by Alex Duncan
His heavy wig fell to the floor in a cloud of powder as the guard struck him again on the other side of his face and leant over him. Henry could smell the guard’s hot breath on his face as he stared him in the eye. He was barely than a boy, the old man thought, only a boy eager to please his masters.
‘Are you going to give it to me now?’ the guard asked, clutching Henry by the jaw and shaking his head. Henry smiled again, a bloody, red smile, and shrugged his shoulders in reply. The guard turned back into the room, stamping his feet in frustration.
Henry had been escorted from his seat in the auditorium almost as soon as he had sat down and led into a side room as opulent and as well furnished as the theatre itself. Once the door had been closed behind him several more of the red and black clad guards restrained him. Henry didn’t show any resistance, so keen was he to discover who had sent for them, and the guards tied him to a comfortable chair with a cushioned seat. So that was something at the very least.
Then they had started to hit him.
He was well aware that that would likely to happen. He knew the risks. When you step into a lion’s den, he told himself, always expect lions.
But how could they know of the stone ring? No one knew of it.
‘I told you,’ he said, spitting a globule of blood out onto the floor. ‘I don’t have any stone ring, neither do I have any idea what you’re talking about I’m afraid. Perhaps if you let me speak to the gentleman who has so cunningly sent for me, I’m sure we can talk matters over in a more civilised fashion.’
The guard shook his head, tutting, and walked away into the centre of the room where the rest of his comrades waited. Other than the guards, there stood a gentleman he knew he had previously seen, an ugly man with a rotten, milky complexion and a few straggly hairs dangling over his scabby head. But where he had seen him before he couldn’t remember.
The man walked over to him and stared down at him as one would stare at an ill-behaved dog. He truly was an ugly wretch, thought Henry. He had a muddy look about him that suggested he had been pushed together by a very un-artistic pair of hands, a broken nose, an uneven brow, a protruding chin and a set of teeth as jagged and battered as a broken door.
Henry had it. He knew where he had seen the ugly man before. It had been in the Crossroads tavern on their first day in Hope. The man had been with that dandy Justice Brash. His name was…he racked his brain for the answer…Monk, Mr Hugh Monk. What the devil had he to do with any of this business?
‘Was it you, did you invite me here?’
Mr Monk glared down at him and slowly nodded his head.
‘Not the King then?’
Mr Monk slowly shook his head.
‘But you and I, we’re strangers. I don’t believe we’ve even been formally introduced. I’m Mrs Bloomsdale by the way, pleased to make you’re your acquaintance.’
Mr Monk didn’t smile he only leaned in closer still, until they were nearly nose to nose.
‘What could you possibly want with me?’
Mr Monk gestured to the young guard, who hastily removed a folded scrap of paper from his pocket and read the message written therein.
‘“Mr Monk would appreciate it if you would hand over the stone so he can let you live,”’ he read. ‘I’ve already told you this Mr Versatile, so why don’t you do yourself the favour and give Mr Monk what he wants.’
‘I wish I could oblige you,’ he said, trying to hold his smile through the pain, ‘I really do, but you see, I still haven’t the faintest idea what you’re all talking about…’
This time it was Mr Monk who hit him. He felt the blow across the bridge of his nose and a hot, white light of pain shot up through his skull. He clenched his whole body, shuddering with the effort, refusing them the satisfaction of hearing him scream, until he settled and opened his swollen eyes.
‘Who…are…you?’ he asked the man but Mr Monk had turned his back on him and retraced his steps into the centre of the room. He stood there, quite still, with his hands crossed behind him, gently tapping his foot against the hard floor.
And then the old man heard a voice he hadn’t heard for a long time.
‘You know me well enough Henry,’ came the high, throaty, impossibly polite voice from the middle of the group of men. ‘I doubt you’d forget me in a hurry; after all we’ve been through, hmm?’
Henry’s heart turned to ice and he had a sudden, unfaltering sense of vertigo, like slipping on loose stones on the edge of some sheer cliff side.
‘…that voice…’ he whispered, half to himself, ‘…it can’t be…’
‘Oh but it can, hmm,’ said the voice, cackling like a petulant child.
Henry looked around trying to put a face to the voice, but everyone had their backs to him.
‘I’m so glad you remember me,’ it said. ‘I knew you would. Now why don’t you do what you’re told like a good little boy and there’ll be no need to go any further, hmm?’
Henry coughed and blood filled his mouth. He felt faint. The room had become stiflingly hot. He pulled on the ties around his wrists but the knotted ropes stayed true and there was no give in them. He could see no way out. He was trapped.
‘...I…I…’
‘There’s a good little boy. I knew you’d see sense. Now, out with it, where’s the stone, hmm?’
A knock came at the door behind him and Henry felt a gush of relief for the reprieve. Mr Monk and the others turned towards the door and the ugly man gestured for one of the guards to go and see to it. As they waited for the guard to cross the room they all scowled down at Henry.
It had been some time since he had last felt fear like it.
He heard the door edge open.
‘Can I ’elp you?’ said the guard behind his back, plainly talking to whoever had knocked and given Henry precious more time. The old man could have laughed aloud when he heard the voice of his granddaughter answer the guard.
‘On the contrary my good man,’ she said. ‘I believe it is I who can help you.’
‘And how’s that?’ said the guard, clearly becoming impatient.
‘I couldn’t help overhearing you chatting to that sweet old lady tied up there and I thought I heard you all saying that you’ve been looking for a stone ring.’
‘What of it?’
‘I was simply wondering whether it happened to look anything like this?!’
There was a hard smacking sound, like a hammer hitting meat, and the guard fell back next to Henry’s feet, unconscious. Everyone froze for a single breath until the door broke in, and, for a short time, everything went berserk.
Henry watched as Rosie forced her way through the guards with enviable speed. She seemed to anticipate every move and blow that came at her, stepping lightly aside to dodge one guard reaching for her with open arms and swatting away a dagger thrust from another with her forearm without even looking. She moved with such grace and elegance that, to Henry, it was like watching a well-rehearsed dance.
Then another gentleman entered from the doorway and reached down to untie Henry’s bonds. The old man was struck dumb to see that it was the stranger from the hillside.
‘Do not trouble yourself Henry Versatile,’ said the man, in a fine, deep voice. ‘We will have you out of this muddle very shortly.’
All Henry could do was nod his head in thanks and let the stranger take his weight as he pulled him up and out of the chair. He ached all over but felt a light of pride glow inside him as he watched Rosie lay claim to the room.
It wasn’t long before the floor was a carpet of red and black uniforms, all the guards either unconscious or writhing in pain. Only Mr Monk remained, shirking in a corner.
‘As for you sir,’ said Rosie, out of breath and pacing over to the man, ‘kindly leave my family alone.’ And she planted her ringed fist firmly in the middle of Mr Monk’s face, knocking him cleanly to the floor with the rest of his men.
‘There,’ she said, brushing her hands down the front of her breeches. ‘That
ought to do it.’
The dust settled around them.
‘I taught you well girl,’ said Henry, his face a canvas of red and blue cuts and bruises. ‘That was quite a display.’
‘Save your praise for Zanga grandpa, it was all down to him. He told me where every strike was going to come from and I merely did what I was told.’
‘A fine trick indeed!’
Beyond the muffled sounds of the actors inside the auditorium, the rumble of running feet was coming from down the curved corridor and getting closer with every step.
‘More guards,’ said Zanga. ‘We must leave.’
‘I can deal with them,’ said Rosie, rolling up the sleeves of her shirt.
‘No, if we stay it will only bring us more trouble. Trust me, I can see what happens.’
‘Then how can we get out?’ asked Henry, feeling weaker with each breath. ‘There’s no other door, there’s no back way.’
‘Oh, that is very simple, I’ve seen how we escape,’ Zanga smiled. Rosie and Henry shared a look.
‘And how do we escape?’ the old man asked.
‘At the moment the guards come in, I take you both under the arms, run towards that far wall and jump out of the window.’
Rosie and Henry shared another look.
‘But we wont survive the fall?’
‘Oh, you will both be quite well, I assure you. There are cushions there to break our fall.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Because I put them there,’ he said as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and grabbed both Henry and Rosie under their arms as more guards ran into the room and the three of them headed towards the far wall.
The Versatiles lifted their other arms to shield their faces as they crashed into the window, shattering glass out everywhere and felt the unpleasant lurch of gravity as they plummeted down from the room into the street below. As promised, and most surprisingly, they landed on a heap of thick cushions miraculously piled up in the alleyway and comfortably got to their feet.
‘What did I tell you?’ smiled Zanga, patting them both on their backs.
Rosie laughed, albeit nervously, as she dusted herself down.
‘What now?’ asked Henry, stretching his sore limbs.
‘We arranged to meet Master Steadfast at the Crossroads on the stroke of eleven, remember? I sorely hope he hasn’t found himself in half as much bother as we have, he’s quite the amateur when it comes to fisticuffs.’
‘Then the Crossroads it is.’
‘No,’ said Zanga, directing them further down the alleyway away from the lights of the theatre. ‘We will be meeting the young man you speak of at an old mill, a few miles out of the town. I can see it quite clearly. His father left a note for you at the Crossroads.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I will be there when you read it…well I would have been there had we gone…but now there’s no need…it…it really is rather complicated. I think it’s best you just trust me.’
The two of them knew they had few other choices left.
‘So, it looks like we’re going to this old mill,’ agreed Rosie, clapping her hands together.
‘Oh no,’ said Zanga. ‘First you two change out of those ridiculous disguises.’
Henry sighed, looking down at his tatty dress.
‘And how do we do that?’
‘Please,’ Zanga smiled. ‘Follow me.’
◆◆◆
It was quiet on the street corner where Trigger and Stool stood biding their time until the evening’s entertainment was over. Their orders were simple enough: keep any commoners off the streets. This was a grand occasion after all. And, by the look of things, every other soul had decided to stay well out of the way as it was. The odd muffled cries of laughter reached them from the theatre but otherwise the town was as dead as a graveyard.
‘I’m only saying,’ said Trigger, rubbing his hands together to keep them warm, ‘that there may be some people who think that what Apollo has been doing here in Hope does not serve the country’s best interests. There, I’ve said it.’
Stool looked over at him, quizzically.
‘What exactly is it that you are trying to say Master Trigger?’
‘Only,’ Trigger huffed, ‘that there may be some folk…’ He looked around him before continuing in a hushed voice. ‘…who don’t want Apollo tampering about in their lives, trying to make everything better. Some folk might just want to be left alone.’ He lifted his hands up in defence. ‘That’s all I’m saying Master Stool. Nothing wrong with airing a different opinion.’
‘You best be careful who you say things like that to Master Trigger,’ said Stool. ‘If word gets back to Apollo that you’ve been saying such things it’s as likely as not he’ll consider it to be treason. And you know what happens to traitors…?’ He wound an imaginary rope around his neck and pulled the face of a hanged man.
‘Treason Master Stool? Treason is an act of betrayal against the country and the crown. Last time I heard Apollo was not the King of England.’
‘Maybe not at the moment Master Trigger, but with the King a few cards short of a full deck (if you get my meaning),’ he winked, ‘and the Prince Regent hardly any better, there may be an empty seat at the Palace before long (if I make myself plain),’ he winked again. ‘I think Apollo fancies himself as the regal sort.’
Trigger shook his head and tutted.
During all this, if they had been paying enough attention instead of chatting away to each other, both Trigger and Stool would have heard the faint cymbal-like sound of breaking glass nearby and the light tapping of careful steps upon the cobbles. If they had been paying enough attention they might even have heard the breathing of three people creeping up behind them until they were within an arms reach. Sadly, for them, they heard none of this.
‘King Apollo the first, imagine it!’ chuckled Trigger. ‘That would be quite a blow!’
And with that, both guardsmen felt an unpleasant, dull thump on the backs of their heads and collapsed to the street floor like two dried twigs.
◆◆◆
In the ante-room near the auditorium Mr Monk was waking up. His head hurt and he felt dizzy. The blood pumped round the tender side of his face where he’d been hit with an incessant thudding as he slowly pushed himself up to his feet. The room span about him as held onto the fireside hearth for support and regained his balance. That young lad had quite an arm on him, he thought, mildly impressed despite himself. He felt like an anvil had been thrown at him.
As his eyes gradually focused on the room the first thing that came clearly into his line of sight was an empty chair with its back to the door. Untied ropes swirled around the legs of the chair in small circles.
Those people had taken Mr Versatile. Mr Monk had the tired old man, tied to a chair, and they had come in and taken him from under their very noses. He laughed aloud then winced at the pain in his face. The old man certainly had spirit.
Figures were rising from the floor around him, swaying, clutching their sides, scratching their heads and looking generally confused in the dazed way of the recently unconscious. Mr Monk waited until they had all noticed him and paced the room chewing his fingernails. Once all the guards were on their feet, shifting uncomfortably and avoiding his stares at all costs, he sidled over to the empty chair and slumped into it.
‘Wew vad woz a compeed meth wozn’d id?’ he said, his lips hardly moving, looking up at the battered faces of the guards. They all raised their heads and stared at him with undisguised abhorrence in their expressions.
‘Wod?’ he mumbled. ‘Wod iz id? Why are ew sdarin’ ad me? Ave I god somethig on my face?’
One of the guards, a middle aged man with a square head and an overbite, turned on his heels and seeing that no one around him wanted to answer, took it upon himself.
‘Yes sir, your face,’ he said, pointing at him. ‘It’s, well, perhaps you should take a look at it yourself.’ He nodded over to a mi
rror above the fireplace.
Mr Monk pushed himself up out of the chair with a groan and walked over to the mirror until he was face to face with his own reflection. The face that looked back at him was not a pretty sight. The right side, the side where the young man had hit him with such ferocity, was now caved inwards in the perfect shape of a fist, his brow had creased over, nearly covering the whole of his right eye, his nose was bent sideways in completely the opposite direction as it should have been and his cheek was a muddy indentation of knuckles.
‘Oh doh,’ he said, touching the indents in his cheek and flinching. ‘Dod again! Dis azn’d appened vor quide a liddle while.’
‘It looks awfully painful sir,’ said the thick-jawed guard. ‘Would you like me to go and fetch a doctor for you?’
‘A dogdor? No, dad won’d be necessary. I’ll be find.’
‘What was that sir?’
‘I said, I’ll be find.’
‘I’m afraid I’m not quite getting it sir.’
‘He said he’ll be fine!’ translated another guard.
‘Oh, very good sir.’
Mr Monk turned back to his reflection and lightly pressed his finger around his cheek. All five knuckles of his assailant’s fist were perfectly preserved in the side of his face, like a shoe print in fresh wet mud. It was quite remarkable. On the second finger of the fist, just a few inches up from his jawbone, there was a deeper indent than the rest, on one of the knuckle marks. He moved in closer to the mirror to inspect it and drew his finger along the mark.
‘Dad’s a rig!’ he shouted. ‘Dad’s de sdone rig! Dad lad woz wearig de sdone rig!’
All the guards looked at one another.
‘I think he said, that there’s the mark of the stone ring in his face,’ translated the helpful guard. Mr Monk nodded his head speedily in ascent.
‘You could understand that?’
‘My uncle was a prize-fighter, always getting beaten about the face, sounded exactly the same.’
‘Oh.’
‘Dis meanz I woz righd all along,’ Mr Monk continued. ‘Versadile still az family ov iz own. And dey do ave de sdone rig! Dis iz de besd ding dad az appened in weegs! Ha ha!’
