Quillifer

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

was growing accustomed to jail cells, though I was not used to sharing them with quite so many people. My little stone room in the Hall of Justice was packed so full of drunken, disordered revelers—men, women, and children—that there was no room to sit, and no way to avoid entirely the spattering and spewing that resulted when the drunkenness rose to its inevitable climax.

Fortunately, I did not stand there for long. An ensign of the Yeoman Archers took me from the cell and brought me before a magistrate, who sat alone in the Chamber of the Siege Royal, the highest court in the land, where those accused of the high crimes of treason and forgery were tried, and the monarch herself was recorded as the prosecutor. The judge sat hunched in his fur-trimmed robe with his cap pulled down over his ears, and on the wall behind him was painted the imperial crown that signified his authority.

At least the trial was not to be conducted in a torture chamber. That, I had been told, took place on the floor below.

The majesty and importance of the court were enhanced by the two tall black candles that cast a wan light from his bench, and I was brought forward into the faint circle of light. I wished I hadn’t been made so visible, for my face was bloody and bruised, and if I were to be indicted as a violent swashing rogue, my own face pronounced me guilty.

I looked up at the judge as he scratched on parchment with a silver pen. His ancient face seemed sunken into his white beard, and his dark eyes were obscured by thick spectacles tied on with black ribbon. The lines of his face were set in an expression of severity, and he looked as if that expression had not changed in forty years. I doubted that his temper was improved by being dragged out of bed in the middle of night to preside over my case.

He looked up from his writing, his pen poised over the parchment. “You are Quillifer?” he said.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Do you have a surname, Quillifer?”

“My lord,” said I, “Quillifer is my surname.”

His pen, which had been about to write something down, remained poised over the paper.

“What is your forename, then, Goodman Quillifer?”

“Quillifer, my lord.”

He peered at me through his thick spectacles. “Your name then is Quillifer Quillifer?” he asked.

I tried to clear my battered head. “Nay, my lord, I misspoke. I have only one name, and that is Quillifer.”

His upper lip twitched. “Too bad for you,” he said.

I blinked in some perplexity at this, for this strange scene was beginning to undermine the terrors in which the Chamber of the Siege Royal had always cloaked itself.

The judge wrote something, then put down his pen. Without looking at me, he spoke.

“Her highness has testified that you exerted yourself to prevent her from trampled by a mob, and that when she was attacked by lawless villains, you defended her.”

Through my surprise I managed an answer. “I am her highness’s loyal servant,” I said.

“I am commanded to order your release.” He signed a paper and handed it to the ensign that had accompanied me. “You may collect your belongings from the porter. It is customary to leave a tip.”

I managed through my astonishment to thank his lordship, and walked in a daze to the porter’s lodge. I did not forget his vail, nor to thank the ensign who had escorted me. Once outside into the night, I bathed my face and hands in the fountain in the courtyard, with its allegorical statues of Dame Justice in Triumph Over the Wicked, and went into the street. The revelers having exhausted themselves, the streets were almost empty, though filled with the spillage and wastage of the festival, abandoned and broken masks, feathers, cups, shattered bottles, torn ribbons and broken points, liquid pools of uncertain provenance, the whole of it waiting for the rain. I passed by the Tiltyard Moot, where I had been attacked that noontide. The place was shut up like a fortress, but by the light of the waning moon I marked the remains of the shattered tile with which I had felled the man in the eagle mask.

My knuckles ached, along with my face and my ribs. I walked on, and went home to my bed, where my aches and pains kept me awake nearly till dawn.

* * *

My aches had not lessened when I awoke, but at least I had grown more accustomed to them. I changed to clothing less soiled by blood, mud, and the spoutings of drunkards, and did my best to clean my gown. My breakfast was a cup of the moscatto drawn from the rundlet in my apartment. I had been doing my best in the weeks since the cask had been delivered, but I think there were still at least a dozen gallons remaining.

The wine led me straight to melancholy without passing through elation. I viewed my room with its trophies: the silver cups, Sir Basil’s swords and armor in a disorderly pile beneath my table, the pollaxe from the Butchers’ Guild leaning by the door, the wardrobe with my two suits, and the rundlet of wine that seemed to take up half the room. The varied keepsakes of my erratic career in the life of the capital.

I had failed as a lawyer, a lover, and a courtier, and my success as a thief-taker had resulted only in my exile from the court. While the ship with my privateer commission had done well, on an actual voyage I was mere cargo, unable to contribute to the running of the ship or to victory in battle. And now I had been the victim of a feud with a nobleman that had brought a member of the royal family into personal danger. While I seemed to have avoided prison, I hardly thought my name was mentioned in the castle with any favor.

I had failed at everything. Perhaps I was destined to rise no higher than the imaginary office of Groom of the Pudding.

So thinking, I drank myself into misery, and with aching bones and aching heart returned to my bed.

* * *

For the next several days, I remained about my rooms, save when business called me to the stockyards outside of town, where some of my cattle were being fattened, or to the lawyers, or to make arrangements for cargo on Sea-Holly. I armed myself when I went out, with my knife, Sir Basil’s pocket pistol, and a cane with a metal tip and a heavy pewter head that I purchased in a market, and I took care as I walked, examining all about me, to make certain I was not followed, and not ambushed.

I wrote a very formal letter to Her Highness Floria, and thanked her for giving information on my behalf. I signed it “Your faithful servant,” and I made no jokes about puddings. There was no reply.

I went to the Butchers’ hall to withdraw a bit of money from my box, and to explain why I’d failed to attend their feast on the Day of the Mummers, only to find that they already knew. The affray had become public knowledge, and while I had been nursing my bruises in my lodgings, a series of trials before the Siege Royal had resulted in punishments for the malefactors.

For allowing their private vendetta to overflow into a public brawl that endangered a member of the royal family, all my attackers had been found guilty, including Lord Stayne, who had set them on. Stayne and Fork-Beard, being noble, were exiled at her majesty’s pleasure to their estates, from which they would stray only at penalty of death. Slope-Shoulder, a mere knight, was condemned to three days in the pillory—a ghastly fate, in truth, because unless he had friends to stand by him, he would be a helpless object of violence by the mob, who at the very least would pelt him with filth, and at most bash out his brains with paving stones.

The rest, the swashers and prizefighters, being neither noble nor knights, were condemned to death.

My own part had become known, and though the castle had not seen fit either to praise or condemn me, the guildsmen hailed me as a hero and the savior of Princess Floria. Rumor had enlarged my part, and those of my assailants also, for now it was claimed that I had rescued Floria from traitors sworn to kill both the princess and her royal sister. While I denied that this was the case, and maintained it was a private quarrel, this hardly restrained their enthusiasm for my heroism. The guildsmen drank me a number of healths, and seemed to think I would be ennobled, or knighted at the very least, within the week.

I asked if anyone knew anything of Amalie, if she, heavy with child, must share Stayne’s exile, but none could tell me. They seemed pleased by the thought of her bouncing down the road into exile at Allingham.

Still, I left the hall more cheered than when I arrived, and these brighter spirits lasted until I returned home, and found a messenger from Amalie awaiting me.

This latest reversal has my husband mad with rage, the letter read, and he is determined to have you murdered. I know he is offering money for your life.

I am safe. I was able to persuade him that I was the innocent object of a provincial flatterer, but I fear that by doing this I have put you into greater peril, for now he fancies he is protecting me from your unwanted affections, as well as avenging his own wounded vanity.

You must fly. I am in no danger, but you must leave at once, before his sure requital can reach you.

—Mrs. Freeman

The words struck me like a blow to the heart. I did not grudge Amalie her evasions; she was using the few resources allowed by her situation. But I was staggered by the knowledge that neither censure nor banishment, nor the execution of his accomplices, would keep Stayne from his murderous persecution.

Really, didn’t the man have any other occupation but the heedless pursuit of vengeance? First against Sir Basil, now against me?

I considered ways of protecting myself. I could shift my residence, but then any messages from Amalie would fail to find me. I could hire my own bravos, and walk around surrounded by a swaggering bodyguard; but any guards would be mercenaries, and Stayne’s silver might well persuade any of them to stab me in the back. I could take up residence in the Butchers’ hall, but I would be in danger if I ever went out.

Perhaps it was time to leave Selford for the present. While I did not like the thought of fleeing before an enemy, it had to be admitted that there was nothing keeping me in the city.

Accordingly, I again paid my landlady another few months’ rent, then shifted most of my belongings to the galleon Lady Tern, which was lying at anchor off Innismore. The ship’s valuable cargo was under guard in a warehouse belonging to Customs, and while we awaited a ruling from the new prize court, the ship’s crew had been reduced to an anchor watch intended only to prevent pillage. As I was one of the presumptive owners of the vessel, no one disputed my right to lodge on the ship.

I moved into the captain’s cabin, enjoyed his wine and some of his choice victuals, and wrote to my Lord of Roundsilver. I explained the situation, and solicited his advice. The reply came from his lady, and was filled with sympathy.

There is little that can be done, she wrote, not when a great lord acts against one without such a high position. No one can prevent an attack, and though prosecution may ensue against an attacker, and a trail found that will lead to the instigator, that will be scant comfort to the victim.

My lord will speak to the Chancellor, or to her majesty if he can, to point out that Stayne now takes advantage of the mercy granted him by her majesty. At the very least a warning might be sent that the Crown knows of his plans. But if Stayne chooses to continue in this mad course, I fear your life may remain in the hazard.

I can offer you the hospitality of our house, but I fear it would become a prison for you, for you could not leave without danger. Perhaps the best course of action is to absent yourself from the capital.

I wonder how it is that you can make so many enemies. Perhaps you should restrain your impulse to hurl yourself so wholeheartedly into situations fraught with ambiguity. . . .

There was more along these lines, as gentle a reproach as I could imagine. In my current situation, I could not help but take the remonstrance to heart.

I wrote to thank her grace for her advice, and wrote that while I would regret being unable to enjoy their hospitality once again, as I planned to take her advice and take an immediate voyage.

But though I had no occupation to keep me in Selford, neither had I business anywhere else. I thought of returning to Ethlebight, and set in motion the ornaments and inscriptions of my parents’ tomb; but I felt that if I were to return to my native city, it should be in something like triumph, and not flying from a threat like a miserable hound.

If Meteor were in harbor, I would join Captain Oakeshott, but Meteor was cruising against the enemy; and if it took a prize, it would go to Amberstone, because the special prize court in Selford was for the two large galleons only. Royal Stilwell was still being repaired in Longfirth, and when it returned would be caught up in the legal business of the court, and would afterward be leased into the navy, so unless I wished to serve under the Crown, I could not use either ship as a base for any further adventures.

Even Sea-Holly was away, which removed any temptation to plod the ocean in a slow merchantman.

I paced the deck for two days, relieving my boredom by watching the life on shore through a long glass. I saw ships busked and boun for the sea, and royal galleons flying Berlauda’s long pendant, with its red horse on a white field. I saw the puffs of gunsmoke, and heard the distant thump of gunfire, as the Companie of Cannoneers tested new artillery at their emplacement down the river. I saw young folk dancing to pipers in front of taverns, sailors reeling drunk through the streets, soldiers with their pikes and hackbuts drilling on the Field of Mavortis east of the capital, whores leaning from windows and beckoning to customers below. The whole world seemed in motion, marching on to some great destiny, while I walked in circles on the quarterdeck of a near-deserted ship that swung pointlessly with the tide.

On the third day, I could bear inaction no longer. A boat carried me and my belongings up the river to Mossthorpe, and from there I took a carriage north to Blacksykes, two days on the road and a night sleeping on bedstraw at a wretched inn. On the second evening, I found the encampment of cavalry outside the city, and there sought out Lord Utterback, who I found in the stables, discussing seedy toe with a learnèd farrier. Utterback looked at me in some surprise as, stiff with two days in a carriage, I came lumber-legged into his presence.

“Quillifer?” he said. “You bring news?”

“I bring your slinkskin gloves,” said I, and produced them. He took the gloves and looked at them with a bemused smile. “As for news,” I added, “I report only that I have decided to follow the Knight Marshal’s advice, and become a soldier.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Is it my troop, then, that will be blessed with your presence?”

“Only if the post of secretary is still open.”

“It is.” He frowned at me. “But tell me, have you run out of bandits to fight?”

I waved a hand. “It proved such an unequal contest I decided to give them a rest.”

He bowed gravely. “In that case,” said he, “I am happy to welcome you into my band of recreants, rudesbys, and runagates. And may the Pilgrim save you, for the tender-hearted Lance-pesade Stringway will not.”