21
A Meeting at Dawn

Goth knew he must choose with care so that the stolen robe fitted him sufficiently well that his presence would go unnoticed by the Queen, but even more so by that bitch chief maidservant of hers, Hela. He despised Hela because she was not intimidated by him; even worse was her insufferable arrogance born from her close friendship with Sylven. And Hela had sharp eyes. She would pick out an intruder in an instant, Goth mused as he sat in the courtyard, pretending to read.

In truth, he was busy watching the comings and goings of the palace staff as they prepared to leave for their winter retreat. He estimated that the last of the wagons would leave around this time tomorrow. It was now mid afternoon and he still had not seen an appropriate victim.

One of the Queen’s courtiers suddenly appeared next to him. ‘Good book?’

Goth stopped himself from jumping. He had been concentrating hard on a woman who had just stepped back into the palace. She was too tall…the robe would have dragged on the ground.

‘Er, yes. Most absorbing,’ he replied.

‘I don’t doubt this afternoon sun is cheerful on your back after the cold.’

The silver-haired man was obviously in no hurry, Goth thought sourly. He forced a polite smile. ‘Yes, indeed. You are not joining her majesty at Neame then?’

‘Not on this occasion,’ the courtier said cheerfully. ‘I sense this is one of those times when she prefers not to be disturbed by royal duties. I got the distinct impression she wishes to be alone.’ He winked.

Goth wanted to wipe the conspiratorial smile off the old man’s face. ‘Hardly alone,’ he replied. ‘I see that man Gynt is constantly at her side these days.’

‘Well, quite,’ said the man, choosing not to expand any further. The wink had been innuendo enough. ‘I actually thought you may be going along?’

‘I wasn’t asked.’ Goth decided now was as good a time as any to cover his intended tracks. ‘No, I think I shall remain happily at the palace, soak up this sun in her majesty’s absence and spend the time learning more about Cipres.’

‘Good, good,’ said the older man, finally deciding to move on. ‘I’ll see you at dinner then.’

Unlikely, you old fool, thought Goth. ‘That would be charming,’ he replied.

As he watched the man walk away he noticed a woman bending down to pick up a basket of recently delivered fruit. It was a large basket but she hoisted it onto her shoulder and stood to her full height. Goth’s breath caught. There! He watched her turn and carefully measured her height and width in his head and decided her robe would be ideal.

He pushed the book into his pocket and followed the woman. He caught up with her as she rounded a corner heading towards the palace’s vast cooling rooms.

‘Good day,’ he said casually and fell in with her stride.

‘Hello.’ She nodded from beneath her veil.

‘I wonder, may I steal one of those oranges? I am mighty thirsty.’ He desperately wished for once that he was attractive enough to immediately win a woman’s attention. People like Gynt and that former Prime, Kyt Cyrus, did not realise how valuable an asset their looks were. Or perhaps they just took it for granted. He felt his face twitch as she turned her dark eyes onto his. She said nothing.

‘Apologies,’ he offered, all politeness. He even effected a brief bow. ‘I am Almyd Goth, an adviser to the Queen. I am new to Cipres and to the palace and I hardly know a soul.’ He tried to smile, knowing it was likely to fail, as his burned, twisted skin tended to turn any attempt into a grimace. ‘Actually, it’s quite lonely,’ he added, hoping a pathetic tone might win the sympathy he needed.

Did she smile? He could not tell, but something seemed to lighten in those smoky eyes which regarded him steadily.

Goth did his best to turn on the charm. ‘That basket looks awfully heavy for a girl to carry. May I help?’

He was heartened by her soft chuckle. ‘This is my daily job.’

‘Well, I come from Tallinor and around our palace, we don’t allow the women to carry such heavy loads.’

‘Perhaps they are not as strong as Ciprean women?’ She was teasing him but she put the load down onto the ground. ‘Help yourself.’

Goth did not want an orange. He had disliked them ever since that episode in Ildagarth when, inexplicably, instead of killing Gynt he had murdered a child who had offered him an orange. Now, bending down to select one of the fruit, he recalled how the child’s blood had mingled with the juice of the oranges on the ground.

The woman chose one and handed it to him with a smooth, olive-skinned hand. He took the orange and bowed his head in thanks, noting that her height did indeed match his. Her robe would be perfect.

Her deep, almost raspy voice responded quickly to his courtesy. ‘I am Elma.’

‘Thank you, Elma, for this,’ he said, bouncing the fruit gently in his palm. ‘Are you sure I cannot help?’

She laughed gently. ‘I will manage.’ She hoisted the basket back onto her shoulder. ‘Perhaps I will see you again at the evening meal.’

Goth had not expected this. ‘Perhaps you will,’ he said, surprising himself at how flirtatious he sounded.

That evening, rather than taking a tray of food into his chamber, Goth deliberately went looking for Elma in the communal staff dining room. He picked at a plate of food and found an excuse to linger by talking to the boring courtier again, but all the while his sharp eyes swept across the hall. She was not to be seen.

Making his excuses he finally extricated himself from the tedious old man and asked a dozen different women if they knew where Elma was. Most did not know her. Those who did had not seen her. Frustrated, his anger rising, Goth decided to search the servants quarters. He would probably face someone’s wrath for the trespass but he was beyond being polite. He had only hours now. He needed Elma’s robe and was prepared to enter her quarters and steal it if necessary. However, he preferred not to take that risk. His first plan was neater, if a little bloody.

Striding from the hall he was annoyed to feel a tug on his shirt. He swung around to see a young woman.

‘You are Almyd Goth?’ she asked tentatively, obviously fascinated, or perhaps horrified, by his ugliness.

‘What of it?’ he replied impatiently.

She mustered a sweet smile from a plain face. ‘I am Elma’s friend. She asked me to tell you, if I met you, that she hoped the orange was sweet.’

‘Where is she?’ he asked, perhaps a little too urgently.

The girl stepped back. He had frightened her. ‘She is not well, sir.’

‘Ah.’ He was too fierce, he decided. He must hold his temper. ‘Well, I’m sorry to hear that. Please convey to her my regret that we could not break bread together this evening, and I hope she will be well in the morn.’

She nodded and smiled. ‘I shall tell her. She will be pleased.’ The girl made to leave.

Goth caught her arm; felt her recoil. Her politeness did not extend to enjoying the touch of this hideously maimed man. ‘Sir?’ The fright was back in her voice.

‘I was just wondering…would you take something to Elma from me?’ He added a plaintive note to his voice.

‘Of course.’ She held out her hand.

‘I have to get it ready. Come with me…er, please.’

He was surprised that she followed, but she did so obediently, first into the gardens where he picked a rosebud of soft yellow and then into another room where he quickly scratched out a note. He handed it to her.

‘Elma will be moved, sir, by your attentions.’

‘Can she read?’ he suddenly had the forethought to ask.

‘No, sir. I can’t either,’ she replied politely.

Goth only just refrained from knocking her to the ground. All that effort wasted. But he held the anger in check and fixed another leer on his face, hoping it might pass for a smile. He ignored the way she shrank back.

‘Well, could you perhaps give her a message to go with this rose?’

‘I will do that,’ she said.

‘Thank you. Please tell Elma that I would be honoured if she would join me for a cup of sweet wine.’

Her eyes widened. She giggled and then stopped herself.

‘Why do you laugh?’ Goth asked.

‘Elma always attracts the strange ones,’ she said and then realised the insult.

Goth was careful not to show any had been taken. ‘Well, I am lonely and Elma was kind to me this afternoon. I would like to say thank you properly and perhaps I will have a new friend at the palace,’ he said to the younger woman, almost choking on the syrupy words.

She lapped them up, pleased for Elma, he presumed. ‘When?’

‘How about very early tomorrow? We can share a sunrise together.’

The girl looked doubtful. ‘She may not wish to come alone at that hour, sir.’

Goth had not counted on this. He thought quickly, reassessing the plan. ‘Then you shall come with her. We can all be friends and watch the sun come up over Cipres.’

He should have been a poet, he thought sourly.

‘That would be fine,’ she said. ‘We shall see you at second toll.’

‘Excellent,’ Goth said. ‘May I suggest the old well…the one on the eastern side of the palace?’

He had already checked that this would be an ideal area. The well was no longer used so was only lightly guarded during the day. At dawn, it was likely to be deserted.

‘Come as invisibly as you can,’ he suggested. ‘Let us not be seen. This will be a secret rendezvous,’ he added, theatrically.

She smiled again. ‘We shall be veiled to go outside, sir. No one will know who we are.’

It was exactly what Goth wanted to hear. ‘See you tomorrow,’ he said and took his leave.

The two women arrived promptly, emerging from the eerie half-darkness of the pre-dawn hours. Arms linked, they walked carefully and quietly, giggling softly now and then—probably about him, he thought. He watched them approach. Killing both at the same time would be impossible.

He hid in a clump of small fruit trees, waiting for them to pass him. As they did, he took a deep breath then stepped out and smashed the blacksmith’s tool he had brought with him into the back of the shorter woman’s head. She dropped without a sound.

Elma swung around, her face filled with horror, but Goth gave her no time to cry out. He was on her in a flash, one hand clamped to her mouth and the other pushing her towards the well. He pressed her against the wall with the weight of his body and ripped off her veil, triumphant to have at last what he needed.

‘If you scream, or make any sound, I shall kill you. Do you understand?’

She nodded dumbly from behind the hand pushed against her face. Goth removed a large kerchief from his pocket and tied it very firmly across her mouth. Elma made no sound as he did so. He was impressed by her composure. He finally turned her to face him and saw that Elma was more than just plain; she was downright ugly. No wonder, he thought absently, that her friend had laughed. Never mind, it was certainly not Elma’s looks he cared about right now.

‘I must ask you to undress.’

A query formed in her eyes.

‘Quickly, please,’ he added and was relieved to see her reach behind to unbutton her robe.

She stepped out of it, naked. Goth hardly gave her shapely body a second glance. ‘Give it to me.’

Elma obeyed. He noticed goose bumps on the arm which obediently held out the robe and it occurred to him that the fresh morning air would be chill on bare skin. Oh well, he thought carelessly, you won’t feel much shortly.

Goth took the robe and tossed it onto the ground, on top of the veil. He had his disguise. Now he must cover his tracks.

Without warning, he grabbed Elma, twisted her round and bent her over the well. He knew its stone wall would chafe badly against her bare flesh but it would not be for long. He grabbed her hair, neatly tied in a convenient ponytail, and wrapped it around his fingers to hold her in position whilst he removed the blade he had concealed.

Elma began to whimper. He felt nothing but contempt for her.

He put his mouth close to her ear and her whimpering lifted a notch. He must despatch her fast.

‘I know I inferred I wouldn’t kill you if you obeyed me, but I’m sorry, Elma, I’m the most wicked liar.’

And with that, Goth viciously pulled her head back by her hair and passed the blade swiftly and deeply across her throat.

Blood spewed from the wound. The force with which a body emptied itself of its vital fluid never failed to fascinate, or satisfy, him. He stood as far away as possible so none of the blood splashed on his clothes or boots and watched Elma’s life cascade in a violent gush down the well shaft. Her corpse followed it within moments.

Goth wasted no time, moving swiftly to Elma’s prone friend, who had come to and was also whimpering. Goth believed her skull was already crushed sufficiently to cause death but he liked to be thorough. He turned the woman over and stabbed her once, a powerful blow directly into her heart, which stopped its beat instantly. Her body joined her friend’s at the bottom of the well. The smell of decaying flesh would bring the busybodies soon enough, but by then, Goth thought, he would be far away.

He picked up the robe and veil and disappeared into the smudgy light of early morning as the second bell tolled.