Beck: a fairy tale

by Nina Clare

  Cicely tiptoed at the window to peek out.

  “Do you like horses?” asked Percy.

  Cicely shrugged. “I like ponies. White ones.”

  “I’ll show you Nutmeg when we go down. She’s a pony. But she’s not white. She’s brown.”

  “Of course she is, silly,” said Cicely. “You wouldn’t call a white pony Nutmeg.”

  Percy’s face fell.

  “Do you like your father?” asked Cicely, turning away from the window and looking round at the chamber.

  It was Percy’s turn to shrug. “If he’s not angry.”

  “My father’s never angry,” said Cicely.

  “Never?”

  “Not with me.” She suddenly looked forlorn at the remembrance of her absent father. “I don’t like this chamber,” she said with a little shiver. “There’s too many dead things.”

  Percy followed her gaze to the tapestries on the walls. The one on the south wall depicted a battle scene with bloodied bodies, and a forest hunt with bloodied stags hung on the wall behind the bedstead. A set of boar tusks and an enormous jawbone decorated the wall above the fireplace, and numerous animal skins, some with heads attached, lay as bed and floor coverings.

  “I’ll show you my stepmother’s chamber,” said Percy, leading the way.

  “I’ve already seen your stepmother’s chamber. Show me where you keep your pets.”

  “Pets?” said Percy.

  “Do you not have any pets?”

  “No,” he said, crushed that he was failing in her eyes.

  “I have two rabbits and a cat,” said Cicely. “At home,” she added, looking forlorn again.

  “Why?” said Percy. He was perplexed. Cats were for catching mice and rabbits were for eating. ”I know where there’s frogspawn,” he offered. “I kept some frogs in a jar before we went to the city. Till Arthur killed them.

  “You don’t get frogspawn in April, silly. Why did he kill them?”

  Percy shrugged again. “He likes killing things.”

  They were walking down the hallway that overlooked the great hall below. “Shall I show you the hen-house?” said Percy, thinking that Cicely seemed to like small creatures.

  “No. Show me Nutmeg,” said Cicely, skipping ahead, “and then we will see if the baby is awake.”

  Three times in the past week Mistress Catchpole had raised her hand to strike Kat: once for supposed insolence, once for not heating the irons sufficiently, and once for being caught talking in passing with Penny. But each time a strange thing had happened. As Mistress Catchpole raised her hand, or in the case of the hot-irons, the shoe-horn she was holding at the time, her shoulder froze and she could not move her arm.

  She was irate the first time it happened. It took near a quarter hour before her shoulder would unlock. The second time it happened she was a little afraid. And the third time she was convinced that Kat had put an evil eye on her. Fortunately for Kat, no one else among the servants would support Catchpole’s accusations of witchery, but from that moment on Catchpole regarded Kat with a wary and fearful eye, and made no further attempts to hit her.

  More good fortune came to Kat in that the competent nurse, who had been brought from the city, had especially requested to Lady Beck that she have Kat and Penny as her underlings in the nursery. And so Kat was promoted from maid-of-all-work to the elevated rank of nursery maid, and she and Penny slept in each of the antechambers of Percy and Cicely’s bedchambers, so they could attend the young lord and lady in the night.

  If Cook could learn to make gnocchi and biscottini, then, decided Kat, life would be as cheerful as a hard-working maid could hope for.

  In the middle of summer Lord Orlan came to visit his daughter. Percy and Cicely had been watching out for his arrival all day, and had been so distracted that Madame Labelle had had to reprove them in her cool fashion for not paying due attention to her Francan language lesson.

  After dinner they were released from study, and they entertained themselves around the manor grounds as they waited for the first glimpse of the travellers. Cicely saw them first, and rushed to greet her father as he came clattering into the yard.

  Lord Orlan swung his tall, strong body from his great chestnut horse before Bellchior had even grasped the reins. He opened his arms to his little daughter who flew across the courtyard to be gathered up by her laughing father.

  Behind him a lad in a new cap and riding cape climbed down from his far smaller horse. Unlike Lord Orlan, he did need the help of the stable-hand to steady his horse so he could dismount. Percy stood looking up at his brother who had grown in the ten months since they had last seen each other. A wave of shyness came over him in the presence of this well-dressed older boy who rode a horse now, and not just a pony.

  “Aren’t you going to bow to me?” said Arthur, putting his hands on his hips and pulling himself up tall.

  “Is that a real crop?” said Percy, finding his tongue at last as his eyes travelled down the figure in the cloak and tunic and leather-riding boots, who looked every inch a knight’s page.

  Arthur rapped the crop against his boots. “Course it is.” He swept back his cloak with the other hand to reveal a small scabbard at his belt. Percy’s eyes widened at the sight.

  “Can I see?” he said eagerly.

  “Later,” said Arthur, walking on in a swaggering gait. “I must attend to my lord first.” Percy ran to follow him, just as he had done in times past.

  “You will not have heard the news from court,” said Lord Orlan to the marquess and his lady as they dined in the hall that evening. “I only heard myself yesterday.”

  The marquess, a cup of wine in one hand and a chunk of game pie on the end of his knife in the other, gave a grunt between mouthfuls and shook his greying head to indicate that he had not heard the latest news from court.

  “Is it concerning the poor little king?” asked Lady Beck, whom Lord Orlan thought was looking exquisite that evening. Her crimson gown suited her near-black eyes and hair; her necklace of rubies sparkled against her slender neck. Lord Orlan found himself sinking for a moment in the fleeting desire to put his hands to her head that he might pull out the combs to see her glossy dark hair tumbling down, down across her bare, smooth shoulders, down to her... Enough! He shook his head and blinked hard to free himself of forbidden thoughts.

  “It does concern the young king, my lady,” he answered, steadying his voice.

  “Has he been seen?” asked Lady Beck. “Is he well? And is it true that his little brother has also been taken from his mother?”

  “He has not been seen. And it is true that his brother has been taken also. The duke has had parliament declare that the late king’s children are all illegitimate, his marriage to their mother being invalid due to a previous betrothal.”

  “What!” exclaimed Lady Beck. “Betrothed to whom?”

  “Some lesser noblewoman from more than twenty years ago,” said Lord Orlan, determining not to look directly at the marchioness. She looked far too lovely that evening.

  “Well, we can guess what that’s all about,” said the marquess, wiping the grease from his mouth and taking another swig of wine. “He wants to set himself up as king.”

  Lord Orlan nodded, looking grim. “It’s an ignoble business.”

  “It is a despicable business,” cried Lady Beck. “What will happen to the young boys? They cannot be made to simply disappear! Why has no one seen them since the duke took them away?” She looked distressed, feeling a mother’s heart for the widowed queen and her children.

  “Hush, madam!” growled the marquess. “I can’t abide women’s tears. It will go well for us if the duke makes himself king. I’ve always supported his campaigns, and he won’t interfere with any of my estates, or with Arthur’s marriage. Don’t you be heard gainsaying the duke, madam, not in my house. My house is loyal to him.”

  “You must understand, sir,” said Lord Orlan in a low and serious tone, “there are many in the kingdom and the kingdoms ab
out us who are of the same opinion of Lady Beck.”

  The marquess flashed an angry look at him.

  Lord Orlan raised his hands in a gesture of appeasement. “There are rumours of a rebellion, to put another on the throne, should the duke seize the crown.”

  “I suppose you mean that Francan upstart?” spat the marquess.

  “He is Anglianese by blood,” said Lord Orlan. “He has been living in Franca only because of the enmity between his house and the house of the late king. He has many supporters, and the duke’s actions are making him enemies in these days, and those enemies are casting their lot in with the young exile.”

  “And what of you, Orlan?” said the marquess tersely. “Are you about to cast in your lot with the foreign boy?”

  Lord Orlan did not reply. He stared fixedly at the table as if he were wrestling something in his mind. Finally he shook his head slowly and said, “I am not at peace with what has been happening since the king died. But I will keep my counsel and hope that the duke will acquit himself of the accusations against him. That is all I can say for now.”

  The marquess leaned back against his chair and narrowed his eyes at his guest. He drained his cup and knocked it hard upon the table to call the attention of his servers to refill it.

  “Let us speak no more of such unpleasantness,” said Lord Orlan, changing his tone to a brighter one. “Lady Beck, I beg that you would cheer me with some music. I understand that you not only play, but also sing very well?”

  “I have not sung since...” she paused, a shadow passing across her face, “...since I left Portgua. But I will gladly play for you.”

  She rose from the table to move to her harp. Lord Orlan’s eyes followed her movement across the hall, noted how the summer evening light from the leaded window panes caught her dark hair to reveal highlights of copper and bronze; noted how the setting sun shed a luminous glow to her face as she bent forwards to reach the harp strings. He dragged his eyes away from her and back to her husband who was fast emptying a second jug of wine.

  “My lord,” he said in a low voice, so that no one else would overhear.

  The marquess looked up at him with a mistrustful eye.

  “My lord, I am giving you the counsel of a friend and future family member when I say to you that it might be wise to privately withdraw your support from the duke. Please, consider it in these coming days, these are perilous times.”

  The marquess glared at him. “Do not presume to give me counsel, Orlan. I’ve lived through perilous times long before you were first in britches. You go where the power is. That’s the counsel I’ve lived by, and it hasn’t failed me yet. If the duke is king then I will be his man. I’ll go where the power is.”

  Lord Orlan’s mouth tightened. There was no use saying any more.

  Dark Sun

  “Hold my hand, Felix,” said Cicely, flicking her long fair hair over her shoulder so she could concentrate on walking two-and-a-half-year-old Felix safely down the stairs. Percy trotted down the steps ahead of them and waited at the bottom.

  “Come on,” he called.

  “Do not hurry us,” called back Cicely, “he only has little legs.”

  “Well carry him down, then.”

  “He will not let me carry him, he likes to walk himself.”

  “So slow!” complained Percy.

  “Percy must learn patience,” said Cicely, in the motherly-sing-song voice she used with Felix, though she was only of eight years herself.

  “Perthee,” replied Felix.

  “Percy,” corrected Percy, “say, Per-see, Felix!”

  “Perthee – Perthee!” called back the dark haired, black-eyed boy.

  Cicely laughed. “He can say your name better than mine,” she said as they neared the bottom step. The three children made their slow journey across the hall and out into the manor grounds to enjoy the spring sunshine till dinner, now that morning lessons had finished.

  “Shall we see the goats, Felix?” asked Cicely.

  “Or the horses?” said Percy. “You like the horses best, don’t you, Felix?”

  “He likes the goats best,” said Cicely.

  “Bell-kor,” said Felix decidedly.

  “I told you he wants to see the horses,” said Percy smugly.

  “No, he wants to see Bellchior,” corrected Cicely.

  “Same thing,” argued Percy.

  Felix tottered to the stables, one chubby little hand in Cicely’s and one in Percy’s. They found Bellchior in the nursing stall, squatting down in the straw beside the foal that had been born several days ago. Bellchior looked up as the children came in and smiled his slow, quiet smile.

  “Bell-kor,” said Felix in delight, pulling his hands free from his young guardians and putting them up to the gate.

  Bellchior unfolded his tall, lean body and came to the gate of the stall. “You want to see the new horse, little master?” he asked. Felix stretched his hands higher in reply. “Must be quiet with the new horse, little master,” said Bellchior, putting a finger to his lips and whispering the words. Felix nodded. Bellchior opened the gate and took Felix’s hand. “Only one,” he said to Cicely and Percy, forestalling their keen dash into the stable. “One at a time.”

  “Gentle,” said Bellchior, taking Felix’s hand and running it over the foal softly. “Always gentle.”

  When the children had taken their turn in stroking the foal Bellchior led them out of the shady stables into the spring sunshine. The dinner bell sounded from the manor house.

  “You must go now,” said Bellchior. Above the clang of the bell came another sound – they all turned their heads at the noise of a burst of excited shouts from the courtyard. One of the stable-hands was calling out something loudly; he was standing with one hand shielding his eyes and the other hand pointing at the sky.

  “Look! Look!” the lad was shouting. The other hands emerged from their work to see what the fuss was for. The scullery maid sauntering towards the goats to give them the morning’s kitchen scraps stopped in her stead at the noise and looked up. Bellchior squinted against the sun and peered up, as did Cicely and Percy.

  The shutters at the kitchen window clattered against the wall as the faces of Cook, the head house-maid, and Kat all thrust out one by one to see what the commotion was.

  The mild March sky was nearly clear, with thin, scattered clouds drifting slowly across. The strange sight that the lad had noticed was the unusual shadow now passing across the sun. As they watched, the shadow gradually and slowly moved across the sun’s face, causing the light to dim and the air around them to cool. They watched in awe, Cicely gripping Percy’s arm, and Felix still holding fast to Bellchior’s hand.

  The sun was gradually obliterated by the shadow until for one awful moment there was nothing to be seen of it.

  Cicely covered her mouth to stifle a cry of fear, and then was flooded with relief to see a halo of light reappear around the circle of the shadowed sun.

  Slowly, by degrees, the shadow passed across its face and left it. The sun was restored.

  “Did you see that?” cried the stable-hand to all who were near. “Did you ever see the like of that?”

  “What was it?” said Percy, looking up at Bellchior, who was the only person to seem untroubled by the strange event.

  Bellchior put his head to one side. “A sign, young master.”

  “What’s a sign?” said Percy.

  “God talking to us.”

  “What’s He saying?”

  “He says, death comes to all,” said Bellchior slowly, as though searching to find the words. “But even death will die away one day.”

  “Are we going to die?” said Cicely, her blue eyes wide and troubled.

  “Not today,” said Bellchior. “Someone has died. But not us. Go now, time to eat.”

  The kitchen was full of excited and fearful speculation at dinner. The butler had been laying the table in the hall when he had heard the shouts through the un-shuttered windows and had
stepped outside to see the strange sight. Penny was glad she hadn’t seen it, she thought it sounded terrifying. Mistress Catchpole was peeved that she had not seen it, being immured in the pantry at the time. They later learned that the marquess had seen it from the middle of the field he and his bailiff were riding through. Madame Labelle’s sharp eyes had noticed the darkening at the window in the nursery, where she and Nurse and Lady Beck were discussing Felix’s new clothing requirements, they had all looked out to see the obscuring of the sun. Madame Labelle had crossed herself and said something in Francan, while Nurse had cried out, “Bless my soul!” repeatedly.

  Lady Beck had said it surely must be an omen, something bad; something monumental must be about to happen in the kingdom. She talked of sending for Mistress Wheedle to hear her oracle on the occurrence, but Madame Labelle, who always felt deeply grieved at having to admit an unwashed personage into the presence of her lady, managed to persuade her against it.

  It was three days later that one of the royal couriers, sent out to all the lords of the kingdom, reached the marquess with the news. At the very moment of the sun’s eclipse – the new queen of Angliana – the wife of the duke who had made himself king, had died.

  “Dear brother – how happy I am to see you!” Lady Beck stretched out her hands to Lord Amando, who was striding up the entrance path to the manor. His smile broadened and his feather bounced in his cap as he took her hands and bent down to kiss her in greeting.

  “I though you would never come!” she chided him. “I have not seen you since the birth of Felix.”

  “Sadly, Magdalena, my time is not my own, I must go where I am sent, and have only escaped from my duties for this one day. I must return to court tomorrow.”

  “The marquess has been called away to court also,” said Lady Beck. “Are the times truly as evil as we have heard?”

  Lord Amando gave a slow nod. “Things are bad. Very bad. The fear is that another rebellion is underfoot. The king is leaving no stone unturned in rooting out the leaders, but all is a morass of deceit and subterfuge, no man knows who is his enemy or friend.”