Quillifer

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

gain, sweet, I am compelled to honesty, and to state that four days later, the Marchioness of Stayne and I lay nestled like spoons on my new feather bed, in my apartment off Chancellery Road. A heavy rain drummed on the roof, and a fire glowed in the fireplace.

Her ladyship’s fingers toyed with the rim of a chased silver goblet while her long eyes regarded me from over her shoulder. “Your room is but half-furnished,” said she, “yet you have taken care to provide yourself with the most needful items.”

“A bed, fine sheets, pillows scented with lavender, wine, a fire,” I itemized. “The table and chairs, in the other room, I account pure luxury.”

She sipped wine from the silver goblet and passed it to me. It was a sweet Varcellan moscatto, reminiscent of another occasion, when I kissed the wine from dark Ella’s lips. Inspired by the memory, I kissed her ladyship’s mouth.

“Yet what I shall do with the saddle,” I said, “I know not.”

“You could buy a horse.”

The saddle, beautifully tooled black-and-red leather, regarded me reproachfully from the table. The saddle, the set of four silver goblets, the silver hat-pin, the pomander, the rundlet of Varcellan wine, and the gold-plated medallion were among the gifts that had begun arriving at Roundsilver Palace the morning after I proclaimed myself the new Groom of the Pudding. They were frankly intended as bribes, and sent by people who hoped that I would use my influence with the Queen on their behalf.

I had not expected my joke to go so far, and when the gifts began to arrive, had not known what to do. I immediately sought the advice of the duke and duchess. The duke first reproached me for letting the matter get out of hand.

“If word of this reaches the Queen,” he said, “it may very well injure our efforts to aid Ethlebight. She is not noted for her love of pranks.”

I looked at him in horror. “What should I do?”

He lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “Write very becoming letters of thanks,” he said, “and assure the donors of your gratitude and friendship.”

“I should not return the gifts?”

“They were given freely,” said the duke. “It would be an insult to return them. But if one of your new friends asks for a gift to be returned, then by all means hand it back.”

“Oh, but it was so comical!” said the duchess. And she recounted the whole episode in detail, and in the end the duke was laughing as well as she.

Nor did the incident affect plans for Ethlebight’s relief. For, sitting next to the saddle on my table, was the black leather portfolio containing ten privateering commissions, signed with the royal seal and delivered to my care just that morning by the Chancellor. Along with these was my own commission to travel to Ethlebight and be the Chancellor’s agent in seeing the licenses well bestowed upon the city’s captains.

“A horse?” I said. “I should prefer not to ride a horse in this weather.”

Her ladyship turned onto her back, her head and her great mass of fair hair lying warm across my arm. “Ay,” she said. “You prefer to gallop indoors.”

I kissed her again. “I am more than happy to venture a ride out-of-doors,” I said. “But not in such weather as this.”

She smiled, revealing those small, chisel-shaped teeth, which against all likelihood I found perfectly enchanting. I rested my hand upon the rounded curve of her abdomen.

The marchioness had been born Lady Amalie Brilliana Trevil, the seventh child and fifth daughter of the Count of Culme. Such was the abundance of daughters in his gloomy northern stronghold that Culme rather haphazardly gave Amalie in marriage to his friend the widowed Marquess of Stayne, for the express purpose of breeding an heir. Married at sixteen, Amalie was now seventeen and had been carrying the heir for five months. The nausea gravidarum having passed, and her husband having ridden off with his army on an ill-fated attempt to overthrow the kingdom, Amalie now felt ready for her own adventure.

I had called upon her at her invitation, and found her with a small circle of friends. I presented her with Stayne’s signet, and she offered thanks and refreshment. We chatted most pleasantly for an hour—I fought myself looking in those long dark eyes for a sign—and by and by, I found it smoldering there. We first met at my apartment the following afternoon.

For the world she had adopted a style that was slow and languid, and in response I stroked her as if she were a lazy kitten. But when my caresses brought a rosy bloom to her cheeks, and her breath caught in her throat, the languid pose vanished, and she became a tiger-cat in my arms.

Pregnancy had strangely improved her. Her body seemed flushed with warmth and vitality. Her skin was smooth and rich as samite, and her breasts were exquisitely sensitive. The rounding of her abdomen was strangely attractive, and her condition did not yet preclude intimacy.

“It may yet be a long while before my husband returns,” she said as she nestled against my arm. “I have applied without success to a number of moneylenders.”

“The signet will not serve?”

“Stayne’s already in debt to up to his eyes, and he borrowed more in order to outfit his ship and crew. Many of his lands are off in Clayborne’s country, and he’ll have no rents till the war’s over.”

“How much is Sir Basil demanding?”

“Four thousand royals.”

I whistled. “I would not know where to apply for such a sum.”

“I have asked our steward and our man of business, and it seems the respectable bankers already possess an abundance of Stayne’s debt. I think in the end I must apply to a usurer—or more than one.”

It had occurred to me that Amalie might be better off if her husband did not return—she would be a free widow, mother of the heir, and at liberty to pursue a life of pleasure. Yet I did not care to suggest such a thing—I remembered poor Higgs, the captive whose brother had apparently abandoned him to the bandits, and I should not like to see anyone thrown on the mercy of Sir Basil of the Heugh.

Yet how could Amalie avoid these thoughts entirely? Surely, she understood her own situation. Yet I should be a bit uneasy if I found myself lying next to a woman who I knew had disposed of a husband. How much more lightly could she dispose of a lover?

I decided these thoughts were too morbid, and nestled closer to Amalie on the bed.

“Take us our pleasures while we may,” said I.

“And the less we consider tomorrow, the greater our pleasure today.”

She turned to me, and our lips met. She still tasted of the moscatto.

“Are you also then a poet?” she said.

“The verse is mine, such as it is. Though the sentiment is hardly original.”

Her arms came around my neck, and for a long time we kissed, till a hammering came on my door. I looked at her.

“You are not looked for?” I said.

“No one knows I’m here.”

The hammering continued. I kissed Amalie and rose from the bed. I threw on a cloak and walked into the front room, and there looked for a weapon—for it had not escaped my mind that here I was in adultery with a high-born woman, and that some nosy relative or in-law might be taking an interest in her whereabouts. I found no weapon but the fireplace poker, and so equipped, I approached the door.

“Who is it?”

A clipped voice called from beyond the door. “I come from the Count of Wenlock!”

I had not expected a messenger from Lord Utterback’s father, and so I hesitated for a moment before responding while I counted the days. Two days for my letter to reach Blacksykes, where Wenlock was Lord Lieutenant, and two days for his lackey to return.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“I have come for Lord Utterback’s ring.”

Well, that was simple enough. I looked at Amalie, who was reclining on a pillow laughing and blowing kisses, and turned back to the door.

“I don’t have the ring here. Come back tomorrow afternoon.”

My answer was a renewed banging on the door. “Open or I’ll break it down!”

I looked at Amalie and made my screaming-infant face. She laughed. The door began to jump in its frame.

“Very well!” I said. “I’ll let you in!”

I closed the door into the bedroom and then unbarred the door to the stair. Three large men entered, each wearing under rain-spattered cloaks the Wenlock livery of blue and royal gold. I felt a cold hand touch the back of my neck as I saw that each wore a broadsword on a baldric over one shoulder, and a sturdy dagger thrust into their belt in the back.

“Well,” I said, rather obviously naked beneath my cloak. “As you see, I wear no ring.”

The leader scowled from behind a grizzled beard. “Where is it?”

“Safe in a strongbox,” I said.

The leader nodded to one of his men, who walked to the bedroom door and opened it. I heard a gasp from Amalie, and saw that she’d had the sense to turn away from the intruder, pulling the bedclothes up to her chin.

“Naught but a whore,” said the lackey. I fancied that even through the bedclothes I could see Amalie’s spine stiffen in outrage.

The leader looked at me again. “Where is it?”

“Not here.”

He snarled. “Then you’d better take me to it.”

I considered my position. “May I put on some clothes? It seems to be raining.”

He sneered at me. “No tricks, now,” he said. “Or I’ll treat you like the bandit that you are.”

“Considering that I freely wrote your master and offered to give him the ring,” said I, “I consider that word harsh.”

“Did you steal it, or didn’t you?” One of his fellows snickered, as if this were the epitome of wit.

“I stole it from an outlaw,” I said.

“A man in a position to steal from an outlaw is naught but a thief who keeps the company of thieves.” Again his fellow guffawed.

I went into the bedroom and put on my clothes. “I’ll soon be back,” I whispered to Amalie, and squeezed her ankle through the bedclothes. Then I threw on my cloak, took my hat, and led Wenlock’s three lackeys into the rain. They trod close on my heels, as if to assure me of my helplessness.

When it rains, Selford smells like a cesspool. The filth lies in alleys and the street, and rain washes it into view, and down the public lanes. Eventually, it finds its way to the creeks and gullies that take it to the Saelle, but not before its odor rises to the nostrils of the citizens.

The hall of the Worshipfull Societie of Butchers, a refuge from the reek, lay just past the bottom of Chancellery Road, a fine high-vaulted building of the local white stone. Rainwater shot from the mouths of the carved beasts that ornamented the eaves, and lamplight glowed through the stained-glass windows that showed shepherds, stockmen, goatherds, and their charges. I had been a guest in the hall just the night before, as bells were rung and incense burned in honor of my father’s Leave-Taking.

That Leave-Taking had been a lovely thing, with a chorus of apprentice boys whose voices echoed from the high beams, and the Dean and Warden each giving an address in which my father’s virtues had been enumerated. I had spent the time beneath the stained glass, in a reverie, alternately pierced with sadness at the loss of my family and exalted by the ceremony. The death of my loved ones was a bottomless cavern, but the Leave-Taking had filled the cavern, temporarily at least, with a kind of delight.

Afterward, I had thanked the Dean and the Warden profusely for the ceremony. Now I was returning to the guild hall under somewhat different circumstances.

I walked up under the portico and rang the bell, and while I waited, the lackeys’ leader gave me a suspicious look.

“What is this place?”

“The place where your master’s ring is secured,” said I. The door opened, and an apprentice looked out. I recognized him from the previous night.

“Hello, Roger.”

“Sir.”

I made a sign with my fingers. “I should like to see the Dean or the Warden, if I may. Or Master Onofrio.”

Roger’s eyes widened, and he looked over the three big men looming behind me. “Yes,” he said, a bit uncertainly. “Please come in and wait.”

The door led past a porter’s lodge directly into the main hall. Under the supervision of a pair of apprentices, a chine of beef turned on a spit before the hearth, stews bubbled in iron pots hung over the flames, and the air was savory with the odor of cooking. The lamps had been lit on account of the darkened day, and the light glowed on monuments and memorial plaques to dead masters, and glowed as well on pollaxes, knives, and other instruments of the Butcher’s trade that were hung on the walls.

Roger went to the apprentices by the hearth, and spoke to them in a low voice. They looked startled and glanced in our direction, and then returned for the moment to their work. Roger went out of the room, and we waited, our cloaks dripping on the flagstone floor.

In a few minutes, the Dean came out, a most civil and respectable old gentleman, dressed for warmth’s sake in a long robe of fitch fur, with a fur cap on his bald head. He carried his staff of office in one gloved hand, knobbed on the top like a hand-mace.

“Yes?” he said as he eyed the three lackeys. “You have asked for Master Onofrio?”

“I have,” I said.

“He is being sent for.” He approached and frowned at me. “May I help you in the meantime?”

“I need to visit my box in the strong-room,” I said.

He looked again at my three companions, then nodded. “Very well.” He led us toward the back of the hall, reached the door that led to the undercroft, took a lantern from the wall, and turned. “Goodman Quillifer,” he said, “you may come with me. These gentlemen may wait.”

The lackeys’ leader shouldered his way past me. “We’re coming with him.”

The Dean stared at them down his long nose. “You are most certainly not. You have not the right to enter the strong-room, and are only allowed into the hall as a guest of a member.”

The chief lackey seemed not to have a response to this, and so I followed the Dean through the door, and down a winding stone stair into the undercroft. The light of his lantern glimmered on the pillars and pale low arches that supported the hall above.

“They are robbers?” he asked.

“I know not what they are. The errand that brings them may be legitimate, but they are rude, discourteous, threatening, and armed.”

“So I have observed. Do you actually need the strong-room, or was it a pretense to get away from those ruffians?”

“I truly need to get into my box.”

He took me to the strong-room and opened the iron-strapped door with a key. He entered with his lantern, and I found my box without delay.

“Do you need me to withdraw?” asked the Dean.

“Nay. This will take but a moment.”

I found Utterback’s ring at once and put it in my pocket. Then, after a moment’s thought, I took two more of the rings I had plundered from Sir Basil’s treasure house, and then returned to the hall with the Dean.

During my time in the undercroft, the population of the hall had increased. Three strapping young journeyman had arrived along with their burly master, and stood by the fire speaking casually with the apprentices. Between them I counted three pollaxes, two great carving knives, a cleaver, and a meat axe. As the Dean closed and locked the door to the undercroft, I saw three more enter, a brawny woman and her two journeymen, each with a pollaxe.

I was not surprised. To the apprentice who had answered the door, I had made a secret sign of distress, and my asking for “Master Onofrio” was a signal that called for help. The word for Master Onofrio was even now passing from one butcher shop to the next, and the apprentices mustering under their masters and marching to the hall.

The three henchmen were looking uneasily from the apprentices to one another. While the Dean was re-hanging his lantern, I walked to one of the trestle tables that ran the length of the hall, and I took the three rings from my pocket and placed them on the table. Then—as a pair of masters entered with a train of armed apprentices—I gestured for the lackeys to join me.

They came warily. I saw they had drawn their cloaks back from the hilts of their broadswords.

“You see three rings on the table,” said I. “If you can identify the one you want, you may take it with you.”

The leader took a moment to study the rings, then pointed to Utterback’s signet, which featured a seahorse carved on blue tourmaline. At least he’d proven he was familiar with the item he sought.

“Very well,” I said. I swept all three off the table and returned them to the pocket. “Now if you will sign a receipt that I have delivered the ring as promised.”

The three looked at each other. Behind them, the door boomed as more armed men entered.

“We can’t write our names,” the leader said.

“Then you can make your marks, and I will write your names beneath.”

And calling for a piece of paper and a pen, I wrote:

We, the undersigned, have by brutal threats of violence, housebreaking, and assault, and with contemptible insult and infamous use of language, procured the signet ring of Lord Utterback from Quillifer the Younger of Ethlebight, who we acknowledge rescued it at the risk of his life from the outlaw Sir Basil of the Heugh. We acknowledge the disgrace with which our conduct has disenhanced the reputation of our virtuous employer, the Count of Wenlock.

I made two copies and presented them to the lackeys, who by now were surrounded by a half circle of armed men. The leader looked resentfully at the new arrivals, but in the center of this ring of steel, any thought of defiance had vanished, and he took the pen from my hand and made his mark. His two companions followed his example. I took the papers and the pen.

“Your names?” These being given, I wrote the names beneath the marks, then offered the pen to the members of the Worshipfull Companie. “Would anyone care to witness?”

The Dean inscribed his signature, and added his own seal, as did one of the masters. I then offered a copy of the document to the lackeys’ leader.

“You may give that to your master,” I said. Then I reached in my pocket for the rings, picked out that of Lord Utterback, and tossed it into a far corner of the room. It rang on the stone flags.

“Go snuffle for it, dogs,” I said.

The three glared at me, jaws working, hands twitching closer to the hilts of their swords. Then the leader turned abruptly and began to move in the direction of the ring. The circle around him parted but slowly, and when he was free, he walked stiffly toward his object, and refused to look behind to see whether he was followed.

“They will remember you,” murmured the Dean, close by my ear. “Maybe they will remember you too well.”

I shrugged. “Maybe in future they will remember their manners.”

The Dean looked down at the document before me on the table. “Disenhanced?” he asked.

“It’s a new word. I made it up.”

He smiled. “Will you be joining us for supper?”

“I have a friend waiting, unfortunately.”

He smiled. “Are you sure you didn’t mean ‘disfortunately’?”

The three lackeys had found the ring, and now marched for the front door—though they had to wait, because a gang of armed journeymen were filing into the hall. At last the doorway was free, and the three made their way out.

I rose, and turned to address the crowd of Butchers who had come to my aid. I thanked them for their arrival, told them the reasons they had been summoned, and expressed a willingness, should the occasion ever arise, to aid them in return. I spoke warmly of our brotherhood, and the bonds that united us; I praised their courage, and otherwise flattered them as shamelessly as I could.

“I think I will have a few of our brethren escort you home,” said the Dean.

“I should visit my box first.”

I put the document into the box, along with the two rings I’d taken, and was then accompanied home by three journeymen carrying pollaxes. I had taken a pollaxe from its display in the hall, and we four made a brave sight, soldiering on in the rain like veterans of the wars. I thanked my escort at the door, and carrying my weapon made my way up the stair to where the marchioness awaited.

She broke into a smile as I came through the door, and I was favored with the sight of those little white teeth. She had dressed while I was gone, in the style she favored in her pregnancy. Rather than wear conventional gowns with their farthingales and tight lacings, she had adopted instead an elaborate sort of dressing gown, frogged across the front with heavy braid that held the creation together. These silk and satin fantasies were just as extravagantly ornamented as court gowns, with gems and pearls and paint, but they were much more comfortable for someone in Amalie’s condition. A fact that I found more to my taste was that they didn’t require a ladies’ maid to lace her into the outfit, or unlace her afterward.

These gowns were entirely Amalie’s own style, and had created a sensation at court when she had first displayed them. It was thought that the Queen disapproved, though Berlauda had been perfectly civil to Amalie when they’d spoken, so it was hard to say where this rumor of disapproval originated. As was the case with most court rumors, alas.

She brightened when I came in. I put my weapon aside, barred the door, and took Amalie in my arms.

“No ill effects?” she said. “No violence?”

“None. They got what they came for, and a little more besides.”

She rested her head on my shoulder. “I was worried. I was going to wait another hour, and then go to Roundsilver’s and say that I’d seen you marched away by an armed gang in Wenlock livery.”

I reached for the front of her gown and began to loosen the braided froggings from their silver buttons. “Your concern is commendable. I shall reward you directly.”

I opened her gown and took her in my arms, the sunny warmth of her flesh a welcome contrast to the chill, wet day. A low laugh came from Amalie’s throat.

“You are cold, sir. Let me remove those wet clothes, and put you in your warm bed.”

“A delightful prospect. You are a fine nurse.” My lips grazed the flesh of her naked shoulder, and she shivered.

Overhead, the sky rumbled, and promised another bout of rain.