by Ken Altabef
James sighed and sat up again. Turning him down. That was a new one. Usually Arabelle couldn’t seem to get enough. Although lately he thought things had been a little different. The last few times it seemed as if when they merged in their lovemaking she was holding something back. He hoped she wasn’t growing tired of him.
“So how was the feygappe, anyway?” he asked.
“Exquisite, as always. I’m sorry you missed it, but I guess tending to your father was more important. He might have died otherwise.”
“He’s doing fine.”
“I saw him walking with Theodora today. You’ve done a great job with him. I think you’re getting to be the best healer we have.”
“Except for Moonshadow.”
Arabelle let out a playful snarl. “Moonshadow. Moonshadow. She’s so terribly overrated, dear. If you listen to people talk, she’s the best at everything. Not hardly. That’s what I think. But I suppose that’s true enough for healing though. But still, it’s good to have an alternate.”
“Well, thank you.” He laughed. “I did my best, for a lowly alternate. It wasn’t so simple with my father. He doesn’t trust very easily. Not anymore.”
“No one better to help him than you.”
“True. I was finally able to get through to him. And in so doing, I solved our mystery of who killed the girl.”
“Your father?”
“No. Moon Dancer. My father was simply the tool.”
“You know, I thought it was her. I really did. That’s another one that people talk about as if she walked on water. I guarantee she had plenty of dark secrets and Moonshadow does too, I’ll bet. We can’t keep blindly following these people.”
Having stirred up her passions on one subject at least, James thought to try and redirect his efforts. He kissed her ear, flicking his tongue against its pointed tip and said, “Make love with me.”
Again, she pushed him away. “Not just now, love. I have to get some rest. We’re going on a rescue.”
Chapter 53
November 29, 1761
St. Mark’s, Hertfordshire
The front door of St Mark’s was a towering slab of old gray wood. Carved into the headspiece in letters now chipped and distorted by time and weather were the words Ordo Sancti Benedicti. A marble fresco rested crookedly on the lintel above the door’s small rose window, depicting Jesus and his procession entering into Jerusalem.
Eric swung down from his saddle. He winced as his boot hit the muddy ground. His back and left shoulder were still sore from his wounds, and the damp weather, a very fine, very cold rain, did nothing to help. He stepped to the entrance and rapped a small brass knocker against the door. The knocker made only a faint, empty sound against the old wood. Behind him, his squad of five additional men watched silently from their mounts. All were dressed as redcoats using costume uniforms Nora had borrowed from the Menagerie’s storerooms.
The Benedictine monastery lay far off the beaten track in the small rural town of Watford in Hertfordshire, fifteen miles outside of London proper. It was a small wood and stone enclave nestled in a dell, surrounded on one side by cornfields gone fallow and on the other by a wild tangle of trees and shrubs. The road leading up to the entrance was a poorly beaten path clogged by roots and littered with unwelcoming stones. The property had once been enclosed by a high stone wall now crusted with green moss and half fallen to ruin. Its main building matched the gloom of the gray sky and the pelting rain. Even the chapel steeple, so tall and thin, looked rotted and unhealthy.
Eric knocked again. Unsatisfied by the pathetic knocker, he rapped with the butt of his pistol. He knocked three times. He knocked four.
Somewhat rude, these Benedictine monks.
But even if they were trying to duck him, he would not let them. If he just kept knocking, showing no sign of going away, they would eventually have to answer. They couldn’t risk it otherwise.
He kept banging on for a bit longer and sure enough the door creaked open. A monk bowed silently, one hand raised in greeting. To all appearances he looked authentic enough. He wore the standard black robes of the order, his dusky brown hair cut short. He had the calm, weathered face of a man used to long bouts of deep contemplation. But weren’t the ears a bit too high, or was that just imagination? Eric glanced at one of the men, who was actually his daughter Nora in disguise, and she gave him the nod. It was a faery. She could tell, even if the faery could not recognize her own half-breed glamour.
“What is the meaning of this?” asked the monk, somewhat sheepishly. “You disturb our mid-day meditations.”
“Well, we’ve come for our cheese,” Eric said in a gruff voice. “Why haven’t you got it ready? You’ve never suffered us to wait before. In the rain, no less!”
The monk did his best to look embarrassed.
This man was too young to be in charge. “Who are you?” Eric asked. “Where is Superior Caron?”
“I am Aurestes. The Superior has… taken sabbatical. And, well, we haven’t any cheese this season. None at all. There was a fire. And the goats all took ill. And turned up lame. And died. We’ve nothing for you.”
He stepped back, eager to shut the door but Eric inserted a muddy boot.
“Hang on a moment, hang on. You won’t send us away just like that? Bad enough you haven’t got the cheese, my men could do with a bit of warming up. We’ll sit by your fire awhile. And a warm cup wouldn’t hurt things either.”
He pushed forward in true redcoat fashion, nearly toppling the monk. The rest of the men tied up their horses and followed him in.
They entered a large Romanesque hall with arched doorways and a high rotunda ceiling with wooden ribs. An open fire did its best to warm the place. A rough bin full of kindling sat beside the fire. This was not a fireplace but a wide hearth in a rounded alcove in the wall, used mainly for cooking. A roasting rack hung on top, currently unoccupied by pork or foul. The main feature of the room was a long table of thick oaken wood with long benches on either side. The mad jumble of crockery and dirty plates strewn on top struck Eric as rather untidy for a group of contemplative clerics. Two other monks entered the room, neither matching the description of the Superior. Eric jerked his chin at a row of large kegs on the side. “Is that beer?”
“Water,” said Aurestes.
“We’ll have tea, then.”
The monk grumbled and headed for one of the archways, presumably to prepare the tea. Eric glanced casually about as his men took their seats. Frederci Jergens sat across from him, a stout fellow who had served the Grayson estate as sergeant-at-arms for many years. Two of his former signalmen, Andrews and Chadwick, settled in beside him. Destry Rusk, a manager at one of the larger farms plopped down to one side of Eric and at the other sat an innocuous-looking redcoat who had a short black beard and a pair of sad eyes. This person called himself Gregor Hauptman but had no truer name than Nora Grayson.
The two monks remained silent. Eric took stock of them out of the corner of his eye. One was tall and lean, the other round and fat. That made only three so far. Three he thought his men could handle. He wondered if there were more.
“It’s a fine waste of our time, coming all the way out here,” he said to the monks. “And now our regiment goes without cheese.”
Neither replied.
Eric shoved some of the random pottery across the table and stood up. He went to the nearest monk, a tall thin man whose black robe hung loosely to the floor. “What’s your name, then?”
The monk made a small hand sign near his mouth to indicate he must remain silent.
“I want your name,” Eric insisted.
The monk lowered his head, his lips moving silently. A convenient silence, he thought. Eric sneered and turned away, making sure to step clumsily on a sandaled foot. He winked at his man Jergens.
“Leave him be,” Jergens said. “He’s a man of God, ain’t he?”
“Shut your gob hole,” Eric replied. “I give the orders around here.”
�
��Been meaning to say something about that,” Jergens said, rising from his seat. The other four stood up as well. “I’m a sergeant, same as you are.”
“Sit down,” Eric said, closing the distance between them, “or I’ll put you down.”
“Like hell you will.”
Pandemonium broke out as the men engaged. No actual blows were struck but they made with enough pushing and shoving to jostle both of the onlookers. To make matters worse Aurestes returned from the kitchen bearing a thin wooden tea tray which was immediately upset, drenching both of the erstwhile sergeants with lukewarm tea. The oaths grew even louder and one of the false monks received an errant elbow in the ribs during the commotion and toppled to the floor.
“Please brothers,” said Aurestes, “Let us refrain from unkind word or deed. Such things are not allowed in this place. You… you must take your leave.”
Eric and his men whirled on the monk with menacing glares. “We’ll leave when we’re good and ready. Go and fetch us some more tea.”
Aurestes exchanged a meaningful look with his fellow monks and they retreated to the far side of the room. He scooped up the wooden cups from the floor and went back into the kitchen.
Eric sat down, offering his men a reassuring nod. None of the monks, or faeries rather, had noticed that one of the soldiers had gone missing.
Nora walked quickly down the hallway. She had no idea how many other monks or faeries might be running loose. She had replaced her redcoat costume with the illusion of a monk’s black robes and taken on the nondescript features of a young man. This would fool no one for very long but at a distance or seen from behind it might suffice. The faeries, in any case, would believe her to be human until proven otherwise.
The hallway she had chosen, the farthest from the kitchen and the soldiers’ enacted commotion, led at once to the monks’ sleeping quarters. The individual rooms were all deserted, the furnishings austere. She hurried down the hallway, peeking quietly into each room. She feared a dead-end at the end of the hall but the corridor took a sharp turn, continuing on into a much older section of the building. This corridor was far narrower, its walls made of mismatched stones rather than wood and plaster. Her heart beat faster. The deeper she went, the more certain she was of being caught.
At the end of the corridor she came upon a circular stairway. She noticed the iron railings had been removed. They must have been very troublesome for the faery monks but did not affect her at all. Now she had a simple choice of up or down. Of course, she thought. Go down. Prisoners are most often kept in a dank, musty cell in the basement. Aren’t they?
She hurried down the stone steps, so slick with mold and moisture she nearly tripped head over heels more than once. It was quite dark on the lower level but a small oil lamp burned a little further on, illuminating the store room with a sickly yellow glow. The passageway’s low ceiling forced her to bend a little, scuttling forward like a hunchback.
The monastery’s larder had been left in total disarray. Supplies littered the floor, unwanted food items strewn about and left for the rats. Most of the oaken barrels of wine had been upended, the casks emptied with sloppy abandon. The ceramic amphoras that had contained the better vintages had been drained and smashed to bits.
Adjacent to the store room was a small chamber dedicated to Catholic icons and ceremonial fixtures. These too were for the most part defiled and cast randomly about. Only one thick candle still burned, lending a little light to the place, and it was jammed right into the forehead of a bust of St Bartholomew.
A wrought iron gate separated the next room. Nora heard muffled groans coming from within. She rushed to the gate and found it secured by a simple peg-in-slot rim lock. She released the mechanism and pushed the door open.
The sight that met her inside filled her with pity and sadness. A dozen men, dressed in tattered black robes, lay bound hand and foot and left to wallow in their own filth. Oblivious to her arrival, some were moaning softly, others unconscious. None were gagged.
“Who goes there?” asked someone, squinting at her in the darkness. Nora quickly resumed her normal, feminine appearance.
“I’ve come to help,” she said. “There’s a rescue on.”
“Faeries,” the man mumbled. “Beware the faeries.”
“I understand,” Nora said. She drew a short dagger from her belt and cut the monk’s bonds. He sighed, rubbing circulation back into his hands and she passed him the knife.
“Do what you can for the others, yeah?” she said. “All will be well soon. Is the princess here? Is she with you?”
“No.”
“Is she well? Where is she?”
“The chapel tower.”
Of course, thought Nora, the princess in the tower. Where else?
Chapter 54
Eric sniffed clandestinely at his tea. He had no intention of drinking it. He assumed anything these false monks provided might well be poisoned. Frankly, he was getting worried. Nora had been gone for too long without any word or sign. How could he have been so stupid as to take her along? How had he been convinced to risk his daughter’s life?
He seemed always too eager to do what the faeries wanted. His advocacy for their cause had been based on his own moral principles of decency and fairness. Of that he was sure, if he could still be sure of anything at all as far as the faeries were concerned. But they had manipulated him before, to tragic ends. They had forced him to commit the murder of a child. Perhaps they had more control over him than he had ever suspected. Perhaps they were still using him, as a tool, for their ends.
But Theodora would never endanger their own daughter. Or would she? Eric’s relationship with his wife had taken more twists and turns than a country mile. She had begun their courtship posing as a shoeless waif, the daughter of a cobbler in Graystown. But that all had been just a lure in order to infiltrate the Grayson family and obtain a precious heirloom, his grandfather’s silvered lens. After the deception had come to light and its motives explained as necessary to forestall a major disaster, Eric had forgiven Theodora. They had truly been in love and quite happy. But still, she maintained the glamour of a young woman when in reality she was more than a hundred years old. She’d had a long and rich life before they’d met, and he knew very few of the details. He hadn’t wanted to know. Or something had prevented him from asking.
But Nora was his real concern now. Who knew what she had found or what trouble she might’ve gotten herself into?
It’s time to make our move anyway, he thought. He only wished he knew what move to make. He stood up.
“Hey, wait a minute,” said one of the monks. “Weren’t there five of you before? I mean, six—six in total? Where’s the other one gone?”
Eric moved very swiftly. Before the monk knew what was happening, he drew his dagger and circled round, holding the blade to the monk’s throat.
“Let me pose a better question, and one you should take very seriously. Where are you keeping the princess?”
The monk snickered. His pudgy face suddenly changed and elongated, the skin taking on a dusky green hue that looked particularly unhealthy. His hair, drawn sharply back in a tight braid, took on the color and consistency of damp seaweed. His face was marked by a sharply pointed chin, a short flaring nose and arched eyebrows over a pair of mean little eyes. His black robes melted away to become a brown leather jerkin open halfway down his chest, a pair of green silk trousers and light boots. Eric later learned that his name was Pox, a captain of the Wild Hunt
Eric’s men rose from the table and drew their blades.
The other two monks changed as well. Aurestes became a tall, pale faery dressed all in black with a long pony tail of raven hair to match. He had daubs of bright green neon paint on his cheeks and brow. The tall monk revealed herself to being a woman after all, much shorter than her glamour had suggested. She had an elegant but svelte figure and a highly athletic air about her. Her arms and legs were muscular and bare, the skin a very pale green, and she wore on
ly a short singlet of moss and leaves. The faeries laughed as they made the change but it was an odd and joyless laughter that struck Eric and his men in a strangely unnerving way. All were armed with swords, and had been armed all the while, whereas Eric and his men had been kept from seeing their weapons.
Well if it’s a fight they want…
Eric envisioned drawing the blade across the faery’s slim neck and being done with it but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. He would not murder a man like that. There had to be another way. And then the opportunity had flown, as the faery knocked Eric’s arm up and away while simultaneously twisting his body round so that his boot met the back of Eric’s knee. Eric stumbled forward but didn’t go down. He whipped his rapier backhanded to ward off a thrust toward the back of his neck.
The fact that one of their adversaries was a woman, and so scantily clad at that, caused the men to hesitate for a moment. But when the woman, Rainbird, thrust her blade at Andrews with deadly intent, all semblance of civility fell away. Andrews was able to parry the attempt and metal clashed on metal like the ringing of a dinner bell at the slaughterhouse. The battle was on.
Even though there were only three faeries against five men the faeries were far from outmatched. Eric was still weak and sore and slow with his sword. Pox pressed him hard and he only survived beyond the first minute because Jergens came to his aid. The old sergeant-at-arms was the best swordsman among Eric’s band, but Pox seemed capable of handling them both, parrying all attacks with savage ferocity. It was nearly impossible to aim a thrust at him in any event as his nimble agility had him incorporating somersaults and cartwheels into his deadly attacks. In no time at all the tip of his sabre slashed Eric’s upper arm and also tagged Jergens in the shoulder.
The black-clad faery, Blackwing, had already gravely wounded Chadwick. The man was down on his knees helpless against the impending death stroke. Eric stepped toward them, leaving Pox to Jergens. But too late. Blackwing ran his man through, striking at the base of the neck. He gave his blade a savage little twist as he yanked it free and left Chadwick gurgling his last, indistinguishable words. With the same stroke that had drawn the weapon from his victim’s neck, the vicious faery arced the sword in the air and brought it to bear against Eric. Eric knocked the weapon back with the hilt of his own, the impact spraying his face with Chadwick’s blood.
