“I am commanded to order your release.” He signed a paper and handed it to the ensign that had accompanied me. “You may collect your belongings from the porter. It is customary to leave a tip.”
I managed through my astonishment to thank his lordship, and walked in a daze to the porter’s lodge. I did not forget his vail, nor to thank the ensign who had escorted me. Once outside into the night, I bathed my face and hands in the fountain in the courtyard, with its allegorical statues of Dame Justice in Triumph Over the Wicked, and went into the street. The revelers having exhausted themselves, the streets were almost empty, though filled with the spillage and wastage of the festival, abandoned and broken masks, feathers, cups, shattered bottles, torn ribbons and broken points, liquid pools of uncertain provenance, the whole of it waiting for the rain. I passed by the Tiltyard Moot, where I had been attacked that noontide. The place was shut up like a fortress, but by the light of the waning moon I marked the remains of the shattered tile with which I had felled the man in the eagle mask.
My knuckles ached, along with my face and my ribs. I walked on, and went home to my bed, where my aches and pains kept me awake nearly till dawn.
* * *
My aches had not lessened when I awoke, but at least I had grown more accustomed to them. I changed to clothing less soiled by blood, mud, and the spoutings of drunkards, and did my best to clean my gown. My breakfast was a cup of the moscatto drawn from the rundlet in my apartment. I had been doing my best in the weeks since the cask had been delivered, but I think there were still at least a dozen gallons remaining.
The wine led me straight to melancholy without passing through elation. I viewed my room with its trophies: the silver cups, Sir Basil’s swords and armor in a disorderly pile beneath my table, the pollaxe from the Butchers’ Guild leaning by the door, the wardrobe with my two suits, and the rundlet of wine that seemed to take up half the room. The varied keepsakes of my erratic career in the life of the capital.
I had failed as a lawyer, a lover, and a courtier, and my success as a thief-taker had resulted only in my exile from the court. While the ship with my privateer commission had done well, on an actual voyage I was mere cargo, unable to contribute to the running of the ship or to victory in battle. And now I had been the victim of a feud with a nobleman that had brought a member of the royal family into personal danger. While I seemed to have avoided prison, I hardly thought my name was mentioned in the castle with any favor.
I had failed at everything. Perhaps I was destined to rise no higher than the imaginary office of Groom of the Pudding.
So thinking, I drank myself into misery, and with aching bones and aching heart returned to my bed.
* * *
For the next several days, I remained about my rooms, save when business called me to the stockyards outside of town, where some of my cattle were being fattened, or to the lawyers, or to make arrangements for cargo on Sea-Holly. I armed myself when I went out, with my knife, Sir Basil’s pocket pistol, and a cane with a metal tip and a heavy pewter head that I purchased in a market, and I took care as I walked, examining all about me, to make certain I was not followed, and not ambushed.
I wrote a very formal letter to Her Highness Floria, and thanked her for giving information on my behalf. I signed it “Your faithful servant,” and I made no jokes about puddings. There was no reply.
I went to the Butchers’ hall to withdraw a bit of money from my box, and to explain why I’d failed to attend their feast on the Day of the Mummers, only to find that they already knew. The affray had become public knowledge, and while I had been nursing my bruises in my lodgings, a series of trials before the Siege Royal had resulted in punishments for the malefactors.
For allowing their private vendetta to overflow into a public brawl that endangered a member of the royal family, all my attackers had been found guilty, including Lord Stayne, who had set them on. Stayne and Fork-Beard, being noble, were exiled at her majesty’s pleasure to their estates, from which they would stray only at penalty of death. Slope-Shoulder, a mere knight, was condemned to three days in the pillory—a ghastly fate, in truth, because unless he had friends to stand by him, he would be a helpless object of violence by the mob, who at the very least would pelt him with filth, and at most bash out his brains with paving stones.
The rest, the swashers and prizefighters, being neither noble nor knights, were condemned to death.
My own part had become known, and though the castle had not seen fit either to praise or condemn me, the guildsmen hailed me as a hero and the savior of Princess Floria. Rumor had enlarged my part, and those of my assailants also, for now it was claimed that I had rescued Floria from traitors sworn to kill both the princess and her royal sister. While I denied that this was the case, and maintained it was a private quarrel, this hardly restrained their enthusiasm for my heroism. The guildsmen drank me a number of healths, and seemed to think I would be ennobled, or knighted at the very least, within the week.
I asked if anyone knew anything of Amalie, if she, heavy with child, must share Stayne’s exile, but none could tell me. They seemed pleased by the thought of her bouncing down the road into exile at Allingham.
Still, I left the hall more cheered than when I arrived, and these brighter spirits lasted until I returned home, and found a messenger from Amalie awaiting me.
This latest reversal has my husband mad with rage, the letter read, and he is determined to have you murdered. I know he is offering money for your life.
I am safe. I was able to persuade him that I was the innocent object of a provincial flatterer, but I fear that by doing this I have put you into greater peril, for now he fancies he is protecting me from your unwanted affections, as well as avenging his own wounded vanity.
You must fly. I am in no danger, but you must leave at once, before his sure requital can reach you.
—Mrs. Freeman
The words struck me like a blow to the heart. I did not grudge Amalie her evasions; she was using the few resources allowed by her situation. But I was staggered by the knowledge that neither censure nor banishment, nor the execution of his accomplices, would keep Stayne from his murderous persecution.
Really, didn’t the man have any other occupation but the heedless pursuit of vengeance? First against Sir Basil, now against me?
I considered ways of protecting myself. I could shift my residence, but then any messages from Amalie would fail to find me. I could hire my own bravos, and walk around surrounded by a swaggering bodyguard; but any guards would be mercenaries, and Stayne’s silver might well persuade any of them to stab me in the back. I could take up residence in the Butchers’ hall, but I would be in danger if I ever went out.
Perhaps it was time to leave Selford for the present. While I did not like the thought of fleeing before an enemy, it had to be admitted that there was nothing keeping me in the city.
Accordingly, I again paid my landlady another few months’ rent, then shifted most of my belongings to the galleon Lady Tern, which was lying at anchor off Innismore. The ship’s valuable cargo was under guard in a warehouse belonging to Customs, and while we awaited a ruling from the new prize court, the ship’s crew had been reduced to an anchor watch intended only to prevent pillage. As I was one of the presumptive owners of the vessel, no one disputed my right to lodge on the ship.
I moved into the captain’s cabin, enjoyed his wine and some of his choice victuals, and wrote to my Lord of Roundsilver. I explained the situation, and solicited his advice. The reply came from his lady, and was filled with sympathy.