The Baker's Boy (2 page)

Bevlin's kitchen
also served as his study: the huge oak table was covered in books, scrolls and
manuscripts. Having sliced himself a fair portion of duck and loaded an
abundant helping of congealed fat on top, he settled amidst the cushions on his
old stone bench and relieved the pressure in his bowels by farting loudly. Now
it was time to get down to work.

Baralis returned
to his chamber and was met by the pleasing smell of cooked meat. Puzzled but
hungry, it took him a few seconds to realize where the odor came from. Resting
amongst the glowing embers in the fireplace was what looked like an irregular,
burnt, cut of meat. It was, Baralis recognized, what was left of Lusk's
features.

"Too well
done for me," he said, relishing the joke and the sound of his own voice.
"By Borc! I'm hungry. Crope!" he shouted loudly, sticking his head
out of the door. "Crope! You idle dimwit, bring me food and wine."

A few seconds
later Crope appeared in the passageway, huge and wide, with a
disproportionately small head. Crope managed to appear both menacing and stupid
at the same time. "You called, my lord?" He spoke in a surprisingly
gentle voice.

"Yes, I
called, you fool. Who do you think called, Borc himself?" Crope looked
suitably sheepish but not too worried, he could tell when his master was in a
good mood.

"I know it's
late, Crope, but I'm hungry. Bring me food!" Baralis considered for a
moment. "Bring me red meat, rare, and some good red wine, not the rubbish
you brought me yesterday. If those stinking louts in the kitchen try to palm
you off with anything less than a fine vintage, tell them they will have to
answer to me." Crope balefully nodded his consent and left.

Baralis knew Crope
didn't like to perform any task that involved talking to people. He was shy and
awkward around them, which was, as Baralis saw it, a definite advantage in a
servant. Lusk had been too talkative for his own good. He glanced to the left
of the door, where what remained of Lusk lay wrapped in a faded rug. Crope had
not even noticed the unseemly bundle or, if he had, it would never occur to him
to mention it: he was like an obedient dog-loyal and unquestioning. Baralis
smiled at the vision of Crope appearing in the kitchen this late at night; he
was sure to give the lightfingered kitchen staff quite a shock.

Before long, Crope
returned with a jug of wine and a portion of meat so rare, pink juices oozed
from the flesh and onto the platter. Baralis dismissed Crope and poured himself
a cup of the rich and heady liquid. He held it up to the light and reveled in
its dark, crimson color, then brought the goblet to his lips. The wine was warm
and sweet, redolent of blood.

The events of
tonight had given him a voracious hunger. He cut himself a thick slice of the
fleshy meat. As he did so, the knife slipped in his hand and cut neatly into
his thumb. Automatically, he raised his finger to his face and suckled the
small wound closed. He shuddered suddenly, half remembering a fragment of an
old rhyme, something about the taste of blood. He struggled for the memory and
lost. Baralis shrugged. He would eat, then take a brief nap, until the better
part of the night was over with.

Many hours later,
just before the break of dawn, Baralis once more slipped into the queen's
chamber. He had to be especially careful-many castle attendants were up and
about, baking bread in the kitchens, milking cows in the dairy, starting fires.
He was not too concerned, though, as this last task would not take too long.

He was a little
worried when he saw the queen was in exactly the same position as when he had
left her, but closer inspection revealed that she was breathing strongly. The
memory of the previous evening was playing in his loins, and he had an urge to
mount her again, but calculation mastered desire and he willed himself to do
what must be done.

He dreaded
performing a Searching. He had only done one once before, and the memory still
haunted him to this day. He had been a young buck, arrogant in his abilities,
way ahead of his peers. Great things were hoped for him-and hadn't they been
proved right? He had a ravening thirst for knowledge and ability. He had been
proud, yes, but then, were not all great men proud? Everything he read about he
tried, desperate to accomplish and move on, move forward to greater
achievements. He had the quickest mind in his class, outpacing and eventually
outgrowing his teachers. He'd rushed forward with the speed of a charging boar,
the pride of his masters and the envy of his friends.

One day when he
was thirteen summers old, he came across a musty, old manuscript in the back of
the library. Hands shaking with nervous excitement, he unraveled the fragile
parchment. He was at first a little disappointed. It contained the usual
instructions--drawing of light and fire, healing colds. Then at the end a
ritual called a Searching was mentioned. A Searching, it explained, was a means
to tell if a woman was with child.

He read it
greedily. Searching had never been mentioned by his teachers; perhaps it was
something they could not do, or even better, something they didn't know of.
Eager to attain a skill which he supposed his masters not to have, he slid the
manuscript up his sleeve and took it home with him.

Some days later he
was ready to try his new ability, but who to try it on? The women in the
village would not let him lay his hands upon them. That left his mother, and it
was certain she would not be with child. However, having no other choice, he
resigned himself to using his mother as a guinea pig.

Early the
following morning, he stole into his parents' bedroom, careful to ensure his
father had left for the fields. It was a source of shame to him that his father
was a common farmer, but he took solace in the fact that his mother was of
better stock: she was a salt merchant's daughter. He loved his mother deeply
and was proud of her obvious good breeding; she was respected in the village
and was consulted by the elders on everything from matters of harvest to
matchmaking.

Baralis' mother
had awoken when her son came into the room. He turned to leave but she beckoned
him in. "Come, Barsi, what do you want?" She wiped the sleep from her
eyes and smiled with tender indulgence.

"I was about
to try a new skill I learnt," he muttered guiltily.

His mother made
the error of mistaking guilt for modesty. "Barsi, my sweet, this new
trick, can you do it while I am awake?" Her face was a picture of love and
trust. Baralis momentarily felt misgiving.

"Yes, Mother,
but I think I might be better trying it on someone else."

"Copper pots!
What nonsense. Try it on me now-as long as it doesn't turn my hair green, I
don't mind." His mother settled herself comfortably amid the pillows and
patted the bedside.

"It won't do
you any harm, Mother, it's a Searching ... to tell if you are well."
Baralis found the lie easy. It was not the first time he had lied to his
mother.

"Well,"
she laughed indulgently, "do your worst!" Baralis laid his hands on
his mother's stomach. He could feel the warmth of her body through the thin
fabric of her nightgown. His fingers spread out and he concentrated on the
search. The manuscript had warned that it was more a mental than physical
exercise, so he focused the fullness of his thoughts on his mother's belly.

He felt the blood
rushing through her veins and the forceful rhythm of her heart. He felt the
discharge of juices in her stomach and the gentle push of her intestines. He
adjusted his hands lower; he met his mother's eyes and she gave him a look of encouragement.
He found the spot the manuscript spoke of: a fertile redness. Excitement
building within him, he explored the muscled embrace that was his mother's
womb.

He detected
something: a delicate burgeoning. He was unsure; he searched deeper. His mother's
face was beginning to look worried, but he paid her no mind. His abandon was
growing; there was something there, something new and separate. It was
wonderful and exhilarating. He wanted to touch the presence with his mind; he
dug deeper and his mother let out a cry of pain.

"Barsi,
stop!" Her beautiful face was contorted with agony.

He panicked and
tried to withdraw as quickly as possible, but as he drew back, he dragged
something out with him. He felt a shifting, a dislodging and then the tear of
flesh. Terrified, he removed his hands. His mother was screaming hysterically
and she doubled up in pain, clutching her stomach. Baralis noticed the quick
flare of blood on the sheets. The screams! He could not bear her agonized
screams! He didn't know what to do. He could not leave her alone to call for
help. Spasms racked his mother's body and the blood flowed like a river,
soaking the white sheets with its bright gaudiness.

"Mother,
please stop, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you, please stop." Tears of panic
coursed down his cheeks. "Mother. I'm sorry." He hugged her to him,
heedless of the blood. "I'm sorry," he repeated, his voice a
frightened whisper.

He held his mother
as she bled to death. It took only minutes, but to Baralis it seemed like an
eternity, as he felt the strength and life wane from her beloved body.

Baralis stirred
himself from his recollection. That was then, many years ago, when he had been
young and green. He was a master himself now. There would be no mistakes caused
by inexperience. He now understood that to have tried such a mental task when
only a boy was pure stupidity. He'd barely known what "being with
child" meant, and had only the whisperings of adolescence as his guide to
how children were conceived.

Baralis realized
he was taking a risk performing a Searching on the queen, but he had to
know-conception was at the best of times a chance event. He dared not think of
what he would do if his seed had not found favor. Part of him was aware it
might be far too early to tell, but the other part of him suspected that he
would be able to discern a tiny change, and that would be enough.

He bent over the
body of the queen and placed his hands on her stomach. He knew straight away
that the fabric of her elaborate court gown was too heavy. He lifted her skirts
once more and was surprised to see he had forgotten to replace her
undergarments. It was just as well, really, he thought, as they were uncommonly
bulky, too.

More experienced
he may have been than when he was thirteen, but he wished his hands were still
youthful. It was a strain to spread his fingers full-out upon her belly, and he
bit his lip in pain; he could not allow his own discomfort to interfere with
the endeavor. He found the right place straight away; he was no novice now.

He began the
Searching. It was so familiar, the cloistered warmth of the organs, the pulsing
redness of the blood vessels, the heat of the liver. He proceeded with filigree
fineness, deep within the queen's body and deeper within her womb. He felt the
intricate tanglings of muscle and tendon, felt the sensuous curve of the
ovaries. And then he perceived something, barely discernible, hardly there, a
gentle ripple on a pond, a pulsing other. A life minutely separate and
distinguishable from that of the queen. Scarcely a life at all, more a
glimmering suggestion ... but it was there.

Elated, he made no
quick move to withdraw-with infinite slowness and patience he removed himself.
Drawing away with a surgeon's skill. Just as he left, he felt the other
presence assert itself: a dark pressure.

Baralis withdrew.
There had been something in that last instant of contact which gave him cause
to be wary, but his misgivings were eaten up and forgotten by the joy of his
success.

He removed his
hands from the queen and straightened her dress. She moaned lightly, but he was
not concernedshe would not wake for several hours. Time for him to leave. With
a light tread he moved toward the door and unbolted it. One last pause to
admire his handiwork and then he was off, back to his chambers, barely casting
a shadow in the thin light of dawn.

"No, you're
wrong there, Bodger. Take it from me, young women ain't the best for tumblin'.
Yes, they look good on the outside, all fair and smooth, but when it comes to a
good rollickin', you can't beat an old nag." Grift swigged his ale and
smiled merrily at his companion.

"Well, Grift,
I can't say that you're right. I mean, I'd rather have a tumble any day with
the buxom Karri than old widow Harpit."

"Personally,
Bodger, I wouldn't say no to either of them!" Both men laughed loudly,
banging their jugs of ale on the table as was the custom of the castle guards.
"Hey there, you boy, what's your name? Come here and let me have a look at
you." Jack stepped forward, and Grift made a show of looking him up and
down. "Cat got your tongue, boy?"

"No, sir. My
name is Jack."

"Now that is
what I'd call an uncommon name!" Both men erupted once more into raucous
laughter. "Jack boy, bring us more ale, and none of that watered-down pond
filler."

Jack left the
servants' hall and went in search of ale. It wasn't his job to serve guards
with beer, but then neither was scrubbing the huge, tiled kitchen floor, and he
did that, too.

He didn't relish
having to see the cellar steward, as Willock had cuffed him around the ears
many a time. He hurried down the stone passageways. It was drawing late and he
would be due in the kitchens soon.

Some minutes
later, Jack returned with a quart of foaming ale. He had been pleasantly
surprised to find that Willock was not in the beer cellar, and he had been seen
to by his assistant. Pruner had informed him with a wink that Willock was off
sowing his wild oats. Jack was not entirely sure what this meant, but imagined
it was some part of the brewing process.