“The signet will not serve?”
“Stayne’s already in debt to up to his eyes, and he borrowed more in order to outfit his ship and crew. Many of his lands are off in Clayborne’s country, and he’ll have no rents till the war’s over.”
“How much is Sir Basil demanding?”
“Four thousand royals.”
I whistled. “I would not know where to apply for such a sum.”
“I have asked our steward and our man of business, and it seems the respectable bankers already possess an abundance of Stayne’s debt. I think in the end I must apply to a usurer—or more than one.”
It had occurred to me that Amalie might be better off if her husband did not return—she would be a free widow, mother of the heir, and at liberty to pursue a life of pleasure. Yet I did not care to suggest such a thing—I remembered poor Higgs, the captive whose brother had apparently abandoned him to the bandits, and I should not like to see anyone thrown on the mercy of Sir Basil of the Heugh.
Yet how could Amalie avoid these thoughts entirely? Surely, she understood her own situation. Yet I should be a bit uneasy if I found myself lying next to a woman who I knew had disposed of a husband. How much more lightly could she dispose of a lover?
I decided these thoughts were too morbid, and nestled closer to Amalie on the bed.
“Take us our pleasures while we may,” said I.
“And the less we consider tomorrow, the greater our pleasure today.”
She turned to me, and our lips met. She still tasted of the moscatto.
“Are you also then a poet?” she said.
“The verse is mine, such as it is. Though the sentiment is hardly original.”
Her arms came around my neck, and for a long time we kissed, till a hammering came on my door. I looked at her.
“You are not looked for?” I said.
“No one knows I’m here.”
The hammering continued. I kissed Amalie and rose from the bed. I threw on a cloak and walked into the front room, and there looked for a weapon—for it had not escaped my mind that here I was in adultery with a high-born woman, and that some nosy relative or in-law might be taking an interest in her whereabouts. I found no weapon but the fireplace poker, and so equipped, I approached the door.
“Who is it?”
A clipped voice called from beyond the door. “I come from the Count of Wenlock!”
I had not expected a messenger from Lord Utterback’s father, and so I hesitated for a moment before responding while I counted the days. Two days for my letter to reach Blacksykes, where Wenlock was Lord Lieutenant, and two days for his lackey to return.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“I have come for Lord Utterback’s ring.”
Well, that was simple enough. I looked at Amalie, who was reclining on a pillow laughing and blowing kisses, and turned back to the door.
“I don’t have the ring here. Come back tomorrow afternoon.”
My answer was a renewed banging on the door. “Open or I’ll break it down!”
I looked at Amalie and made my screaming-infant face. She laughed. The door began to jump in its frame.
“Very well!” I said. “I’ll let you in!”
I closed the door into the bedroom and then unbarred the door to the stair. Three large men entered, each wearing under rain-spattered cloaks the Wenlock livery of blue and royal gold. I felt a cold hand touch the back of my neck as I saw that each wore a broadsword on a baldric over one shoulder, and a sturdy dagger thrust into their belt in the back.
“Well,” I said, rather obviously naked beneath my cloak. “As you see, I wear no ring.”
The leader scowled from behind a grizzled beard. “Where is it?”
“Safe in a strongbox,” I said.
The leader nodded to one of his men, who walked to the bedroom door and opened it. I heard a gasp from Amalie, and saw that she’d had the sense to turn away from the intruder, pulling the bedclothes up to her chin.
“Naught but a whore,” said the lackey. I fancied that even through the bedclothes I could see Amalie’s spine stiffen in outrage.
The leader looked at me again. “Where is it?”
“Not here.”
He snarled. “Then you’d better take me to it.”
I considered my position. “May I put on some clothes? It seems to be raining.”
He sneered at me. “No tricks, now,” he said. “Or I’ll treat you like the bandit that you are.”
“Considering that I freely wrote your master and offered to give him the ring,” said I, “I consider that word harsh.”
“Did you steal it, or didn’t you?” One of his fellows snickered, as if this were the epitome of wit.
“I stole it from an outlaw,” I said.
“A man in a position to steal from an outlaw is naught but a thief who keeps the company of thieves.” Again his fellow guffawed.
I went into the bedroom and put on my clothes. “I’ll soon be back,” I whispered to Amalie, and squeezed her ankle through the bedclothes. Then I threw on my cloak, took my hat, and led Wenlock’s three lackeys into the rain. They trod close on my heels, as if to assure me of my helplessness.
When it rains, Selford smells like a cesspool. The filth lies in alleys and the street, and rain washes it into view, and down the public lanes. Eventually, it finds its way to the creeks and gullies that take it to the Saelle, but not before its odor rises to the nostrils of the citizens.
The hall of the Worshipfull Societie of Butchers, a refuge from the reek, lay just past the bottom of Chancellery Road, a fine high-vaulted building of the local white stone. Rainwater shot from the mouths of the carved beasts that ornamented the eaves, and lamplight glowed through the stained-glass windows that showed shepherds, stockmen, goatherds, and their charges. I had been a guest in the hall just the night before, as bells were rung and incense burned in honor of my father’s Leave-Taking.
That Leave-Taking had been a lovely thing, with a chorus of apprentice boys whose voices echoed from the high beams, and the Dean and Warden each giving an address in which my father’s virtues had been enumerated. I had spent the time beneath the stained glass, in a reverie, alternately pierced with sadness at the loss of my family and exalted by the ceremony. The death of my loved ones was a bottomless cavern, but the Leave-Taking had filled the cavern, temporarily at least, with a kind of delight.
Afterward, I had thanked the Dean and the Warden profusely for the ceremony. Now I was returning to the guild hall under somewhat different circumstances.
I walked up under the portico and rang the bell, and while I waited, the lackeys’ leader gave me a suspicious look.
“What is this place?”
“The place where your master’s ring is secured,” said I. The door opened, and an apprentice looked out. I recognized him from the previous night.
“Hello, Roger.”
“Sir.”
I made a sign with my fingers. “I should like to see the Dean or the Warden, if I may. Or Master Onofrio.”
Roger’s eyes widened, and he looked over the three big men looming behind me. “Yes,” he said, a bit uncertainly. “Please come in and wait.”
The door led past a porter’s lodge directly into the main hall. Under the supervision of a pair of apprentices, a chine of beef turned on a spit before the hearth, stews bubbled in iron pots hung over the flames, and the air was savory with the odor of cooking. The lamps had been lit on account of the darkened day, and the light glowed on monuments and memorial plaques to dead masters, and glowed as well on pollaxes, knives, and other instruments of the Butcher’s trade that were hung on the walls.
Roger went to the apprentices by the hearth, and spoke to them in a low voice. They looked startled and glanced in our direction, and then returned for the moment to their work. Roger went out of the room, and we waited, our cloaks dripping on the flagstone floor.
In a few minutes, the Dean came out, a most civil and respectable old gentleman, dressed for warmth’s sake in a long robe of fitch fur, with a fur cap on his bald head. He carried his staff of office in one gloved hand, knobbed on the top like a hand-mace.