Queen of Swords, page 10
“That will do.” Her first lady put down the shears and fluffed the rest.
Petronella put her hand to her head. Vanity was requesting a mirror. Logic urged haste.
“The clothes?”
Domita helped her out of the costly court gown. Felice folded it up as small as she could and stashed it in a disused coffer covered with a dust sheet. Skin prickling with goosebumps in the freezing chamber, Petronella clambered into her new identity.
The hose made her legs itch, and the rough homespun tunic was huge. She pulled it in at the waist with a wide leather belt. Sturdy shoes weighed heavily on feet more used to velvet and a thick woollen hood, serviceable and warm, replaced her delicate veil. Felice regarded her with a critical eye and handed her a pair of wool mittens.
“Keep the gloves on to hide your ring. You are serfs now, not nobles. If we meet anyone, I am in charge.”
Domita collected the small sack of provisions they had accumulated and handed it to Petronella, who hoisted it over her shoulder.
“Names,” Domita said. “We have to decide what to call you.”
Petronella blinked. Changing her name had never occurred to her.
“I’ll be Joan.” Alice said, her voice soft in the shadows.
“Then I’ll be Cecilia.” Her new identity felt as alien to her as the moon.
Domita nodded, her brown eyes serious as she regarded them.
“I think they will pass. Hand me the scissors.”
Felice passed the shears over and Domita shrugged her hair free of its normal coil. The russet mass cascaded over her shoulders like a wave of autumn bracken. Petronella grabbed the tool before she could cut it.
“No.”
“What?”
“You are not coming with us.”
Domita stared at her; the beginnings of a scowl pasted her forehead.
“But of course I am. You need me.”
Petronella faced her down. “Felice will need you more.”
“My lady...” Felice began.
“No. I command it. Domita can protect you and you can come to us in Oceanis. I will not leave you here alone and defenceless. You will need every advantage once they find Arabella.”
Domita’s eyes glittered with hurt and an undercurrent of simmering rage. Petronella clenched her fists, trying to keep her feelings under control. She could not give in to her headstrong maid of honour.
“Domita, I ask you to guard and protect Felice as you would myself. Please give me your word you will do so.”
A myriad of warring emotions flickered across Domita’s face. Petronella battled for equanimity. She could be condemning them both to a premature death and the knowledge tore at her. Tears pricked her eyes, and she raised her chin, forcing them back.
She waited. The spiteful wind blew through the chamber and their breath fogged in the damp air. Petronella continued to hold her maid’s defiant gaze, willing her to comply.
Seconds ticked by like hours before Domita’s shoulders slumped and she bowed her head.
“Yea, madam. As you will.”
Petronella shook her head at the remote, formal tone. She could almost feel Domita’s fierce, resentful gaze boring holes in her back as they collected their meagre supplies and slipped into the corridor. Spirit sinking, she wondered if she had just lost a friend.
They had travelled half-way to the kitchens before meeting the first set of guards. Petronella’s heart leaped in her chest. Alice let out a small, alarmed whimper.
Felice stepped in front of Petronella and grabbed her arm, while Domita did the same for the princess, earning a startled yelp from the girl.
Petronella winced. Felice’s grip was talon sharp, and she had to quell all her instincts to snap away. She turned her gaze to the floor and cringed. It was only part way an act. Chosen for their impressive northern height and build, the guards towered over the small group of women, a threatening, belligerent presence. A pungency of leather and sweat accompanied them.
“Where are you heading tonight?”
The guard asking the questions loomed closer, hand on sword. The plumes in his helmet waved in the dim light from the nearest torch and his ale-soaked breath enveloped them as he closed the distance. Petronella lowered her eyes. She cowered away, casting her face further into the shadow of her hood.
“Do not interfere, man. I am on the Queen’s duty. These two,” Felice punctuated her words with a vicious shake, “have managed to half kill her ladies with their maggoty offerings, and I am on my way to the kitchens to see them chastised as they deserve.”
“Is help needed? This one looks shifty to me.”
The guard raised his hand toward Petronella’s hood, whether to strike her or to take a better look she couldn’t be sure. Domita took a small pace forward, ready to intervene.
“Leave these pestilent idiots be, you fool. Dare you step between the Queen and her justice?” Felice demanded, barging past.
The guard huffed a sarcastic laugh and stepped back. “Queen’s justice?” He snorted. “First I’ve heard of it. What does that pale bitch do while we sweat and starve?”
“She ensures people get their just deserts when they pedal offal into her chambers. Unless you want her to speak with Lord Falcon, get out of my way.”
Felice elbowed him aside, and the guards parted around them, guffawing amongst themselves.
“They could have stuck something in her wine as well,” one of them sneered at their departing backs. “Then the King could get an heir and we wouldn’t all be starving to death.” Felice kept her back to the men and swept down the corridor.
Petronella stumbled along in a daze, her heart torn in two. Until this moment, the possibility her subjects might hate her had been an abstract concept. Wrapped up in her velvet and with heat in her rooms and food in her belly, she had been unaware of it for years. The lack of respect from the courtiers was normal now, but the knowledge their disregard was general, and travelled across and through the ranks of the populace, was dreadful and embarrassing in equal measure. Her cheeks burned.
Further down the corridor, Felice glanced around and caught sight of her stricken face. “No matter, my lady,” she said, under her breath. “Pay no mind to them. They will eat their words when you return and make an heir.”
They rounded a corner and started down a corkscrewing flight of stairs. Petronella pressed close against the wall, making room for another group of servants on their way up, carrying buckets of water and clean linen.
Felice marched them at dizzying speed through the kitchens. Petronella had a confused sensation of blasting heat from the two vast fireplaces hung with skinny offerings on spits turned by dispirited sprites dressed in rags. Serfs, cooks and scullions crowded the room, taking advantage of the warmth, if not the scraps, from the top table. Coal was in plentiful supply. It was food that was lacking.
Servants in disgrace being so commonplace an occurrence as to raise no eyebrows, no-one marked their progress. Felice propelled them at a near run across the soaking, puddle strewn, wind-swept courtyard to the yeasty warmth of the stables. Alice kept up a tiny, continual moan of pain but offered no other word of protest. Domita said nothing, directing them to the furthest stable block and into the tack room.
Petronella blinked in the dim light, wiping water from her face and looking around her as she shivered. The candlelit windows of her own chambers glowed with warmth and comfort from here. A horse snorted nearby, making her jump. Their breath fogged the chill air and the icy breeze crept under her sleeves to stroke her bare arms like the touch of Arion’s knife. She shuddered. Out here or in there made no difference. Either way, her life was in permanent danger.
“Here.” Domita opened the chest and tossed out two of the rough wool cloaks she had hidden earlier and two pairs of boots. “You will need these. Get them on, quickly.”
Petronella shrugged the folds of her cloak around her quivering body, grateful for the added warmth. Alice let Felice drape the warm cloth around her and clung to the older woman, shoulders shaking. A cart lumbered to a halt by the door. Heart in mouth, Petronella retreated to the darkest shadows, but Domita smiled as a young boy ducked inside. He fell to his knees, snatched off his grubby hood, and gawked at her in awed silence. His pale eyes shone like smoked crystal in a thin, grimy face.
“Here’s your ride.”
Petronella stared at the boy, hardly strong enough to lift a bale of straw, let alone escape a castle.
“You can stand,” she said, with a spare smile. “Kneeling is rather giving the game away, don’t you think?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” The boy scrambled to his feet.
“This is Dominic,” Domita said. “He’s going to take you away. Did you get it?” she asked, turning to the boy.
The lad nodded. “Everything like you said. Dead horse, maggots and rotting meat in a basket. It stinks.”
Petronella recoiled. “What?”
Domita gave her a short laugh. “Not possible to ride out of here in the state carriage, my lady.”
“So how?”
Domita gave her a grin.
“People rarely bother with the knacker’s cart,” she said. “Especially one as disgusting as this. “
Dominic caught sight of her appalled expression and gave her a nervous smile.
“It won’t be that terrible, Your Majesty,” he said. “The nag is only dead this morn. I got some rotten meat in a basket an’ I’ll be nearer to it ’n you.”
Petronella tried to quell her rising trepidation. The dreaded tramp of booted feet on cobblestones in the distance decided her.
“As you say,” she said.
Turning, she snatched Felice to her in a crushing embrace. Her nurse returned the hug and then pushed her away.
“Go now,” she said, her voice rough with unshed tears.
She met Domita’s gaze but couldn’t reach out to her. Domita nodded, her face sombre and determined, her arms wrapped around herself.
Struggling to avoid the alien body of the dead horse, the runaways clambered into the wagon bed. Dominic lowered a tarpaulin over them, leaving a small gap for air. Petronella closed her mouth as her stomach heaved, trying not to inhale. The stench of rotting meat filled the narrow space under the wagon cover with a life all its own. She tucked her head into her chest and breathed through the cloth of her cloak, filtering each lungful.
Beside her, Alice’s body was overly warm, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Domita passed their slim supplies into the hollow remaining and stepped back. Petronella’s last view of her ladies before the closing tarp plunged her into darkness was their worried faces highlighted in the flickering glow of the rushlight. Domita grim. Felice trying to smile through her tears.
Blackness. A lurch as Dominic swung himself up into the driving seat and clicked his horse into action and the shake and roll of the cart as it lumbered over the courtyard to the portcullis and the guards.
Her world narrowed to the maggot infested meat, the dim flicker of rush light as they passed under each torch, the shallow, gasping breath of the terrified girl next to her, who shook from head to toe. Rain pattered down on the tarpaulin.
“Ho.”
The cart lumbered to a halt. Petronella curled up as still as possible, one stealthy hand reaching for Alice to comfort and to warn. Her own heartbeat faster than ever before. Every possibility flickered before her. Had their young driver done this run before? Was he friends with the guard? How well could he keep his head and his nerve?
“Name? Destination?” The guard’s voice was hoarse and ended in a croak and a cough.
“It’s me, Tim. Dominic.”
The close darkness under the tarp lightened in a swoop as the guard’s torch swept over it.
“Where you goin’ this time o’ night?”
“Down to Blade with this dead nag.” Dominic’s treble voice sounded a long way away. “It’s a ripe ’n. Coachman wants it gone before it spreads the sickness.”
Petronella held still as a corpse as the boy reached back and lifted the tarp enough to reveal the head of the horse, tongue lolling. She stifled a smile at the guard’s involuntary reaction as the reek of rotting meat bloomed under his nose. Taking a lungful of fresher air, she willed herself still, small, and dark. The guard choked and stepped back.
“Garn. Get that loathsome thing out of here.”
“Aye, Tim.”
Dominic dropped the tarpaulin, and the cart moved off across the drawbridge and turned onto the rutted road leading down the steep and slippery hillside that led to the town of Blade.
Heart still beating faster than pistons, Petronella breathed a little more freely with every turn of the wheels. She longed to throw off the cloth and sit on the driver’s seat with Dominic but made herself keep still. Alice was motionless beside her. She wondered whether the girl had fainted with fright.
Dominic’s voice was a hushed one as they clattered further away from the castle.
“You alright, your Maj?”
“So far, Dominic. What about you?”
He chuckled. “Worth it for the food, I reckon. That Domita, she stole me a whole roast chicken. And a pot of stew.”
Surprised to feel hot tears scalding her cheeks, Petronella rolled her eyes in the darkness. Domita, she thought, picturing the events that would unfold like fate in the castle over the next few hours. I am so sorry.
Chapter Eighteen
The rain eased as the cart lumbered away from the palace. Petronella shivered and moved closer to Alice. Runnels of icy water from the edge of the tarpaulin splashed her cheeks, washing away her tears.
The steady clop of hooves on the slippery cobblestones, the occasional slide and dip as the horse fought for purchase and Dominic cursing under his breath as he guided them around the largest potholes were the only sounds punctuating the silence.
Despite the thin layer of straw, the warped planks of the cart dug holes into her narrow hips and the fetid air was making her feel distinctly sick.
Alice was so still it was impossible to know if she was alive or dead and Petronella dared not risk using her voice to ask a question. She fumbled for Alice’s hand and gave it a squeeze. The princess returned the gesture, but her grip was weak. Petronella made a mental note to get a draft of Felice’s potion down her as soon as they stopped.
Distant sounds filtered through the tarpaulin. The drumming thud of heavy machinery, a rhythmic counterpoint beat of hammers on metal, the rumble of cartwheels and the iron clop of hooves, and voices in the distance creeping closer. The chink of coin exchanging hands as Dominic dropped his toll into the outstretched hands of the Gate Wardens and they passed through without stopping into the capital city of Epera.
The nightlife of Blade pierced the tarpaulin.
They had entered through the North gate and so far, were travelling in a straight line to the centre where the markets, merchants and bankers held court during the daytime. Voices were louder now.
Dominic steered the cart into the throng. The world was a jostle of metalled wheels clanging, horses snorting and harnesses jingling. The stench of mud and dung from the slick wet streets and smoke from the eternal chimneys crept in under the musty cover.
Shouting and swearing and the sound of raucous laughter billowed outwards in hop scented waves from the taverns they passed. The noise echoed from the neighbouring buildings and rang down the cramped central thoroughfare.
Petronella longed to sit up and see it all.
Ten years previously, Blade was basking in sunshine and draped in flags and banners to greet her arrival. Her world had since shrunk to the relative luxury of the castle and the woods and fields surrounding it when the weather had allowed her to go a-hawking. Even these small freedoms had dwindled without her noticing, like a body boiling alive in a pot when the temperature creeps up so slowly it doesn’t register.
She reached her hand out, touching the rough side of the cart through her glove, drinking in the sounds of the city. Of life.
Their progress slowed in a tangle of carts around the crossroads near the centre.
Even at night, Blade never slept. Its furnaces and factories continued to churn out manufactured goods for the continent of Altius Mysterium.
They supplied arms and armour, pots and pans, knives and fence palings, bottles and glasses, coal and stone, copper, tin and iron ore. Tools, utensils, jewellery, and metal items too countless to mention made the bulk of the Eperan wealth from the bounty of the Iron Mountains that raised their peaks to the sky in the highlands behind the Castle of Air.
The cart made an abrupt turn right, then left, and the overwhelming clamour of the busy street dimmed a little.
Dominic drew the cart to a halt and reached a dirty hand back to pull the tarpaulin from their tired faces.
“It’s alright, we can get out here,” he said, hopping down from his perch and stamping his feet to get the blood circulating.
The weary horse put his head down and wheezed. Dominic gave him a pat and removed his harness enough to allow the beast to dip his head to the nearest water trough and drink, before skipping around to give the women a hand down.
Petronella rubbed life back into her limbs and turned to Alice. The girl’s face appeared green in the wan glow percolating through the gloom from a single rushlight on the rough stone wall. Their combined breath rose in the frosty air. Dominic had brought them to the courtyard of a tanner’s yard. The reek of piss and stale beer met her outraged nostrils, and she started as a starved looking feline appeared out of the gloom to rub around her ankles. Dominic bent down to stroke it.
“He likes you, I reckon. Come on.” Picking up the cat and resting it over his shoulder, he retrieved his own small bag of belongings and led them over to the nearest door, set squat and solid against the gloom of the night.
“Where are we going?” Petronella asked, unwilling to enter a room with a potentially locked door.
“This is me home. I’m taking you to meet me ma and pa. We’ll decide what to do next. Don’t worry,” he added, catching sight of Petronella’s face, “they don’t like the king.”
