Darkburn Book 3: The Gates of Kelvha by Tayin Machrie - HTML preview

Chapter 29

When Meya walked into the banqueting hall and saw the rows of diners rise politely at her entrance, she thought the horrors of the day must be obvious in her face. She felt almost exhausted. But no-one looked at her closely as she crossed the hall to take her place at table, except perhaps Nerogun, whose frowning gaze prompted her to assume an air of casual aloofness: and Huldarion.

He and his closest Riders had been out hunting for the day with Prince Faldron and a large retinue of nobles, in the hunting forest some way to the south-west of the city. They had found boar; or, rather, boar had been found for them. The hunt provided so much matter for conversation that thankfully Meya needed to say little. She was able to sit silently through the main courses, picking at her food, until the desserts were served.

She found herself marvelling that everything could carry on with such an appearance of normality, when just beneath the surface all was turmoil. But she must not show the turmoil in her mind.

“My lady. I hope your day has been pleasant?” Huldarion asked her during a gap in the chatter.

“My day has been entirely unremarkable,” she said calmly. “Will you have another pastry?”

Huldarion declined.

“More wine?” asked Nerogun, and Faldron, to his left, immediately gestured to his man-servant.

“You liked my Weldish wine the other night,” the Prince said. “Have some more now, Huldarion.”

Meya saw Huldarion hesitate. She picked up the plate of delicate pastry offerings and held it out again, saying, “A small one will not hurt you.”

She smiled at him. He took the smallest of the pastries and then said to Faldron,

“A half glass, if I may. A day’s riding always makes me tired, and you would not wish to have me snoring at the table.”

Next to him, Thoronal looked round in some surprise.

“It usually takes more than that,” he said. Meya was exasperated. Had the man no discretion? Uld was a wiser man, in her opinion, and a pleasanter. She did not care for Solon, who was entertaining but sarcastic. As for the other three, the younger ones – they were obviously on their best behaviour. Bland. Though all very handsome, if you liked that sort of thing.

Clearly Idria did. A subtle peek at the princess revealed that she was peeking in her turn at the one called Sashel. Meya sighed inwardly. Another foolish girl to worry about. As if she didn’t have enough of them on her hands… She applied herself determinedly to her pastry and allowed the talk of spears and hunting dogs to flow around her.

But she was not permitted to relax for long. Halfway through the sweetmeats, a serving maid came hurrying in, not carrying any dishes, and stumbled as she tried to curtsey, her mouth opening and closing in a silent stammer.

Meya felt an instant shock of alarm. No servant should interrupt a dinner in this way unless there was a fire, or flood, or similar catastrophe.

Janeya, she thought. Has she got out somehow?

“What is it, girl?” snapped Nerogun.

“If you please, sir, ma’am – my Lady Meya – please, ma’am, there is a – a difficulty in the kitchens,” the girl said breathlessly.

“What has that to do with the Lady Meya? Sort it out yourselves,” growled the Post-Regent. The girl dropped another half-curtsey and looked helplessly at Meya.

“I had better go and see what the problem is,” she said, rising from her seat with apprehensive resignation.

“You have made those servants too dependent on you,” grumbled Nerogun, and then with a glance at Huldarion, added, “It is a fine quality in a woman, of course, to have the obedience of her servants.”

“Indeed,” replied Huldarion. She did not look at him as she left the table.

The maid ran in front of her but did not speak until they were safely out of the banqueting-hall.

“Oh, Ma’am! It’s Felipa! She said she didn’t feel well earlier, but now…”

The baby, thought Meya immediately. The non-baby. The little scrap too young to be born. Poor Felipa. Or fortunate Felipa.

“Where is she?” she said as she swept into the kitchen. The decorated fruited jellies were ready on the central table but nobody was preparing to carry them through into the hall. Two of the serving-maids were hurrying back and forth with cloths: two more stood idle by the great flour-strewn pastry table, weeping helplessly.

She soon saw why. When she went into the scullery Felipa lay on the cold tiled floor, surrounded by a pool of her own blood. She was very still.

“She’s dead,” said Hilfa, who knelt beside her, ignoring the blood that seeped up her apron. The cook was gently stroking the girl’s dark hair. “I didn’t know. I didn’t realise how bad it was... She said she felt ill earlier today. But she didn’t even cry out. Nemis came in here and found her fallen.”

Poor Felipa, thought Meya, too obedient in her pain and panic to even call for help. She bent and checked for a pulse at wrist and throat. There was none.

“Oh, ma’am! What do we do?”

I don’t need this, said Meya to herself as she straightened up. Not now. Then she was appalled at her own selfishness.

She looked at Hilfa. A sensible woman. “Summon Greshal,” she commanded, “and ask him to come here with a strong footman – a reliable one. Obor will do, if he can be found quickly. Tell them to bring a blanket. I will ask them to remove Felipa discreetly to the sick-room until some arrangement can be made to take the body out of the castle.”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

“I will try to arrange a decent burial. Do we know who her family are?”

The cook shook her head. “I don’t, ma’am. There’s nobody here from her village. Mr Greshal might know.”

Greshal, thankfully, was quick to arrive. He hurried in no more than a minute later, along with a tall, taciturn footman. But he was no wiser about Felipa’s family than Hilfa had been. He shook his head sorrowfully at the lifeless body on the scullery floor.

“The old story, I suppose... To the sick room, you said, my lady?”

“Wait,” said Meya. She had spent the brief interval thinking.

Hilfa had retreated to the kitchen. Now Meya spoke to the two men alone, the bloodied corpse seeming to listen also. “Not the sick room. Take her to the Tell Tower. It will be unlocked at present, being empty.” She had herself supervised the cleaning of it only a week ago. “Lay her in the closet there, deep around the left-hand corner. You will see where, when you go in. Lay her down there out of sight.”

“My lady?” Greshal looked at her questioningly.

“This is for privacy, you understand?” she said severely. “I do not wish anyone else to find her and guess at her state. It is all too obvious. I would have her name remain unblemished. Poor girl, it’s all that I can do for her. Do not tell the servants where she is. Let them think that she is in the sick room.”

“Very good, my lady.” He nodded at Obor, and the footman began to unroll the blanket.

“I know that I can trust you to be discreet, Obor,” added Meya. “Your discretion will bring due reward.”

The footman looked up at her and nodded. Meya did not linger to say more: for time was ticking away. If she waited any longer, someone might be sent to find her and fetch her to the dining-hall.

So she walked briskly back into the kitchens, picked up a rolling pin and used it to sweep the waiting jellies off the table. They fell in trembling, broken mounds along the floor. All the kitchen women ceased their weeping and huddled talk to stare at her open-mouthed.

“That is the cause of the disturbance,” Meya announced. “The jellies have been ruined, sadly. No other courses need be served. None of you need re-enter the dining room until the guests have left. I will allay any displeasure felt by them. You may start to clear the jellies up now.”

With these commands she left them open-mouthed and curtseying, and marched back towards the dining-hall. Just in time: a footman, one less reliable than Obor, was walking down to meet her. She motioned him to turn round and lead her back in.

She smiled at Huldarion as she retook her place at the table: a tight, annoyed smile. No harm in showing how stressed she was as long as she kept the true cause secret.

“I trust there has been no disaster in the kitchens,” said Thoronal, that heavy-footed man. Huldarion said nothing. After a first keen glance at her, he looked down at his goblet.

“Unless you call the loss of our final course a disaster,” said Meya with what she hoped was the right degree of exasperation. “I am afraid that there will be no fruited jellies. These sweetmeats will have to suffice.”

“The return of your company gives us all the pleasure that we could desire,” said Huldarion. A good, flowery, diplomat’s answer. It made Nerogun smirk.

“How on earth did that happen?” the Post-Regent muttered to her once she was seated.

“One of the maids was taken ill,” she murmured back. “She fainted all over the jellies, and the staff panicked.”

“Have her whipped!”

“For now I have had her taken to the sick-room,” Meya said. “The whipping can wait. I have had quite enough unpleasantness for one day.” She spoke acerbically, and Nerogun snorted in seeming amusement.

Then she turned round to make forced conversation with the other Riders about the sweetmeats of Caervonn – not as sophisticated as Kelvhan delicacies, apparently. She could not have cared less and it probably showed.

“Since we are deprived of jellies, perhaps we should retire,” said Nerogun at last. “I daresay you are tired, Faldron.”

“I am, quite,” said the Prince, stifling a yawn.

“And my Lord Huldarion. The hunt will have fatigued you also.”

“Yes, I believe you are right.” Huldarion pushed away his empty goblet. “An early night, I think.”

“You probably won’t want to stroll in the gardens this evening,” suggested Nerogun.

“No, I think not,” said Huldarion; at which Nerogun seemed to hide a smile. As they all rose to depart, the servants stepping forward to move back their chairs, Huldarion walked round to Meya and held out his hand to her.

“My lady Meya,” he said, “I wish you a most peaceful night.”

“And I you.” She wanted to speak to him – a sentence only – three words would do – but she could not without being overheard, and was wretched and frustrated. Too many problems, all at once, and it seemed to be up to her to solve them all.

Holding her hand lightly, Huldarion studied her face. Then he bent forward to kiss her cheek with careful but gentle formality. While his scarred ear was to her lips, she murmured to him.

“A quarter strength.”

At that moment she was glad of his inscrutability. He made no sign but merely pressed her hand and said,

“Good night, my Lady Meya.”

After they had all departed she found Nerogun was watching her. She turned to him and said wearily,

“Well, apart from the jellies I think that went sufficiently well. I will go to my rooms now. I have the headache, and trust I may have some peace after all this disturbance.”

“We will talk tomorrow about the unruly girl,” he said. The footmen were still present, so Janeya’s name could not be mentioned.

“Indeed. Good night, my lord.”

She dropped Nerogun her deepest, most ceremonial curtsey. He seemed to be in a satisfied mood.

Goodness knows how he will spend his night, she thought. I will have to find him again before the hour is up: I hope he won’t have disappeared.

But before then there is much to do.

The guards outside her quarters saluted her. She waited impatiently for them to unlock her door. On entering she heard, to her relief, that all was quiet, with only a murmuring of voices from within her bedroom. When she walked in she was less pleased to find that Durba was there again.

“I thought you’d gone,” she said accusingly.

“She only went into the closet,” said Sina. “She’s offered to do anything she can to help us.”

“What could she do to help us?” demanded Meya. “And how exactly did she offer?”

Durba bowed, put her hand to her chest and held it out open-palmed.

“That’s all very well,” snapped Meya, “but you have to go now. I have too many things to organise.”

“Durba’s on our side,” urged Sina. “She’s offered to smuggle Janeya out and lodge her with the female Riders. She wrote it down. We burned the paper.”

“Thank goodness you showed some sense there. As for smuggling her past the guards, that’s nonsense and you know it.” Meya sat down heavily on the chair, since there was no room on the bed. She had so little time. She did not want to involve the female Rider, but the Rider seemed determined to be involved.

And Durba’s offer, it occurred to her, might just solve one problem: it might fasten one more link in the chain she was trying, mentally, to construct. She looked round at the anxious faces of the women. She would need the help of all of them, the maids included.

“Did you talk to Nerogun?” asked Janeya plaintively.

“Nerogun will not pardon you,” said Meya. “He will not let you off.” She had not needed to talk to him to know that.

“Then what will happen?”

“He wishes for you to be publicly disgraced.”

Janeya uttered a small cry of despair and dismay, and then said, “Well, I don’t care. Whatever happens to Lorolo should happen to me too. That’s only justice.”

“Believe me, you do not want to share the same fate as Lorolo. What if he were to be killed?” Meya spoke bluntly, because that was the only way.

“Then I should want to die too.”

“Nonsense. You know Lorolo will quite likely die. I’m sorry, but I can’t change it. Nerogun will not think that mere exile is punishment enough for such a low-born servant.”

Janeya began to sob again, and Sina began to remonstrate, but Meya spoke again, more loudly.

“Be quiet, both of you. You know how things are and you know in your hearts that what I say is true. If Nerogun wants him dead then Lorolo cannot be saved. But you, Janeya, can.”

“I don’t want to be saved!” Janeya burst out. Durba put a restraining hand on her arm and a finger on her trembling lips. Then she cocked her head at Meya in enquiry.

Meya began to explain. They all listened as she unfolded her plan: link after link, putting the chain together. It would require the services of the two maids, Eral and Piril. She explained exactly what they would have to do – and that was where Eral revolted.

“I can’t do that, ma’am!” she expostulated. “I can do the rest, I think, but I can’t do that!”

“You will have to,” Meya told her sternly, “or none of this will work. Piril? You owe the Lady Janeya a great debt. You swore your loyalty to her only hours ago, when you spoke to me about your brother.”

She gazed steadily at Piril until the maid nodded. Although her tense face was dismayed, she said, “I will do what you require, ma’am. So long as we don’t get into trouble.”

“You will not,” Meya assured them, although she was by no means entirely sure of that. “And later on you will have more to do, while all eyes and thoughts are on the Lady Janeya. That is where – perhaps – Durba can help. If you are still willing, Durba?”

The Rider nodded.

“Good. You’ll just have to hide in the closet again at the right time.” They went through the details of the plan once more. Then Meya said, “You will need to be suitably noisy and distressed, Janeya. In fact, all of you will. Better start now.”

As she stood up to leave, Janeya had already set up a wail. Her maid joined in; when Meya walked back through her quarters, opening all the doors between, the cries of grief and mourning followed her. By the time she opened the main door, they were clearly audible to the guards.

“I am going to ask Lord Nerogun that the Lady Janeya should be moved elsewhere,” she said authoritatively. “Do not stir until I return. Let no-one in or out.”

“Ma’am.”

She stalked away and then, once out of sight, almost flew across the courtyard and over to the west wing in search of Nerogun. The lordling Jaul – a conceited, idle upstart, in her opinion – was lounging in the stairwell.

“My Lord Nerogun – where is he?” she demanded.

He replied in a slow drawl. “Up in the yellow room, I believe.” The yellow room was where the Post-Regent sometimes retired after his dinner. She did not bother to curtsey but gathered her skirts as she whisked past Jaul.

She ran up the stairs and knocked at the door of the yellow room. A footman answered. Suspecting that he was about to bar her from entering, she whisked past him too, thankful to have found the Post-Regent no matter how annoyed he might be at her unannounced arrival.

Nerogun was seated at a desk with a pile of papers and a frown. She marched forward to confront him.

“My Lord Nerogun. I must speak with you.”

“My lady! What brings you here at this hour? Well? What has happened now?” The second question was only asked once the footman, at a dismissive wave, had retreated from the room and closed the door.

“A great deal of bother and hysteria has happened,” answered Meya. She found that she was trembling. Well, that didn’t matter. Let it be with rage. “The Lady Janeya is – Oh! I have no patience with her. Continually screaming that she wants to be with Lorolo. That she loves him. I’ve never heard such rubbish! The girl acts as if she is demented.”

“She is wicked,” said Nerogun, his eyes sharp.

“She is a fool. Worse than that – she is a fool who has laid waste the name of her family and that of Kelvha. I thought that Lorolo had assaulted her. It turns out she invited his advances! She deceived her betters. And when I reprimanded her she turned on me.” Meya compressed her lips, for her voice was shaking. It was not through fear, she told herself. It was simply the strain.

Luckily Nerogun took it for pure indignation. He shrugged. “You insisted on having her taken to your rooms,” he pointed out.

“Well, now I want her out. I can’t sleep with her in there. The girl will not be quiet. She is infuriating. Her maid is little better. I want the guards to move them somewhere that I can’t hear them wailing. The Tell Tower is empty.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You want Janeya moved to the Tell Tower?”

“For tonight only,” said Meya firmly. “Any longer would not be fitting for one of her rank. She is still noble, after all. But a night in the Tell Tower might remind her of the fact, and bring her to her senses. I cannot be dealing with her ravings. I have had enough.” This last she was able to say with true conviction.

“Very well,” said Nerogun, nodding. “I’ll send more soldiers to make sure there’s no difficulty in moving her.”

“My maid can go with her. Hers is next to useless. If Lady Janeya had any sense of – Hah. Well. That’s too much to hope for. Things are what they are.” She rubbed at her forehead, almost overcome by a sudden sense of exhaustion. “Tomorrow we will decide what can be done with her.”

“I will decide,” Nerogun corrected her.

Meya opened her mouth as if about to contradict him, closed it again, curtseyed with weary dignity and left. She prayed that she had been convincing enough.

And that Janeya could be convincing enough. As she returned to her quarters she could hear the crying from outside in the passage: it sounded genuine.

“Have they not quietened down at all?” she asked one of the guards. He shook his head.

“Well, they will be moved shortly,” she told him. “The Lord Post-Regent is sending soldiers down to aid you in escorting them elsewhere. Then perhaps I can get some sleep.”

Although she doubted whether she would sleep at all, alone in her silent chamber and wondering what was happening up in the Tell Tower.

The thought rushed into her mind that she could go to Huldarion’s room for the night. He would ask no questions. He would make no demands. The idea of simply being held, being reassured by strong male arms around her, was suddenly very attractive.

But no man, no matter how strong and grave, could solve her current problems. Men did not protect women in this place. They thought they did: but they did not. Even her father had not tried to protect her from the rules, the customs, the restrictions. The iron bonds of how and when to speak – or rather, not to speak; how to dress, to walk, to look, to act.

I am acting now, she thought, pretending, as I have done all my life. I pray that I may be successful.

She opened the door to the crying and went in.