Quillifer

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

met in the morning with Kevin Spellman, and brought with me my folder containing the privateering commissions, plus a legal document I had drawn up after Amalie had left late in the afternoon. In it, Kevin and I became partners in a nautical venture, from which the income was to be divided equally. I signed one of the commissions over to Kevin, so that his ship, Meteor, could act henceforth as a privateer, half the prize money coming to me after the taxes and crew’s share were taken out. The remaining nine commissions would be taken by Kevin to Ethlebight, who would award them to likely candidates at the price of one-third of moneys received from all prizes.

Thus we stood to win a share of the profits from those nine commissions, and without risk or expense to ourselves. Ethlebight’s smaller ships, the pinnaces and so forth, were ideal privateers, since what was required to capture merchant ships was speed and aggression, not large broadsides of great guns.

We would be making money for ourselves, but would also serve the Chancellor’s larger objective, which was to bring wealth to Ethlebight. I would use my profits to rebuild my family home, and Kevin would ransom his family, build ships, and expand the Spellman business.

Since Kevin met me at the Mercers’ Lodge, where men of business met daily, it was easy enough to find a notary to review our agreement, and others to witness our signatures. Then Kevin left to prepare Meteor for the outward journey, including the purchase of the fine corned gunpowder that I had suggested the day before, and I made my way back to Selford very pleased with my morning.

No messenger awaited from Amalie, so I put on my apprentice cap and went up Chancellery Road to the various Moots, in hopes of obtaining my certification as a lawyer. None were willing to take my word that I was ready to practice, which was nothing less but what I had expected. I hoped to be able to enroll as an apprentice, but as I did not come recommended by any lawyer of their acquaintance, this ambition was also dashed. Carefully I explained that my master had been taken by pirates, and that my letter of recommendation from Judge Travers had been captured by bandits, but this obtained me no leniency.

“You seem a careless person to have so misplaced your master and your recommendations,” said one little clerk. “We desire no careless lawyers in the Yeomanry Moot. Good afternoon.”

I was now at a loss. I had come to Selford to make my reputation as a lawyer, but that was now impossible. I had no hope of office, no prospects for employment. My only occupation, if you could call it that, was to be the covert companion to the Marchioness of Stayne—which, viewed as employment, was hardly flattering.

I wondered what my father would have said if he could have viewed me now. Nothing good, I thought, and in a downhearted spirit I left the Yeomanry Moot.

Yet, I thought, I had friends, some high-placed. My privateering prospects were good. Perhaps I should become a man of business, like my friend Kevin.

I walked down Chancellery Road to the sound of bells ringing, and guns being fired from the Castle. I asked someone on the street what had caused the celebration, and was told that “Old de Berardinis hath held Longfirth for the Queen.” I knew not who Old de Berardinis might be, but I knew that Longfirth was a large port city on Bonille, just across the sea from Selford, and that its declaring for the Queen meant that the war would begin there, either as Clayborne sieged the place or as the city was used as a springboard for the Queen’s invasion of Bonille.

I later learned that Sir Andrew de Berardinis was the Lord Warden of the city’s royal garrison, and that after some days of confusion he had seized the city by main force, cutting off the heads of the mayor and the Lord Lieutenant of the county, both of whom favored Clayborne. Selford’s Trained Bands, the militia based in the capital, were now to be mustered in great haste by the Queen and sent to reinforce Sir Andrew by whatever ships could be found in the port—fortunately, Meteor, with its privateer’s commission, was exempt, being already in the Queen’s service.

I had not been to court since my debut as Groom of the Pudding, and did not care to return so long as I kept the bribes I had received in that character. I did not wish to reject the gifts, which might offend, and yet I did not wish to remain in the debt of these gullible strangers; so I decided to send gifts of equivalent value to my benefactors, along with expressions of eternal goodwill and friendship. Accordingly I despatched rock-crystal goblets, a gold-plated salt cellar, pearl studs, biliments, girdles, and other small treasures to my new friends, who now at least were no poorer than before.

And while I was visiting the jewelers, I found something for Amalie that I thought would suit her very well.

At a pawnshop I found a black lawyer’s robe trimmed with marten fur, hardly worn at all, and thereafter I went to court whenever I pleased. The Yeoman Archers, in their red caps and black leather costumes, would turn away anyone who obviously did not belong; but in my robe and apprentice cap I looked respectable enough, hardly a great lord but plausibly someone who had business in the castle. I took Kevin with me on one of these occasions, and was able to introduce him to Their Graces of Roundsilver. Roundsilver knew his father, of course, and was pleased to know that Kevin would be advising me in the matter of awarding the privateering commissions.

The night before Kevin and Meteor planned to set out for Amberstone, I joined Kevin at the Castle for the command performance of Blackwell’s history of King Emelin. A stage had been constructed in the vast chill space of the Great Reception Room. The Queen, wearing a gold circlet on her pale hair, faced the stage on her throne. Before and about her the nobles had chairs, and the rest of us sat on benches or on the flagstone floor. I had come early and tipped a porter to give us benches close to the stage—though we were forced to sit on the side, so as to give the nobles a better view. Knowing how difficult it was to warm the enormous room, I had brought cushions so we would be comfortable, and rugs so that we would stay warm.

Near the Queen’s lady mother sat the Marchioness of Stayne, a vision of beguiling languor wrapped to the throat in shadow fox fur. She looked at me only once, from the corners of her long eyes, and lifted one eyebrow, which by itself was enough to send a surge of blood to my limbs.

A trumpet call echoed from the ancient roof beams. Blackwell opened the program with a pair of poems, the first on the virtues of the Queen, and the second an epithalamium—some months late—for the nuptials of his patrons, the Duke and Duchess of Roundsilver.

What Joy, or honors can compare

With holy Nuptials, when they are

Made out of equal parts

Of years, of states, of hands, of hearts?

When, in the happy choice,

The Spouse, and Spoused have the foremost voice!

The sentiments were lovely and the verses fine, but both poems invoked a multitude of goddesses (those of Virtue, Victory, Fertility, the Marriage Bed, etc.) to bless their subjects, or to serve as a flattering comparison. I found myself wondering if Orlanda would answer the summons and appear, either to bless the Queen or skin me alive.

No actual goddesses appeared, so far as I knew.

After applause, Blackwell withdrew and Lord Bellicosus and his minions entered, and I enjoyed hearing one of the ranting speeches I’d written for him. Blackwell had added exposition explaining the civil conflict in Bonille in which King Emelin intended to interfere, and the clowns had added enough comic business that I felt a little offended that they were not paying more attention to my lines.

After Bellicosus marched off, King Emelin came on, with a speech about the dangers of civil rancor and foreign intervention, and the necessity of reuniting the broken halves of the ancient kingdom of Duisland, which had come apart some hundreds of years earlier under the assaults of the Osby Lords. Situated as I was to the side of the stage, I kept one eye on Queen Berlauda, and saw that she seemed quite enraptured by her ancestor’s words.

Nor was she alone. Emelin exited to such enthusiastic applause that King Rolf’s entrance was delayed.

The play, as I have said, was more of a pageant than a drama, and it wound its stately way through the evening. It was the first play I had seen indoors, and the first at night, which admitted tricks of lighting and shadow that wouldn’t have been possible outdoors. I was particularly impressed by a glowing crepuscular red light meant to impersonate a burning city.

I was also amused that Blackwell, in person so remarkably lean, had to wear padding to enact a stout respectable warrior-prince. Without the simulated muscle, Prince Alain would have been blown away by his own trumpets.

There were long delays between acts, because the room’s chandeliers had to be lowered and the candles replaced as they burned down. During the intermissions, the Queen and her friends went to her apartments for refreshment, and for the rest of us there was food and drink available out-of-doors in the Inner Ward, where Lord Roundsilver’s minstrels played a series of high-spirited tunes. There I saw the Queen’s favorite, the pretty, young Viscount Broughton, who dined not with her majesty, but rather walked in the ward with his wife, a tall dark woman, a little older than he and very handsome, attached like a remora to one arm. It was both amusing and touching to see the two unhappy people so united in their misery.

Kevin and I bought some mulled wine and a packet of roasted chestnuts, and then strolled through the Inner Ward. As usual, Kevin was more splendidly dressed than I, still a walking advertisement for his family business, and people probably thought him a provincial noble. I walked in his shadow, enjoying the night and the cool night air until a familiar voice spoke in my ear.

“Well, Master Secretary, how fares the Embassy?”

I gave a start, then turned to see Lord Utterback in a fur coat, its broad collar turned up against the night. Dancing torchlight reflected the saturnine amusement in his eyes. Surprise stilled my tongue for a moment as I stared. I bowed, then managed to overcome my surprise and somehow to compose my thoughts enough to answer his question.

“My lord, I have managed to do some good, and more good may be done now you are here. Lord Utterback, do you know my friend Kevin Spellman, Mercer of Ethlebight?”

He turned to Kevin. “I know your father, of course. Have you heard from your family?”

“Not yet. I am trying to bring our scattered affairs into order.”

“May you all be reunited.”

“My lord,” said I, “how long have you been free?”

“Some five days,” said Utterback. “I arrived in the city yesterday. My father paid our ransoms promptly.” He smiled. “Though you did not await his generosity.”

I was taken aback. “Your father paid my ransom?”

“I arranged a price to liberate our entire party, save for poor Master Gribbins, who Sir Basil was determined to squeeze separately.”

I laughed. “Sir Basil arranged for a separate ransom for the rest of us! That’s why he put you in your little house, so we wouldn’t find out you’d already paid for our release!”

Dark amusement twisted at Lord Utterback’s smile. “Who’d ha’ thought a criminal would be so dishonest?”

“I will repay the money,” said I. “Or your father, I suppose. How much did Sir Basil demand for me?”

“Ten royals.”

“So much? He asked only five of me.”

Utterback seemed skeptical. “You can afford even five?”

“I can afford ten. I helped myself to Sir Basil’s treasury as I fled.”

Again Utterback laughed. “That explains his frenzy! When Sir Basil learned you were missing, he searched the whole camp—he even searched the Oak House I was sharing with Stayne, on the chance you might be found hiding beneath the supper-table. He sent horsemen tearing off in all directions, and even sent a party to search some old mines in the hill behind the camp.”

I smiled at the thought of the outlaw’s fury. “Would that I had seen it!”

“He was practically barking in his rage, and beat several of the captives, thinking that they’d helped you. And then for some reason he beat his wyverns, and one of them blew out a breath that singed his beard, and after that he was absolutely frothing.” Utterback shook his head. “For once, I was glad to be locked in the Oak House, while he inflicted his anger on the helpless folk outside.”

I told Lord Utterback that I had rescued his signet ring from the treasure house, and also that of Lord Stayne, which I had given to his lady.

I felt a certain unease, like cold fingers wrapping about my throat. “Is Lord Stayne free also?” I asked.

“Nay, his ransom has not yet come. And I don’t know how it will find him, for Sir Basil, fearing you would lead a force of militia to his camp, marched everyone away to another of his hiding places.”

“He uses monks as his treasure-bearers, and monasteries as his banks. I’m sure he will find his money when he needs it, being prayed over by as devout a crew as he could wish.”

Lord Utterback was delighted by this revelation. “Bandit-banks! Truly we live in an age of wonders!”

A member of the acting company came out ringing a handbell to let us know that the next act of the play was to begin. I leaned close to Lord Utterback as we made our way back to the Great Reception Room. “Regarding your signet,” I said, “there is something I should share with you.”

I told him the story of the three men his father had sent to my lodgings, apparently under the impression I was some kind of thief; and of the sequel at the Butcher’s fraternity, and the admission I had compelled them to sign.

“I believe I know the men,” he said. “They are not at Wenlock House at present, so they must have taken my ring back to my father at Blacksykes.”

“Are they inclined to vengeance, do you think? Or,” I added, “your father?”

He laughed. “Tell me, how have you survived on this earth so long as eighteen years?” he asked. “Is it not enough to have escaped pirates and to have the greatest bandit of the age lusting for your death?” He patted my arm. “I will write to my father and explain that you are a respectable citizen. I will vouch for you, and urge him to restrain his retainers.”

I thanked him, and I returned with Kevin to our bench. “You’ve been living a more interesting life than you’ve given me to understand,” he said.

“We’ve been so occupied with matters of business that I haven’t had time to acquaint you with everything.”

He stretched out his legs before him and crossed his arms. “We have all the time between now and tomorrow’s tide.”

“Then in that time I will tell you everything I can.”

A sennet was played, and Lord Bellicosus appeared onstage to recite more of my lines. Laughter was general within the company, and I felt no small gratification. I glanced at the Queen and saw no amusement on her face, though I could not tell whether she disapproved of the clowns or of the appearance of the Viscountess Broughton.

Acts followed in succession, declamatory speeches, rather too much alike, alternating with brisk comedy. I kept one eye on the Queen to see whether she enjoyed the play. At one point, during one of Bellicosus’s declamations, I saw the Queen’s lady mother lean over to whisper in her ear, and at last I saw her majesty smile. Perhaps Leonora had detected the target of my satire.

I looked over at Amalie, and saw that she gazed at the stage with narrowed eyes, a frown plucking at her lips. Quite suddenly, I realized that I had left her out of my calculations. My contribution to the play had been intended as an exercise in cleverness, and the mocking of a person who was worth mocking, but I had not considered the effect of my cleverness on my victim’s wife. I had certainly never intended to humiliate my lover, and now I feared that I had.

The play ended to general applause, and the clowns came out to dance a gigue. Their usual bawdy humor, and the gigue itself, were curtailed somewhat in the royal presence, and the revels ended. The Queen and her party retired to a late supper, and I stayed only to congratulate Blackwell upon his success.

“It went well enough,” he sighed. “Her majesty seemed to like her ancestor’s speeches, at least.”

“She has a great many ancestors,” I pointed out. “You can write speeches for all of them.”

“Perhaps I will. But first I am writing the story you provided me.”

I felt a warning hand caress my neck. “Which one?”

“The tale of the burgess and his water nymph.”

Plainly, I possessed no means to dissuade him from employing this theme, and so I forced a smile. “Comedy or tragedy?”

“Comedy,” he said, somewhat to my relief.

I looked at him. “May it be worthy of the goddess, then.”

“It needs not that, but rather to be worthy of the Queen, since it will be performed for her during the hunting party at Kingsmere.”

I considered the gloom that this hunting party had already cast about the court, and tried to imagine the dismal, cheerless prospect of Broughton, Broughton’s wife, and the Queen lodging in the same country house for a week, and wondered if that could be managed without the house bursting into flames, or without any of the company losing their heads.

“You set yourself a formidable task,” said I, “to create a comedy in such a setting.”

Blackwell raised an eyebrow. “The Master of the Revels requested it,” he said. “And a masque on the theme of royal virtue.”

I could only imagine what jolly fun this last would be. But then I reflected that the mood at the party might be so black that the play would be a failure, and never performed again, and I grew more cheerful.

Kevin and I picked up our rugs and cushions and walked down Chancellery Road to my lodgings, where I built up the fire, poured moscatto into my gift cups, and spent the long night telling Kevin of my adventures. Flushed with both wine and friendship, toward dawn I even let slip the story of Orlanda, which caused his eyes to widen.

“I would not have believed this,” he said, “did it not come from you. But yet, did you not but recently urge me to spin a tale of tritons? Is this nymph but an element of some triton-tale?”

I looked at him. “Nay, it happened. I will swear on anything you like that I speak the truth. You are the only person I have told, and you may not tell anyone else.”

He looked at me in wonder. “Who else would I tell? Who else would believe? I don’t know if I believe it myself.”

“Even to me, it begins to seem like a dream,” said I. “But when I view my box in the strong-room of the Societie of Butchers, and see the gold lying there, then the truth of it comes home to me.”

We talked till dawn, and then I walked with him across the bridge to Mossthorpe. As we said good-bye, I gave him a purse of silver worth thirty-five royals, ten to be employed at building a tomb for my family, and the rest to be employed in ransoming Ethlebight’s citizens, and then Kevin hired a boat to take him down the river to Innismore and the Meteor. My head still aswim with moscatto, I returned to my lodgings, ate the breakfast porridge my landlady had prepared, and slept till early afternoon, when Amalie’s messenger knocked on the door to tell me she would come.

“The whole court saw Stayne in that character,” Amalie said later, as we lay in repose beneath my quilt. “Stayne and two of his friends. And now the whole court laughs and titters behind their hands, and make remarks I am meant only to half-hear. Even the Queen looks at me in a knowing way.”

I reflected that if I were an honorable man, I would confess my part and beg forgiveness. Instead I kissed her and told her that the play was no reflection on her, that the satire was intended for her husband only.

“Then let them play it before my husband!” she said. “Nay, it was intended only to humiliate me.”

“Are you humiliated?” I asked.

“Nay. I am angry.”

“Well, then, if you are not humiliated, their attempts have missed the mark. You are not the fool they think you. Instead, you are angry at their presumption. They think to judge you, and they have neither the right nor the wit.”

Amalie set her jaw. “That is exactly the case.”

“Bide your time, then. Their own humiliations will come, and then you may have your revenge. But in the meantime, you must show everyone that the play had nothing to do with you.” I considered her indolent, prowling walk, her attitude of sublime languor. It was difficult to picture someone who presented herself in such a way cowering before the laughter of others. “Laugh with them, if you can,” said I. “But not because you thought the satire struck its target, but because the satire missed completely. Such an attitude should be easy for you. Or you can laugh privately to yourself, as if you knew something they didn’t.”

She looked at me sidelong. “And what would that be?”

“That those who believed in the existence of a Groom of the Pudding have no right to feel superior to anyone.”

She laughed. “Well,” said she. “That is a point in my favor. I never believed in the existence of the Groom of the Pudding.”

I gave her a look. “I can demonstrate that person’s existence, an it please you.”

“Well,” she said, looking at me under her lashes. “I think I am willing to let you make that demonstration, if you will but first refill my glass.”

I refilled her glass, and then brought out my gift, a girdle of gold links to encircle her waist, and two pendants, one the mirror of the other. Each was of gold, and had at its center a baroque pearl, circled by a design of leaping dolphins. From this central boss shone rays of pearls, in the one case, and polished jet cabochons in the other.

“You may choose whichever of these you like,” I told her, “and I will wear the other. It can be a secret sign of our affection.”

She loved pearls above all other gems, and so I was not surprised when she chose the pearl pendant. “I will take the other,” said I, “and remain the dark shadow behind your brightness.”

And like a shadow, I thought, I will follow you until the light about you grows too bright, until it is impossible to hide any longer, and then I will fade away.

* * *

Meteor sailed away, carrying my and Kevin’s combined fortunes. I attended court but found it supremely dull, everyone standing and chatting and waiting for the Queen to do or say something so that they could praise it, so I gave up attending unless the Master of Revels had devised some entertainment. I called upon Lord Utterback and repaid the ten royals for my ransom, and called also on Their Graces of Roundsilver, who were never less than exquisitely kind. I resolved to make use of the saddle I had been given and engaged a master for riding lessons, in hopes of resolving the conflict between myself and horse-kind. Perhaps I made a little progress in that regard.

Amalie came when she could, bearing court gossip to which I otherwise had no access.

I came to Roundsilver Palace one day bearing a gift to thank them for their kindnesses to me. It was a salt cellar of gold and enamel featuring the naked figure of some Eastern sea-god stretched out between vessels for salt and pepper, each wrought in the form of a sea shell. It was the first object I had seen at the jeweler’s that I thought reflected the duke’s taste, and I bought it even though I was a little shocked by the cost.

The duke was very taken by the piece, and thought he could name the artisan who had made it, or at least his school in far-off Tabarzam. He brought it to the duchess to admire, and asked me at once to dinner in the Great Hall. Blackwell was also a guest, along with a singer from Loretto named Castinatto.

Both they and their hosts were to journey to Kingsmere for the royal hunt, their graces as guests, and the others as performers. In an offhand way the duke asked if I would consent to be one of their party. I was flattered and accepted.

“Though I am not as skilled an entertainer as these gentlemen,” said I, nodding to the actor and the singer, “yet I will endeavor to provide some amusement.”

The duke nodded his fine golden head. “Try not too hard,” he said. “It is, after all, meant to be a holiday.”