Of Bondlings and Blesh Chapter 44
Chapter 44
Blackened documents smoked in the grate – I wasn’t sure whether the smouldering fire was intended to heat the room, or purely a means for disposing of waste paper. True to the month name, Drizzlemoon moisture dibbled down a window that afforded a view of little but grey sky. At my toes, so many papers were scattered over the floor, it was difficult to avoid stepping on them. Running my fingers over the doorframe, gritty paint flakes worked their way under my fingernails.
“Well?” said my father irritably, looking up from the messages he was opening with a dagger. “What is it, daughter? Can’t you see that I’m busy?”
“I’m sorry,” I began, “if this is a bad time, but…”
“Fah!” he spat the syllable with sudden violence. “Wicked! Unnatural!”
“I’m sorry, if I’ve offended you, somehow, father.”
“Not you, girl, though I don’t doubt that you’ve indulged in some unnatural practices. It’s this despatch. Berenice Blackheart’s had a daughter.”
“I can’t imagine Berenice as a mother.”
“I never said that Berenice was a mother. But I did say that it was unnatural. I’d shield the eyes and ears of a real lady from such a thing. But as a whore, and a daughter of a whore, I don’t suppose there’s any harm in you knowing.”
“Father! How can you say such a thing about mother?”
“It’s no more than the truth. My grandmother really did work as a whore. Madame Villiers, they called her, when she had her own brothel. As a girl, she’d lain with Leofrith for the sake of a few coins.[1]”
“I don’t see what that has to do with mother.”
“Hear me out, girl – Grandmother Villiers told me that only accidents of birth divide whores from great ladies. She said that her whoredom was less than that of many a fine lady. At the time, I didn’t know what she meant. Later, your mother showed me.”
“You said there was no harm in me knowing the contents of the despatch.”
“No, I don’t expect there is. Read the filthy thing, if you must.”
Taking the document from his hand, I read that the most powerful person in Surrey had not been pregnant but – as nearly as a woman could – fathered a child. Savants had produced a combination of the essences of two women, a substance called gynozoa – something which, I knew, had been the subject of research at the University of Pain. Now, it had passed from the realm theory to become an actual child – the daughter of Berenice and the aptly named Gina Gestate[2]. The baby had been brought to term in Gina’s belly.
The despatch covered some matters I was unable to follow about XX and XY. This led to a conclusion that was easy enough to understand, that any child conceived through gynozoa would be a girl[3]. The writer envisaged that the development might eventually lead to the disappearance of the human male. This was represented as an undesirable outcome but, in spite of my liking Bob Bosset and a few other men, made me think speed the day.
“Anyway,” my father said, as I handed the paper back to him, “I think I said that I was busy. Do you have any actual business with me, Margaret?”
“Yes, father. Your armies will soon invade Surrey.”
“You seem privy to what some would regard as a military secret – but what of it?”
“I thought that, if you are going to war, cementing an East Anglar alliance might be urgent.”
“Your marriage to Lord Up Minester?”
“Yes, father.”
“That’s a very good point, Margaret. Thank you. In view of all my urgent business, I’d overlooked the matter, but I shouldn’t have done. It would be well to send a message to Lord Up Minester today, proposing a date for the union.”
“Briday is traditional for weddings – and, unless I’m much mistaken, Lord Up Minester and his family will be sticklers for tradition.”
“His family will quite certainly be so, Margaret. East Anglar is a most old fashioned place. It’s Ruday today. Three days will obviously be insufficient for the marriage negotiations – so it can’t be this coming Briday.”
“Besides, father, I think this Briday is the thirteenth. Many view it as a day of ill-omen. It seems unlikely that East Anglar folk would regard it as a suitable day for a wedding.”
“A good point, Margaret. Briday week is the twentieth, a good enough day – but I think that Lord Up Minester’s family may require more notice than that. It would be well for the future alliance if the Viscount of Lower Stoft could be present in person.”
“I was thinking much the same myself, father.”
“Briday fortnight is the twenty-seventh – the day we intend to deploy our main infantry force. I’m sure to be too busy for your wedding – and it would look ill if I weren’t present.”
“Yes, father, you will most certainly need to be there if Lord Up Minester’s family are not to feel slighted. So how about three weeks from Briday?”
“Let me see,” he said, consulting a calendar. “That would be Cornsprout 4th. More or less a perfect day. The month is associated with fertility, whilst four represents stability.”
Leaving the old man’s office, the wedding day was fixed – in so far as anything in this world ever is, before it actually happens. Back in my rooms, Lisa-Louise expressed herself as better pleased than I’d expected – perhaps she had thought that my Surrenity might hold me back from following her instructions. For once she agreed with my father – the fourth would be a more or less perfect day. Her reasons for thinking this were not based on the date as such, but upon practicalities around my re-entry into Surrey.
Two days later, came Drizzlemoon 12th, the Great Feast of Our Lady of the Lamp. A year earlier, she had returned me to Tuerquelle and Lady Isobel, and now another return to my daughter, and to my beloved mistress, was imminent. In the circumstances, earnest prayers were in order and, naturally, I did not neglect them. It was also an occasion for rejoicing – accordingly, I invited everyone from the Solstice celebration to join me for dinner – plus the twins, Norti and Queuti.
That made fourteen at table – I’d never seen my dining room so full. By what means I never discovered, Lisa-Louise, Diqui and Barguin, between them, managed to lay their hands on three ducks, two smoked chickens and a small goose. In a feat even more impressive, Tipsi mistress-minded their transformation into an excellent meal, in spite of the cramped confines of my kitchen. The wine was marked as having come from Eric Marsh’s cellar – having certainly left that place with neither his knowledge nor consent.
Rising to my feet after dinner, I said: “It has been delight to have every one of you here for what is, to me, the most important feast of the year. Raise your glasses please to Our Lady of the Lamp.”
Everyone rose, drained their glasses and cheered. Sergeant General Bosset proposed a toast for the safety of all of us who were about to venture into Surrey. Lisa-Louise responded with good wishes for Fluff and Bob’s baby. The mother-to-be – who had restricted herself to non-alcoholic drinks – was the only one of us not to be at least a little drunk.
“Most of you will already know about it,” I said, rising to my feet again. “But I would like the few, who haven’t heard, to be aware that we are about to fake my death.”
“Are you sure it’s wise to talk about this?” Modesty asked.
“I’m not sure that it’s wise, but I think that everyone here has earned a right to know. I’d hate for Fluff or the twins to grieve for me when I’m perfectly well. And I think that we can trust the entire company. But, please, no word of this should pass beyond those who are here this evening.”
“Yes, tell them, Tuerqui,” said Lisa-Louise, “they all have a right to know.”
“On Cornsprout 4th – three weeks tomorrow – I am to marry Lord Up Minester. Once we are wed, he and I will depart for his castle, but – if our plans go smoothly – my husband will return within a few hours. He’ll say that we were ambushed and I was killed. In reality, I’ll have joined the warrior girls and be on my way to Surrey.”
At that stage, I think, it was envisaged that Tipsi would be leaving with the others on the twenty-fifth. As a final change to our plans, Lisa-Louise and Modesty agreed that she would remain with me in the palace until I was married – and leave the city after the wedding as my personal slave. That way, I’d have some assistance should last minute changes of plan prove necessary. It was clear to me that, were the feast day dinner an indication of her organisational skills, this was an excellent idea.
The palace had become a hive of activity. Once, I saw Lord Bustain, scratching the crack between his buttocks as he made his way along the passage that led to my father’s office. No doubt, he was selling horses, ponies and mules for use in the invasion. He smiled vaguely in my direction, but had probably not recognised me.
Contrary to my expectations, the invasion plans progressed smoothly, and punctually. On the twenty-fifth, Fluff, Bob and the twins joined Tipsi and me to wave goodbye to Lisa-Louise, Modesty, Diqui and Barguin. Mounted on shaggy but sturdy ponies, they rode apart from the later intake of warrior girls. Well-armed, with the protection of padded leather and light steel cuirasses, the four of them made an impressive sight – I was glad that they were on my side.
Tipsi and I watched as a battalion of my father’s finest foot soldiers departed for Teddy’s Town the following day. A few hours later, the first of the wounded men returned, disfigured by bloody gashes. In the late afternoon, the corpse of an officer was returned on a horse. Listening for any scrap of information, we gathered that, although the troops suffered heavy losses, they had secured the lock before night fell.
The bodies of two of the irregulars also returned to the palace that day, slung over their ponies’ saddles. This piece of news having spread quickly, a large crowd gathered in the stableyard. Jostling to see the faces of the slain girls, I was much relieved to find that neither of them were my friends. Tipsi squeezed my hand, tears in her eyes – our concerns had surely been identical.
We watched again as a much larger body of infantry departed on the twenty-seventh. The return traffic of the injured and dead mounted. After seeing a man dragged home on a litter – missing both legs and coughing his life blood – I preferred not to look at the spectacle. There was little doubt that we would see enough grisly sights in the weeks to come without gawping at the war’s early casualties.
Left to my own devices, I would probably not have watched the departure of the main force. My father, however, insisted that I join him – and some other persons of importance – on a balcony. Saluting in our direction, a great body of soldiers passed below, most of them on horseback. Helmets and breast plates gleamed in the morning sunshine, bright banners shifting in the breeze.
Most magnificent of all, Sir Garrafad of the Mount rode at head of the column. A mass of blue, yellow and scarlet plumes sprouted from his helmet as flowers from a pot. The general’s mustachios were heavily waxed, protruding from his upper lip like a pair of stilettos. His breastplate was adorned with an image of an eagle – his personal symbol – worked in what was almost certainly real gold.
In contrast to the immaculate troops below, a sooty-faced officer joined us on the balcony, his cuirass dented and without its shine. When he saluted, I saw that one sleeve of his tunic was ripped to reveal darkly caked dried blood. There could be no doubt that he was newly returned from the battle. Evidently not wishing the newcomer to be seen from below, my father drew him away from the parapet.
“Well, Major Gilbert?” my father asked.
“We’ve secured the wretches, your highness,” the major replied. “Cowardice in the face of the enemy is, of course, punishable by death – but what manner of execution would you prefer?”
“If I may be allowed to intervene,” said Cornelius Lock, “this war is proving very expensive. That villain Bustain, for one, has made a fortune from your poor purse. Quoting the figures would make me physically sick. Could we not recoup a few pennies by enslaving any cowards?”
“Mr Lock has a good point,” my father said. “Enslave them – but have their entire regiments witness the branding and castration. That should help stiffen the men’s resolve.”
“Cowardice,” said the gaunt man who worked as Mr Lock’s chief assistant, “is the mark of a genetic slave. Natural justice demands that the cowards’ entire families should be enslaved.”
“A point well made, and well taken,” my father said. “And it could do no harm if the troops understood that their entire families will pay the price for any cowardice.”
“Yes,” the major agreed, seemingly with some discomfort, “I would have hoped, by now, to have prisoners of war and other booty to defray the expenses. But, so far, not a single prisoner – and the plunder is hardly worth the expense of shipping back to Lundin.”
“Please don’t bother us with any more rusty iron,” Cornelius Lock remarked sourly, “If things do not improve, we may have to look at courts martial for some of the officers. We can’t expect an actual profit in the first few days of war – but there are limits.”
“Not you, of course, major,” my father said a little too hastily, “but when things go badly someone has to take responsibility.”
It was now less than a week until my marriage and, as soon as the army had departed, the household was busy with wedding preparations. The palace temple, usually a dusty place owing to my father’s lack of religion, was thoroughly cleaned and garlanded with spring flowers. Stitch slaves, now working without Modesty, sewed me a magnificent gown – white with gold thread. At least twenty members of Lord Up Minester’s family arrived including, to my surprise, the famous Viscount of Lower Stoft.
“This wedding is costing a preposterous sum,” I heard Cornelius Lock complain to my father. “That at a time when the war has best part emptied the treasury, and has yet to return any significant plunder.”
“I know,” my father replied. “But think of it as an investment. A judicious alliance with the East Anglar nobles should help to ensure victory. In defeat, there can be no profit from making war.”
“True – and yet the gold thread for her dress…”
“We don’t want the Viscount to sense that there is any financial difficulty. That could spell disaster.”
Possibly, the Viscount failed to sense any financial difficulty – but he certainly sensed matters to my father’s disadvantage. Several times each day, messengers fetched him despatches – some, at least, from the war zone. It took no great detective to tell, from his facial expressions, that little of what he read was to his liking. My father tried to put a brave face on matters, but he, too, was clearly worried by the tide of battle.
“Another set back for Sir Garrafad,” I heard the Viscount say to my father. “He’s scarcely three miles beyond Teddy’s Town and has secured no advantage at all against Pauline Poleaxe’s troops[4]. I begin to wonder at the advisability of a union between our houses.”
“A temporary set back,” my father replied, “no more than that. He’s certain to break out within the week. The gods are on our side, and the Surrey wretches are at each other’s throats.”
“You may have miscalculated there. I don’t know much about the gods – it seems to me that neither of us are truly religious men. As to the Surrey generals, some are preoccupying themselves with Surrey’s external enemies, rather than the civil war. According to my sources, Lorelei Leveller is still actively engaged on conquest in the west, and may soon take Brister itself.[5]”
“But the civil war is sure to take its toll. You’ll see.”
“Perhaps so – but I sense that too many Surrey generals are hedging their bets. If they defeat your troops, or those of Westland, they will receive the gratitude of either Berenice or Nadine – whichever wins. If I were in their place, it’s the strategy I’d try to adopt. Wouldn’t you?”
“Possibly I would. But they are women – creatures, by nature, devoid of logic. And they can’t keep it up for too long. They’re sure to be dragged in – and then, if not before, we will triumph.”
“You’d better hope that it’s so. There enough lords in East Anglar who favour an alliance with Surrey, whatever we think of those women’s wickedness.”
“Ah! There you have it! Those women’s wickedness – someone has to make a stand against it. Did you hear of Berenice’s daughter?”
“Yes – and I take your point. On the other hand, we can’t blind ourselves to the way the world is going.”
“Indeed, we can’t blind ourselves to the way the world is going – that is my entire point. If we don’t stick together, our sons will have no future. Worse – there will be no sons, only daughters of dreadfulness.”
Whatever the viscount’s doubts, the wedding preparations continued. The ballroom, having grown dusty since the New Year masque, was now readied for use. Slaves prepared the floor with beeswax and linseed oil before buffing it with bunny cloths. It looked very well done but, applying bare toes to the surface, I could detect deficiencies in the work – the shortcomings would not have done for the University of Pain.
On Olday evening – aware that we would have little time for them the following day – Tipsi and I made our farewells to Fluff, Bob and the twins. All of us made an attempt at gaiety, trying not to show how sad we were to part. Sarah and her musicians stopped by for a little while – to say goodbye and play a few final tunes. On the way back to my rooms afterwards, both Tipsi and I had tears in our eyes.
Finally, Briday dawned with a cloudless sky. After breakfast, Tipsi – assisted by half a dozen slaves – dressed me in the bridal gown. A headdress in the form of a spray of satin flowers was positioned to hide my RBS mark. When they held a looking glass for my inspection, a lump formed in my throat – never before, surely, had I looked so lovely.
My father arrived to escort me to the temple. He possessed an air of magnificence in a dark red velvet robe with a heavy gold chain of office about his neck. Golden slippers with curled up toes were just visible beneath his hem. For once, he was smiling.
“Margaret,” he said, “you do me credit. Time, now, to join with your husband-to-be in the temple.”
“Thank you, father. I’m ready.”
He stepped ahead of me through the narrower passages and stair cases, but – when we came to the broad temple steps – father took his place to my left. Linking his arm with mine, we stepped into the great chapel, where perhaps two hundred guests vied for space with a wild profusion of flowers. As we entered, musicians struck up the wedding march.
Peering at the assembled company, I saw that Bob Bosset, Fluff and the twins had been allocated a notably less prestigious place than Lord Higate or the Honourable Eric Marsh. No doubt this had to do with the Sergeant General’s humble origins. The most exulted positions, closest to the shrine, were occupied by the viscount on the groom’s side, and my brother on the bride’s. Phoebe and Mary, in lacy dresses, sat behind a pillar several rows behind.
Directly in front of the shrine stood Lord Up Minester in a royal blue uniform lavishly decorated with gold braid and buttons. His high stiff collar looked as though it were choking him. He wore a sword on his left hip, which seemed to me of doubtful propriety in a sacred precinct. Under his left arm he carried an elaborate military cap crowned with a mass of crimson plumes – it reminded me of a fancy chicken.
There was a priest – a fat man in a scarlet robe – and a priestess – a scrawny woman in white. They joined hands to invoke a lengthy catalogue of gods and goddesses, most of whose names were entirely unfamiliar to me. During this recital, I could feel the assembled company growing restive, my father tapped a golden slipper impatiently. Perhaps the clerics grew aware of the hostile current, for they stopped abruptly – part way through, I thought, the polysyllabic name of an obscure deity.
“We are gathered here,” said the priest, “to join this man and this woman in marriage. It is a holy rite recalling the way in which maleness and femaleness were conjoined at the first time – to create the universe. The act of divine creation continues thus to this day. Only through the most frightful blasphemy will such union ever be disrupted.”
Glancing at my father, I saw his impatient expression at the start of this speech. His face clearly registered we all know why we’re here – just get on with it! As the priest continued into what was clearly an attack on the gynozoic reproduction developed in Surrey, the old man smiled grimly and nodded in agreement. He was not a religious man, but he liked this train of thought.
“As at the beginning, so to the end,” said the priestess.
“Who gives this woman, Princess Margaret of the Blood Victoria, into marriage?” asked the priest.
“I do,” said my father.
“And by what right do you give her?”
“By the right of parenthood. I am her father. I am Chieftain in absolute of the Blood Victoria, given governance of Lundin under the glory of the Sixth Condominium, blessed by the gods.”
“Do you, then, assign all rights concerning her to Victor, twelfth Lord of Up Minester in the Kingdom of Essex, that he may take her and use her in absolute as his own?”
“I do.”
“And may the woman, Princess Margaret of the Blood Victoria, speak to give her own consent to this union?”
“She may.”
“Do you, Princess Margaret of the Blood Victoria, daughter of the Chieftain in absolute who is given governance of Lundin under the glory of the Sixth Condominium, blessed by the gods, give your consent to this marriage?” The priestess was speaking, now. “That he may take you and use you in absolute as his own?”
“I do,” I said, trying not to choke on the words.
“Do you Victor, twelfth Lord of Up Minester in the Kingdom of Essex,” said the priest, “take as your wife Princess Margaret of the Blood Victoria, daughter of the Chieftain in absolute who is given governance of Lundin under the glory of the Sixth Condominium, blessed by the gods? Do you take her to use in absolute as your own? Do you take her as the potentiality of the first god took the potentiality of the first goddess – and as male has ever since taken female throughout the unbroken line of creation?”
“I do.”
“Have you the ring with which to bind your wife in matrimony?”
“I have,” said Lord Up Minester, slipping a gold band on to my finger.
“Then I, as priest representing every god, join you as husband and wife.”
“And I, as priestess representing every goddess, join you as wife and husband.”
Two slaves carried a bulky and obviously heavy wooden stand – placing it just to the left of the priest and priestess. Clipped to its upper surface was the marriage contract – a sheet of thick legal paper marked with elaborate calligraphy and embellished with half a dozen wax seals. A third slave placed a pen and a pot of ink next to the document. My father was the first to sign, followed by Lord Up Minester, finally I was permitted to add my signature.
To a cheer from the crowd, Lord Up Minester picked me up, seemingly as easily as he might a kitten, and carried me from the temple. For the first time, it occurred to me that my husband was physically very strong. Were we, by some mischance, to pass into married life, it would have been difficult for me resist any of his demands. He did not put me down until we had crossed the threshold of the ballroom, where the reception was to be held.
The next two or three hours were occupied with eating, drinking and dancing. Aware of how I’d arranged for the day to develop, I ate a substantial meal – but drank a great deal less than the intended impression. On my way out of Lundin, it would be wise to have a reasonably clear head. To my relief, my husband became quite inebriated – although not to the extent that he’d be unable to ride.
“Darling,” he said as it approached the time for us to leave, “a most frightful bore. It looks as if we won’t be able to go to my castle this evening.”
“Why ever not, my sweetheart?”
“Damnably embarrassing, actually, my dear. But, if you’ll save my pardon for using the word, my guard company has gone down with the squitters.”
“What does that matter, my love? I’m sure we can manage very well without them.”
“Damnably risky, I’m afraid, sugar heart. The road’s not at all safe.”
“Oh sweetheart! Don’t say that! Your castle is east of Lundin, isn’t it?”
“Yes, darling, it is – but I don’t see…”
“Well, my sweet, with the war having started, any wicked people, capable of doing us harm, will be to the west of Lundin.”
“I suppose they will, my honey pot, but all the same…”
“And you’re so strong, dearest, you picked me up like a piece of thistledown. Besides, I’m sure you could use your sword to see off any ruffians who dared molest us. More likely, they would run in terror from your sheer manliness, fouling their breeches as they went.”
“Do you really think so, my pet lamb?”
“I really do, my darling. I’m sure there’s no one manlier in all the land. Besides, it’s dreadfully bad luck to spend the wedding night in the bride’s home.”
“Yes, my love, that’s true. Wedding night spent under the bride’s own roof – she’ll wear the breeches, making him a poof[6].”
“Well, dearest, we certainly don’t want that! I’ll go and change quickly – can’t ride in my wedding gown. You go to the stableyard and have three horses saddled – for you, me and my body slave – a lady needs someone to attend her. Hurry now, sweetness!”
Without making formal farewells to anyone, I slipped from the ballroom – it suited my purposes if others thought that I’d merely gone to the toilet. In my living room, Tipsi helped me from the beautiful bridal gown. My regret over losing the dress came as a surprise – I’d expected to feel little attachment to it. Under a light weight skirt, I assumed a pair of breeches to make for easy dismounting – both Tipsi and I wrapped ourselves in white cloaks.
“Lord Up Minester’s guard went down with the shits,” I said. “That was lucky.”
“I may have given them a little help,” Tipsi replied, “with some of Doctor Grimes’ constipation cure in their punch.”
Down in the stableyard, Lord Up Minester was waiting with the horses. The absurd chicken hat was now perched on his head – it was difficult not to laugh. He clambered into the saddle with some difficulty – having, as I was already aware, consumed a great deal of alcohol – my hope was that he wouldn’t be too drunk to appreciate our performance. Tipsi and I mounted more adroitly.
It gave me some pleasure to see that Tipsi and I had been allocated smaller horses that Lord Up Minester. No doubt, his tall mount indicated an elevated status – a lord, as opposed to a woman and – lower yet – her slave. My concern was not for the privileges of rank, but for the practicalities of my return to Surrey. The shorter beasts were clearly a great deal sturdier than the one my husband rode, better suited to the long and difficult way ahead of us.
At the palace gate, my husband, rolling a little in the saddle, waved at the guards a passport made out to Lord Up Minester and party. In return, four halberdiers saluted smartly. We trotted down Bloom’s Berry Street and then left on to High Whole Bun, named – perhaps – for the bakery on the corner. A few persons and slaves, out on business, giggled as we passed – probably amused by the chicken hat.
We passed from the fashionable district about the palace into the region of rat-infested hovels that extends to the east. At last, after what seemed a rather long trot, we reached the Old Gate. Here, the guards examined the passport more carefully than had their stableyard colleagues. They saluted, but in a more perfunctory manner than the palace halberdiers.
From the Old Gate our way took us along the White Chapel Road. If there was an actual white chapel, it must have been hidden amongst the trees – for a dense forest now stretched away on either hand. From three or four places, wisps of smoke rose from the woods – either camp fires or cottages set well back from the highway. Perhaps an hour east of the city, a startled stag bolted across the increasingly muddy track.
Evidently taking the animal in flight as a sign of danger, Lord Up Minester loosened his sword in its scabbard. Possibly ten minutes afterwards, a flock of birds flapped noisily into the sky. My husband now drew his blade half way from its sheath. In spite of the ominous signs, we rode on for at least another half hour without mishap.
Then, suddenly, there was a gush of blood from my husband’s shoulder – the shaft of a crossbow quarrel protruding by three or four inches. At this, our signal, Tipsi and I thumped ourselves hard on the chest. The waxed paper cartons of blood – purchased from a blesh butcher that morning, by an orphan Bob had bribed on our behalf – burst impressively, reddening our white cloaks. As I rolled from the saddle, my right foot caught in the stirrup, and the road scraped my back for a couple of dozen yards before the beast came to a halt.
Feeling not a little dazed, I glanced back the way we had come. Tipsi was lying on her back by the roadside, blood oozing from her cloak. Lord Up Minister, by lucky chance, had remained in his saddle. He glanced wildly about – perceiving what he doubtless took for our lifeless corpses – before reigning hard, wheeling about, and galloping in the direction of the city.
Then someone released my foot from the stirrup with more haste than gentleness – peering upwards, I saw Modesty looking down at me. Wincing, for my tumble – followed by the dragging – had scraped away my skin in several places, I rose to my feet a little unsteadily. Realising that there was no time to be lost, I stripped rapidly, shivering – for, in the shadow of the trees, the afternoon was chilly. Removing the string that held the burst blood carton about my neck, and putting the breeches to one side, I wiped off as much blood as possible, using my discarded clothes as so many rags.
“Come on,” said Lisa-Louise, “there’s a stream twenty yards into the wood. You can wash there. We’ve made a fire, too. Hurry!”
After slinging the breeches over the saddle, I took the blood carton with its gore-soaked string in my left hand, and the horse’s reigns in my right. Tipsi, having done likewise, was already following Modesty into the forest. Shivering anew on entering the leafy gloom – perhaps the chill, possibly ancestral dread – I stepped behind my former slave whilst Lisa-Louise, cradling a crossbow, brought up the rear. Soon, the road was out of sight – and, with it, the scattered blood-soaked garments, the confusion of hoof and footprints in the mud, that bore mute, and it was to be hoped misleading, testimony to what had befallen.
“You’re careful to preserve your breeches,” said Lisa-Louise. “Since you’ll soon be changing into padded leather, I doubt that you’ll have much need of them.”
“I wore them to make the tumble from my horse a little easier, though you might not have guessed it. If I’d left the breeches on the road, someone would have wondered. I’m not saying that they’d have come to the correct conclusion, but…”
“No point in taking the chance. Very sensible, Tuerqui.”
After a short walk, we came to a clearing. By the promised stream, four sturdy ponies were hitched to a stunted oak. Diqui and Barguin tended a fire on to which Tipsi had just thrown her blood carton with its holding string. When I followed her example, the flames died down, but the waxed paper was soon sufficiently charred for Modesty, wielding a stick, to smash it into tiny fragments.
“Barguin has some towels,” said Lisa-Louise. “Try to wash and dress quickly, you two. There’ll be guards on our trail in maybe an hour – or two, at most. We should try to put as much distance as possible between us and them before sunset.”
The woodland brook was intensely cold but, forcing myself to splash in it, almost all of the remaining blood was carried downstream. From the forest about us sounded the noise of birds – the hakka-chakka of a magpie, the song of a blackbird, the thudding of a woodpecker. Annoyingly, there was a residue of gore under the unaccustomed wedding ring – a piece of jewellery which I tried in vain to tug from my slightly swollen finger. Lisa-Louise and Diqui were arranging on the bank our armour and swords, ready for the perilous miles before us.
[1] Leofrith was the last undisputed Chieftain of the Blood Victoria. His wife, Elisabeth, bore him several daughters, but no son. His only son was born to Madame Villiers, a courtesan. Jenna was descended from Matilda, Elisabeth’s eldest daughter, recognised by Surrey as the legitimate Chieftain. Tuerqui was descended from Madame Villiers’ son, recognised as legitimate Chieftain by Surrey’s enemies. The name of Madame Villiers’ son is not preserved – nor are those of any of his descendants other than Tuerqui, Phoebe and Mary.
[2] Berenice’s daughter, the future Empress Berenice II, was born on Drizzlemoon 3rd of that year. It seems that she was probably the first gynozoa child to be carried to term. Gina Gestate was created an elector – and then an emper – shortly after falling pregnant. At only thirteen years, she may have been the youngest emper in the history of the Surrey democracy.
[3] As an entirely female being, a gynozoa child inevitably has XX chromosomes. The male, by contrast, had XY chromosomes, missing one arm of the structure. It had been observed, as far back as the Old Time, that a male was an incomplete female.
[4] The distinguished general, Pauline Poleaxe, was involved in several conflicts with Surrey’s external enemies at this time. As well as the action against troops from Lundin, she completed the conquest of Sussex and Ampsher – both kingdoms in which there had remained pockets of resistance. She subsequently played a prominent part in Berenice’s conquests, including the Fourth Battle of Lundin.
[5] Having defeated the Westland army at the Battle of Malm’s Bury on Drizzlemoon 14th-16th, Lorelei Leveller began her march on Brister on Drizzlemoon 24th. She invested the city on Cornsprout 8th. After a siege, followed by street fighting, resistance in Brister ceased on Litnight 14th, and the Kingdom of Westland ceased to be. Lorelei Leveller went on to hold a number of high offices under Berenice I, including that of Governess of the Meadowlands.
[6] Poof often signified a man who enjoyed lying with members of his own sex. Here it is probably used with a wider meaning – a weak or unmanly man.
For Chapter 45 click
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Blackened documents smoked in the grate – I wasn’t sure whether the smouldering fire was intended to heat the room, or purely a means for disposing of waste paper. True to the month name, Drizzlemoon moisture dibbled down a window that afforded a view of little but grey sky. At my toes, so many papers were scattered over the floor, it was difficult to avoid stepping on them. Running my fingers over the doorframe, gritty paint flakes worked their way under my fingernails.
“Well?” said my father irritably, looking up from the messages he was opening with a dagger. “What is it, daughter? Can’t you see that I’m busy?”
“I’m sorry,” I began, “if this is a bad time, but…”
“Fah!” he spat the syllable with sudden violence. “Wicked! Unnatural!”
“I’m sorry, if I’ve offended you, somehow, father.”
“Not you, girl, though I don’t doubt that you’ve indulged in some unnatural practices. It’s this despatch. Berenice Blackheart’s had a daughter.”
“I can’t imagine Berenice as a mother.”
“I never said that Berenice was a mother. But I did say that it was unnatural. I’d shield the eyes and ears of a real lady from such a thing. But as a whore, and a daughter of a whore, I don’t suppose there’s any harm in you knowing.”
“Father! How can you say such a thing about mother?”
“It’s no more than the truth. My grandmother really did work as a whore. Madame Villiers, they called her, when she had her own brothel. As a girl, she’d lain with Leofrith for the sake of a few coins.[1]”
“I don’t see what that has to do with mother.”
“Hear me out, girl – Grandmother Villiers told me that only accidents of birth divide whores from great ladies. She said that her whoredom was less than that of many a fine lady. At the time, I didn’t know what she meant. Later, your mother showed me.”
“You said there was no harm in me knowing the contents of the despatch.”
“No, I don’t expect there is. Read the filthy thing, if you must.”
Taking the document from his hand, I read that the most powerful person in Surrey had not been pregnant but – as nearly as a woman could – fathered a child. Savants had produced a combination of the essences of two women, a substance called gynozoa – something which, I knew, had been the subject of research at the University of Pain. Now, it had passed from the realm theory to become an actual child – the daughter of Berenice and the aptly named Gina Gestate[2]. The baby had been brought to term in Gina’s belly.
The despatch covered some matters I was unable to follow about XX and XY. This led to a conclusion that was easy enough to understand, that any child conceived through gynozoa would be a girl[3]. The writer envisaged that the development might eventually lead to the disappearance of the human male. This was represented as an undesirable outcome but, in spite of my liking Bob Bosset and a few other men, made me think speed the day.
“Anyway,” my father said, as I handed the paper back to him, “I think I said that I was busy. Do you have any actual business with me, Margaret?”
“Yes, father. Your armies will soon invade Surrey.”
“You seem privy to what some would regard as a military secret – but what of it?”
“I thought that, if you are going to war, cementing an East Anglar alliance might be urgent.”
“Your marriage to Lord Up Minester?”
“Yes, father.”
“That’s a very good point, Margaret. Thank you. In view of all my urgent business, I’d overlooked the matter, but I shouldn’t have done. It would be well to send a message to Lord Up Minester today, proposing a date for the union.”
“Briday is traditional for weddings – and, unless I’m much mistaken, Lord Up Minester and his family will be sticklers for tradition.”
“His family will quite certainly be so, Margaret. East Anglar is a most old fashioned place. It’s Ruday today. Three days will obviously be insufficient for the marriage negotiations – so it can’t be this coming Briday.”
“Besides, father, I think this Briday is the thirteenth. Many view it as a day of ill-omen. It seems unlikely that East Anglar folk would regard it as a suitable day for a wedding.”
“A good point, Margaret. Briday week is the twentieth, a good enough day – but I think that Lord Up Minester’s family may require more notice than that. It would be well for the future alliance if the Viscount of Lower Stoft could be present in person.”
“I was thinking much the same myself, father.”
“Briday fortnight is the twenty-seventh – the day we intend to deploy our main infantry force. I’m sure to be too busy for your wedding – and it would look ill if I weren’t present.”
“Yes, father, you will most certainly need to be there if Lord Up Minester’s family are not to feel slighted. So how about three weeks from Briday?”
“Let me see,” he said, consulting a calendar. “That would be Cornsprout 4th. More or less a perfect day. The month is associated with fertility, whilst four represents stability.”
Leaving the old man’s office, the wedding day was fixed – in so far as anything in this world ever is, before it actually happens. Back in my rooms, Lisa-Louise expressed herself as better pleased than I’d expected – perhaps she had thought that my Surrenity might hold me back from following her instructions. For once she agreed with my father – the fourth would be a more or less perfect day. Her reasons for thinking this were not based on the date as such, but upon practicalities around my re-entry into Surrey.
Two days later, came Drizzlemoon 12th, the Great Feast of Our Lady of the Lamp. A year earlier, she had returned me to Tuerquelle and Lady Isobel, and now another return to my daughter, and to my beloved mistress, was imminent. In the circumstances, earnest prayers were in order and, naturally, I did not neglect them. It was also an occasion for rejoicing – accordingly, I invited everyone from the Solstice celebration to join me for dinner – plus the twins, Norti and Queuti.
That made fourteen at table – I’d never seen my dining room so full. By what means I never discovered, Lisa-Louise, Diqui and Barguin, between them, managed to lay their hands on three ducks, two smoked chickens and a small goose. In a feat even more impressive, Tipsi mistress-minded their transformation into an excellent meal, in spite of the cramped confines of my kitchen. The wine was marked as having come from Eric Marsh’s cellar – having certainly left that place with neither his knowledge nor consent.
Rising to my feet after dinner, I said: “It has been delight to have every one of you here for what is, to me, the most important feast of the year. Raise your glasses please to Our Lady of the Lamp.”
Everyone rose, drained their glasses and cheered. Sergeant General Bosset proposed a toast for the safety of all of us who were about to venture into Surrey. Lisa-Louise responded with good wishes for Fluff and Bob’s baby. The mother-to-be – who had restricted herself to non-alcoholic drinks – was the only one of us not to be at least a little drunk.
“Most of you will already know about it,” I said, rising to my feet again. “But I would like the few, who haven’t heard, to be aware that we are about to fake my death.”
“Are you sure it’s wise to talk about this?” Modesty asked.
“I’m not sure that it’s wise, but I think that everyone here has earned a right to know. I’d hate for Fluff or the twins to grieve for me when I’m perfectly well. And I think that we can trust the entire company. But, please, no word of this should pass beyond those who are here this evening.”
“Yes, tell them, Tuerqui,” said Lisa-Louise, “they all have a right to know.”
“On Cornsprout 4th – three weeks tomorrow – I am to marry Lord Up Minester. Once we are wed, he and I will depart for his castle, but – if our plans go smoothly – my husband will return within a few hours. He’ll say that we were ambushed and I was killed. In reality, I’ll have joined the warrior girls and be on my way to Surrey.”
At that stage, I think, it was envisaged that Tipsi would be leaving with the others on the twenty-fifth. As a final change to our plans, Lisa-Louise and Modesty agreed that she would remain with me in the palace until I was married – and leave the city after the wedding as my personal slave. That way, I’d have some assistance should last minute changes of plan prove necessary. It was clear to me that, were the feast day dinner an indication of her organisational skills, this was an excellent idea.
The palace had become a hive of activity. Once, I saw Lord Bustain, scratching the crack between his buttocks as he made his way along the passage that led to my father’s office. No doubt, he was selling horses, ponies and mules for use in the invasion. He smiled vaguely in my direction, but had probably not recognised me.
Contrary to my expectations, the invasion plans progressed smoothly, and punctually. On the twenty-fifth, Fluff, Bob and the twins joined Tipsi and me to wave goodbye to Lisa-Louise, Modesty, Diqui and Barguin. Mounted on shaggy but sturdy ponies, they rode apart from the later intake of warrior girls. Well-armed, with the protection of padded leather and light steel cuirasses, the four of them made an impressive sight – I was glad that they were on my side.
Tipsi and I watched as a battalion of my father’s finest foot soldiers departed for Teddy’s Town the following day. A few hours later, the first of the wounded men returned, disfigured by bloody gashes. In the late afternoon, the corpse of an officer was returned on a horse. Listening for any scrap of information, we gathered that, although the troops suffered heavy losses, they had secured the lock before night fell.
The bodies of two of the irregulars also returned to the palace that day, slung over their ponies’ saddles. This piece of news having spread quickly, a large crowd gathered in the stableyard. Jostling to see the faces of the slain girls, I was much relieved to find that neither of them were my friends. Tipsi squeezed my hand, tears in her eyes – our concerns had surely been identical.
We watched again as a much larger body of infantry departed on the twenty-seventh. The return traffic of the injured and dead mounted. After seeing a man dragged home on a litter – missing both legs and coughing his life blood – I preferred not to look at the spectacle. There was little doubt that we would see enough grisly sights in the weeks to come without gawping at the war’s early casualties.
Left to my own devices, I would probably not have watched the departure of the main force. My father, however, insisted that I join him – and some other persons of importance – on a balcony. Saluting in our direction, a great body of soldiers passed below, most of them on horseback. Helmets and breast plates gleamed in the morning sunshine, bright banners shifting in the breeze.
Most magnificent of all, Sir Garrafad of the Mount rode at head of the column. A mass of blue, yellow and scarlet plumes sprouted from his helmet as flowers from a pot. The general’s mustachios were heavily waxed, protruding from his upper lip like a pair of stilettos. His breastplate was adorned with an image of an eagle – his personal symbol – worked in what was almost certainly real gold.
In contrast to the immaculate troops below, a sooty-faced officer joined us on the balcony, his cuirass dented and without its shine. When he saluted, I saw that one sleeve of his tunic was ripped to reveal darkly caked dried blood. There could be no doubt that he was newly returned from the battle. Evidently not wishing the newcomer to be seen from below, my father drew him away from the parapet.
“Well, Major Gilbert?” my father asked.
“We’ve secured the wretches, your highness,” the major replied. “Cowardice in the face of the enemy is, of course, punishable by death – but what manner of execution would you prefer?”
“If I may be allowed to intervene,” said Cornelius Lock, “this war is proving very expensive. That villain Bustain, for one, has made a fortune from your poor purse. Quoting the figures would make me physically sick. Could we not recoup a few pennies by enslaving any cowards?”
“Mr Lock has a good point,” my father said. “Enslave them – but have their entire regiments witness the branding and castration. That should help stiffen the men’s resolve.”
“Cowardice,” said the gaunt man who worked as Mr Lock’s chief assistant, “is the mark of a genetic slave. Natural justice demands that the cowards’ entire families should be enslaved.”
“A point well made, and well taken,” my father said. “And it could do no harm if the troops understood that their entire families will pay the price for any cowardice.”
“Yes,” the major agreed, seemingly with some discomfort, “I would have hoped, by now, to have prisoners of war and other booty to defray the expenses. But, so far, not a single prisoner – and the plunder is hardly worth the expense of shipping back to Lundin.”
“Please don’t bother us with any more rusty iron,” Cornelius Lock remarked sourly, “If things do not improve, we may have to look at courts martial for some of the officers. We can’t expect an actual profit in the first few days of war – but there are limits.”
“Not you, of course, major,” my father said a little too hastily, “but when things go badly someone has to take responsibility.”
It was now less than a week until my marriage and, as soon as the army had departed, the household was busy with wedding preparations. The palace temple, usually a dusty place owing to my father’s lack of religion, was thoroughly cleaned and garlanded with spring flowers. Stitch slaves, now working without Modesty, sewed me a magnificent gown – white with gold thread. At least twenty members of Lord Up Minester’s family arrived including, to my surprise, the famous Viscount of Lower Stoft.
“This wedding is costing a preposterous sum,” I heard Cornelius Lock complain to my father. “That at a time when the war has best part emptied the treasury, and has yet to return any significant plunder.”
“I know,” my father replied. “But think of it as an investment. A judicious alliance with the East Anglar nobles should help to ensure victory. In defeat, there can be no profit from making war.”
“True – and yet the gold thread for her dress…”
“We don’t want the Viscount to sense that there is any financial difficulty. That could spell disaster.”
Possibly, the Viscount failed to sense any financial difficulty – but he certainly sensed matters to my father’s disadvantage. Several times each day, messengers fetched him despatches – some, at least, from the war zone. It took no great detective to tell, from his facial expressions, that little of what he read was to his liking. My father tried to put a brave face on matters, but he, too, was clearly worried by the tide of battle.
“Another set back for Sir Garrafad,” I heard the Viscount say to my father. “He’s scarcely three miles beyond Teddy’s Town and has secured no advantage at all against Pauline Poleaxe’s troops[4]. I begin to wonder at the advisability of a union between our houses.”
“A temporary set back,” my father replied, “no more than that. He’s certain to break out within the week. The gods are on our side, and the Surrey wretches are at each other’s throats.”
“You may have miscalculated there. I don’t know much about the gods – it seems to me that neither of us are truly religious men. As to the Surrey generals, some are preoccupying themselves with Surrey’s external enemies, rather than the civil war. According to my sources, Lorelei Leveller is still actively engaged on conquest in the west, and may soon take Brister itself.[5]”
“But the civil war is sure to take its toll. You’ll see.”
“Perhaps so – but I sense that too many Surrey generals are hedging their bets. If they defeat your troops, or those of Westland, they will receive the gratitude of either Berenice or Nadine – whichever wins. If I were in their place, it’s the strategy I’d try to adopt. Wouldn’t you?”
“Possibly I would. But they are women – creatures, by nature, devoid of logic. And they can’t keep it up for too long. They’re sure to be dragged in – and then, if not before, we will triumph.”
“You’d better hope that it’s so. There enough lords in East Anglar who favour an alliance with Surrey, whatever we think of those women’s wickedness.”
“Ah! There you have it! Those women’s wickedness – someone has to make a stand against it. Did you hear of Berenice’s daughter?”
“Yes – and I take your point. On the other hand, we can’t blind ourselves to the way the world is going.”
“Indeed, we can’t blind ourselves to the way the world is going – that is my entire point. If we don’t stick together, our sons will have no future. Worse – there will be no sons, only daughters of dreadfulness.”
Whatever the viscount’s doubts, the wedding preparations continued. The ballroom, having grown dusty since the New Year masque, was now readied for use. Slaves prepared the floor with beeswax and linseed oil before buffing it with bunny cloths. It looked very well done but, applying bare toes to the surface, I could detect deficiencies in the work – the shortcomings would not have done for the University of Pain.
On Olday evening – aware that we would have little time for them the following day – Tipsi and I made our farewells to Fluff, Bob and the twins. All of us made an attempt at gaiety, trying not to show how sad we were to part. Sarah and her musicians stopped by for a little while – to say goodbye and play a few final tunes. On the way back to my rooms afterwards, both Tipsi and I had tears in our eyes.
Finally, Briday dawned with a cloudless sky. After breakfast, Tipsi – assisted by half a dozen slaves – dressed me in the bridal gown. A headdress in the form of a spray of satin flowers was positioned to hide my RBS mark. When they held a looking glass for my inspection, a lump formed in my throat – never before, surely, had I looked so lovely.
My father arrived to escort me to the temple. He possessed an air of magnificence in a dark red velvet robe with a heavy gold chain of office about his neck. Golden slippers with curled up toes were just visible beneath his hem. For once, he was smiling.
“Margaret,” he said, “you do me credit. Time, now, to join with your husband-to-be in the temple.”
“Thank you, father. I’m ready.”
He stepped ahead of me through the narrower passages and stair cases, but – when we came to the broad temple steps – father took his place to my left. Linking his arm with mine, we stepped into the great chapel, where perhaps two hundred guests vied for space with a wild profusion of flowers. As we entered, musicians struck up the wedding march.
Peering at the assembled company, I saw that Bob Bosset, Fluff and the twins had been allocated a notably less prestigious place than Lord Higate or the Honourable Eric Marsh. No doubt this had to do with the Sergeant General’s humble origins. The most exulted positions, closest to the shrine, were occupied by the viscount on the groom’s side, and my brother on the bride’s. Phoebe and Mary, in lacy dresses, sat behind a pillar several rows behind.
Directly in front of the shrine stood Lord Up Minester in a royal blue uniform lavishly decorated with gold braid and buttons. His high stiff collar looked as though it were choking him. He wore a sword on his left hip, which seemed to me of doubtful propriety in a sacred precinct. Under his left arm he carried an elaborate military cap crowned with a mass of crimson plumes – it reminded me of a fancy chicken.
There was a priest – a fat man in a scarlet robe – and a priestess – a scrawny woman in white. They joined hands to invoke a lengthy catalogue of gods and goddesses, most of whose names were entirely unfamiliar to me. During this recital, I could feel the assembled company growing restive, my father tapped a golden slipper impatiently. Perhaps the clerics grew aware of the hostile current, for they stopped abruptly – part way through, I thought, the polysyllabic name of an obscure deity.
“We are gathered here,” said the priest, “to join this man and this woman in marriage. It is a holy rite recalling the way in which maleness and femaleness were conjoined at the first time – to create the universe. The act of divine creation continues thus to this day. Only through the most frightful blasphemy will such union ever be disrupted.”
Glancing at my father, I saw his impatient expression at the start of this speech. His face clearly registered we all know why we’re here – just get on with it! As the priest continued into what was clearly an attack on the gynozoic reproduction developed in Surrey, the old man smiled grimly and nodded in agreement. He was not a religious man, but he liked this train of thought.
“As at the beginning, so to the end,” said the priestess.
“Who gives this woman, Princess Margaret of the Blood Victoria, into marriage?” asked the priest.
“I do,” said my father.
“And by what right do you give her?”
“By the right of parenthood. I am her father. I am Chieftain in absolute of the Blood Victoria, given governance of Lundin under the glory of the Sixth Condominium, blessed by the gods.”
“Do you, then, assign all rights concerning her to Victor, twelfth Lord of Up Minester in the Kingdom of Essex, that he may take her and use her in absolute as his own?”
“I do.”
“And may the woman, Princess Margaret of the Blood Victoria, speak to give her own consent to this union?”
“She may.”
“Do you, Princess Margaret of the Blood Victoria, daughter of the Chieftain in absolute who is given governance of Lundin under the glory of the Sixth Condominium, blessed by the gods, give your consent to this marriage?” The priestess was speaking, now. “That he may take you and use you in absolute as his own?”
“I do,” I said, trying not to choke on the words.
“Do you Victor, twelfth Lord of Up Minester in the Kingdom of Essex,” said the priest, “take as your wife Princess Margaret of the Blood Victoria, daughter of the Chieftain in absolute who is given governance of Lundin under the glory of the Sixth Condominium, blessed by the gods? Do you take her to use in absolute as your own? Do you take her as the potentiality of the first god took the potentiality of the first goddess – and as male has ever since taken female throughout the unbroken line of creation?”
“I do.”
“Have you the ring with which to bind your wife in matrimony?”
“I have,” said Lord Up Minester, slipping a gold band on to my finger.
“Then I, as priest representing every god, join you as husband and wife.”
“And I, as priestess representing every goddess, join you as wife and husband.”
Two slaves carried a bulky and obviously heavy wooden stand – placing it just to the left of the priest and priestess. Clipped to its upper surface was the marriage contract – a sheet of thick legal paper marked with elaborate calligraphy and embellished with half a dozen wax seals. A third slave placed a pen and a pot of ink next to the document. My father was the first to sign, followed by Lord Up Minester, finally I was permitted to add my signature.
To a cheer from the crowd, Lord Up Minester picked me up, seemingly as easily as he might a kitten, and carried me from the temple. For the first time, it occurred to me that my husband was physically very strong. Were we, by some mischance, to pass into married life, it would have been difficult for me resist any of his demands. He did not put me down until we had crossed the threshold of the ballroom, where the reception was to be held.
The next two or three hours were occupied with eating, drinking and dancing. Aware of how I’d arranged for the day to develop, I ate a substantial meal – but drank a great deal less than the intended impression. On my way out of Lundin, it would be wise to have a reasonably clear head. To my relief, my husband became quite inebriated – although not to the extent that he’d be unable to ride.
“Darling,” he said as it approached the time for us to leave, “a most frightful bore. It looks as if we won’t be able to go to my castle this evening.”
“Why ever not, my sweetheart?”
“Damnably embarrassing, actually, my dear. But, if you’ll save my pardon for using the word, my guard company has gone down with the squitters.”
“What does that matter, my love? I’m sure we can manage very well without them.”
“Damnably risky, I’m afraid, sugar heart. The road’s not at all safe.”
“Oh sweetheart! Don’t say that! Your castle is east of Lundin, isn’t it?”
“Yes, darling, it is – but I don’t see…”
“Well, my sweet, with the war having started, any wicked people, capable of doing us harm, will be to the west of Lundin.”
“I suppose they will, my honey pot, but all the same…”
“And you’re so strong, dearest, you picked me up like a piece of thistledown. Besides, I’m sure you could use your sword to see off any ruffians who dared molest us. More likely, they would run in terror from your sheer manliness, fouling their breeches as they went.”
“Do you really think so, my pet lamb?”
“I really do, my darling. I’m sure there’s no one manlier in all the land. Besides, it’s dreadfully bad luck to spend the wedding night in the bride’s home.”
“Yes, my love, that’s true. Wedding night spent under the bride’s own roof – she’ll wear the breeches, making him a poof[6].”
“Well, dearest, we certainly don’t want that! I’ll go and change quickly – can’t ride in my wedding gown. You go to the stableyard and have three horses saddled – for you, me and my body slave – a lady needs someone to attend her. Hurry now, sweetness!”
Without making formal farewells to anyone, I slipped from the ballroom – it suited my purposes if others thought that I’d merely gone to the toilet. In my living room, Tipsi helped me from the beautiful bridal gown. My regret over losing the dress came as a surprise – I’d expected to feel little attachment to it. Under a light weight skirt, I assumed a pair of breeches to make for easy dismounting – both Tipsi and I wrapped ourselves in white cloaks.
“Lord Up Minester’s guard went down with the shits,” I said. “That was lucky.”
“I may have given them a little help,” Tipsi replied, “with some of Doctor Grimes’ constipation cure in their punch.”
Down in the stableyard, Lord Up Minester was waiting with the horses. The absurd chicken hat was now perched on his head – it was difficult not to laugh. He clambered into the saddle with some difficulty – having, as I was already aware, consumed a great deal of alcohol – my hope was that he wouldn’t be too drunk to appreciate our performance. Tipsi and I mounted more adroitly.
It gave me some pleasure to see that Tipsi and I had been allocated smaller horses that Lord Up Minester. No doubt, his tall mount indicated an elevated status – a lord, as opposed to a woman and – lower yet – her slave. My concern was not for the privileges of rank, but for the practicalities of my return to Surrey. The shorter beasts were clearly a great deal sturdier than the one my husband rode, better suited to the long and difficult way ahead of us.
At the palace gate, my husband, rolling a little in the saddle, waved at the guards a passport made out to Lord Up Minester and party. In return, four halberdiers saluted smartly. We trotted down Bloom’s Berry Street and then left on to High Whole Bun, named – perhaps – for the bakery on the corner. A few persons and slaves, out on business, giggled as we passed – probably amused by the chicken hat.
We passed from the fashionable district about the palace into the region of rat-infested hovels that extends to the east. At last, after what seemed a rather long trot, we reached the Old Gate. Here, the guards examined the passport more carefully than had their stableyard colleagues. They saluted, but in a more perfunctory manner than the palace halberdiers.
From the Old Gate our way took us along the White Chapel Road. If there was an actual white chapel, it must have been hidden amongst the trees – for a dense forest now stretched away on either hand. From three or four places, wisps of smoke rose from the woods – either camp fires or cottages set well back from the highway. Perhaps an hour east of the city, a startled stag bolted across the increasingly muddy track.
Evidently taking the animal in flight as a sign of danger, Lord Up Minester loosened his sword in its scabbard. Possibly ten minutes afterwards, a flock of birds flapped noisily into the sky. My husband now drew his blade half way from its sheath. In spite of the ominous signs, we rode on for at least another half hour without mishap.
Then, suddenly, there was a gush of blood from my husband’s shoulder – the shaft of a crossbow quarrel protruding by three or four inches. At this, our signal, Tipsi and I thumped ourselves hard on the chest. The waxed paper cartons of blood – purchased from a blesh butcher that morning, by an orphan Bob had bribed on our behalf – burst impressively, reddening our white cloaks. As I rolled from the saddle, my right foot caught in the stirrup, and the road scraped my back for a couple of dozen yards before the beast came to a halt.
Feeling not a little dazed, I glanced back the way we had come. Tipsi was lying on her back by the roadside, blood oozing from her cloak. Lord Up Minister, by lucky chance, had remained in his saddle. He glanced wildly about – perceiving what he doubtless took for our lifeless corpses – before reigning hard, wheeling about, and galloping in the direction of the city.
Then someone released my foot from the stirrup with more haste than gentleness – peering upwards, I saw Modesty looking down at me. Wincing, for my tumble – followed by the dragging – had scraped away my skin in several places, I rose to my feet a little unsteadily. Realising that there was no time to be lost, I stripped rapidly, shivering – for, in the shadow of the trees, the afternoon was chilly. Removing the string that held the burst blood carton about my neck, and putting the breeches to one side, I wiped off as much blood as possible, using my discarded clothes as so many rags.
“Come on,” said Lisa-Louise, “there’s a stream twenty yards into the wood. You can wash there. We’ve made a fire, too. Hurry!”
After slinging the breeches over the saddle, I took the blood carton with its gore-soaked string in my left hand, and the horse’s reigns in my right. Tipsi, having done likewise, was already following Modesty into the forest. Shivering anew on entering the leafy gloom – perhaps the chill, possibly ancestral dread – I stepped behind my former slave whilst Lisa-Louise, cradling a crossbow, brought up the rear. Soon, the road was out of sight – and, with it, the scattered blood-soaked garments, the confusion of hoof and footprints in the mud, that bore mute, and it was to be hoped misleading, testimony to what had befallen.
“You’re careful to preserve your breeches,” said Lisa-Louise. “Since you’ll soon be changing into padded leather, I doubt that you’ll have much need of them.”
“I wore them to make the tumble from my horse a little easier, though you might not have guessed it. If I’d left the breeches on the road, someone would have wondered. I’m not saying that they’d have come to the correct conclusion, but…”
“No point in taking the chance. Very sensible, Tuerqui.”
After a short walk, we came to a clearing. By the promised stream, four sturdy ponies were hitched to a stunted oak. Diqui and Barguin tended a fire on to which Tipsi had just thrown her blood carton with its holding string. When I followed her example, the flames died down, but the waxed paper was soon sufficiently charred for Modesty, wielding a stick, to smash it into tiny fragments.
“Barguin has some towels,” said Lisa-Louise. “Try to wash and dress quickly, you two. There’ll be guards on our trail in maybe an hour – or two, at most. We should try to put as much distance as possible between us and them before sunset.”
The woodland brook was intensely cold but, forcing myself to splash in it, almost all of the remaining blood was carried downstream. From the forest about us sounded the noise of birds – the hakka-chakka of a magpie, the song of a blackbird, the thudding of a woodpecker. Annoyingly, there was a residue of gore under the unaccustomed wedding ring – a piece of jewellery which I tried in vain to tug from my slightly swollen finger. Lisa-Louise and Diqui were arranging on the bank our armour and swords, ready for the perilous miles before us.
[1] Leofrith was the last undisputed Chieftain of the Blood Victoria. His wife, Elisabeth, bore him several daughters, but no son. His only son was born to Madame Villiers, a courtesan. Jenna was descended from Matilda, Elisabeth’s eldest daughter, recognised by Surrey as the legitimate Chieftain. Tuerqui was descended from Madame Villiers’ son, recognised as legitimate Chieftain by Surrey’s enemies. The name of Madame Villiers’ son is not preserved – nor are those of any of his descendants other than Tuerqui, Phoebe and Mary.
[2] Berenice’s daughter, the future Empress Berenice II, was born on Drizzlemoon 3rd of that year. It seems that she was probably the first gynozoa child to be carried to term. Gina Gestate was created an elector – and then an emper – shortly after falling pregnant. At only thirteen years, she may have been the youngest emper in the history of the Surrey democracy.
[3] As an entirely female being, a gynozoa child inevitably has XX chromosomes. The male, by contrast, had XY chromosomes, missing one arm of the structure. It had been observed, as far back as the Old Time, that a male was an incomplete female.
[4] The distinguished general, Pauline Poleaxe, was involved in several conflicts with Surrey’s external enemies at this time. As well as the action against troops from Lundin, she completed the conquest of Sussex and Ampsher – both kingdoms in which there had remained pockets of resistance. She subsequently played a prominent part in Berenice’s conquests, including the Fourth Battle of Lundin.
[5] Having defeated the Westland army at the Battle of Malm’s Bury on Drizzlemoon 14th-16th, Lorelei Leveller began her march on Brister on Drizzlemoon 24th. She invested the city on Cornsprout 8th. After a siege, followed by street fighting, resistance in Brister ceased on Litnight 14th, and the Kingdom of Westland ceased to be. Lorelei Leveller went on to hold a number of high offices under Berenice I, including that of Governess of the Meadowlands.
[6] Poof often signified a man who enjoyed lying with members of his own sex. Here it is probably used with a wider meaning – a weak or unmanly man.
For Chapter 45 click
http://bondlings.blogspot.com/2008/01/of-bondlings-and-blesh-chapter-45.html
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