The Baker's Boy

by J. V. Jones

  After his servant had left, Maybor paced his room. No one, farmer or otherwise, falls on a scythe. This was Baralis' doing, thought Maybor. He'd had the squire killed to avoid any possible link between himself and the fire. Baralis had somehow managed to kill his assassin. And Scarl was not just any fool with a knife; he had been the best in his profession. The assassin had been right to be wary of his mark. Baralis was becoming too ingenious. Maybor paced for a long time, thinking about how best to eliminate his problem.

  Bringe surveyed the huge expanse of orchards. From his position on the hilltop he could see hundreds of acres of the low and leafless apple trees laid out in neat lines as far as the eye could see. Lord Maybor's orchards. Bringe smiled knowingly to himself and felt in his pocket for the letter. His rough hands curled around the smooth sheet and a tremor of anticipation ran through him.

  Bringe knew the great wealth that the orchards represented: they were home to the finest apple trees in the Four Kingdoms. The best cider in the Known Lands was produced from these succulent and sharp-tasting apples. Cider that was exported to countless cities and towns where discerning drinkers were willing to pay the highest prices for a mug of the honey-colored brew.

  The apple orchards were the most important industry in the east. If a man did not tend the apple trees, he brewed the cider, or crafted the barrels, or grew hops for the fermentation. Everyone from the youngest babe to the oldest woman in the town of Nestor helped pick the apples when they grew ripe on the tree. The elders held that the secret to fine-tasting cider was picking the apples when the color was just right: light yellow with just the beginning of a reddish blush. Too little red showing on the skin would yield a bitter brew, too much red would turn the brew too sweet.

  Bringe drew forth the letter from his pocket and unfolded the document with elaborate care. He peered at the contents, unable to read a word that was written therein. When the dark rider arrived late the previous evening, delivering the letter, Bringe had been forced to take the humiliating step of having his wife read it for him. Of course, he had beaten the slovenly wretch senseless afterward, just in case she got any ideas about blabbing the contents to anyone in the village. As he brought his leather strap down upon her back, he felt he detected a glimpse of arrogance in her watery eye. Bringe hated the idea that his wife might think herself better than him just because she could read. Fueled by righteous indignation-for it was only proper that a man show his wife who was master in the home-Bringe looked around for something more brutal with which to hit her. His eyes alighted on a heavy iron pot, and with vicious enjoyment he beat his wife until she was bloody and senseless.

  When he had finished with his wife he realized he was feeling aroused. His thoughts turned to his spouse's sibling, his young sister-in-law, Gerty. On Winter's Eve she had sat in his lap, her bottom heavy and warm, swaying suggestively against him. When his wife left the room to tend the stew, Bringe asked Gerty for a kiss. The girl willingly complied. It was no sister's kiss. Gerty had slipped her sharp tongue between his teeth, sending a thrill of excitement through his body.

  Bringe's thoughts lingered over the abundant charms of his sister-in-law. It was, he thought, high time he took a new wife, and the young and full-thighed Gerty would do him nicely. There was, of course, the problem of his current wife to deal with. Indignation rose in Bringe's breast. That ungrateful sow had held him back too long. She did nothing but nag and harangue him, and now, because of the letter, she felt she had something on him. He'd show her.

  Bringe raised the letter to the pale morning sky. He would be going up in the world soon. There would be gold aplenty, a move to a new town, and a new wife to bed.

  Bringe carefully placed the letter in his good pocket and strolled down the hill toward the village, a spring in his step and a glint in his eye.

  The moment the door closed behind the guard, Jack rushed across the dark chamber to Melli. She was asleep, stretched out on her side on a low wooden bench. Jack tried not to wake her as he felt the texture of the skin on her back through the thin fabric of her dress. He could feel each individual welt, the skin still raised and puckered. He shuddered to think what would have become of her if the flogging had been allowed to continue. Melli had good reason to be thankful to the mercenaries.

  Jack gently pressed the skin around the welts, testing for swelling and fluid beneath. Melli's skin felt much firmer and he drew in a sigh of relief. The infection which he'd drained some days back appeared to have abated: the skin was healing normally. Jack felt a wave of concern ripple over him. Melli would undoubtedly bear the scars of the rope for life. They would fade somewhat, but they would remain, unmistakable, indelible marks of shame. With great tenderness Jack brushed a lock of dark hair from Melli's face. Her beauty had been made only more poignant by her sickness. He dreaded to think what horrors she'd been through in Duvitt. Jack leant forward and placed a light kiss on her forehead.

  Melli awoke. Her eyes first registered panic, followed by recognition and then annoyance. "What on earth are you doing hovering over me?" she said sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

  Jack immediately felt like a fool-to be caught stealing a kiss! He hastily brushed his hair from his face in an attempt to smarten his appearance. "The guard has just left for a moment, so I thought I'd come and check on your. . . " Jack searched for a delicate word. "Condition." Melli looked at him with barely concealed hostility.

  "I'm certain my condition is just fine, thank you, and I know it's no concern of yours." She drew her blanket around her shoulders.

  "It's just that after your ... er, after the incident in Duvitt, you took a fever." Jack met his companion's gaze and Melli was the first to look away.

  "I will hear no further talk of Duvitt." Her tone was harsh, but she seemed to regret it immediately, for she spoke her next words in a softer voice. "Please, Jack, I cannot bear to think of that place."

  "I won't mention it again," said Jack in what he hoped to be a gallant manner, bowing his head slightly. "We must talk of other matters while we can, though. The guard could return at any minute."

  "Where are we?" Melli looked around the small, dark cell.

  "We're about an hour's walk from Castle Harvell. When they brought us here dawn was just breaking. I caught a glimpse of the battlements."

  "So we are in the town?"

  "No, from what I could tell, we're in some kind of underground chamber. One minute we were walking in the forest, the next we were being led down a tunnel, horses and all. You were asleep the whole time. You've slept a lot these past days."

  Jack paused for a second, took a deep breath, and then asked the question that had been on his mind for some time now. "Who are you, MOB?" His hazel eyes challenged her.

  "And what are you running away from?" Too late he realized he had laid himself open to interrogation.

  "I might ask you the same question, Jack. What possible interest could a band of mercenaries have with you?" Melli spoke in the manner, and with the confidence, of a great lady. It was obvious to him that she was a noblewoman, used to giving orders and taking charge.

  "I am, or rather was, a baker's boy at the castle. I did something that I shouldn't have and ran away to escape the consequences." Jack hung his head low, it was better that she thought him a thief.

  "I too ran away from the castle." Melli's voice was surprisingly gentle. He looked up and saw that she was idling with the fabric of her dress. "I ran away because my father wanted me to marry someone 'whom I could not bear the thought of."

  "So these men are in the pay of your father?"

  "No, my father would never stoop to hiring mercenaries." There was more than a hint of pride in her voice. She spun around at him. "You must know who these men are paid by?" Before Jack could think of what answer to give, the door opened and in walked Baralis.

  "I think you have your answer, my dear," he said in his low, alluring voice. Jack glanced toward Melli; she was managing to conceal her surprise well.

  "Lord
Baralis." She spoke graciously, inclining her head. "I trust you are here to see to my release." Jack could detect an edge of anxiety to her confident tone.

  "If you would be so kind as to follow me, my lady, I will show you to more comfortable surroundings." Baralis made a slight gesture, indicating the sparse cell. Jack caught sight of the lord's hands. They had always been gnarled and twisted, but now they were horribly scarred. Baralis caught his glance; their eyes met. Jack felt fear as he looked into the cold, gray eyes. He looked away, unable to hold the gaze any longer.

  Baralis turned his attention back to Melli. "Follow me."

  "And what if I refuse?" Her head was high and her manner imperious.

  "You have little choice, my lady." Baralis beckoned and two armed guards appeared, their swords drawn. Jack watched as Melli struggled to keep her composure.

  "It appears you leave me no choice, Lord Baralis." Jack could not help but admire her calm aloofness. "I trust you will allow my man to accompany me." Jack did not know whether to be insulted at being called her servant or pleased that she had thought to include him.

  "That unfortunately, my dear, is out of the question. Your man-" Baralis left a slight pause indicating to Melli that while he was aware of her lie, he was too much of a gentleman to contradict her "-will have to stay here. Now, please, come this way."

  Melli stepped out of the room, flashing Jack one last look. Baralis waited until Melli was out of sight before tuming to Jack, his voice no longer alluring. "I will speak with you later."

  Melli's sharp ears picked up what Baralis said to Jack and she realized that her companion had not told her the whole truth. The king's chancellor would not be interested in talking to a castle thief or minor criminal. There was more to the baker's boy than met the eye.

  Baralis led her down a long, stone corridor and Melli felt the chill dampness of being underground. Along the route she spied a pale, translucent moss clinging to the stone walls. On impulse she reached out to touch it.

  "Don't do that," Baralis cautioned. She stopped, frightened by the warning in his voice. "One never knows with such growths, my lady, how deadly they might turn out to be." Melli drew her hand back. Baralis turned and continued walking.

  After a while his course veered off to the right and he stopped beside a heavy, wooden door. Melli watched dispassionately as Baralis struggled to draw back the bolt with his crooked hands. Something about the sight of his disfigurement stirred up a wisp of memory-a memory from long ago in her childhood. She struggled for the recollection, but it eluded her.

  Baralis pushed the door open, and he and Melli entered the chamber. It was brightly lit with many candles and surprisingly warm. There were rugs on the floor and a scattering of tables and chairs.

  "I trust you will find this to your liking. My servant Crope brought these things from the castle. They are not much, I am afraid." Melli was aware that Baralis was playing the room down; he had obviously gone to a lot of trouble to provide her with comfort.

  "I have also taken the liberty of having some food prepared for you." He indicated a low table where a tray of cold food was laid out. Melli's heart warmed at the sight. There was roast fowl, veal sausage, plover eggs, hearty red cheese, a round loaf, and a selection of hothouse fruits. She looked quickly away, determined to hide her keen interest in the food from her captor.

  "It will do for now," she said icily, hoping he would leave her soon so that she could eat.

  "You will probably wish for a bath and a change of clothes. I will arrange to have them brought to you." Baralis moved to leave, but Melli halted him.

  "Why have you brought me here?" she demanded. Baralis paused for a moment, considering whether or not to answer. He looked at her and took a thin breath.

  "Let me say this, my dear. We have a mutual interest." Something in his voice struck a chord within Melli and his motives became clear to her. "You mean, Lord Baralis, that you do not wish me to marry Prince Kylock either?"

  "You are indeed a bright girl, Melliandra." He smiled faintly. "So much brighter than your father." He issued the slightest of bows and then withdrew from the room. Melli heard the scrape of metal as the bolt was drawn on the other side.

  She rushed over to the food, her mind racing. It was all falling into place. Baralis hated her father; he would not want Lord Maybor to be father-in-law of the future king and grandfather to a future heir. So he had captured her before her father could. She wondered what Baralis' plans for her were-she could not believe that he would harm her. He surely would not have provided her with such an agreeable chamber if he intended to kill her. Melli decided she would think on the subject no longer. The food looked too tempting and she did not care to ruin her appetite with apprehension.

  She settled down upon a small footstool and poured herself a glass of light, red wine. Out of habit she reached for the water jug to dilute the wine-then stopped herself, deciding that she would take her wine whole. The customs of the fine ladies of court seemed trivial to her now. She raised the wine to her lips and drank deeply. It felt good to be flouting customs. Her eyes alighted on the delicate silver paring knife that had been so thoughtfully provided for her. She disregarded it and tore at the roast fowl with her bare hands, neatly twisting a drumstick off with a pleasant snapping of bone.

  Baralis rubbed his hands together, massaging muscle and sinew. Since Winter's Eve he had been unable to open them completely; his fingers curled in toward his palms.

  Every day he rubbed therapeutic oils into the red, shiny flesh, hoping that their condition would improve and he would regain some flexibility. He was finding it more and more difficult to perform simple tasks: the mixing of compounds, the writing of letters, the drawing of a bolt.

  Baralis turned from the door and walked a few steps down the passageway. Facing the blank stone, he brushed his thumb against a section of the wall. The wall slid noiselessly back. Crope stood up guiltily as he entered, his face reddening. Baralis looked to see the cause of his guilt. The dimwit had been petting a small rodent.

  "Crope, I have told you before not to take my creatures from their cages; they are not pets to be stroked and fondled." It was his servant's responsibility to feed the animals that he kept for his various purposes. Crope, however, tended to get attached to the unfortunate creatures.

  "I'm sorry, my lord," he muttered. "I'll take it back to the castle right away, see that it's locked up tight."

  "The creature is of little importance to me now, you lumbering simpleton. I want you to heat up some water and bring it to our guest. Take those to her also." Baralis indicated a small heap of clothes and linens.

  "Very well, master." Crope moved to leave, gathering up the delicate fabrics in his huge arms.

  "One more thing, Crope."

  "Yes, my lord."

  "I do not wish to be disturbed for the rest of the day. Go back to my chambers and make yourself useful there once you have finished your task." Crope nodded. "And take that wretched rodent with you. I have no mind to sit here in the company of a large rat!" Baralis watched with growing impatience as Crope struggled to catch the creature while holding on to the linens. Finally his servant pocketed the sickly looking rodent. Baralis made a quick mental note of the state of the creature-the particular poison he'd been trying out on it obviously worked more slowly than he thought. He'd expected the animal to be already dead.

  Once Crope had left, Baralis' attentions quickly turned to other matters. He was due to have an audience with the queen in the morning to deliver the new batch of the medicine for the king. He hoped that during the meeting he would be able to find out what progress the Royal Guard had made tracking the girl. It was important that they did not follow her trail back to him.

  Baralis' thoughts lingered over the girl: such a tempting young morsel. True, she was a little worse for wear than when she had first run away, but he only found that more appealing. Perfection held little interest for Baralis. He had not decided what to do with her yet. There was no rush;
her presence here could not be detected. The haven, as he liked to call it, was known to no one, although there was a tunnel running from it to the castle. Baralis surmised it had been built hundreds of years back as an escape route in times of siege and, like so many other things, had long been forgotten.

  Baralis allowed himself to feel a little smug. Events were moving in his favor once more. Not only had his mercenaries found Maybor's daughter, they had also found the boy. Of course, the treacherous ingrates had insisted on a bonus for finding him. He decided he would let Jack sweat for a few days before he questioned him concerning the incident with the loaves. Two or three days left alone in a dark cell with only crust and water would serve to make the boy more compliant.

  Baralis moved toward a faded tapestry on the far wall. He pushed the moth-eaten fabric aside. His gnarled hand resting upon the cool stone, he found what he was looking for-a small gap the size of a thumbnail chiseled out of the stone. Baralis leaned forward and pressed his face to the wall.

  He could see every detail of Melli's chamber. He smiled to see the girl was heartily gulping down her food, biting lustily on a large sausage and swilling wine down her slender throat. The girl obviously had a piece of food stuck between her teeth, as she picked at it unashamedly with a thin pheasant bone. Having loosened the persistent morsel, she spat it out with gusto and then downed more wine.

  Baralis could clearly hear the knock that drew her attention. He heard her bid enter, and watched as Crope lumbered into the room carrying a huge pail of boiling water. It amused Baralis to see the fear and revulsion in Melli's face as his servant crossed the room. With delight, he noticed her eyes alight on the open door, assessing her chance of escape as Crope filled the wooden tub with hot water. The girl casually stood up and inched toward the door. Crope turned around, his hands grasping the pail of hot water.

  "I wouldn't do that, miss," he said so softly that Baralis had to strain to hear the words. Maybor's daughter was clearly surprised at his servant's gentle voice. She sat down again. Crope finished filling the tub. "Be careful, miss," he warned. "Be sure to put plenty of cold in before you take your bath. This water could scald the skin off your back." He left the room and returned seconds later with the clothes and linens. He placed them with great care on the bed. The servant then took his leave of the girl, bowing awkwardly.