In the end there is only lank black hair, and sad pink strips of silk on the floor of the Cathedral. The wolf-hounds lick up the blood and, sated, begin to assume their usual ephemeral outlines. One coughs, seeming to choke, but as his form softens, becomes smoky, the object drops through his insubstantial throat and jingles on the flags at my feet.
The diamond necklace. I pocket it as a ruckus begins at the front of the Cathedral.
The archbishop will be pleased to see how well his hounds earn their keep. I do not think my husband will recognise his mistress.
Night has fallen and Stellan is waiting outside Spittleshanks’ house as we exit. Magdalene hides behind my skirts. She remembers her father, she simply does not like him. I refuse to leave her behind ever again. I hope we will soon be able to sleep the night through. Untroubled slumber is the balm I long for; for nights when Magdalene does not wake and whimper, and when I do not clutch at her in my sleep, terrified of finding her flesh changing in my hands. And I pray for nights when I do not dream of my sister, my real sister, dead or worse, toiling under-earth, never seeing the light of day.
“Will you come back to the Palace now?” My husband is crying. “Come home, be with me. We will be a family once more.”
In the carriage under the street lamp my other little family waits: Grammy and Fra and Rilka and Kitty and Livilla and all their children and Bitsy’s doll, so we never forget, are wrapped up in warm coats and scarves. The windows of the inn are now dark. Faideau will not come: he says he is afraid of trees; I have left him a stack of gold coins to keep him in food and drink.
Within my grasp is my past, my former life. It slips and slides under my fingertips like treacherous silk. And here once again is my husband, who is beautiful still for all his flaws. Memories of before conjure rich flavours: Stellan before, our love and lust before; luxury and leisure, never knowing want or hardship. If I just stretch out my hand it can yet be mine. But there is a sour aftertaste; there is what happened, and what was done. There was loss and betrayal and it can never be erased.
I shake my head. “No. Better we take our chances among the whores and thieves. They’re more honest, more loyal.” The deed parchment and the remaining half of the diamond necklace sit solid in my coat pocket.
I take my daughter’s hand and turn away, setting our feet on the wet cobblestones, shining like a path to a better place, to the dark coach that awaits to take us far, far away.
The Badger Bride
The tip of the quill scratches its way across the parchment, a sound that sets my teeth on edge.
One might think I’d be used to it by now. The black marks it leaves in its wake make no sense to me—indeed the entire book makes no sense—then again, I am a mere copyist and mine’s not to question why. Although I do.
Frequently.
Much to my father’s despair.
When he brought me this commission, I turned the tome over and over—a difficult enough task, for the thing is heavy, aged, and fragile, the ebon cover tacky to the touch, the pages brittle—and a smell rose from the skin of the thing that was quite unpleasant. The name of the author and the title of the book were utterly obscured, a thick stygian gum had been smeared across them and it was hard to perceive whether this application was intentional or the result of mere carelessness. The inner leaves confirmed intent—no extant title page waited therein, merely the remnants of a folio torn from the binding, tiny sad folds of paper with ragged edges remained.
So, an anonymous book.
“Who is the client?” I asked my father, Adelbert (former Abbot of the monastery of St Simeon-in-the-Grove), who rolled his eyes and bid me Just do the job.
“But, Father, it is very old, very frail, the ink is faded—indeed fading as I watch if my eyes don’t deceive me.” I manoeuvred the article in question so he could better see. “Is it the last of its kind? Who is the owner? What does he expect?”
“He expects, like your father, that you do not ask questions, little prying thing. That you take this volume and copy it as quickly as you might!” He took a deep breath and roared, “Else I’ll put you out in the cold, Gytha!”
I harrumphed, and left his study. He will not put me out; he will do no such thing. I am the only child in Fox Hollow House who earns her keep, after all. Aelfrith spends her days draped across the couch, sighing for a husband, and Edda spends hers exercising and grooming the six horses in the stables. I alone understood and adopted the scholarly arts Father had tried to teach us; and I alone I adopted the trade he learned in the monastery—and at which, he freely admits, was terrible. People come from all around, from as far away as Lodellan, to have me copy their books, their precious, unique, failing books; to have me adorn and enhance them, to add vines and flowers and strange animals in the margins; to change the existing illustrations they cannot bear (modestly clothe a naked Eve, paint out grandmother’s warts on her nose, give uncle a chin that does not slope so straight from lower lip to clavicle). Copy, edit, amend, ameliorate, augment, and occasionally, if the pay is right, forge.
I will make a book what you want it to be, either more or less itself.
So many since I was very small—so small that Father had to lift me onto the stool piled with two firm fat cushions that I might be able to sit at the tilted desk and reach the inks and shafts, the paints and tints, the papers and parchments that required my attention.
My fingers are stained from the mixing of hues of slate and blue, flashes of umber and gold, red and green; the same fingers are scarred, fletched with nicks from sharpening my very fine goose feather quills. When I work, I wear white cotton gloves, each pair washed in the hottest of hot water after use. I have spectacles, thick half-moons of polished glass to magnify the things I must discern and craft; these perch on the end of my nose only when I am mid-copy. Aelfrith says I look like someone’s granny, for all my smooth skin and dark hair.
“No one,” she taunts, “would ever believe you young.”
Edda merely grunts at that and adds that I need to get out more—that both Aelfrith and I need to take in the healthful air, and exercise that she regards as she does. We three have different mothers, so we are more like to be dissimilar than if we shared a maternal imprint. Fathers have so much less influence.
The scratching of the nib, which has almost hypnotised me, has a rival: the tap-tap-tapping of a bare frozen branch from the wild cherry tree by the side of the house.
With a tiny bed cupboard in one corner, my scriptorium is located on the second floor, in the room with the most windows so I might steal all the light I can. The cherry tree is naked and frosted; it looks dead, as if it will never bloom again. The cold coming from the glass panes may just convince me this is true—this place cannot be too warm, so I may have only the smallest of fires, banked low in the grate, which is why I prefer to not work in winter.
I have spent the day copying this wretched thing, stopping but once to read a couplet aloud, hoping that speech might add some meaning, but it remained nonsense. Looking up I blink hard until my eyes stop watering at the change in focus, and watch the thin branch as the wind pushes it this way and that; any moment now, any moment, it will snap. But no, the thing is hardier than I would have thought. It endures.
I stand, stretch, arching my back until I hear the four distinct cracks that say my spine is aligned once more. I take stiff steps over to the window, where a cushioned seat awaits, draped with shawls, and survey the garden, white as white can be, its purity broken only by the shadowy things there’s not quite enough fall to cover: the chopping block, the wood pile, the swing we use only in summer and only when we are feeling particularly frivolous. And at the edge of the lawn, a dark mobile thing the size of a small dog or a large cat, is inching its way forward, terribly slowly, shaking the snow off its gentleman’s coat quite determinedly.
A badger; no creature should be left to suffer in this weather.
All stiffness is gone from my limbs and I fly from the room, down the stairc
ase with its carved banister and hideous newel post (the head of a green man, but not as cheerful as it should be), making a great commotion that brings my family from various directions. I don’t even worry about a cloak, but fling open the door and charge out into the white.
For precious moments I’m lost, blinded, then I catch sight once more of the determined lope—almost a waddle, with his limbs so chilled—of the black fur and the hoary streak down his back. I stumble through the cold powder and catch up the poor creature. He is heavy; he smells strongly, oh so strongly; he looks at me with bleary-eyed distrust.
“There, there,” I croon, stroking one hand over his head and face as I trudge towards the front door, where Father and my sisters wait. “You’re safe here, little brock, little badger.”
And the poxy little whoreson bites me.
Not viciously—it was merely a warning nip—and only on the one finger but still he breaks the skin and it wells red and stings. Then he snuggles against me, smugly content.
Edda washes and salves my would. While she applies a bandage to the two sharp punctures, I glare at the animal, curled snug in a blanket-lined basket by the kitchen fire.
His eyes are closed, his breathing is even and he is making a deep throaty noise somewhere between a grunt and a purr. One lid lifts, a brown orb stares at me, then is slowly sheathed again. In a bowl in front of a hastily emptied basket are slices of preserved apple and cherries, tepid milk, porridge, and honey. His left hind foot is bandaged; a deep cut slashed its fat pad. The cold had stopped the bleeding, but once inside, the flow started again. He let us bathe the limb with warm water and apply a rosemary salve to it before Edda swaddled him like a baby. He didn’t bite her.
“He must have gotten lost,” says Aelfrith, admiring his coal coat. He is a young male, not a cub, but not a fully grown boar. The streak of white from his snout to his tail is clean as clean can be. All things considered he is a very hygienic badger; well, except for the smell, which is not unpleasant, merely strong and musky.
Edda nods. “Yes, he’s wandered away from his sett.”
“Or perhaps he’s been driven out—old boar and new boar can’t live in peace,” I say, flexing my finger in hope of loosening Edda’s tight wrapping. “Especially as he seems to be a biter.”
“He only bit you, Gytha.”
“I’m sure it was just to say hello,” laughs Aelfrith.
I give my sisters the look they deserve and am about to serve up a retort when Father’s bulk hoves into view. “Still fussing with that confounded animal?”
“O God, how manifold are your works!” I quote.
“In wisdom thou hast made them all,” follows Edda.
Aelfrith chimes in with, “The earth is full of your myriad blessed creatures.”
“Yea, blessed!” we chorus, our mockery taking on the ring of a hymn.
Adelbert regrets (many times daily, I suspect) teaching his daughters scriptures, for we have ended up with firm beliefs, but also varied means of arguing with him on his own terms.
“Gytha, don’t you have work to do? You know the client expects that book by season’s end.”
“And yes, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this, Father. Winter work and no say to me in the deadline! It’s not acceptable.” I frown.
He sees that bluster and bullying will not get him far this day, so he softens his tone. “Gytha, I am sorry, but this is a special job. No more like this, I promise—but with the coin from this one commission, we need not work for two whole years!”
“We don’t work, Father. I work,” I grumble, but turn on my heel and stride from the kitchen.
In the scriptorium, the fire has gone out and I have only a few more hours of usable light left. I poke at the embers and stir them up until flames lick at the twigs I throw on. When it is crackling, I defiantly throw on a larger log than I normally would and watch it catch with satisfaction.
I rub my hands together until they warm, carefully massage the fingers, then sit down to begin once more. Page ten: a drawing of a young woman, who seems to be sleeping, but for the fact there is a great tear over her heart; and words in a language I do not understand, but which make me nervous nonetheless, are written around her corpse.
I manage the rough outline of the body before there is a scratching at the door.
I curse and pull it open. No one is there. Then: a furry weight as Master Brock crosses the threshold and treads over my feet, to sit himself on the rug in front of the fire.
We stare at each other for a moment, until he closes his eyes.
I shrug and return to my desk.
I come down to a scene of high circus the next morning, the badger limping at my heels. I stop in the kitchen doorway and he peeks out from behind my skirts.
“The cheese is gone!” Father shouts.
“The cheese?” I ask.
“All the cheese!” says Edda.
“All our lovely, lovely cheese,” wails Aelfrith.
“The cheese?” I repeat, thinking perhaps I am not awake, but still dreaming. I did not sleep well, and the welt on my finger throbbed throughout the night.
Father looks at me as though I am an imbecile. “The cheese has been eaten. Our entire winter supply. Gone.”
Father is fond of his cheese.
“And no sign of a thief. No doors unlocked, no windows broken,” says Edda knowingly.
“Well, don’t look at me.” I traipse down the narrow stairs to the cellar, which is a surprisingly small room, half the size of the kitchen, and lined with shelves laden with bottles of preserved fruit and vegetables from last summer, wrapped parcels of salted fish and pork, sacks of flour and sugar, small jars of salt and ground pepper, three kegs of Father’s cider, one of his brandy, and a distinct lack of the five large wheels of cheese I set there at the beginning of winter.
I look closely at the walls, the floor, as if I might find a secret passageway heretofore unsuspected, then I shake my head. It’s probably Aelfrith, wandering in her sleep again and now feeding her frustrations by eating. She’d best stop or we’ll be well out of food before the snows end. Turning to go back up, I find myself pinned by a dark gaze in a curious face. I narrow my eyes and wonder at the badger sitting patiently at the top of the stairs. The cheese was on the highest shelf, my head height, and badgers are not known for their climbing ability, nor for their love of dairy. I shake my head once more and return to the kitchen, wondering how to phrase my suspicions of Aelfrith politely.
But this drama, it seems, has passed and another, quieter one has taken its place. Father is nowhere to be seen, and my sisters have moved themselves to the parlour, where they sit expectantly. Aelfrith, in particular, is preening.
“Where’s Father?”
“In his study and not to be disturbed,” says Edda.
Aelfrith nods. “He’s with a client—the client.” She takes a deep breath, which she exhales with words riding upon it, “He’s ever so handsome, Gytha!”
Even Edda nods and I’ve not seen her enthused about the appearance of anything but a horse for many a year. Then again, we don’t get too many men passing by, only the occasional monk, old friends of Father’s, random clients, and tinkers. Certainly none from the burnt-out bones of Southarp village.
I make a move towards the door and Edda leaps up, terribly distressed and barring my way. “Oh, no! You mustn’t disturb them—Father said so.”
I narrow my eyes and stomp off to my workroom. Honestly, she doesn’t know me at all. I sit at the window seat and watch, noting the absence of either horse or carriage. It doesn’t take long before I hear the front door open and see a figure step out from beneath the storm porch, firmly settling a tricorne hat upon thick golden hair.
He gets a good head-start while I fight with the frozen casement latch and eventually clamber down the stout limbs of the cherry tree. I follow his tracks, deep footprints, and huddle against the shawls I threw hastily around my shoulders. Soon, I’m into the woods; icicles hang where
leaves should be, and the patches of sky glimpsed through the bare tangle of branches are grey and unwelcoming. If I do not find him soon I will give up—I’m no fool. He will visit again and I will be waiting; next time I will charge into Father’s study and take the golden-haired man’s measure.
I’m cold and shivering. The moment I turn around, there he is, grinning like a wolf.
I see none of the handsomeness Aelfrith was mooning over, merely appetite and a will to do whatever he wishes. In his hands, a knife, long and thin, a stiletto blade; his knuckles are white around the ivory handle.
“The book,” I blurt and his expression alters. Ah! Here it is, that beautiful mask. But I’ve seen what it covers and I will not be deceived. “I wanted to ask you about your book.”
Smoothly he hides the knife in the sheath at his belt, tucks it out of sight as if it might be easily forgotten. He is richly dressed, his coat lined with ermine.
“My apologies—I could only hear someone following me and thought to defend myself from footpads. I did not mean to frighten you.” He points and I follow the direction of his kid-gloved finger. “My coach is there.”
And so it is, on the road above where we stand in a hollow. Black and shiny as ebony, with four black steeds, a driver and a footman, both blank faced as they peer down at us. I find myself shaking and will it to stop. I clear my throat.
“The book—I was wondering if you knew its name and author? Only—I’ve been wondering. Professional curiosity,” I say, trying to look scholarly and serious.
He gives me a brilliant smile and shakes his head. “Afraid not, Mistress Gytha—it is Gytha, yes? My copyist? I am—a collector—the book took my fancy; its value is purely ornamental and sentimental. It reminds me of someone very dear. But its ink is fading, the cover is derelict. I require a copy.”
“But I can re-ink the text, clean the cover, fix the bindings.”
“No, no. My memory hinges on the contents, not the container. New is best.” His expression tells me that he does not like old things; he is one of those who prefer possessions to be pristine and unused when they come to his hand. An old book is not the artefact for him—the knowledge therein is what he wants, but he desires it in a splendid new repository. I notice his clothing—blue breeches, gold and cream waistcoat, white silk shirt, silver-grey frock coat and highly polished boots—not one item seems overly worn. Indeed, there is no sign of anything having been worn before at all; there is no fading of colour, nor weakening of nap, no hint of threadbare at the collar and wrists, and certainly no wrinkles or folds that might come with habitual attire. This man likes his things shiny.
A Feast of Sorrows, Stories Page 20
