I rattled my chains. I’d heard the idiot words before, across fields of vanquished bottles.
“The house is gone. But the Aldermen have given me the lot. We shall build upon it a new house, a place of display where art is free to all, rich and poor. Grand art and simple beauty, to view in light and space. It shall change the city, as no law of tax or rights can achieve. We shall change the world.”
“Tedious. It will change nothing, only give the rich the pretense they return what they take from the poor by allowing them to see things only the wealthy own.”
He argued it awhile, while I dozed in my chains. No different than our dinner debates about art and freedom, the future of the world of machines and banks. Eventually he wandered away.
The second visitor was Green. To his credit he entered my cell.
“My dear boy, I hope they are treating you well?”
I considered. “I’m beaten less often since the trial. We won’t talk about the food.”
“Ah,” said Green. “Excellent. Let’s proceed to the hanging.”
“Today?” I asked. “I thought it came Friday.”
Green looked about, ensuring himself none hid in my tiny square of a stone mausoleum. He peered beyond the door, pushed it closed so we stood breathing the same foul air.
“There shall be no hanging,” he whispered. “I have arranged a full pardon for the Seraph, to be announced as he stands upon the gallows. The King himself grants it, in respect for your earlier service to crown and city.”
I considered, tamping down the flame of hope. “Why should he? Why should you?”
Green looked annoyed. “Rayne, I am not your enemy. I supported you long past when your words and acts became a threat to my own interests, and the interests of the cause we shared. I warned you so, but you are not a man to take hints.”
“And yet, I went to Black’s warehouse that night on your orders.”
“Where you failed to achieve your goal. Worse, you were identified. Had you been more practical, then failure would not have been fatal. You are a dreamer, Rayne Gray. You kill casually in an alley, then spare when you should strike. You stage-play what should be practical, efficient business.”
“While those like you, practical and efficient, surrender to Black?”
“His methods are callous, but his aims are clear. Power for himself, by making city and kingdom powerful. Wealth for himself, by directing wealth to city and kingdom. I opposed his cruel trades, his dishonest dealings, no less than you. But I make no answer to their results. You gave people words, Rayne. A striking figure holding dramatic pose. While Black has built factories, ships, created routes of trade and employ for thousands.”
“He steals people from their homes and sets them to work for him. He builds prisons he calls factories and locks the poor inside to turn wheels till wheel or man is broken. He sets laws upon the street to bind words, acts, thoughts, creating more poor to use as grist to his mills. That’s the vision of the coming world we toasted ten years back? A grand smoke-filled prison-house of banks and chains?”
Green raised arms in affront. “Who the hellfire cares what we daydreamed as boys?”
I considered. I considered my chains, my bruises, the evil dank cell, and gave as honest an answer as I’ve ever given in my life.
“I care,” I said. The Court of Ghosts and Shadows saw no further use for his testimony. I ignored him till he exited the dock, sighing.
The third visitor was Stephano. He came in, stood staring. I returned the stare, wondered if I could lure him within reach. I was feeling stronger of late. I have always prospered with poor rations, hard beds. Really all I need is sleep. I decided I could choke him, given the chance. He continued silent.
“To think we called you Mr. Talkative,” I laughed.
“We,” he growled. He tasted the word. It displeased him.
“Elspeth and I,” I reminded him. “Remember the girl? Red hair, pale. Freckles. Laughed at cats. Sang in kitchen sunlight. Refused to kill the snails in the side-garden. Tossed them over the wall to find a new life on someone else’s flowers. Knife in her heart.”
He stared. Fists clenched. Fist of a face clenched.
“Why?” I asked. It could be the only real word between us.
He twisted his gaze, seeking something to burn with hot red eyes. The room held only stone, iron chain and myself. Not things consumable to burning gaze.
“Alderman Green sent me word you were to be arrested. Guards would come. Green told me to remove papers, letters and such. I told Elspeth you were done. I told her to run off with me. She said no. Girl worshiped you. Worshiped the Seraph. So I went to the library, took the money and that Hindu dagger of yours I fancied. But I left the jewels, the papers, the blades and other things. Seemed fair.
“I came out and El tried to bash my head from behind with a candle-stick. I turned and killed her. Didn’t have a thought in the move.”
I recalled a farmhouse, a farm-wife with a knife. A child playing outside. The blue ball with white stripes. I had no choice but to nod, knowing such could happen.
“El lay on the floor staring at me surprised. I sat saying forgive, forgive, holding her hand. After a while I saw it was your fault, not mine. I knew you’d still kill me for it. I wasn’t having that. I wasn’t going to run like a coward. And I wasn’t going to let you off. You poisoned that girl’s brain. Brought that child to your bed. I needed to say it so to your face. I’m doing it now. I killed her. You never would have done so. Still it was your fault, not mine.”
The Court of Ghost and Shadows duly considered the testimony. Had I corrupted Elspeth? A timid girl-woman I rescued from drunken sailors, brought to my house. A full half-year of flirting, of blushes and shy eyes before she knocked upon my door, slipped into my bed, pale and warm, soft as silk sheets. Fiery in embrace. Nothing shy in how she touched. Nothing tearful in how she arched to be touched.
“I never forced Elspeth,” I testified.
Mr. Talkative wasn’t listening. He hadn’t come to hear, but to be heard.
“So I went back, collected all the treasure, put the note in the book and left the house. I just had to wait for you to find me. I didn’t know Black and Green planned that trick with her poor body. That was wrong. That was desecration. I’ll kill them for that. Take my promise to hell with you. I’ll be sending them along soon after.”
I laughed. “Of course. Kill them for making use of her body. Spare yourself for killing her, because she would not let you make use of that same body.”
Stephano started as though slapped.
“She preferred me to you, man,” the Prosecution accused. “You killed her for that. All else, idiot words.”
Stephano drew knife from a sleeve. He approached. I prepared my feet, not liking the odds. The man threw back his head and howled for a wolf. Shocked me. So also when he knelt. Played the knife edge a bit around his throat, howled again then sliced.
“Guards!” I shouted. To my surprise they came. They were impressed, sure the Seraph had cleverly cut a man’s throat while chained to the wall. A compliment, I suppose. I instructed the idiots in holding fast the spurting vein, in cutting cloth and binding the wound. They carried him away still breathing, leaving me in the familiar stench of fresh hot blood.
I had no curiosity as to whether my pirate-valet lived. My home was gone, and those who dwelt in it. Lost glory, now. So happy we had been. Wanderers across separate seas, who found a home together. So proud we were, to be us.
Last came Black.
“There is to be a failed attempt to rescue you tonight.”
“Credit to them for the try,” I said. “Anyone I know?” My list of friends had grown short of late.
Black shook his head. “Just rowdies who like to shout ‘huzza the Seraph’ while pissing on the wall of the Aldermen’s Guild, that sort of thing. They are scheduled to make a drunken rush at sunset, burst inside. Stern guards of the Law force them back, god bless ‘em. Alas, during the conf
lict someone put a bolt into your personage. Perhaps to prevent your escape. Or perhaps they felt the coming industrial age required a nobler Seraph. An angel of steel parts, a winged furnace defending prosperity.”
“Seems a complicated bother. The bolt, I mean, not the mechanical angel. Why not wait to hang me tomorrow?” I wondered if he knew of Green’s alleged pardon. If it existed, he must know.
“Too dramatic,” said Black. “Too many chances for a noble pose, a martyr’s stand. No, a failed attempt at escape serves better. As comic failure, since news of your death will be combined with the announcement of your pardon. Irony fit for a middling tragedy, something played out in the hinterlands.”
He scratched at the black periwig. A habit I recalled from years back. He wore the things to give himself a darker look. But it forever itched at him, like a conscience or a flea.
I felt suddenly reminiscent. “Of us three, only Green kept from becoming a stage-theatre version of himself. You’ve declined into the sly villain, tiptoeing in dark velvet, pulling your strings, setting your traps. I became the heroic bore, sure of victory for my loud voice, stomp of foot.”
Black scratched again, considered. “No, Green fell to the same disease. Why, the man is not a year older than you or I. Yet forever calling both of us ‘my son’. Drives me mad.”
I laughed. “That wise sigh of his, as though he were a thousand ages old, advising caution, restraint from wine and women and hasty moves.”
Black stamped a boot. “I declare the man practices that sigh. Can you not picture him doing so?”
“And the way he puts his hand upon your shoulder, patting kindly to say ‘you will see as I do, when you are wise as I’”.
Black mimed the pat, I mimicked the sigh. There came a shout from far down the corridor.
“And your failed rescue begins,” said Black, and drew crossbow from beneath his robes. He played with the settings a bit. “Where best to strike a man dead? I have practiced as I can. Chest seems easiest, but is it sure of death?”
I considered. “If that is a steel wire, I’d go with the head,” I advised. “Takes force to send it through bone. Neck is most likely to kill, but the hardest target. Best fire close.” I yawned, tensing, readying feet.
Black stepped closer, humming to himself. Shouting came down the hall, and then a scream. The thump of a body as though falling from the sky.
“Sounds as though they are making a mess of things,” said Black. “But I suppose we are paying for a mess. One can hardly organize a riot.” He took another step forwards, raised the crossbow. He considered me, what last words to say.
“Do you remember a night-street five years past, where you rescued a lost colleen of red hair and green eyes? Saved from drunken sailors? Took her home, gave her employ as your house maid, took to your bed?”
I had never told anyone how I met Elspeth. She might have. No reason to keep it secret. I turned my head puzzled, as though unable to hear. Black stepped closer.
“I arranged that encounter. She was mine first, till I tired of her, sent her to you.”
I lashed with a foot, not too soon but not fast enough. Black leaped to safety, laughed. Of course he’d seen the intent. Worth my try.
“And with that,” he began. He did not finish. A scream came just outside the cell, a man in terror of his life. Hands scrabbled at the door, pushed it open. Someone struggled to enter, failed. The hands disappeared, dragged away. The scream ended with a ghastly gurgle.
“A bit trop,” observed Black. A dry remark, befitting a velvet villain upon the stage. Alas, his voice shook, spoiling the delivery. He turned, aimed the crossbow at the door.
Someone went running past, holding a torch.
Black turned from the door. I rattled my chains, shrugged to say ‘nothing to do with me’. I watched him considering. He had one shot. Use it to murder me? Or to guard himself? I considered laughing, but the act would push him the wrong direction. So the Court of Ghosts and Shadows kept a moment of wise silence, observing the witness, judging, impartial.
Another scream, another gurgle decided Alderman Black.
He bowed. “Well, best first see what the servants are up to in the scullery. Await here, comfortable, till my return.”
Exit stage left, velvet villain.
Wait I did, being chained. I longed to see beyond the cell doorway. I could only twitch at the shouts, shiver at the screams. Clank of blades, and then a sound that made me jump in my chains, in shock and heartbeat.
Bagpipes.
Chapter 17
Knights, maidens, and the world beyond the cell
I have never held title beyond Seraph. Twice I’ve been offered knighthood. Once on the field of battle, once at a state dinner.
I refused both times. The state dinner became awkward. An embarrassment to Green, alas. There were glares all through the aperitif; hurt silence chilling the turtle soup. Only by dessert (pudding) did we resume polite conversation. By the third brandy served, we saw the philosophical side of the situation, tossing toasts to swine, pearls, pig’s ears, silk purses and the inescapable destiny of blood.
The earlier promotion sur-le-champ of battle came from a serious blue-blood determined to show scouts how to navigate French forests by a noble’s instinctual feel for where civilization lay across the water.
I returned him to camp alive. The scouts were not so lucky. There came mild cheering at our return. Flushed by the cheers, he turned to me, sword drawn.
“Kneel, sirrah.”
I stared puzzled. Did he intend to cut my head off? You heard stories of these genteel officers slaughtering adjutants for incorrect placement of a fork. Perhaps I had fought with a faux-pas of a dirk, when manners required a saber?
He waved sword in the air. “Kneel, man, kneel,” he demanded.
“No, thank you sir, no.”
We stepped our dance of demand and demure while the crowd grew, more interested by our quarrel than our return. At some point the idiot tried to force me upon my knees. I had killed five men to rescue him from a French jail. We had lost a dozen of our own in the retreat. I felt out of patience. I ignored his hands, took his sword away.
It was a beauty of steel, gold inlaid. I could not bear to toss it to the trees. So I held it beyond his reach while he beat at me furious. He began swearing, almost in tears. He ordered me arrested, flogged, branded, keel-hauled. That last, problematic in a forest. The commander came, ordered all to dismiss. He solemnly promised our Plantagenet he would see me skinned alive, by and by, by and by. That flaying was a sincere intention of my commander, though nothing to do with refusing knighthood. Mere personal animosity.
When asked why I refused the title, I gave honest answer. It had no survival value. I dismissed it as I would a velvet coat on a summer march, or gold crown to wear in a battle-charge. My whole being was devoted to staying alive. I weighed every last sock and shadow for its threat or benefit. Weapons, food, companions; each element of my existence was judged upon careful scales for what would help or hinder me to live another day.
Knighthood would separate me from those beside whom I fought, and gain no real allies elsewhere. It would have been a useless tin epaulet to shine when I wished to hide. There was also the delicate issue that I knew myself a better man than the idiot ass-headed buffoon-of-a-baboon shit-in-his-pants flattering himself judge of my worth. I would never kneel to such, not to be Duke.
Nevertheless, crouching chained in a dank stone cell, watching screaming men rush past the open doorway, I felt sudden longing for noble title. How much more striking it is to be a prince in a dungeon, than mere mad arsonist-colonial. I had no idea if I faced rescue or slaughter. Whichever, I could take no part in the fighting. Merely watch from my chains.
But title of nobility would grant me heroic lighting. Whether for the crowd beating me to death; or the lunatics come to free me. Whether ‘Sir Gray freed from durance vile’ or, ‘thus perished noble Lord Seraph’.
King of the Oak had serv
ed nicely upon the roof of a burning house. Dated now, faded as a crown of summer laurel… Ha, I was starting to think like Flower’s race. But why not? They were kings and queens of moonbeams, more subtle than fairies, more proud than cats, more mad than hatters. Probably more inbred than the royal family.
A guard leaped into my cell, aimed a thrust at my heart and reconsidered. He swore softly at the blade protruding through his own chest, then sighed, slumped to the ground. The person behind him stood revealed.
Chatterton. Clad in red kilt. He held a red saber. He considered me, my chains and his dripping blade in that absent-minded manner I found alarming. He shook his head, clearly wondering what I did in his cell.
“You may approach our noble person,” I acknowledged. “In point of fact, you may free said noble person.” He cocked head, puzzled. The certainty came that he would wander out and away, forgetting where he left me. I rattled my chains to wake him up.
Two more red-kilted highlanders came to the door. One held bagpipes, though he’d ceased playing. I was glad of that. To be chained in a narrow stone cell while bagpipes scream, is unfair of life. No strength of soul or mind or character can protect one from being flayed by the sound.
I noted the wariness of the two at the door. My first sense of how deeply Chatterton was feared. Two men, one light of hair, one dark. Brothers in face and form. Tall as I, if chains had let me stand upright. Broad-shouldered as my bearish self, and their eyes wide and dark, shining with fever or belladonna. They grinned, showing canine teeth long and white as splinters of bone.
But declining to share close space with Chatterton. Who shook himself, sheathed the red blade, and bent to the dead man between us. He took keys from the belt, approached the Seraph in chains.
“Mine!” hissed a girl’s voice. I knew it, and shivered.
The Blood Tartan: Quest of the Five Clans Page 13
