by Angus Wells
“In part.” Arcole wished she did not guess so much, so acutely; wished, too, he could explain that promise given Davyd. But that must break his word and impugn his honor: he could not.
“Only in part?” Her voice was scornful. “Then what else, husband? What more do you hold back?”
He said, “God knows, Flysse, I’d tell you had I not made a promise. But I did! I gave my word, and I’ll not break that.”
She said, “No, of course not,” and he winced at the contempt he heard. “You’ll lie to me, but your word to Davyd—that’s sacred, eh?”
“It’s not the same,” he protested. “I made a promise on board the ship, when Davyd … told me what he told me.”
Flysse stood a moment silent, perplexed. Arcole seemed genuinely ashamed of his deception, but nonetheless determined in this matter of his promise to Davyd. For all she no longer felt she knew him so well as she had believed, still she believed she knew him well enough to know him obstinate in matters of honor. And even though it irked her, she must grudgingly respect him in this: a promise, after all, was a promise.
At last she said, “So then, I’ll ask Davyd what this promise is when next I’ve the chance. Does he not tell me, well … so be it. But understand this, Arcole—you’ll not bring the boy to harm. You’ll not endanger him, or—” She shook her head. “Fear not I’ll betray you; you’ve my word on that. But you’ll not harm Davyd!”
“No,” he promised. “I give you my word.”
She looked at him awhile. Then: “And does escape prove possible, you’ll take me with you.”
“Flysse,” he said.
“You’ll take me with you,” she repeated.
Her tone brooked no dissent: Arcole ducked his head. “We go together,” he agreed.
“I’ll have your word on that,” she said. “Your solemn promise before God. Your word of honor, Arcole.”
He was surprised she should accept it still; and pleased: it left him room for hope not all was lost between them. He bowed his head and faced her. “My word on it. Before God, and as I love you.”
Flysse nodded. “And henceforth you’ll make me privy to your plans, eh? There shall be no more deception, no more secrecy. I’ll have your word on that also.”
“You have it,” he said.
“Then we’ve a bargain.” She turned away. “And I’ll to bed for what’s left of this night.”
Arcole said once more, “Flysse, I’m sorry,” but got back no reply.
He watched her climb beneath the quilt. He no longer had any stomach for his cartographic efforts and, after ensuring the ink was dry, stowed the map and his few tools in their hiding place and pinched out the candle. He yawned: the night, indeed, had aged and he felt drained, as if their argument leached out his energy. He shucked off his jacket and clambered into their bed. Flysse presented him her back, and when he put a hand upon her shoulder, she shrugged it off without a word. He lay lonely beside her, contemplating his errors.
32 Preparations
Those services attended by the branded folk of Gros theim took place soon after dawn, that the indentured be allowed their devotions without disruption of their duties or discomfort to their masters. Not all attended—cooks must prepare breakfasts and the lowest of the low lay fires and clean stoves—but from Wyme’s mansion each Sunday Benjamyn and Chryselle led a shivering procession through the ice-rimed streets to the wooden building grandiosely described as a cathedral. Few free citizens were abroad so early on a winter’s morning, and none shared the church—they’d not stoop to worship with common exiles. It afforded the branded folk a rare opportunity to exchange news, albeit in whispers as the priest intoned the prayers and led the ragged chorus of hymns.
Davyd knew something was amiss as soon as he set eyes on his friends. Flysse’s cheeks were red with cold, and he thought she had been weeping though her pursed lips suggested contained anger. Arcole looked wretched, and Davyd saw that whilst he stood close beside his wife, they did not, as usual, hold hands. For all their proximity, he sensed a distance between them, and inched through the worshippers to find his usual place beside them, asking softly, “What’s wrong?”
It was Flysse who replied, and her response startled him: “What was Arcole’s promise, Davyd?”
Her voice was pitched low that only he might hear, but still was edged with pain and anger. He frowned, confused, and looked past her to Arcole, who shrugged and sighed.
“Arcole made you a promise on board the ship,” Flysse whispered. “He keeps his word; he’ll not tell me its nature, so I ask you. What did he promise, Davyd?”
He did not immediately respond, save to gasp and glance with nervous eyes toward the priest. The vicar was reading from a book of prayer, his voice a drone, his gaze intent on the page. He appeared disinterested in his flock, least of all in Davyd.
“How do you know?” asked the boy.
“I discovered … certain things about my husband.” Flysse cast a sidelong glance at Arcole. Davyd thought the man flinched. “He had no choice but to admit a promise was given. I’d know what it was.”
Davyd swallowed the lump that seemed to abruptly clog his throat and licked his lips nervously. He felt Flysse’s hand close around his wrist, squeezing. The urgency of her grip was matched by the urgency in her eyes.
“I’d not pry out your secrets,” she murmured, “but this affects us all, I think. I’d not see you come to harm, Davyd; and I fear you may. So I ask you, as a friend—what was the promise?”
He looked from her face back toward the priest, then warily around the church. There was no Inquisitor present to sniff out his secret, nor had the priest such power, but even so … He felt very afraid. Might not the voicing of it in this place somehow reveal him? He shuddered, his eyes darting about as might a rabbit’s when a predator’s wings shadow the ground.
“Shall you tell me?” Flysse asked. “I swear it shall go no farther, only—” She shook her head and Davyd saw a tear moisten her cheek. “We’ve a difference, Arcole and I, that needs be settled.”
There was such anguish in her voice that Davyd momentarily forgot his own fears. He looked at her and saw pain in her eyes; past her, Arcole stood miserable. Davyd wondered what had gone on that they seemed so sad. Wondered, too, how that promise Arcole had given him could so affect them. Was he somehow responsible for their distress? He could not understand how that might be, surely hoped it was not. He thought of all the kindnesses Flysse had showed him: surely he could trust her with his secret. Indeed, had he not wished he could discuss his more recent dreams with Arcole, so why not also with Flysse? But not here, not in this place.
Low, he said, “It’s important you know?”
Flysse said, “It is,” and then: “Do you not trust me, Davyd?”
He nodded. “Yes, of course. But …” His eyes roamed the church. “I’d not speak of it here. Please?”
“Then where?” she asked. “Where else might we speak?”
Decision then, sudden, prompted by her obvious distress. He said, “Your room, it’s on the mansion’s yard, no?”
“Yes.” Flysse nodded, confused now. “But how …?”
Davyd hushed her. “You’ve a window? Tell me where it is, exactly.”
She did, and then he asked: “Describe the yard, and whatever walls there are. Does the governor have dogs?”
As she told him, he felt a mounting excitement. It should be an adventure, and did it heal the rift between his friends, then it should be worth the risk. He had already, after all, contemplated the enterprise: now it assumed a far greater importance.
Flysse said, “I don’t understand. How can this help?”
Davyd smiled and told her, “Trust me, eh?”
The day was chill. Spring approached, but winter was reluctant to give up its hold on the city. The sky was a steely blue, the sun denying warmth, a cold wind skirling the streets, where icicles hung from eaves and braziers were set out on porches, smoldering charcoal scenting the frosty
air. Arcole considered the day far warmer than his wife.
Flysse had said little to him since that night—indeed, no more than she must, and the other servants cast curious glances their way. Nathanial whispered about lovebirds falling out until Arcole threatened to box his ears, thereby earning himself a reprimand from Benjamyn. She refused to tell him what Davyd had said, only that the boy had agreed to reveal the content of the promise. He could not understand how, and when he asked, Flysse favored him only with cold looks and bade him wait.
It was worse for the need to perform those duties assigned him. That he had sooner taken Flysse aside and pleaded with her, seek to reconcile their differences, was of no account to Benjamyn, or to Governor Wyme or his wife. In this household Arcole was but another servant; his problems were of no relevance to those concerned with its smooth function. He had never thought before how servants were expected to go about their business regardless of their personal circumstances. Save some illness afflict them, their masters took their presence for granted. Wyme had no interest in his indentured folk save they fail in their duty—and below stairs Benjamyn was the governor’s representative, and no kinder. So Arcole must hide his feelings and play out his role as if naught were amiss. It fueled his resentment.
Nor were the nights any easier than the days. Flysse remained taciturn, watching in silence when he brought out his cache to add some new detail to the map. When she did speak, it was usually to demand he explain just what he did, and when he attempted blandishments, they were met with cool disinterest. It was, if anything, worse in bed. There, Flysse turned from him so that to his catalogue of woes was added frustration. He knew that he had offended her deeply, hurt her badly, but he thought himself punished enough and he wondered when she might decide to end his suffering. And then if she ever should, or if that happiness they had known was forever lost. That thought chilled him to the marrow of his bones: he came to realize how deeply he loved her and how selfish he had been. But when he tried to tell her, she only faced him with stony indifference or turned her back.
Arcole was not at all accustomed to such treatment, or to such misery as it delivered. It was an object lesson: he was better accustomed to success with women, and on those few occasions he had been spurned, there had always been another to whom he could turn. Here, there was only Flysse—nor would he have it otherwise. But still he cursed himself for his mistakes and wished he might undo the past, for all he knew that country was locked and he must look to the future instead. Yet it was not easy to hope when he lay sleepless, Flysse cold as a statue beside him.
Then one night when a waning moon hung like a crescent of ice over Grostheim, there came a tapping on their window.
Arcole was instantly alert, Flysse not much slower to wake. He shivered as he rose, clad only in his nightshirt. The yard outside was dark, and he thought for a moment gusting wind had rattled the frame or an icicle fallen, but then the tapping came again and he set his face to the glass. Frost rimed the edges of the pane, and at first he did not see the shape, but then darkness coalesced out of shadow and a pale face was revealed. Arcole started back, shocked a moment before he recognized Davyd. Then he slipped the catch and swung the window open. Davyd clambered in on a draft of chill air; Arcole closed the window, gaping.
The boy looked like a savage, or some weird shaggy beast. Furs swathed his body, tied with cords. One spread across his shoulders, the boneless legs wrapped about his throat, the head, still sprouting snarling fangs, surmounting his tousled red hair. His legs, too, were wrapped, and on his feet were hairy boots more like the paws of some wild creature than any footwear Arcole had seen.
“I told you I’d come, eh?”
Davyd addressed them both, grinning hugely. He seemed immensely pleased with himself, but his smile faltered as Arcole shook his head in bewilderment.
Davyd turned to Flysse: “You didn’t tell him?”
Flysse shook her head, her expression confusing the boy. “No, Davyd. But is this safe?” Her expression changed to one of concern. “None saw you, eh? How shall you get back?”
Davyd’s grin returned. “It was easy to get out; the return should be no harder. Remember, I was a thief.”
“Even so,” she said. “I didn’t expect …” She gestured at his furs, at the window.
“How else?” he asked. “We’ve not time in church. Nor would I speak of it there. In case …”
Now Flysse grew confused, and Arcole smiled. Davyd settled on the bed; Flysse drew the quilt about her. Arcole donned a coat and took the solitary chair.
“Best we not delay,” Davyd said, loosening his furs. “Sieur Gahame has us wake early, and I’d not chance the streets come light.”
“This is dangerous,” Flysse said.
“Yes.” Davyd could not help but preen a little at his own daring. “But I’m used to danger, no? And you asked me to speak of Arcole’s promise.”
Flysse nodded. “We’ve much to speak of, all of us.”
Davyd wondered at the glance she gave her husband then, but she waited for him and so he said without preamble, “I’m a Dreamer, Flysse.” He paused as she gasped, a hand flying to her mouth. “You know what that means, eh? That was why I begged Arcole he hold it secret—I’d not be burned at the stake.”
“No!” Her eyes were huge with wonder.
“Arcole guessed it,” Davyd continued, “when I dreamed of the sea serpent on board the ship. And when it came, he saw my secret.”
He looked from her to Arcole, aware still of distance between them, sensing it was, somehow, to do with him. So he added, “I swore him to secrecy, Flysse, even to keeping it from you. Do you forgive me?”
She said softly, “Yes. Yes, of course I do. God, what a thing! How have you survived?”
“By telling no one,” he said. “Save Arcole, and now you. Before this, only Aunt Dory knew.”
Flysse reached out to take his hand where it emerged from the swathing pelts. He liked that. Pretending an insouciance he had learned from Arcole, he said, “I’ve been dreaming again.”
Arcole leant forward. “Of what?”
Davyd shrugged. “The forests, sometimes, as if the wilderness calls me.” He pushed back the skull grinning atop his head and frowned. “Sometimes it’s as if the forests want me to go there, as if they promise … I’m not sure … safety, perhaps. But sometimes they seem to threaten me.” He shuddered. “I see things … shadows … that kill folk. They come out of the forests and slay. I’ve dreamed of them coming here, to Grostheim. They roam the streets like … like monsters.”
Flysse said, “What does that mean?”
Davyd shrugged again. “I don’t know. The dreams aren’t …”
Arcole supplied the word: “Specific?”
“Yes.” Davyd nodded. “Before—in Evander—they’d warn me of danger. If I planned a robbery and I dreamed of danger, I’d call it off. Save that last time.” He grinned ruefully. “I dreamed of danger then, but I was short of coin and took the chance—and got caught. On the Pride of the Lord, I dreamed of danger from the sea.”
“And the sea serpent attacked,” Flysse murmured. “So what of these new dreams?”
Davyd said, “I don’t know. Only that there’s danger here, and likely in the forests too.”
“Save you spoke of the wilderness calling you,” Arcole said.
“Yes.” Davyd saw Flysse and Arcole exchange a look he could not interpret. “As if … as if they are dangerous, but also safe. I don’t understand.”
“Coming here was dangerous,” Flysse said. “Might it not be that?”
“I don’t think so.” Davyd’s face was pale and small inside his furs. “Those dreams are of the … the shadows that come out of the trees, only they roam the streets.”
“God!” Arcole stared at the youth. “I wonder … Davyd, when you dream of these monsters, do you see aught else?”
“Killing,” Davyd said. “Sometimes here in the city, sometimes … other places. Like farms.”
Davyd looked at him uncomprehending. Flysse said, “We’ve things to tell you too, Davyd.”
She gestured that Arcole speak, and he told Davyd all he’d learned—of the map and the governor’s coded comments, and what he believed they meant.
When he was done, Davyd studied him awhile through narrowed eyes. Then, astutely: “You plan to escape, no?”
“I …” Arcole hesitated, glancing at Flysse. “I hope it might be possible.”
“You’ll take me with you?” Davyd looked from one to the other, eyes urgent as his words. “I can help you, I know I can.”
Flysse said, “I’d not see you come to harm, Davyd.”
Arcole said, “It’s only a vague hope as yet.”
Davyd heard reluctance in both their voices. He could not believe they planned escape without him; could not believe they’d leave him behind, alone. They were his friends! They were as family to him! Mustering his thoughts, he said, “If I’ve dreamed of these creatures roaming the streets like … like wild animals, then Grostheim’s dangerous. And I can steal from ’sieur Gahame’s warehouse. And in the wilderness, my dreams must be useful, no? I’ll know when danger threatens, so we’ll have warning. You can’t leave me behind, you need me!” He stabbed a thumb into his furs, his voice urgent. “I can get clothes; muskets, even. I can get you a sword, Arcole. I can steal powder and shot. I’ve heard ’sieur Gahame speaking of Salvation—I know something of the land. I can be useful.”
He thought that Arcole, alone, would have agreed, but Arcole looked to Flysse, as if she held the yea or the nay of it. He said, “Please, Flysse,” and when he saw her hesitate, he pressed on: “I’ll not be safe in Grostheim. My dreams warn of that. I’ll be safer with you.”
Flysse offered no immediate response, and Arcole appeared still to await her decision. At last Arcole said slowly—cautiously, Davyd thought—“Are the dreams true, then likely he’s right. Surely he could be in no more danger.”
