Navarin, Thunder and Shade

by William Stafford

  The stairs led to an underground chamber, illuminated by burning torches. The chamber was circular and at its centre was an altar, a stone table smooth and narrow. Carith stood at its head and signalled to the girl to position herself at the foot.

  “You must not breathe a word about this place.”

  “I - I won’t,” Gonda smiled. “Every wife should have a hidey-hole.”

  Carith frowned. Peculiar girl. “I am serious. If you cannot be trusted to hold your tongue, I shall hold it for you.” She unhooked a fork from her belt. Gonda brightened at the prospect of imminent toast.

  “I won’t utter a peep, my lady,” said Gonda. “Shall I slice the bread?”

  “What bread? What are you babbling about?”

  “The fork,” Gonda nodded at it. “Aren’t we having toast? And tea!”

  Carith was astonished. “You think this is some secret cubbyhole where I come to get away from my husband? A den?”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Not in the sense that you think. In a few short hours, this place will be the site of an important ceremony, one in which I would like you to play a key role.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you! You have met my maidservant, Milassa.”

  “Yes. She’s a quiet one.”

  “She has served me well but you are to replace her. Are you strong enough, do you think, to hold her still?”

  “I suppose. Is this wrestling? Is that what this is about?”

  Carith wondered whether she should have the girl’s tongue out right there and then to pre-empt any further asinine questions. “I don’t anticipate she will put up much of a struggle but you will hold her ankles. Sometimes they kick out.”

  “They?”

  Carith smiled. “All will become clear in a few short hours, my dear. Now, you had better get back to that sweet little boy. I would hate for him to miss you. And remember: not a word. I would hate for that sweet little boy to come to any harm.”

  She ushered the girl back to the staircase. Gonda was still puzzling through that last remark as she wound her way back to the apartment. Yes, you think about it, Carith Drombo smirked behind her. Think about your precious Miggy.

  She felt sorry for Milassa - or rather she felt sorry to see her go; she had been a loyal and efficient worker.

  ***

  Tiggy was in an agitated state when Gonda got back to him. He was alone in their room, sitting on the floor, twitching and mewling softly. Gonda scooped him up into her arms and pressed her lips against his neck. She sang to him until he calmed down, containing her own fury. Where was Lughor? Where was Milassa? Tiggy had been left in their charge and they both seemed to have disappeared.

  As if Gonda had called to her out loud, the maidservant burst in. She was breathless and her face was flushed. She curtseyed an apology. Gonda shook her head, unwilling to lose her temper in front of the child. To make amends, Milassa fetched warm drinks and biscuits, her eyes sad and pleading.

  “No harm done, I suppose,” Gonda conceded. “Just don’t do it again, will you?”

  Milassa shook her head rapidly and emphatically.

  “Milassa,” Gonda invited the maid to take a seat. “What’s all this business with the cubbyhole at the bottom of the stairs?”

  The maidservant looked nonplussed.

  “You know: that room with the stone table and the burning torches. Her Ladyship said something about holding you down? What’s that all about?”

  Milassa looked grim but determined. The tiniest smirk played at the edge of her silent lips.

  “Milassa, if she’s making you do something you don’t want to do, you can tell me. Well, you can try to. Perhaps I can speak up on your behalf.”

  Milassa reached out and took the goose girl’s hand. She squeezed it and stroked the back of Tiggy’s head. She shook her head and ran from the room.

  “Something’s going on here, Tigs,” Gonda whispered in his ear. “But don’t worry; I won’t leave you again.”

  ***

  Carith bathed and then insisted that Milassa do the same. The maidservant was as compliant as ever. Things looked set for a straightforward and uncomplicated renewal. Just as it should be.

  Her limbs felt heavy, tired - from the hot water, she supposed, and then remembered she always felt sluggish like this just before the moment came. A gentle reminder from her body that time was running out, that she would age and wither - and rapidly too! - unless new blood, new virgin blood, was used to replenish her youth and vitality.

  The goose girl was a worry; Carith decided to take precautionary measures. Lughor would do it. She sent for him and gave him his orders. He bowed low and was still taller than most people in doing so.

  He went directly to the goose girl’s room. She answered the door, her face pink from her own bath, the ends of her hair still wet.

  “Hello, Lughor!” she beamed. “Lovely to see you.”

  Lughor frowned; no one had ever said those words to him before and meant it. She stepped aside to let him in. “I’ve come for the boy,” he said, gruffly, business-like. “Oh.”

  He was surprised to find Broad Shoulders on the floor, playing with the child, making rudimentary soldiers march up and down.

  “All right, big man,” the youth grinned. “Come and join us. We’ll have a war.”

  Gonda was worried. “What did you mean, you’ve come for the boy?”

  “Her Ladyship,” said Lughor. “Wants him looking after while you do that little job for her...”

  “Little job?” said Broad. “What little job?”

  “Oh,” Gonda made a vague gesture. “You know: women’s things.”

  Broad screwed his face up. Tiggy laughed.

  “It’s quite all right,” she addressed Lughor. “Broad’s here. He’ll look after Tiggy.”

  “I have my orders, Miss.”

  “Oh, come off it, Lughor,” she swatted at him. “No offence. Tiggy just likes Broad better. Better than me too, I shouldn’t wonder. It’ll be fine.”

  “I’ve squared it with the Duke,” said Broad, knocking one soldier over with another. “You can start your shift a little early; he doesn’t mind.”

  “Oh...” Lughor was at a loss. He wanted to follow Callie’s - Her Ladyship’s - instructions to the letter.

  “You know His Grace,” Broad continued. “Anything to keep the wife happy.”

  Ah, thought Lughor. The Duke also wants to keep Callie sweet. Can’t say that I blame him. He’s the luckiest man in all the realms.

  He nodded goodbye and left. The Duke would be preparing for a ride around the grounds about now. Good. Lughor could do with fresh air. Clear a few cobwebs. He headed to the stables to seek the sturdiest horse.

  ***

  “I’m going now, Tigs,” Gonda said from the doorway. Tiggy was captivated by Broad’s toy soldiers and didn’t seem to hear her, but Gonda knew that did not necessarily mean he had not. She waved to him anyway. “I’ll be back soon. Tuck you in.”

  She headed to the mistress’s apartment. Whatever was going to happen, she just hoped it would be over quickly so she could get back in time to tell Tiggy a story. The boy seemed to be more - present, lately. He didn’t seem to keep drifting off as much as he used to. Where do you go to, Tiggy, the goose girl often wondered? What goes on behind those big dark eyes?

  Carith Drombo nodded curtly at Gonda’s arrival and without saying a word opened again the door to the secret staircase. Gonda followed her down, taking great care not to let her pristine white shift brush against the mildewed walls. Milassa was already there, lying on the altar stone, placid, collected, and calm.

  “You must do as I say,” she told the goose girl. “And remember what I said about telling no one.”

  Gonda nodded. The veiled threat
against Tiggy hung in the air between them. She saw that Milassa’s ankles were bound by white ribbon. Gonda looked into the maidservant’s eyes. Milassa smiled but her eyes were steely; Gonda had never seen that look before.

  Carith stood at the maidservant’s head and muttered incantations. Gonda strained to hear but could make no sense of any of it; it was not a language she had heard before. The mistress’s eyes widened, indicating that Gonda should get to her appointed task of holding down the maid’s ankles. Gonda did so, taking care not to hold them too tightly or to press down too hard.

  Carith took Milassa’s wrist in her hand and pushed one of the tines of her elaborate fork into the pale, yielding flesh. Milassa’s legs stiffened but she lay still. Gonda watched in mounting horror as the other prong went into the mistress’s arm. Carith Drombo threw back her head, laughing, exulting, revelling in this strange and unnatural act. Gonda could not take her eyes off her, even though she was dimly aware of Milassa’s legs shrinking beneath her hands.

  At last, it was over. Carith grinned, triumphant. Gonda gasped, for the maidservant was no more. Where she had lain, an empty skin, a papery girl-shaped husk, that crumbled to dust as though the weight of her gaze was too much for it.

  Gonda was horrified. Carith laughed and smirked. “So now you have seen it. You must never speak of this or you know what I shall do. Now, you are to be my maidservant. Find me young women like this one to keep me alive and you and your precious boy shall be spared.”

  Gonda backed away. “She - she found me in the marketplace! She brought me back here! That was meant to be me on that stone, wasn’t it?”

  “That was the original plan, yes,” Carith admitted. “But things change. Milassa understood that.”

  “What changed? Why her and not me?”

  “You sound disappointed!”

  “No; I just want to know what changed your mind.”

  But Carith was in no mood for exposition. She waved the girl to be quiet and went up the stairs, three and four at a time, keen to make the most of her rejuvenated energy.

  Gonda followed, eager to get back to the little boy. What nightmare have I brought you to, Tiggy? Out of the house fire and into the madhouse! I’ll get us out of this, I swear!

  Twenty-Four

  The Duke was keen to take another turn of the grounds. He would have preferred a dash across open country at full gallop but, loath to stray too far from the palace on account of what the evening held in store, he had to be satisfied with a brisk canter.

  “And you never married yourself, Lughor?” he asked his riding companion.

  “How could I do that, Your Grace?”

  “Do what?”

  “Marry myself.”

  “What? Oh! Oh, I see. Very droll. I take it from your humorous diversionary tactic that you do not wish to speak of your personal history.”

  Lughor grunted.

  “Quite right, quite right. Your prerogative, of course. I wish I was afforded the same luxury. There are things about me - very private things - out there throughout the realm, embroidered on souvenir tea towels. Who is buying all this stuff, I do not know. Still, it keeps someone in business, I suppose. The amount of tat that was churned out for my wedding you would not believe. And now here we are, a full twelvemonth later, and I am about to have at last my wedding night.”

  Lughor grunted. He did not wish to talk about anyone else’s private life either and most certainly not that of the man who was about to share a bed with Lughor’s long-lost love.

  “I say,” His Grace nodded toward the western gate. “Some kind of hullabaloo.”

  His horse trotted over. Lughor called the Duke back; His Grace was supposed to let his bodyguard take the lead when presented with potentially perilous situations. The Duke dismounted and, after patting the horse’s neck, handed the reins to one of the sentries. “Hello?” he queried. “What’s the trouble?”

  The sentries - there were four of them - bowed their heads and bent their knees upon recognition of their inquisitor. “Your Grace,” said one, “a rider approaches from the west.”

  “Really?” said the Duke. He stood near the tall iron grilles and peered along the road. Several hundred yards off, a man on horseback was plodding steadily closer although he was slumped in the saddle to such an extent one might be forgiven, at this distance, for mistaking the horse for a camel. “Who is it?” the Duke squinted. “Can you make out any insignia?”

  He became aware of the big bodyguard at his shoulder.

  “Are you expecting any visitors, Your Grace? For your anniversary, perhaps?” the deep voice rumbled.

  “I should say not!” scoffed the Duke. He dug his elbow into his bodyguard’s flank. “It’s my wedding night, don’t you know?”

  Lughor grunted; he knew.

  The onlookers gasped as the rider slid from the saddle and hung, his foot in the stirrup, down to the ground. The horse continued its steady approach, dragging the man over the rough stones of the road.

  “That poor fellow,” winced the Duke. “There will be little left of him by the time he gets to us. Lughor, do something.”

  “I’ll go out and meet him,” Lughor nodded. The sentries bustled around to turn the winch that opened the gates. “Stay back, Your Grace.”

  “Quite so,” muttered the Duke. He watched the bodyguard stride away and signalled the sentries to train their crossbows on the uninvited visitor, just in case.

  Lughor raised his hands. The Duke could not hear what he said but the horse came to a halt at once. Lughor stooped and gathered up the rider. The way he carried him back to the palace reminded Marmellion of that happy day, exactly a year ago, when he had picked up his new bride and bore her over the threshold. Now - well, in a couple of hours - their union was to be consummated.

  “Oh!” the Duke was brought back to the present by the shock of seeing the rider close up. The man’s face was a mask of blood, caused in some part by his encounter with the road; he was a collection of wounds, more injury than person. Lughor laid him gently on the path inside the gates.

  “Lives he?” said the Duke, taking in the man’s pitiable and horrifying condition. Shafts of arrows coated his back and shoulders like the quills of a porcupine. Blood oozed from several gashes on his torso - the full extent of the damage was hidden by his chainmail, which was dripping crimson on the ground.

  “Just about,” said Lughor, and then, with a touch of impatience, “Send for a surgeon!”

  “What? Oh! Oh, yes! Indeed.” The Duke signalled and a couple of sentries scrambled away. He bent over the injured man, looking for signs of life. The chest was moving, but only slightly, and bloodied breath gargled in the back of his throat. “I say, fellow,” the Duke addressed him; Lughor rolled his eyes. “Whence came you?”

  “He won’t answer, Your Grace; he is unable. He needs medical attention but that might not be enough-” Lughor was surprised as a hand, steeped in gore, clutched at the air, beckoning them closer.

  “Yes, yes?” the Duke encouraged. “He’s trying to speak. What is it, my good fellow?”

  The man rasped wetly. A red mist sprayed from his mouth; the Duke did his best not to recoil. With great and painful effort, the man forced out two words and then lapsed into unconsciousness.

  “What?” blinked the Duke, straightening up. “What did he say?”

  Lughor ran a hand down his own face and looked through the gates and along the western road.

  “He said, ‘Tullen Spee’.”

  ***

  The doctor stepped out into the corridor where the Duke and Lughor were waiting. He lowered his head and shook it. “I have done all I can to make him comfortable,” he had an apologetic tone. “I fear he may never wake up again.”

  The Duke stamped his foot in frustration. “If it’s a question of money, you may double yo
ur fee.”

  “Would it were that simple, Your Grace. His condition is beyond my help. Any one of those wounds would have proved mortal to another man. Sheer force of will alone has kept him alive and brought him here.”

  “But why, damn it! Why come all this way only to expire upon arrival? Do you have any notion, Lughor?”

  Lughor mimicked the doctor’s apologetic demeanour. “I have searched the horse and the man’s belongings. There is no clue to his identity nor sign of a message of any kind.”

  “His being here is the message,” the Duke paced away, chewing at his thumb. “But what is it? A warning?”

  “It seems likely,” said Lughor. “Your Grace, there is a means to find out.”

  The Duke stopped pacing and stared. “If you’re talking about torture, it’s out of the question. Besides, the blighter is in so much pain already, thumbscrews and the rack would only tickle him.”

  “Not torture, Your Grace.”

  “Then what? Out with it?”

  Lughor looked meaningfully at the doctor. In turn, the doctor looked meaningfully at the Duke. The Duke let out a grunt and looked meaningfully at his bodyguard. Lughor paid the doctor with a pouch of coins. Pleasantly surprised by its weight, the doctor bowed to the Duke and scurried away.

  “Well?” the Duke folded his arms. “What is it?”

  Lughor opened the door and ushered the Duke inside. “Privacy is required,” he said.

  They stood at the foot of the bed. The man certainly looked cleaner than before but that only served to show where one injury ended and another one began. His face was like a chopping board bearing the scars of countless cuts and slices. He lay on his back, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. He looked dead, save for the slow and steady rattle of breath struggling from his lungs.

  “Poor fellow,” the Duke observed. “It sounds like he’s on the way out. Whatever it is you’re going to do, you must do it quickly.”

  “Not I, Your Grace. The young lad. He has a friend.”

  “I’m not surprised; he seems like a perfectly amiable chap. What? Oh! You mean this friend is in a position to get to the bottom of this?”