The Broken Blade (21 page)

“Yes,” Ilenia answered simply.

“Have others solicited you?”

“Yes.” The singer's voice was quiet, and she looked away. Eamon felt his heart go out to her.

“If any man apart from your husband asks you again, tell him that you keep company with me,” he said firmly.

Ilenia looked at him uncertainly. “I will, Lord Goodman.”

He watched her for a moment. “Are you hungry, madam?”

“Yes,” she answered.

“Then let us go to dinner.”

 

Supper was a light but ample affair; there was soup, followed by some cold meats and cheeses with bread, fruit, and wine. As they ate, Eamon and Ilenia spoke about the theatre.

“How long have you worked on the stage?” Eamon asked her.

“Very nearly always, my lord,” Ilenia answered. “Mr Shoreham is a distant cousin and my parents both worked at the Crown. I was lucky that I enjoyed singing as I worked, that the director heard me, and that my parents had no objection to my joining the troupe.”

“They might have objected?” Eamon asked.

“It is not an easy life, Lord Goodman,” she answered. “My parents knew it well. My elder brother joined the Gauntlet,” she added. “He was stationed up River.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Clearwater, originally,” she answered. “It's a small town in Barrowsgate province. He became a lieutenant very swiftly and was sent to command one of the Barrowsgate groups. I don't know where he serves now,” she added. “It has been difficult to receive news since the wayfarers began harrying the countryside in earnest.”

Eamon nodded. “What is his name?”

“Lieutenant Helm,” Ilenia answered. “If he is still a lieutenant.”

“And your husband?”

A sad smile flickered almost imperceptibly across Ilenia's face. “Captain Roe,” she said. “He is a good officer – perhaps too good.
Were he a little less skilled, he might not have been sent to the north for so long. But the Master has needed good men to keep that border safe.”

Eamon nodded. “It is a difficult border,” he said. “I was stationed there for a short time when I was a Gauntlet cadet. I do not remember whether I ever heard of your husband, though,” he added.

“I believe, Lord Goodman, that Gauntlet cadets care less for distant officers than for their own,” Ilenia answered.

“That is true,” Eamon laughed. “My own were far more pressing.” He looked at her kindly. “If I hear news, of either your brother or your husband, I will tell you.”

Ilenia smiled. “That is kind of you, my lord,” she answered. “I daresay they will return to the city when they are able. They will know where to find me.” She paused to drink, then looked at him. “And you, Lord Goodman?”

“As you may already have guessed, I joined the Gauntlet,” Eamon replied. “I would have been content to serve in my province, but I was stationed to the city where I managed, all unwittingly, to distinguish myself. The rest you know,” he said, “or can see.”

“You are modest, Lord Goodman.”

Eamon laughed. “To tell the truth,” he answered, “there are many men who should have been handed in my place. It was because of such a man – a friend who now serves in Etraia – that I joined the Gauntlet. Were it not for him, I might have gone to the university.”

“Or become a poet?” Ilenia asked.

“A poet?” Eamon laughed, surprised and delighted. “What makes you say that?”

“You are a man of many words, Lord Goodman.”

“A good many of which need changing by some better hand,” Eamon countered.

Ilenia looked at him through a disagreeing frown. “You speak with a measured tongue.”

“A measured tongue? My tongue is a fountain that pours out saltwater one moment and fresh the next,” Eamon answered
passionately. It had sworn him to the throned and to the King. What two things could be more different?

“Yet you strive for measure,” Ilenia answered.

“Yes,” Eamon told her. For one measure of which he could not speak to her.

He drew breath and met her gaze again. “Were you in a meeting this afternoon when I came?” he asked, deciding to change the subject.

“Yes,” Ilenia replied.

“Was it an interesting one?”

“Mr Shoreham was discussing various works we could bring out of the repertoire for performance in the following weeks,” Ilenia told him.

“What were the choices?” Eamon asked, intrigued.

Ilenia offered him a wry smile. “Mr Shoreham is quite fond of tragedies,” she said.

Eamon frowned. “Last night's performance was not a tragedy.”

“Ah, but it had ‘tragic potential', my lord,” Ilenia told him, mimicking Shoreham's voice. She laughed. “He wanted a tragedy, like
Lord Coriol
, but the troupe thought differently.”

“What did they want?”

“A comedy,” the singer answered. “Maybe
The Daughters of Elmgrove
or
All for Love
.” Eamon nodded; he knew both plays.

“What was your vote?” he asked.

“For a comedy,” Ilenia admitted, “but a less well-known one.”

“If it is less well known, how is it in your repertoire?” Eamon countered.

“It was in the repertoire of another company; I heard it, once.”

“Which comedy?” Eamon asked curiously.

“
Brothers in Law
.”

Eamon paused for a moment. “I don't know it,” he said at last.

“It's the work of an unknown playwright,” Ilenia told him, “a little earlier than the River Poet, and perhaps an influence on him. There are also fragments of a play thought to have been written
by him, based on the Edelred Cycle.
Brothers in Law
is the only surviving comedy he wrote, though.”

“What is it about?”

“Two brothers,” Ilenia answered. “One dark, the other fair. They are both Crown officials in a small town up River. The town itself is never named, but several references are made to a tower. Players enjoy speculating which town it might be set in.”

“Then I shall refrain from the like,” Eamon laughed. “What happens?”

“Most of the town is part of an estate governed by a rich knight. At the beginning of the play this knight wills the estate to his only daughter and to her future spouse. She tells her father that she is in love with the fair brother and he with her in return. Pleased with his daughter's choice, the knight makes a bond with the fair brother. The brother must perform a duty for the knight in a distant province and, in return, will receive the hand of the daughter in marriage. Two copies of this bond are made, one kept by the knight and the second by the fair brother, who then goes on his journey.” Ilenia paused to allow a servant to refill her goblet, nodding graciously to him by way of thanks. Taking a sip, she continued.

“While the fair brother is away the knight falls ill and dies. The knight's servant shows the remaining copy of the bond to the dark brother – who is also in love with the daughter – and incites his envy. In a fit of fury, the dark brother destroys the bond and the knight's will and is tricked by the servant into helping him to write a new will and bond.

“Of course, the servant nominates himself as the lord of the estate. He hires a group of men (the text seems confused as to whether there are three or four of them) to carry out his orders on the estate, binding them to himself by means of his will-bond. There is only one copy of this document.”

Eamon set down his fork in surprise. “One copy?”

Ilenia smiled. “This, of course, means that he can alter the terms of the bond as much as he likes without being accountable to
anyone. He does so, playing his men against one another and using them to intimidate the town and estate – they are comic characters, dull-witted and easily fooled.

“The servant announces that he will marry the knight's daughter. Hearing this, the dark brother finally protests and is evicted from the house. As he leaves he warns the servant to be wary of the fair brother. The servant becomes anxious that the fair brother will return with the surviving copy of the knight's original bond, and sends out some of his men in an attempt to stop him.

“The daughter happens to overhear the dark brother's warnings and realizes that she must stall the wedding. She and her nurse come up with various ways of doing this, which become progressively infuriating to the servant.

“During one of these attempts to delay her marriage the daughter meets the dark brother, who is living on the estate in disguise, trying to find a way to bring down the servant. Recognizing the daughter, he confesses to her how he helped the servant to deface the original bond and begs for her forgiveness. It is an interesting speech,” Ilenia observed.

“How so?” Eamon asked.

Ilenia paused pensively. As she did so, the servants began to clear dishes from their table. “‘All this my hands have done,'” she began. “‘Mine alone is the fault, for it is I who tore the bond and went against your father's will. Nothing but fire remains to me, who have betrayed my brother and bound his estate to blood and darkness…'” Ilenia stopped with a frown. “That is not quite how it goes,” she said, “and I do not remember the rest now – it has been a long time since the play was performed! – but the speech as a whole would work much better in a tragedy. It is full of remorse and grief – though very much out of tone with the rest of the play. I find it most moving.”

“One tragic speech was not enough to convince Mr Shoreham?” Eamon grinned.

“Not quite.”

“How does the play end?”

“The servant discovers that the daughter is stalling, and despite the dark brother's best efforts to help her, a date is set for the wedding. That is, of course, the very same day that the fair brother returns, bringing with him a copy of the original bond. He arrives during the wedding ceremony and is challenged by the servant, who claims that the fair brother cannot prove the validity of the bond. The people of the estate are uncertain which of the two to believe. This is the point where the dark brother, who is attending the wedding in disguise, reveals himself and denounces the servant's treachery. He highlights that there is only one copy of the servant's will-bond and that this makes it void. The fair brother (who is also able to produce evidence of the knight's original will) breaks the servant's bond, stating it to be unlawful, and the estate supports him. The servant is exiled while his lackeys are released from his service and kept on to work the estate. The fair brother weds the daughter, becoming lord of the estate, and the two brothers are reconciled.”

Eamon blinked hard. “That sounds terribly complex,” he said.

“The best comedies are,” Ilenia smiled. “I have omitted a few details, but you get the idea.” Eamon nodded dumbly. “Of course, this play has the mercy of not making the two brothers twins, which is comic-law.”

“A mercy indeed!” Eamon laughed. “It sounds like a good play. Do you think Mr Shoreham will be convinced to try it?”

“Sadly, no,” Ilenia smiled. “Mr Shoreham wants to commission a new one.”

 

The evening wore on until the sky became thick and dark. Eamon had no idea what time it was when he dismissed the servants for the evening, and even less idea of the time when he finally felt sleep fill his limbs.

“It is late,” he said at last.

“Yes.” Ilenia had fallen quite still and her tone, so free while she discussed the play, had grown distanced and formal.

“Is something amiss?” Eamon asked.

Ilenia folded her hands into her lap. “I am to stay, my lord?” she asked quietly.

For a moment Eamon merely stared at her. His thought flew suddenly back to the Master's words in the Round Hall, and he understood.

He looked back at her. “Madam,” he said, “the Master's pleasure was that you lend me company tonight. That you have done, and I have been better than well answered by it. Nonetheless, it would do me great honour if you would stay, and breakfast with me in the morning.”

Ilenia lowered her gaze. “Yes, my lord.”

“Mrs Roe.”

The singer looked up, startled.

“I will sleep in my hall tonight,” Eamon told her. “My bed shall be yours, and yours alone.”

Ilenia stared.

“When you are asked if you slept in the bed of the Right Hand,” Eamon said gently, “you shall be able to give a good answer.”

Ilenia searched his face. Then she smiled. “Thank you, my lord.”

Eamon rose and took her from where they had dined, through his quarters and to his own room. Between the open curtains at the broad embrasure he saw the reddened balcony opposite his own. As he stepped into the room he thought that he glimpsed a figure on that balcony, looking back at him.

Ilenia hung back while he strode to the curtains and drew them firmly across. Then he turned to her.

“I am afraid that I have dismissed my servants for the evening,” he apologized. “If you require anything, wake me and I will serve you.”

Ilenia gazed at him in wonder. “Thank you, my lord.”

“Good night, madam.”

Ilenia curtseyed. “Good night, Lord Goodman.”

He left the room, pulling the door closed behind him. As he did so, he breathed out deeply.

He made his way across his darkened hall to the long, dark couch that stood in one of its corners. It had half a dozen thick cushions,
which he diligently piled together at one end so as to pillow his head. Then he pulled off his cloak and lay down, drawing it over him. It was more than enough cover on such a night. As he settled down his eyes drifted to the closed door of his bedroom.

He did not know what his servants would think if they came in and found him sleeping in the hall in the morning. He resolved to wake before them.

As he lay there, he drifted into thought, reflecting on the play that Ilenia had described to him. Comedies written at about the River Poet's time usually ended with the marriage of the protagonists, and
Brothers in Law
was no exception to that rule. If Mr Shoreham truly did have a penchant for tragedy then Eamon could see why he would have turned down the work; the kind of comic plot that Ilenia had described tended to rely on word-play and on a good amount of physical humour – likely provided, for the most part, by the servant's men. Eamon imagined that the plot involving the knight's daughter and her attempts to stall the wedding was also a good source of comedy, no doubt with her twisting words and situations to double meanings and perhaps playing the servant's men to her best advantage as well. He wondered, though, whether there might not be tragic notes there: the daughter would surely be aware that, once her stalling was unveiled, she would be forced to marry the servant?