I hesitated. Since that night when first I had realised my pregnancy, I’d been torn between two conflicting emotions. Sheer joy at the child’s second chance at life, and a growing worry that no matter how hard I tried, I could not communicate, by any means, with her. Was there anything wrong with her, or was it…
“I fear so greatly for this child,” I said, “sharing my womb with that…”
“That imp?” said Marguerite. “And who should truly fear, Noah? Your sweet growing daughter, or the imp?”
I laughed a little, for I thought she jested, but I ceased when I saw how darkly serious were her eyes.
“The imp?” I said. “It should fear?”
“Noah,” Marguerite said, and she slid upright and, moving her hand from under mine, held me close as if she were the mother and I the child. “This child has been conceived for a reason. Yes, you and Brutus lay together, and did those things that tend to make babies…but this is a baby reborn. I think that she is here for a purpose, and I think that she is not as other babies, innocent and unknowing. Noah, she has been to the Otherworld and back. What has that done to her? What power has that given her?”
I didn’t respond, for Marguerite’s comments made me deeply uncomfortable.
“And she was conceived of two such powerful parents,” Marguerite continued. “You, Eaving, goddess of the waters and of the fertility of this land, and he, Kingman of the Troy Game, and all else that awaits him. For all the gods’ sakes, Noah, this baby is a gift, and I think you have yet to realise the full extent of that gift. The imp?” I felt her shrug slightly against me. “The imp is a mere nuisance compared to the power that I think comprises your daughter.”
I put my own hands over my belly. “I try to feel her, to speak with her, yet I feel and see nothing.”
“Sometimes that is the way it is,” said Marguerite. “Whatever the power of the mother, she cannot penetrate her own womb.”
I thought of the countless times I had seen my daughter within the stone hall, and said nothing. I also remembered that I had always seen her at six or seven years of age, and that comforted me. She would live to be born, at least.
“She will live to command in her own right,” whispered Marguerite against my ear, kissing me here and there between her words. “For now, my sweet, I think we have better things to do than to worry about your child. She can take care of herself, for this night at least.”
I laughed, and put my cares aside, and turned to offer Marguerite my mouth.
Seven
Idol Lane, London
From time to time Weyland spent a few hours in the evening in the Pit and Bull on Thames Street, just along from the Custom House. Here he drank his way through six or seven tankards of warm buttered ale as he sat at one of the larger tables, sharing the warmth and companionship of the tavern with whoever joined him. Most of the regular patrons of the Pit and Bull, mostly warehousemen, customs clerks, a few sailors, and the odd cowper, liked Weyland immensely (even though most knew that he kept a brothel, and some had even patronised it), although none were close to him. Weyland Orr related some of the best tales to be heard in London’s taverns: yarns of long ago, concerning gods and demons, raptures and catastrophes and, when he was in the mood, the best version anyone had ever heard of the ancient and beloved tale of the Trojan wars. Two of the customs clerks had pressed Weyland for many months now to write these tales down. “Put them out as pamphlets,” they urged him, “and the London folk will snatch them up in their scores.”
But to this Weyland Orr demurred. “Those Puritans who sit in Whitehall would throw me in Newgate for such a liberty,” he’d say, “and then what would you do with your evenings over your ale in the Pit and Bull?”
Weyland enjoyed these hours, but they left him feeling empty. On this night he did not tell any of his tales, claiming a headache, but sat back, sipping his ale as one ear half-listened to the chatter about him, and sank into his own thoughts. Over the past year or two he’d become increasingly unsettled within himself. His life in his house on Idol Lane left him progressively more irritated. Jane, as well as Elizabeth and Frances, was terrified of him (and most particularly of what he could do to her), but that didn’t stop her cold insolent silences, or her glances of sheer disdain. Frances was merely terrified, and almost literally shrank into a hunch-shouldered piece of insignificance whenever he was about. Elizabeth…Elizabeth was outwardly compliant, but Weyland sensed a great distance within her, as if she had managed to push him from her conscious world. The kitchen of the house was now entirely a woman’s world, with the three women who haunted it forming a coterie whose walls Weyland could not penetrate.
This should not have bothered him. After all, he kept these women within Idol Lane only to use them. Jane he needed to teach Noah the skills of the Mistress of the Labyrinth (and she damn well would teach Noah, or Weyland would flay the skin from her body piece by soft, resisting piece), and Elizabeth and Frances were there to…well, to create atmosphere, if you will. When Weyland dragged Noah from whatever false, comforting world she currently inhabited into his den, then he needed to debase and degrade her as quickly as possible so that he might work her to his will.
When he managed to drag Noah from her false, comforting world…Weyland was impatient to move, yet was concerned that any precipitous action would ruin, once more, his chance to snatch those kingship bands. He’d caused Cromwell’s death, thus setting in motion the process by which Brutus-reborn could return to England, but that process looked as though it might stretch out over months, if not years. Damn this modern preoccupation with politenesses and considerations! In any former life Brutus-reborn could simply have invaded and quelled; now he needed to bend knee and solicit.
Charles’ re-entry to England dictated that moment when Weyland would take Noah. Weyland was certain that Charles would know the instant Weyland took her, and, as wary as he was of Charles, Weyland was not going to leave himself open to…well, to whatever Charles might be able to throw at him. So he intended to leave it until the last possible moment to rope Noah in.
Besides, snatching Noah just when Charles might think her safe meant the greatest possible pain for Charles. The triumphant returning king would think she was out of harm’s way, and then, just as he entered London…well, Weyland had something very special planned for Charles as he made his triumphal re-entry (yet once more) into London.
Weyland smiled into his ale, causing one of his companions to remark that he must be thinking of one of the women waiting for him at home.
“A woman,” Weyland replied, “but not one that awaits me in Idol Lane.”
Once he had Noah, then he had the bands. She knew where they were, and Weyland was certain he could force her to retrieve them. Once he had both the bands and Noah, and Noah had been trained as his Mistress of the Labyrinth, then he had the Troy Game.
And then, he had the world.
It all sounded so simple, and yet Weyland knew that such a prize could not be gained through simple means. He’d been outwitted twice before. He would not allow it to happen again.
Back in Idol Lane, Weyland glanced into the kitchen—Elizabeth and Frances had gone back to their tavern for the night, and Jane was asleep—then took the stairs two at a time to reach the top floor and his Idyll.
He was in a reasonably buoyant mood, due largely to the effects of the ale, and he whistled as he moved about his sanctuary. He stripped naked, admiring his body—at least in this life he had a body that was slim, unlike the dreadful flab he’d had to carry about as Aldred—then stood before a mirror, running his fingers through his thick fair hair to comb it flat.
Suddenly he froze.
A woman had appeared in the mirror, standing a pace or two back from him. She was dressed in the ancient Minoan fashion, with a full red silk skirt and a golden jacket left undone to display her breasts. She had long, curly black hair and a face of exquisite beauty, marred only by her expression of vicious hatred. Flames licked at her feet, as if she had emerged from hell itself.