Quillifer

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

here will be knives.

Orlanda’s words pealed like bells in my head all that long evening, even as the court continued their joyous holiday, as strangers offered their admiration for my killing of the Stag Royal, and as actors rolled from room to room as drunk as kings. Amalie I found comfortably seated in a parlor, with her slippered feet on a hassock, and in the company of some women, with whom apparently she was now friends. She sipped from a glass of wine and pretended not to see me, so I pretended not to see her.

Indolent, slinking, sloe-eyed bitch who loves you not. I found myself thinking of Amalie in light of those words, the words like poison to my soul, and in a fury of resentment I decided that even if it were true, it was hardly Orlanda’s business.

As I walked through the crowded, noisy rooms I found myself alert for signs of conspiracy, for assassins, for armed henchmen loitering in the corners. I searched the faces of those who entered the room in order to recognize a possible attacker: the Lord of Mablethorpe Cross, those lackeys of the Count of Wenlock who had so rudely entered my chambers, even Sir Basil of the Heugh come for his lost money. No one looked at me with less than a friendly countenance.

I thought that perhaps I should arm myself with something more deadly than the small knife I carried to cut both my meat and the quills I used for writing. All sorts of weaponry were displayed on the walls, but a half-pike or a boar spear would have been too absurd.

In the end, I went to my room, already filled with rioting actors, and did my best to sleep as the actors sang and joked, and the rising wind howled and hunted among the chimneys.

By morning, the wind had strengthened and freezing rain was slashing down. The lake was so turned to froth that it looked like milk, and the Queen’s swan-boat pitched at its mooring while the wind tore its feathers free. The lodge was filled with hunters unable to hunt, and their mood was sour and irritable. Some played at cards for more money than I could afford, and others played chess.

The Queen was not in view, for she was closeted with her spiritual advisors for a round of chants and prayers. Her favorite, Broughton, must have been praying alongside of her, for he was not present either.

I watched a few games of chess, but I found myself frustrated in the same way that I had been when I’d first learned the game. The board presented a rigid field of sixty-four squares, and the pieces maneuvered in ways that were inflexible. A knight had to move a certain way, and the abbot another, and the king a third. Yet I had never understood why any of this was necessary: why should not a queen move like a knight, or a cunning abbot dissolve the boundaries between its white square and the black square adjacent, and so occupy it? Wherefore should not a mighty king move with the same range and power as the queen—and for that matter, why should only one piece move at a time? A proper King should be able to marshal his forces and move his whole army at once, to the thunder of drums and the clangor of trumpets.

It seemed to me that chess did not represent the world as I understood it, or at any rate as I wished it to be. Were I a pawn on that board, I would have slipped away from that confining arrangement of sixty-four squares, taken advantage of cover available on the tabletop—a cup here, a candlestick there—to march unobserved behind the enemy, and from there launch a surprise attack to capture a castle or stab the enemy king. But alas, the pieces are confined to their roles, and pawns may not leave the board unless captured, and once captured they may not escape. I could not help but feel that all the pieces lacked proper imagination.

Chess is a game I could much improve upon if only given the opportunity.

While the chess games went on the wind died down, and the rain decreased to a misty drizzle. Some of the guests began to talk hopefully of going out to shoot some rabbits. I grew tired of watching lords play chess badly, and walked through a series of drawing rooms toward another room where I had seen a table of skittles. So involved were my musings on chess that I had forgotten Orlanda’s words, and I was taken completely by surprise when, behind me, I heard the shrieks of women.

I spun toward the sound, and a door banged open right in front of me. A tall cavalier, hat and long coat starry with rain, burst out of the door and ran into me as he dashed through the room. I felt a savage impact on my shoulder and the breath went out of me in a great rush. I had just turned about and was unbalanced even before the stranger struck me, and the blow knocked me sprawling. The shrieks continued, accompanied now by the clank of the cavalier’s rowelled spurs, and the noises scraped my nerves as I strove to still my whirling mind. I got my feet under me and stood, and only then remembered Orlanda’s warning—and as I staggered toward the screams, I was groping at myself to find if the stranger had stabbed me.

I reeled through the open door and found myself in a withdrawing room full of ladies. The Viscountess Broughton sat on the carpet clutching at her abdomen with both hands, and everyone else was frozen in postures of surprise and horror.

Only a few seconds had passed since I first heard the screams.

I knelt by the stricken noblewoman and touched her cold, pale hands. “Are you all right, my lady?”

She looked at me with wide eyes. “He stabbed me!” she said.

I gently parted her hands. I saw no blood, no deadly gash in the daffodil-yellow silk of her gown. I looked then at her lap, and saw the blackened steel of a dagger blade lying in the folds of her skirt. I plucked it forth, and saw that it had broken near the hilt.

“I think you may be unwounded, madame,” I said.

She gasped and searched her gown, finding only a small tear over her abdomen. Tears spilled from her eyes. “My busk!” she said. “I’m wearing a steel busk!”

“There will be knives.” Orlanda’s words echoed in my senses. For a wild moment, I wondered if Orlanda’s chosen instrument had missed completely and stabbed Lady Broughton instead of me.

But at this point other men arrived demanding to know what had happened, and more kept arriving over the next few minutes, and everything kept having to be explained all over again. They were all members of the nobility, and all wanted to be in charge. One of them snatched the knife-blade away, and I never got it back.

Then someone called out “Hue and cry!,” and half the gentlemen ran from the room. The words “hue and cry” were then shouted out all over the lodge, pointlessly because a hue and cry was supposed to be raised when the criminal was in sight, to keep him from escaping, and the cavalier had not been in sight since he vanished from the room with spurs clanking, and not one of the pursuers knew what he looked like.

Then more cries rose—“Guard the Queen!”—and more men ran off to form a wall around the monarch. Lady Broughton ignored all the questions hurled at her and continued to weep, slow tears dropping steadily from her eyes. The floral aroma of a cordial floated through the air, and I looked to see the Duchess of Roundsilver holding out a delicate crystal cup. I had not noticed her in the room till that moment. “I think perhaps Lady Broughton needs a restorative,” she said.

I passed the glass to Lady Broughton, and she drank. This action seemed to bring her a little more into an awareness of her situation, and she looked around at the circle of ladies. “Who was he? Does anyone know him?”

No one seemed to have recognized him, and they all began to discourse at length concerning how little they knew. “Perhaps we could shift Lady Broughton to a couch?” suggested the duchess, and they all agreed. The ladies clustered around the stricken woman—neither I nor any other man was permitted to assist—and they helped her to rise and placed her on a couch, where they arranged satin cushions beneath her back.

Being useless, I let my attention wander over the scene, and I saw the hilt of the dagger lying on the floor near the door. I bent to retrieve it. It was what is called a sword-hilt dagger, as the hilt resembles the cross-hilt of a sword, with a disk-shaped pommel. The blade had snapped off about an inch below the hilt, leaving the smith’s hallmark visible where it was stamped on the blade, a triangular shield holding an imperial crown. The pommel was made of red jasper, and was carved in a strange design: an arm with a wing where the shoulder should be, and carrying a mace with a tip that resembled a crown. I tried to read it as a rebus: wing-arm-mace-crown. Mace-crown-arm-feathers. Flying-arm-club. Clearly, I was misreading the message, whatever it was.

I was still puzzling over this when a compact yellow-haired man arrived wearing that very design embroidered into his doublet: Viscount Broughton of Hart Ness, the husband of the victim, and the Queen’s favorite. As soon as he came into the room, all conversation ceased. He approached his wife, hesitated a moment, and then took her hand. If there were affection or concern in his heart, it did not show on his face. Instead, he was very pale, and was no doubt considering what this would mean regarding his relationship with the Queen.

His wife’s life had been spared because she was wearing her corset, as did all well-bred ladies of fashion. The busk, usually a piece of wood or bone, was a wedge-shaped stiffener worn at the front of the corset, and intended to flatten the bosom to conform to the dictates of current fashion. I do not know why fashion insisted that women alter their natural shapes in order to display chests as flat as those of young boys, but fashion saved Lady Broughton’s life that morning, as did the fact that she could afford a high-quality steel busk, which being more flexible than wood was more comfortable.

We were all pretending not to watch Lord and Lady Broughton when a sergeant of the Yeoman Archers arrived, carrying a half-pike so as to skewer any available traitors. He demanded information, which was given by all the ladies at once. No sooner had he sorted all this out than his lieutenant appeared, his hand on the hilt of his sword, and he had to sort through the clamor all over again. The lieutenant was just beginning to make sense of this when his captain arrived, and it all had to be gone through once more.

“Her majesty is safe.” The captain wanted to reassure everyone on that point. “The house is being searched, and the ruffian will be found.”

“He came in from out-of-doors,” I said. “His hat and coat were wet from the rain.” I pointed. “He ran that way, probably to flee the lodge.”

The captain looked at the lieutenant, who looked at the sergeant. “That next room leads outside, ay,” he said. “We make sure the door is locked on our nightly patrols.”

I handed the captain the hilt of the broken dagger. “This is the knife that broke,” I said. “I know not where the blade has gone—someone took it.”

The captain examined the dagger, saw the device on the red jasper pommel, and looked up at Broughton in cold surmise. He seemed about to say something, then decided against it. He turned and left the room, followed by the other Yeoman Archers, and he followed the assassin into the room with skittle tables. I followed the gang of Archers along with some of the remaining gentlemen. It seemed the excitement in Lady Broughton’s room was over.

From the skittle room, we passed through a sturdy oaken door to the outside. The rain had died down to a soft mist that touched my face with cool fingers. The air smelled of broken, beaten vegetation.

A wide gravel drive circled around the house, and on the far side was a garden. A stooped gardener, in big boots, cloak, and hat, was attempting to repair storm damage to the garden.

“You, there!” called the captain. “Did you see anyone leave by this door?”

Raindrops slid from the sagging brim of his hat as the gardener straightened. He was an old man with a long beard that stretched out over his chest in wet serpentine fingers.

“Ay, sir!” he said. “He asked me to hold his horse.”

The captain quickly ascertained that the man had ridden up, paid the gardener a crown to hold his horse, and then gone into the lodge. A few minutes later he’d come out, mounted his horse, and trotted away, in the direction of the gate.

“We must pursue him, sir!” said the lieutenant, stoutly.

“Hue and cry!” said one of the gentlemen.

“Not just yet.” The captain turned to the gardener. “What kind of horse did the fellow ride?”

“A chestnut, sir.”

The captain turned to his lieutenant. “Choose a party to ride in pursuit. Good riders, good horses. We should only need a half dozen or so. I will report to her majesty.”

“Hue and cry!” shouted the gentleman again, and they all rushed off. I looked down the gravel drive in the direction the cavalier had fled. The pursuers would ride two leagues through the forest to the main gate, and then have to decide whether the cavalier had turned right, to Selford, or to the left, for Blacksykes and the north.

That was assuming the cavalier took the road at all, instead of riding off through the woods to some hidden destination of his own.

I approached the gardener. “Father,” said I. “You say the horse was a chestnut?”

“Yes, sir.” He leaned on his rake. “What they call a liver chestnut, very dark, more brown than red.”

“Did you get a good look at him?”

“Nay, sir. His collar was up, and he wore his hat pulled low over his face. I think he may have had a beard, sir.”

A beard he shared with most of the men in the kingdom. “Did you mark his voice, father? Where he might have come from?”

“He talked somewhat like they of Bonille,” said the gardener. “Like most of them at the big house.”

Indeed, most of those at court tended to soften their consonants in the style of Bonille, whether they were born there or not.

“And the tack?”

“Finely made, sir. A saddle such as they use here for the chase, brown leather. There were steel roundels on the breast collar. Medallions like, for decoration.”

“Of any particular pattern?”

“They had like rays on them, sir.”

“Any other ornaments on the saddle?”

“Nay, I can think of none.”

“The leather was not tooled or ornamented?”

“Nay. It was plain, but well made, and nearly new. Brown leather, as I said.”

“The bridle likewise?”

“Ay.”

I supposed I could continue to ask about the girth and the stirrups and the bit, but I was already feeling this line of inquiry was hopeless. And then I remembered the crown-and-shield hallmark on the broken dagger, and I felt a flush of icy water flood my veins and shock me into sudden alertness.

“Was there a mark on the saddle? A hallmark, stamped on the saddle by a maker?”

The old man’s eyes brightened. “Ay, sir! There was the figure of a bird stamped on the flap, near the rider’s left knee. I noticed it when I helped his foot into the stirrup.”

“A hawk? Eagle?”

“Nay, sir. A small bird. A sparrow, may be, or warbler or some such.”

I gave the gardener a silver crown. “Thank you, father. That is very useful.”

He touched the brim of his hat. “I’m very grateful, sir. It’s a proper gentleman you are.”

I grinned at him. “I’m no gentleman at all!” I returned to the lodge.

A pair of Yeoman Archers stood guard outside the withdrawing room where Lady Broughton was undergoing an examination by the royal physician. Broughton leaned on the wall of the next room, pensive eyes fixed on the floorboards, his heel kicking idly at the wainscoting.

I returned to the parlor, where cards were scattered on the tables, and chessmen stood abandoned in their ranks and files. Events had overleaped the boundaries of the game, and only a piece that had already left the board could possibly be of use. Small groups of people clustered together and spoke in low voices. I saw the Roundsilvers with some of their friends by the fireplace, and I walked to join them, standing politely and waiting my turn to speak.

Two gentlemen dashed into the room, booted, cloaked, and spurred, on the way to the stables. They paused long enough for a cup of wine apiece, then continued on their way. One of the duke’s friends looked at me.

“You are not joining the pursuit?”

“My horse is a stout animal,” said I, “but not a racer.” Which referred not so much to the horse but to myself. I turned to the duchess. “Lady Broughton is no worse?”

“It was a dreadful shock,” said she. “I cannot speak to the state of her mind, but I think her body is unharmed.”

“I do not understand how Broughton can survive this,” said the duke. Somehow, he made his absurd lisp sound both grave and prophetic. “He will be accused of trying to make away with his wife in order to marry the Queen.”

“The attempt failed,” said one of the gentlemen.

“That does not matter,” said the duke. “What matters is that he will be accused.”

“He will be accused,” said I. “But he may not be guilty.”

The duke’s eyes flickered over the company, and apparently decided those within hearing were safe for this line of conversation. “There are easier ways of making away with one’s wife,” he said, “than having it done in front of half a dozen witnesses.”

“And a better way of arranging it,” said I, “than to leave behind a dagger that will point straight to you.”

The others had not heard of this development. While I was explaining about the carved jasper pommel, the sounds of the chase came from the front of the building, yips and shouts, as a pack of gentlemen raced off in pursuit of the assassin. They had come for the hunt, had been confined indoors to their frustration, and now launched themselves on this new hunt with all the joy and vigor they would have applied to the pursuit of a stag.

While those around the fireplace discussed Broughton’s future, I considered my own. Orlanda’s threat loomed in my thoughts, sharp as the promised knives, and I tried to work out how this failed assassination could possibly be a part of her plan. I was not involved in any way, save as a witness. I was neither a victim nor an actor. Perhaps this had nothing to do with Orlanda, and her own strike had yet to come.

Yet my being revolted against the idea of simply waiting for my doom to manifest itself. I would have protested were there any forum for protest, but there was no court competent to judge my situation, and no advocate to take my case. Therefore, I decided, I would act on my own.

An equerry arrived from the Queen asking Roundsilver and other members of the Great Council to attend her majesty, and the duke left the company while the party around the fireplace dispersed. I found myself with the duchess.

“I would like to thank you and his grace for allowing me to join you here,” said I.

She looked up at me. “People will be talking about this sad event for a long time,” she said. “But you sound as if you are preparing to leave. Are you going to pursue the assassin after all?”

“In my fashion,” said I. “I think I may be able to identify him if I ride to Selford.”

She looked off through the diamond-pane windows at the Yeoman Archers on the lawn, preparing to depart. She frowned.

“I wonder if that knowledge would be to anyone’s benefit?” she wondered.

I was surprised. “If your grace thinks I should not go,” I said, “I will remain here.”

“I cannot say whether your errand is for good or ill,” she said. “And I hardly think the Queen’s party will remain at the lodge, in any case. I’m sure the Council will recommend a return to Selford, but it will take the rest of the day to organize it, and her majesty will not leave till tomorrow.”

“Then if I may have your leave?”

She looked at me with some slight surprise, as if she were startled I asked her permission. “Of course. Try not to be captured by brigands or pirates on your journey.”

I smiled. “I will happily comply.”

“And, should you find the villain, think carefully what you do.”

This seemed curious advice, so I merely said that I would, bowed, and went to my room. I changed into boots, leather jerkin and trousers, and stuffed everything else in my saddlebags. I donned the overcoat I had carried since I left Ethlebight, and also brought a hooded cloak against rain.

I stopped by the kitchens and begged a pair of venison pies, which I put in my coat pockets. I filled my leather bottle with small beer, then I made my way to the stables, where the captain of the Yeoman Archers was just departing with his party of pursuers, all armed with swords and pistols.

Though I had no hopes of riding down the assassin, I intended to set a brisk pace, for I had twelve leagues to cover before nightfall, when the city gates would be closed against me. I knew not whether I could bribe my way past the guards, and I preferred not to have to test their honesty one way or another.

The Yeoman Archers spurred away. Perhaps I should remark that I never saw a man of the Yeoman Archers carrying a bow, as the corps was armed entirely with pikes, swords, and firelocks. Modern warfare may have made the bow obsolete, but so devoted to tradition was the palace that its guards remained Archers in name, and probably would remain Archers so long as the palace continued to stand.

As I was saddling my mount, Amalie appeared, with her maids, coachman, footmen, and baggage. She looked at me in surprise.

“Quillifer!” said she. “Are you also abandoning this ‘sad cockpit of ruined ambition’?”

“I am. And that is a quote from Bello, is it not?”

“I know not and I care not,” said she. “You may join me, if you can keep up.”

I debated with myself whether or not to accept her offer—I truly wanted to get to the city as soon as I could, and though a ride with Amalie would be diverting, there would almost certainly be delays.

Yet, I thought, if the assassin was in Selford tonight, he would probably still be there tomorrow.

Amalie ordered the carriage’s top lowered, so we might converse, which meant that she and her servants had to wrap warmly in furs against the cold day. Her four horses were matched and of the type called cremello, white with rose-pink noses and brilliant blue eyes. Not only were they a striking and beautiful quartet, they set a rattling pace, and my fears of being delayed soon faded. Indeed, my borrowed beast was hard put to keep up.

We wound our way through the Queen’s forest, splashed through puddles, and detoured around fallen limbs. Along the way, we passed the ruins of Broughton’s giants, the two great puppets brought low by the storm, a pointed symbol of Broughton’s aspirations.

It was not long before we encountered the first of the pursuers returning. They had galloped after their quarry as though he were a stag. Soon enough their horses were blown, and they were forced to return. You would think that this likelihood might have occurred, even to the nobility, well before they spurred off. Those who actually cared about their animals led them home on foot, and the rest rode lathered, staggering, pitiful beasts.

Once we were on the main road, I rode alongside the carriage in order to better talk with Amalie, but the wheels kept throwing up mud and debris, and I spurred ahead. Eventually Amalie had a groom call me back, and I joined her and her maidservants in the carriage, while my horse followed on a lead. Amalie had a bottle of wine opened, and I shared my meat pies. Our conversation was lively, for the maids remained excited by the morning’s developments, and during their tenure in the servants’ quarters had managed to absorb quite a number of rumors, for instance that the would-be assassin had been hired by the usurper Clayborne, the ambassador from Loretto, by Broughton, or by the Queen herself.

“Why would Clayborne want to kill the Viscountess?” Amalie scorned. Though she did put some effort into an examination of the theory that the ambassador was behind it, in order to secure the Queen for his prince.

While this speculation was taking place, I was able to take Amalie’s hand beneath the fur that we shared, and now and again stroked her thigh, causing her to take a little intake of breath. But I dared not risk that intake of breath too often, not under the sharp eyes of the two gossips, nor take any other liberties.

Howsoever, judging by the gleam in her eye, I believe that at least one of the maids became very fond of me during that ride, though I did not put this surmise to the test.

As we rode we encountered more and more of the pursuers, all returning to the lodge. Though none of these had blown their horses in an over-hasty pursuit, they had all concluded they stood no chance of catching the assassin, and turned around in time to enjoy supper at the lodge. One of these was the Lord of Mablethorpe Cross, who gave me a baleful look as he saw me enjoying my wine in the company of the marchioness.

Last of all was the dispirited troop of Yeoman Archers, who had pursued longer than the others. The lieutenant had been sent on to warn the capital’s gate guards, just in case the fugitive had spent part of the day hiding and rode in after nightfall, but the rest were riding their weary way back to the lodge, to report their failure to Queen Berlauda.

Even though the carriage maintained a good pace when the road was clear, still we followed the storm, and the road was full of mud and muck and fallen limbs, some of which were so heavy that the footmen and I could barely shift them. This meant delays, and shadows were growing long by the time we passed Shornside’s royal castle.

“We will probably not make Selford before nightfall,” I said. “Your ladyship might want to look for an inn.”

“Oh! That will not be necessary.” She gave me a look from out of those long eyes. “We have a country house not far from here, and I’ve sent word ahead, and will sleep and sup there. The steward will find a bed for you somewhere, if you are not bent on galloping for the capital tonight.” And, as her hand grazed along my thigh as she spoke her invitation, I overcame feigned reluctance and accepted.

The fugitive would still be there tomorrow, I decided. Assuming he was there at all.

The promised bed was on the same floor as Amalie’s chambers, and was very comfortable, not that I spent a lot of time in it. For as soon as the house grew quiet, I stole down the hall to quietly knock on Amalie’s door, and the two of us spent a delightful night galloping beneath the grand canopy of her bed, though I confess myself distracted by the thought that Orlanda might appear shrieking, a knife in either hand to stab us to death.

But no goddess appeared, unless it was one of pleasure and laughter. When I finally fell asleep, I slept so well that, in the morning, I was hard put to scramble back to my room before the servant came up to bring me my shaving water.