Exile's Children (11 page)

“Flysse, dearest Flysse.” He raised her trapped hand to his lips. “Have you thought on my proposal, my dear?”

“Sieur, you've had my answer,” she told him not for the first time, repeating the lie that seemed her best defense: “I've a sweetheart awaiting me in Cudham.”

“Pah!” Schweiz dismissed with a careless wave the notion of a patient sweetheart. “Some yokel stinking of dung and sweat? Flysse, I tell you, you've captured my heart and I'll not rest till I have you.”

Flysse glanced round, hoping Master Banlyn—anyone—would come to her rescue, but there was a space about Schweiz's table, as if his scarlet uniform created an aura that defied approach surely as any hex. There was no hope of rescue save by her own wits.

“Sieur,” she extemporized, “it's as I've said—we are engaged, and I cannot forswear that vow. Surely you, an officer in the God's Militia, understand the import of such a promise?”

Schweiz snorted. He seemed to Flysse more drunk than usual, more pressing. He said: “An officer in the God's Militia, yes! And consequently of far greater position than any yokel. You must forget your promise, Flysse. Shall it make your mind easier, I'll have our padre bless you and absolve you. Only—”

“Sieur!” She feigned amazement, shock. “You suggest I renege a vow made in God's name?”

Schweiz said, “I do; you must. Listen to me, Flysse—I think of you hourly, and I swear I cannot live lest you agree to my proposal.”

Now her shock was genuine. “That I allow you to set me up as … as your
doxy
 … your
kept woman
?”

“As my
mistress
,” Schweiz said. “There's a difference, you know.”

“I think not, 'sieur. I think you suggest the unthinkable.” She captured his tankard, hoping he'd free her to gain more ale. “I'm not some street woman, to be bought and housed for your pleasure.”

“For my love,” he argued. “Only for my love.”

But there was not, now or ever, Flysse thought, any mention of honest marriage. She felt fear stir—Schweiz seemed mightily determined this night, and did he continue in this vein and not leave her go, she thought it should be very hard to rein her temper, her disgust. It should prove very hard not to strike him, and damn the consequences.

“I think,” she said, hoping her voice did not tremble, “that I'd best refill your mug, no?”

“No,” said Schweiz, “for I've made up my mind this day. I
shall
have you, Flysse.”

He jerked his arm then, tugging her forward and down, reaching out with his free hand to grasp her shoulder so that she was toppled and
turned to land across his knees. He set an arm around her and a hand beneath her chin, holding her head still as he planted a beery kiss on her lips.

Flysse closed her mouth tight and struggled furiously, pounding at his shoulders and back. But he was strong and ignored her blows, endeavoring to force his tongue between her lips even as the hand that clutched her chin descended busily down her body to find its way beneath her skirts.

Flysse felt nauseated, and the queasy feeling galvanized her to a more ferocious defense of her honor. She raked nails down her attacker's cheeks, gratified even through her panic to hear Schweiz's pained cry. His hand left off its clumsy fumblings and rose to touch the wounds. When he saw the blood upon his fingers, he gaped in disbelief. Then snarled in anger.

“God's blood, girl, you've marked me! You'll pay for that in kind.”

He took a handful of her hair and slapped her hard. Flysse felt her eyes water, then shrieked in outrage as he cupped a hand about a breast and squeezed viciously. Dimly, she was aware of an abrupt silence throughout the taproom, so that Schweiz's panting sounded unnaturally loud. She wondered why no one came to her aid. Surely Master Banlyn would not stand idly by; surely there must be someone would take this creature off her. But none come: there was only Armnory Schweiz's hand tearing at her bodice and his face descending again. She supposed it was not so unusual, a patron disporting with a tavern wench; likely the other girls would laugh it off and return the kisses, nor object to the hand unlacing her bodice to delve at the flesh beneath. Some, she knew, would invite him to bed.

But she was not like them. In Cudham she had fought off 'sieur Shaxbrof—and others since coming to the Flying Horse—and she would not willingly submit to attentions so distasteful. She felt his tongue probe into her mouth. It tasted of ale, tobacco, and stale food. She felt her breast freed from the confines of the bodice, and his fingers toy there, then slide down her waist, her waist, her hip, to lift her skirts, exposing her legs. She clamped them tight, but ragged nails scratched between her thighs, forcing crudely upward to her undergarments. He laughed as the cotton ripped under his exploring fingers. She thought that he would surely rape her.

She did not think of what she did then, nor of the consequences. She was hardly aware of her hand—which still, somehow, held the emptied tankard—rising to strike his temple, slamming the pewter mug against his skull.

Lieutenant Armnory Schweiz gasped and fell back on the bench.

Flysse leapt up and, as he stared at her and reached out a hand, struck him again, full in the face. The blow jarred her knuckles; the tankard was dented. Schweiz's nose spread wide across his cheeks, spurting blood that splattered over his tunic, darkening the scarlet. He grunted, and clutched at her again, and she drove the mug straight into his face. He yelped as teeth shattered, spitting fragments from between his pulped and bloody lips, his eyes glazing. Flysse felt dizzy, dropping the mug as she instinctively adjusted her disordered clothing, her eyes wide as Schweiz moaned, cursed, and dribbled blood.

Across the taproom, Master Banlyn said softly, nervously, “In God's name, girl, do you know what you've done?”

Defended my honor, Flysse thought. Only that.

Armnory Schweiz touched cautiously at his ruined face. When he raised his head, his eyes were furious. When he spoke, his voice came thick.

“To attack an officer of the God's Militia is a crime, you bitch. You'll pay for this!”

He fumbled his pistol from the holster. Master Banlyn cried, “No! For God's sake, Lieutenant, don't shoot her!”

“Shoot her?” Schweiz shook his head, sending a spray of blood and mucus arcing over the floor. “I'll not shoot the bitch. Oh, no—I'll not end it so easy.”

Flysse took a step back: there was a madness in his eyes that filled her with dread. She flinched as he cocked the pistol, but he only set the muzzle on her chest and grimaced a horrid smile.

“In the name of the Autarchy, I arrest you, bitch.” He flourished the pistol at the door. “Now come with me.”

Flysse had cleaned her share of stables and pigpens, and even they were preferable to her cell. For one thing, they were sunlit, not sunk in the perpetual gloom of the prison with its few sputtering tallow candles and small, barred windows; and the straw on their floors was considerably fresher than the noisome, insect-infested stuff littering the flagstones of this tiny cubicle. Nor were the inhabitants so threatening as her neighbors here—the catcalls and lewd comments that greeted her arrival had made Flysse blush. She had not known women did such things together as were suggested, and she was grateful—a small mercy—that none other shared the cell.

She wondered how long she should be confined, and what the outcome of her trial might be. The jailer—a gaunt woman who seemed to Flysse no kinder than her charges—told her that such injury as she had
inflicted on an officer of the God's Militia must guarantee a strict punishment. It seemed the lieutenant's nose was soundly broken and several of his teeth knocked loose, and that amused the jailer as much as it amused her to frighten Flysse with speculation of her impending fate. Almost, she wished she had not struck the man, but what else might she have done? Certainly not submit to his desires; and surely a judge would understand that, no matter what the jailer said.

She had determined from the first to tell the truth and, did the court allow it, call upon Master Banlyn and the other girls from the Flying Horse to stand as witnesses. Surely they must confirm her story, that Armnory Schweiz had persecuted her with his attentions, suggesting such liaisons as no God-fearing woman should be asked to accept. The trouble was she had no more experience of courts than of jails, and no real idea whether or not she might summon witnesses to her character and conduct. She had asked the jailer, but for such information the woman demanded payment, in coin or kind, and Flysse lacked the one and had no taste for the other. She wondered if her meager savings were safe. She could not, currently penniless, send word to those she named her friends, nor had any visited her in the few days of her incarceration. She believed her only hope was truth, and the understanding of the judge; but the jailer's ominous declarations filled her with dread. Even so, she hoped her hearing might be soon: at least it would remove her from this stinking cell—for ever or awhile. Beyond that she could not—dared not—think. She must cling to the hope of freedom, anticipate her return to the Flying Horse and a resumption of her life. The alternative—whatever it be—was altogether too terrifying to consider. She slumped despondent on the splintery bench that was both seat and bed, watching the roaches scuttle busily amongst the straw, then rose as a lantern illumined the corridor outside and the rattle of the jailer's keys heralded the woman's approach.

She came with two Militiamen, their expressions scornful as they ignored the obscene suggestions echoing their footsteps. They halted outside Flysse's cell, waiting as the wardress applied her key and flung open the cage. Flysse saw that one held manacles, and in her sudden nervousness came close to giggling that it be thought needful she go chained. Perhaps they feared she should attack them. But manacled she was, wrists and ankles fettered, a chain between her legs that caught up her skirts immodestly and made her totter as they brought her from the cell and up the old stone steps to the hall beyond.

She asked them, “Where are we going?” and had back a curt, “To court,” after which she had no time for questions. Nor did she see any point in pleas, so stern were their faces.

She had not known the courtroom stood above the cells until she was brought in and ushered to a walled stand raised some three steps from the floor. Sudden fear rendered her giddy, and she set her hands upon the ledge before her, only to gasp and snatch them back as the magic in the hexes there burned her palms. Through watered eyes she saw a small, thin man dressed all in red-edged black seated behind a high desk. He wore a powdered wig and she assumed him to be the judge. There was another official she did not know was a tipstaff, and the only other person present was Armnory Schweiz, his face masked with bandages. He did not look at her.

“You are Flysse Cobal, formerly employed in the tavern named the Flying Horse?”

The judge's voice rasped like a file drawn across protesting metal. It sounded to Flysse as hard. She said, “I am. I—”

“Silence.” The judge raised a hand. “It is true that some nine days ago you attacked Lieutenant Armnory Schweiz of the God's Militia?”

“No!” she cried. “That's not true!”

“You deny you struck the lieutenant violently in the face with a tankard?”

There was no hint of sympathy, only a dry indifference tinged with boredom and irritation.

Flysse said, “No … yes, I struck him, but …”

The judge looked up from the papers spread before him and fixed Flysse with an angry glare. “Young woman, do you answer me aye or nay, and no more save I tell you so. Confine yourself to only that, else it shall go harder with you.”

“But,” said Flysse, and fell silent in face of his pursed lips and narrowed eyes.

“You confess that you did strike the lieutenant?”

“Aye,” said Flysse.

“Thereby inflicting considerable injuries to both his person and the dignity of the uniform he wears.”

Flysse was not sure whether a question was asked or a statement made, so she remained silent. She was trying hard not to cry now; she wished there were some friendly face in the room.

The judge glanced at his papers, then at Schweiz. “Lieutenant, do you describe your injuries.”

Schweiz rose to his feet. “My lord, my nose was broken and four of my teeth shattered.” His voice was thick and lisping. “Also, she scratched me and struck me about the head.”

“And you were at the time in the uniform of the God's Militia?”

“I was.”

“And was there any justification for this attack?”

“My Lord, there was not.”

“Liar!” Flysse could not help it: she must protest. “He's lying! He molested me. He said—”

The judge motioned at the two Militiamen standing behind Flysse. Abruptly she felt her arms seized, and before she could turn her jaws and secured in place about her neck. She gagged, afraid of choking now. Tears ran helplessly down her cheeks and she thought she should likely faint.

“So,” the judge declared, “without provocation an attack was launched on an officer of the Autarchy. A grave offence, indeed, and one demanding of a grave penalty.” He looked at Flysse with eyes cold as winter ice. “Do you heed me, Flysse Cobal.”

To her surprise, she did. Her ears were ringing and she fought the impulse to vomit against the gag. Her eyes were blurred with tears, but somehow she still saw the spiteful face clear and clearly heard the sentence pronounced.

“I decree that you shall be sent into exile. To Salvation, where you shall be indentured for the remainder of your life.”

The last thing Flysse saw before she fainted was Armnory Schweiz smiling as best he could with his ruined mouth.

“La!”