Quillifer

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

he meeting with the Chancellor bore fruit. Whatever words Orlanda might have whispered into Queen Berlauda’s ear, they were out-argued by three peers of the realm. The news of Stilwell’s capture was celebrated by a salute of cannon from the ramparts of the castle, bells rung in all the monasteries, and criers sent into the streets. I was heartened by this demonstration of Orlanda’s fallibility, and grateful to find her less than completely omnipotent, and unable in every case to move people about like pieces on a chessboard.

On the other hand, I thought I recognized Orlanda’s style in the next announcement that came from the palace, which was that Captain Oakeshott would be knighted for the action, and given land and a modest manor near Bretlynton Head. Bretlynton Head, of course, was still in the hands of the rebels, but perhaps Oakeshott was meant to fight all the harder in order to make good his new estate. I was not unhappy for Oakeshott’s good fortune, but I was inclined to resent my own contribution being written out of the record.

Yet a prize court would be established in Selford, for the sole purpose of ruling on Lady Tern and Royal Stilwell. The legitimacy of other captures would still be decided in Ethlebight. I sent a message to Kevin that he should bring Stilwell to Selford when repairs were completed.

As for that letter of credit from Oberlin Fraters, I put it in my box at the Butchers’ Guild, until I could decide what to do with it. Orlanda had threatened me directly concerning that letter, and I thought it was best to forget about it, at least for a while.

I hope you have not been too disturbed by the tale of my dalliance with a married woman. If so, you may take satisfaction in what follows, for I have come to the scene wherein I pay for my pleasures.

More news came in the form of a messenger I found at my door one morning, inviting me to the eighteenth birthday dinner of the Marchioness of Stayne. The letter was quite formal, and contained no personal message, so I responded in the like style, and wrote a polite note stating that I would attend.

I visited one of my hoards at the money-lender’s, and found there a lovely pomander, gold in the form of ship, with white enameled sails, and the hull ornamented with garnet and silver wire cloisonné. A teardrop-shaped pearl hung from the ship’s keel.

This I wrapped as a present, and as a private message to Amalie of my continued affection, I wore on my belt the twin of the girdle-belt I had given her, the black jet cabochons set in the same pattern as her pearls. On the afternoon appointed, I presented myself, with my invitation, at Allingham House. The place already thronged with guests, and I recognized many of them from my days at the court. Searching the faces, I recognized many aspirants to office, or the bench, or to the generalship of the army, and I knew also that most if not all had been disappointed.

I soon realized that I was attending a counter-court, a sort of political gathering in opposition to the Queen, and I wondered if they supported Clayborne, or Stayne, or had a leader at all. I wondered also if it were dangerous to be here, if government spies were present, ready to denounce the guests. But then, I thought, perhaps I should be at home here, as another that Berlauda had spurned.

I found Amalie in a drawing room, lying on a divan. She was by now only a few weeks from giving birth, and she seemed uncomfortable in her bigness, with her swollen feet on a cushion, and her two women to adjust her pillows and bring her sweet wine. A cheerful face had been painted on her strained, weary features. Yet I saw the pearl girdle-belt at her waist, and I felt a rush of great tenderness that she had worn this token for me, and perhaps missed me as ardently as I did her. I approached, took her hand, and thanked her for the invitation, and handed her my present.

“You are welcome, Master Quillifer,” she said. “I hope that while you are here you will relate some of your adventures, perhaps especially that of Sir Basil of the Heugh, who held both you and my husband captive.”

“I will obey, my lady.”

Though I did not tell that story immediately, for a group of new arrivals came forward to wish Amalie a happy birthday, and I withdrew to engage in aimless conversation with a pair of elderly ladies who were some distant connections of Stayne, and who were overcome with joy at the imminence of Amalie’s child. While I listened to this conversation, I felt my nape hairs prickle as I saw in the hall my old acquaintance Slope-Shoulder, the orgulous gentleman who I had dunked in the slop bucket in Sir Basil’s dungeon. I doubted that he would make trouble for me at the party, not when it might offend Amalie and Stayne, but in case he was discourteous enough to make a fuss, I prepared some remarks that I trusted would silence him. For I knew that he would not want that story of the slop bucket known, especially in this company.

A few minutes later, Stayne came into the room to tell Amalie that dinner was about to be served. I recognized him from our brief meeting in Sir Basil’s courtyard, tall and longshanked, with graying dark hair elegantly curled down past his shoulders, and a small, disapproving mouth amid his short beard. Amalie called me over to introduce me, and I bowed. He regarded me with his little mouth pursed.

“Pleased I am to meet thee,” said he. “I understand that you slew that wolf’s head Basil.”

That “thee” marked me as an inferior being addressed by a superior, but otherwise Stayne seemed polite enough in his interest—and distant enough, for I did not desire his attention.

“I killed Sir Basil in Longfirth, my lord,” I said. “He was fleeing to Steggerda along with one of his men.”

“I shall be pleased to hear thy story,” said Stayne. “But later, at dinner, for now we must go into the hall.”

The gong was rung a few minutes later, and Stayne helped his lady to her feet, and took her into the great hall. Her ungainly walk was far from the languorous undulation that had once marked her passage, and I felt sadness touch my heart. I took into the hall an older woman, the widow of a knight, who once seated managed to keep up both sides of our conversation, scarcely pausing to eat any of the dainties laid before her.

For my part, I saw Slope-Shoulder and his friend Fork-Beard, who sat next to each other and saw me at the same moment. I saw the shock of recognition on their faces, and then at once they put their heads together, and I watched their conference with interest, wondering what feeble scheme they were hatching together.

Stayne kept the same sort of abundant table as his grace the duke, with one extravagant remove after another, though his cooks had not the same sense of whimsy as those of Roundsilver Palace. Nevertheless, there was a dish called “infant’s toes,” and a suet pudding called “boiled baby,” which—though hardly at the epitome of taste—were probably intended to salute Amalie’s pregnancy.

The dinner conversation consisted almost entirely of criticisms of the knaves who ran her majesty’s government, for the guests did not dare to criticize the monarch directly, not in public. The Chancellor in particular was savaged as a thieving rogue who had wormed his way by guile into his position. The word “base” was used, and “barber-monger,” and “cullion,” all of which were reflections on Hulme’s common birth. So persistently were these used as insults that I began to feel a considerable resentment against these well-born lubberworts and loiter-sacks.

During one of the pauses, when wine glasses were replaced and filled, I was called upon to relate the story of Sir Basil’s death, which I did with a minimum of embellishment. “I failed to recover my ransom,” I said at the end. “If Sir Basil was carrying a fortune with him, the governor and his soldiers must have taken it. If his hoard lies somewhere else, I know not where it is.”

One of our host’s friends then flattered him by saying that Sir Basil must have been fleeing Stayne’s vengeance, and had probably buried the money somewhere in the Toppings before departing.

“In that case,” said Stayne, “it will remain there forever, for the Toppings are such a tangle of hill and wood and dale that an army could vanish there without a trace. Indeed, I never even found the place where I had been held.”

“I was lucky to have found a track leading out,” I said.

Amalie gave her husband a brief consoling look, then turned to me. “We’ve heard of a battle at sea off Longfirth,” she said. “Do you know aught of it?”

“I witnessed it,” said I. “For I was in Longfirth at the time, with a ship of which I am part owner.” I related the story of Royal Stilwell’s capture, though before I got very far into my story, I recollected that I was speaking to an audience of people who were, or had been, Clayborne’s supporters, and I much reduced my own part in the capture.

The party listened with some interest, then forgot my existence and returned to their business of abusing the government. For once, I was pleased enough to be forgot.

The last of three desserts arrived, and the last health was drunk. Amalie’s two ladies helped her to her divan, and I thanked the voluble widow for the pleasure of her company and drifted after the marchioness. She was once again surrounded by well-wishers, so I was able to offer only a few polite compliments before her husband arrived, hovering over my shoulder.

“Master Quillifer,” he said, “I quite forgot to thank thee for the return of my signet.”

I donned my attentive-courtier face. “I did not wish that outlaw to abuse your ring,” I said. “If he’d started using it to sign writs and loan documents, that would have been mischief indeed.”

From Amalie’s last visits to my rooms, I knew that Stayne’s finances were in perfect disorder. He had borrowed heavily to outfit Irresistible and his expedition, and now owed his ransom to Amalie’s father. Irresistible had been seized by the Crown and was being used as a warship for the duration of the rebellion, and although Stayne was being paid for the use of his ship, the payment came in the form of bills on the treasury, which would be paid only when the treasury pleased. He could not collect rents on his property in Bonille, where Clayborne ruled. Creditors had begun to hound him, and though being a great lord he could turn most of them away, he could not bar the door against his own father-in-law, to whom he owed four thousand royals.

“My friends were stripped also of their signets,” Stayne continued. “Hast rings other than mine?”

“A number,” said I. “But I know not to whom they belong.”

“If my friends may call upon thee . . .”

“Certainly. They would be welcome.” I very much enjoyed the thought of Fork-Beard and Slope-Shoulder arriving to beg their rings of me.

While I was enjoying this pleasing fantasy, Stayne looked down at my waist, and his eyes narrowed.

“I have seen that somewhere before,” he said, and my blood ran chill as I realized he was referring to the pendant I wore on my belt, the black twin to the pearl-strewn girdle-belt his wife was wearing at that very moment.

“What, this?” said I lightly as I tossed the ornament in my fingers, “I hope it doesn’t belong to one of your friends, since I took it from Sir Basil’s strong-house. If you know the owner, I will return it.”

He tilted his head, his prim little mouth pursed in thought. My nerves sparked to full alertness, and I was aware of Amalie stiffening as she realized what was at stake.

“I have seen it more recently, I think,” said the marquess.

I shifted my position so that, Stayne following, he would have his back to Amalie and her girdle. My fingers still played with the pendant in hopes of disguising its true shape. “Perhaps another piece by the same jeweler? I know not who made this, but he may work here in Selford.”

Stayne did not move, but his narrowed eyes followed me as I stepped around him. And then his eyes made a slow, thoughtful, deliberate track to Amalie on her couch, and fastened on the girdle-belt and its pearls, lying on his wife’s brocaded gown.

“Ah,” he said. “I thought I knew it.”

“Your lordship has a good eye,” I said, inwardly cursing that eye.

Stayne took a step closer to Amalie, viewing the girdle-belt thoughtfully. “I don’t recall having seen that girdle, madam,” he said. “Where did you acquire it?”

“It was a gift,” Amalie said. I could hear the tension cloaked in her languid tones.

Stayne’s voice was soft, barely to be heard over the buzz of the room. “It is a striking piece. Who gave it you?”

I could see that Amalie was struggling to answer the question, so I answered it myself.

“I presented it to her ladyship,” I said. “I wished to thank her for having me to one of her afternoons here at your house, and having seen her at court, I knew her liking for pearls, and I thought this piece would complement well one of her ladyship’s gowns. Truth to tell,” I added, all offhand, “I have been somewhat free with Sir Basil’s possessions, for that girdle-belt came also from the outlaw hoard, and from it I have made many presents to my friends. . . .”

Stayne’s eyes moved from the girdle-belt to my own waist, to the gift’s jetty twin. His voice was still soft, pitched so that only I could hear it. “You have given my wife a valuable gift, it seems.” His eyes lifted to mine. “I must take care to repay the debt.”

“Your lordship need not be so scrupulous,” said I.

“I have always maintained that it behooves a man of high birth to be punctilious in matters of honor and dignity.” Still spoken in that soft, toneless voice. His mild eyes held mine, reflecting perhaps a slight curiosity, with no obvious hint of malice. Yet I felt the malevolence flowing from him, felt the chill oppression and weight of his thought. He turned back to Amalie.

“I fear you are fatigued, madam,” he said. “Perhaps we should bid our guests adieu, and go to bed.”

I bade them both good-even, and made my way to the door. My imagination filled with fantasies of Stayne taking his revenge on Amalie, of oppression and brute violence, poisoning and private murder, and I could think of no way to protect her. I had no standing in the household, or in law; and even if I somehow broke into the house and rescued her, we could not fly far, for she was heavy with child, and would soon be in childbed. Sea-Holly was carrying supplies to Longfirth, and there was no easy way to escape by sea. My anxiety for Amalie had me clammy with sweat before I left the house.

Night had fallen as we feasted, and as I stepped through the door, I saw row of carriages lining the road before the house, their lamps glimmering. The walk was full of footmen waiting to guide the guests to their carriages, many of them accompanied by link-boys with torches, and as I looked out from the front steps, I saw the silhouettes of Fork-Beard and Slope-Shoulder outlined by torchlight, the two still huddled together, and probably plotting some mischief against me.

I walked quickly out of the gate, turned away from them, and then marched along with great strides of my long legs, dodging between the parting guests and the throngs of footmen. It was a few moments before the two conspirators saw me, and then they scurried after. I waited for them to get within five or six paces, and then I opened the door to one of the carriages and jumped inside. I crossed the empty carriage and left by the opposite door, stranding the two hapless cumberworlds on the other side. By the time they realized I was not in the carriage, and had ducked around the horses in pursuit, I had vanished into the dark, and was on the way to my rooms.

I spent a night sleepless with worry, and afterward walked armed, carrying my dagger, and with Sir Basil’s pocket pistol hidden in my overcoat. Yet I did not often leave my rooms, for I remained in hope that Amalie might somehow get a message to me.

That message did not come.