Review of Australian Fiction, Volume 3, Issue 4 Page 3

  It unnerved her to have to return to his residence. Because she wasn’t quite certain what she had seen that morning of her arrival. Chairs turned over, clay pots smashed onto the ground and the Castellan’s body convulsing as if it was indeed inhabited by a demon. His nursemaid had been crouched beside him, forcing a piece of wood between his teeth.

  But Celie’s sense of duty was more powerful than her fear, so she returned to the gatehouse to speak to him. He was the Castellan of the castle and if she had suspicions about the death of Borealis Luby, then he was the man to speak to.

  ‘Mr Banyon?’ she called up the steps that wound their way to the guards’ residence.

  There was no response and she continued to climb all the way to the Castellan’s solar.

  ‘Mr Banyon?’ she called out again at his door. She knocked and slowly pushed it forward, wincing at the images that came to mind. But the room was empty and strangely seemed cosier than she remembered it. There were ledgers spread across the bench and a neatly-made cot in the corner with a thick rug covering the floor. She picked up a book from his cot that she recognised from the Chamber of Chronicles. The Castellan was curious about the night sky. About the stars and whatever lay beyond. It made him seem more human.

  There was a window that faced north across the sea and Celie could see the path that led down to the shore. She spotted more of the shanties that made up the village and wondered how people could live in such a way. All their lives on an island, yet their homes were ramshackled constructions that spoke little of staying put.

  Twisting her body out of the window, she stood on tiptoes in an attempt to see as much as she could east of the castle. The window had a half view of the rocks where they had found Borealis Luby’s corpse and that was where she glimpsed the figure of the Castellan.

  ‘What are you doing here!’

  Celie spun around, coming face to face with the Castellan’s old nursemaid.

  ‘This room is private,’ the woman said in a flat tone. ‘You got no business here.’

  Celie didn’t waste a moment. She pushed past the nursemaid and hurried down the steps and out of the gatehouse wanting to reach Mr Banyon before he returned.

  Outside the castle walls, the wind was unrelenting and common sense demanded that she turn back, but instead Celie covered her head with the hood of her cloak and descended towards the rocks, slipping twice in her haste. When she rounded the eastern wall she was relieved to see that the Castellan was still there, up to the tower window.

  ‘Why is it that you’re never quite where you should be, Lady Celie?’ he asked in his low voice, without so much as a glance in her direction.

  ‘I believe he was murdered,’ she said boldly. ‘I feel it in my bones.’

  A wave crashed onto the rock closest to her and she stumbled back.

  ‘I’ve seen the corpse,’ she continued. ‘Helped wash it myself, if you must know. He had a wound here.’ She pointed to the back of her head and stumbled to escape yet another onslaught of sea spite which seemed to be solely directed at her.

  The Castellan held out an arm to instruct her to step back.

  ‘Lady Celie, my request to you was to keep the Duchess company with embroidery.’

  ‘Well, I did, Mr Banyon. And she sent me to the laundress to do something about my brow. It wasn’t high enough for her liking.’

  His glance flickered to her brow, which was thankfully well concealed under the hood of her cloak.

  ‘But the laundress was washing Mr Luby’s corpse,’ Celie continued, ‘and I felt that the height of my brow should be forgotten under such circumstances.’

  Whilst she had his attention, she decided to explain her suspicions. At the supper table in Celie’s home, it was best to leap in with talk the moment the opportunity presented itself. She climbed past him, up to the highest rock.

  ‘He landed here which means that his head could not have made contact with any other rock on his descent. It’s the highest rock, Mr Banyon. It makes all the sense in the world that his stuffing inside would be crushed by the fall. But why his skull? You saw as well as I did how his corpse landed.’

  He was studying her and she could tell he was contemplating whether to respond.

  ‘Perhaps Mr Luby’s corpse hit the rock twice,’ he finally said, realizing that she wasn’t going to go away. ‘The force caused his body to bounce into the second position. So his skull was crushed on first landing.’

  ‘If the force of the first landing was so fierce that it caused his body to bounce, then I believe there would have been nothing left of his skull,’ she said.

  She waited for his response.

  ‘So what is our next move?’ she asked, politely.

  ‘Ours?’ he replied. ‘I think you’ve read too many tales of mystery translated from the old tongue, Lady Celie. About bored young ladies with nothing better to do.’

  ‘Old tongue?’ she said, ignoring the insult. ‘We call it the language of the Ancients in Lumatere. So do the Charynites. What does that say about us all in this land, Mr Banyon? Different terms, same meanings.’

  ‘It says that Belegonians don’t waste time on words,’ he said. ‘Why five words when you can use two.’

  A strong gust caused Celie to almost topple off the rock. The Castellan sighed and clicked a finger twice beckoning her with a hand to step down. As if she was his hound.

  ‘I think he was murdered inside the castle,’ she said, refusing to move.

  ‘A feeling in your bones?’ he asked, and she heard the sarcasm.

  She placed a hand in her cloak pocket to retrieve the fragment and held it out for him to see. ‘I found it caught in Mr Luby’s hair.’

  The Castellan stared at it.

  ‘Whatever object crushed Mr Luby’s skull was made of clay, not rock,’ she continued.

  Mr Banyon took the fragment and held it up to study.

  ‘And I may know where he was murdered,’ she said.

  Celie finally had the Castellan’s attention.

  ‘And I’ll need the key to the Chamber of Chronicles for that.’

  * * *

  The Castellan unlocked the door of the chamber and stepped back. It was a good enough invitation for Celie to enter first. She walked to the trestle where she had been seated two nights before and then crouched. He did the same. She suddenly felt crowded. But there was no time to reflect on the fact that Mr Banyon smelled of pine and sandalwood and sea salt. Because in the cold light of the day, the last smeared traces of blood were there on the ground before them.

  Celie felt quite pleased with herself, despite the idea that there was a murderer amongst them all.

  ‘Well if I had to be inspired by those fanciful tales told in the old tongue,’ she said, ‘I’d say it’s best to write a list of suspects.’

  ‘Thank you for your advice, Lady Celie,’ he said, his voice anything but thankful as he got to his feet. ‘What say that we begin with you?’

  ‘Me?’ she asked, standing too soon and bumping her head on the bench.

  ‘As a suspect, of course.’

  ‘Why would I possibly be a suspect apart from the fact that I was a guest here on the night of his death?’ she said.

  This time his eyes met hers and all those times Celie imagined he could be weak in spirit were swiftly crushed by the force of his stare.

  ‘Perhaps he found out that you were spying for Lumatere.’

  ‘Spying,’ she said, almost choking out the word. Then she laughed prettily. Her aunt said that when girls laughed prettily, they seemed confident.

  ‘Castellan Banyon, do you have a name?’

  ‘Yes, it’s Castellan Banyon.’

  ‘Well, what I mean, Sir, is that my name is Celina-May of the Lumateran Flatlands but my family and friends call me Celie and I know that Belegonians possess two names.’

  ‘And still my name is Banyon to you. Is there a point to this except an attempt to sway me away from the notion that you’re a spy for Lumatere?’

/>   Celie laughed again. ‘My brothers will be highly amused by your suspicions, Sir. I’m actually quite flattered.’

  She pushed aside the chronicles and made room for herself to sit on the trestle, preferring its height. She was all confidence on the outside, removing a stray of thread on her cloak and flicking it aside.

  ‘The King’s Man came with a chronicle that his Majesty sent ahead to me,’ the Castellan said. ‘It’s an account of events that occurred in his palace this year. The King is always keen for me to know of any strangeness that may cause interference with his stay. There were events that stuck in my mind. One, for example, was the case of the missing palace seal at the beginning of winter.’

  ‘Oh the poor animal,’ she cried out, ‘they’re such beautiful creatures.’

  ‘I’m speaking of the royal seal placed on correspondence, as you would know,’ he said. ‘It went missing for a day. And then there was a case of disappearing correspondence. One moment they were in the scribe’s quarters, next moment gone.’

  ‘Strange indeed.’

  ‘The keys to the fourth tower also went missing for a day. I’ve visited the capital, Lady Celie. There’s not much in the fourth tower except for two empty chambers and the grand library.’

  Celie leaned forward. ‘I do think the palace in the capital needs you, Mr Banyon. The Constable there seems to have no idea what he’s doing if these disappearances are taking place.’

  The Castellan leaned closer himself. They had the same colour eyes, hers perhaps a shade darker.

  ‘Do you know what all three events had in common, Lady Celie?’

  She thought for a moment, and then she shrugged.

  ‘They always took place when you were in the capital.’

  ‘Well, I am very flattered to say the very least,’ she said. ‘I don’t tend to stand out in a crowd, Mr Banyon. ‘And here I am, Lumatere’s master spy.’

  She held out a hand to push him gently away and then shuffled off the trestle and walked to the shelves.

  ‘Truly Constable Banyon. Look at me. I can barely carry a kitten, let alone the corpse of a man.’

  ‘True enough. But who says you’re working alone?’

  Celie traced a finger across the spines of the manuscripts, studying them closely. She removed one and noticed it was written in the language of the Yuts. The castle steward in the Belegonian capital had told her that most of the foreign works were in Ferragost.

  ‘Why don’t we move on to another suspect,’ she said, turning back to him. ‘Perhaps yourself. Firstly, the murderer would have to be a man. Women are more thorough about such things, Mr Banyon. They’d never leave a mark of blood.’ She shrugged. ‘Your words, not mine.’

  She returned to the bench with the Yut manuscripts, which she’d study closely later. ‘Another thing to consider Sir,’ she said, ‘is that Borealis Luby’s name was the sole objecting party to your placement here as the chief officer of the palace. You see, while I was…what did you call it… spying on your kingdom… I came across the records of appointment.’

  ‘And let me guess, Borealis Luby suspected that I was possessed by an island spirit?’

  ‘No, he had his suspicions about you before you came to Ferragost. And whatever he discovered about you, he did write a letter to the King last year advising that he would highly recommend you step down from Constable of Ferragost.’

  The Castellan’s eyes narrowed. Celie felt great satisfaction in being the first person in days to alter the Constable’s expression.

  ‘Anyone else?’ he said, standing too close to her for comfort. She was at least closest to the door.

  ‘If we must,’ she said. ‘I could suggest the Duchess as a suspect.’

  ‘Because she criticised your brow?’

  She ignored his question.

  ‘Is it true what they say about her?’ she asked.

  He didn’t respond but knew exactly what she was referring to.

  ‘About the murdered bastards?’

  ‘And what good would it do you knowing that?’ he asked.

  ‘It would do me better good than denying it happened.’

  ‘As long as you’re not one of the bastards of the Main, you’ve got nothing to fear then.’

  Celie couldn’t understand these people. Every human life in Lumatere was grieved. Here, the dead were easily forgotten.

  ‘Perhaps Borealis Luby knew too much of the circumstances and was threatening to make them public,’ she said.

  ‘And who would care, Lady Celie?’ the Constable demanded to know. ‘Borealis Luby could have had all the evidence in the world, and still people would not care. Including the King.’

  ‘The King would care,’ she argued.

  He shook his head, perhaps with regret.

  ‘The King has three young daughters. No male heir, yet. He loves his children. What would happen if he dies now?’

  ‘There would be a Regent until one of the girls gives birth to a boy child,’ she said.

  ‘Of course. But what if the King dies now and there’s a bastard son or grandson belonging to his Uncle somewhere out there. It’s the last thing the King would want.’

  ‘Then the King should change the rules of succession and ensure that upon his death, his oldest daughter rules.’

  He stepped towards her and removed the chronicle from her grip.

  ‘Regardless, it doesn’t sway me from my suspicions,’ he said.

  ‘Oh of course, yes,’ she said watching him as he placed it back on the shelf. ‘That I killed Mr Luby?’ she asked.

  ‘No. That you’re a spy for your kingdom.’

  Celie laughed prettily again.

  ‘Mr Banyon, I will speak these words one more time. I. Am. Not. A. Spy.’

  Celie was indeed a spy for Lumatere.

  ‘Let’s put you to good use, beloved,’ the Queen had said.

  It had started with small things. Such as reporting back to the captain of her Queen’s Guard any gossip about Belegonia and neighbouring kingdoms that could suggest a threat to Lumatere. The theft of the Belegonian royal seal for a day was used to set up a meeting with a man from neighbouring Charyn. Celie had stamped a letter from the Lumaterans under the guise of it coming from the Belegonians. Celie considered it her greatest achievement. She had enjoyed the feeling of almost getting caught. It reminded her of a game she would play with her brothers. Of who could place their hand closest to the flame before they cried out. Celie always won. It was the river blood in her. It made her want to be reckless.

  Celie of the Flatland’s greatest power was her appearance. Doe-eyed and shy. Pleasant to look at, but not striking enough for a lasting impression. Sweet, but not sickly. Impeccable manners. Trustworthy, unless when confronted with anyone who was a threat to her kingdom. Dutiful, especially when it came to answering her Queen’s request to be a guest in the neighbouring royal court. In Belegonia she was an obliging puppet who listened to castle gossip and played companion to the King’s daughters. Best of all, in Belegonia she lived in the royal residence, privy to royal seals and correspondence and keys to libraries containing chronicles that could be beneficial to Celie’s Priestking. And no one had suspected anything. No one except for the Castellan of Ferragost Isle. And suddenly she was intrigued.

  * * *

  Celie helped Beattie later that afternoon hanging up the linens in the only corner of the courtyard that enjoyed the warmth of the sun.

  ‘Could you help me heat the tub in my chamber,’ Celie asked. ‘I’ve not bathed since I arrived.’

  Beattie continued her work without looking up.

  ‘The Duchess don’t like village scum in the guest chambers,’ she said.

  ‘Well it’s a good thing there’s no village scum to be seen,’ Celie said.

  In her room, Celie helped Beattie drag the barrel into the centre of her chamber after they heated the water by the fireplace.

  ‘You watch yourself up here with these people,’ Beattie said quietly as Celie undressed
.

  ‘It’s best we don’t talk about the Duchess,’ Celie said settling into the water. With a gasp, she instantly raised herself, but Beattie pushed her down forcefully by the shoulders and Celie bit her tongue to hold back the cry. But after a while her body became accustomed to the heat and she found it soothing.

  ‘Lean forward so I can get ya back,’ Beattie said.

  Celie did as she was asked and flinched again as she was scrubbed with vigour. Beattie lifted Celie’s hair in a clenched fist and continued her attack behind the ears.

  ‘Him as well. You watch him.’

  Celie froze.

  ‘The Castellan?’

  ‘The other.’

  Celie thought for a moment.

  ‘Argus Laraunt?’ she asked.

  ‘Killed his wife, that one.’

  She turned to stare up at Beattie who nodded.

  ‘One day wed, next day gone. Gone.’

  ‘Beattie, enough of this talk.’

  But when Beattie was in one of these hissing moods, she couldn’t be stopped.

  ‘Six years past, it happened. He says the brigands on the Main took them by surprise and knocked him out. Knocked him out and he said they took her. Woe to me, they took my love. Now her bones lay someplace in a ditch and he collects her money.’

  Celie shook her head, not understanding. Beattie grabbed a comb and began to hack into the knots of Celie’s hair.

  ‘She was the Lord of the Main’s ward,’ Beattie said. ‘Tildie her name was. She came from the isle, but the Lord of the Main knew her ma and when Tildie was twelve, she went to live in his big house on the Main. Lived there eight years and then the Lord of the Main died and left one hundred pieces of gold a year to the girl. Argus Laraunt had come sniffing and she was wed before we knew it. Wed to the devil who killed her.’

  ‘You’re hurting me, Beattie,’ Celie said, trying to grip the top of her hair to stop the tugging that brought tears to her eyes.

  ‘Do you understand, idiot girl? No corpse, so the money still comes to her estate. To him. So you watch yourself. He’s a chaser of girls with gold.’