Home Again Home Again Jiggity Jig Meaning

"You two just keep right on doing that," Maude said. "That's right. Pretend I'm not even here."

Richard and Bianca pretended.

How had Bianca known? How had she known he would be home now? What could have told her? Was she already in Port Finessa, shopping or, more likely, running one of their shops? Did she have someone at the warehouse on permanent retainer, sent to fetch her whenever a ship flying Ferreira colors sailed over the horizon? Had she come here, breathless with hope, for days and days before this? Or was this the first time? Or —

He had to let go, or they would both suffocate.

Bianca stumbled a step backward when he released her; his hand found her elbow, steadying her rocking heels. Bianca only smiled. "Richard."

"Bianca."

Her chin found his shoulder, which had been cold for far too long. "I missed you so much!"

"Me too," he sighed.

"It's not the same," she whispered. "With the children gone … and the businesses all running themselves …"

"I know. But I had to go, Bianca."

"I know, I know."

"Still, I'm glad to be back." He sighed. "I'm getting too old for this."

"Too old? Dick Ferreira, you aren't too old to do what you want to do until they lay you into the ground!"

Thank you, Maude.

Richard turned to his mother-in-law with his best Maude-smile — which was to say, the smile he trotted out whenever she was succeeding in tweaking his nose. "Oh, knock it off, and give your old mother-in-law a hug."

"Yes, Maude," Richard said, obeying. He glanced sidelong at Bianca and her grin. If she had been one of the children, all of whom had inherited far too great a share of their grandmother's sense of humor, he would have thought she was grinning at his expense — but she wasn't, and so Richard was forced to conclude that she was grinning because she was just too happy to keep it inside.

"Although I must say," he asked as he pulled away, "didn't you just have a speech about never being 'too old' — and now you're old?"

"There's a difference between old and too old — I've lost the battle against old, but I shan't give up against the 'too old'!" Her voice tried to rise in triumph, but it broke off as a cough instead. "Dratted cold."

Bianca's smile fell away, but it bounced back as quickly as a bottom line after the last ship came in.

And speaking of the bottom line …

"How did you do?" Bianca asked.

"Well," Richard replied. "Very well. Master Hamara was most accommodating. And I bought a few new pieces of furniture from an entirely unsuspecting young cabinetmaker — I think, if we can get our own carpenters to copy them, we might just have the next craze!"

Bianca's eyes lit up, as he knew they would — Maude rolled her eyes, as he knew she would. But neither mother nor daughter said anything.

"I think the noble families will be all over them — if we can import some more silk for the upholstering, and regular old wool and linen will do for the stuffing –"

"Silk?" Bianca asked. "We might want something easier to clean. Or replace." As she spoke, the dockworkers swarmed around, lugging those selfsame items of furniture from the boat — but carefully, for no one dared to damage the merchandise before Master Ferreira and Mistress Ferreira.

"Bianca, these are noblewomen!" Richard protested, dodging without really noticing a pair of dockworkers wrestling with a couch.

"So? No woman wants something impossible to clean — even if she won't be doing the cleaning, it still reflects badly on her. Try for linen, we can do that ourselves."

"And how is that easier to clean?"

"It isn't, but it's easy to replace if it gets too dirty to clean. Even if she can afford it, what noblewoman wants to have a couch in her front room that shows the dirt until we get a new shipment of silk in?"

"Well, maybe for an extra fee, we can offer to …" Richard trailed off.

"Richard? Richard, what is it?" She was smiling so broadly!

Richard gulped. "Lord Pellinore?"

"Lord –" Bianca whispered. Skirts flared and her hand went over her heart as she spun.

"Richard, what did you do now?"

"Mother!"

"Forgive me, Mistress Ferreira — Mistress Parkinson — for interrupting your homecoming celebrations." If he wasn't the King's Chief Magistrate, Richard would have thought that Lord Pellinore's voice was pleasant and sincerely apologetic. "But I've been meaning to speak to your husband for a long time. Regarding Customs regulations."

"Customs regulations?" Maude asked. "Albion doesn't have Customs regulations!"

Lord Pellinore, rather than glowering and snapping at Maude, laughed. "Indeed, Albion does not! But the King is looking to add — reasonable regulations. And of course, it is hard to know what is reasonable unless one gets some inside information."

"The King did send a message for you, shortly after you left," Bianca murmured.

Wright! So I've kept the King waiting for months on end? Richard did his best not to gulp. "Indeed?" he squeaked.

"Indeed, my good man," Lord Pellinore replied. "So, if you would not mind …"

"Of course not, of course not — er — Bianca –"

"Mother and I will be waiting at the tea shop," she said, gesturing to the nearby eatery. She grabbed Maude's elbow before she could protest, the two of the curtseyed and shuffled off to the side.

Lord Pellinore glanced sidelong at them before spinning his hands about. "Er, Master Ferreira, if you would not mind … perhaps we could discuss this privately?"

"Oh, aye, of course. We can go to my office," Richard replied. "Please, follow me."

As they walked, Richard leading the way to the blue-gray warehouse, the top of which housed his office, the part of Richard's mind not making perfunctory conversation dashed ahead. Customs regulations! Albion had been a haven for merchants before this — it could have been such a great seagoing power, with its lax policies regarding all things mercantile. But if the King decided he wanted to clamp down on Customs …

Richard almost sighed, but there was nothing in his discussion of the state of Sminese trade or the wonderous sights of Takemizu that would cause a sigh to emerge from him. It was inevitable, he supposed — the King was a nobleman, and very few noblemen understood the value of trade. Oh, aye, it was wonderful for procuring luxuries from other countries, and indeed the taxes made the items that much harder for the average — or even averagely wealthy — man to afford. But no self-respecting country made its wealth from trade. Self-respecting countries went out and conquered their neighbors, stealing their wealth; food and clothing and other necessities for the peasants were produced in-house, so to speak, and circulated around the economy.

Or so the nobles saw things. Better, after all, to be as self-sufficient as possible — or rather, for everyone in the country but the nobles to be as self-sufficient as possible — the better for the nobles to collect all the wealth and spend it on their luxuries. He supposed he shouldn't be upset at the nobles for wanting to be wealthy; Richard made his fortune off their taste for luxuries …

But there was plenty of money to be made from merchants' desire for luxury, particularly if you provided some luxuries at a lower cost! You whet their appetite, made them hunger and thirst for the real thing — which made them work harder to afford the real thing, and the more people who worked hard, the wealthier everyone became. Couldn't the King see that?

"Right this way, my lord," Richard said after they climbed up the stairs, leading the way to his office. No, the King couldn't be expected to see that. He was a nobleman at heart. And noblemen were only happy when the wealth of a country was securely in their pockets. Where had he gotten the idea that King Arthur was different?

Richard ran a hand over his face, still salt-chapped and wind-rough. And why was he trying to join this exclusive club, again? What use was it?

Ah, that was right. Joining the club meant that what wealth he won, he had a hope of keeping — rather than seeing it taxed out of his hands and put in some fat nobleman's purse, the better to be spent on horses and hounds and hawks and Wright only knew what other frivolities.

His hand closed around the cold brass knob to his office door, the metal preternaturally smooth under his skin after over two months of sea-roughened wood. He tried to wave Lord Pellinore inside, but the lord shook his head, waving Richard through first. Richard went through.

Home. Ah, yes, he was home! Home where he could smell the leather and parchment of maps, drawings, ledgers — where he could see the money chest left underneath the window, securely locked (and filled with rocks underneath the top coating of silver and copper coins, he, after all, was not stupid) — where a beeswax candle stood on his desk, ready for him to light, where a clean sheet of parchment and bottle of ink stood ready for writing. The wheel and a set of oars from his first ship (unfortunately no longer seaworthy and taken apart to be reused in other ships in the fleet), the White Lady, smiled down upon him from the wall. Or so Richard imagined.

Apparently I'm getting fanciful in my old age. He put his hand against the back of the seat behind the desk. "Won't you sit down?"

"Thank you, sir," Lord Pellinore replied. Not a sirrah, hmm, that's good. Both men took their seats.

Richard opened his mouth to inquire if there was anything Lord Pellinore wanted — food, a drink, a cushion for the chair — when the Chief Magistrate sighed. "I must apologize, Master Ferreira," he began. "I asked for this meeting under false pretences."

"False — pretences?"

"Indeed. The King is not the least bit interested in setting up extensive — or even, for that matter, reasonable — regulations regarding Customs. At least, not at the present time. Though, between you and me, I do hope that his majesty will soon at least consent to have records taken of all items that enter the country …"

"Of course," Richard replied, hiding his glee. Of course, given the amount of time he spent selling furniture and other items far too expensive for most sensible men to buy, he had a great deal of practice in the realm of "hiding glee."

"But I did not lie, when I said that I came on behalf of the King."

Richard no longer needed to hide his glee. Rather, he had to fight to keep smiling. "… Oh?"

Lord Pellinore nodded. "Indeed. It's all a bit of a sticky tangle … but perhaps not so much to you. At least, not as much to you as the average commoner. Master Ferreira, surely you have heard — or did hear, before leaving for Smina — the rumors of unrest in Glasonland?"

Lord Pellinore underestimated the power of merchant gossip, if he thought that a mere trip to Smina could keep Richard out of the loop! "Of course, news is always a bit stale by the time it gets to Smina," he said modestly, "but …" You'd have to be living under a rock not to know that King Vortigern is on his way out, and chaos on its way in in Glasonland. "I have heard rumors."

"Oh?" Lord Pellinore asked. "What — what exactly have you heard?"

Men's tongues loosened when they got to Smina — maybe it was the joy of finding another who could speak their language; maybe it was the relief of being thousands of miles away from home and away from their king who would take a man's life merely for stating the obvious. "I heard, my lord, that King Vortigern is ill … perhaps dying?"

"Still alive now," Lord Pellinore replied. If there was an unfortunately anywhere in there, Lord Pellinore's magistrate's caution was so great that even Richard could not pick up on it.

"Ah. Well, he's very ill, and in any case he's …" Richard hesitated, eying the gray head before him. "Well, to be quite blunt, my lord, King Vortigern is of an age where his subjects should be preparing for his demise in any case, regardless of what rumor says."

Lord Pellinore chuckled. "You have a way with words, Master Ferreira. What else have you heard?"

"I've heard … well, it's common knowledge among merchants that King Vortigern's eldest son is … not as he should be. He's not mentally capable, my lord, of ruling the country. Or at least, that's what the Glasonlander merchants insist."

"They are precisely right," Lord Pellinore sighed.

Son of a bitch, Richard thought. The last thing he needed — the last thing any trader in luxuries needed! — was an unstable ruler. Or a ruler who would bring instability. Sims didn't buy luxuries when they feared they might need their money for other things — food, clothing, shelter, an escape route in case of civil war …

"That is most unfortunate."

"Indeed. Have you — have you heard anything pertaining to Albion, in all of this?"

Richard blinked and tilted his head to the side. "Albion?"

"Aye, Albion. You see …" Lord Pellinore put a finger to his lips. "Well, Master Ferreira … what have you heard about the men who would rule Glasonland in Prince Vortimer's stead?"

Oh, bloody hell. "They're Reman — the Prince's maternal uncles. Lord Lucinius, Sir Septimus and Lord Antonius."

"And?"

"And …" Richard sighed and shrugged. "To be honest, I'm not sure if they would rule. The … Glasonlanders are not pleased with the thought of Remans ruling over them in all but name."

"I see, I see." Lord Pellinore ran his finger over the carved wood of the lower part of the desk. "And they would back …?"

Richard shrugged again. "The Lord Wright only knows, my lord. King Vortigern only has over a score of acknowledged sons born on the wrong side of the blanket — if any one of them were to raise an army …"

"You think the people would flock to anyone's banner?"

"I suppose it would depend on the person, my lord. I'm not an expert in this."

"No, no … please do not take this the wrong way, but I don't think you would be. You would have no need to be. But you are an expert in buying and selling things, in finding a weakness in the market, and exploiting it."

"Er … thank you?"

"And that is why," Lord Pellinore continued, "we — and by 'we' I mean the King and all of his council — want you to take some weapons into Glasonland and sell them far below the market price."

Richard's jaw fell.

"Huh what?"

"It was the Crown Prince's idea," Lord Pellinore replied, as if that explained anything. "You see — it's rather complicated, but I can give you the gist of it — you know what the first step of Lord Lucinius, Sir Septimus and Lord Antonius would probably be, upon gaining the regency?"

"Invasion of Reme, by way of Albion," Richard answered. He'd gotten far too many "comforting" pats on the back and "friendly" advice from the merchants who had told him this news. The thrust of it all: leave Albion, now.

"Indeed. But it takes a great deal of resources to mount an invasion of Reme — particularly if the lords wish for it to be successful. Whereas a civil war can be so exhausting to a country's military and indeed general resources."

"… Civil war?"

"If we were to flood the market with cheap weapons … available for any, please pardon my language, bastard's army …"

Richard exhaled and leaned back. That plan — it was bold. It was risky. It was just on this side of the borderline of madness. If Lord Pellinore wanted to ask him if it would —

Richard's eyes went wide and he gasped, "You want me to bring those weapons into Glasonland?" Are you mad?

"That was the idea, yes."

"Me?"

"Is there a … problem with that?" Lord Pellinore asked.

Oh, just the problem of, you know, if anyone in Glasonland knew what the point of this was, getting arrested and accused of espionage or treason or … something!

"Lord Pellinore, this is — this is incredibly dangerous. If the Glasonlanders had the slightest idea what you were playing at — well, I doubt me or any of my sailors would be coming back."

"Not if no one knew that it was weapons you were carrying," Lord Pellinore reasoned.

"And how would you propose I get that past Customs?"

A canny light lit in the old lawyer's eyes. "Master Ferreira, it has been a long time since I have stood on Glasonland's shores … but surely there are some rendezvous where Customs er, forgets to come?"

"I've never been involved in smuggling," Richard protested automatically. "Er — that is, not since coming to Albion."

"But surely you still have … friends, perhaps, with a hand in the trade? Or has it been too long?"

It was all Richard could do to avoid snorting. All of his old contacts back in Glasonland were involved, somehow or other, in smuggling. It was the only way to keep the profit margins healthy, unless you were one of the founding Guild families. Most men weren't.

"I … do have a few. However, I've not tried to sneak anything past Customs since before I came to Albion, as I said. The … risks were no longer worth the rewards." He was no knight, no military man, so he did not bother to hide his gulp. "Especially when carrying a cargo of weapons to a country about ready to go up like fireworks, my lord."

"Understandable, Master Ferreira. Still, are there … places where, perhaps, you and your sailors could make a quick escape after delivering the cargo?"

Lord Pellinore truly had no idea what smuggling was like, if he thought there was a cove on the Glasonlander coast that didn't allow for a quick escape. "I do believe I could find one."

"And perhaps one of your contacts would be willing to receive the cargo?"

Richard cast his mind over his trading partners. Horsfall, he'd do it in a heartbeat. His first father-in-law had been a wealthy publican; his inn had been a particular favorite of Lord Antonius and his band of rowdy friends. One night, things had gone too far — too put it mildly — and the publican's daughter, Horsfall's betrothed, had ended the night pregnant and with a cringing fear of men that was heartbreaking to behold. Horsfall had loved the girl and married her anyway. Things had gone well for those first six months, she'd warmed back up to Horsfall and was less visibly terrified of all other men.

Then the time came for her to give birth, and she died. The babe died as well. And for that, Horsfall had never forgiven Lord Antonius. He'd married again, had children, a comfortable home … but if there was any way to somehow repay Lord Antonius, all three of the Reman lords, for the heartbreak they had caused Horsfall and young Lily's family …

He would do it in a heartbeat.

"Aye, I think I know one," Richard mused. "Of course …"

"Of course?"

"I'd have to sell the weapons for farthings on the copper," Richard shrugged. "In order for them to continue to be cheap, when my contact sold them again. Your plan only works if the weapons are cheap. Any idea where I could get cheap weapons?" His finances weren't yet in such a state where he could afford to equip a bastard's army essentially out of his own pocket.

"Ah, but that's an easy fix!" Lord Pellinore answered. "The state of Albion would be willing to give you the weapons — and let you keep whatever it was you happened to make on them, in gratitude for your services."

They'd give them for FREE?!

"Of course," Lord Pellinore added, "we would naturally expect you to behave as a man of honor would — as would befit a future Baron — or else, well, we would consider ourselves more than justified in withholding that barony from you."

And Lord Pellinore was acting like a "man of honor" indeed — assuming anyone without a title would, perforce, have no honor. Well, perhaps the old magistrate wasn't as shrewd a judge of human nature as he supposed himself to be. If Richard was willing to stick his neck out like this, it would have to be for more than mere money.

"And if I were to be … shall we say, prompt and expeditious and fulfilling my mission," Richard asked, "what might be my reward, other than keeping the money?"

"Meaning?"

"It's a risky mission, my lord … done wholly in the service of my country …"

"If you were to complete this mission successfully, as and when ordered, then I think, Master Ferreira, that the barony attached to Port Finessa could well become yours in a startling short amount of time."

"Without me being in — anyone's debt, shall we say?" Richard asked, one eyebrow going up.

To his shock, Lord Pellinore grinned. "Sir Bors, do you mean?"

"Er — yes."

"I assure you, Master Ferreira — you shan't have to thank Sir Bors for anything if you are able to complete this successfully."

Richard stood. "Then I think, Lord Pellinore," he extended his hand, "we have ourselves a deal."

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Source: https://morgaine2005.wordpress.com/2010/10/25/home-again-home-again-jiggity-jig/

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