesty’s preference,” said the duke. “It must be said that Loretto’s ambassador is a handsome young gentleman of great tact and charm, and his eloquence in detailing the advantages of the match was quite unparalleled.” Leaving unsaid, I thought, the question of whether Berlauda would have preferred the ambassador to his master.
“So, now we are to have an army of Loretto march across our borders?” asked I. “Will this not unite all Duisland behind Clayborne, and against our traditional enemy?”
“The army will not fly the flag of Loretto,” said the duke. “It will fly Berlauda’s banner, and Priscus will fly his personal ensign, but not that of his nation, or his father. There will also be loyal Duislanders in the prince’s entourage, to negotiate with Clayborne’s officers and secure their surrender. For now even Clayborne’s most loyal followers must admit they have no hope.”
“Indeed, the odds lie heavy against them. I don’t know why they aren’t besieging Longfirth, and I assume it is because they cannot.”
The duke smiled. “Clayborne’s calling of the Estates did not go well. I have heard from my lord the Chancellor that Clayborne failed to force his will upon them.”
His grace went on to explain that while Berlauda had got most of what he wanted from her Peers and Burgesses, Clayborne’s subjects had been less tractable. A politician does not support a rebel unless he scents some advantage to be had in the rebellion, and for most people advantage lies in money. A fractious Mercer resentful of the taxes imposed by Berlauda’s government would not join Clayborne only to vote higher taxes for himself, and Clayborne got only a part of what he’d asked for. Now Clayborne was raking out the bottom of his treasury, and since many of his soldiers were mercenaries who insisted on being paid, his rebellion was teetering on the edge of collapse.
“Perhaps Clayborne’s cause will crumble without fighting.”
“We can so hope,” said the duchess. “But the Countess of Tern will not surrender without fighting, nor her husband the Duke of Andrian. The soldiers can, at the last extremity, loot the country for their pay. So, I fear there will be blows and terrors yet.”
The duke observed a young man standing by the podium “Ah,” said he. “Here is Master Robin, ready to bring us gladness.”
We returned to our seats, and a poet struck a chord on a cittern and chanted, rather than sang, with a melody.
O cruel Love, on thee I lay
My curse, which shall strike blind the day;
Never may sleep with velvet hand
Charm thine eyes with sacred wand;
Thy jailors shall be hopes and fears;
Thy prison-mates groans, sighs, and tears;
Thy play to wear out weary times,
Fantastic passions, vows, and rimes . . .
I felt unease at this theme, and for a moment, I wondered if Orlanda had chosen this verse especially for me.
Yet, I thought, I was sleeping well enough, with few groans or sighs. It was my waking hours in which I waxed full of anxiety for Amalie.
Robin performed more verses, was followed by an elderly nun who wrote metaphysical verse, and then again the group met for refreshment. The duke’s friends surrounded him, and he was fully taken up by a dissection of some intricate business at court, and so I took a glass of sherry from the cup-board and drifted ’cross the room to the sideboard, where her grace was chatting with several of her friends about a dinner given the previous day by Queen Natalie, the mother of the princess Floria.
“The Marchioness of Stayne attended,” she said, “though great with child and her husband busy elsewhere. Queen Natalie was very kind, and made sure Lady Stayne was comfortable on her couch.”
She said this last with a little under-eyed look at me, as if concerned that I knew that Amalie was well and free to move about the city. You remember that she had been present when I first met Amalie, and since that meeting she had been curious how our acquaintance had progressed. I had of course denied anything improper, but I fear I was not very convincing, for the duchess clearly suspected otherwise.
I wondered if the duchess had heard of my conversation with Stayne the other night, and what conclusion that news had led her to draw. But I was so grateful for this report, and the knowledge that Amalie was at liberty to visit her friends, that I spent the next few minutes inwardly rejoicing in this information, until the next poet took his place behind the lectern, and strove to wring our hearts with another ballad of the torments and miseries of lovers.
* * *
The Festival of Mummers lies on the first of February, halfway between midwinter and the spring equinox, and in ancient times the holiday marked the first day of spring. Though we now have a different calendar, the day is still kept, and begins with the Mummers’ Parade, which marches down Chancellery Road past the castle, and from there winds into the town. I had bought a mask, that of a learnèd Doctor of Law with a long, enquiring nose to sniff out cases and fees, and in my gown and cap I joined the crowds near my lodgings as the linkboys, guisers, wren-boys, and mummers marched past, all masked, all in their brave finery, garbed as lords and knights, fishwives and trolls and monsters. Floats were drawn past by caparisoned h
orses, and stopped every so often so that the mummers could enact a brief play, most of which were so full of references to local people, and local events, that I found them incomprehensible. But I cheered a play by Blackwell’s troupe, which featured that famous monster-slaying Roundsilver ancestor extolling peace in the realm and killing a dragon, which was understood to be Clayborne. And there were other floats that featured comedy, with knockabout acrobats and dancers, and these I cheered with great appreciation.
One float was sponsored by the Butchers’ Guild, and was apparently a satire on some recent scandal of the town. This I failed to understand, but I cheered out of loyalty.
The day was dark, but the mood of the crowd was not darkened, nor the performers silenced by occasional spatters of rain.
After the parade passed, I paused by the Tiltyard Moot, which allowed hawkers to sell their wares at tables set on the street before the building. I bought a pasty, a mug of beer flavored with rosemary and lupins, and marchpane molded in the shape of a wyvern. I tilted the mask atop my head in order to eat and drink, the lawyer’s long nose thrust up into the air, as if hailing a client.
At sunset, there would be a supper at the Butchers’ Guild, and afterward carousing, and songs, and merry-making till dawn. But it was barely noon, and there were hours yet before the supper began, and in the meantime the streets would be alive with celebration. If the meiny were ever to drink to Berlauda’s forthcoming marriage to a foreigner, it would be on this day.
I returned the empty beer mug to the vendor and pulled my mask over my face. I had no sooner done so than I felt a blow between my shoulder blades, and was nearly knocked over the vendor’s table. I straightened, only to feel a hand on my shoulder, and I was spun round to face a group of ferocious masks, an eagle, a serpent, a panther, and a boar with upturned tusks, each glaring at me with murderous, glittering eyes.
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