Waterborne Exile Read online

  “If I stood at your side I would not consider it thrown away.”

  Alwenna made a gesture of impatience. “At my side is a dangerous place for anyone to stand. Have you not noticed?”

  “You’ll find I’m no coward.”

  “Neither was Weaver. It didn’t help him in the end.” That was a better barrier to put between them than any other words she could have chosen. The names of dead lovers had such power…

  Marten bowed, setting his hand against his shoulder. “When your grief is done, my queen, you will find me waiting.”

  “No, Marten. That is not so. Your people will welcome your return, but not with me on your arm.”

  “Have you seen this, my queen?”

  “I know it. I do not need to see it.”

  Marten sat down again at the table, one long leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee. “Then tell me what I must do. Unless it be return to my wife with my tail tucked between my legs. That I do not wish to hear.”

  “Then we would never get on, Marten, for I am done with telling people what they wish to hear – unless it should serve my own purposes. And I do believe you should go back to her – as soon as may be.”

  “You cannot mourn for ever.”

  “Can I not? I shall be the judge of that.” She studied Marten. He was lean-built, with the slight stoop at his shoulders common to the tall. Would he be all eager haste, or take his time? The latter, she guessed. But it would not do. “Your wife already hates me.”

  “Then what have we to lose?” He watched her closely.

  “Everything.” A flicker of heat deep within her began to build. She squashed it ruthlessly. “But most of all we will have the satisfaction one day of telling her how she has misjudged us both.”

  “No, my queen, she’s judged me aright. But I’ll hope to be present the day she apologises to you.” He picked up the wine bottle.

  “Leave it on the table. You’ll go back to her sober and respectable, at the very least.”

  “Respectable? Like this?” He ran a hand through his uneven cropped hair. “I’ll be the laughing stock for years.”

  “What? You’ll take their punishment lying down? I never imagined you to be so biddable, Marten.”

  “I planned to be less docile, but you aren’t willing, my queen.”

  “Well. Let me make amends. Why not shave it off? You would be the first freemerchant with no hair at all.”

  Marten grimaced. “The braids are at the very heart of what we are.”

  “So let them see you are not afraid to stand alone.”

  “By the Hunter, yes. You’re right.”

  It took a few minutes to heat more water. Alwenna set to work with Marten’s knife, carefully shaving the roughly chopped hair away. The remnants of the shorn locks dropped to the floor as she worked soap into a lather and cleared another patch of scalp. Marten sat preternaturally still as she worked, his neck muscles tense. Occasionally her swollen belly brushed against his shoulder. Her back was aching from stooping over him before the job was done. She stepped back, stretching. “Should I take off the beard as well?”

  Marten ran his hand over his scalp. “We ought to do this thing right.” His smile was tight, almost nervous, but he raised his chin so she could begin. First one pass up his throat to the tip of his chin, then another. It was rough and would need to be repeated. As she began the third pass he set one hand on her hip.

  “Marten, I have a knife at your throat. Be very careful what you do.”

  He raised his chin further and lifted his free hand, gently drawing her wrist aside. “For pity’s sake, kiss me. Just this once.” The hand on her hip tightened.

  After a moment’s hesitation she stooped and pressed her lips to his forehead, then straightened up and pulled away. “Do you want me to leave you with half a beard?”

  “I want a great many things, my queen, but for now I’ll be content if you finish the task in hand.” His eyes were filled with scarcely suppressed laughter.

  She pushed away his hand and stooped again, cautiously scraping the blade over his skin. She could see the pulse point in his neck, one slip and his crimson lifeblood would spill over her fingers… She closed her eyes and willed away the image. When she opened them she was able to continue, feigning a brisk manner, until his face was clean-shaven, without any mishaps. She could remember Weaver, similarly clean-shaven as they left Highkell, after what felt like half a lifetime ago. He had borne a shaving cut on his chin – had that been a sign of things to come? There were no such ill-omens here, in any event. She straightened up, stretching her back again as she stepped away from Marten.

  He ran his hands over his head, exploring her workmanship. His face and scalp were pale where his skin had been guarded against the sunlight. “A fine job you have done. May I count on your services again in future?”

  There was a flurry of footsteps outside and two voices, laughing. The door burst open and Erin stepped inside, her laughter dying as she saw Alwenna and Marten together at the table.

  “My lady, beg pardon–”

  Behind, a young man bumped into her, knocking her off balance so she staggered further into the room. Laughing, he caught his arms about her waist. Erin nudged him hard with her elbow, shushing him, and he stopped short, gaping at Alwenna and Marten.

  The youth released Erin and bowed. “I bid you good morning, my- my lady. Pray forgive the intrusion.”

  With a scraping of the wooden bench across the sandy floor Marten pushed himself to his feet. “Malcolm, a very good morning to you. I need not ask how you have spent this night.” Marten’s eyes moved from Malcolm to Erin and back again. Malcolm stared in amazement as he recognised his own father, beardless for possibly the first time in his son’s life.

  Malcolm blushed even deeper. “Sire, I…” He looked up, as if realising for the first time the import of finding his own father seated at Alwenna’s table. “I beg your pardon.” He spun on his heel and left them there, his footsteps hurrying away down the slope outside as the first light of dawn spread over the hillside.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It was risky. Too risky. But if she stayed here she would be buried in a shallow grave next to her brother before the year was out. And if they marked her grave at all, it would bear the name “Miria”. And – may the Goddess be her witness – that was not and never would be her name. She must seize her chance, now.

  Her hands shook momentarily as she daubed the blood on her bedlinen, and on her clothing. She could lose everything if her deception should be discovered now. But what did she have now that she could not easily bear to part with? Only her life. And that was hemmed about by the rules of the order. She would break free, and live to damn them all, hypocrites that they were. She smeared more of the blood between her legs. “Goddess, forgive me for this blasphemy. I do what I do now to protect the life of your loyal servant, blessed as I have been by your bounty. Grant me this boon, that I may avenge the death of my lord before his child is brought into this world. Grant me this, my Goddess, grant me my freedom, grant me my life, grant me my own name, Ilsa, and I shall serve you to the end of my days.”

  They were poor enough words, without the cant the priests used, but they were her words. And they were honest words. Perhaps the only honest words she’d uttered in her life.

  She took a piece of clean linen and rubbed at the bloodstains on the sheet, as if she’d been trying to clean away the evidence of her supposed failure. Weaver’s blood, it was smeared over her hands and was already drying black and dark beneath her fingernails. She could hear others stirring now, in the rooms on either side of hers. It was time.

  Standing by the bed in her soiled shift, bloodied linen in one hand, she drew in a lungful of air and screamed.

  Footsteps came running to her door and it was thrown open without ceremony.

  She kept her back to the door, staring at the bed, willing tears to spill from her eyes.

  “Goddess spare us, what is this?”
r />   Whatever did the fool think it was? But, thank the Goddess, it was Curwen. The devout priest would not question her tale – if she guessed aright he would not dare so much as look at her, in her unclean state.

  “The Goddess has… withdrawn her blessing.” She punctuated her words with convincing sobs as the tears began to pour down her face. Now she’d started she would struggle to stop. Tears were useful things, granted the right audience. “She has turned away from me.”

  She turned her tear-stained face to the priest. “Please, take me to his holiness, that I may receive his blessing.” She reached out an unsteady, bloodstained hand and the priest took a hasty step back. Other faces appeared at the door, curious to see the cause of the disturbance.

  Moments later a gown had been thrown over her and she was being shepherded by a concerned group of priests through the palace to the prelate’s rooms.

  Outside his door they waited as he was roused from his devotions. Her head was beginning to ache from the effort of keeping the tears flowing. Goddess, she hoped she didn’t have long to wait, she couldn’t keep this up for much longer. Finally the door was opened and she was admitted to the prelate’s presence.

  She dropped to her knees before him.

  “Prelate, I have failed.” She hung her head low, never for a moment raising her eyes to his, puffy and tearstained as they were she still feared he would divine the truth from her.

  “You ungrateful wretch. After all the order has done for you.”

  “Please forgive me, prelate. Tell me how I may serve the order. I will do anything to prove my loyalty. Anything.” She knelt before him, risking a quick glance up at his face before folding her head to the floor in obeisance. “Anything, I swear it.”

  “The order has no need of one with your taint.” His sandalled foot turned away. Dark hairs sprouted from his toes, she noticed.

  “If you must send me away, I will go because it is your order, sire. But at least send me where I may continue to serve our Goddess. I could not bear to live if she turned her face away from me now.”

  “How dare you make any claim to our Goddess’s attention?” He turned away.

  “Your holiness, she marked me with her favour once. I will devote my life to her in whatever way I may. I don’t care how dangerous it is. I beg you permit me to continue to serve the Goddess. I cannot turn away from her now. I owe her everything.”

  “You would do anything, child?”

  “Anything, I swear.” She kept her forehead to the floor, tensed for a blow as he took several steps away, then returned to study her where she knelt.

  “You will fast for nine days, and take nine lashes in silence at the dawn of each day, to prove your loyalty. If you prove yourself sound in that way, I shall find a way for you to serve the Goddess.

  Nine lashes? Each day? Goddess, that was harsh. But she bit back the words of protest that sprang to her lips. “I thank you, sire, for the chance to prove myself worthy.”

  The prelate snorted. “We will see how worthy you truly are. Your fast begins at sunset tonight.” He strode away, his sandals paf-paffing into the distance. She waited until she was sure he was out of sight and out of earshot before she straightened up. May the Goddess forgive her for the lies she had told. Nine lashes on nine days. Nine times nine. That was a great many. Punishment and more for her falsehoods. Might she not prefer to join her brother in a shallow grave after all? Was that not what she deserved?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  This had to be the place the servant had told him about. Bleaklow stood in the street across from the Royal Hart. Now he was there he found himself strangely reluctant to step inside. Drelena wouldn’t thank him for what he was about to do. She was far more likely to hate him, in fact.

  As Bleaklow approached the bar the landlord assessed him with a glance. He ordered an ale, doing his best to summon a friendly smile as he did so.

  “I’ve been told a girl going by the name of Lena works here.”

  The landlord set a brimming tankard down on the wooden bar. “Some folks’ll tell a stranger anything.”

  So it was going to be like that, was it? “Stranger? We’re all islanders in these parts, aren’t we?”

  “True enough.” The landlord’s expression was sceptical at best.

  “I bring news from her family. If I might speak to her, I would be obliged.”

  “If such a girl did work here, why should I believe she’d want to speak to you?”

  “I’ve known her since she was knee-high. Worked for her family these past sixteen years. I probably know more about her than she’s ever told you.”

  The landlord shrugged. “No offence, but I don’t go questioning good workers about all the things they don’t choose to tell me.”

  “She does work here then?”

  The landlord shook his head. “Even if she did, I wouldn’t be discussing it with customers, islanders or not.”

  “But there’d be no harm in telling her I was here and asking after her, would there?” Bleaklow set a couple of coins on the bar.

  “And no point in asking me, either.” The landlord folded his arms. “Why don’t you finish up that drink and take your questions elsewhere. You’ll get no answers from me – nor from any of the staff here, neither.”

  Bleaklow scooped the coins back into a pocket. “I daresay in your place I’d take the same line. I’m not looking for trouble, just–”

  At that moment the door from the kitchen burst open. “Isaac, the cook says–”

  Drelena.

  She froze, staring at Bleaklow in something close to horror. “Bleaky. Then it was you after all.”

  “Drelena. It’s taken some time to find you.”

  “I saw you at the harbour, didn’t I? I’d begun to think I’d been mistaken.” With a glance over her shoulder she shut the kitchen door and advanced into the room, drying her hands on a square of linen.

  “Now, Lena, if this fellow’s bothering you I can bring the lads out.”

  “No, Isaac. There’s no need. I– I’ve been expecting him.” She set the linen square down on the bar. “The cook said to tell you the butcher wants paying. He’s through there now.”

  Bleaklow realised he still had one hand crammed in his pocket. He tugged it out hastily, dropping one of the coins on the floor. “Your parents have been worried.” He stooped to pick up the coin. “We all have.”

  “There was no need. I’ve been – very happy.”

  Yes, he wanted to say. He saw.

  The door from the kitchen burst open again, this time another servant girl. “Isaac, the butcher won’t deliver until he’s been paid for last week’s.” She stared in undisguised curiosity at Bleaklow and Drelena.

  Isaac raised a warning finger towards Bleaklow. “Don’t you try anything, understand?”

  “Isaac. He’s all right. Really.”

  “That’ll be why you’re overjoyed to see him.”

  “Go pay the butcher. I’ll be fine.”

  Bleaklow slid the coin into his pocket as the landlord stamped over to the kitchen door.

  “He seems to have taken a dislike to you.” She bit her lip. He’d seen her do that a thousand times before, but this time his stomach curdled with guilt. “You could say you couldn’t find me. Just–”

  “You have to come back now, Drelena.”

  “I know. But… You could give me a few more days.”

  “You know that’s not possible.”

  “Please, Bleaky. It would mean a lot to me.”

  Goddess, was she going to cry? “Who is he?” He knew, of course. It had been easy to find out about the wealthy merchant.

  “He’s a wonderful man. So kind, and…” Her voice caught and she fell silent.

  “He’s a merchant, Drelena. You know it won’t do. Your parents–”

  “I know. They have other plans.” She folded her arms. “Bleaky, you can’t make me go back.”

  “Drelena, I’ll do whatever’s necessary.”

 
; “Nonsense. I’ve known you for years. You wouldn’t force me to go back with you. You’d never hurt me. You couldn’t.”

  Bleaklow’s gut twisted with guilt. “You’re right. I couldn’t. But Darnell has no such claims to my loyalty.”

  She looked at him sharply. “What are you saying?”

  Must he spell it out? “You never told him you were daughter of the Lord Convenor, did you?”

  “I…” That bite of her lip again, as she contemplated lying. “No, I haven’t. Not yet.”

  Bleaklow tried to smile – a reassuring smile. Her expression told him it fell far short of target. “Then I need never tell your father whose bed you’ve been warming while you’ve been here. Come back with me today and all will be well. You’ll see.”

  “Or?” There was a glint of anger in her eyes now.

  Bleaklow’s stomach curdled. “If you care about Darnell – and I know you do – you will come with me, without fuss and without causing trouble.”

  “And if I don’t?” She raised her chin in defiance.

  “Then Darnell will be clapped in irons and brought before the Lord Convenor to answer charges of abduction, indecent behaviour, assault against your person… I imagine your father will think of others to add to the list, given you’re his only daughter.”

  “You wouldn’t be so cruel.” But there was doubt in her eyes now.

  “I told you, Drelena. I will do whatever’s necessary to bring you safely home to your parents.”

  “I see. And if I come with you willingly, he will be safe?”

  “He will.”

  “Do you swear it?”

  “I swear it.”

  She studied his face for a long time; it took all his resolution not to turn his eyes away. Finally, she spoke.

  “Very well.”

  That was the moment the light in her eyes died. It would haunt him to the end of his days.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Alwenna sat on the flat-topped stone, leaning back against the cliff-face. It was a relief to sit outside in the late afternoon shade, once the sun had moved round behind the escarpment. After the heat and stillness of noon, even the slightest drift of air along the escarpment was a blessing straight from the Goddess.