“Not quite what I was expecting,” said Dawson, sounding hollow.
“Be happy it wasn’t you on the charge,” replied Holmes. “It might be, next time.”
“Sheer bloody madness!” Henry muttered to himself, sinking down the wall, his back to no man’s land, as if unable to any longer look on the horror of the scene beyond. And yet, his mind wasn’t trained solely on the dead. He was also aware of the nagging fact that if he’d pushed through with Sandrine’s advice and withdrawn his troops to the houses, they would have been overrun. Fampoux would have been lost. He felt confused and sickened at the betrayal.
All that night the moans and howls of the injured haunted British trenches. They could hear sounds in the darkness of no man’s land, the retrieval of the wounded and of dear comrades fallen in the suicidal assault. At least, that was how it seemed to those listening in the British trench. They didn’t fire at the noises. How could they hit anything in the dark? And, after all, enough blood had been spilt for that day.
When dawn broke, they were surprised at how efficient the Germans had been at clearing away their dead.
PART FOUR
“Hell is empty for all the devils are here.”
William Shakespeare, The Tempest
SIXTY-TWO
06:57. THURSDAY, 15 OCTOBER 1914. ARRAS. FRANCE.
Isabella woke with the sun across her face. She shielded her eyes with the crook of her arm and swallowed, her tongue exploring the dry, chapped landscape of her lips. She swallowed again and opened an eye cautiously to the light. The soles of her feet ached. Her back and ribs ached. But her one open eye felt more or less unharmed, which gave her confidence that she was not totally damaged. She opened a second eye and squinted at the window, the thin blind a paper shield against the morning glare.
As she looked around she realised that Tacit was no longer sitting in the chair, silhouetted against the window, as he had been when sleep had finally taken the Sister in the early hours of the morning, despite her most determined resolve to stay awake with him. She was surprised to find herself disappointed by his absence. Her last memory had been of the Inquisitor, sat with his chin on his hands, staring hard out of the window of the hotel room he had found them, stock still as if he was made out of stone. She thought how apt it was to think of him as stone, hard of body, hard of heart. It had been her final memory when her thoughts span and dissipated with the first embracing charms of sleep.
The chair on which Tacit had spent the night was still drawn to face the window, the paper thin blind crumpled to one side to allow Tacit a view of the street outside and the only entrance to the building.
Tacit had chosen the hotel without a moment’s hesitation, as if he’d known it well, as if he’d known it would ensure safe solitude for the night. It was too dangerous to stay at the Catholic residence any longer, too dangerous to return to Tacit’s old decrepit hotel.
He’d carried her from the residence, despite his far more terrible wounds, to save her feet, across the city to this hotel, without a thought for himself. Though his wounds must have roared in their resistance to his new burden, he made no noise nor gave any sign as to his discomfort. No one took any notice of them as they crossed the city, Isabella clutched in his arms, the Inquisitor bleeding profusely. German bombs had fallen across many parts of the city. The injured being carried was a common sight. In his arms, she felt like a child who had climbed into an old and ancient oak tree and sought refuge within its thick branches. She remarked to herself that, in the past, she would have rallied against being treated quite so gallantly by any man. But after last night she felt a very different person to the one who had met Tacit just those few days before.
She caught sight of herself in the mirror on the wall and saw that she was smiling wistfully. She raised her fingers to her lips, as if to test what the vision in the mirror was telling her; whether the thought of Tacit had really brought a smile and a warmth to her. She closed her eyes and shook her head gently, both appalled and amused at her weakness in being drawn to this dreadful man, this brutish, rude, proud, protective, honourable man. She breathed deeply and told herself to get a hold of herself.
Isabella listened to the sounds of the city outside, the babble of voices, the soft rumble of feet on the street. She moved a hand to her side and felt her ribs. They were sore and tender, crying out when she moved. She waggled her feet carefully. Last night, when they’d arrived at the room, Tacit had laid her gently onto the bed and, under candlelight, had delicately extracted every shard of glass he’d had been able to locate from the soles of them. His dexterity and care had touched her deeply. This brute of a man was perhaps less of a brute than she, and others, had previously taken him for.
With that thought, she now felt guilty for lounging in the bed and forced herself to sit up, almost weeping as her ribs curled over themselves. She threw her legs over the side of the bed and gently settled them onto the carpeted floor. They took her weight and there was little pain returned by them. She levered herself upright, battling through the agony of her side to finally stand straight. The pain ebbed away in waves as she did so, her breath returning to her. She stepped carefully, deliberately, towards the mirror, guarding her side against too much movement which might aggravate the ribs again. She wondered if she’d broken them. She took a deep breath and there was only a little pain which bit back at her. Bruised. Just bruised.
She peered into the bathroom, on the unlikely chance that Tacit had taken to sleeping in the bath and was still there, languishing against the porcelain. She imagined him sleeping, snoring as he slept. The thought brought a wry smile to her lips, quickly lost when she caught sight of herself in the mirror, her bruised and battered face, one blackened eye, the white of it bloodied and demonic. She played with her hair in an attempt to improve the picture and waved a hand at her reflection in defeat.
Carefully she crossed her hands around herself and lifted her undergarment slowly, very slowly, over her head, wincing as delicate white fabric slipped over her buttocks, her breasts and her head. She set it on the bed knob and turned back to the mirror to regard her bruised side. Where china white skin had once been there was now black and deep crimson-looking flesh, down her side to her hip bone and back up around the heavy hang of her breast, her raspberry-coloured nipple and into her armpit. She stood looking at her reflection and shook her head to see how battered she appeared.
“You’re a mess, Sister,” she said to herself, but inside she could feel the tingle of excitement that this world of adventure and danger gave her.
Footsteps suddenly sounded in the corridor outside, their approach catching Isabella by surprise. Before she could cover herself, the door was thrust open and Tacit burst in. His eyes fell upon the topless Sister – Isabella’s wide eyes upon Tacit, her hands shooting across herself to conceal her nakedness.
Instantly, Tacit stepped back out, pulling the door hard behind him.
Isabella grabbed back the undergarment and tumbled it over her head, forgetting the pain and discomfort the rapid act of dressing caused. Her heart beat and she could feel an arousal shimmer inside of her as she called out, “Sorry! You can come in!”
Slowly the Inquisitor opened the door and with a childlike awkwardness shuffled sheepishly into the room, his eyes fixed firmly to the floor.
“Sorry about that, Tacit,” Isabella soothed, tousling her hair in an attempt to improve her respectability. “I’m sure you’ve seen women’s breasts before?”
Tacit mumbled something indiscernible and thumped the basket of provisions he had bought down onto the sideboard. Isabella heard the sound of chinking glass and correctly guessed Tacit had bought not only food. Still without looking at her, he pulled the bottle of cognac from the bag by the neck and gathered up a glass. He dropped himself into his chair and uncorked the bottle, filling the glass to the top with the rich brown liquid.
“There’s food in the bag,” he grunted, necking the drink and refilling the glass. “Bread.”<
br />
“Are you eating?”
“No,” Tacit answered, downing the second glass and refilling it for a third time.
Isabella peered into the bag. Sure enough, there was bread, but also fruit. Isabella was touched by Tacit’s consideration. She didn’t realise how hungry she was until she smelled the aroma of the freshly baked bread rising from inside. She fished inside and took a roll out, sitting on the bed near to Tacit and taking a greedy bite.
“Don’t you ever eat?” she asked, taking a second bite and catching the falling crumbs in a hand.
“When I need to,” Tacit replied, drinking half his drink and nursing the remains of it in his lap.
Isabella nodded. It seemed a fair answer. She just wondered how a man so big had never needed to eat as long as she had been in his company.
“How’s the side?” she asked.
“Fine,” replied Tacit, as enthusiastic as the room’s plain decor. “It was a good field dressing. Thank you.”
“Pleasure,” Isabella replied. “Goes to show they teach you something of use at Catechism classes.What time is it?” she asked, finishing the hard round roll and reaching for something else to eat from the bag.
“Late,” muttered Tacit, allowing himself a brief look at the Sister before returning his gaze to the window. Isabella wasn’t sure if it was said with annoyance or was typical of the Inquisitor’s gruff manner.
“Much happening out there?” she asked, picking an apple from the bag and brushing crumbs from her clothing. She knew it was pointless to try and engage Tacit in idle conversation but she felt the urge to try. It felt daring and wild to sit as she was, beside him, dressed in just her nightgown.
Tacit stared solemnly out of the window, one hand clenched to the glass, one hand clenched to the bottle, as if they were the two most important things to him on the planet.
“Sounds like no more bombs—”
“So why’ve they sent you?” Tacit interrupted, his eyes still fixed the skyline.
“Sent me? I don’t know what you mean.”
Tacit ignored the Sister’s apparent ignorance. “Why’ve they sent you? Do they think I’ve lost my way?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Isabella insisted, trying to sound surprised.
“Don’t lie to me!” Tacit hissed, now putting his eyes firmly onto the Sister. They were cold and dark. There was no light in them at all. He looked exhausted, as if he’d taken no sleep all night. The rings beneath them were as black as coal. “You said to me there was an assignment,” he continued, “when we first met.”
“I never—”
“Hombre Lobo.”
“And that was true.”
“You don’t need to play tricks with me, Sister. This wasn’t about protecting the Catholic Church, was it? This is about investigating me. I’m the assessment. I’m being assessed for my suitability as an Inquisitor, aren’t I? What is it? File a report on me every night?”
“I don’t know—”
“Don’t you dare lie to me, Sister! I know. You slipped up. You knew about my interrogation of the Orthodox Christians the other night. My methods. And yet you were never with me, never knew about what I’d done. Never knew, unless you’d been told, of course. Which you were, weren’t you? Briefed. Updated. Advised, as to my behaviour. Did Father Strettavario come and tell you that night? Wake you from your bed with news of my disdainful actions?”
Isabella shook her head. Her heart sank and her mind rushed in on itself like a whirlpool. She silently cursed herself for her reckless comment but still she was unable to bring herself to make an open admission.
“No, there was never any assignment for me. There was only yours, your assignment about me, to assess me, to see if I’ve fallen. Just so happened that when you found me, a murder had just taken place. Never part of the original assessment. The assessment was just about me. Whether you could corrupt me, see if I’d gone awry. Then the murder happened. A useful chance to test me further and to hide the true intentions of your appearance. A fluke. You’ve been sent by the Vatican, haven’t you, to assess me?”
Now it was Isabella’s turn to look away. She stared blindly through the shade into the sunlight, her eyes seeing nothing.
“They think I’ve lost my faith, don’t they?”
“Have you?” Isabella shot back.
Tacit scowled. “Who sent you? Cardinal Delvoria? Cardinal –”
“Who cares who sent me, Tacit? Have you lost your way?” Isabella asked again.
“What do you think?”
“I can only comment on what I see.”
“And what’s that?”
“Oh come on, Tacit. Do I really have to answer that? The drinking? The brooding?”
“The exorcism? Was that …”
“Part of the assessment?” she hissed. She swept back her scarlet hair, her hands clenched firm. “Yes. They wanted to see if you’d lost your edge.”
“Clearly I hadn’t. That should have been the end of it.” He went to drink and found his glass empty. “But no, they wanted to dig deeper. Wasn’t enough for me to battle with the Church’s greatest enemy, eh?” He refilled the glass and drained it in a single neck. “And you?” he asked, a voice like granite, his finger pointing accusatorially, “What’s your role in all this, eh? To tempt me? To see if I would fail in the temptations of the flesh? Done this before have you, Sister?”
Isabella nodded wearily.
“I doubt it. I’m your first, aren’t I? You don’t fill me with confidence, Sister.”
Isabella shook her hair in front of her face as a way of hiding from the questions and stole her way mournfully to the bathroom, taking her clothes from the end of the bed as she went.
“What do they think?” Tacit shouted from his chair. His anger terrified her. He was going to storm up out of his chair after her, but, despite his rage, he couldn’t summon the energy to do so. “Do they think I’ve fallen from the path with more than my drinking and my faith? Thought that I would be tempted? That I would wish to fuck a whore of the Vatican?”
The words tormented and disgusted her. “How dare you!” roared Isabella, storming forward to strike him. Her hands were drawn white with rage. “How dare you call me such a thing?”
“Well, look at you. You never looked like any Sister I’ve ever seen!” he cried, climbing out of his chair.
“And you’re not like any Inquisitor, Inquisitor! What happened to the man who’s hanging on the wall of the Vatican? The Inquisitor of honour? The one with a light in his eyes and a urgency in his features?”
“He got old.”
“That’s rubbish, Tacit. You’re not—”
“What? Old?” Tacit spat. He stopped and stepped towards her. She fell away from him, terrified by his size and anger, until she hit the wall behind her. Tacit loomed over her, so close she could smell the reek of his alcohol-soaked breath, see the deep blue of his irises. He pressed himself tight to her, his thigh against hers, one hand flat to the wall to the left of her head, the other flat against the wall to her right, locking her inside a cage of his making. She could feel her breath surge in and out, her breast rise and fall beneath her flimsy nightdress. She knew she could slip away, under his left hand, but something held her firm, some invisible power clenching her tight to the wall. She felt herself go weak, about to swoon in front of the Inquisitor’s firm and fierce glare. But as she felt her legs begin to buckle, he turned and stepped away, back to his chair, his back to the wall and to Isabella.
“You might have assessed Bishops and Priests in the past but not Inquisitors. If you’d known any Inquisitors, properly known any Inquisitors, then you’d know. This is what this role does to you,” he said, opening his arms, as if to reveal himself to her. “There’s a weight which is applied, a burden which all Inquisitors must carry. The Catholic Church has been busy for too long with its misdemeanours. We spend our lives cleaning up what our superiors within the Church have deemed necessary to ensure the heretics are silence
d and the Church continues. And the only signs the Lord gives us are the creatures and the things he sends for us to contend with.”
“I don’t like the rhetoric, Inquisitor,” said Isabella, regaining her voice and her composure.
“You’re not alone. Neither do the accused who’ve had their arms torn out during confession. Neither do the heretics whose bones have been powdered and flesh liquefied whilst repentances have been beaten from them. Neither does the pregnant rape victim whose unborn child has been ripped from her belly and burnt in front of her eyes. How many exorcisms have you attended?”
Isabella hesitated. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything?”
“Then you will never have seen the way the demon looks at you. The way it watches you out of the corner of its evil eye.”
“What has that got to do with anything?”
“Everything. You know why it looks at you like it does?” Isabella shook her head. “Because it knows it’s winning!”
“I don’t know what you mean?”
“Look around you, Sister. Look at how we act, the deeds we carry out. Look outside of that window. Look to the horizon. Look at what mankind is doing to itself? Can you not see the devil’s hand in everything we do?”
“By that I suppose you mean this war? War has always been part of the fabric of our very being. We go to war to ensure good is preserved.”
“Precisely. Perhaps there is no need any more for the devil for we have taken over his role in bringing darkness to the planet. Perhaps we have become so infected by his wickedness that we are all his vessels now. We are legion.”
“Say not such things! War is, Tacit. It has always been.”
Tacit spat dismissively. “War is the devil’s plaything. But if you think war’s an acceptable face of mankind …”
The Darkest Hand Trilogy Box Set Page 25
