The Darkest Hand Trilogy Box Set

by Tarn Richardson

  He felt no bitterness towards her. Sandrine, it seemed to Alessandro, was like a green horse, unbroken, refusing to follow the customs of the herd, living by her methods, her choices. He knew he could never tame her and claim her as his own. She was unbreakable and perhaps that thing which so captivated others would be lost if ever anyone succeeded in shackling her to a life of anything approaching conformity.

  “What do you think you’re doing up there, eh?” he called, “looking so beautiful so early in the morning, eh?”

  “Watching the British invasion.”

  “Why are you not down here kissing me, eh?” A group of men gathered around Alessandro and were looking up longingly.

  “Kissing all of us!” shouted one of the other men.

  “Where are all the soldiers going?” she asked, suddenly feeling exposed and wrapping an arm across herself. There were limits to even Sandrine’s daring. “What has happened?”

  Several of the soldiers looked up as she called and cheered at the sight of her, a naked woman leaning brazenly from the window.

  “The British,” Alessandro yelled up, putting his arm to his forehead to block out the low morning sun. “There is talk that they have broken through at Fampoux.”

  “Fampoux!” exclaimed Sandrine, raising a hand to her mouth in delight. She felt her heart twitch with the prick of hope.

  “You can go home with a pair of Tommies on your arm!” Alessandro laughed. He blew her a kiss from the palm of his hand and, waving, headed off towards the market.

  “Why don’t you come back to bed and climb into my arms, hey?” invited the voice from the bed.

  Sandrine pulled a face and extinguished her cigarette. She swivelled on the chair and peered back at the dishevelled looking individual. He looked terrible. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair, slick with oil and sweat, caked tight to the side of his head. She considered one more spell of passionate lovemaking with him, but his appearance this morning was anything but appealing. She raised a suggestive eyebrow and got up, skipping past the bed to gather clothes she had discarded last night in a far more haphazard fashion than the officer.

  “Didn’t you hear?” Sandrine asked cheerfully, “the Germans have been driven out of Fampoux?”

  “I doubt that very much,” the Lieutenant Colonel replied, struggling to sit up in the bed. He winced at the pain in his head and clenched his eyes tightly shut for a few moments. “Now, why don’t you come here and make love to me like you did last night, you naughty delicious little thing?”

  Sandrine curled her lip and dropped her clothes into a chair, slipping a leg delicately into her panties. “I’m surprised you think like that, Nicholas,” she said, with a slight wave of her hand. “I would have thought a man of the British army would feel more enthusiastic about its achievements.” Sandrine slipped her second leg in and drew her undergarments up her long mocha-coloured legs. “What makes you so sure there’s been no breakthrough?”

  “Well, because it’s my battalion stationed just outside of Arras.” He laid the sheet across his belly and swept back his hair. “And they’re on a defensive footing. They should only move forward when I give the order and seeing as I’ve been otherwise engaged” – he raised an eyebrow and smirked with a little shake of his head – “I think we can safely assume they are still several hundred yards from the German lines and Fampoux, or what’s left of it, still resides firmly in the grubby paws of the Boche.” He tilted his head to one side. “Come on, give me a kiss, won’t you?” he begged.

  Sandrine tutted and rolled her eyes, clasping her brassiere about herself.

  “What’s that look for?” he asked, laughing gently.

  “If you have men at the front, you shouldn’t leave them. You shouldn’t even be here!”

  “If you think that, then you shouldn’t have seduced me,” the officer chuckled playfully.

  She smiled, a little sadly the officer thought, and then she stepped into her yellow dress.

  “Are you really leaving already?” He asked the question with a touching despondency, as Sandrine drew the dress up over her body. “So soon? I was hoping maybe…”

  “Why would I want to stay here?” she replied without hesitation.

  He laughed at the abrupt honesty of the reply and shrugged. “To be loved?” he suggested, as if it was as good a suggestion as any. “Why, do you have a better offer?” She stepped across the room to the bed and bent down to kiss him gently goodbye. His hand closed around the back of her leg and worked its way up the inside of her dress. She tutted and smacked at the wandering arm playfully.

  “Goodbye Nicholas,” she said, kissing him one more time and turning on her heel towards the door of his room.

  “You Catholic girls!” he called lightly after her, smiling sadly and nestling down into the covers of the bed.

  Immediately Sandrine stopped and turned in the doorway. A shadow had fallen across her face, her mouth now open, her neck bent forward. “What did you say?” she hissed, anger flushing away any pleasure which had been held within her features. “What do you mean by that?” she demanded, as if this assumption had caused the utmost offence.

  “Sorry!” the officer called back uncertainly, the smile slowly eroding as he saw the anger in Sandrine’s face. “Have I said something— ?”

  “That!” Sandrine spat. “Saying I was Catholic.”

  “Sandrine, I’m sorry,” he stuttered, sitting up in bed with more effort than should have been necessary. “I just thought … well, aren’t you?”

  “No!” she retorted, as if the accusation was poisonous. “How dare you!? Why do you say such a thing?”

  “It was just that yesterday … leaving the Cathedral. I saw you.”

  “I don’t know what you mean?”

  “I saw you,” he muttered, testing the atmosphere with a smile. He saw the testiness in Sandrine’s face quickly and dropped it from his own. “I was in the square. I’m sure it was you. I watched you come out, out of the Cathedral.”

  “Well it wasn’t,” she snapped, her mouth tightening into a sneer.

  “Sandrine. I’m sorry. If I’ve said anything …”

  She took a step forwards and thrust a finger towards him. “Never say such a thing again!” she spat, jabbing at him and his raised hands.

  “Sandrine. I’m sorry. It’s just, I’m Catholic myself and I thought … ”

  “You thought what?” she cried, feeling sickened by the revelation and almost overwhelmed by the urge to bathe and clean herself. “You thought what?”

  “Just … perhaps we might see each other again? Visit Mass together?”

  “Let me tell you this, Nicholas,” she said, taking another step towards the officer so that she towered over him in the bed. “I’ll never see you again. Do you understand? Never! Stay away from me! You, your Church and your God can all stay away!”

  “Now listen here,” the officer retorted, a tension now beginning to rise in his own voice. “There’s no need for that!” He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and gave the impression he was about to stand.

  “Nothing will save you in this war!” she hissed at him, casting an arm at him before turning to leave.

  “You should watch your filthy tongue!” he warned, striding over to where she watched him with her fierce eyes. “We’re here to save you French.” He stabbed at her chest with an index finger. “You should be more respectful.”

  “Save us?!” Sandrine laughed cruelly, tossing her hair from her face. “Save us from what?”

  “The Germans, of course, you silly woman.”

  She scowled and rolled her eyes dismissively. “Germans? Pah!” she spat, raising an arm in a way that the officer thought she was about to strike him. “There is more to fear than the Germans. There is no more hope for you. Go to your Catholic Fathers. Get down on your knees and pray. But I tell you this, no God will save you from the hell that is to come!”

  FOURTEEN

  06:45. TUESDAY, 13 OCTOBER 1914. PARIS. FRANC
E.

  Cardinal Monteria stood in the very centre of his room, his head held aloft, his arms angled away from his body, as if receiving a divine blessing. About him Silas, his personal servant, hurried, dressing the Cardinal in the vestments for Holy Mass, an exact and ordered procedure, long studied by the young man who dreamed one day of being dressed in such a manner by his own servant.

  Usually early-morning Mass would be held at Notre Dame, a short walk from the Cardinal’s residence, but whilst preparations were being put in place for the Mass for Peace within Paris’ main cathedral, one of the smaller churches close to Notre Dame would have to suffice for today’s service. Monteria closed his eyes and contemplated that it might be standing-room only for most of the congregation in the smaller building. A church filled to the rafters. There was no more gratifying sight for a Cardinal.

  Silas buttoned the last tie of the Cardinal’s starched white alb and turned to the cupboard to gather the cincture to tie around his master’s waist, the hint of a tune on his lips.

  “Something cheers you, Silas?” asked Monteria, following the young man with his eyes, a smile coming to his own face.

  “One is always happy ahead of Mass, sir,” Silas replied, approaching with the long cord of white in his hands, which he proceeded to fix round Monteria’s middle. “A chance to reflect on the sacrifice of Christ at Calvary.”

  “Ah, yes! Sacrifice!” announced the old man, nodding his head knowingly. He turned back to the window and looked over the morning streets of Paris. “To sacrifice something in order to show others the true path. It is the greatest act of all.”

  FIFTEEN

  1891. THE VATICAN. VATICAN CITY.

  They were running, a whole pack of boys and young men, drawn from the different years and classes of the Vatican, stripped to their shorts and vests, hair clamped tight to sweat-drenched foreheads, racing from the Lourdes Gardens, through the New Gardens and on to the monument of Saint Peter. Ahead of them waited a huddle of Fathers and Priests, recording their achievements within their books, noting those showing prowess of strength and stamina.

  At the head of the pack ran Tacit, a lead of ten yards, now twelve, now fifteen, his head down, his arms pumping, his legs like pistons working against the gravel of the path. Unlike the other boys, his face wasn’t snarled in a knot of determination and hurt, but beamed with joy, cracking with laughter as he tore up to the monument for the second and final lap, his energy seemingly boundless, his speed unmatched.

  “That’s Poldek Tacit,” muttered a Father to another as the boy flew past.

  “He’s quick!”

  “The fastest of any of the ages.” another added.

  “They must have plans for him?”

  “They are saying he’s a prime candidate for joining the Inquisition.”

  “I’m not surprised. Look at him go. He’s strong. He has spirit.”

  “His master, Father Adansoni, seems less enamoured with the idea.”

  “Well, Adansoni has never been an advocate of the Inquisition. Felt it should have been closed in its entirety sixty years ago. Not allowed to … how does he say? Fester?”

  A studious-looking Father with thick-rimmed glasses tutted and shook his head. “But he never was a soldier was he, Adansoni?”

  “He spent the first twenty-five years of his Catholic service as a missionary!” a Father with a hood drawn up over his head added, cheering on the following pack now passing them.

  “Strange then that he has stayed so close to the Vatican since Tacit was brought here.”

  “They say he thinks of him as his son.”

  “A foolish thing to think. Once a child is brought into the Church, the Lord is his father.”

  “Seems to me the boy has too much spirit to be tied to anyone. Goodness me, look at him go!” the bespectacled Father cried, as Tacit sped across the lawns. “He’s, what, a hundred yards ahead of the others now?”

  “Of course. I hear they’re saying things about him,” a Priest with a daring shock of brown hair revealed.

  “Who, Adansoni?”

  “Tacit.”

  “Go on,” the Father replied, clapping the remaining stragglers past them and the monument.

  The brown-haired Priest lowered his voice and leaned closer to his colleagues. “They say there’s something about him. Whispers amongst the record holders and the keepers of the ancient writings. Whispers that he is the one.”

  “They say a lot of things,” the hooded Father replied, blowing through his lips. “One of what, exactly? A good athlete?”

  “A popular child?” suggested a Priest.

  “He certainly has a cheerfulness many of the Cardinals could learn from, that much is true!” another of the group blurted, and some of the others laughed.

  “Pope Leo XIII claims to have seen visions,” the brown-haired Priest continued.

  The Father’s face next to him dropped his head and his eyes widened in his skull. “Go on,” he said, intrigued.

  “Visions that a young boy will come from the east. The preordained one. That he’ll be found abandoned on high and will be rescued from the clutches of death. That he’ll display incredible and deft skills of hand and eye. That he’ll master languages. That warmth will follow him and emanate from him. That death will follow in his wake.”

  With that, another in the group said, “I have heard similar things spoken in the Holy See. That the one will come, and that the fate of all nations will be decided by him and him alone.”

  “Well, if that’s true, unless he becomes Pope himself, it sounds like the Inquisition is the only path for him.”

  “Adansoni won’t be pleased.”

  “Maybe not,” muttered the brown-haired Priest, dragging a hand across his head, “but Tacit’ll never change anything as a Father inside the Vatican.”

  “Unless he runs for Vatican City at the Olympic Games in three years’ time,” the Father with the hood suggested and they cheered as one as the runner sped over the line.

  SIXTEEN

  06:52. TUESDAY, 13 OCTOBER 1914. ARRAS. FRANCE.

  A sluggish stream of French soldiers, horses, wagons, guns, ammunition carts and pack mules was passing the door of the Lieutenant Colonel’s billet as Sandrine tore out from it. She fell back against the heat of the sun-scorched wall of the house and watched the soldiers pass. They looked dashing and irresistible, dressed like exotic flies in their blue uniform overcoats with flashes of red pantaloons and caps. They trudged past, muttering amongst each other in their ranks, faces set grim for the journey towards the east. Occasionally one would look over and wink at Sandrine, who, despite her anger at that ignorant English officer, returned their attentions with a blown kiss or a little wave of her fingers. Their Sergeant called them to order and urged them down the street. Sandrine watched them turn out of sight and a little shadow suddenly fell across her, as if her heart was a sun which had slipped behind a cloud.

  She looked back up at the window of her ex-lover’s house and then hurried quickly across the road, as if scurrying from prying eyes. The street into which she rushed was dark and cool, masked by tall buildings and wide roofs which blocked out any of the warmth. She felt her skin prickle with goosebumps as she lightly danced along it, heading for the shimmering glare of the main market square beyond. She plunged into the light and heat and came to a halt a little way in, standing with her head turned skywards, her arms tight by her sides, letting the sun wash over her like clear water. For how long she stood there she didn’t know, but she was aware of people shuffling hurriedly past, mumbling quietly to themselves as they were forced to step around her. Eventually she lowered her eyes and opened them on Alessandro and his stall.

  She didn’t go to Alessandro immediately. She watched him from where she stood, serving the staccato stream of nervous hurried customers shopping for their weekly meat, always showing disapproval of what Alessandro was able to offer by their heavy shrugs when faced with his war-rationed offerings – returned with a good
-humoured shrug from him. The war had taken its toll in many ways. The armies needed feeding, with both men and produce. Some families gave with their wares; others donated to the cause in more devastating ways.

  “Alessandro!” she called, skipping forward.

  “Sandrine!” Alessandro cheered, wiping his bloodied hands on his towel as he saw her approach. He gave them a final rub on the front of his apron and leaned forward to greet her with kisses. “How is it that you look even more beautiful with your clothes on than with them off?”

  “Alessandro, I always feel more beautiful when I see you,” she teased, and kissed him again, this time on the forehead.

  Alessandro’s name suggested a heritage more exotic than the truth. He had been born in Arras twenty-six years ago to Henri and Margot Dequois. Henri was so certain that he was directly descended from Roman emperors that he gave his first son a Roman sounding name. You could tell in an instant by Alessandro’s pallid complexion that his roots were firmly buried in the benign rolling hills of north-east France rather than the rich heat and romance of southern Italy.

  Alessandro’s fame as a butcher had originated courtesy of his father, from whom he inherited the business when arthritis forced Henri to sit out his days on the veranda of his modest townhouse. Alessandro’s prowess in butchery, and his eye for recognising the best farmers, quickly took the business from being simply admired to being city renowned. All the best cooks used Alessandro’s produce, all those wishing to impress dining guests chose from his choice wares. At least they did, before the war came. Now, he sold what he could to whoever was left in the city.