Yesterday evening, I polished "Margaret" Chapter 17. Here's an extended extract:
With Fliti’s guidance, we were able to walk quickly through quiet backstreets. Arriving at the river, we found that hundreds of others had already taken their stations to watch Flight and his men make their crossing. It took a while to find a vacant place that commanded a good view, but we managed it at last – amid some arches and tumbled masonry, the former function of which was not immediately clear to me. Once in place, we settled to wait.
“So this is Black Flowers?” Jenna asked. “Somehow, it’s not what I’d imagined.”
“This is Black Flowers, right enough,” Fliti confirmed. “There’s a good view of the river, as you can see, but it’s not the nicest of places. If you like, we could shift a bit further downstream. We might not see the ship crossing as well as we would here, but…”
“No, it’s fine,” Jenna replied.
“I wonder what these arches were built for?” I asked, not really expecting an answer. “And the fallen stones?”
“According to Clement Allan’s map,” Jenna replied, “it’s the remains of an Old Time bridge.”
“That’s what they say,” Fliti agreed, “but I’m not sure I believe it. Bridges from Lundin to Surrey don’t seem very likely.”
“Bridges in the plural?” I asked. “Not just one?”
“Unlike some of you,” Inqui said, “I wasn’t strapped as a schoolgirl, but – even so – sometimes listened to the teachers. In the Old Time, they built a lot of bridges to join Surrey and Lundin. Some of them came down during the Intermediate Period. Just one of them lasted until the third battle of Lundin.”
“That’s what I was told, too,” Fliti confirmed, “Lydia Lionheart had it demolished when she realised she’d lost the battle.”
“The way I was taught,” Inqui contradicted her, “Osrick had it demolished when he realised that he couldn’t win.”
“It comes down to the same thing, really,” I fudged their disagreement.
“Let’s not argue,” Beddibelle said, “how are we going to pass the time until the fun begins?”
“I’ve got a set of calendar bones in my shoulder bag,” Jenna replied.
“I don’t know how to play,” I objected. “Grandfather hated gambling, and wouldn’t allow calendar bones in the Belle House.”
“Besides,” Inqui added, “neither Fliti nor I have any money to wager – and I don’t suppose that Beddibelle does, either.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Jenna insisted, “we can gather a few pebbles and use them in place of money.”
“But how do you play?” I asked.
“Well,” Jenna replied, “you see how the bones have a month symbol marked on each side.”
“Not on the two short sides,” I said.
“Of course not on the two short ends – I mean on the four long sides.”
“Sorry. Was I being stupid?”
“Yes you were – now attend! What are you giggling about?”
“Sorry, Jenna. It’s just that you reminded me so much of Miss Lace.”
“Miss Lace?” Beddibelle asked.
“Our Belle House governess,” Jenna explained. “She was no laughing matter. I don’t know why Margaret was smirking. Perhaps she needs a good old fashioned dose of the schoolroom strap.”
“Or your peccalalo?” Beddibelle pressed.
“As I was saying, attend!” Jenna said, frowning – evidently not wishing to be distracted too far from the subject of calendar bones.
“Yes, miss,” I replied, hoping to distract her.
“You roll them like this,” Jenna continued doggedly, “and hope that the three months on the top surfaces form a season – that would be worth twenty. What I’ve actually thrown is a cusp – Cornsprout, the last month of spring, plus Litnight, the first of summer… the third bone is Chillflurry, which doesn’t connect at all. A cusp is worth six – I can stick with it or re-roll, but…”
“The trouble is,” Fliti explained, “that she’d only want to re-roll one of them – Chillflurry. Re-rolling all three would cost just one point, but re-rolling only one costs five.”
“Why ever is that?” I asked. “I would have thought the more bones you re-roll the more points it would cost you.”
“Ah, but if you re-roll all three you only have the same chance of something good as you had on your first attempt. If you re-roll just one bone, you’re upping your chances.”
“I think I see,” I replied doubtfully, feeling that I’d follow this better had Miss Lace succeeded in spanking into me greater arithmetic ability.
“And, if I re-roll, and still only have a cusp,” Jenna continued, “that would be six for the cusp, minus five for the re-roll, leaving only one point.”
“The best she could do on re-rolling one bone would be a quarter,” Fliti told me, “which is worth twelve, but it would be minus five for the re-roll, so her score would be seven.”
“What’s a quarter?” I asked.
“Three consecutive months,” Jenna said, “that don’t form a season. It would only score one more than sticking with the cusp, so it’s probably not worth re-rolling.
“Apart from Chillflurry, that bone should be marked with Drizzlemoon, Glarehaze and Mistream,” Fliti explained in more detail. “Drizzlemoon or Glarehaze would give her a quarter – and, as I said, twelve minus five equals seven. But coming up with Mistream, or re-rolling Chillflurry, would leave her with a score of just one.”
“You see?” Jenna asked.
“Perhaps,” I replied, more doubtfully than before.
Almost an hour later, I was just beginning to understand the game when the troops appeared. They were preceded by a band – resplendent in scarlet and yellow tunics. The music didn’t carry well, the wind being in the south east, but I recognised such tunes as Let the Surrey Foe Beware and Heroes of Ampsher. Although feeling an urge to cheer, seeing Jenna’s scowling face, I resisted the impulse – we seemed the only ones failing to give voice to enthusiasm.
“Why are you two girls not cheering? Your slaves, too, if it comes to that?” asked an old man. “If it’s treason in your hearts…”
“Don’t talk soft,” a white haired woman replied, probably his wife. “Expect they’ve got sweethearts on the boat. Worried their beaus will be killed.”
“Agnes – it ain’t a boat, it’s a…” but he never finished the sentence.
Suddenly, the cheers turned to screams. A spectator perhaps three yards from us toppled into the river, transfixed by an arrow. Everywhere panicking bodies attempted flight. The old man who had wanted to know why we weren’t cheering – I could almost have touched him – sank into the human tide, trampled under foot, his blood spattering the stone only inches from my feet.
Agnes found herself swept away in the surging crowd, like a twig in a torrent. She yelled Henry, Henry – presumably her husband’s name. My concern focused upon her – perhaps to avoid my own danger – desperate eyes seeking the old lady in the panicking throng. No trace of her was to be seen.
A woman with a screeching baby tucked under one arm dug a sharp elbow into my side as she ran past. With an involuntary movement, I clasped the point at which she had made painful contact, my fingers returning sticky with gore. At the time, my assumption was that an arrow had caught me a glancing blow. Later I became calm enough to observe that my blouse wasn’t torn, nor my skin broken – the blood must have been the woman’s or her baby’s.
Inqui tugged me roughly, and I found myself in the shelter of an arch, once part of the bridge – Jenna, Fliti and Beddibelle already crowded into the place of refuge. A sense of slowed time fell upon me, so that seconds seemed stretched into minutes. Unheeding what was before him, a young man kicked a little boy – whether by accident or design, the child rolled to safety under a flight of wooden steps. A woman, mouth formed into an almost perfect O, staggered with an arrow protruding from her shoulder, a dress that had been white streaked with red.
It was now clear that several persons had been skewered by arrows – and a larger number trampled. The slaughterhouse stench brought the taste of blood to my mouth, and then I was sick. Vomit was added to the blood that already glued my blouse to the skin beneath. In the increasingly rich blend of stinks, I now detected piss and shit.
A comparative calm descended – those who had succeeded in flight were now elsewhere. Perhaps twenty bodies lay motionless, probably dead, only about half a dozen showing signs of receiving arrows. Eight or ten more persons, and one or two slaves, limped or crawled away. A few others shuddered in alcoves or arches.
Where the crowd had been, the ground was littered with abandoned belongings, as well as bodies. The largest possession was an infant’s carriage, lying on its side with no sign of its former tenant. Bright pink, a girl’s hair ornament contrasted with the mud on which it lay. A scattering of coins and other small objects may have fallen from an open bag as its owner scrambled for safety.
My focus fell upon a child’s doll, lying on its back, wide eyes staring at the sky as though in terror. Tiny hands reached upwards, legs splayed oddly, reminiscent of broken limbs. The plaything’s dress had been white, but mud now spattered its folds. At first, I thought that it was also bloodied – but, on reflection, decided that its miniature garment had been decorated with a little red stitchwork.
“What happened?” I asked in bewilderment.
“Terrible…” Fliti murmured, her shoulders shaking.
“The opening volley from the Surrey archers caught the crowd,” Jenna replied in a matter of fact voice – sounding not in the least confused or upset. “Well – they’re off.”
Following the direction of Jenna’s gaze, I saw that the ship had cast off and was turning its nose in the direction of the south bank. Arrows rained upon the decks and the area about the Pier Victoria. Several great splashes puzzled me. Only when a large rock hit the ship’s rail, spraying the river with splintered wood, did I realise that the Surrey troops deployed a catapult.
Nearer to hand, a little girl – her face, and once blue dress, liberally smeared with mud – emerged from under the planking of a jetty. Darting forward, she seized the doll on which I’d previously focused. Seated on a rock, the child clasped the toy, tears trickling down her cheeks, forming pale tracks through the dirt. Rocking rhythmically, she produced a series of strange whining noises, to something vaguely akin to a lullaby tune.
As the man o’ war moved out into midstream, sailors launched a stone from a catapult mounted on the foredeck. The recoil had the ship lurching violently, dipping a yardarm into the stream and seemingly threatening to capsize the vessel. Arrows from the Surrey shore scattered the catapult crew, killing at least one of them. I wondered why the Surrey warriors didn’t allow them to launch more stones, and very likely sink the expedition.
A few minutes later, the ship was on the southern shore, discharging men and horses. Banners and plumes – as well as the gleam of their armour – had clearly suffered during the short journey across the river. Several soldiers within my range of vision fell to a hail of arrows, but none struck the horses – no doubt the Surrey warriors hoped to secure the animals for their own use. After all, a trained warhorse could buy at least two hundred slaves – and would cost less to feed.
Wild haired, forehead gashed, a dishevelled woman clattered down the slope to my right, hurrying in the direction of the river. She wore what had obviously been a gaily printed summer frock, now fallen into a sad condition. Spinning on the sole of one foot, she snatched from her rock the little girl with a doll. In another moment, the mother – if such she was – scrambled back into the shadow of dark warehouses, child tightly embraced.
Then – turning my eyes toward the south bank – I saw Flight, on his white horse, vanishing into the Surrey-held streets. Soldiers who had avoided the arrows followed him. On the shore, sailors carried six or seven wounded guards back on to the ship. Then, as far as the few of us watching from Black Flowers were concerned, there was nothing more to see.
“What happens to the ship?” I asked.
“If Flight and his men return, it’ll bring them home.” Jenna replied. “If not, it’ll belong to Surrey. For now, its job is done – and no one but you is interested in it.”
“And I’m not very interested,” I said. “It feels like time to head for home.”
“All the same,” Fliti added “I wonder what will become of the wounded guards they carried on to the ship.”
“They’ll come home as heroes, if they live, and Flight wins,” Inqui said.
“Some chance of that!” Jenna snorted.
“And assuming the Surrey girls win,” Beddibelle added, “they’ll be prisoners.”
“Enslaved?” I asked.
“I imagine that it depends,” Beddibelle said, “on how badly they’re injured – whether they’re worth enslaving.”
It occurred to me to wonder what would become of the wounded men, were they too badly hurt to serve as slaves. It seemed unlikely that they’d be returned to their families. Would they simply be killed? Perhaps I pondered this question to distract me, a little, from the slaughter of civilians close to hand.
“Anyway, let’s go,” Jenna urged, already shifting.
With a sense of anti-climax, I started to climb the steep slope toward the warehouses that line this part of the north bank. It was clear that, clambering upwards, all five of us took care not to step on any of the corpses left by the arrows and the panic. At least as far as I was concerned, watching my step had more to do with disgust than with respect for the dead – in spite of a healthy regard for Mortalia’s power. The sun rode high in a cloudless sky, birds sang from the rooftops.
