The Folly of the World by Jesse Bullington

Author:Jesse Bullington [Bullington, Jesse]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction / Fantasy - Historical, Fiction, Fantasy, Historical, Fiction / Men'S Adventure, Men's Adventure, Fiction / Historical
ISBN: 9780316201711
Google: MEbEZqrnnIEC
Amazon: B0076BQG4A
Publisher: Orbit
Published: 2012-12-18T08:00:00+00:00

IV.

Sander had evidently found a wee pox along with the mutilated corpse, and so spent the next three days in bed. The lengthy haze of aching limbs and pitching around in sweaty covers was occasionally punctuated with leek-and-garlic soup, horehound tea, and fever dreams of decapitated children, prancing Belgians, and, of course, a covered well, from which floated the admonishments of his father and Jan and all the other men Sander had ever killed. It was even worse than it sounded.

Eventually the illness passed, but the first afternoon Sander quit his bed Simon showed up, pasty and stammering to have a talk—so much for rest. The last thing Sander wanted was Lansloet eavesdropping on their conversation, and so he led Simon to the White Horse; the best place for a quiet word was a loud tavern. Jo and that Lizzy girl accompanied them, which rather defeated the purpose of leaving the house for privacy, but Sander was too weak to fight the girls on it. On the walk Sander would’ve sworn they were being followed, but that was surely just the fever shadowing him.

“That so?” Sander asked, keeping his voice to a whisper even with Jo and Lizzy across the tavern, fetching the ales. He’d told them four, but having Simon acting the donkey put Sander in a mood to keep two for himself.

“Haunted,” said Simon, with a sincerity that gave Sander chills in spite of himself. Or maybe it was just the chills giving him chills; goddamn pox. “Every night since we found her, she comes to me, begs me to tell someone!”

“How’s she do that?” said Sander, truly curious.

“I told you, in my dreams. I cannot rest, and when at last my eyelids shutter, I—”

“I got that,” said Sander. “I mean how does she beg you to do anything, not having a head?”

“Oh,” said Simon, pursing his lips. “Well, she has one in the dreams.”

“Then how you know it’s the same dead kid you’re dreaming of, eh?” said Sander, something of a savant these days at using his wits to trump his fears.

“Jan, she…” Simon lowered his head. “Pray, Cousin, do not be cross, if I confide something to you.”

“So long as you hurry up with it.”

“She… sometimes, the girl, that poor, naked creature, she…”

“She gives you a hand job?”

“No! It’s just… it is her, the girl we found, I have no doubt that it is she, but sometimes… well, she looks like Jo. She possesses Lady Jo’s head.”

Sander leaned in, motioning Simon to do the same, and when they were close enough to kiss, Sander rapped his hairy knuckles on Simon’s brow. “I don’t want to hear another word about this, Simon.”

“But—”

“Shut up,” said Sander. Jo and her maid were taking the beers from the bartop and turning back toward the table. The White Horse was as mobbed as the dive ever got, the usual threesomes and foursomes of flood-ruined nobles, coin-loaded merchants, and so-so guild members crowded around the boarded-over spokes of the tavern’s cart-wheel tables.

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