by David Waine
*
The next morning Callin felt ill. Mussa, covering her disappointment, ministered to him dutifully, but it was Tetcher who cleaned his vomit out of the bath while he returned to his bed. At least it was a Sunday and he would not have to present himself at the academy for a further twenty-four hours.
After church he repaired sluggishly to the empty training field, where he put in four hours of self-inflicted hardship to dislodge the ballast that harpy had planted in his vitals. Denying himself lunch, he strained further and harder as the sun declined past its zenith. By mid-afternoon, he began to feel more like himself
Finally satisfied that he had restored his fitness to something acceptable, he treated himself to a freezing plunge in the academy’s own bath house and swam hard for a further hour.
It was now early evening. He had had nothing to eat all day but had not felt the need of it. What was left of that goose was now digesting and he was comfortable again.
Carefully he crept along the passage to his doorway. The journey took him past Lissian’s door. A loud snore reverberated from within. He was safe for the moment.
Entering his own room less cautiously, he noted that it was slightly steamy. Of course, Mussa would have prepared his bath and the window would be closed. Mussa, it transpired, was taking no chances after the unintended snub of the night before. Not only was his bath ready, but she was waiting for him, hair bound up behind her head, naked on the rim.
*
Autumn passed in its usual russet and gold, stripped cruelly by the icy November winds until spiny fingers of wood shivered where leafy canopies had so recently shaded. Frosts were now common in the mornings and every shower revealed a fresh layer of snow on the mountains to the north.
Callin’s practice was now to wear a thick cloak over his regular apparel, removing it only in Master Gallen’s classes, which were far too energetic to allow even the bitterest cold to penetrate. Masters Treasor and Ferian droned on as best they could, even though each knew his best teaching was over for the year.
Callin could not attend Master Ferian’s lectures without suffering pangs of guilt over Mussa. The tutor was adamant that chivalry must be extended to all. A woman was a human being in her own right, he insisted, not simply a practical testing ground for a young man’s physical fantasies. If it fell to men to govern nations, it frequently fell to women to govern families, and each of his students should respect that. Consequently Callin had difficulty reconciling his natural urges towards Mussa with his responsibilities.
Marrying her was out of the question. It was obvious, however, that the girl adored him and trusted him absolutely. What if she became pregnant? He was secretly amazed that she had not already done so. Perhaps there was something wrong with her. He did not like to think of that. Perhaps there was something wrong with him. He liked that thought even less, resolving to be more circumspect in future. That resolution disappeared whenever her dress hit the floor.
His principal problem, however, was Lissian. Unlike the princess, who had accepted both of his ‘rescues’ of her graciously, Lissian seemed convinced that saving her from that black villain made him her personal property.
Whenever he sat down to dine in the refectory, she would sit next to him and take it on herself to select the choicest cuts of meat and the tastiest vegetables, topped off, of course, with only the best of the sauces (from the middle of the jug, where the mix was correct) all for the sake of 'nourishing him properly', not that he needed additional nourishment, being the academy’s only undefeated pupil.
Meal after laborious meal, Callin found himself facing a mountain of burnt animal and boiled plant, which she insisted on feeding to him personally.
He found himself running out of strategies to avoid this excess. He had emptied his mind of ways of pointing out some new object of interest to divert her attention while he shovelled most of her ‘nutritious goodness’ back onto her platter.
Presently he took to eating his meals alone in his room. That rebounded on him when she assumed that he was ill and could only be cured by the massive nourishment treatment that she insisted on feeding to him personally.
His recovery from this sickness was amazingly quick (absolute proof of how right she was) and he was back in the refectory within days. Now his strategy lay in timing. At first he was either too early for her, so that the adjacent seats were already filled when she arrived, or too late, so that they filled before he got there. Then he roped in his confederates, Keriak and Simian, so they could sit next to her and converse in trivialities while he, regretfully, was forced to dine in another part of the room. Alternatively, they dined with him (one on either side) where they could discuss strategy, training — anything in which she would have no interest at all — while she vainly attempted to charm her way into the circle.
This ploy lasted him well into the winter, when snow and ice encrusted Brond all day long. When she finally realised that her many stratagems were not having the intended effect, brooding thoughts began to fester in the darker recesses of her mind.
He had another woman!
In her mind he was the beau to whom she would surrender her maidenhood and for whom she would bring forth son after son. A perfect match! The mingling of rich Dumarrick and Vorst blood. If only he could be persuaded to see her in her true light, and get rid of that mysterious hussy.
Her opportunity came sooner than expected. She was roused from her slumber by the sounds of heavy boots (his) and light footfalls (hers) in the corridor outside. Had there been any doubt, suppressed giggles and his hushed admonition for her to be quiet, “lest she hear,” confirmed her suspicions.
Hot gases erupting from every orifice, she heaved herself out of bed and into a robe. Stumping furiously along, she gained his door and raised her fist to knock imperiously. A giggle and a rustling noise reached her ears. This was too much. She put her weight against the latch and threw the door open.
Both faces turned to her in surprise. They stood against each other, Callin still fully clothed, Mussa with her bodice undone but her dress still almost covering her. Self-consciously, she began to gather the folds so as not to reveal her breasts.
Taking his arm from around the serving girl, Callin turned to face her and bowed. “Mistress Lissian, may I be of service to you?” This delivered with all the warmth of an invitation to hell.
For a moment she could say nothing. Until this moment she had assumed he was cuckolding her with some high-born lady. To find herself upstaged by a serving girl was more than she could bear.
“Is there something that you wanted?” he added in a slightly more civil tone.
At last she found her voice. “How — how could you?” she cried.
“I beg your pardon, My Lady. How could I what?”
She glared at him. “Don’t dare act innocent before me, Master Vorst! How could you dare frolic with this — this girl when I am only steps away down the corridor?”
He feigned an apologetic smile. “Forgive me, My Lady, I did not realise that we had disturbed you.”
Lissian now turned her venom on Mussa. “And as for you, you little slut,” she announced, “who do you think you are wiggling and flaunting yourself among your betters?”
She got no further. Her imagined lover had positioned himself between them. “Mussa is a simple serving girl,” he said coldly, “whose responsibilities include cleaning my room and preparing my bath. I do not understand why this should cause you any concern.”
Lissian bridled. “And, from what I can gather, that isn’t all she does!”
Callin’s eyes developed a steely glint that she could not fail to interpret. “If we have disturbed you, Mistress Lissian, I apologise. If you have a grievance, I would rather you speak to me about it, and not to Mussa.” She gaped at him, unnerved by his coolness. “Now, I repeat,” he continued, “if there is some task that you need performed forthwith I shall, of course undertake it, as the laws of chivalry require me to do. If not, Mussa was about
to prepare my bath.”
Lissian’s mouth flopped open again, twitched a bit and then clamped shut. Unable to think of a single word of reproach, she merely stared at him defiantly.
He nodded politely. “Very well,” he said, “I bid you good night, My Lady.”
Right on cue, Mussa stepped out from behind her protector, loosened her dress and allowed it to fall around her feet. She wore nothing else. Her face steadfastly deadpan, she stepped out of the folds and made her way through to his bathroom, her pert bottom betraying the slightest of wobbles in time with her footfalls.
*
Mussa’s chastisement was not long in coming. Before lunch the following day she received a message that the princess, herself, wanted to see her. The news devastated her. What she had done had been madness, an open challenge to the Dumarrick witch. How could she have been so stupid?
Who knew what the princess had been told? Master Callin was not there to protect her, being out on the training field knocking his friend, Master Simian, to pieces. No matter how she looked at it, an ignominious end to the life she had grown to love awaited her, and all because of a moment of silly impudence.
Timidly, she raised her hand and knocked on the door. There was a moment’s silence, followed by a soft, “Come.”
Mussa entered the princess’s chamber. Avalind sat by her window, stitching a piece of embroidery and calmly glancing out at the sporadic flurries of snow settling on the gardens beyond. She smiled at Mussa’s rough curtsey and laid her sewing to one side. The witch was also there, back stiff. Avalind opened her mouth to speak but Mussa gave her no chance, her rising panic driving her voice.
“Oh, ma’am, please — I can explain. I didn’t… It was… It was an…”
Avalind’s smile broadened. “Do not concern yourself, Mussa, although I would advise you to lace your dress up tighter in future.”
Mussa gaped. “I’m not in trouble?”
“Not at all.”
The relief was indescribable. It was all she could manage to keep it from overflowing. At length she managed a polite bob.
“That, however,” continued Avalind, “is not why I called you here. Tell me, Mussa, did you make that dress you are wearing?”
Mussa looked down at her shabby working garment. “This one, ma’am?” Avalind nodded. “Why yes, ma’am.”
The princess studied it with the practised eye of one used to needlecraft. “Do you have any other dresses?”
“Yes, ma’am, I got a nicer one for when I’m not workin’.”
“Ah yes, I think I remember. Is that the one you wear at state functions as well?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Would you be so good as to fetch it and come back here wearing it?”
“Yes, ma’am.” She bobbed a curtsey and left, hastening to the servants’ hall as fast as her legs could carry her. She was back within minutes, bobbing yet another curtsey. Avalind walked round and round, inspecting the garment from every angle. Finally she sat down again and smiled kindly at the poor girl. “You made this dress yourself?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, you made a very fine job of it, Mussa. It is a beautiful dress and you look lovely wearing it.”
Mussa flushed with pleasure, secretly darting a glance out of the corner of her eye at the witch. She stood where she had been on Mussa’s original arrival, in the same stern pose, saying nothing, but her eyes radiating venom.
“Thank you, Mussa. You may return to your duties — only change back into your working dress before you do.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Mussa bobbed yet again, and left.
When the door closed, the atmosphere changed.
“Well, Lissian, what do you think?”
“She looked well enough in it,” retorted the baron’s daughter.
“She is an attractive girl. I can see why Master Vorst is so taken with her. She would look fetching in almost anything. What did you think of the workmanship?"
Lissian stiffened. “She seems to know one end of a needle from the other.”
“I agree,” Avalind confirmed, “and that is about all she knows. She is a moderately competent dressmaker — sufficiently skilled to produce simple clothing for her own use — but she is no seamstress. You, however, insist she is more qualified to make your gowns than my own ladies?”
Lissian bridled. “Your seamstresses consistently fail to produce gowns the correct size. Look at this,” indicating her current dress, which was straining at the seams.
“And I would point out that it fitted you perfectly when it was made,” responded the princess tartly. “It is you who have grown, Mistress Dumarrick. Kindly do not blame my craftswomen for your own excesses.”
Lissian gaped. “I beg your pardon?”
Avalind was in the sort of mood that had faced down Lissian’s father months before. “If you wish your gowns to fit, you must appreciate that they cannot grow to accommodate your ever-increasing bulk. My seamstresses have produced a large number of beautiful dresses for you and it is not their fault that you can no longer wear them. My charity is at an end. From this day forward you will take responsibility for your own clothing. Should you wish to continue employing Mirial and Angma, you will pay them for their work instead of passing the bill on to me. If you wish to employ another seamstress, or do the work yourself, that will be your decision. Your demand to employ Mussa as your seamstress is nothing more than a thinly veiled ploy to have her dismissed. Now leave.”
Lissian glared at her. Avalind returned her stare coolly. Stiffly, Lissian turned to the door, recollecting herself just in time to bob the merest of curtseys.
Avalind’s soft voice called her back. “Lissian,” the tone was much gentler now, “as a princess, I have just rebuked you. As a woman, however, I have some sympathy. It seems to me that you are taken with Master Vorst. His birthright is suitable and he is a most personable young man. He has been my companion, my bodyguard, and my friend, for several months now. There, however, lies your problem.”
Lissian stiffened.
“Master Vorst is not yet qualified as a knight,” she continued, “so he is in no position to offer himself as a consort at present. Therefore, I pray you, do not hasten too much to win his heart. To an outsider, such as myself, it is obvious why he takes Mussa into his bed. She knows that some high born lady will claim him eventually and then she will return whence she came, poor girl. That is the way that the world treats serving girls. Perhaps it should not be so. It is within your power to be that lady.”
Lissian stood like a block of stone. “I resent every shred of what you have just implied, Your Highness.”
Avalind nodded wisely. “Then I see I was mistaken,” she said gently. “Fare you well, Mistress Dumarrick?”
Unable to contain herself, Lissian blustered on. “Even if what you are saying were true, Your Highness, which I deny,” she hissed, “how would you suggest I go about that?”
Avalind smiled. “Look at Mussa,” she replied, “and learn from her.”
*
The summons arrived mid-afternoon. Mussa’s heart sank.
Dutifully, she presented herself at the witch’s door and knocked softly.
“Come!” called the voice from within. Gulping down a deep breath, Mussa went in.
Lissian sat before the window, her frame outlined by weak winter sunlight, the low rays penetrating the chamber almost horizontally. There were two other people present. Mussa recognised both as seamstresses from the servants’ hall. One stood by with a measuring tape while the other sat at a writing desk, quill and parchment at the ready. Both had their eyes averted.
Lissian sat like a judge about to pronounce sentence of death, legs apart, hands on her knees. Silence hung heavily in the room. Mussa knew that the two girls were not present of their own volition.
It was Lissian who spoke first. “You have arrived at last.” Her tone was tart.
“I come as soon as I got your message, ma’am,” replied Mussa
humbly, bobbing a respectful curtsey.
“Then you should learn to walk quicker.”
Mussa had actually run. Lissian allowed a silence to develop, savouring her own position of power and the serving girl’s wretched discomfiture.
“You know Mirial and Angma from the servants’ hall?”
Mussa nodded. “Yes, ma’am. They’re Her Highness’s seamstresses.” She nodded a brief greeting; they nodded back, equally briefly, faces averted.
“For reasons I do not intend to discuss here, it is necessary that we have an accurate record of your measurements, Mussa. Mirial will measure you while Angma notes down the information. Are you ready?” The two seamstresses nodded mutely. “Very well,” continued Lissian, not bothering to enquire whether Mussa was ready, “Disrobe.”
Mussa gaped. “I beg your pardon, ma’am?”
“Disrobe!” there was an acid edge to her voice. “How can an accurate record of your measurements be made if you are wearing a dress? Remove it.”
Embarrassment gushed russet in the girl’s face. “But I only got the dress on, ma’am.”
“Then remove it.” Lissian leaned forward, a sickly sweetness now cloying her voice. “Have you since discovered something I missed last night?”
Had Mussa the wit, she would have turned on her heel and walked out. She did not, however, have the wit. Unwillingly, fumbling, she loosened the thongs and allowed her dress to slide to the floor.
Mirial at once wrapped the measuring tape around her bust and called out the figure to her companion, Angma, who dutifully scribbled it down on the parchment. Lissian sat back, enjoying the girl’s embarrassment as much as she envied her body. She really was very pretty. Her figure curved in and out in all the right places and her legs were very shapely. She attempted to cover her privy areas with her hands but Mirial pushed them out of the way, as she had been instructed to do.
Footsteps outside approaching the door. Horror shot into Mussa’s face. The footsteps were heavy — male! They came right up to the door. Frantically Mussa tried to sidestep Mirial’s ministrations so that she could wrap her garment about herself again. Mirial, however, knew that it was more than her job was worth to allow any of this and cuffed her.
