by Will Thomas
“How old would you say the manuscript is? I know you said it was first century, but how late? The nineties? The seventies? Earlier?”
“It is certainly very old, but we have had only a day to examine it. We are as frustrated as you seem to be, Mr. Barker. Were I to guess, and really, it is no more than a guess, I would say either late eighties to mid-nineties, possibly even earlier. The Archbishop of Canterbury agrees.”
“Very early, indeed,” I said.
“Quite.”
The Guv looked grave, even moved.
“Take the case, Mr. Barker. It’s kept an old man awake forty hours. Let the Holy Fathers in Rome puzzle over it for a while.”
Barker started to rise, but His Eminence’s hand came down upon his and he prayed over us in Latin. It took a few minutes. In the middle of leaning forward, the Guv found himself in a difficult position, literally. He dared not move during the prayer, so he sat with one hand on the back of the chair and the other clasping the archbishop’s. The old man eventually wound down and we were able to depart.
“Protect it, Mr. Barker,” the old man said. “Protect it with your life. I prayed for courage and wisdom for you. I suspect you may need both.”
CHAPTER SIX
After we returned to our chambers, Barker spent a good part of an hour on the telephone set arguing loudly with someone in Cantonese or Mandarin. It might have been a full-blown dispute, or not. For a nonspeaker, it is difficult to tell.
Six o’clock arrived. We gathered our sticks and hats and went home. All I could think of was seeing Rebecca’s face again. Her smile was everything. A downcast look would make me do whatever was necessary to lift it again. I still pinched myself that this woman, this prize, had decided against common sense and most of the Jewish East End to become my wife.
It wouldn’t do to be seen giving her a resounding kiss in the front hall, and anyway, she was in the kitchen with Mac. He was teaching her the process whereby the meal begun by Etienne Dummolard in the morning reached our table hot and freshly prepared at dinner. Some of the food was kept in the icebox ready to cook, some simmered for hours on a low flame, while salads were prepared with fresh ingredients from a small greenhouse and the kitchen garden behind the house. I told Rebecca she need not go to the trouble, that Mac had done everything for years, but she said she wanted to learn herself. She said it was “wifely,” whatever that means.
“Hello!” I said, putting my head into the kitchen.
That smile bloomed immediately. Mac evaporated in that way he has. He is very sensitive to moods. I gave her the kiss I promised myself and hugged her.
“I missed you,” she murmured, brushing back a black curl that had escaped her knot of hair. “Did you miss me?”
“My dear, you have no idea.”
Barker took himself off as soon as he entered, muttering a word under his breath: “Mensurites.” I wondered if we would take the satchel to Calais tomorrow. He did not seem to be in much of a hurry. After several years, I have learned both to not ask questions and to act as if I knew all along when he decides to reveal a plan.
Dinner was served, beef Wellington with roasted potatoes and cauliflower. Barker did not speak of the case at all, as if nothing of interest had occurred that day. He ate and rarely spoke. Rebecca was still studying my employer’s foibles, and one was that he rarely compliments or complains about a meal unless pressed. In her presence, I could not speak of the case, either, which gave us little to talk about.
“Are you going to class tonight?” she asked me.
I had been taking a fencing class while waiting for the Guv to be well enough to resume his antagonistics. It was one way to stay in fit form.
“I had intended to, if it isn’t inconvenient.”
At this, I looked at the Guv and not my wife, but she was the one who answered.
“Of course not. I was planning to do some sewing.”
“Good, then,” I said, when Barker did not change expression.
After dinner, Mac shooed us out of the kitchen and I went upstairs to change. In turn, I told Rebecca about my day, which alternately alarmed and interested her. Then she told me about helping Etienne, which was in many ways more alarming still. He is like a dragon in its lair. I tucked my uniform into my bag and prepared to go. I could be back home after eight and we would have a few hours to ourselves.
The antagonistics school the Guv owned in Soho had been temporarily closed due to his injury. Not long after, a man by the name of Alfred Hutton came to see us, asking to lease it on the nights when it was empty. He and a coterie he brought with him wanted to use the building for fencing. The rooms were well appointed for it; there was a long row of mirrors on one side of the room, padded floors on the other, a locker room, and a water closet. Since I was in charge of all business aspects of the school, I readily agreed and had him sign a contract on the spot. Before I knew it, I was attending the class myself. I’d had a fencing lesson or two at university and as far as I was concerned, it was the next logical step in my training.
When I arrived a quarter hour later, most of the group was assembled.
“Come, gentlemen!” the captain called. “Class starts in two minutes!”
Captain Hutton looked like a musketeer. He had an impressive imperial mustache, a military bearing, and an encyclopedic knowledge of European blood sport going back to Roman times. His class was a ragtag group of men, many of them writers, so I felt myself at home.
We went through the footwork at first: advance, retreat, lunge, and recover. Hutton discussed distances, the short, the middle and long, and the need for a thorough knowledge of each, as well as how to use it against an opponent. Then we retired for a rest. There was a large pitcher of sparkling water studded with lemon slices on a table, alongside several tumblers. Hutton pretended not to notice that some of the class generally carried a flask of gin among their effects.
“Captain,” I asked, since Hutton was once an officer of the King’s Dragoon Guards, “Are you familiar with something called ‘Mensurites’?”
The corners of his waxed imperial quivered like the antennas of an ant. “Mensurites! Where did you hear such a word?”
“I heard it in passing recently,” I answered, unwilling to tell him it came from Barker or in what context I had heard it.
Hutton cleared his throat. “It’s a style of fencing in Eastern Europe, taught mostly in universities and schools. It’s also known as ‘academic fencing.’ Gentlemen, come here!”
He’s an excitable chap, our captain, and there is a bit of the scholar in him. I had noticed before that he can be easily thrown off track by the proper question.
“Thomas,” he said, “bring your épée.”
He pulled me into the center of the room. I hate it when I’m called into a demonstration and I don’t know what is about to happen. I always feel and look a fool. Unfortunately, I had brought this on myself.
“En garde!” he cried, and I stepped into position, sword in front of me, held loosely in my right hand, the left floating behind my head, balanced mostly on the back leg, but ready to step forward with the right.
“Mr. Llewelyn has asked me to demonstrate what is known as academic fencing. Here he stands in the classic fencing position. Step forward, please.”
I did so and our blades touched. We fenced for a moment. Naturally, he was the better man.
“Classic,” he said, stopping. “But actually, not classic at all. It is from the modern French School. Now, Mr. Llewelyn, will you demonstrate the La Canne position taught in your own antagonistics class?”
“Yes, sir.”
I stepped back so that my left foot was in front and the épée was in my right hand behind me, raised over my head so the blade hung down in front of my eyes. My left arm was flung forward, bent at the elbow.
“Very well. That looks a trifle awkward, does it not? The left arm floats unprotected, almost asking to be slashed, while the sword hovers about the head from behind. How was such an od
d position created, Mr. Llewelyn?”
“I scarce can say, sir,” I answered.
A student behind me raised a hand.
“Yes, Mr. Barrie?”
“Sir, it was meant to be worn with armor! The left hand would be holding a shield or buckler.”
“Excellent. Now, Mr. Llewelyn, let us fence for a moment from this position.”
We put on our masks and began. It was awkward, as he said, but I was used to it by now. The sword circles one’s head, then whips across in front of the face. He lunged and I jumped back. I lunged and he stepped to the side. I had never seen him in our La Canne class before, but the skills must have been the same as the medieval form of swordplay. I nearly caught him once, but he jumped nimbly away at the last moment.
“You’ve got the gist, gentlemen. We have the modern fencing position, right foot forward, and we have the older Medieval style, with the left foot forward. Do you see?”
We all agreed that we did.
“Is this how Mensurites fight, Captain?” I asked.
“That is another good question. Come, Mr. Llewelyn, let us take positions again. Let me move a little closer. Begin!”
I stepped back and raised my sword arm high.
“Stop!”
I pulled off my mask. “What’s wrong?”
“You stepped back.”
“Of course I did.”
“Mensurites never step back. They fight toe-to-toe.”
It took everyone in the class a moment to understand what he was saying.
“You could get yourself killed, sir!” I cried.
“They sometimes do, more often than they might admit. Oh, and their swords, the Korbschläger and the Glockenschläger, they have no button and one edge is sharp. I’d even say razor sharp.”
We all considered that for a moment.
“Oh,” the captain added, “and the general target is the head.”
“How does one keep from getting cut?” another student asked, aghast.
“One doesn’t, Mr. Hope. The duel ends when one of the fencers bleeds. One often sees men from that part of the world wearing dueling scars. The smite shows everyone this man is a Mensurite. It is a badge of honor. Students bleed like slaughtered pigs in the ring. Some do battle dozens of times, getting one scar after another. It becomes a form of fascination for them. I have seen some truly hideous dueling scars during my visits to Heidelberg and Berlin, men with missing noses and twisted faces sitting in cafés as if the disfigurement were commonplace, which in a way, I suppose it is.”
I looked about. There were perhaps a dozen of us, each of our faces frozen in a rictus of disgust.
“Now,” Captain Hutton went on. “I believe we shall spend the rest of the class practicing academic fencing and how to defend against a Mensurite. Fortunately, all of your blades have buttons and you are not using sabers, so there are no sharp edges to concern you. You also have masks. All the same, have a care. I have had more than one metal splinter in my neck and do not recommend them.”
There are plenty of battered canes about our school. Hutton placed one on the mat closely behind each of us. We faced each other, adjusted our masks and began. What happened after was sheer panic. We were completely unaccustomed to fighting an opponent at such close quarters. It was ungainly. It was unnatural. It was difficult to thrust, to parry, or to riposte. I longed to step back over the stick to more comfortable ground, but I dared not.
I noticed immediately how a clash of swords, with so little room to maneuver, ended with the button of the sword rasping along the wire grillwork of the mask. I shuddered to imagine such a duel without it, facing a naked blade. It seemed all too easy to be cut to ribbons. Fencing requires space. Oh, I suppose a man can endure a minute or two, but nothing beyond that. The thought that one might do this sort of thing voluntarily and even pay for the privilege was beyond all reckoning.
Then I faced Alfred Hutton himself. The man had no trouble at all with close quarters, or long quarters, or any sort of quarters. He was so skillful, I suspected he’d teethed on a sword as an infant. No longer a soldier in uniform, he needed something to slake his bloodlust, and at the moment, I was that something. Against all odds, I survived the encounter. My mask, however, was dented in several places, and required some pushing from the inside later to return it to its original shape.
By the time we finished, we were all damp and exhausted. All, that is, save the captain, who looked exhilarated. It occurred to me that an Englishman does not learn such things from a book. A man wishing to resurrect an archaic art might go to great lengths, such as fencing with real blades without a mask. Come to think of it, did I see part of a scar on his chin, nearly covered by that imposing imperial? It made me pause.
Afterward, a couple of students suggested a drink at the Royal, which was only a street away. I would have readily agreed had I not a beautiful bride awaiting me. Fencing is a fine pastime, but after all, there are priorities. I bade them all adieu for the night and endured some chaffing from the lot. They knew where I was going and why.
I left them and went in search of a cab. When I saw one, I raised an arm, the one not holding the bag with my change of clothes. The next I knew, I was tackled from behind. There was a brief struggle. Three men stood over me in long blue coats and billed caps. They attempted a kick or two, but as it happened, I was a better fighter than all of them. After a minute, the assailants turned and fled, laughing as they disappeared into the night. As I sat up and looked about, I realized their intent. They had taken the Gladstone in which I carried my fencing uniform, which they must have thought was the satchel.
There was little harm done. One of my hands was skinned a bit, and my waistcoat had lost a button. I would have to purchase a new uniform and replace my bag. I realized how desperate someone was to lay hands on the manuscript. Climbing into the cab, I realized something more: the Prime Minister had failed. The Mensurites, whoever they were, knew we had been hired, possibly even before we began. Perhaps we should be released from our duties. That led me to consider something else: somewhere among Her Majesty’s Government, the Roman Catholic Church, and the Home Office, there was a spy. Our possession of the ancient text put us in grave danger.
I arrived in Newington a quarter hour later, tired and bruised, anxious to talk to Barker. I went into the house and encountered Mac in the hall. He jumped from his butler’s pantry by the front door like a cuckoo clock.
“Is the Guv in?” I asked.
“He is, but he is leaving soon.”
“Leaving? Why?”
“He did not confide in me.”
That was the extent to which he would answer my questions. In the library, Rebecca stood from the settee and greeted me.
“How was your evening?” I asked.
“It was fine. How was yours?”
I shrugged. “The usual. Nothing to speak of.”
There was no use alarming her over so trivial a matter, I had decided. Such an incident, involving being tackled by a trio of young men bigger than me in order to lay hands upon a manuscript that could very well change the face of Christianity would only frighten her. I would tell the Guv as soon as I could speak to him.
Cyrus Barker entered the room with a businesslike, almost grim expression. He came to where Rebecca was sitting and bowed to her.
“Mrs. Llewelyn, I have a favor to ask.”
“Certainly, Mr. Barker. What is it?”
“I should like to borrow your husband for the night. All night, if convenient.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Is what you are doing dangerous?” Rebecca asked. “Is it illegal?”
“What we shall be about is not illegal,” Cyrus Barker assured her. “However, the government would not be well disposed toward what we shall be doing.”
“We’re breaking into the satchel!” I cried.
“We are.”
“But it’s in the vault at Cox and Co.”
“Oh, lad, pray give me some credit. Ma’a
m?”
Rebecca leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. She had more sangfroid than I, willing to challenge the Guv, but then she did not feel the need to win his approval.
“Does this happen often?” she asked.
“Which, Mrs. Llewelyn? Working all night or involving ourselves in questionable activities?”
“Both.”
“It does not happen often, but it happens.”
“Take him, then, but bring him back in the same condition.”
“Agreed.” The Guv turned to me. “Thomas, go to this address. You are looking for Professor Alan Wessel. Ask him to come for the night, and be persuasive.”
“How persuasive?”
“Offer him a financial inducement. Professors are never well paid.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, and don’t bring him here. Go to Limehouse.”
“Ho’s?”
“Precisely.”
Twenty minutes later, I was at the University of London, where I found the professor was giving a late tutorial. I waited outside in the hall for him. Eventually, the door opened and he ushered the student out. Wessel was perhaps fifty, with thick spectacles and a short beard. He was still wearing his robes. After the student had gone, he looked at me, trying to decide if I were a student myself. I stood.
“Professor Wessel?” I enquired. “Barker sent me.”
The man stiffened. “Cyrus Barker?”
“The same.”
“What does he want?”
“Your services, sir. I suspect they shall be required all night.”
“All night?” Wessel exclaimed. “Are you mad? I have a wife. I cannot go off to who-knows-where without a word to her.”
“Then write a message. I’ll see it’s delivered.”
“Look, this is deuced inconvenient,” he said. “What does he want with me?”
“I don’t know the particulars,” I admitted. “What is your field of research?”
“Ancient languages.”
“Ah,” I said, the light dawning. “I suspect you will find this an interesting night. Very interesting, but then it generally is when Barker is about.”
