Castles 138

138.  In Castle Inter Lucus

            Marty entered the great hall alone.  His watch, which he still reset at high noon once a week, read 2:12, with a tiny “am” in the corner of the display.  As before, he had dreamed of Alyssa, but the details of the dream faded when he woke, leaving him, as always, with questions.  Not the old guilty questions about his marriage and Lyss’s death, but unanswered questions about castle technology and the aliens who built it.  Why did you bring people here?  Why did you leave? Rather than wait for sleep to return, he slippered his way downstairs.

            He tried to clear his mind before bonding.  He didn’t want another late night chat with Mariel.  Marty put his hand on the knob and the Latin list appeared.

I. Materias Transmutatio: operativa

II. Parva Arcum Praesidiis: operativa

III. Magna Arcum Praesidiis: operativa

IV. Cibum Preparatio Homines: operativa

V. Inter-Castrum Videns-Loquitur: operativa

VI. Extra Arcem0 Micro-Aedificator: operativa

VII. Potentia Fontes: operativa

VIII. Aquarum: operativa

IX. Intra Arcem Micro-Aedificator: operativa

X. Centralis Arbitrium Factorem: operativa

            Videns-Loquitur did not open.  Either Mariel was asleep or Inter Lucus correctly interpreted his desire not to speak with her.  How do I ask what I want?  The list suggested an idea to him.  Marty lifted his hand from the knob, took paper and ink from the writing desk, and went to work at a table.

            Latin, he knew, depended on inflections much more than English.  So there was no chance that he could construct grammatically proper sentences.  But according to Mariel, Inter Lucus could read his intentions, so maybe… 

He started with words from the interface list that might prove useful: homines for humans, Centralis Arbitrium Factorem (Central Arbitrating Factor? = CPU), aquarum/aqua (water), and arcem/arcum/castrum (castle).  He listed individual words in two left hand columns, leaving space to put together phrases on the right.

            A key word came to him, freed from some forgotten lecture during a retreat: Cur Deus Homo?  Why a God Man?  Cur? had to mean “why?”  Cur (why) joined the list.

            Christmas carols sung with visiting crowds at Our Lady of Guadeloupe: Venite Adoremus, Come let us adore.  Marty added venite (come) to his list.

            After half an hour racking his memory, Marty felt he had reached the limits of his useful vocabulary.

           

Homines (humans) 

Aquarum/aqua (water)

Centralis arbitrium factorem (CPU)

            Arcem/arcum/castrum (castle)

            Cur (why)

            Venite (come)

            Ora (pray)

            Pro (for)

            Nobis (us)

Pacem (peace)

            Terra (earth)

            Duo (two)

            Luna (moon) (lunas = moons?)

            meum (my)

            Dona (give)

            Corpus (body)                                     

            Deus/Deo (god)

            Eleison (have mercy)             

            est (is)

            nunc (now)

            Gloria (glory)

            Excelsis (highest)

            hoc (this)

            Tu/vobis (you—singular/plural?)

            Cogito (I think)

            Ergo (therefore)

            Sum (I am)

            non (no)

            Dominus/domine (lord)

           

            Further effort, Marty realized, would probably only yield more bits of church Latin.  He could not by any effort think of a Latin word for “go” or “leave.”  He strung together a few phrases that might be useful.  Then he went back to the lord’s knob.

            Marty bonded with his right hand this time, holding the paper in his left.  He closed his eyes and let the soothing warmth of the knob spread through his arm into his whole body.  He whispered, trying to make it a question: “Vobis est?”

            He opened his eyes.  The interface wall was totally blank.

            “Cur homines venite Duo Lunas?”  Nothing.

            “Sum pro pacem.”

            “Hoc est Duo Lunas.”

            The interface remained blank.  Marty tried to calm his mounting frustration.  Ungrammatical Latin, no doubt mispronounced; there was no reason to assume the alien machine would understand him.  Nevertheless, he felt tension and helplessness growing.  How much did Mariel really know about castle “magic”?

Isen’s medieval version of fiber optics had accomplished some degree of repair to the violet hexagon in Centralis Arbitrium Factorem; that much could not be denied.  Inter Lucus had shown him the galaxy map, which had to mean something.  They brought us from the other side of the Milky Way.  But I already knew that.  Why show me what I already know?

            “Damn it!”  Marty whispered aloud.  “All I want are some answers.  Is that too much to ask, you alien masterminds?  Give me some answers.  You’re not gods.”

            Marty looked at his vocabulary, and this time he shouted:  “Tu est non deo!  Vobis est non deos!”

            The interface wall began to flicker.

            “My lord!  What is it?”  Ora spoke from the top of the stairs.  Her bedroom was one floor below, on the same level as the kitchen.  Marty held up a silencing hand, waved her forward.  She padded silently to his side.

            He whispered, “Why are you out of bed?”

            “I heard you shouting, my lord.”

            “Anyone else up?”

            “No, my lord.”  Somehow it didn’t surprise him that of all the inhabitants of Inter Lucus only Ora had woken.

            “Okay.  Ora, I want Caelin, Whitney, Elfric, and Alf.  Wake them; tell them to come quickly; but tell them to be quiet.  Don’t wake the others if you can help it.”

            “Aye, my lord.”  She started away, but turned to look at the interface.  “Are they the gods?”

            “Aliens, Ora, remember.  They are not gods.  Go quickly.”

            An alien race from a very different world, a shocking physiology, a culture with no ties to anything on Earth, and a language unlike any he had ever heard—for all that, it seemed plain to Marty that he was watching a trial.  The aliens, who looked like an impossible combination of praying mantis, stork, and human, were gathered in a room far larger (higher, wider, and longer) than Inter Lucus’s great hall.  On one side of the picture three aliens sat (knelt? stood? It was hard to be sure) behind a softly glowing wall that might have been ceramic or burnished metal.  The wall concealed the lower half of their bodies, and Marty realized he could not be sure how tall it was or how tall the aliens were.  The dimensions of Inter Lucus suggested very tall aliens, but there was nothing in the interface picture of unmistakably human scale, so no comparison was available.  The three behind the barrier rarely spoke, but the others (there were lots of others) seemed to address most of their words to the three.  Marty couldn’t help but think of them as judges.

            The courtroom scene, if that’s what is was, occupied two-thirds of the interface wall.  On the right, outside the picture of the courtroom, words in very large white letters scrolled from top to bottom; it was disorienting until Marty realized he was supposed to read up, not down.  The caption language was Latin.  Marty watched the words flowing by with some despair; his pitiful vocabulary would yield only the tiniest clue as to the meaning of the video.

            And it was a video, a recording.  He felt sure of that.  Surely this meeting or congress or hearing or trial—whatever it was—had been recorded and left in Inter Lucus as an answer to questions like his.  He was watching alien beings from hundreds of years in the past.  The video had been waiting for some representative of Homo sapiens to repair Centralis Arbitrium Factorem.  If Marty hadn’t come to Two Moons, the video would have waited another thousand years until someone learned how to access it.

            “Lord Martin!”  Caelin whispered, but his voice at Marty’s side carried excitement.  “The strangers!  What do you want me to do?”

            Marty pointed to the Latin captioning.  “Copy down as many of the words as you can.”

            “But they move so fast!”

            “I know.  Do your best.  Try to get groups of words if you can.”

            Whitney Ablendan arrived to overhear the instruction.  “Shall I copy too, my lord?”

            “Aye.  Groups of words, if possible.  We’ll try to make sense of them later.”

            The aliens’ speech was opaque to Marty, full of squeaks, clicks and whistles.  They had to converse with the people they brought here.  Did they teach their worshipers to speak alienese?  Or could their voices manage Latin? Marty concentrated on the drama of the alien meeting rather than try to decipher their words.  Presently, Elfric joined Caelin and Whitney in the copying task, receiving whispered instructions from Whitney.

            Alf came to his side.  “Shall I copy too, Lord Martin?”

            “No, Alf.  I want you to watch with me.”  Marty pointed.  “See the one with the red, ah, vest?  I think we can call it a vest.”

            “I see him, Lord Martin.  He’s waving an arm, or maybe it’s a leg.”

            “Right.  He or she seems to be the main speaker for all the aliens on that side of the room.  He or she has been speaking for a few minutes.  Earlier, the one over in this corner with the bright string around his neck was speaking.  I think he’s the speaker for those on this side.”

            Alf speculated, “Maybe the string is a necklace.  Maybe that one is a lady alien.”

            “It’s possible, but we don’t know the difference between male aliens and female aliens.  In fact, we don’t yet know if they have males and females.”  Even as he cautioned Alf, Marty realized he had been doing the same thing, applying human categories to the aliens.  The video seemed to Marty to be a scene from a trial or hearing, but how could he know that?  For all he knew, the aliens were composing a menu or were engaged in some artistic event or were worshiping their god.  Don’t assume.  Observe.

            The alien in the red vest finished his speech and then prostrated himself before the three.  Red Vest lowered himself (herself?) slowly to the floor; sticklike arms and legs splaying out like a spider.  It seemed to be a solemn moment (Do aliens recognize solemnity?), but the brief seconds of silence ended in a cascade of squeaks, whistles, clacks, and hoots from those on the near side of the picture.  The alien with the bright string (necklace?) began walking back and forth between her group and the “judges,” waving his or her arms in wild gesticulations.  Red Vest stood up—the long, sharp limbs again reminded Marty of an insect—and began dancing (marching? prancing?) in front of the aliens on the far side.  Then, without any signal that Marty noticed, the two speakers changed sides of the room.  Now Red Vest was waving his arms in front of the nearer crowd, and Bright Necklace was waving and hooting at the aliens on the far side.

            Meanwhile, the Latin caption scrolled by relentlessly.  Caelin, Whitney, and Elfric wrote furiously.

            The three “judges” raised their arms (the “arms” looked much like the creatures’ “legs,” but seemed to be used like arms).  Instant silence; both sides obviously took their cues from the judges.  Red Vest and Bright Necklace returned to their respective sides.  The video stopped, as if someone had pushed a pause button.  With a still picture, Marty began to count.  There were dozens of aliens on both sides of the room.

            An alien hieroglyph superimposed itself on the still picture.  It was a heading of some sort, Marty assumed, telling him (if he could read alienese) what he had just seen or what he was about to see.  It’s a title, or the alien equivalent of “Part 2,” for all I know.  Or: “brought to you by our sponsor.”

            The interface went blank for a brief moment.  The Latin captioning winked out.  Then the “courtroom” reappeared, very much as it had been, and new Latin sentences began scrolling down again.  The “judges” were on the right side of the scene, and the two opposing sides (if that’s what they were) stood on the left.  If the judges were seated, they were the only ones; everyone else was standing.  Someone made a long hooing sound; Marty thought it was one of the judges, but couldn’t be sure.

            The two opposing groups of aliens turned toward each other, but their eyes focused not on the other group, but on something in between.  A single alien emerged from between the groups carrying something—a human baby, suspended silently from the alien’s hand, ankles clamped in the alien’s grip, head and arms swinging below.

            The noiseless infant, unmistakably dead, gave the scene human scale.  Dangling from the alien arm, the baby’s arms were thinner than the alien’s digits, and the creature that held the human specimen had to be ten or eleven feet tall.  

More importantly, the baby’s presence brought home to Marty the terror and mystery of extraterrestrial contact.  The skin on his arms prickled, and his mouth tasted sour.  To them, it’s an object, a mere exhibit in a debate.  He tried to check himself.  I don’t know that.  Maybe this is the way they show respect to the dead.  But he couldn’t shake the notion that the dead child was displayed as a bit of evidence, of no more significance than a lump of clay.

The baby’s bearer (Marty labeled this alien as the bailiff) brought it to the ceramic wall and raised it for the three aliens behind the barrier to see.  Then, with no ceremony at all, he stepped back from the wall and dropped the dead baby on the floor.  The bailiff moved away from the baby, leaving it in the middle of the room for all to see.

Again, the hooing sound—and this time Marty was sure; the judge in the middle gave the command.  The two groups of aliens attended to something between them; this time an alien came forward, pushing and prodding a terrified young woman.  Marty guessed she might be fifteen, certainly not yet twenty.  She saw the baby and ran to it, screaming her anguish.  On her knees she scooped up the lifeless body and rocked back and forth, keening, a perfect picture of grief.

Both groups of aliens erupted in speech: hoots, whistles, squeals, and loud bass humming.  It was painfully loud.  Arms waved wildly, and three or four aliens (at least one on each side) began dancing vigorously.  If it had been a human gathering, Marty would have thought it verged on a riot.  In the middle of the alien storm, the poor mother continued to wail.

The “judges” raised their arms, and the alien shouting subsided.  The right hand judge began to speak.  The other aliens quickly silenced themselves.  The broken-hearted human mother ceased her keening and raised a tear-soaked face to the alien behind the wall.  With sweeping gestures, the right hand judge pointed at the woman, those on the left side of the room, and his or her fellow judges.

“My lord Martin!  The words are gone!”  Caelin spoke in alarm.  To the right of the courtroom scene the Latin captioning had disappeared.  A moment later, the sound of the video ceased.  On the interface wall, the right hand judge continued to point this way and that, and his or her mouth moved, but nothing could be heard.  The silent movie continued for a minute and abruptly vanished.

Marty held his hand on the lord’s knob for another minute, but the video didn’t resume.  He stepped away from it, letting his hands fall to his side.  Marty’s pulse raced; his hands quivered.  He took another step back and almost fell down.  Alf seized his arm.  “My lord?”

“I’ll be okay, Alf.  I’m very tired.  I’ll feel better after sleep.”

The blue eyes searched Marty’s face.  “Do you think that’s why they left?”

“I don’t understand, Alf.”

“The gods—aliens, strangers.  Did they leave Two Moons because of the woman’s baby?  The judges were very angry.”

Marty could only stare at the boy.

Copyright © 2015 by Philip D. Smith.

All rights reserved.  International copyright secured.

Castles 137

137. In Castle Pulchra Mane

            “Fair morning, my lady.”  The servant girl Blythe curtsied as she did every morning when she entered the queen’s room.

“By the favor of the gods, aye.  Send for Midwife Hale.”

“Are you sure, my lady?”  Blythe had been expecting this command for days, yet the actuality of something long expected may still surprise.

Mariel started to laugh, but the laugh became a gasp.  “I’ve not done this before, Blythe, and neither has my daughter.  But it seems she is determined that today be the day.”

“Aye, my lady.”  Blythe hurried away without bowing.

Aweirgan Unes sipped hot ale, alone at a table in the great hall.  He had before him written notes from last week’s meeting and the latest missive from General Ridere.  Aweirgan used this slow hour before the Queen’s Council meeting to review.  Mariel had the habit of asking him to produce, at a moment’s notice, the exact wording of some communication from the general or the records of past decisions.

Blythe rushed into the hall.  “Where’s Bestauden?”  The serving girl neither bowed nor showed any deference to Aweirgan’s age or status as castle scribe.  “He’s needed, now!”

“I don’t know.”  Aweirgan surmised instantly the cause of the girl’s excitement and forgave her cheekiness.  “Perhaps at the stables.  I’ll look downstairs.  What do I tell him?”

Blythe waved her arms pointlessly.  “We need the midwife!”  She ran to the north door, heading for the stables.  Aweirgan rose, leaving behind his papers.  Apparently the Queen’s Council would not be meeting today.  What will they think, he wondered, when Mariel fails to activate Videns-Loquitur?  Aweirgan chuckled.  Avice Montfort will understand immediately, but what about that idiot Paul Wadard?  Perhaps I should prepare letters to be sent by post riders.  He smiled at his own foolishness.  But I won’t know what to write until afterward, and then Mariel can tell them herself. 

Descending to the kitchen, Aweirgan called out: “Tait, have you seen Bestauden?  We need someone to fetch Felice Hale.”

The cook clapped her hands, sending puffs of flour into the air.  “Gods be thanked!  I’ll wash up and get towels and bowls.”

“First things first.  Where is Bestauden?”

“Outside, outside.”  Tait waved off other concerns.  She thrust her hands under a faucet and began scrubbing in the hot water that cascaded over them.

“Who is it?”  The woman’s voice inside the cottage was garrulous and raspy.

“Bestauden Winter, Madame Hale.  From Pulchra Mane.”

The door flung open, banging against the wall.  “The whole city is Pulchra Mane, you fool.  You mean the castle.  Get in here!  We’ll need that chair, over there.  I can still manage it, but why not use an able young body when he presents himself, that’s what I say.  No!  Not that one!  Over there!”

“But …” Bestauden hesitated.  The midwife’s desired object looked like a strange deformation of a chair.

Felice Hale slapped his back.  “Have you never seen a birthing chair before?  Bring it!”

Bestauden picked up the birthing chair and followed Midwife Hale out her door.  In the street she turned on him.  “You didn’t bring a wagon?”

“Was I supposed to?”

“Gods!  No wonder men are stupid.  They start out as boys.”  The midwife pushed a large woven wicker purse into his hands.  “Hold this.”  Without seeking permission she swung herself into Bestauden’s horse’s saddle.  She motioned for the purse, and he handed it up.  “We won’t actually need the chair for some hours.  So it’s up to you.  Borrow an ox and wagon or carry it yourself.  Just make sure you get that chair to the castle before mid-day.”

“Gods be praised.”  The stocky midwife stared at the bedroom ceiling, her mouth opening and closing like a fish.  “Is every room like this?  A lying-in room ought to have a low roof.”

“My home was not designed according to your specifications, Madame Hale.  Pulchra Mane was built by the gods.”

Felice Hale moved her attention from ceiling to queen.  “Aye.  And they were tall ones, weren’t they?”  She bustled forward, leaving aside her tall wicker purse.  She took the queen’s hand in her own.  The midwife’s stubby fingers were strong and sensitive.  Mariel wondered what Felice learned as she touched and squeezed all the way to Mariel’s shoulder.

“Well, it’s cleaner and fresher than most wives’ rooms.”  Hale, still compressing various points on the queen’s arm, turned to Tait.  “For all that, we ought to have some rushes and some nice, sweet herbs.  Can you do that?”

“Oh, aye!”  Tait hurried away.

“With your permission, your majesty.”  Felice Hale didn’t wait for permission, but put both her hands on Mariel’s neck.

“Have a care!”  Aweirgan Unes leaped up from his chair.  The midwife noticed his presence for the first time.  She wheeled on him.

“Out!”  She pointed to the door.  “Out!  Out!  Out!  Out!”  As Aweirgan retreated, Hale spoke to Blythe.  “By the gods!  We’ll not have men in here.  See to it!”

“Oh, aye!”  Blythe bowed her head.  Meanwhile, Mariel laughed.  “You really weren’t about to strangle me, were you, Madame Hale?”

“Indeed not.  But the pains aren’t too close together yet, are they?  When you’ve got time, you might as well make sure the mother can breathe clearly, that’s what I say.  Anyway, your majesty has a nice strong throat.  No problems on that end, it seems.  Now, let’s see here.”  Hale laid her hands on Mariel’s abdomen.  “It’s warm enough.  Take this off.”

Once Mariel was naked, the midwife folded the billowing tunic and laid it around the queen’s neck.  Then her hands returned to their exploration just as Mariel’s womb contracted.  “Ah!  Nice, strong mother.  You can call out if you want to.  Just say ‘Damn Billy,’ or whoever it was who did this to you.”

“That would be General Ridere.”

“Too long.  Does the general have a first name?”

“Eudes.”

“Perfect.  Say ‘Damn Eudes’ when the pain comes.  Or not.  It’s up to you, that’s what I say.  Now, your majesty, please lie on the bed.  I need to look.”

Aweirgan sat again in the great hall, banished from the birthing room.  Of course, a different midwife had treated him in the same way thirty-five years before, when Eadred was born.  Aweirgan smiled inwardly, recalling the joy he felt that day.  How proud Gisa had been when they let him see her with the baby.  But one memory led to another: the black earth on Gisa’s grave three summers later, when a second pregnancy ended in some horror.  Not one of the birthing women would answer his questions.  They let him see her body only after it was washed and dressed.  When he asked to see the baby (understanding, of course, that it must have died) they denied point blank that there was anything to see.

His hot ale had long since cooled.  Aweirgan sipped it slowly anyway.  He contemplated the strangeness of the day: when it came to birthing, society was turned on its head.  Women suddenly had the power to turn husbands out of their homes; men had to wait helplessly for an announcement of joy or terror.  Queen Mariel of Herminia, the most powerful person on Two Moons, was subject to the commands of Felice Hale, who lived in a one-room house on King Rudolf Street.  In other affairs, Mariel, relying on Aweirgan’s advice, controlled the fate of thousands of thousands; but today, Aweirgan’s advice counted for nothing.  On this day, only the expertise of the midwife really mattered.

The north door opened, and Bestauden Winter backed through it, carrying a wooden object.  Aweirgan nodded when he saw the birthing chair.  He had wondered whether he ought not to have one built for the castle; somehow in the intervening years the chair on which Mariel entered the world had disappeared.  But so many things had been going on… Aweirgan stopped his excuse and chastised himself.  The fact was he had forgotten to do it.  Fortunately, the midwife had her own.

Blythe and the nan Claennis intercepted Bestauden on the stairs leading to the lord’s tower.  They would not allow him to deliver the birthing chair into the queen’s room.  The women carried it into Mariel’s chamber, and Bestauden retreated to the great hall, where he joined Aweirgan at the table.  “The women are in charge, and we do nothing?” he asked Aweirgan.

“Not exactly nothing.”  The scribe pointed to the magic wall, where six lights were blinking.  “The lords of Herminia—and Lady Montfort—are waiting for Queen Mariel to speak with them.  The Queen always meets with her Council at this time on Fridays.  Queen Mariel, for obvious reasons, can’t come to her knob.  You see only six lights.  There were seven a while ago.  One of them has given up waiting already, though we cannot know which.  So… what I am doing is watching those lights.  I will see how long it takes for the others to abandon the wait.”

Bestauden pursed his lips.  “We cannot speak to them in any way?”

“Ha!  I don’t suppose you want to lay your hands on Mariel’s knob?”

The youth shuddered.

“I didn’t think so.  No.  Today, we wait.”

“It won’t hurt if you walk around a bit.  I recommend it.”  It was more than a recommendation; Midwife Hale took hold of Mariel’s elbow and shoulder, practically pulling her off the bed.  “This will help speed things along.”

Between contractions, Mariel felt joyously well.  Blythe offered a hand, but Mariel shook her head and walked barefoot, skirting the bed and avoiding the bundle of rushes Tait had piled next to the birthing chair.  Once Felice Hale understood that the castle’s floors were warm as well as smooth she said there was no need for rushes.  “In poor cottages mothers birth their babies in rooms with dirt floors,” she explained.  “And even in fine houses of rich merchants covering the floor makes it easier to clean up afterward.  But if castle magic will clean the floor, as Claennis tells me, and if the floor is nice and warm, it looks like we don’t need them, that’s what I say.”  She nodded to Tait.  “Still, it was good of you to bring them.  And that bowl of herbs is very nice.”  Tait had prepared a bowl of mint, thyme, and rosemary leaves in hot water.  The aroma penetrated Mariel’s bedroom and the adjacent closet and bathing room.

Blythe found an older tunic in Mariel’s closet and cut it short so the queen could wear something over her upper body as she moved around the room.  In the quiet moments Mariel’s hands lay on her belly; contractions brought a grimace to her face and Tait and Claennis would jump from their chairs to hold her arms.  Periodically the midwife ordered Mariel to lie down so her knowledgeable fingers could assess the queen’s progress.  She and Claennis rubbed oil and spices on Mariel’s thighs and belly.

“Why does it take so long?”  Mariel knew better than ask, but pain compelled the words.

“First baby takes longer, your majesty.  Don’t fret.  You’re doing well.”

“Shall I bring food?” asked Tait.

“No.  Some wine would be good, with small cups to drink it.  And keep a fire going so you can exchange buckets every hour.  I want hot water.”

Mariel’s servant women all laughed.  In castle Pulchra Mane hot water required no fire or effort.

News of the day’s great event spread widely.  In the great hall, Pulchra Mane’s male servants gathered one by one, and in the afternoon prominent burghers (with their wives) from the city surrounding Mariel’s castle joined them. Aweirgan took charge, commanding Bestauden Winter and Bayan the Red to bring food and drink for the guests from Pulchra Mane’s storerooms.  Hourly some woman appeared with a report from the birthing chamber: “The queen is doing well.”  Alternatively: “We see progress toward a healthy birth.”  Aweirgan commented to himself that Mariel would never tolerate such uninformative reports from the lords and lady of her Council.  Afternoon moved into evening.  Some guests went home and others took their place.  Merchants and artisans sat together in little groups, talking about affairs in the city or news from Tarquint.  Wives bunched together and talked exclusively about childbirth.

“The door to the womb has opened, your majesty.  The birthing chair will be useful now.”  Midwife Hale nodded to Blythe, who aided in raising Mariel from the bed.  A contraction came, and Mariel cried out.  The pains were clearly lasting longer now.  When it finally eased, her servants settled her on the chair.  Mariel’s sense of strength and wellness had drained away; now, even between contractions she felt spent.  Blythe mopped Mariel’s forehead with a damp cloth.  Hale and Claennis spread her legs, gently tying knees and ankles to the chair’s legs with cotton strips.

Outside the birthing chamber, it was long past midnight.  The guests had all left, and Aweirgan Unes had ordered the doors locked.

“Gods, I’m so tired.”  Another contraction came, and Mariel’s whole body quivered.  Midwife Hale draped a warm towel over her shoulders, tucking it close to her neck.  When Mariel vomited, which happened several times, the midwife mopped up the bit of spit she managed to produce with another towel.  Hale and Blythe repeatedly told Mariel how well she was doing.  Claennis and Tait rubbed more oil on thighs and belly.  But Mariel hardly noticed their efforts at comfort; her mind moved from one pain to the next like a tiny ship on stormy waves.

And the storm went on and on.

Midwife Hale, solid of body and bolstered by long years in her craft, yielded a yawn in the morning.  She had sent first Blythe away to nap, and Claennis and Tait in turns.  Hale never left.  Stroking, encouraging, offering sips of wine, bathing sweat from Mariel’s straining body, replacing warm towels—she was apparently indefatigable, never turning from optimism.  By an innate inner clock she roused Mariel over and over so a contraction would not take the exhausted and half-conscious woman by surprise.  And finally:

“There we go!  Ah!  Good work, your majesty!”  Hale was on her knees, arms covered in bloody discharge as she received the head.  “Push again, your majesty!”

“Augh!”

“There we have him.  It’s a boy, your majesty.”  With a cloth handed her by Blythe, Hale quickly wiped the baby’s face and with a finger cleared his mouth.  Nature took its course; the boy cried out.  Claennis took him and laid him quietly on the queen’s belly, covered him with a cloth and put the mother’s arms over him.  Midwife Hale deftly tied a knot in the birth cord and cut it below the knot.  “Now, one more push for the afterbirth, my lady.”

Mariel paid no attention to Hale, filled with wonder at the tiny body lying on her.  She passed from consciousness in joy.

The queen’s womb contracted, expelling the afterbirth, which Midwife Hale caught in a bucket.  After that came blood, a stream of blood that didn’t stop.

“Gods no!  No!”  Hale ripped away the cloth strips binding Mariel’s legs.  “Help me with her!”  Claennis snatched the baby from Mariel’s body and laid it screeching by a wall.  Tait and Blythe took the queen’s arms, Hale and Claennis her legs.  “On the bed!  Get her legs up.  Raise her butt!  Pillow there, aye!”  The midwife’s strong hands massaged Mariel’s abdomen, squeezing the womb as she muttered prayers.

            Aweirgan was dawdling over breakfast with Bestauden and several other Pulchra Mane servants when Blythe entered the great hall.  The girl’s face warned them all, a face drained of color.  She blinked at the questions thrown at her.  Aweirgan hurried to her side, took her arm and whispered.  “Give me the news, girl.  I will do the rest.”

            Red-rimmed brown eyes met his, recognized a friendly face.  “A baby boy.  We need a wet nurse.”

            Still a whisper: “The Queen?”

            “She breathes, Aweirgan.  But I am so afraid.”

Copyright © 2014 by Philip D. Smith.

All rights reserved.  International copyright secured.

Castles 136

136.  In Down’s End

            “I’m not here to threaten or make demands.  As I told the clerk yesterday, I bring greetings from the Stonebridge Assembly and an urgent request that Down’s End send an embassy to Stonebridge so that the two cities may agree on a common response to the Herminian problem.”

            Milo stood at a railing that separated the gallery for the public from the Down’s End Council.  It was a different, somewhat larger, room in than the one where Amicia had spoken to the mayor and Eulard Barnet.  The aldermen, each representing either an established guild or district in the city, numbered fourteen.  They sat in two rows of handsomely carved chairs facing each other, presumably to better facilitate Council debate.  Some paces behind the aldermen on either side were desks with assistants and pages.  Space on Milo’s side of the rail, reserved for members of the public who might bring testimony, was comparatively small.  Milo had brought Derian Chapman and Hrodgar Wigt with him to the Council.  Outside the building Felix Abrecan and six others stood armed guard.  Milo, Derian and Hrodgar had surrendered their weapons to Down’s End Sheriffs when they entered the courthouse.

            “You intend no threats, but you brought an army of hundreds.”  The aldermen had turned their chairs to listen to the visitor’s testimony.  The speaker had a florid face, very full lips and sandy hair; Milo estimated his age at over forty.

            “I am sorry, Alderman … I don’t know all your names.”  Milo was determined to appear deferential throughout the hearing.

            “Kent Gausman, of the glass-blowers guild, though that should make no difference.”  The sandy-haired man was smooth shaven, and he cast glances at other aldermen; his comments seemed directed as much at them as Milo.  “Down’s End is more than weavers and tanners.  All of us, even those with no seat on the Council, such as fishermen or shroud makers, are threatened by your army.”

            Gausman’s words unleashed a storm.

            “Gods!  Not again!”

            “Now you want a guild for shroud makers?  You want a woman alderman?”

            “Fishermen live in my district, and I speak for them.”

            “Bankers don’t have a guild, but we don’t hear them asking for a seat.”

            “Question the witness, Gausman; don’t campaign.”

            A portly man adorned with an enormous gold chain rose from a chair on the left.  Milo remembered Simun Baldwin, the mayor of Down’s End.  “Gentlemen!”  The hubbub died.  “Alderman Gausman is surely right that today’s business concerns everyone in Down’s End.  I implore you to question the witness, not engage in intramural squabbles.”

            The mayor gestured at Kent Gausman, but spoke to Milo.  “The alderman asks a serious question, General Mortane.  Why has Stonebridge fielded an army, if all she wants is to invite an embassy?”

            “We believe the matter is urgent.  So urgent that Stonebridge has borne the expense of raising a force.”  Milo inclined his head.  “Since you seem to know about our army, you must also know that most of my men are camped on the open downs three days march from here.  I brought only ten men with me to Down’s End and I stand here before you unarmed.”

            Milo let go of the railing and began pacing to and fro.  “Some of you will undoubtedly think that I have somehow hoodwinked Stonebridge into giving me an army so I can rescue Hyacintho Flumen.  You imagine an older brother trying to save the younger.  Consider the irony in that notion.  I am a Mortane; I am the older brother.

            “You know the story of my uncle Wimund Mortane.  He and my father were both descended from Thorwold Tirel, the last lord of Inter Lucus, through Aerlene Tirel.  Uncle Wimund, the younger brother, tried to bond with Inter Lucus, a ruined castle.  He thought that, since my father Hereward had Hyacintho Flumen, he might establish himself in the castle of the Tirels.  He failed.  When he came home to Hyacintho Flumen, Hereward chopped off his hands so he could never try to bond again.  Wimund spent the rest of his days, which weren’t very many, being fed by another.”

            The aldermen regarded Milo suspiciously.  Milo laughed.  “Surely you see the point?  I am very much like my father.  There was a day when I would have deprived Aylwin of his hands to gain Hyacintho Flumen.  Alas!  That day is past.  The younger brother usurped the elder.”

            Milo ceased pacing and faced the aldermen.  “To my surprise, I find the gods have blessed me.  Beyond all expectation, I became Commander of the Stonebridge Guard, General of the Army.  I tell you, gentlemen, that I would not trade my position for my brother’s, not if this rail were the lord’s knob and all I had to do were place my hands on it.”

            Rather than touch the rail, Milo resumed pacing.  “Nevertheless, the fact remains that our cities face a crisis.  Aylwin sent his sister—my sister—to ask help from Down’s End.  From here, she took her entreaties to Stonebridge.  I should say, as an aside, that I love Amicia dearly.  She is not responsible for Aylwin’s treachery.  In both cities, she argued that the Herminians are a threat to all of Tarquint.  Aylwin put this argument in her mouth to serve his purposes, so you ought to regard it skeptically.  I propose, then, that we remove Aylwin from our calculus.

            “Let us assume that Hyacintho Flumen falls.  Perhaps Aylwin dies.  Little Eddricus would bond when he comes of age.  I assure you, such a result would not trouble me in the least.

            “The question is this.  What will Mariel do after she takes Hyacintho Flumen?  Surely you have contemplated the matter.  The only safe assumption is that she aims to rule all of Tarquint.  If you grant that, one need only look at a map.  Almost certainly, the Herminians will march north, following Blue River to West Lake and East Lake.  They will come to Down’s End and Inter Lucus.

            “The Stonebridge Assembly is alarmed by the Herminian threat.  Frankly, they think Down’s End ought to be even more alarmed.  What do you propose to do?  Stonebridge has put an army in the field.  We are ready to work and fight as your allies, if that is your choice.  As a first step, we urge and invite an embassy.”

            Todwin Ansquetil, the black-haired alderman of the weavers’ guild, raised a palm.  “We judge that Lord Aylwin is strong.  Hyacintho Flumen will not fall this year.  Therefore we have refrained from rash and expensive decisions.  We have time to raise an army.”

            Milo nodded.  According to Bee Fatman, the Down’s End weavers’ guild opposed every action of the city that would cost them money.  “You’re right, I’m sure.  May I point out that in Stonebridge my predecessor, Osred Tondbert, laid the foundations for a larger City Guard over many years.  Since his death, and with the authority of the Assembly, I have been building the Guard as rapidly as possible for five months.  With all that, the Stonebridge army encamped on the downs numbers less than seven hundred.  The Herminian host is ten thousand.  You do have time.  But it takes time to raise and train an army.”

            Ansquetil wasn’t pleased, but another alderman seized the opportunity to speak.  “Ah, General Mortane.  Hors Baldric, dyers’ guild.  How long would it take to prepare an army?  How big should it be?  To fight the Herminians, I mean.”

            “I have an army of six hundred, plus some scouts.  We have been training hard for five months, as I said.  I am proud of my men, but the truth is our training is barely adequate.  To be safe, I should say you must give six months to train five hundred men, provided you have experienced armsmen to train them.”

            “Five hundred would be sufficient?” Baldric asked.

            “I did not say that.  No.  I only illustrated that it takes months to make soldiers.  The Herminians number in the thousands.  I believe we need five thousand men.”

            Dismay appeared on many faces.  “We will be bankrupted,” Ansquetil said.

            “Better that than be dispossessed entirely,” another alderman said.  “Cedric Sibbald, river district.  General Mortane, why have you marched against the Herminians if you are so outnumbered?”

            “Stonebridge sends its army to demonstrate good faith with Down’s End.  I’m not eager for suicide, so I do not plan to attack the Herminians.  I say again: Stonebridge urges and invites your embassy.  Send your own people, trusted men, to parley with the Assembly.  We stand ready to ally with you.”

             Another alderman waved his hand.  “Garrock Unwine, blacksmiths’ guild.  The Herminians wield swords made of castle steel from Pulchra Mane.  What do your men have?”

            “For years the standard weapon of the Stonebridge Guard was iron, a short sword.  That is unacceptable.  This year the smithies of Stonebridge are making steel blades as fast as possible.  Most of my men now carry steel swords or knives.  Archers, naturally, are a different matter.”  Milo let himself smile broadly.  “Of course, I and a few others have superior weapons.”

            “General!  Byrni Eadgard, south district.”  This alderman sat closest to the public gallery.  Milo thought at first he was blind; his eyes were the color of blood.  But Eadgard had tracked Milo’s movements to and fro.  “I presume the weapons you speak of were made at Hyacintho Flumen.  Castle magic, castle steel.”

            “Aye.”

            Alderman Eadgard continued: “Have you asked Saltas Semitas for steel?  I assume Stonebridge would seek help wherever it may be found.”

            Milo nodded, smiling.  “A natural suggestion.  But you must understand how difficult it is for some.  Suspicions and resentments between Stonebridge and the Le Grants run deep.  Nevertheless, the Assembly has exchanged messages with Lord David Le Grant, and we may yet offer to buy from him.  However, it seems to me that Down’s End might have better luck asking Saltas Semitas for weapons.  You don’t have a history of war with the Le Grants.”

            Eadgard’s blood red eyes turned to Garrock Unwine.  “If we bought steel from Saltas Semitas, our blacksmiths’ guild could arm our soldiers well.”

            Unwine was about to reply, but Ansquetil objected.  “Hang that!  You’re talking about thousands of swords and shields.  Le Grant has what?  Twenty sheriffs?  Fewer?”

            “We want his steel, not his men,” answered Eadgard.

            “Exactly!  But if he only arms a score of men for his own protection, is it likely he has more steel—tons more?  Even if he does, do we want to devote the city treasury to David Le Grant?”

            Mayor Baldwin rumbled into speech.  “Gentlemen!  We will debate policy in due time.  Do you have questions for the witness?”

            “I do,” said Gausman, the alderman of the glassblowers.  “We have it on reliable testimony that a new lord has revived Inter Lucus.  Have you made contact with this Lord Martin?”

            “Not yet.  I have been told that Martin of Inter Lucus uses castle magic to make paper rather than steel.”  Milo rubbed his chin thoughtfully.  He saw no reason to tell the Council about Kenelm Ash’s visit to Inter Lucus or Kenelm’s low opinion of the strange lord.  “A man that can revive a ruined castle might be powerful indeed, but I don’t see how paper helps us much.  Nevertheless, I will send men to interview him.  Perhaps I will go myself.”

            “General Mortane.”  An alderman rose from far chair of the right side.  Milo recognized the cropped hair and black mustache.  “Eulard Barnet.  I’m sure you remember me, and I have a question for you.  How can Stonebridge hope to gain Down’s End as an ally, given your past treacheries?”

            Barnet raised his arms to squelch protests from other aldermen.  “I will explain, my friends!”  Then he pointed at Milo.  “Your sister did, indeed, make entreaties for Aylwin Mortane in this city.  She lived here some weeks and enjoyed our hospitality.  And then, quite abruptly, you spirited her away.”

            Barnet faced his fellows.  “Most of you do not know, though Sir Mortane certainly does, that I offered marriage to the young woman.  Rather than allow her to respond, Mortane smuggled her to Stonebridge.  Where, no doubt, he is trying to pair her with some Assemblyman of that city.

            “I deliberately say smuggled because that man…” Barnet pointed theatrically at Derian.  “That man, Derian Chapman, smuggled my son’s murderer to Stonebridge, where he lives under the protection of the notorious Ody Dans.  I say also, General Mortane, that you helped Chapman deliver Avery Doin from justice.  Will you deny it?”        The stocky Barnet wrapped himself in a black coat like an avenging fury.  “I ask again: Why should Down’s End ally with Stonebridge, given such treacheries?”

            Milo waited.  The aldermen looked from Milo to Barnet and back and saw Milo cover his mouth, trying to conceal a smile.  The aldermen began smiling too, as if a joke were already made, though they didn’t know what it was.  Barnet saw their smiles and shouted: “Answer, you fool!”

            Milo bowed formally.  Then he rested his hands on the rail.  “Alderman Barnet, we two will surely agree on this: Amicia is a beautiful and delightful woman.  I sincerely apologize for the pain of heart you have felt in losing her.  The truth is, sir, that she does not love you.  She might have married you, for love of her brother Aylwin, had I not ‘spirited her away,’ as you say.  I despise Aylwin.  It would have pained me endlessly to see her marry simply to help him.  So in the matter of my sister, I plead guilty.  I did rescue her from a marriage she did not want.

            “The matter of Avery Doin is more complicated.  You say Avery murdered your son.  Avery claims it was an accident.  Aethelred Doin feared his son would not be fairly tried in Down’s End, and he arranged Avery’s escape.  Derian Chapman, as you say, smuggled Avery to Stonebridge.  It chanced that I met up with Chapman’s wagons on the way, and I helped defend them from highwaymen.  Therefore, unwittingly, I abetted Avery Doin’s escape.”

            Milo smiled indulgently.  “Shall I go on, Alderman Barnet?  I could stop.”

            Barnet frowned, confused.  “If you have more to day, say it.”

            “The rest of your question is easily answered.  Ody Dans is in prison in the Citadel of Stonebridge.  My men guard Avery Doin at camp three days from here.  Master Doin is quite willing to return for trial, provided that it is fair.  You should know, Alderman Barnet, that important witnesses, including your daughter Ada, will testify that Hue Barnet’s death was indeed an accident.”

            Milo considered saying more, to accuse Barnet of paying the highwaymen who attacked Chapman’s wagons.  But it wasn’t needed.  Barnet’s little drama had collapsed on him.  The banker staggered back into his chair while the other aldermen ignored him.  Milo addressed them.

            “You should trust Stonebridge if our actions match our words.  We have raised a force as a token of good faith.  We urge and invite an embassy.  I only add this: please act soon.  Send your own men to Stonebridge.”

Copyright © 2015 by Philip D. Smith.

All rights reserved.  International copyright secured.

           

           

           

           

Happy New Year

2015! 

    I plan to finish Castles before summer (in two senses--before summer 2015 and before summer on Two Moons).  That is, the first draft will appear on this blog.  After that I hope to revise and eventually publish in a paper version.  If that comes to fruition I will naturally advertise the finished product here.
     I also plan more essays, on various topics.  As a philosopher I am currently reading and thinking about hope.  I'm discovering there is much to be said about this virtue that lies "in between" faith and love.

    I wish you all a happy new year.