by Ken Altabef
“If ye’ve anythin’ to say, sir, say it now,” said Bute.
Eric chose to address the archbishop though he saw little hope in his eyes. “Are the faeries not God’s creatures?”
Eddington smoothed his short beard. “I’m not so sure that they are so.”
This came as another painful stab, but Eric would not give up so easily. “Well I’ve known them. And I tell you they most certainly are.”
“Yer aware o’course o’ th’ recent troubles at Newcastle-upon-Tyne?” asked Bute in his gruff Scottish brogue. “There was one among ’em, the leader it seems. He wouldnae go into th’ church.”
“The pastor was stabbed to death with the holy cross,” added Eddington. “The faeries are consorting with demons. The church is sure of it.”
“You don’t know them,” said Eric. “You haven’t given them a chance. There are evil men among them, sure. Those who have committed crimes will be brought to the King’s justice. Out in the light they can be dealt with by the sure hand of the law. As it is now, they cower underground, you’ll never get to them.”
“But you know where they are, don’t ye?” asked Bute.
Eric saw it all now. There had never been a chance with the Archbishop. This was all a trap to get him to turn. Now he was really in trouble.
George said, “What if I were to declare the faeries enemy combatants and all who give aid and succor to them enemies of the state? What if I were to compel you to tell me what I want to know?”
“I would never do so.”
“Pity.”
Eric knew what was coming next. He hadn’t even had the opportunity to make the religious argument he’d planned but saw now that it would not have swayed these men in any case. There was still one more card to play. The wild card. But had it gone too far already? He’d wanted to see the King at least soften first. No choice. He gave the signal.
“Rest assured, I lay myself with all duty and submission at the King’s feet.”
A glance down revealed an entirely different matter as a cool green mist rolled across the parquet flooring beneath their shoes.
“I have one more point to make and I guarantee it will interest you, Your Majesty,” Eric said. “Of course, you have heard of the crusader called the Green Man?”
The sleepy eyes widened a bit. “The Green Man...”
“A local hero known for helping people. He’s thwarted robbery and prevented rape on the streets and even brought down the Butcher of—”
“Yes, yes, I know who you mean. And quite frankly that’s the kind of citizen of the realm I admire. A man who takes action on his own accord when confronted with crime and injustice. He doesn’t wait around helplessly for the redcoats to arrive. I wish we had more like him.”
“Indeed, you offered him a citation on more than on occasion.”
“But who is he? Really? I would very much like to meet him.”
“You shall have your wish today.” Eric opened his arms in the direction of the fireplace, palms upward.
“What’s this?”
One of the guards. The one standing to the left, had transformed. He stood now amidst a few swirling tendrils of green smoke, dressed in the full regalia of the Green Man. Theodora had affected the glamour perfectly. The Green Man stood before the King in all his glory. He doffed his feathered hat.
“How is this possible?” asked George. “Ghetty?”
“No, Your Majesty, this is not your man Ghetty. The Green Man is a master of disguise.”
George’s protuberant eyes bulged nearly out of his face. “A spy! A spy in the heart of St. James’s.”
His trembling hand gestured and the remaining guard drew and advanced.
Theodora put up her hands. She had left her blade behind her, sticking upright into the parquet floor. “I assure you—” she began.
“I won’t have spies in my house!” George roared.
Eric stepped toward the King but Lord Bute put himself between them. Eric said, “The blade cuts both ways, Your Majesty. I tell you the faeries will spy for you.”
“Faeries?” said Bute. “Good Lord, are ye tellin’ us this man is a faery?”
“He’s no man,” Eric replied. “She’s actually a noblewoman. This man is my wife.”
On cue Theodora transformed again, becoming now Lady Grayson in her human form. Apparently she’d decided that green skin and pointy ears would do little to bolster their position at this moment.
“Yes,” she said to George, “A faery stands before you, devoted to the King’s justice, and absolutely willing to submit to your reign. There are many of us so willing.”
The King’s eyes bulged with fright. “I shall not have this. I can not have this! What if they should infect the colonies? We stand a heartbeat away from revolution as it is. What if they should turn on me? Assassinate me?”
“That won’t happen,” Theodora promised. “I’ve shown what I’m willing to do. The Green Man—”
“No,” said George. “No!”
The steward at the door had already called for help from down the hall and at this moment a squad of redcoats surged into the library. The Duke of Newcastle and the First Lord of the Treasury pulled the King backwards to safety. All three seemed to be willing to shelter behind the Archbishop. Lord Bute, however, rolled up his sleeves and stepped toward the fight.
Theodora shot Eric a foul told-you-so look.
“Kneel!” the redcoat Captain commanded and Eric did so.
“Take her,” ordered the King. “I want that creature in chains.”
Not so easily done. Theodora was glad for the oncoming squad of redcoats because she moved among them, taking on the illusion of military uniform, shifting from one face to another. She danced a shell game that left them utterly confused. Even Eric lost track of her until he caught one last glimpse, a redcoat disappearing out the door.
“Go after her!” urged Lord Bute.
No use.
Lord Bute kicked one of his knees from the floor and Eric toppled down. The rented wig tumbled to the parquet floor.
“And we’ve a special room reserved for you,” Bute said. In the south wing of the Tower.
PART 4: ENDGAME
Chapter 44
Stitch and cross. Stitch and cross. Charlotte forced herself to concentrate on the embroidery, lest she go insane with worry. The pattern she was working on outlined a tiny farmhouse in the country, a field of corn in the background, a crowing cock out front.
The peaceful, bucolic scene did little to lift her spirits. She raised her eyes from the tambour hoop and they were met by the piercing gaze of her captor. Rainbird sat perched atop the back of a sedan chair like a gargoyle crouched on a cathedral spire. The young faery was a ghastly sight. Her tall, pointed ears were pierced several times each and her skin, so dark green it seemed almost black, shimmered slightly even in the abbey’s dimly lit sitting room. She was scandalously dressed, both breasts completely bare. Charlotte could not tell if her groin was covered at all, and she had no desire to look closely enough to find out. And worst of all were her eyes. As far as Charlotte could tell, the blight hadn’t moved even an inch in the past few hours. Her eyes remained fixed on Charlotte with a burning intensity that made her skin crawl.
Charlotte jerked her gaze back to the sewing. Stitch and cross. Stitch and cross. Ouch! She had pricked her finger again. It was hard to imagine that she could continue sewing at all, she had pricked her fingers so many times they were all sore and bloodied. Somehow the faery kept tricking her, playing with her perceptions so she’d misjudge the needle tip, causing her to prick herself over and over.
“Oh, why don’t you stop that?” said a man behind her. This voice belonged to the faery named Blackwing. Charlotte did not turn to look.
“S’fun,” explained Rainbird. Charlotte did not look up but she knew her eyes would find Rainbird still staring. She just knew it.
She looked again at her embroidery and saw now that the farmhouse was all atilt, the cor
n rows crooked and the cock almost unrecognizable. She had been fooled again. Really it didn’t matter, for she would have to take the whole thing apart again anyway. She had only enough thread for one pattern and must reuse it over and over. What did it matter?
What did anything matter? She was ruined. She should have never left Mecklenburg-Strelitz. She should have never left her family. Marriage to a king? It was too risky at the outset. And now she had to worry what had become of her brother Adolphus. Had the faeries killed him? Why wasn’t he here with her? Oh, she thought he must surely be dead. Killed on the road to Otterndorf and carelessly flung into the mud at the roadside. She could see no other outcome. He had dashed heroically from the carriage to confront her foes—these stinking blights—and the foes had triumphed. That they hadn’t murdered her outright was a miracle. They were preserving her for… something.
It could have been worse for her. The terrible depredations they’d heaped upon the poor monks—Charlotte couldn’t even think about it. Terrible, just terrible. She supposed she could bear a few punctured fingertips.
Charlotte was haunted by the vision of her double as she had faced it across the carriage seat. She had no doubt that faery woman had been substituted for her, like some strange changeling child, in order to take her place at court. They must have some sort of a plan. But who could second-guess faeries? That woman had probably married an unsuspecting George by now and sat at her seat on a silken throne at St. James’s palace. Charlotte didn’t care. She didn’t care about the machinations of these devils or the intrigues of state. She just wanted to know that Adolphus was still alive. She just wanted that damn Rainbird to stop staring at her.
She wouldn’t look up again. She wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. She was, after all, a princess of Mecklenburg-Strelitz.
She set about unwinding the embroidery.
“Hurry up, Skag! I’m hungry.”
Skag, who had previously been known as Thonius Jordanus Aethelstan, hurried up. He stirred in the last of the coriander and took a whiff of his rabbit stew. His empty stomach growled at the enticing smell. He could have done a much better job of preparing the meal, had he been allowed to actually taste the product. But that was strictly forbidden.
“There. It’s done,” Thonius said. “Though it could use…”
“Could use what?” asked the faery leaning over his shoulder.
Thonius was too terrified to answer. He could feel the faery’s hot breath on the back of his neck. His tormentor was named Pox. One should not draw conclusions from their looks, Thonius knew, because they possessed the devil’s own power to deceive. But this Monster chose to appear as a warrior, tall and lean and well-muscled, his bare chest and arms covered with hideous pagan tattoos. His skin had the color and mottled texture of putrefying green mold, his nose long and hooked, his black hair drawn back in a pony tail. He laid a hand on Thonius’ shoulder, sinking long, pointed nails into the fabric of his robe. “What could it use?”
“A touch of garlic,” said Thonius.
The faery laughed then, a hideous high-pitched sound that resembled the screech of a dying cat. Of course all vestiges of garlic had been removed from the kitchen. Everybody knew the faeries didn’t like it.
“Let me see.” Pox shoved Thonius aside and scooped some stew up with the ladle. He leaned forward. His tongue, a long gray strip of flesh, quivered as it extended toward the food.
Thonius backed away toward the counter. Beside the cutting board was a little paring blade. Short but sharp. If only he dared take up the knife. If only he dared to fight back. As far as he had been able to tell there were only three of these monsters at the abbey. If he could kill this one and somehow free his brothers from the cellar, they might have a fighting chance. He felt no compunction against violence toward the nixies. Why did the Lord Above suffer such monsters to live? Evil must exist, Thonius reminded himself, so that God’s glory—his mercy, justice and wisdom—can therefore illuminate our lives ever more brightly. But to shed a nixie’s purple blood would be no crime against the Lord, surely.
Having tasted the stew, Pox smacked his lips enthusiastically. “Ahh, I knew you monks would be good with kettles and pots! One look at your fat bellies tells the tale. Yes, this will do quite nicely for us.” He cackled energetically. “I thank you, sir monk, for your loyal service.”
There was nothing loyal about it! Pox had threatened to cut off and broil one of Thonius’ own legs if he did not cook for them. It was hard to tell if the threat was serious or not. These faeries were so fond of cruel jests. But after the hideous way they had murdered the abbot, Thonius had chosen to comply. His fingers tightened around the handle of the knife. If he could get in the first strike, if he could cut at the faery’s neck, if he could be quick enough…
Thonius whirled around, the blade swinging in a ferocious upstroke. And then flew from his hand. He screamed in fright.
What he saw before him was no longer Pox but a vision straight from Hell. Red-faced, evil-eyed, and with pointed horns, it was nothing short of the Devil himself. The knife clattered to the kitchen floor. Thonius wet himself.
“A little fight still left in you, I see,” said Pox, still wearing the Devil’s red smirk. “Well, that settles it! No gruel for you tonight.” He lifted a small pot from the stove and spilled it out over Thonius’ head and shoulders. “Unless your brothers want to lick it off you. Now get back down in that cellar and regale them with your tale of heroism before I cut out your tongue and make myself a sandwich.”
Chapter 45
November 17, 1761
The Tower of London
Whereas common criminals were held in rows of traditional jail cells, Eric’s status as a member of the landed nobility entitled him to a private room in the Salt Tower. He had use of a large room with a cot, a writing desk, a table and two chairs, and even a window. Sitting on the chair was better than the cold stone floor, but the view from the cross-barred window was less than could be desired. A fifty foot drop straight down squelched all ideas of escape, and the sight of the busy waterfront along the Thames below served as a painful reminder that life went on without him. He spent a fair portion of each day standing by the window, watching ships load and unload as Londoners went about their daily business and the petty squabbles of the boatmen played out below. He scanned hopelessly for a familiar logo on any of the boats. He had not seen a Grayson ship in several days.
Sitting on the edge of his cot, a rough blanket wrapped about his shoulders, Eric faced another day in the Tower of London. It was a dangerous combination of damp and cold in the Tower and over the past week he had acquired a dry, rasping cough. He had been ten days locked away, by a writ of seditious libel issued by none other than Sir William Pitt, Secretary of State. His waistcoat served as pillow; he had worn the same shirt and jacket for the entire time with no signs of a wash up evident in the near future. This then was the fate of the last scion of the Grayson family, shame and dishonor in a dark and dirty little cell.
Eric had been transported to the Tower in a closed hackney carriage with a pair of guardsmen on the roof, accompanied by a full detachment of the Horse Guard. His procession exactly mirrored that of Laurence Shirley, 4th Earl of Ferrers. Earlier in the year, Lord Shirley had been incarcerated in this very same chamber, accused of the murder of his steward. Eric remembered the day they’d hauled Shirley out to be hanged on Tower Hill.
He had not heard from his solicitor, Garrick Warburton, in almost a week. He wondered if the lawyer would even bother to prepare his defense. With all the forces of the state—the very King—arrayed against him, his cause seemed hopeless from the start. Eric had been left completely in the dark. The writing desk was not equipped with either pen or paper, and he wasn’t allowed any books or current news sheets. He could learn very little from the Tower guards who patrolled the hallway with scowls fixed on their faces and bayonets fixed on their rifles. He could only wonder what torments his family were suffering on his behalf back in Dur
ham. It was the custom of the crown to charge prisoners held in the Tower for their board and lodging, often resulting in a steady drain on family finances. And what of his estate? Was there anything left to pay his way, or would he wind up transferred to a debtor’s cell? Had he finally destroyed it all?
His family, it seemed, was now and forever inextricably linked to faeries. His puritanical grandfather Griffin Grayson had waged total war on them, sworn to purge their very existence from England. Helpless faeries had been torn from their nests, bound in iron and hanged on the streets of Graystown. And when Griffin had been killed by his own pack of hunting dogs, biting, tearing flesh from bone, everyone suspected faeries had something to do with it. Eric’s father, Henry, had taken a different tack, urging that the faeries be left alone. If we let them be, Henry had proclaimed, they will trouble us no longer. But then the town had suffered the Gray Rot, a disease that took the lives of Eric’s parents and his elder brother and so many others. And as the gray, fungoid lesions crawled across the victims’ skin and madness consumed them, everybody knew the faeries had something to do with it.
But he, Eric Grayson, was the worst of all. As the Grayson’s young heir, he had been duped into marrying one of them, tricked by Theodora’s act of being a wayward waif from town when she had actually been over a hundred years old by then. He had married one of them and now he had completed the ruination of the Grayson family by relentlessly advocating their cause. He wondered if they laughed at him, safe down in their burrow at Barrow Downes. Yes, how the faeries must be laughing at him. Such a merry jest. The Grayson family finally brought down at last. He wondered if Theodora was laughing.
She had deceived him for ten years, pretending to be human. Was it possible this had been the plan all along? A final revenge. If what Griffin said was true, she’d not only been complicit in his murder, she had been there herself. The dogs, biting, tearing. Eric pictured Theodora snarling and snapping, blood on her teeth, dribbling down her chin. Did he really know her at all? My God, what have I done?
