by A J Callen
Bishop Jubert leaned close to Niclas’s ear. “You see little more than the others, my lord, and there is precious little time remaining for such willful blindness. Count Borodin is expecting your arrival. Make certain none know of your plans if you care for Miss Glanduer’s safety ... and for that of all good people in our land.”
The Bishop smiled and extended his hand. “It was such a great pleasure to meet you again, Lord Delcarden, and we look forward to having you finally grace our modest temple next service.” Niclas felt something thin, like a piece of parchment, slide into his palm as he shook the Bishop’s surprisingly strong hand.
The Bishop bowed and weaved his way through the drunken throng of merrymakers toward the front doors of the Great Hall, as if chasing after the mysterious Euriel Glanduer.
Niclas didn’t know what to make of the Bishop’s alarming message. He glanced at the small folded parchment fragment in his palm, casually tucking it under the opposite cuff of his linen jacket as though straightening the edge of the fabric. He looked to see if Sir Razmig was still in attendance but he too had departed.
What was all that about? Is the young woman being threatened? By whom then and for what reason?
Niclas surveyed the dancers near the minstrels’ gallery. Tarsilla’s face twitched with spite as she endured the lumbering dance steps of her partner, one of the soused, silver-haired Varza delegates who led her with such jerky stiffness that poor Tarsilla looked like a marionette pulled by strings.
The minstrels concluded with an exciting crescendo, and the tottering gentleman bowed, almost toppling forward into her Ladyship.
Tarsilla grabbed his shoulders at the last moment and, with a confident smile, righted the drunken fool with as much grace and least embarrassment possible to the amusement of the snickering ladies clustered nearby. She turned with a flourish of her gown and strode across the floor toward Niclas.
Niclas collected his thoughts and bowed. “I trust your affairs were concluded to your satisfaction, my lady?”
Tarsilla raised her hands and snapped her fingers. A servant holding a tray rushed to her side almost spilling the wine cups. She snatched one without so much as a glance at the trembling boy. “I will be departing for Varza in the morning on my private vessel. I will not be returning for at least a week.”
“My lady? Why the great urgency?”
“Before I agree to the Varzanian offer, I will inspect the improvements to their ancient docks and, more importantly, the protection afforded to merchant caravans traveling all the roads leading to the piers.”
“The King’s Council is well aware of the growing problem on our trade routes, my lady. I trust the Baron’s Assembly is taking similar precautions to those in Avidene?”
“If by that you mean demanding more of my gold to pay for mercenaries, then the answer is yes. I will not have my precious cargo of silks and raw gemstones falling into the hands of brazen highwaymen and smugglers. I want to make certain those filthy hands are being cut off along with their foul-smelling heads—in particular, any found aiding slaves to escape.”
Niclas was relieved at the unexpected news of her Ladyship’s impending departure yet maintained his look of surprise.
“Then I look forward to your safe voyage and return, my lady.”
Tarsilla squinted toward the Varzanian delegate gorging himself at the feast table. “And when we discuss final terms, that little display on the floor will cost the good Baron an extra percentage of his shipping profits. I will not suffer incompetence and weakness of character easily.”
“As I said, my lady, the gentlemen of Varza are not as refined as those of our civilized kingdom to which you are accustomed.”
“And pray, please enlighten me. What should I be accustomed to from our cultivated gentlemen, my handsome lord?” A bitterness crept into her face, hardening her features. “Frankly, I’m disappointed, Niclas. I thought you of all men required higher standards in a woman.”
She slurred her words and grabbed another wine cup from a passing servant’s tray. “That wench was young enough to be your daughter, though she would be something to boast of if you were at all capable of fathering one.”
Niclas felt his face flush and stepped away to the nearest serving table, confused as to why she sought to dishonor them both in such a way?
Many years earlier, before he’d departed Kardi the first time, Tarsilla had rushed into his arms on the pier, her eyes red and tear-stained. A soothsayer had told her she would never have children to continue her line, and years later her only child, Geffry, had drowned, pulled out to sea by a strong undercurrent while swimming. No more children had followed, her childless marriage ending when her husband’s own death proved the fortuneteller right.
Niclas took the brandy offered by the servant and swirled it in the cup. He restrained himself once more, unable to stop Tarsilla from surrendering to past sorrows in public, of unearthing memories better left buried with the dead.
“This is neither the time nor place, my lady. I fear the strong drink speaks for you and not wisely,” he advised.
A cold, hard-pinched expression tightened her face. “But it is always the time and place for me. Geffry loved his home and never wanted to leave. He is everywhere I go, in everything I see and touch that we once enjoyed.”
Niclas finished his brandy, took a deep breath, and turned to face her Ladyship’s accusing glare. As this final affair approached its preordained conclusion, perhaps a poet might have found suitable inspirations for his next great ode in the mysteries and misfortunes of a lover’s fate. But for Niclas at least, no unwritten epic lay waiting for the first stroke of quill on parchment. He had known his own share of family suffering beyond which no words could bear witness to his loss.
Tarsilla suddenly pouted as though their hurtful words had never been exchanged. “Do not stand there looking at me in that condescending manner of yours. Do you intend to seduce the girl under my very nose?”
“Dearest lady, I can assure you I was only making pleasant small talk with Bishop Jubert. He is determined I should attend temple service at least once before I depart, but alas, we are kindred souls, are we not? Neither of us can find much solace from our past within the silence of those hallowed walls.”
Tarsilla narrowed her dark gray eyes. “And the girl?”
“As you have said many times; Kardi is considerably more permissive and less concerned with strict decorum.” Niclas sipped a fresh brandy. “Bishop Jubert appears able to seek the kind of solace that his silent brethren may only dream of in Avidene.”
A maliciously playful expression softened her face, dulling its brittle sheen. “Well, I won’t tell the High Priest if you don’t.” She glanced back at the dancing couple. “And the name of Jubert’s little enchantress?”
Niclas lowered his gaze. “Though the Bishop is a man of the faith, he is also a man of the flesh and discretion. It is prudent that a gentleman in his situation should remain silent on the matter.”
Her expression abruptly blossomed with inquisitive delight. “My, my. Our sweet dove is such a mystery.” Tarsilla finished her wine and dropped the cup on the floor. “Come, Niclas. It’s time to leave.”
“Would you not care to dance at least once before we depart?”
“That pot-bellied Varzanian pig almost crushed my feet. What I would care for is soaking in a hot bath.” Tarsilla licked her ruby lips. “Though I can’t decide whether to do so before ... or after.”
“As you wish.” Niclas offered his arm to escort her, but she did not readily accept it.
Tarsilla dipped her head slightly in a coy gesture. “Are you certain, my lord, that there is nothing more to the Bishop’s words?”
“None, my lady. Jubert is a ruttish old cleric who should count his blessings to be so far away from Worlaw’s stern and watchful eye. The high priest’s influence has grown since the passing of the King. Though he cannot directly choose the successor, his support for the Tiberion claim is no secret in
Avidene.”
“Indeed.” Tarsilla accepted Niclas’s arm. “And that is one of the reasons I refuse to visit your dreary city unless absolutely necessary. Who is to say that any one of those petty, scheming nobles is truly worthy to wear the crown?”
As they walked through the doors of the Great Hall, Niclas was chilled to the bone by a sudden frosty pall, as though winter had descended in a moment, all without warning. The alarming urgency of the Bishop’s words and the mystery surrounding Euriel Glanduer filled his thoughts with such unease that he could only dwell upon one thing: how best to deceive Tarsilla so that he might finally read the unknown contents of the message. He knew he had to consider that fully before doing anything more.
Niclas casually fingered the cuff of his tunic, securing the parchment scrap in place, before escorting her Ladyship to her waiting carriage.
Chapter 5
An Unexpected Visitor
Harlick Pumberton stuck his sweaty face out from underneath a lard sack. He belched and scratched the fresh flea bite on his groin. “Well, there’s no candle in the barn window.”
Looking out of the rendering shack window, it was so dark he could scarcely distinguish the outline of their thatched home at the end of the unlit path. “They better not have got mixed up with any drunken peasants and that Saint Kaja feast nonsense. The town council was right to stop that pagan festival years ago. None can say for certain that the bloody sorceress ever lived. Religion has no place in a respectable town of business.”
“You should talk.” Rimilda dragged herself out from under the damp, odorous sheets and rubbed her temples. She turned up the flame on the oil lamp. “How many times have I told you not to drink so much before and after? We’ve slept the day away.”
“You were doing a fine job all by yourself, woman.” Harlick picked up one of the chipped pewter flasks and shook it. “There’s scarce enough left for me by the time you had your fill.” He pitched it onto the rubbish heap in the corner.
Rimilda slipped her hand down the front of Harlick’s untied trousers. “And who’s to say I’ve had my fill, you dirty, naughty dog?” She snickered, licked her lips, and squeezed a little, before squeezing some more.
Harlick grabbed his wife and pressed her in hard against his belly. “Aren’t you a saucy wench, dirty mare.” He nuzzled his nose between the mounds of her ample cleavage. “Let the stragglers have a stone-cold supper tonight. They’ll not be comin’ in here.” Aroused to another frolic by Rimilda’s insistent dexterity, Harlick groaned and stumbled with her, back toward the pile of sullied sacks and sheets. “And I’ll ring his bloody skull if he tries to open—”
Three hard raps sounded against the door.
Harlick stepped out of his unwashed drawers. “Baxley? Take the boy to the barn,” he cried out. “There’s no comin’ in here.” His manhood was beginning to chafe under Rimilda’s vigorous stroking. “And tell him he can’t be havin’ fresh straw, not until he cleans out the chicken cage. Your mother and I will be inside shortly.”
“I am sorry to disappoint you, my good sir, but I am neither your Baxley nor do I have any sort of a boy with me.” The voice sounded stern yet with a regal calm seldom heard in Grimsby. “But I do wish to speak to you about one.”
Rimilda pulled the sheets over her bosom with one hand and snatched her linen under-tunic from the floor. “What kind of gentleman comes knocking on a stranger’s door after sundown? Go away and come back tomorrow when we’re open for business.”
Harlick pulled his trousers up from his ankles and called out again. “As you’ve heard, sir, the shop is closed but if you’ll be kind enough to—”
“And I am not here to purchase a festering barrel of your congealed swine fat,” the voice outside called back. “At least, not for one hundred sovereigns, I am not. Now, please open this door forthwith, so that I may plainly state my business.”
One hundred sovereigns? Harlick looked at his startled wife and whispered, “What have we got that’s worth that much?”
Rimilda grabbed her frock. “Well, don’t just stand there gawking, you worked-up fool. Answer the bloody door,” she barked, tugging her stained apron over her head.
Harlick smoothed back his sweaty, wispy scalp. He lifted the latch and opened the door to see a tall stranger looming before the threshold, a man he had never seen in Grimsby before. The stranger towered over Harlick by almost a good two feet of lean, sinewed flesh.
The man’s raven beard, streaked with silver and shorn to a tip below his firm jaw, showed him to be not a common freeman of Grimsby. He wore a dark amber velvet cloak over a black wool tunic belted at the waist with a band of gold satin. One hand rested on the jeweled hilt of his sword. He narrowed his eyes. “Mister Harlick Pumberton of Grimsby?”
Harlick took a step back. “Ye—yes sir? How may I help you?”
The man’s steel-gray eyes flashed like the shimmer of polished blade exposed at the top of his scabbard. The stranger smiled and relaxed his sword hand. “Good evening, sir. Please accept my apologies for disturbing you—and your good lady—at this most unseemly hour, but I am here on a matter of great importance in the service of our Kingdom. My name is Ethan Braiding.”
“And should I know you, sir? Your name sounds unfamiliar to me.”
“As I dare say it would. I have not visited this region since I was a boy with my father.”
“And who might that be?”
The stranger swept aside his emerald velvet cloak bearing a noble house insignia shield of a lion’s head over three crossed swords. “Duke Manfred Braiding of Lionsbury; may he rest in peace.”
“Duke—” Harlick sputtered, “The son of Lord Lionsbury?” He swallowed the name back from where it came. “My apologies, your Lordship.” Harlick lowered his head. “If it please your Lordship, how may I serve you?”
Lord Lionsbury waved his hand. “None of that Lordship business, Pumberton. We don’t have time for all that.” He peered inside the rendering shack, his nostrils flaring. “I am here to discuss your boy. His kingdom and people require his service.”
Harlick raised his head. “Baxley?”
Rimilda shoved Harlick in the arm. “Didn’t I say this glorious day would arrive?” She curtsied and almost tipped over, a trail of holed undergarments still languishing around her feet. “I am Missus Rimilda Pumberton, your Lordship.” She giggled like a blushing scullery maid. “You must be in need of a strong and stout squire. Rest assured you’ve come to the right family.”
Lord Lionsbury nodded in respect. “Of course, dear lady. We are searching for certain young people who possess the necessary strength of character, and that is why I would like to speak to you.”
“Oh, your Lordship!” Rimilda clasped her hands against her bosom. “I always knew our brave little Baxley would grow up and train to become a dashing knight one day.”
She turned to her husband. “Didn’t I, dear? Didn’t I always say he would make his family proud?”
“True, woman, though I had seriously grown to doubt it.” Harlick coughed and cleared his throat. “The boy does have his heart set on it and I’ve always said hard work and strong discipline are the only two things a young man needs to build fortitude and moral fiber.
“Do as you see fit with our blessings, my lord, and he’ll make you a fine squire, you can rest assured of that.” Harlick stepped closer and spoke in hushed tones as if Baxley was present.
“He just needs the odd encouraging word and a constant firm hand to set him on the proper course, if you catch my meaning, your Lordship.”
Lord Lionsbury covered his mouth and nose with a mauve silk handkerchief. “Yes, I dare say I do, yet I must be light-headed after my long journey for I believe I have not explained myself properly.” He stepped out of the rendering shack. “May we discuss this outside where the air is, I trust, more refreshing?”
Rimilda lurched forward and took hold of his Lordship’s arm.
“Oh, but you have explained yourself perfectly,
my generous lord. The one hundred gold sovereigns are our compensation for the loss of our son’s labor, are they not? How generous you are and to a fault, my lord.”
She looked away and covered her eyes. “Oh, he’ll be dearly missed I can promise you.” She wiped a tear from her eye. “I can’t tell you how many nights I’ll be crying myself to sleep.”
“Of that I am sure, my good woman,” Lord Lionsbury sighed and looked down at his boots. “Now, if you please, may we discuss this matter somewhere else? I have rooms at the Brackhill Inn and will be spending a few days there, resting my horse and replenishing supplies for my return journey.”
Rimilda bowed, her heavy bosom almost spilling out of the low-cut neckline of her frock. “Of course, your Lordship. Baxley will be home shortly. Our humble house is yours.”
Lord Lionsbury sniffed the air and turned toward the field. “I thank you most kindly,” he said. He sniffed the air again and wrinkled his nose. “But I shall not be needing to avail myself of your… humble yet delightful house. As I said, I have accommodation at the inn. But I shall happily tarry and await the return of your boy.”
“As it pleases you, your Lordship,” Rimilda said, her gaze far away, dreaming of how her boy was about to make good and bring riches to the family.
“There is a light in your barn window, you know,” Lord Lionsbury said, raising his brow as if it would help zoom in on the scene. “It was not there a few moments ago.”
Harlick squinted toward the barn.
The boy will blame Simon again for being late but the heavens know he’s not the one deserving the crack of my cane across his tubby backside, Harlick thought.
“Our son will be honored to meet you, sir,” he said. “Just remember—a firm hand and an encouraging word will help Baxley learn his proper station in life.”
Beaming with pride, Rimilda gripped onto his Lordship’s arm. “And not a moment too soon. Baxley will be thrilled to meet a real Lord of the realm for the first time!”
